Disclaimer: Harry Potter is created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various others including—but not limited to—Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Snape/Lupin-ish piece written for and dedicated to fellow author s0rceress (whose work I deeply admire), and quite possibly the oddest thing I have ever written.
The clock on the ageing mantelpiece ticks past one second, then another. The long scrollwork minute hand finds placement against the Roman numeral twelve, beginning of a new hour. He methodically stirs the potion with a gesture of his wrist; clockwise and counter to it, as the little bells begin to chime.
Once, twice, three times; fourth and fifth and sixth for good measure. Time is drawing short but he does not hurry. Simply in the same smooth movement ladles the correct dosage into the coffee mug. Wolfsbane brew splashes up about the edges but does not spill.
The potions master takes the chipped cup in elegant hands, hands that seem out of place holding an old and worn bit of ceramic. He turns from the cauldron and the potions-making that always soothes him and begins to ascend the creaky staircase steps. He is quiet; there is any number of things to be awoken in this place, so filled with magic that the very walls seem to stare. It is only his imagination, he knows.
Imagination is the simplest explanation, the easiest excuse, but it says nothing for the spirit that seems to hover about him. The ghost of a dead man who seems to linger even though he has not returned in a form corporeal or no. Dark eyes that pierce the hollow heart, accusing, hateful...
Sirius Black is dead, he reminds himself, not for the first time. Being in this house disturbs him; countless times he has thought he could hear the mocking sarcasm or barking laugh. But when he closes his eyes, draws in a breath, and opens them again, there is no one; no one but himself, and shadows that breathe.
He is a fool, the worst of them, and this but another foolish mistake in a lifetime full. Worse still that he knows it and is powerless to stop it.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly in recompense to silence. Outside the sun sinks a little lower on the horizon to make way for the proud and decorous moon.
He continues up the stairs. Shadows shrink as torches spring to light in sconces on the walls. The path is illuminated, and—
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
—the door comes closer within reach. Scratched wood, warped grain, tarnished brass knob. Everything tenses, anxiety fills the air. Herald of what will come; silver light, ivory fangs, golden eyes.
Tick, tock. Tick—
He knocks. Answer preceded by ghostly whispers at his back.
Mine, mine, you can't have him, can'thavehim, you're a fool, foolfoolfool...
He flinches. Fingers become a bit tighter, bit paler encircling the painfully plain mug. Imagination is all it is.
The door swings open; sad eyes appear. Sad eyes, grey eyes that hover in harrowed lines and strained—
No tears nor grief only those sad eyes those damnably sad eyes.
—smiles and a potion that transfers hands from one to another and fingers brush and shadows cringe.
Death Eater, murderer, killer...Snivellus.
Thank you, and drink it before it gets cold, and awkward apologies, and—
'Stay with me?'
—he is forced to stop, uncertain whether the whispers deceive him again and hesitation kills—
'Stay with me. Please. It's the first full moon since...'
Since he died and you're second best and you're a fool, just a fool.
'I'm not him.'
'I don't want you to be.'
—and he stays.