CHAPTER 21

WHAT TO MAKE OF ALL OF THIS

Sirius, sitting by Snape's side on the kitchen floor, was tracing his thumb over the rim of the round container of Dittany ointment, reading the instructions on the chafed label. For the twentieth time that night.

He tried to refrain from asking himself why the hell he had started reading instructions in the first place. He had applied the ointment on Remus' werewolfey injuries countless times. He knew how the bloody thing worked: indications, counter-indications, side-effects, all by heart.

Sirius flicked the container and started over. The twentieth-first time.

He felt angry, and he didn't know why.

Four minutes and another five readings-of-the-label later, Sirius was washing his hands with soap, again. The kitchen sink had become his closest companion for the night, the noise of the running water drowning out the thoughts that fought to invade his head and the uneasy feeling that welled up in his gut.

Armed with Moony's Dittany ointment, he crouched by Snape's side once more.

"That again?" Snape asked.

"This again," Sirius answered.

Both glanced away, each anywhere else than the other's face.

Neither of them was comfortable with the other. Their exchanges rolled forced; their silences spanned awkwardly, and the rabbit hole they were currently in wasn't smoothing things out.

Sirius unscrewed the cap and pretended not to mind that Snape's breathing had become, over the past minutes, more shallow and guarded, as if it hurt to draw air into his lungs.

It probably did.

By now, he would have given an arm and a leg to have the old Snape back, the obnoxious, arrogant git — the man he used to call a coward. He was pretty comfortable with that Snape, and all this would have been easier to handle.

"The instructions on the label say to reapply even if the bleeding has stopped," Sirius explained as if someone had actually asked him for it. "There's really no getting out of it."

"So you can follow instructions."

For what it was worth, Snape still was obnoxiously arrogant.

Without further second-rate sarcasm, Snape removed his hand and the bloody rag from the wound, and Sirius glanced away, cursing inwardly the whole goddamn world around him. He didn't say anything.

The bleeding hadn't stopped.

He reapplied the ointment, folded another fresh cloth and pressed it over the wound carefully.

"Sometimes it takes longer." Sirius spoke in a voice so soft it made him twitch. He wanted to punch something, or break something, smash something to pieces. "Don't worry. Remus will be here with a blood replenisher soon. He'll be here in time — he's always on time. You'll see."

Another avoidant glimpse at Snape's face, another trip to the sink, another round of washing the blood off his hands.

The ointment was taking too long to work. It had only ever happened so twice with Remus; it had taken three applications before the ointment could take effect. And back then, Remus' wounds had been an impressive mess.

Sirius shuddered.

Some work he'd done on Snape. That he hadn't known it was Snape was but cold comfort. He continued rubbing his hands clean, compulsively, under the running water.

It could have been that another spell or potion used to treat the wound was interfering with the Dittany, slowing its healing effect. But what options did Sirius have, other than relying on the only medicine he possessed? Snape had taken a trip to hell to save Sirius' life, and Sirius… well, Sirius had taken a trip to Remus' house to try and do the same.

Quite a man he was.

He turned off the tap, suspecting the kitchen sink was beginning to trifle at its job of drowning out his thoughts.

Another minute or so later, he was holding another glass of water to Snape's lips, accompanied by some uninspired comment about having no desire to get water on the floor. To which Snape decided to insult his housework, pointing out his floors could use the mopping. Snape was probably right. Sirius hated this all.

He sat down by Snape's side and closed his eyes.

It was maddening.

"You're a smart man, Snape," he said. "You calculate your risks. How on earth did you let Dumblebledore talk you into his preposterous plan?"

A cowardly thing though it was, Sirius half-hoped for absolution: to learn that Dumbledore had forced Snape's hand into all of this, and Snape, spineless and unscrupulous as he knew him, would never have done what he had done, on his own accord.

How that was supposed to make Sirius feel any less shit about himself, he didn't know.

When no answer came, Sirius turned his face to look at Snape and found that, in spite of the exhaustion, Snape had managed to pull off a glare of utter contempt.

