Disclaimer: They do not belong to me, I make no money off of them. Though I certainly wouldn't mind owning Severus…mmmm….Macbeth, of course, belongs to the Bard.

A/N: Simon Says: leave a review.

Chapter Three: Sleeping Endymion

In the two weeks that followed his night at the Lair, Severus could not get the wench out of his head. Her eyes seemed to follow him as he paced restlessly about his empty house, the scent of lavender and heather ghosting about him, phantom fingers caressing his face as he stood outside the gates of the Ministry. Somehow, in some inexplicable, indefinable way, Nocturne had gotten under his skin.

It bothered the hell out of him.

The silence of his house unnerved him now, the echoes of her nocturnes and requiems playing softly inside his head. He fell asleep, surprisingly, to the barely-there lullabies, but would wake up sweating, his fist clenched about himself and his eyes rolling back in his head in release. He'd be damned if he went back, though. He wanted it far too badly. This was his punishment, this exquisite, terrible torture.

After two weeks of this sweet madness, the unexpected knock on his door was almost a relief. He opened it and scowled down at the one who dared disturb him, purely because he had a reputation to maintain after all. He found a trembling boy.

"Beg pardon, Lord Snape," the child fluted after a moment, voice thin with nervousness and fear. "The Dark Lord requests your presence in his office as soon as is convenient for you, my lord."

Which meant, of course, that he was wanted now.

Severus didn't say anything, simply nodded and closed the door in the boy's face, stalking upstairs to his wardrobe. It didn't take much decision. Hmm, silver trimmed black velvet or silver trimmed black wool…if it had been a little warmer, he might even need to go with the silver trimmed black linen. With his own thoughts mocking him, he pulled the velvet robes about them and fastened them disinterestedly. He'd begun wearing his hair back in the simple braid that Nocturne had fashioned for him upon his exit from the brothel, simply because he didn't have the patience to cut it.

He Apparated out to the gates of the Ministry, feeling the heavy gaze of the Golden Trio that was no longer there, and walked through them, the ropes swinging in bitter reminder of his failure. Everyone he passed bowed to him, which he ignored to the best of his ability. Did none of them understand? Had none of them even suspected that he was untrue?

He bowed low to the Dark Lord when he entered the elegantly appointed office. It was a spacious room done in deep mahoganies and burgundy, a surprising choice for the Heir of Salazar Slytherin. The man known seemingly a lifetime ago as Tom Riddle sat behind the broad desk, staring moodily at a portrait of his ultimate-grandfather as Nagini lay coiled about the entire room. Severus stepped over the giant snaked and sat in the chair his Master indicated.

"My Lord?" he asked politely, declining the proffered cup of tea.

"We've hit a stall, Severus," Tom said without preamble, long fingers steepled before his face. Careless of his fine robes, he slumped in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms.

"Where, my Lord?"

"The Ural countries have banded together, forming a coalition based upon the goal of keeping us out of their borders." Red eyes narrowed fiercely. "It seems to be focused around one man, a young man of British origin by the name of Charlie Weasley."

"Weasley?" The Potions Master echoed sharply.

"Oh, yes, Weasley. Continuing to be an utter thorn in my side."

Regrets or no, having taught the clan for so many years, Severus wasn't about to disagree.

"He has them flying a flag of unity against my name, and other nations are seeing that," Voldemort hissed. "We cannot afford that, Severus."

"What would you have me do, Master?" Severus asked, forcing the words past the lump in his throat because he knew that's what the despot wanted to hear.

"I need a potion, Severus, one that will mimic a natural death and be utterly untraceable. I know you like to keep to your own devices nowadays, and I certainly don't begrudge that you've earned it, having to stick so close to Dumbledore all those years, but I have no one else of your caliber to ask." He trained vermillion eyes on the dark haired man and Severus automatically pulled up his Occlumency shields. What thoughts to allow? Carefully selected images spun out in his mind, seemingly at random: memories of frustration and irritation at every member of the Weasley clan, very mild irritation at being pulled from his privacy, a long ago dinner with Lucius, and one fleeting breath of Nocturne's lavender eyes. Satisfied, the Dark Lord withdrew from his mind and he stifled a sigh of relief. "When can you have it for me?"

"I do not know, my Lord," he answered honestly, bracing himself just in case. Tom Riddle was not nearly so quick to pull his wand for any given offense as he had once been, but the threat was always there. "It will take some time to either find or create a potion that will meet your specific needs."

