Part Two: Lethe
"No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine"
John Keats
I.
Coffee. I remember the taste of coffee used to stay in my mouth all day long. Even when I woke up in the morning I could feel it clinging to my gums in the places I hadn't managed to scrub hard enough the night before. And no matter what I ate, no matter what I drank, I could always taste it in the back of my throat. Every kiss was coffee, and I'd curl up around Alarbus after another coffee flavoured fuck.
I suppose I should thank Alarbus for getting me off the stuff. When Severus kisses me now I can taste him, his tongue, that warm and subtle taste of another person's mouth, combined with the unique, almost citrus flavour of his lips. I want to curl up in the taste of him, and I go through the day with his taste in my mouth.
"This won't always be so easy," he predicts over the sandwiches we're eating for lunch. It's weird to see him sitting on the grass, criss-cross in the summer sunlight, delicately chewing on an ordinary sandwich. Like he's an ordinary person. "Things will get harder."
"I know," I say, but I really don't. Things have been hard, and they're easier now. I deserve this. This is the end of all our subterfuge and madness. "We'll manage."
"You don't know," he informs me, setting his food down on a plate and taking a cat-like lick at his fingers. "You can't even begin to imagine."
So tell me, I almost say, but discover, quite suddenly, that I don't want to know. I don't want to find out. I want it always to be him and me and green grass, white marble, my back to the ground and the routine slipping into shadowed fucks on the lawn, the terrace, his bed, my bed, invisible hands preparing succulent food as we slide through sunlit days in gardens that never age. I want life to go on like this forever, without consequences. I can't imagine why it shouldn't.
Snape says, "Things are going to change."
Says, "Every sunny day is a little closer to the storm."
"Nothing gold can stay."
I go yeah, sure, whatever, and roll onto my stomach, staring idly across the lawn and ignoring his dark presence beside me. In a few minutes he lays back beside me, staring up at the sky, his breathing slowing and leveling out into the steady inhalations of sleep. I stare across the heated grass toward the circle drive at the foyer of Malfoy Manor. There's a haze over my vision, like a mirage, and maybe that's why I don't notice the figure that's picking its careful way towards us across the stone and grass. A blot against the sun. I raise my head and watch it coming.
"There's someone here," I say. Severus doesn't react. I turn and shake his shoulder until his eyelids flutter open. "Snape, look."
His eyes follow the line of my finger and his whole body stiffens under my hand.
"Go inside," he says, voice guarded.
"Who - "
"I don't know." His eyes are narrowed at the approaching figure. "Go inside," he repeats. "Now."
Unthinking, I stumble to my feet and across the lawn, pulling the door shut behind me and closing the curtains for good measure. I put up the wards, but leave the deadbolt unturned. Wand in hand, I sit on the bottom stair, facing the doorway, and wait. And wait. And wait.
There's no sound from outside, and the curtains obscure what might be taking place. I'm an idiot for obeying him, I decide. I'm as powerful a wizard as Severus is; if he's in some sort of trouble…if he needs me…
It's really only five minutes of hysterical waiting, but it feels like an hour. The door inches open and he breezes in, assessing my raised wand and shaky hand with an arched eyebrow before going into the kitchen. The blood on his hands drips onto marble floor, leaving a trail as he moves from place to place."What happened?" No answer but the sound of running water. I follow him into the kitchen and he's standing at the sink, hands sunk in soapy water. "Who was it?"
"Some Muggle. Sale's person or something. Wanted to sell us insurance." He snorts. "Definitely won't be coming back."
I stare, incredulous. "What happened?"
"What's it look like?"
"You…killed…a salesman?"
He gives me a look that says that should be pretty damn obvious, bloody hands and all. "Why?"
"Harry," he sighs. "You knew this about me already."
"I knew you killed people who got in your way! What did he do? He didn't even know who we are!" I'm aware of my voice getting louder, louder, my face flushing, hysterical. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "You didn't have to kill him. He wouldn't have told anyone."
"He wouldn't have known any better than to," Snape replies. "We can't risk it. If the ministry gets word of us we're done for. Or rather, I'm done for."
I snort. "You think they'd let me off after running off to live with you?"
One black eyebrow arches perfectly. "Running off? I kidnapped you."
"No you didn't," I protest. "I could leave if I wanted."
"It doesn't change the fact that I brought you here without your consent," he says. "And if they find us here, it'll be easy for you to blame me. If we are found out, all you have to do is cry and look good, and you'll be carried home on a pedestal."
There's Snape for you. Always looking out for my best interest. "What about you?" I ask. "You don't seem to have this so well planned out after all. After I betray you what do you do?"