"The only preposterous part of the plan," Snape said, "was relying on you to follow instructions. You couldn't resist — you had to take your chance at everlasting glory with Lestrange..."

"You'd never understand," Sirius whispered. He realised the mistake the second he heard himself speak.

"Then, please, explain."

Sirius hadn't meant the words, didn't know why he'd said them. Reminiscence of the old Snape, probably.

"In this war…" he tried to explain, finding that sinking further in his own stupidity took less courage than taking back his words. "To take out Bellatrix —"

"You think this war would be half-won if you took her out. Is that what you thought? That in all your heroic glory — you'd selflessly sacrifice your life to win your side the advantage. Is that it?"

Sirius' words hadn't been stupid. They'd been downright cruel. It would make no difference, though, if he took them back now. One way or another, it was too late for amendments.

"Is that it?" Snape asked quietly. "What I could never understand?" He let out a tired breath, looking for a moment, not angry but… disheartened? And averted his gaze.

And Sirius was left staring, looking like an imbecile probably, feeling like he'd just put another hole in him.

After everything that had happened, that's what he found to say? You'd never understand…?

What the fuck was wrong with him?

"You're a bloody imbecile, Black..." Snape said absently, in a way too tired to put his heart into the insult, "a bloody imbecile. It wasn't Dumbledore's plan."

Somehow, the implications and the tone and the gut-wrenching setting had mixed together to make Snape's words come down on Sirius like a blow to the back of his head. Physically in a way.

They left him feeling vaguely disoriented and strangely empty.

Sirius glanced, perhaps for the hundredth time that night, at the cloth in Snape's hand, neatly covering the unsightly wound. It was white, still. Maybe the ointment had worked, maybe the bleeding had stopped. He glanced at the clock, two in the morning, at Snape's face — pale and ill, hazy eyes staring out of the window.

Sirius followed his gaze and found nothing on the other side of the glass, save for the bleak darkness of the night.

Yet Snape was fully absorbed in the sight of it. His eyes drifted, gazing upon a scene Sirius could not see.

For a moment, Sirius thought he knew what it was. It made him think of the anecdote of Robert Marcan and his own time in Azkaban and the visions that haunted him since.

Snape tore his gaze away from the window, and his eyes met Sirius, a flicker in them unstrung, and Sirius had this strange impulse to put a hand on Snape's shoulder and tell him all will be right.

But that wasn't fitting.

"They could do with some cleaning, huh?" Sirius said instead. "...those windows, I mean."

"I suppose," was all Snape answered, and his expression turned guarded once more.

They fell silent again. And Sirius returned to glancing back and forth between the cloth and the clock and to doing his best to disregard the lump in his throat and the knot in his chest.

"You started saving on the heating?" Snape asked after a while. "I don't remember your house ever being this chilly."

Sirius regarded him, concerned.

It wasn't chilly, not at all. Ever since his return from Azkaban, Sirius had made sure the place was as warm as an oven. He detested the cold. It had too much in common with the Dementors.

"Well, you can never be thoughtful enough with household expenses, can you?" Sirius joked without amusement and got up to his feet, casting another glance at the bandage.

Red had begun to show through from under Snape's hand.

With a tightening knot in his chest and Arthur's Muggle artefact in his hand and a collection of last week's Daily Prophet editions to spark things up, Sirius managed to light the fireplace, uneventfully.

It was like magic, only without a wand. Impressive, the little lightair, as the Muggles called it. Or was it a lighter? Sirius couldn't be sure. It didn't make a difference either way. All that mattered was that, soon, the kitchen would be nice and toasty and Snape wouldn't be cold anymore.

Some moments later, Sirius was upstairs in his bedroom, looking for something to keep Snape warm. He hurried to shove the letter, which lay strewn on his bed, back into its box, tugged at the blanket and — something fell, light, on the floor. He hadn't noticed it being there. He picked it up from the floor: the photograph of James and Lily and Harry.

The colour had faded from it over the years, slightly, save for the coppery orange of Lily's hair — it still shone brightly on the photograph, just like James' smile, filled with pride.

"What do you say to this, James? You think he's faking it — to make me tuck him in?"

