SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1I'm Sure You'll Contract My Disease

Chapter Nine: The Beginning

Death: it's delectable. Like chocolate. Smooth, milky goodness smeared over your tastebuds, sticking to the roof of your mouth, rolling like a kiss at the edge of your lips. It slides unsteadily down your throat, clogs your artery (some say it releases the same chemical in your body as would be released if you were in love).

Death, my endearing gift to a sunshine-haired girl. You eat chocolate. You consume death. You are a Death Eater, Severus Snape. You are, very much so, a Death Eater.

I could keep up this conversation with myself for hours upon hours. I'm the only one who will listen to it. If Black were alive, he'd support me in my hours of self-loathing, berate me until I was on the verge of self-destruction. I'm a time bomb, and I know it. Tick tick tick...when will Severus explode?

And if I stood up at this very moment, I could peek into the doorway that leads to my bedroom and see Harry curled up on my bed, squeezing the feathers out of one of my pillows His face would be a look of utter contentment, soft and at rest, his pink lips parted to aide a slither of saliva in its escape. And I would think to myself, why is he on my bed? Why isn't he on his bed? I would ponder this for minutes, how it came to be that Harry Potter was more comfortable with me than he was with himself. I, a murdering fool, and he, the prince of the light. The Gold of Gryffindor.

And how it has become possessive. He is my Harry. I am his Professor. He is my golden boy, my beacon of hope, the light in my darkness. For some reason having Harry with me is like having the sun for a shadow.

I'll be honest to say that I don't know if I'm okay with this. Adoption. What is adoption? Adoption is possessive. To adopt is to acquire. Harry will be mine. But isn't he already mine? This will make it official, and when official, he will cease calling me Professor. What will I be? Dad? Daddy? Father Dear?

Drop me on my skull already, James; you've had me hanging here for way too long.

I wish things had worked out differently. I really do. I wish that I had never found him that day, soaking in a sea of red melodrama, whispering foolish words about saving me.

Save me, Harry. Save me like you save everyone else. Just like you saved Ginny Weasley. Just like you saved whatever the next Muggle target was after Voldemort destroyed your life. You will not save me, you silly child. Nothing can save me.

I am up now, rather unsteadily so. I'm lightheaded and shaky, as half of my head feels numb. Harry is exactly how imagined him, only he's not asleep. He's definitely looking right through me.

"Alright, Professor?" he asked quietly.

"I'm fine."

He rolls over, away from me, and pulls a blanket farther around himself. What is he if not cherubic? He appears to me to be nothing more than an angel child with too many emotional scars to handle.

The tap is still leaking in the bathroom. I don't even think I've bothered to clean up the bloody mess yet. The porcelain's most likely still stained red, his clothes still strung around the room.

What if he does this again? What if I'm not there? What if all of this is a mistake, just to leave me even more miserable and alone than I was before he bled his way into my life?

Drama. If you're dramatic enough, you can have your way with anything or anyone. This is what Harry did with me. He's manipulated me. I am a willing pawn in his treacherous game. There is no doubt in my mind that he will kill himself, or get himself killed. Then, I will promptly put my wand to my skull and die.

"Are you feeling better?" I asked.

"Much," he raised his head and smiled at me. It was a dazzling smile. His teeth were very straight and white. The candle that was lit in the corner of the room reflected from the mirror into Harry's front teeth, which reflected into my eyes. I needed to sit down.

"Do you want to take a nap with me?" Harry asked hopefully.

I pretended not to hear. I stared at my nails, noting that they looked particular grimy. Maybe I should pay more attention to detail.

"Harry, look at the ceiling," I ordered him softly.

I wasn't even looking at the ceiling myself. I just wanted him to get his thoughts off of me, and staring at the ceiling is a mind-consuming habit that can detain such things.

"Why?" he asked, though I'm sure he obeyed. He had become habituated to taking my orders in stride.

"Tell me what you see." I was still examining my fingernails. I really didn't care what he saw, as long as he didn't see me. I was too bleak and devoid of beauty.

"People with wings," he told me. "I see angels."

I stiffened.

"You see angels?"

"I see you."

Precisely what I didn't want to hear, yet his relation to me and angels slightly amused me. Angels. Winged creatures that did good, brought motivation and will. If I were an angel, I'd be a dark angel. If I were a unicorn, I'd be a dark unicorn. If I were a big cat, I'd be a panther. If I were a wizard, I would be a Death Eater.

"You think I'm an angel?" I asked.

"To me, you are," he responded quietly. "You care about me and that in itself is supernatural. Because you're you and I'm me. It's extraordinary. Therefore, you're an angel."

"I don't have wings."

"You do have wings," he told me. "You just don't know how to fly."

I just don't know how to fly.

"You don't want to adopt me," he stated, after a few minutes of silence.

"That's not-"

"You don't. It's too weird for you. It's too weird for me, too. We'll kill eachother or we'll kill ourselves. We'll kill ourselves, or we'll be killed. Either way, we're about to officially engage in a loving parent to child relationship on the verge of death."