"Yes…I would prefer if you could create one. They will have even more difficulty identifying it even if they do think to check for poisons."

"As you wish, my Lord."

"You will hole yourself away as usual, I presume?" Voldemort asked with a trace of good humor.

Severus allowed himself the barest of smiles, just a slight quirk of his thin lips. His habits were legendary in his creative mode. "If it would be permissible."

"So long as you get results, I care not the method you go about it," his Master answered dismissively, and Severus bowed in his chair to the implicit threat. "When you need supplies, go to Oakhyer's Apothecary. He has good materials, and will be told to charge them directly to me."

"Thank you, my Lord, you are most generous."

"You may go now, Severus."

Rising to his feet, Severus bowed once more, turning to walk out of the room. His back itched, and he hated presenting it the tyrant, but explaining that would have cost more than his dignity, so he merely dealt with the discomfort. He toyed idly with the thought of tripping over Nagini and seeing how much weight he could bring down on her, but his famous fluidity would not allow such a clumsy maneuver, so he settled for issuing the reptile a dirty look.

Once outside the gates of the Ministry, he looked about him, trying to decide what to attend to first. Actually having a project again inspired him in some fashion, that not as much as it once would have. When this assignment was done, he decided, he needed to get back to doing his research as more than a diversionary tactic. He let his feet take him further into wizarding London, aimlessly wandering, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find himself outside of the Syron's Lair.

The girl at the door had clear olive skin with huge brown eyes, dark hair cascading around her in sleek brown falls. She nodded at him when he approached, her bodyguard opening the door for him. If they were puzzled at seeing him, neither allowed any such thing to show in their faces or manner, and he returned the silent greeting as he passed.

In the open parlor, girls lounged about, waiting to be chosen, some making quiet conversation with each other, others flirting with the gentleman at their perusal. Severus gave them a perfunctory glance, then put them out of his mind, stepping instead to the small desk immediately by the door. A plump, matronly witch sat behind it, a schedule book open at her elbow.

She looked up at him when his shadow fell across her desk, her hazel eyes glinting with frank curiosity. "Lord Snape," she greeted. "How may I help you?"

"Will Nocturne be available?" he inquired silkily, though inwardly he was astonished at himself. Seeing whores was nothing new; he'd been doing it longer than most of the working girls had been alive. Never, though, had he asked for one by name.

The reception witch raised her eyebrows but glanced down at her book, running a cranberry painted fingernail down the list. "She's free after four o'clock," she answered after a moment. "Would you like to be put in?"

"If it were possible," he murmured. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask who her current client was, how many she'd seen today, but he knew the answer would not be forthcoming.

"Of course, my Lord." The plump blonde wrote his name into the book in a flowing hand, ornamental and just about useless for any true archiving. With her right hand, she reached underneath her desk and pressed her wand to a sigil carved into the side of the leg cavity. It would bring out the Madame as soon as she heard it, usually only used for patrons becoming violent, but the Madame had a curiosity about the dour man, and she knew this would be of interest.

"Yes, Rachel, what is it?"

Severus turned to see Madame Lareine emerging from her private office, a quill tucked absently into her French twist. He tried to remember where he'd seen that affectation before and ceased the thought as soon as it came; how many times had he walked through his classroom or the library only to see Granger with a quill or three shoved haphazardly into that wild mane she tried to call hair? "Madame." He kissed the proffered hand, brushing the smooth knuckles with his lips. "Is there a problem?"

Her blue eyes studying Rachel, the receptionist, the proprietor shook her head, glancing down to see the issue in the schedule book. "Not at all," she answered distractedly. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It will be some few minutes before Nocturne is able to receive you," she commented smoothly. "Would you care to take some tea with me in my office?"

"I would be honored."

He followed her into the office, a startlingly no-nonsense room with only the most basic of needs met in the furniture and décor. It was almost a relief to see such a blatantly practical room in the midst of all the feminine softness of everything else in the Lair. Madame Lareine watched him from the corner of her eye as she tapped the teapot with her wand to set it to boiling, sitting down into the padded chair behind her desk.

"Please, take a seat," she invited, and he sank into the heavily upholstered guest chair.

"Is there a problem, Madam?" he repeated.

