Author's Note: The uncensored version of chapter four of this story is available out of general circulation, in that other section of the library. Be sure to bring a note from your professor.

Remus Lupin sat on the seaside bluff watching Harry and Hermione cavort below. He squinted, trying to concentrate on his book. Juvenile hilarity carried across the water, and he raised his head to watch them. His mouth narrowed. God damn it. He sighed and tried to return to his book. No use. He tossed it aside and strode down the hill to where Harry and Hermione were standing knee-deep in the shallow water, splashing and laughing. Harry turned his head at Remus's approach, allowing Hermione to catch him with a faceful of salt water. Hermione squealed and started to run, Harry chasing after. He tackled her. She squirmed loose.

"Come back here, Granger! You'll pay for that, you will!"

"Excuse me." Remus's tone made them stop and look up. They were flushed and dripping and guilty looking. "I have some unexpected news for both of you."

They both sat up straighter. Ever since Sirius's departure a fortnight ago, Harry had been desperate for news and on edge night and day. It had been Remus's suggestion to invite Hermione last week. Ron was spending the summer in Romania with Charlie, and was an irregular correspondent at best. Hermione's presence had done a splendid job of cheering Harry and enlivening the little cottage. They looked prepared to hear the worst now, and Remus thought he was really being rather cruel, but his irritation overrode other considerations.

"You may not know this, but the Home Office does not actually require all male subjects to submit their testicles for castration on the occasion of their thirty-fifth birthday. Do you know what this means?"

They shook their heads.

"This means that those who have passed that august and venerable age are not, in fact, eunuchs. Do you know what that means?"

They glanced at each other but made no response. "It means, put some bloody clothes on!" he yelled, and stalked off in the direction of the cottage. Honestly, he thought. The first few times it had happened he had been willing to look the other way (or try to), but for the last three days neither of them had worn a stitch of clothing outside of the house and it was beginning to wear thin. It didn't help that both Harry and Hermione had become lean, sinuous, and utterly gorgeous over the past year. Help me, Sirius, he thought. I'm being held captive on Nymphet Island and they're killing me. It was a good thing the cove where the cottage stood was otherwise uninhabited or the neighbours would doubtless have filed a report with the constable's office.

He set the kettle on in the kitchen and leafed absently through the Daily Prophet. In a few minutes he heard quiet footsteps behind him and turned to see Hermione, dried and clothed, standing in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Remus, really I am. It was most inconsiderate of us, I know. It won't happen again."

He waved his hand sheepishly. "No, no, Hermione, I'm sorry for snapping at you both that way. I shouldn't have. I'm just a little out of sorts, as you can imagine."

She nodded. "I know. We're all worried about him." She poured the water from the whistling teapot. "Harry said Sirius got some sort of letter that set him off. That he was raving about Pettigrew and throwing things the last night he was here. Had he found out something new about him?"

"Yes. Well. Somewhat. I think it was just the final straw for Sirius. It's not like it was the worst of Peter's crimes, but it may have been the meanest. And it had- consequences that reached far beyond the action itself."

Hermione seemed undisturbed by his lack of specifics. "Who was the letter from?"

Remus looked up in surprise. "Harry didn't tell you?" She shook her head.

"It was from Snape. To be opened in the event of his death."

"Oh." She swirled the tea in her cup as though investigating the leaves in Trelawney's class. "Well, that's not so very surprising."

"It isn't?"

"Of course not. They always struck me as two people with a great deal left to say to each other." She took a meditative sip. "There are only a couple of reasons why you would hate someone as much as they hated each other."

Remus gave a short laugh. "You're a wise little witch."

"And you're a patronising old werewolf." He launched a lemon wedge at her which was caught in mid-air by a large brown owl swooping in through the open window. The owl had a parchment tied to his leg, which he offered to Remus while working the lemon wedge in his great hooked beak. The colour drained from Remus's face as he read.

"Get Harry," he said in a tight voice.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sirius had the most delicious floating sensation. His limbs felt as though they might simply detach from his body and float upwards, carrying the rest of his body with them. There was a puddle of warmth in the center of his belly that oozed and spread to his toes and fingertips. There was something he ought to be doing, or worrying about, but he couldn't remember what it was. He was awash in pleasure. Something was pulling at him slightly, trying to stop him from floating up, but he felt he could shrug it off. The tug became stronger, then sharper and painful. He fought against it and tried to concentrate on the floating, which somehow felt golden. Could something feel like a colour? He wasn't sure. Maybe that was one of the things he was supposed to remember. The painful tugging had become a weight sitting on him, and he struggled to push it off. The gold was slipping away from him, caressing him with sad fingers. Please wait, he tried to cry out. I can make it, just wait for me.

