And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass
Broken Lullabies Arc; Line C
- Vain
03.08 – 06.15.2003



Standard Disclaimer:
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.

Warnings: HARD R Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about? No sex, though. ;-) Footnotes and definitions are at the end of each chapter. Also, I don't speak Italian. God bless translations sites. If YOU speak Italian, please overlook my no doubt glaring and painful errors, because I know that what I wanted that to say and what it says are probably 100 different, but I don't know anyone who speaks Italien that I could show this to. ;;; Poor Sev . . .

Continuity: This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after Hush, Little Baby and Don't Say A Word.

Notes: Special thanks you's are extended to Apapazukamori for beta-ing.

This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. SAME AUTHOR. SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME. As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.

Thank you for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.

For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see my Livejournal (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.

Do not steal from me.



Stanza One:
And If That Mocking Bird Don't Sing

"Midway in our life's journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost."

The Inferno
Dante


"Trust me."

"Trust me, Harry," I imagine he said that night, knowing that he was the next to last person in the world that you should ever trust. The last person being me, of course.

I lift an eyebrow at him, a silent inquiry as to his mental health. Trust him? Hardly. I don't even trust myself anymore. Not near those gem-like eyes, raven hair—

"I don't like it," I grate out, shaking my head to clear it of you. You. Always, always, always you.

Whelp. Child. Insufferable, annoying child.

Gorgeous.

He raises his hands in that irritatingly disarming manner of his and I have a sudden urge to throw that silly bowl of lemon drops at his head. I despise him. I loathe this whole situation.

Your fault.

"Severus," he begins, daring to think he can placate my anxiety so easily.

I stand. "I don't trust him!"

"Is that really why you don't want to work with him?"

Yes, I don't trust him. No, that's all there is to it. I'm not sure anymore. "Of course it is!" I hiss. "Have you forgotten? He tried to kill me!"

"A childhood prank, Severus," he chides with steel-laden mildness. He simply has to practice that tone of voice.

It's cool in his office, but I'm hot and I tug on the collar of my stone black turtleneck, making sure to continue glaring at a spot just over his shoulder. Not at him. I've found that I'm unable to look people in the eyes these days.

I don't speak. I don't remind him that I still bear the scars from that fool's "prank." I don't mention that if Potter—perfect, golden James Potter in all his smug glory—had arrived even three seconds later I'd have been bitten. I'd have died. Or worse. I could have ended up like that animal, Lupin. I don't mention that Sirius was laughing.

He knows already.

But I can't find it in me to be angry with him for it. I suppose I've lost the right to that.

Would you have laughed? I like to think that you'd have been angry—cried out for me.

Stop.

"You did agree to try and work together," Albus reminds me. He—or rather the air above his shoulder—seems to be impervious to my glare. How irritating.

Yes, we did. Because you threatened us. Aloud I say, "Now is hardly the time to deal with these . . . issues." Especially not if he catches me drooling over you, his perfect godson.

Although, come to think of it, the look on his face would certainly be entertaining.

Another dismissive wave. I briefly entertain the idea of chopping off his arms and beating him with them. While the imagery is amusing, I doubt I'd be able to harm a hair on him before he tossed me about like a house-elf making salad. Still, the thought is comforting.

"It's hardly as though you two will be working in close contact," he continues, unaware that I'm fantasizing about his painful death. Or perhaps he knows and finds it less unsettling than my imagination's more recent . . . interests. "He'll only be here for a day or two. That's all that's safe. He'll see Harry—" I cringe imperceptibly and my heart skips a beat " come give you what you need for the potions, and then be off again. Really, all you need to do is collect a blood sample."

Smug bastard.

I don't even know who I'm insulting anymore.

"Lemon drop?" he asks for the fourth time since he summoned me.

I sneer. "No."

He smiles, his blue eyes twinkling maddeningly. The old fox.

Still, I can't say that the idea of bleeding Black doesn't appeal to me.

I chuckle silently. You'd disapprove.

"Fine. It will take me two weeks to brew the foundation potions properly and allow them to set, though."