"No." Eyeing him thoughtfully, she took up a new quill and trimmed the end, the knife spinning slowly in her fingers. "I'll confess, Lord Snape, that you intrigue me. You are very…" Her lips pursed reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall as she considered the best, perhaps safest, way to phrase the rest of her thought. "You are very different from your peers," she decided finally.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but little else.

"I will say I was surprised," she continued, running a finger delicately along the edge of the blade. "We've never been graced with your presence without the others."

"I had a meeting," he drawled, rich voice wringing dark inflections from his words. "I needed music to clear my head."

"I wonder if you realize the danger of the line you're walking."

Near a quarter century of being Voldemort's faithful traitor, and she was talking to him of danger?

"After all, I don't suppose Paris ever thanked Helen for destroying his world"

"How could he, when it was Paris who invited her in?"

"Exactly."

He shifted in irritation, the chair creaking beneath him. "I assure you, Madame," he said stiffly. "I am in no danger."

Perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose in polite incredulity.

"Madame-"

"Do not fall in love with her, my Lord," she warned. "I would not see you hurt. More importantly, I will not see one of my girls hurt."

"Surely you don't think I would-"

His black eyes riveted on the penknife suddenly buried to the hilt in the polished surface of the desk. "Wands and fists are not the only ways to hurt, my Lord," she said firmly. "Do not fall in love with her."

"I am not in the habit of falling in love, Madame."

"And a fortnight ago, you were not in the habit of seeking out companionship, yet here you are. Where now does that leave us?"

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Nocturne was still soaking in her between-client bath when Thanatos came to the doorway. Leaning her head back against the cool marble, she looked up at him questioningly.

Thanatos and Nocturne had been together a very long time, and they'd long ago learned how to turn her silence to their advantage. His hand shifted at his side, simply a fidget to a casual observer, but it told her volumes. She nodded, closing her eyes while still reclined.

Her bodyguard vanished from the doorway of the bathroom, reappearing a moment later with Severus Snape in tow. Theoretically, brothels were an anonymous business, but the theory was far from the reality. With a warning look at his charge, Thanatos left the bathroom for his room, but not before casting the charm that would alert him in the customer grew violent.

Severus felt more than just his pants tighten as he looked at the elfin beauty in the lightly steaming water. Perhaps Madame Lareine's warning had been more timely than he'd been willing to admit. She placed her hand against the edge of the tub as it to get up and he shook his head, watching her settle back. Lavender and heather, subtle and fragrant, teased his senses as they had the past two weeks. Removing only his cloak, he placed it on the counter and sat carefully on the rim, taking the small hand in his and tracing his fingers along the lines of her palm.

She frowned slightly, barely noticeable against the serene indifference of her customary expression. He didn't seem to be here for sex, but that only excluded one possibility of many. Reaching out, she gripped his chin in gentle fingers and turned his face to her.

Looking into Nocturne's wide violet eyes, Severus couldn't help but compare them to the angry vermillion slits of his reluctant Lord, images of the meeting and his charge rising unbidden to his mind. He closed his eyes against the revulsion, leaning into her touch. He felt distinctly unclean, soiled by his unwilling allegiances.

She cocked her head to one side, regarding him thoughtfully even as she absently stroked his jaw. Silence stretched between them, at once familiar and alien. Finally, she stood, water sluicing down her flawless skin, and tugged him to his feet.

"What-"

Shaking her head, she placed her fingers against his lips. When he showed no signs of speaking further, she dropped them to his silver trimmed robes, undoing the ornate clasps and letting the heavy fabric crumble to the floor. One by one, each button an unsettling caress. She released his frock coat, sending it to join the robes. He wasn't entirely sure what she doing. He'd been undressed before by women, by prostitutes, but it was always the hurried chaos of false lust or the entirely unceremonious use of magic. Never before had the removal of clothing been an act of tenderness. He wanted to stop her, to push her away and reclaim his solitary darkness, but his hands remained motionless at his sides. She dropped his crisp white shirt with the others, running her hands over his pale chest, dispensing easily with his belt. Kneeling down in the water, she reached for his boots, allowing him to steady himself against her head when she pulled off his shoes and socks. Nocturne remained on her knees as she unfastened his trousers, trailing her fingers along each inch of skin as it was exposed.

He stood before her entirely nude, bizarrely awkward in his own skin. With that strange Mona Lisa smile, she silently bade him enter the large tub.