Oh no you don't, the tugging weight said. Oh no you don't. How could it be speaking to him? He wanted to weep. The weight was his enemy, and all joy and happiness and pleasure was fleeing from it. He opened his mouth to cry out but air rushed in and filled him, and he was choking on the air that was cold and black and hard and heavy. It pulled him down and down.

No change? No, there's no change yet. I'll send for you. He should sleep for a while now.

The black air had become a dark ocean of viscous liquid. It was hard to swim in it, and there was no light. There was something he ought to be looking for, but how could he find it if there was no light? Here, have a light. James leaned in and lit his cigarette. So, I made up my mind to ask her out for next weekend. What do you think? I'll say this, you've got nadgers. Will you look after the baby while we're gone? Sure, James, only I can't see. Don't let him sink to the bottom. He can't swim. Lily would be very upset. Oh God, where was the baby? The water was getting thicker and darker, and his limbs had no more strength. He gave up and let himself sink to the bottom. James, James, I'm sorry.

He woke with a start to blinding whiteness which became Madam Pomfrey's wimple as she bent over him to adjust his blanket. He worked his throat. His swallow sounded so loud his head throbbed.

"Ah, look who's awake," came the cheerful voice that sounded like a shriek. "Do you know where you are, love?"

He tried to nod and gave up. "Hogwarts," he croaked.

"That's right, dear. I've just been fixing you up good as new. You lost a great deal of blood. I've never had to regenerate quite that much before. It was some very quick thinking that even got you that far, I'd say."

He tried to work out what she was talking about. Something about how he had got here. How had he got here? What had happened? He couldn't quite remember. He'd get the notes from Remus after class.

"Think I'll sleep now," he muttered, and was gone. When he woke again his head was clearer. Here was Remus to bring him the notes. No. Where had that come from? But that was Remus, and James beside him. No. That was wrong too. It was Harry. Harry was holding his hand and grinning at him. Had he said something funny? It seemed rude not to smile, so he made an attempt but ended up coughing instead. Madam Pomfrey was at his side in an instant, holding a sliver basin underneath his chin. The dry retching felt like it was pulling him apart. How could something so simple hurt so much? Well, I'm awake now, he thought.

"Is he dead?"

Remus nodded grimly. "Oh yes, my friend, he's dead. You did a fair imitation of what you promised you would."

Memory came back not in a trickle but a flood. He closed his eyes against it and waited for the tide to settle. His eyes flew open.

"Everyone else is all right?"

"Everyone else is fine, Sirius. You're the one we've been worried about. You gave us all a fair scare, my friend."

He raised himself carefully up on the bed. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

"Three days! Good God. No wonder I'm so hungry. What do you have here?"

Harry grinned even wider and pulled out a basketful of chocolate frogs. "Would I come unprepared? And Hermione baked you a chocolate cake, which Remus had to smuggle in under his robes, so the icing got a little smushed around." He reached over to the lining of Remus's robe and caught a dollop of chocolate icing on his fingertip. "Want some?" Sirius laughed, which hurt as much as the retching, but felt infinitely better.

It was another two days before Madam Pomfrey was sufficiently satisfied with his progress to release him into Remus's care. During that time Harry and Remus hardly left his side. Dumbledore came and heard the story of Pettigrew's death from first to last, asking questions at the right parts and avoiding them at the others. McGonagall came, bringing him something she claimed was a homebaked Scottish delicacy but felt suspiciously like a brick wrapped in gold paper. Sirius did not want for company or opportunities to tell his story, but still his eyes strayed to the door for the visitor who did not come.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Come."

Sirius pushed open the heavy oaken door to Snape's office. The Potions master was seated at his table amid an array of glass jars of all shapes and sizes. There was a pile of labels to his left and a quill in his hand, which paused on its way to a jar when he saw Sirius.

"Black. Finally out of bed, I see."

"Yes." He waited for an invitation to sit down, and lowered himself to a chair by the table when none came. "Have you recovered all right?"

"Oh yes, I did not find it neccessary to lie in bed for days on end, at the disposal of my adoring throng."

"Yes, they're lined up around the corridor, aren't they?"

Snape shot him a withering glare and resumed his work. After a minute it was evident Sirius was not going to make any more conversational gambits.

"Is there a reason you decided to disturb me tonight, Black?"

