The morning sun was glinting off the Thames as Kinglsey strolled along the familiar path near his apartment building. It was low tide, which meant that several yards of noxious black mud were visible either side of the river, peppered with the detritus of Oxford, Reading and the filthy sprawl of the Capital, all ready to drift out to sea at the next high tide. Staring down from the embankment he could see an old shoe, a wine bottle, a dead seagull and some large, unidentifiable chunks of plastic half buried in the malodorous ooze, as well as a bright yellow New York taxi floating by serenely on the surface of the water.
"That's my cab," pouted Shastri from behind him, pointing miserably over the railings at the river. Kingsley gaped. Shastri! It couldn't be! She was looking through him, her slanting dark eyes focussed on something in the far distance. Pain and guilt suddenly rushed through Kingsley, and he fell to his knees at the shock of it. A second later he noticed that he was no longer in London but a country graveyard, with lush grass beneath his feet and birds singing in the blossom trees surrounding them, but Shastri's feet were trapped in sticky, oily mud which sucked noisily as she sank. He reached out but could not touch her, no matter how hard he tried.
"Forgive me! Please forgive me!" he yelled, his frustration almost choking him. "Come back! I won't let you go!"
She smiled as she was pulled deeper and deeper into the quagmire.
"You do not own me. I am not some possession to be summoned at will," she said. "Besides, there is nothing to forgive you for. I am going now." Kingsley gave a last desperate leap towards her.
"Shastri!"
…….
He jerked awake, heart hammering and covered in sweat. Slanting, dark eyes were looking at him in concern from the other side of the bed.
"Kingsley?" Severus whispered. "Are you all right?"
He fell back onto the pillow. Dreaming of her again. He closed his eyes and let his breathing slow down before answering. When he finally spoke, the words he heard were not the ones he intended to say.
"Your eyes are just like Shastri Khalili's," the statement sounded bizarre, and vaguely accusatory, and Kingsley was not sure where the thought had come from. If Snape was confused by the question, he did not show it, answering smoothly.
"That is not impossible. Her grandfather was my mother's cousin."
Kingsley blinked a few times, and bit down painfully on his lip to make sure this was not an extension of his dizzying dream. Then he remembered something.
"Wait, her mother's father? The retired auror?"
"Yes. Shankar Vijaivargia – the name which strikes terror into the heart of every Indian dark wizard, even to this day, I believe." He pre-empted Kingsley's next question. "I never met him or Shastri, or any of my mother's family. All contact was severed when she married my father."
"They disapproved of her marrying an Englishman?" he asked gently. Snape smirked nastily.
"They disapproved of her marrying a complete bastard."
Shacklebolt was not sure what to say to that, so lay quietly for a few minutes, trying to make sense of all the crazy thoughts going round his head. In his dream, the dead girl had told him she had nothing to forgive him for. Coming from her own lips, it had sounded like an absolution, and a little of the leaden guilt which had nestled inside his stomach since her death, disintegrated. Snape was silent next to him, his face inscrutable and his posture tense, obviously he was also struggling to deal with his own thoughts. He took a glass of water from the bedside table and sipped it, before offering it to Kingsley, who shook his head. Black eyes studied his face for a moment, before the tentative question was posed.
"So what happens now?" Severus looked away as soon as he had spoken the words, as though afraid of the answer.
"Do you mean, what happens between us?" the auror asked. Snape nodded.
"You will have already noticed that I am not a balanced, rational human being. Attempting to form a relationship with me would not be easy, I am afraid," he looked so disheartened at that moment, Kingsley could not resist reaching over to take his hand.
"These are mixed-up times, Severus," he reassured. "And you have already seen that I'm far from being my normal self right now. There is a war on, everything is disrupted, even the simplest things are difficult. Yet I don't think I could forgive myself if we didn't at least try to develop this...this…whatever you'd call this thing we have."
Severus was staring at their joined hands, the contrast of the dark brown fingers intertwined with the ivory-coloured ones forming an odd pattern of stripes between them. Joined, but still distinct from each other.
"What if it goes wrong?" he asked quietly, stroking the other man's thumb with his own.
"It might go wrong," Kingsley conceded. "But it might not. We might both be dead by this evening. Voldemort might win. You never know, but you have to do what you can. You have to try."
The couple were silent for a few long minutes, before Severus gave a sort of half-smile, half-grimace of embarrassment as he remembered something.
"Everybody knows. Don't you object to being linked with a slimy Slytherin Death Eater? Your reputation…" Kingsley lifted their hands and kissed the pale fingers resting snugly between his own.
"Let them gossip, I think you're actually rather nice. And I haven't noticed any slime so far."
Snape made a little choking nasal sound, which may have been a chuckle or a self-depreciating snort. He looked Kingsley in the eye again.
"I cannot change. You must not expect me to hold your hand in public or to alter my behaviour towards the world at large," he stopped speaking, cursing the crippling shyness which had made his whole life so difficult. Since childhood, his fear of everyone and everything had caused him to respond with hostility when feeling threatened (which was frequently), having nurtured the idea of attack being the best form of defence. The only child running around a huge empty house, no one had corrected this idea, if they even knew he held it. There was no talking at mealtimes, no interrupting his father's meetings, and absolutely no running around with the Village Urchins. He sometimes saw the Village Urchins (the words were, for some reason, pronounced with capitals and a supercilious sneer) from the library window, trespassing in the orchard to steal Snapish damsons. They looked unkempt and poor, but for some unfathomable reason, they were always laughing fit to burst.