"Of course. After you've taken his blood, you can have Harry owl the results to him with the next letter he sends."

Bastard. Smug, annoying, omniscient bastard.

"He'll be in the Friday after next, sometime in the evening. I trust you'll have all you need by then?"

I nod, already tallying up the necessary ingredients in my head. Subringori and Verus Vultusii are extremely difficult and extremely illegal transformation potions. While their ingredients were similar to polyjuice, the process is much more intensive and the results much more extreme. Polyjuice only allows one to mimic another's physical appearance for an hour, but Subringor creates an entirely new and unique body based on the subject—one that remains until Verus Vultus is taken.

The transformations are extremely painful and if either potion is off in the slightest, it can result in horrible disfigurement and, most likely, an extraordinarily unpleasant death. Very few can accomplish the task, hence the Ministry's ban. Also, many of the ingredients are illegal and the Subringor potion takes a considerable amount of Dark Magic to make.

It's been years since I've tried my hand at either potion. I find myself suddenly relishing
the challenge. Albus, no doubt, had planned some reaction of the sort.

I stand and turn towards the door, ready to prepare for this weekend's work immediately, when the old wizard's voice suddenly stops me.

"Sirius need not know about anything, Severus. I trust you to be . . . discreet . . ."

I freeze for an instant, certain that he really can read minds. And Merlin help me if he's known what's been on mine recently. But there's nothing I can say that won't damn me further. Besides, so long as you're not around, I can control myself just fine. Everything is just fine.

And at the thought of you—soft skin, trembling pleas—the old familiar ache is back along with all the memories that I should never have acquired and refuse to surrender. Angel. Sweet panting breaths, shimmering eyes magnified by tears, and that mouth . . .

I flee the office, hair in my eyes. I won't give into the urge to turn around to see the look on Albus's face. I won't. I won't. I—

Oooph!

I . . . am on the floor? With someone on—

Oh. Green eyes. Black hair. Sunshine, and sweet wind, and soft skin over hard, maturing muscle—

Deep breath.

"Um . . . Sir . . .?"

Oh, Merlin, that mouth . . . Sir? Oh. Arms. Let go.

And how the hell did my right hand get tangled in that hair?

Right. Arms. Are you staring? "Potter!"

You jump, lithe body jerking atop mine. Little pinpricks of sensation explode throughout my body.

Brat.

"Get off me, Potter!"

You squeak and I have the sudden urge to tear your robes off those slowly broadening shoulders. Expose that ivory skin. Watch those wide child's eyes grow impossibly larger. Taste you. Drink you in. Perfect.

But you move. Somehow managing to make my eyes want to roll up into my head, but movement nonetheless. I push myself to my feet and then the guilt hits. Guilt and the fiery, intoxicating taste of your reluctant kisses, the soft vibration of you whimpering beneath me and—

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for assaulting a teacher!"

Those eyes widen and you retreat. Go away, child. Go away! Those pale, wet lips part in an "o" shape to argue, to protest, to no doubt infuriate me, but I'm gone. Past those lips, past those eyes . . . Merlin.

Memories.

"Professor! Professor! . . . PLEASE!"

Heat.

Think potions. Think classes. Think of anything but how unbelievably beautiful you are when you cry.

But I can't.

I want.

And it aches inside.


It isn't until I'm in my private lab that I release a shuddering, painful breath and realize that my right hand is closed in a fist around several ebony strands. I force my fist open and feel the light, silky strands fall down to the table. It's your hair. It couldn't be anyone else's—no one else's would cling to me like that. No one else's would feel like dry ice in my hand.

Breathe.

Don't think.

Baby. Angel. Child. Fool.

My Fool.

Don't think.

You know nothing.

Don't think. Breathe. Stop shaking. Stop . . . needing . . . that.

Just toss the hairs out. They're nothing, really. Trash.

But what would it hurt?

To watch? To touch you? To taste you? Just once more?

Harry . . .

Would you mind if you never know?

. . . . . . . . . . . You don't reply.