"No. I'm going home tomorrow morning and was just looking for some company. May I help with that?"

Snape looked as though someone had offered to help him wash his lingerie, but after a moment's hesitation he pushed a pile of labels towards Sirius and handed him a quill. "Make new labels for these. Try to transcend your usual scrawl." Sirius nodded. He worked in silence for a few more minutes, carefully imitating Snape's copperplate hand.

"Mind if I ask what happened to these labels?"

Snape sighed impatiently. "If you must know, they were water damaged after an explosion in the potions classroom this spring and I never replaced them. I am trying to put them in order before classes start next month."

"Neville Longbottom?"

"The very same."

"How did an explosion get them wet?"

"It wasn't the explosion itself. It was the rain shower that Miss Granger summoned to put out the fire that drenched my classroom and everything in it."

Sirius laughed at the image. "I'll bet you busted Gryffindor back to negative points for that one."

Snape made no comment but arched an eyebrow. He worked methodically, his quill scratching unhurriedly over the thick parchment labels. It occurred to Sirius that it was unusual, knowing Snape's fanaticism about the order of his stores, that this particular task should have been put off so long. It wasn't like Snape to leave poorly labelled jars lying around. The explosion would have happened about three months ago, about the same time he had sat down to write that letter. About the time things might have been getting more dangerous in his double life. Lots of things might have been let slide. He set his quill down.

"Snape, we really need to talk."

Snape did not look up from his task. "Must you?"

"Yes, we must. I read your letter."

"Yes, I know. I wonder, what is the etiquette? Now that everyone has read my death letters, must I write new ones? Or, in the event of my actual death, may I leave a note that says 'refer to above'? It is difficult to know what to do."

"Well, consider yourself quits with me."

"I do."

Sirius decided to try again. "There are some things I need to tell you, Severus."

Snape shot him a look at the use of his given name but let it pass. "There's nothing you need to tell me."

"Yes, there really is."

"No. There really isn't. I heard and witnessed your entire exchange with Pettigrew quite clearly. A concealment charm conceals the person but does not impede his vision or hearing of events around him, as you ought to know. By the way, that's quite a Cruciatus you cast. I was suitably impressed, particularly if, as you claimed, it was your first time."

"I won't be put off, Severus. You're going to let me say this and you're going to listen to it. If not because you want to, then out of gratitude for rescuing you."

"For what?" Snape's voice rose to a dangerous pitch. "For rescuing me? You arrogant, presumptuous. . . You did no such thing. I was the one who rescued you. I would have managed to escape very handily whether you had shown up or not. It takes a stronger will than Peter Pettigrew's to place me under an effective imperius curse. All you did was bleed all over the place and give me the bother of hauling your unconscious body back here."

"All right, all right. You made your point. But I did kill Pettigrew, and if he had escaped he would have betrayed you to Voldemort. At best your spying career would be over, and at worst you'd be a target for every Death Eater north of Bristol."

"No doubt. But you had your own reasons for wanting to kill Pettigrew. I must confess I envy you the final kill. What did it feel like, I wonder, to snap him in two like that? Of course, you've had plenty of experience with rats, haven't you?"

"Baiting me is not going to work, Severus. Please. Let me talk."

Snape set his quill down and folded his hands. "Very well. Make it quick."

"All right." A look at Snape's closed, stony face told Sirius this would have to be good. He would only get one shot. "The real reason I am here is to answer your question."

A quirked eyebrow was his only answer.

"You asked me, in your letter, a question. How could it be, you asked, that your hatred of me has not managed to kill your love? You also asked why it was that all other faces should be but a distortion of mine. I have taken your questions, both of them, very seriously. I've had some opportunity for reflection over the last few days, and I think I've come up with some answers that may satisfy you."

"Black-"

"Please don't interrupt. Surely you know this isn't the easiest thing I've ever done."

"I'm sure of that, but I think you will thank me for stopping you. It's plain enough you are working up to some sort of declaration, at the end of which you imagine we will fall into each other's arms like the overly hormonal, lovesick teenagers we once were. All will be forgiven and forgotten, and the last twenty years will be as though they never were.

"Let me forestall this touching scene by telling you that while I do not deny anything I wrote in that letter, it was intended to be read only after my death. It was in no way intended to be an invitation to pursue a romantic liaison in life. Yes, I have long been persuaded of your indifference, even of your hatred. That the event has proved me wrong does not mean that the only obstacle to the bliss and glory you clearly envison has been removed. There are many reasons why you and I must let our feelings lie. The pleasure of acknowledgment and mutual recognition may be ours, but, I think, no more."