"You call me Professor," I replied.

"What else am I to call you, Professor?" he asked, a hint of scathe in his voice. "Shall I call you Severus? Sev?" I settled into a laying position next to him. The angels on the ceiling flapped their wings in greeting...or perhaps they were merely ridiculing me. "Shall I call you Father? Voldemort's loyal supporter? Or, Professor, shall I call you Uncle?" I turned my head to look at him, but he continued looking at the ceiling. "Uncle Severus," he spat out distastefully. "Dad. Should I call you Dad? Or Da? Or Pops? Or Papa? Or Daddy? Tell me, Professor...tell me your name of choice."

King Severus The Wicked, I wanted to tell him. I wasn't ready to be Dad or Da or Pops or Papa or Daddy.

"Goodnight, Harry," he mimicked me. "Sweet dreams, poppet. I love you, Harry." He turned blazing green eyes to me. "Every kiss on the forehead has been a lie."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, Harry. Everything about the past few months has been an act. I'm a bloody brilliant actor, aren't I? Cradling and coddling you the way I do." I threw a pillow against a wall, attempting to express my anger. Unfortunately, a pillow isn't exactly Parvati Patil's crystal ball. A pillow does not smash into a million deadly pieces. A pillow merely bounces off the wall and falls quietly to the ground. "Yes, Harry. I'm the angel. I'm the angel who you bloody saved."

He grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly. "You remember what I said then..."

I'll save you before I go.

"How could I forget?" I spat. "How could I forget what you said? I took you after that. I took you in and fed you and treated you like the prince everyone thinks you are. Because you're a bloody savior, Harry. You saved everyone else, and you've tried to save me. That's all you are. A bloody savior."

His hand went limp and he released his hold. His eyes glittered with an undefinable emotion. His mouth was set in a frown.

"I'll save you before I go," he repeated without feeling.

I knew I had hurt him worse than he'd ever been hurt before. I knew that this was the ultimate manipulation.

I have been ill every waking hour of my tortured, malcontent life. Perhaps this is because my life is my illness, for life in itself is a sickness. A chronic, painful sickness. Life is a terminal case.

Harry was my cure, my escape. The tingling after the numbness. Harry was the food I kept down, the water that cleansed my dry heart. Harry was the reason time stopped, the reason I haven't gone off yet. But now it seems, that the clock has resumed its ticking.

"I love you, Professor," he said in the same lifeless voice. I had broken his heart. Again. You glue back the pieces, you drop it again. It breaks...again. Again and again. The same, painful cycle.

"I love you, too," I whispered, but he didn't hear. He was sobbing too loudly.

I left him there, on my bed. I left him wailing for me to hold him, to come back to him, to stroke his hair, to kiss his forehead, to tell him that it would all be fine in the morning. I left him there to claw at the bandages on his wrists, to reopen his wounds, and let a new stream of fresh blood stain my sheets. I left him there in injustice, to remember the days I would insult his father, insult him, hate him, destroy him. I left him there to sink deeper in the mattress, make an impression, soak the pillowcase in his tears.

I left him there to ponder his disease, hoping that perhaps he would realize that there was only one straight answer, one obvious cure.

I, on the other hand, left the dungeons, left the castle and ran to the lake. I dove in and waited to drown.

Harry, my beautiful Harry. I saved him from himself once. I picked him up and carried him and cradled him on my lap. I kissed away his tears and we played shadow ballet before sinking into sleep. Prince Harry, crying as I held him up and kept him close, allowing him to feel my soft, loving breath on his neck. Pleasuring in the way he breathed me in. My poor, unsuspecting Harry, who never realized I was contagious.

***

When I arrived (thoroughly soaked) back to my chambers, he was sleeping, curled tightly against one of my pillows. His face was damp and flushed, his white bandages stained red.

"My darling boy," I murmured, stroking his hair gently. "It all hurts so much and I can do so little." I brushed my lips across his forehead in a tender kiss.

"Burning," Harry mumbled softly in his sleep.

"Burning?" I prodded gently.

"I'm burning alive," he mumbled again.

A hint of panic rang through my body, but he smiled sleepily in contentment. Slightly reassured, I planted another kiss on the top of his head.

"Burning to ash," he sighed. "And I'm rising up again."

"Yes, my beautiful little phoenix," I whispered into his ear. "You're rising up again."

He opened his emerald eyes and cracked a small smile for me. "You're wet."

"I went for a swim."

"How was the water?"

"A little chilly."

He patted the space beside him and again asked, "Take a nap with me?"

This time I agreed, laying down beside him after replacing my wet clothes. I kissed his forehead and wrapped an arm around him, rubbed his back.

"Lie to me," he said in a childish voice. "Tell me you're happy."

"I wanted to die," I told him.

He smiled and nestled in closer, laying his head on my chest.

"I knew this would happen," he said. "It's only the beginning."

"You knew...what?" I asked.

"I knew you would contract my disease."

***

to be continued...