Instead, I work. I don't think about possibilities anymore. I've out grown such frivolous things. But that does nothing to still the itching beneath my skin. The needing you. So I work.

And I imagine that you'd approve.

My skin crawls as though small points of light are darting beneath it. Spring water. Pixie wings. Boomslang skin. Firefly tails. It all blurs together as I mix, pour, dice, grind, and stir. More and more. One after the other. Fresh blood red rose petals.

Just like—

Focus.

I lose myself in the rhythm.

It takes me over three hours to get the foundations for what will become the Subringor and Verus Vultus potions prepared. Now all I can do is wait for Black's blood. Once I have that, the mixture will be divided and boiled, the blood will be added and then additional spells and ingredients will be added to each potion to differentiate it from the other. The foundation must ferment for at least 14 days. Of course, if it sets for longer, it won't harm anything; it's only after the blood is added that time becomes a factor. Human blood decays and losses its magical properties frightfully fast once outside the body—particular when added to fresh red or white rose petals. The energies are in opposition and tend to nullify one another after a certain point in time.

I've been considering running some experiments on hybrid roses to see the affects.

I close my books begin to clean up, stubbornly avoiding looking at those five thick, dark hairs laying on the table. I finish all too soon. Books away. Cauldrons cleaned. Jars of foundation potion stashed in a dark storage room. Nothing but me, a clean lab, those damning hairs, and, tucked away in the back corner, a large, seemingly innocuous black iron cauldron with a round wooden lid over it. It's full of the Mostriloiii Potion that I made three weeks ago during a frenzied attempt to escape your pale, persistent memory.

"PLEASE!"

Poppy never had so many healing and anti-inflammatory potions in stock.

But this? I should never have brewed it. I should have poured it out. Albus would be so disappointed.

"I didn't take them on purpose." But you aren't here to hear me. "I didn't plan this. How was I supposed to know?" I pause, half expecting you to answer. Half expecting you to be sitting in the corner in that damned cloak, watching me. Waiting for me to slip up. Waiting for me to do what I've been considering doing since I found myself on the floor and staring up into those lush green eyes, hand gripping the black bird's nest that you pass off as hair.

Waiting for me.

Are you?

"Art."

You don't respond.

But would it hurt anything? Just this once? I've been so good. The potion only works once.

I take a deep steadying breath and lean down to press my hot forehead against the cool stone table. A strange noise creeps up the back of my throat. I swallow it.

Fuck it.

I'm doing it. I want it and it won't hurt anything.

And I won't feel guilty. It doesn't matter if no one knows. It's not bad—wrong—if no one knows.

That philosophy I know you'd approve of.

And I won't feel bad.

And I am going to steadfastly ignore the tingle on my left forearm and the little voice that reminds me that things have a tendency to go poorly when I let my heart rule over what my head should decide.

But there's nothing to decide because there's nothing wrong. And I'm standing over the suddenly uncovered potion. And I tell myself that this is okay as I stare into the pitch-black liquid in the waist-high cauldron. A single strand of black hair slices into my palm.

For the love of God, Severus, breathe.

I suddenly know what all my first years feel like on the first day of class. It's not a feeling I
particularly relish.

I stare at the dark surface of the cauldron until the trembling passes. The potion is one of my own creations. As far as I know, no one else in the world knows that it exists—not the Dark Lord and certainly not Dumbledore. The Slytherin in me demands that I keep certain secrets. The spy in me approves.

It was an accident, actually. After the fall of Rome there evolved a dangerous predecessor to Apparating that involved tearing minute holes in space and stepping through them to come out in a separate place. In the discord following the collapse of one of the strongest wizarding governments that world has ever known, there was a plethora of dangerous, experimental, malicious, and outright stupid enchantments floating around. Some of them were committed to papyrus, but thousands of spells, hexes, and enchantments were lost. I had the fortune of discovering a crude book from 1196AD in the sub library of Snape Manor over the summer break of my sixth year.