"Die," he says, as casually and as matter of fact as if I'd asked him about the weather. "I get what passes for a fair trial and then I die."
This is too much. While I'm spluttering my indignation he finishes scrubbing the drying blood from his knuckles and towels off his hands, inspecting his nails with an accusatory glare. "That's the thing about blood," he sighs, picking up a nail scrubber and setting to work. "If you don't get it off at once it stays forever. And it can't be healthy. I swear, I will never take up nail biting; all the awful things I touch it's amazing I'm not a leper by now…"
I gape. Snape is making feverish small talk about hygiene. I'm not sure which aspect of this scenario is the weirdest; Snape being chatty, or the unnecessary violence.
He must notice me staring, because he brings his tirade to an abrupt end and fixes me with a puzzled look. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?" he asks, almost gently. "You know I would never hurt you."
My mind throws up the memory of my broken nose, but I shake it off. "Just the same," my voice shivers, "I'd feel a bit more comfortable if you weren't a psychotic killer."
He rolls his eyes. He actually rolls his eyes. As if that's an appropriate rebuttal. "You act like I just kill anyone and everyone, Harry," he remarks, turning back to his nails.
"No offense," I grit. "But it does kind of seem that way."
"But darling, that's just not true," he mock pouts for a moment before breaking into that trademark smirk, then lets all expression drop from his face. "Oh, alright, so it's not a...selective…process," he sighs. "Still. I know my history is against me, but I promise, from now on, I won't kill anyone unless I really, really have to."
There's something very, very unusual about this conversation.
"Death Eater's honour," he swears, smirk fighting his poker face.
I shake my head, still wide-eyed in disbelief. This really cannot be happening. "I'm-"
"If you say 'leaving,' Potter, so help me God it'll be the last time you see me again." Something hard about his jaw stops me from snapping back that that's exactly what I want.
"Going upstairs," I finish, warily, casting one glance over my shoulder as I move toward the stairs.
We're in Mexico. There is precious little time for romance. The dark hallway before we emerge from our underground prison, blinking in the soft light as Snape tears apart another enemy…this is before that. My mind is blinking on and off like a radio losing reception. He stops, turns, forces me against the wall with his body. His hands, slick with blood, never touch me.
"When we get out of here I'm leaving," he says, eyes flashing.
"If you leave," I growl back at him, "I swear to God it'll be the last time you ever see me you git."
"I'm leaving," he insists, and then his mouth is on mine, and everything is turning black and I'm wondering, wondering, wondering why I can't remember anything that's just been said and if maybe it's a stray memory charm or just the stress but the light is filtering through and he's black against white and he's dark against light and his hands are wrenching screams and I sink into the corner. And this is too much, too much…
"Harry."
I groan, rolling over and pulling the duvet over my head. I don't want to be awake. "Harry, I know you're conscious." His warm breath ghosts over my jaw. "Please…"
I open one eye a crack, just enough to see his dark hair hanging over me. "Mmm?" I manage. I don't quite trust my voice right now.
He nuzzles his nose against my ear, nothing if not penitent. "I'm sorry." The moist, warm air from his mouth on my skin sends a sharp spiking shiver down my spine and I roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around his neck and nuzzling back, clinging to him. And pray that he'll just leave it at that. "I'm sorry."
When he kisses me I know nothing is fixed. It's in his character to kill, and it has been since before I was born. As a creature he is beyond morality. He's a force of nature.
But here, now, when he's got his hands sliding down my sides and his tongue thick in my mouth, I don't care.
II.
"We'll strengthen the wards," he says when I wake up. He's sitting by the window smoking what really can't be less than his third cigarette of the day. "We'll strengthen the wards and then no one will get hurt."
Right. Sure. Okay.
The reason he didn't strengthen the damn wards before is this: He couldn't. I say, "That's a load of shite."
"Do you remember," he drawls, taking a slow drag and letting the smoke run out his mouth like his soul escaping. "When I told you that this place was too big to handle on my own?"
"No," I say.
He rolls his eyes. Severus Snape, mass murderer, former Death Eater, the man who gave the entire Ministry of Magic the slip, rolls his eyes like a bratty teenage girl and flicks his ash onto the windowsill. He shoots me a reckless smile, nothing but the quick upturn of the edges of his mouth and crinkle around the skin of his eyelids. I think it looks honest, but I've been mistaken about these things before.
"Since you're staying," he says, and it closes the issue. "You can help me with the wards. We'll link our magic and throw a shield up around the manor, like the ones around Hogwarts. Anyone looking for either of us, or even just passing through, will find themselves passing through a completely different landscape. We'll…we'll exist on another plane."
