CHAPTER 24

ADULTS TALKING

If Sirius' relief had felt unreal, it had been so for good reason. Snape was still cold and shivering and breathing in shallow, unsteady inhales; his skin, already white, had turned even paler.

Sirius had grabbed two more blankets from upstairs and had covered Snape with them up to his stomach. "You should lie down," he had said, and Snape had declined with a weak shake of the head.

Now Sirius was sitting next to Snape on the kitchen floor, listening to his shaky breaths.

There was a heavy sense of finality weighing down on them. They had done everything there was to do; the bleeding had stopped, and Snape had drunk the blood replenishing potion. Still, he was getting weaker by the minute, Sirius could tell.

There was nothing left to chase. No other potion to run after. No spell to hope for. All Sirius could do was sit by Snape's side and stare at the blood on his own hands.

He wiped his palms on his trousers, but the blood remained there. He blinked at the sink.

No.

Not the wretched sink. That god-awful sink, where all that blood had gone down the drain. He fucking hated that sink.

Once this was all over and he had his magic back, he would blow the thing up. No. No magic. He would ram a hammer in it and smash it to dust and rubble and absolutely nothing.

Sirius leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, only for a while.

"You want some water?"

He waited for a reply, eyes still closed.

Waited… His heart leapt.

His eyes shot open, and he snapped his head to the side — Snape was still there.

Still there and seemingly lost in some pursuit of his own. He had pulled one arm out from under the covers and was holding in his hand the empty vial of blood replenishing potion.

Unlike Sirius, he appeared uninterested in his own blood, now dried, coating his hand fully, his wrist and forearm too… the sleeve was covering the rest, and Sirius couldn't see further underneath.

It was the writing on the small brown glass that preoccupied Snape. Though to read anything held in that unsteady hand could only end in failure.

Snape, having likely reached the same conclusion, placed the vial on the heap of blankets covering his lap, arranging it so that the label was facing upwards.

He stared at it for some long moments, studying the writing seriously, purposefully. In the end, he took the small vial in his hand once more, and frowned.

"This is from—" Snape said. "You went to Saint Mungo's…"

Sirius didn't know what to answer.

He tried to think of a smug reply. Something, anything. But his mind was stuck somewhere else. Somewhere where he no longer knew what to say. Or what to do. Snape was not getting better.

Three blankets covering him, and he was trembling like a twig in a storm. Because he had lost too much blood and the potion was taking too long to work. And there was nothing Sirius could do.

A leaden shroud of apprehension hung heavy upon them, descending yet heavier with every shallow shivering breath from Snape.

"You went to Saint Mungo's — for this," Snape said again, and all Sirius could do was nod.

Snape frowned wearily, blinked again at the empty vial in his bloody hand, not bothered by the blood that shouldn't have been his own. Then he glanced up at Sirius, looked him in the eyes for a moment, a heartbreakingly long moment.

And then Snape said something that left Sirius —

"Thank you," Snape said.

Sirius' heart clenched still.

His vision was pickling with a faint heat, and he stopped blinking to not— Sure enough, he had stopped breathing too.

The air, thick and suffocating, had knotted in his throat, and Sirius found he couldn't swallow or draw in one more breath.

All he could do was give another nod, feeling as though he'd been speared in the chest.

This was it.

He might as well be counting down the minutes; there was nothing left. This was it, and it was too much. And he couldn't breathe.

He really couldn't breathe.

Sirius scrambled up to his feet and stammered out of the kitchen.

Out in the hallway, he staggered away from the door and sank to the ground. He let out a long breath that made his whole body shudder.

He couldn't do this.

He couldn't.

He hadn't asked for this.

Never. He never would have asked.

That was Sirius' place, bleeding on that godforsaken floor. It should have been the other way around. EVERYTHING should have been the other way around. Sirius should have been out there, in the first line of war, taking on every blow in hell to protect his friends.

Instead, the world around him was crumbling, and he was the last one standing — no, sitting. SITTING home. James was dead, and Remus was in danger because Sirius had failed, and Snape was bleeding to death and all Sirius could do was hold his hand.