Sirius regarded him, chin on hand. "Well, that's very. . . Edwardian of you." He rose and shrugged on his cardigan. "I respect your wishes, naturally. I would ask that you do me the courtesy, however, of reading this. At your leisure, of course." He tossed a folded square of parchment on the table and turned to go. He paused, his hand on the door. "And thank you for saving my life."

Snape sat motionless for a long time after his departure, staring at the letter. He resumed writing his labels. After about half an hour he carefully replaced his quill in the bottle and reached for the letter. He turned it over in his hands several times, examining it like a rare artifact. He considered his name scribbled on the outside in a bold slash. Severus Snape. Then he rose to set the letter on a shelf, propped on a jar of powdered griffin teeth so its address was concealed, and went back to his work. He got up several more times to look at it, but did not touch it again.

In fact, it was almost one week later before he touched the letter again, although he looked at it every time he entered the room. It was the following Sunday before he allowed himself to pull it down from the shelf. That should be quite enough time to be safe, he thought. He poured himself a small glass of sherry and sat at his table, the letter before him. After considering a moment, he rose and moved into the potions classroom with the letter, and seated himself at his great high desk. Yes, much better. He unfolded it and pressed it flat on the desk, weighting it with small polished stones at the corners as he did his students' papers when he graded them. He crossed his arms and began.

Dear Severus,

How long did it take you to open this? Just about a week, I would imagine. That would have been what the Severus I knew twenty years ago would have done. You were the only person I ever knew who plunged right ahead into the most difficult and unpleasant tasks in life and procrastinated when it came to anything you might enjoy. But maybe I presume about the category this letter will fall into.

You asked me two questions in your letter. Why should you love me after hating me so well all these years? And why do other lovers reflect the one face you don't want to see? I paraphrase that last. I lack your elegance of expression, and I don't have your letter by me to refer to. I'm lucky Poppy allowed me a parchment and quill. I thought for a minute there she was going to make me write on toilet paper with my own blood for ink. A good thing, since I don't think I have much of that left to spare. No, that was not a plea for sympathy. You solicited my thoughts on the matter, so here they are.

First, I think both emotions you have felt for me, or I for you, are genuine. You really do hate me, and, if it makes you feel better, I really hate you too, you supercilious git. If we're going to let ourselves really hate, why can't we really love too? The older I get (or the more time in Azkaban you spend, I hear you say), the more comfortable I get with paradox. With the unlikely, even the irreconcilable, existing side by side. After all, we have good reason to hate. We have behaved to each other in a bloodcurdling manner. I tried to kill you. You tried to kill me. Potato, potahto. Sorry. These are some wicked drugs Poppy is spooning me, but I bet you know that since I bet you brewed them, didn't you?

I think implied in your questions is another one. Why should it be that what one does, or feels, when one is so heartbreakingly young, should mark so strongly the rest of one's life? When we were eighteen and fucking behind the Quidditch pitch, did we think we were steering the course our hearts would follow for the next twenty years? I, for one, never thought of it. Sometimes I think our hearts are like gaming chips we throw on the table our first five minutes in the door and spend the rest of our lives trying to win back. But you've probably never been to a casino, have you?

We are sad and stunted men, Snape. For both of us, life ended long before it should have. You had your youth and innocence ripped away by the Death Eaters, and I rotted in Azkaban for most of my adult life. Who knows what we might have become had these things not happened? We might have enjoyed normal lives and honest, healthy loves. It is no testament to our emotional maturity that we never got beyond what we did when we were teenagers, as I'm sure you know.

I don't have the answers you're looking for, Severus. What we did to each other, with each other, and for each other left its mark, and the only consolation I can offer is, it did the same to me. If that is consolation. Maybe it was actually love and not just hormones rushing in our ears. Maybe. For I do love you too, even more than I hate you. It will be interesting to see, won't it, which end the scale finally tips in our lives, at the end of them, I mean? Wouldn't it be something if we didn't have to wait that long to find out? Wouldn't it just.

Poppy is starting to send worried looks my way, so I'd better end this. She thinks I'm writing a list of things for Remus to bring from home. She is no doubt forming interesting opinions about the interior of my closet. Well. That joke's too good to better. I lack your touch with the endings, so in conclusion I will just remain

Cordially yours,

Sirius Black

Snape read it again, then a third time. He returned to the penultimate paragraph, studying it. He refolded the letter exactly as it had been and replaced it in its envelope. He closed his eyes and sat unmoving for a long time.