James from the photograph, of course, did not answer.

Sirius glanced up into the ceiling.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Can't blame you; it's some show — Snape and I chatting the night away in my mother's kitchen. Bet you never thought you'd live to see this day."

Right. He sighed, shoulders sagging.

And set the picture down on the nightstand. James had not lived to see this day.

Sirius cast another glance at the picture of Harry and James with his proud smile, and Lily with her hair still shining bright and orange and warm — the colour of copper.

Then he grabbed the blanket and hurried out of the room.

Some short moments later, he was crouched by Snape's side with the warm cover in his hands. He surveyed Snape, trying to keep the concern from his face.

"Let it not be said that the home of Black is lacking in comfort," he said with an unhappy grin, noting that Snape was shivering slightly.

"I would expect nothing less than a moth-bitten cover from you," came the reply. Though, granted, Snape's heart didn't seem to be in it either.

In his right hand, resting on the floor — Sirius noticed — Snape was clutching his wand. It made him wonder… though not for too long because, in Snape's other hand, the cloth had soaked through with blood.

"Here," Sirius said softly, "let me see that."

He took Snape's hand, gently, and the bandage underneath.

The ointment hadn't worked. One more try, and if this time around it still had no effect — Sirius didn't know what to do from thereon. He'd never been there before. He reapplied the balm.

"Third time's the charm, right?" This time Sirius couldn't bring himself to grin. "Don't worry, Remus will be here soon. He'll be here, and all will be right."

He pressed a new cloth on the wound, Snape's hand over it — "keep pressure" — and covered Snape with the blanket, making a point of leaving his right arm uncovered and the wand on the floor next to him, just within reach.

He picked up the bloody cloths, which had piled up unsightly on the floor, and dumped them in the sink. At this rate, they would run out of clean bandages before the night was over.

Sirius turned on the tap and let the water run over the bloody heap of rags in his sink. Remus would get here. And all would be right.

The water mixed with the blood and flooded the sink red. He washed the cloths, whatever that meant. He scrubbed them and swished them, and no matter how much he swished, more blood came out. It swirled down the drain and kept swirling, more and more, all bright red, too damn red.

Remus was late. And Snape was still bleeding. And all Sirius could do was wash away the blood.

By the time Sirius was done with the cloths, they weren't white but pink, and he still had blood on his hands, stuck around his fingernails. He took the brush and rubbed at it, but it wouldn't go away.

He kept rubbing.

Perhaps he had no right to wash it off. Perhaps it was where it was supposed to be. Snape's blood was on his hands. And no amount of water would wash that away.

The kitchen sink and its running tap were no longer helping to keep at bay the foreboding feeling in his gut or the incessant thoughts that reeled in his head.

Sirius turned off the tap, wanting to rip the whole goddamn plugging out.

Remus wouldn't come.

Snape wasn't even complaining or berating him, which only needled Sirius more. Instead, Snape simply sat there on the floor, back leaned against the wall, bleary gaze fixed on something across the room — Sirius followed his line of sight: it was the small vial of Yarrow potion, resting on the counter, next to some unwashed cups and the copper teapot that glimmered bright orange in the warm light coming from the fireplace.

"Reconsidering past choices?" asked Sirius, uncertain.

Snape glanced up at him, vaguely taken aback. He looked as though he'd been caught off-guard and, for the moment, lacked his composure to find his way out.

Sirius pretended to notice none of that.

"Here," Sirius muttered, taking the vial of Yarrow from next to the copper teapot. "I'll mix this in some water, all right? In case you changed your mind about it."

Snape eyed the vial in his hand and, for another brief moment, the counter with its unwashed cups — and the teapot made of copper — then his expression turned guarded once more.

"No, I'm fine."

He looked very fine, indeed.

"There's really no shame in taking it. Look, I'll just put it by your side and turn around," Sirius said with a bitter grin. "I'll pretend it never happened."

Snape blinked up tiredly. He'd lost quite a bit of his edge, Sirius realised with a sudden chill.