When had Snape even added to the equation? It was — It made no sense. No sense whatsoever that Snape would hang his life on a thread so that Sirius would be spared. Severus Snape, of all people. When had he grown the spine?

When had Sirius lost his?

Having a breakdown in the hallway, like this.

Just… when?

They still had time.

Not half an hour had passed since Snape had taken the potion. Surely, it needed time to take effect. Perhaps longer than Sirius had expected, but it would work in the end. They still had time.

Sirius pulled himself up to his feet. He rubbed his palm over his eyes, and his cheeks. And went back into the kitchen.

They still had time.

Whether Snape was thinking the same, Sirius couldn't tell. He couldn't ask either.

Whatever his thoughts were, Snape was enfolded in them deeply, enough so that he didn't notice Sirius coming back into the kitchen. His feverish eyes, staring off into the empty space between him and the kitchen window, were flitting hazily as though watching a film unwind in thin air.

He wasn't lost in thoughts, Sirius realised, but in visions of whatever demons he had out and about, trailing him.

Twelve years in Azkaban had made Sirius into quite the expert on what it meant to be standing amid ghosts no one else could see. He recognized the sight of it unmistakably.

Sirius trod closer, and Snape flinched.

Snape glanced away from the window, eyes darting to the cupboard–clock–table–the cupboard again, searching for something, anything, to focus on and stay away from that other place.

Quite a mess he was.

"They never talk about it, do they?" Sirius said and sat down by Snape's side. "How it stays with you, long after it has ended."

Snape turned his face to regard Sirius, sitting beside him. Their shoulders were touching and Sirius could feel him shiver.

"No," he answered quietly.

"I would draw the curtains shut," Sirius said, "but I got rid of them a week ago."

For another long moment, Snape considered the fact, thoughtfully. He settled for a contained frown.

"They were hideous."

"They were." Sirius smiled and felt a dull ache in his chest. "You knew what awaited you if I escaped...?"

Interrogation, torture — it had sounded like a question, but in truth, it was a statement.

"I'm not an imbecile, Black." Snape let out a tired, shivering breath and turned his face to look ahead, away from Sirius. "Of course I knew."

"And yet you still did it. You saved my life. I never thought I'd — I owe you my life. I — I don't know where this war will take us, but it's a debt I can probably never repay."

"You owe me nothing, Black," Snape said, sounding annoyed between shallow, strained breaths. "Your indebtedness… hanging over my head, is the last thing I wish for." A deep line creased his brow in a puzzled frown, and he looked sort of surprised with his own words. "I care nothing for owing or indebting… anymore. Nor for all being on the same side, doing the right thing — or any of that nonsense — It's not about that."

"What is it about?" Sirius murmured. "Why did you do it?"

"I don't know."

The answer was odd and barely an answer at all. Though thinking of it, any other answer would have been yet more puzzling. Nothing about Snape made sense. And then again, it somehow did, in a way of its own.

"That seems reasonable," Sirius said, unsure whether Snape was still hearing him, "reasonable enough."

Snape, gazing across the room, seemed to have drifted off in his own thoughts once more. He was staring at the counter, where the copper teapot rested peacefully, shimmering in tones of orange in the fickle light cast by the fireplace.

He was careening between worlds, more than two, Sirius understood.

Wherever Snape was now, it seemed to be nothing like before; the place must have been lulling and tranquil, very much so.

He looked unafraid and fully calm. Lost in the sight of glimmering copper and a far-away world of his own.

"Hey," Sirius said softly. He put a hand on Snape's forearm that was resting in his lap. "Hey…"

It was with some delay that Snape glanced down at Sirius' hand, then turned his face to him, looking as if he'd woken from a dream, though only halfway. Half of him was still in that other place, Sirius could tell.

He squeezed Snape's arm a little tighter.

"You like that teapot?" Sirius asked.

It was a stupid question; he didn't know what else to say.

"It's just a teapot," Snape answered. His eyes glistened, saddened, and his voice was unsteady when he spoke. "I like the colour, though."

"Copper…? You like the colour of copper?"

Snape nodded barely. The sorrow was unmistakable in his gaze, raw and uncontained, so intense it was aching to watch.