Another world, I think. But I nod, and I'm okay with the escapism. Really, I am. After seeing this world and the people inside it I'm ready to try something new. We'll forge our own world; population two and some house elves. And Ron, and Seamus, and Sirius and Remus Lupin will move on, keeping just afloat on the surface of that other reality. And they will be as dreams remembered from a long sleep, or characters from a favourite book. Nothing more than shadows at the edges of my mind.
I'm ready to start forgetting.
I suppose I'm expecting that they'll be some ceremony to accompany this grand magical blend. I'm anticipating mingling blood and a foul smelling potion and an unexpected rush of passion as we stand on the roof under a stormy sky and intermix our essence with only the wind to witness. So I'm taken off guard when he grabs my hand, pressing his calloused thumb to the center of my palm (my fingers curling around his) and murmurs a swift incantation in Greek. There's a tingle - the warmth of a spell taking place - and then it just stops and he sits back, smugly satisfied with my flabbergasted face.
"No need for fancy showmanship, Potter," he smirks, and then leans in to brush a kiss against my jaw. "Welcome to the new world."
The new world involves a lot of tanning. For me, anyway. For Severus it involves a good deal of sun-block and aloe vera. But after the first episode of raw red skin and peeling he looks like an entirely new person. He looks - heaven help us! - like someone with skin pigment. And of course, he shoots me a playful sneer when I point this fact out, and then wrestles me to the grass and tickles my sides until I'm screaming for mercy.
Things like that happen now. I wouldn't have expected a playful side to either of us, but there you go. I'm lying out on the front lawn in a pair of shorts, soaking up the sun and a strawberry daiquiri, when something cold and wet explodes against my back.
"What the fuck!" I exclaim, jumping up and whipping around to see him doubled over, a spare water balloon cradled in his hand. I can feel my eyes narrow, and, with a swift concentration of magic, the latex snaps and Severus stops laughing, staring at me with a shocked expression as his hair drips. I smirk.
The next thing I know he's launched himself at me, sending us both sprawling back onto the grass. I land with an uncomfortable, "oof" and get the wind knocked out of me as he crashes down on top of me. For a second we recover. Then his hands have found the sensitive spots on my side again, and I've jerked up my knees to try and kick him off. It's a futile battle for both of us, and within minutes someone has instigated a long, slow kiss that's as wet as his soaking t-shirt. His hands are pressed against my hips, holding me down, keeping me in place as he slides along me. An easy truce found here in the grass, under the brave new sky as we couple for the hundredth time.
We don't talk about the dead Muggle anymore, but the memory hangs over the manor like a ghost. Standing in the garden I find myself wondering if I'm standing on bones. How many murders took place in this house I've made home? How many Malfoys are decaying under floorboards? How many shallow graves have fertilized the flowers in this eternal spring?
Severus - if he knows - says nothing about it. The manor's history is rich, I know. I have explored its rooms, now and then. Photographs from the first war are not the only relics it has to offer. Portraits of the Malfoys throughout the years are crammed into the attic, sacrificed to Severus' sense of interior décor. There are books - written in French - that detail the lives and deaths of the manor's former owners. I can make out words here and there, and names that sound half familiar. There are albums of photographs that predate the first war collections. One shows a smiling blonde flapper dancing wildly, a petulant looking child standing by. He looks like Draco might have at that age, but with sharper cheekbones and eyes a darker shade of silver.
There are mysteries in the house that crumble under my curious fingers. There are mysteries in Severus as well, and in myself. I cannot understand, at times, my willingness to abandon my old life. But, even as I think it, I realise that my memories are washed out, sun bleached. The pains and joys of my previous existence feel hollow and dull. I remember names and faces, but the connotations are gone. The meaning behind the facts - if there ever was any - has been scooped away.
And every night I'm moving further away. Curled around Severus, fingers twisting in his dark hair, I can just barely conjure the memory of nights I spent in a similar position, twining my hand in hair of a similar shade. My mind forms the name "Alarbus" and throws an image of a smiling man with deep brown eyes. I can even remember the sting of his hand on my cheek once, after a fight. But there's no emotion invoked by the memory, and I slide into the present again, washed clean of a past that's been haunting me.
It occurs to me, now and then, that if I start to dig I will unearth the secrets I want. A few feet down I'm sure I'd find the telling white of a jawbone, a femur, a forearm. Maybe a clump of blonde hair still hangs from the grinning skull. And imagine the stories it could tell, in its creaking clattering lipless voice. The old parties of Malfoy Manor - the days of grandeur and pureblood extravagance. Days I would suddenly kill to have back. I can imagine the dark suits, the women like dusty photographs and old film stars sliding from the garden to the staircase, the guests with champagne flutes grasped lightly in their laughing fingers. I want to be a part of it.