"Why are you-"

Again she silenced him with delicate fingers, and all bemused, he followed the orders of her graceful hands, sitting down with his back against cold marble. She took up a cloth, soaping it well, and began to wash him.

Severus closed his eyes, finding it hard to breathe around the solid weight in his chest. She was washing every inch of him with cloth and hand. It was sensual, surely, but not sexual, a cleaning that went deeper than skin. His heart, his soul, would never be clean, but for a single moment, his scars could be.

She massaged his scalp strongly, wringing an unexpected groan from his throat. She hid her wicked little smile by reaching for a silver pitcher on a stand in the corner, pouring the hot water over his head. He couldn't help but react to her touch, but she entirely ignored it, simply continuing to cleanse him.

Nocturne washed the breaking, perhaps broken man until the water cooled, bringing him to his feet and draining the tub with a wave of her hand. With another silent charm, his clothing disappeared. She took a warm towel and began drying him with the same deliberation and care. Sitting on the edge of the tub, she took him in her mouth, teasing him, punishing him, bringing him repeatedly to the edge and refusing to let him fall. As she had cleansed his body, she cleansed his mind, giving him the punishment no one else knew he needed. A single, grateful tear trickled from underneath his tightly closed eyelids. She swallowed him whole, accepting his salty issue and calmly cleaning him with her tongue and lips.

He knew better than to speak, but he burned with curiosity, the frantic resurrection of an inquisitive mind buried under years of sin and self-recrimination.

While he recovered, the raven haired woman quickly dried herself off, vanishing the towels with a casual gesture. She took him by the hand, ushering him into the bedroom and to the bed, passing a chair with his clothing neatly folded upon the seat. Another wave set the piano to playing softly. She pushed him gently against the bed, pulling the down comforter over him as he bemusedly laid back on the pillows. Sliding in beside him, she slipped under the covers and rested her head against his chest.

Severus Snape had never before slept with a woman, never before felt the sweetness and warmth of a soft woman resting against him without the sweat-slicked prelude of sex. His fine-boned hand rose and caressed her hair, not quite in time to the quiet pavane, and fell into a deep sleep, Nocturne still tracing whispering circles against his chest with one finger.

When the woman awoke, she was alone, a warm hollow next to her telling her that she hadn't been so for very long. Her lavender eyes flew immediately to the corner of the room, knowing she would meet the gaze of her devoted bodyguard.

Thanatos pushed a strand of platinum blonde hair from his eyes, jerking his head towards the nightstand. Two small sacks, one in black satin and the other in raw violet silk, rested atop a scrap of parchment.

She ignored the pouches for the moment, scanning the crabbed, spiky handwriting of the note.

Nocturne-

The black is the fee for Mme Lareine; the other is my patron-gift to you. I would not presume to know your tastes, and therefore ask you to choose what will please you.

-SS

She looked back up into icy grey eyes. For answer, Thanatos merely reached to the chessboard set up in mid-play, moving a white bishop to threaten, but not trap the black king.

Check.

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Severus Snape worked as a man possessed, the long dormancy of his intellectual curiosity awakening in a torrent of frenetic energy. Even his house elves, who had flourished under his beneficent neglect, started drawing straws to see which of them would be sent cowering into the lab with a plate of food that doomed to be forgotten, or worse, thrown back at its bearer. Ezekiel, the head elf, soon learned to station a hidden observer, sending down the food in the necessary pauses of brewing. In such a way was their Master barely nourished, and their burden of guilt eased.

The Dark Lord's Potions Master read and wrote feverishly, his spiky handwriting filling page after page with ratios and properties, complex Arithmantic equations taking up entire scrolls. The old love, the old hatred, swelled in his frenzy, all echoes of lavender and heather banished from his mind. It was his first and only mistress, the pursuit, and he caressed each step of progress like a sighing lover. He couldn't embrace that Grail as he once had, though, couldn't cradle it to his soul with his face alight with pure knowledge. No, his purpose infused itself in his awareness, poisoned the delight of the Quest as surely as it would poison Charlie Weasley.

Red-rimmed and half-mad, his pitch eyes stared at the cauldron on its blue-white bed of flames. His hand trembling slightly from exhaustion, he carefully squeezed three drops of Gorgon's Tears from the dropper into the black bubbling base. The entire mixture turned clear and still, cool to the touch despite the flames still beneath it.

Severus extinguished the flames and sank down onto his arms, simply staring at the cauldron and its contents. It was done. There long weeks, but it was finally done.