"It's beautiful," Sirius said, "that warm coppery orange. It really is."

Their conversation verged on the absurd, taking after Snape, who was tiredly sliding into delusion and into some world too far away. Or maybe it was Sirius who was offbeat and uncomprehending, missing something — about the colour of copper and the meaning of it.

It was probably both: the sliding away and the things Sirius had never known.

"I know nothing about you, do I?" Sirius asked.

Snape's silence didn't surprise him. He hadn't expected a reply. Not to this question.

"Well, I know that you dislike floral curtains." Sirius tried to make his voice light. "And that you're immensely brave. Insanely so. By all means, you must be insane — to do what you're doing in this war. I agree with you on the curtains, but the courage — I don't know, Snape — it did me in."

He paused and intercepted Snape's gaze, and felt the ache in his chest prod deeper, making it hard to speak light.

Or to speak at all.

"We have some common ground there, don't we? With the curtains," said Snape, letting a few unsteady breaths pass before he concluded, "and the courage."

"We may have more than that."

Snape contemplated that, his gaze at some point flitting to the copper teapot on the counter, so briefly it must have been involuntary.

"We do," said Snape, before frowning in concentration as though trying to discern words through a thick fog. Eventually, the trace of a half-smile settled on his face. "We might be sharing the insanity too."

"That too." Sirius smiled sadly.

How had they gotten here?

"Stay with me a while longer, all right? The blood replenisher will work; you'll be better soon."

Snape gave an absent nod, and Sirius could make out he was again slowly drifting away.

"What is your wand?" Sirius asked. "I'd guess Cherry Wood or Yew and…"

He waited seconds and more seconds on end before Snape replied.

"Yew and Dragon Heartstring."

"Perfect for combat."

"It is."

"You weren't bad, you know?" Sirius said. "In Longmoon, when we duelled, you weren't bad at all."

Snape nodded again slightly, and he was a bit more present.

"I was holding back."

"I know."

The room was quiet and very still. It felt as though the minutes had ceased elapsing and time had come to rest in place. Sirius wished it could turn back.

Two or three days, or maybe fifteen years.

It could have all been so different. He felt Snape shivering against him, slightly stronger than before.

"You like duelling, don't you?" Sirius asked, and it was another long second before Snape answered.

"I do."

"What do you say, when all this is over and you're back on your feet, we have a duel, you and I? Just the two of us. Fair — as it should be."

Sirius glanced sideways at Snape, and saw him smile at that, a little. Snape nodded.

"I'd like that."

"Then we'll do it."

"You won't stand a chance, I hope you know."

Sirius tried to laugh. "I guess we'll have to live to see."

Snape's breaths had grown shorter and more shallow. Sirius leaned closer into him.

"Black?"

"Mh?"

For a lengthened second, Snape looked him in the eyes. His gaze burned feverish with things unspoken, words never said. In the end, he glanced away.

"Never mind."

"Say."

Snape shook his head faintly. "No."

"We'll get through this." Sirius squeezed his arm a little tighter. "We will. Just stay with me, okay? A while longer."

Another shaky nod from Snape, and when he answered, his voice was less steady than some minutes ago. "How could I refuse such charming company?"

"I don't know, Snape." Sirius grinned bitterly. "I was wondering the same thing. Look at us conversing, feels like… adults talking. Quite a distance we had to walk, huh? To achieve this, I mean. And to finally understand, after all this time — you truly are the bigger man."

Dark hazy eyes fixed Sirius, and Snape looked as though he was about to say something, but then he frowned tiredly and pressed his lips to a terse line.

He was taking longer and longer to articulate his thoughts, sluggish pauses to find his words.

It was painful to watch.

"I don't think," Snape finally said, "it's appropriate to compare sizes, Black."

Sirius smiled, searching for some trace of amusement.

"Who'd have thought, Snape, out of the two of us, you'd turn out to be the one cracking the lewd jokes?"

Sirius chuckled, and Snape smiled at that. Had Snape been better off, they would have shared a laugh together. Or so Sirius liked to think.

"You don't—" Snape closed his eyes for a moment, his forehead creasing. "You don't happen to have another blanket around, do you?"