But such thoughts drift away, evaporating as easily as dew from the grass in the garden.
I find Severus reclining on the settee in the living room, a cigarette dangling from his fingers and his eyes half closed. It's noon and the sun is streaming through the window and reflecting in the black gloss of his hair. This is a dream - or this is not a dream. It's gotten so much harder to tell.
"You ought to stop smoking," I say, caught suddenly in the weight of his black gaze. "I stopped with the coffee."
"You ought to stop sleeping," he says. "It only wastes time."
We get stuck in arguments like this, where I make sense and he doesn't. And they end with us tangled and twisted, his hands on my hips and my hands in his hair until we are one person. Our skin growing into each other. He curls around me like a vine and I forget a little more of what I've left behind. His mouth opens mine and sucks out the pain and the memories I gained in another life. His fingers pull the confessions from me, unbidden, and he offers his singular brand of absolution.
Forgetfulness.
Contentment.
I say, "You ought to stop smoking," but I think I've forgotten why that is. Cancer can't affect him here, anymore than the past can affect me. And if his fingers are stained and his mouth tastes like smoke it's nothing I can't forget I don't really approve of. The grey curls of vapor from his lips are alluring, in their own specific way.
He says, "You ought to stop thinking," and that seems logical enough.
To say the letter comes as a surprise would be an understatement.
It's another day like any other, and I'm stumbling down the stairs at nine in the morning, hoping for breakfast and my daily cup of coffee. The silence in the dining room is, somehow, more oppressive than it has been in the past. Severus' back, turned to me, is all angles and rigid lines. The smell of his cigarette is at once comforting and worrying; he never smokes at breakfast.
"What's wrong?" I ask, but I know before the words have left my mouth. I've been dreading this since day one. Another intrusion. And this time it's not something he can wash off his hands. The envelope on the table hasn't been opened; my name is written across the back in dark red ink, the "H" shaky and the "R's" running together. Alarbus.
It feels heavier than it should, when I pick it up. Just paper and ink. Paper and wax and ink. I break the seal and take it out, catching the forgotten scent of him, before forgetting again. And I read:
"Harry - "
"Don't," Snape says, turning for the first time. "Don't read it to me."
Harry, when you left I realised what an idiot I'd been. I wanted to tell you - but I was so upset. Looking down from our window I could see you on the street, dejected and defeated and I wanted to tell you I still love you. I still need you. I always have. And this, whatever it is, this problem between us is only a temporary thing. It cannot last, when I feel that I am a part of you. You are a part of me.
I went to see Ron the next morning, but he said he hadn't seen you. You hadn't been to him or told him about anything. Likewise with Seamus. And when you didn't come to work and Abernathy said you were probably taking a much-needed vacation I started to worry.
Now it's been over a month and a half since you walked out of my life and into thin air. I still miss you. I want you back. I don't know if this letter will find you - I spelled it to reach you wherever you are. I get so angry sometimes! You left without a word. I know we were fighting, but didn't I deserve to know where you were going? Are you okay? I wish Abernathy would get his head out of his arse and look for you! If he won't…maybe I will.
Please write to me. I need to see you again, if only to hear from your own lips that you don't love me. That you maybe never did. What we had between us was magic more real than the waving of wands or the slaying of dragons. And I'd give anything to have that back.
Yours always, Alarbus.
III.
After that there are newspapers. They arrive almost daily, these reminders of the world I thought I'd succeeded from. Articles about the Ministry opening a search are highlighted. Pages with my name are dog-eared. That Alarbus is heading the attempts to find me does not escape my notice.
The dates on the papers alarm me. Have I really been gone so long? It feels like it's only been days, but the weeks drag on and the months march by and April gives way to June and June surrenders to July and I wonder what happened to May.
So far no one has mentioned Severus. I bite my nails waiting for the day his name appears, and I up my coffee ration just the slightest bit. He's smoking more than can be healthy, even here. Sitting by the dining room table where the letters and papers are forming a tower that threatens to collapse and cover us both, he silently inhales and blows a smoke ring with lazy concern.
"We could move," I offer, nervously unable to think of anything else to say.
Puff of smoke. "Where would we go? It's safe here."
"But the letters…" I flounder. "If they can reach us…"
"Letters are not people, Harry," crushing the tobacco into an ashtray and reaching for the pack with nicotine stained fingers, "No one can get through those wards as long as we're both here."