No, it had yet to be tested.

He glanced at the row of cages along one wall, each containing a niffler happily playing with golden Galleons and trying to get to its neighbors' cages, and more specifically, its neighbors' gold coins. At least one of them would have to die to prove this poison. It was not even that he cared so much about nifflers than that he was simply sick of taking lives. It didn't matter that they weren't human anymore. What mattered was that they were living, and when he was finished with them, for one reason or another, they were dead. He stood and walked slowly along the cages until he found one that was half-asleep, curled into its nest of coins and eyeing him drowsily. It was smaller than the rest, one hind leg shorter and half-curved into its body. He opened the cage and carefully reached in to pull the creature out, cradling him against his chest.

The niffler snuffled against him, sorting through the odd smells of potions, herbs, and the distinct smell of a human male that hasn't washed in three weeks, and closed its eyes fully, falling asleep in the Potions Master's hands. He set it on the lab table across from the cauldron, one hand stroking its long fur. Yes, it would die, but it showed no fear. Perhaps it simply didn't understand what it needed to fear. He awoke it with a shake, opening the creature's mouth and placing two drops on the long black tongue.

It died nearly instantly, convulsing only twice before it fell entirely still. He checked for a pulse or breath, but none came, and he was unsuccessful in attempting to resuscitate it. The niffler was dead, dead at his hand, and soon, the second eldest of the Weasley boys would look much the same.

He wondered if the Weasley boy would be buried with a handful of gold coins the way the niffler would be.

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Nocturne looked up sharply at the dull knock on her door. It was not yet eleven in the morning, she wasn't free for customers until two. At her side, Thanatos rose to his feet, standing between her and the door as she quickly piled together her papers and filed them beneath the music in her piano bench. When all was hidden, she nodded to her bodyguard, who opened the door with wand held ready.

Thanatos nearly recoiled at the sight that met his eyes. In the few times he had seen Snape come to the brothel, never had so much as one hair been out of place. It was not the vanity of Lucius Malfoy, but simply his own fastidious nature. The man was, put simply, a wreck, his face haggard and drawn, the purple smudges under his eyes so dark they were nearly black against his too pale skin.

Nocturne motioned Thanatos back from the door, her lavender silk dressing gown only half closed about her, and went to her tortured patron, one hand rising to smooth against his unshaven cheek. One eyebrow lifted in silent question.

"There's one did laugh in his sleep and one cried "Murder!'," he told her hoarsely, all trace of silk and velvet gone from his rich voice. "One cried 'God bless us', and 'Amen' the other, as if they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening to their fear, I could not say Amen."

She frowned and moved closer to him, trying to make sense, and his hands came to cradle her face strongly, desperately, a broken man staring into her lavender eyes as if to drown himself entirely.

"Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more'," he went on, voice grating over his exhaustion. "Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, the death of each day's life…still it cried 'Sleep no more!' to all the house. 'Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more'." He crushed her to him, murmuring into her hair. "I have murdered hope, the light in the darkness, and I shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more, I shall-I shall…I shall not."

Casting a quick, almost worried look back at her bodyguard and companion, Nocturne eased the babbling man into the room, closing and locking the door. She pushed him gently to her large bed, removing his clothes with magic and performing cleaning and shaving charms with practiced ease, tucking the covers up to his chin like a mother.

He clung to her hand. "I have murdered hope," he whispered, and she could hear the raw despair in his normally steady voice. "God help me, I have murdered the only chance we have."

Climbing over him, Nocturne spooned herself against his back, stroking his hair and smoothing it back from his clammy face until he fell into a restless sleep. She stared at him, her hands still moving, still threading through the slightly greasy locks.

It was a throat clearing that brought her attention away from the enigmatic man in her bed, away from the increasing puzzle that was Severus Snape and back to her bodyguard. Lavender eyes met grey as they thought. At the same time, their eyes cut to the chessboard, to the white knight that was moved a little ways away from the other principals, and yet surrounded by nearly all the pawns.

A deep growl rumbling in his chest, Thanatos flew to his feet, knife clenched in his hand, but his progress towards the bed was stopped by his ward's lifted eyebrows. They shared a long look, and he finally nodded, reluctantly shoving the knife back into its hidden sheathe. Sitting down at the small table where they'd been before, he pulled a fresh sheet of parchment to him and began to write.