"It's not that. If I'm to—" Snape pressed his lips to a tight line. And Sirius couldn't decide whether it was more disturbing that Snape was thinking it or that he was afraid of saying it out loud. "I'd rather have my magic with me."

"I understand," Sirius said quietly.

He did. He'd want the same.

He crouched down before Snape, rubbing his forehead, trying to pull his thoughts together. He had to get that blood replenisher, and he knew where. It was just… the thought of leaving Snape alone like this made Sirius' gut churn in a feeling he couldn't pin down.

He stopped the rubbing, figuring it would only make Snape nervous to see him nervous, and clasped his hands together, blinked up at him.

Snape was studying him closely, cautiously, as if he was trying to figure Sirius out — the nervous rubbing of the forehead, the compulsive trips to the sink, everything else about him. A thin line creased Snape's brow, and his expression settled to a contained frown.

"You understand, don't you," Snape said, "why I need my magic? I have to keep my options open — if you become too irritating, I'll need some way of hexing you out of sight."

"That makes sense," Sirius replied softly.

The strange feeling in Sirius' gut clenched tighter, inching up into his chest. The blanket and the fireplace weren't helping — Snape was still shivering.

"You'd have good chances, I admit," Sirius gave a small smile. "I might end up blowing off my own head if I use my wand."

"That doesn't sound half-bad…"

"A bit counter-productive." Sirius tried to chuckle.

"A bit."

"How did we end up here…?"

The rhetoric of his own question was painfully idiotic, to say the least. Snape didn't press to point that out, and the fact that he didn't made Sirius' idiocy sting a bit deeper.

"It will get warmer in here in a bit," Sirius said, "with the fireplace now burning, you'll see."

Snape nodded.

He was pale and very tired, and Sirius couldn't stop thinking of things that must have happened in the past two days.

"You need anything?" Sirius asked and had to frown bitterly at that, amending, "from what we have, I mean."

"No, I'm fine."

"You're an easy-going guest."

Snape regarded him for a second. "I do hope, Black, you aren't begging for a compliment in return."

"Not really," Sirius said with a tentative smile.

"We've settled that, at least."

"Snape, I have to ask…"

"Ask."

"The Killing Curse — it wasn't fluke?"

Snape did not speak for a moment, looking as though he was making up his mind. In the end, he shook his head and answered very quietly, "No."

"After I'd—" Sirius glanced down at the bleeding wound.

"After you'd."

The air had just turned slightly thicker and surely more difficult to breathe.

"Bloody hell, Snape…"

Having known the answer already, with almost-certainty, Sirius had believed the confirmation would come without a shock. He had been wrong.

Very wrong.

"It's—"

Sirius didn't even know what he wanted to say. A current of sorrow was welling up inside him, and he found he had nowhere to shove it back.

"That was the stupidest thing you ever did, Snape, I hope you know."

Sirius shook his head faintly as if that could pull him out of a bad dream that seemed not to end.

"All this time," he said barely above a whisper, "dissing us for wearing our hearts on our sleeves, and now I get it. I finally-finally get it."

Snape, looking unmistakably uncomfortable, averted his gaze.

It was as though Sirius' discomfiture was putting him in hot water, and he was searching for the nearest way out.

"Don't think too highly of yourself, Black," Snape said, his voice a bit too cool in a bid to mask his unease. "Your capturing would have led to the Dark Lord finding the warning in your memories — that would have led to me. It wouldn't hurt to assume, once in a while, that maybe not everything revolves around you."

"Snape…?"

"What?"

"It was a Killing Curse."

For another long moment, Snape didn't say anything. A faint frown line faded in on his face, and he brought a hand up to cover his brow and his eyes, fingers pressed hard on his temples. His frown deepened achingly, creasing his forehead and his eyes tightly shut. It was only after a couple more silent seconds that he finally spoke, with disarming candour.

"I guess, I'm just tired — and my head feels a mess… and I don't know what to make of all this."

"Yeah, neither do I," Sirius said and watched Snape lower his hand. He inclined his head a bit to catch Snape's gaze and added with a slight smile, "But I guess, by now, you sort of figured that out about me."

"Sort of."