It contained secrets that I hadn't even dreamed of at the age of sixteen and Dark Magic enough to make Lucius Malfoy envy me for years. It was the promise of that power that lured the Malfoy heir to my bed in seventh year. It was me that kept him coming back for more until he fell in love with Narcissa.

Outside of power and Lucius, Mostrilo Potion was one of the gifts that those wrinkled bits of reed paper bestowed upon me. The spell required that the caster imbibe certain ingredients to allow them to pass safely through the area between space, effectively removing the person from space itself. Unfortunately, prolonged expose caused all my test subjects to . . . vanish. They were still there, darting between space from place to place, but they were also . . . gone . . . same time . . . Almost as though they couldn't fully materialize again. It was most disturbing to periodically feel a fat, furry invisible rat dash across your feet at night. Mother was furious. Eventually they either vanished entirely from this realm, went to another place permanently, or died. I was never able to find out which.

Mostrilo is a combination of the ingredients from the book and some of my own additions, making it something wholly unique. I have little desire to vanish into the unknown regions of space, so my potion creates the tear within the cauldron. Aloe to soothe the skin. Dried, crushed silverfish for invisibility. Mistletoe to enhance sensation on the user's part. Melted beeswax to allow me to interact with the environment on the other side of the portal.

The only remaining ingredient is something to tether the portal to; someplace to open it. Your hair. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, this will bind the portal to you. Wherever you go, my little gateway will follow. It will stay open until the last bit of your hair dissolves and the portal loses its tether. And all I'll have to do is reach into it to touch you.

The mere idea makes small ripples of pleasure slide up and down my spine. I wonder where you are.

I hover anxiously over the cauldron, indecisive. A touch. Such a small thing to want—to need.

I'm starting to think that I'm overanalyzing this. Perhaps I should have allowed myself to be placed in Ravenclaw.

I place my left hand on the edge of the cauldron and the cold, hard metal steadies me quiets the pounding in chest. I close my eyes and try to remember the words that will open the gate and hopefully bring me some relief from the fire burning under my skin.

The spell is also my own. I choose my mother's tongue—Italian—for the focus words. Really, what most students fail to recognize about magic is that the words merely serve to direct energy; the more complex the energy, the more complex the words to the spells. Very few people can cast silent spells; as far as I know, only Dumbledore and Helga Hufflepuff have completely mastered it. Most wizards are too attached to the physical and vocal experience of ideas rather than the concepts themselves.

I have absolutely no talent for silent complicated spells. It's important to recognize one's limitations.

"Indichimi che gli occhi di miniera possono vedere. Indichimi che gli orecchi della miniera possono sentirsi. Indichimi che la linguetta della miniera può avere un sapore. Indichimi che i labbri della miniera possono parlare. Sigilli i suoi occhi, naso e bocca. Mostrimi il miei propri. Mostrimi—" I stumble as my throat tightens painfully "—Harry Potter."iv

The calm surface of the potion begins to swirl immediately after one of your hairs touches it and then begins to roil violently. The heavy cauldron shakes, metal feet tapping in a wild staccato on the stone floor. The surface stills abruptly with a slight, anti-climactic cracking sound and immediately turns to a thick, viscous fluid so silver it looks like glass. Then a swirl like smoke slides over the surface, slowly thickening until a heavy grayish-red cloud floats just over the cauldron. I hold my breath, feeling strangely light-headed. It occurs to me on some odd, abstract level that it the potion's failed and may very well explode, but as the mist begins to clear and reveal the surface of the liquid, the thought is distant and entirely unimportant.

And then I see you. The air leaps from my lungs with a strange hacking sound.

You're asleep. Curled up in bed, garishly Gryffindor red comforter swaddled around you, making you look smaller than you really are. Your eyes are closed, long feminine lashes casting invisible shadows on pale skin. I can barely choke back the moan that rises in my throat. You roll over and mutter something sluggishly unintelligible under your breath.

So.

Absolutely.

Perfect.

My own personal incubus.

I touch the silver gel-like liquid and shiver as my hand slips through the icy substance. I can't see it materialize on the other side, but I can feel the ice cold of the potion envelop me as I reach through the small fold in space I've created in my cauldron.