"But what if they do? They must know where we are in order to send these things."
"No," he says, striking a match with finality. "They do not."
Harry,
Please, please, please write to me. Your friends are panicked. I'm panicked. We miss you. We want to know where you went. Just tell us you're okay and we'll never bother you again; I swear! We'll never barge in on you, or try to change your life. We just have to know that you're all right. I have to know. Because I can't let you go, knowing you might need me.
Please answer me. If you can. If you can't, I'll keep looking. Don't worry, Harry, we'll find you. Wherever you are.
Love,
Alarbus.
H –
What the fuck do you think you're doing? We need you here, at home. Al has taken up your old habit; I haven't seen him without a mug of coffee in three days. Sirius was in town the other day asking about you, but he's vanished now, and no one seems able to find him or Professor Lupin. Just like you. Except the rumor is that they are actually doing something constructive; looking for you!
Please write back,
-Ron
Severus,
In English, for your sake, and Harry's, I will make my request. I have to see you again; I've fallen upon trouble. What sort of mischief it is cannot be placed in this letter. I sent it using the talisman you left me. Please come. I am in Paris.
My love to you and the boy,
Arrienette
"Talisman." He blows smoke through his nostrils and contemplates me coolly. "How did you neglect to tell me anything about this talisman?"
"You're angry," he states. No fucking duh. "That is illogical. What would I have said about the talisman? What would have been the point?"
"You would have told me what it does, for one thing," I grit, pacing the floor before his chair restlessly. "You might also have mentioned why you gave it to her."
He shrugs, the graceful movement of his shoulders creating a faint swish of fabric. "Easily answered. When we parted we did so as friends. I had things that I wanted to do, and she had a life to get on with. I set her up with some cash and a condo in Nice. Just in case she were ever in need of my help, as it is now evident she is, I left her with a talisman. It works a little like a portkey. Basically, it allows a connection between the two of us without allowing either party to be traced. She can contact me, since it requires no magic to be employed, but she cannot transport herself or anyone else to my current location."
That sounds like a thorough description and, after all, it's not that part that's bothering me. So I move on. "You're not going to go to her, are you?"
Again, that effortless shrug. "Harry…"
"No." I shake my head. "No, you've left me too many times before. If you go this place will fall apart. If you go you might not come back. If you go I'll be trapped here, and what am I to do?"
"Well, it's a nice house," Severus replies. "If I'm not back in a month or two you could release the wards and put it up for sale. They say this area is really a seller's market and with these hardwood floors the place could go for up to two million-"
"Shut up!" I scream. I'm almost amazed with the silence that follows, from both of us. "This isn't a game."
He reaches out and holds me now, pressing me against the smoke and lemon scent of his white cotton shirt. I release a shaky breath and try to deny the tears running down my face. And we stand. Silent.
And we sit on the lawn for the last time, with the sun just below the horizon and the light and the shadows making patterns through the leaves, like black lace or spider webs falling across our hands and faces. His skin is a darker colour than it used to be; not the same dark tan I've gotten, but something more exotic. I want to touch him, but there are his words between us and the weight of the future pulling him away.
There's nothing left of today, and tomorrow he'll be gone.
What is it like to wake up alone in an empty house? I have the feeling I've done it before. And the light that's quickly fading is suddenly colder than snow. Because tomorrow he'll be somewhere else, and I will sit here alone and drink my coffee alone and the letters will keep coming, with my name written in a hand that is not his.
I lost him before. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. Our relationship is just losses. I will write his name in blue ink across my heart and carve our initials on the trees in the garden. When he is gone. When he is not coming back. I will tell our story to the stones.
Eyes look your last, I think, but he says, "I'll be home in a week, maybe two." Arms, take your last embrace. He places one soft kiss on the corner of my mouth and stands up with a sigh. "Remember, Harry. Your safety comes first. Don't do anything stuipid."
Sure. Fine. Whatever. Stupid things are old hat by now. The stupidest thing I ever did is stepping through the wards and apparating to Paris. Goodbye, my favourite mistake. You know that I'll be waiting.
Beyond the wards he can't see me. I can't see him. But if I squint hard enough and tilt my head I can pretend I see a dark smudge like a stain staring ruefully back at me for just a second before – he's gone. More than not seeing, I feel his magic leaving like a bandage being ripped off my skin. Times about a million. My scream follows me into darkness, escaping the pain, the sudden and unexpected physical pain, of separation.
When I wake up the wards are starting to decay.
IV
It's a slow process. His magic, my magic, keeping the place together, creating our new world, keeping out everything but those pesky little letters.
It doesn't work so well alone.