"What gave me away? You can be honest with me, Snape. Was it the hand-to-face or the getting up and down?"

"Neither. Though the cues helped confirm."

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

"No."

Sirius sighed. "I suppose I can live with the uncertainty."

"You think?"

"I'll do my best." He let out a slight laughter.

"You should know—" Snape said, not at all amused. "Voldemort believes you're his way to Potter. Knowing the boy, he's not wrong. I didn't get to speak to Dumbledore, so it makes sense that you learn now in case — in case."

"There's no in case. " Sirius clasped his hands together to not reach for Snape's shoulder. "Don't be stupid; it doesn't suit you. There's no in case. "

Snape nodded.

"I've used Yarrow many times, for Rem," Sirius said, glancing at the bandages, where a small red stain was beginning to show through. "Sometimes it takes a few applications for the wound to close…"

"I know how it works."

"Sometimes it takes longer… yet still—"

"It's taking a bit long."

"A bit."

Snape nodded to that.

Sirius nodded back.

"I guess," Snape said, "Lupin will be here."

"No, screw Lupin. He's not here now, is he?"

Snape blinked, surprised.

"We make do with what we have. I need to be away for a bit," Sirius said quietly, clasping his hands tighter. "To find a potion for the bleeding."

"Where?"

"I know a place. It's just — it might take a while before I'm back. Before I go, I need to ask if you — after Longmoon, have you—"

Snape sat straighter with a start. He didn't seem very comfortable doing that.

"I must know," Sirius searched for his words, careful to not tread too close to anything Snape did not want brought up. "After Longmoon and… everything — have you taken any medicine that could interfere with Dittany or with other treatments?"

At those last words, Snape's tension eased out and he released a breath that came out slightly strained. Answering Sirius' question seemed to have gone forgotten along the way, though.

"Did I do something?" Sirius asked.

After a second or two, Snape shook his head, a tad confused.

He looked played out.

It was as though trying to keep up with Sirius and the uncertainty that came with him, and the roller-coaster ride of their exchanges was more than Snape could handle right now.

Sirius had not aimed for this. The last thing he wanted was to mess with his head.

"I thought," Snape said after a while. "I thought you'd ask something else."

"What…?"

Sirius hadn't expected Snape to answer, and in any case not honestly. But he did.

"You didn't ask if I bought my way out."

"What—?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

No, Sirius didn't.

"Oh." Oh, now he did.

"With everything I know," Snape said, for a moment hesitant, "I have enough to sweeten his mood, buy myself some leniency in almost any situation, if I play my cards well. You know that very well. Longmoon was a fiasco, yet I'm still here. Surely, it made you wonder if — It surprised me you haven't asked…" He let out a tired breath and muttered, "seems unlikely of you."

Sirius needed a moment to make sense of Snape's words and his own thoughts on the matter — the possibility that Snape had given out information to sweeten Voldemort's mood after Longmoon… and the implications of that.

"No, you're right," Sirius answered. "I haven't asked. But I've given you every reason to expect such a lowly move from me, haven't I?"

"Arguably your lowliest… could even sell it as pragmatism."

Sirius chuckled grimly at that.

"Pragmatism was never my thing, and you know that." His laugh faded out. "To answer your question, Snape. I haven't asked — because I don't care. I don't care at all. We're getting you out of this mess, and you'll be all right, and I care for nothing else right now. Screw anyone and anything; they can bloody well wait. We'll figure it out later; we'll sort it out."

Sirius wasn't sure what had gotten into him speaking to Snape like this. His thoughts seemed to be spilling out with no trace of control.

"Though, granted," he went on, thoughts still spilling, still no control, "now that I'm thinking about it — and it's your own bloody fault, you brought it up — there's nothing that needs figuring out later, is there? It's not a question, Snape. Not a question at all. It's a statement. There's nothing to figure out. I have no doubt about that."

His own words surprised him. Sirius hadn't registered when things had trickled to where they were now. It must have happened too quickly.

Snape, looking just as surprised, if not more so, took a moment to process that.

"You meant that, didn't you?" Snape asked, "What you said earlier tonight?"