My grip on the cauldron tightens as my invisible right hand ghosts down the center of your chest, sliding down between pert nipples to the flat, subtly defined stomach muscles that clench and unclench beneath my touch as your back arches slightly. A moan slips through my lips and I flatten my palm to touch every possible inch of you. I want to reach all the way into the portal, lie down beside you, and swallow you whole.

You gasp as one of my wandering fingers slips into the gentle dip of your bellybutton. What are you thinking? I want you to wake up—I want to see the lust, the fear and confusion swirl in those eyes of yours as you feel my ghost hands slide down your belly and into the low-slung waistband of your soft, ivy green boxers. Pale lips part and your breathing becomes short and gasped.

Flawless . . .

Merlin, I wish I could cover that mouth with my own.

Moan for me, Harry. Cry out. Beg. Please.

So pale. So beautiful.

My hand slips beneath the lip of your shorts, the tips of my fingers coming in contact with the crisp black curls I remember so well. You gasp. The sound makes something in me melt. And I suddenly hate myself. Something like a sob struggles out of my tightened throat as my hand slides down, unable to withdraw. My grip on the cauldron tightens painfully and I jerk back slightly, desperately wanting to pull away, get my hand out of this horrid cauldron, and go take cold showers until I either drown or die of shame. But I so desperately want to keep going, reach that firm, promised goal, so well remembered and so deliciously damning that I can actually feel my mouth water.

Your hips twitch spasmodically beneath my hand and you toss your head. Tears fill my eyes and I can't look away.

Please stop, Harry.

Oh, Merlin's own blood, stop.

Lips part and the sight inspires so many—too many—feelings for my atrophied heart to handle. I jerk like leaf in a windstorm.

You moan.

Dear, Gods . . . Those wondrous, scintillating lips . . .

"Cho . . ."

I freeze. . . . Cho . . .?

I can't move.

"Mmmmmmm . . ."

My mind swirls, desperately trying to provide the name "Cho" with a face. My fingers burn as they curl into a fist in the thick nest of your dark hair. You whimper as several strands get caught between the digits, tugging painfully at the hyper sensitive skin below.

Warmth runs through at the sound and I can't help but murmur your name. "Harry."

"Mmmmm . . ."

My fingers uncurl and I lean forward over the cauldron for more leverage, the tips of my hair almost touching the surface of the potion and the cold metal digging cruelly into my stomach and hipbone. My hand slides down just a bit farther . . .

"Oh!" Narrow hips buck and I spare a moment to wonder if you sleep with Silencing Charms.

You're panting. No self control at all. You're positively disgusting.

"Cho!"

And I suddenly find myself staring into a wide pair of round green eyes. And I know somehow you can see me.

My hand jerks back right as you sit up, my right elbow banging painfully into the edge of cauldron. Dull resonating waves of pain lace up my arm as I stumble awkwardly back, my heel catching on something soft. I hear myself gasp.

And I'm aware of falling backwards, aware that the floor is rising up to meet me and I'm far, far too close to the wall, but perversely all I can see is a charcoal black skull and serpent etched with almost romantic clarity on my white skin. Perfect black on washed out white—on me. But whatever irony or greater meaning there is behind that eludes me as my head hits the wall with a sickening crack and everything is swallowed by blissful, consuming darkness.


i Subringor (Latin) – v. To make a face
ii Verus Vultus (Latin) – True Face
iii Mostrilo(Italian) – Show Me
ivIndichimi che gli occhi di miniera possono vedere. Indichimi che gli orecchi della miniera possono sentirsi. Indichimi che la linguetta della miniera può avere un sapore. Indichimi che i labbri della miniera possono parlare. Sigilli i suoi occhi, naso e bocca. Mostrimi il miei propri. Mostrimi Harry Potter. (Italian) – "Show me that mine eyes may see. Show me that mine ears may hear. Show me that mine tongue may taste. Show me that mine lips may speak. Seal his eyes, nose, and mouth. Show me my own. Show me Harry Potter."