Sirius flinched.

Of all the godawful things he had said — which one? He had meant none of them. Didn't mean them anymore.

"That you'd never—" Snape said, uncertain.

Sirius glanced briefly at the bandages covering the wound.

"No," Sirius answered. "I would never."

Snape considered that, thoughtfully, then gave another vague nod.

"Thought so," he said in a voice a bit shivery. "Maybe I wasn't all that wrong about you."

For a lengthened second, he regarded Sirius in silence, eyes flitting hazily as he surveyed his face.

"And then again," Snape concluded, "maybe I wasn't right about everything, either." He pressed his lips to — it wasn't a smile, but the closest Sirius had seen him to looking content. "For a change, Black, it feels not bad to know that."

Sirius shuddered.

Was he wrapping it up?

"Don't be ridiculous, Snape. We've got many more days ahead of us to quarrel like the stupid." Sirius held back the impulse to squeeze Snape's shoulder, or his hand. "Here… let's patch that up before I leave, all right?"

Some moments later, the wound was smeared in Dittany once more, a fresh bandage covering it. The bleeding hadn't stopped, though by now, Sirius had expected nothing else.

He took Snape's hand carefully and pressed it over the bandage, and for another moment, Sirius held on to Snape's hand, felt it shivering slightly in his, felt the knot in his own chest tighten achingly.

"Keep pressure until I'm back. All right? I'll be back with the potions."

Another nod from Snape in response.

"Before I leave, I have to know — have you taken anything that could hamper other treatment?"

"I don't know, possibly."

"You don't know…?"

"I don't. It's a long story. Has been a long night. And a long day," Snape paused for a moment as though to sort out his thoughts and amended that, "two days. And I couldn't say I was… engaged at all time."

"I'm sorry."

Snape frowned tiredly, regarding Sirius as if he had made a wry tasteless joke.

"What are you sorry for?"

"Everything," he replied. "Just — everything," Sirius said, pulling up every ounce of courage he possessed to not look away. "I'm sorry."

"You were stupid — and arrogant," Snape said, dark eyes glittering bleary as they fixed Sirius, and he concluded with a quiet, "but I made my choices."

Though crouching, Sirius felt suddenly weak in the knees. He had the impression, for a blink of an eye, that the ground beneath him had quaked, and he was pushed off-balance.

The earth, of course, hadn't moved.

It was Snape's words, spoken without resentment, and everything that was precipitating, all too sudden and all at once, that had shaken Sirius more than anything.

It must have shown that he was rather off, because Snape nearly smiled, bitterly amused.

"I always thought," Snape said, "hearing a sincere apology from you would feel — grand. Turns out, it's not what I expected."

Snape's gaze shifted in unease, an expression on his face like he was about to bow out of some secret resolution. Eventually, he returned to looking Sirius in the eyes, unflinching.

"Longmoon was my choice alone, Black. Not yours. If it, in any way, appeases your conscience, know that I don't regret it."

It didn't appease. Not in the least. It dug a hole in Sirius' chest.

Sirius tried to nod, not knowing what to say, felt like Snape's words had broken some sort of a dam, and a raw mess of feelings cascaded out. Regret and self-loathing and some other things Sirius couldn't name or comprehend, and, stronger than all else — an unhinging fear that he would lose Snape.

"Though, knowing you, Black, you can still change my mind about that."

"I'm trying my best," Sirius smiled ruefully.

He rested a hand on Snape's shoulder, hoping it would reassure Snape more than it reassured him.

"You'll be all right," Sirius said. "We'll get through this, somehow. I'm going to get the blood replenisher and something to stop the bleeding. I'll only be away for a while — just to find everything. I'll come back."

"Where?"

"I know a place. Just stay here. I'm coming back." Sirius squeezed Snape's shoulder on impulse, almost as if he didn't want to let go. "Don't do anything stupid."

A moment later, he had let go of Snape and stood up, and for the first time that night, he knew what he had to do, with sobering clarity.

He only hoped he wouldn't be staring into the Dementor's eyes before he could get back to Snape.