At the age of eleven, he had arrived at Hogwarts to find all manner of strange children asking him questions, trying to find out personal information, casually touching each other and full of sharp comments and jokes he had barely understood. Unaccustomed to such attention and childish joviality he had been horrified by the informality, and the very idea that he was supposed to be in such close proximity to complete strangers. In his dormitory that first night, lying awake because other people were in the room where he was supposed to sleep, he had translated the school motto and pondered its meaning. No one would dream of tickling a sleeping dragon. Why not? Because dragons were fierce and dangerous and molesting one would cause pain. Well then, it was perfectly obvious what he would need to do in order to be left alone. Wield deadly weapons, grow a thick, scaly hide and learn how to breathe fire.
"I can't ask you to change who you are," Kingsley interrupted his thoughts. "But I've seen your stern, professional self and your state of louche relaxation, and I respect both facets. If you are willing to spend time with me, I would be very pleased. And I won't try to possess you, or take over your life – if I overstep the mark all you need to do is tell me."
Snape's head was beginning to hurt from all the thoughts zooming around his brain. With some effort he managed to switch them off and admit to himself how much he enjoyed time alone with the auror. There were a hundred reasons not to pursue a relationship, but somehow they carried less weight than the few opposing arguments.
The kiss sealed their fledgling deal. Both were still partially clothed from collapsing into bed just a few hours earlier, unwashed and with shocking morning-breath, Severus still thought it was the best kiss he had ever had. Anxiety about the past, present and future still swirled through his brain but he clamped down on it, trying to concentrate instead on the fine and handsome man who inexplicably wanted to be part of his miserable life. Strong hands tugged off his shirt and roamed over his bare chest, making him whimper and pull out of the grazing stubbly kiss to nuzzle at that muscular neck, before his lips found the pierced earlobe and began to suck. Kingsley gave a desperate groan and ground his hips against Severus, who worried the gold stud between his teeth, before sliding gracefully down the other's body and hungrily taking him into his mouth.
…….
Hours later, the two men emerged dripping and giggling from the shower to find Mad-Eye Moody's head scowling in the fireplace. The casual affection immediately vanished in the presence of a third party.
"There you are, Snape," he leered. Kingsley pulled his towel tighter around his waist and attempted a nonplussed expression. "We thought you'd done another runner." Severus gave a glare which only Moody was capable of withstanding. Kingsley doubted even Voldemort would have resisted a slight flinch. Moody continued regardless. "We need you up here at St Mungo's to identify a body."
"Me?" asked Severus, incredulously. "Who is it? A Death Eater? I thought only relatives could perform that task." Alastor didn't answer. the question.
"As soon as possible, please, Snape. In fact, both of you had better show up. And Shacklebolt?"
"Yes, Boss?"
"I trust you will be more appropriately dressed," he gave possibly the lewdest cackle either man had ever heard and vanished before the Slytherin managed to hex him.
The corridors leading to the morgue were cool and silent, and smelt faintly of the cadavers which Kingsley had studied during the forensics part of his training. How to recognise the internal-burning curse as a cause of death, how certain deadly poisons left their mark on the corpse, where to pop open a ribcage in order to save the life of a person submitted to a lung-consuming gremlin – the memory of the last brought a grim smile to his lips as he remembered the practical demonstration on the body of an old wizard, then five years later, performing the real thing on Hestia Jones. Crack. He shuddered. She had difficulty breathing sometimes and was confined to desk work, but she was alive. All thanks to him, actually. The thought cheered him slightly as he remembered Severus asking how many lives he had saved. Still, the memory of that cracking sound was enough to turn his stomach, even now.
They rounded a corner where Dumbledore and the Magicoroner were poring over a clipboard, straightening up immediately on seeing the couple. The sympathetic look Albus was giving Severus immediately put Kingsley on his guard, though Snape retained his impassive mask.
"Headmaster," he nodded to Albus in greeting. "Coroner Grayling. You sent for me?"
Dumbledore ushered them into a small sitting room, painted in soothing shades with a few comfortable sofas and homely cushions which Kingsley had never seen before. He supposed it was designed to be comforting to those unfortunates who had been dragged into this clinical basement which smelt of chemicals and death in order to look at the sorry remains of their loved ones, as if a bit of chintz and a vase of lilies could ever lessen that terrible blow. Dumbledore waited until they were settled into squashy chairs with a cup of coffee each before beginning in his gentlest voice.
"Severus, I'm afraid this concerns your father." The pale face did not betray the slightest emotion. The slender hands wrapped around the gaudy orange mug were unnaturally still, the black eyes as fathomless as a china doll's as they regarded the ancient wizard. Kingsley felt something hard rising in his throat which refused to be swallowed. "He left the country while you were a teenager, did he not?"
Snape gave a fraction of a nod. Kingsley remembered a tipsy Alastor (he never allowed himself to get very drunk – it was difficult to be constantly vigilant if one was wasted) rolling up his trouser leg to show how his wooden leg fastened to the stump of his knee.'Tristan Snape,' he had confided, giving a curse-by-curse re-enactment of the awful battle which had left Otley Castle in ruins, Alastor critically ill, and the Yorkshire nobleman in permanent foreign exile while his family struggled to reclaim their confiscated estates from a vengeful Ministry. Dumbledore continued terribly softly, as though raising his voice would cause Severus some great harm.
"You have had no contact with him since he left, I understand?"
The slightest shake of the head.
"No letters? Birthday cards? Nothing to give a clue as to his whereabouts?"
Again a negative shake. Albus grimaced.
"Did you have any suspicions that he may have been involved with Voldemort?"
Severus shook his head again. Then spoke very evenly.
"I knew that he had shared a dormitory with Tom Riddle at school. I was unaware of any association since they left Hogwarts."
Dumbledore rose from his seat and paced for a few minutes, obviously trying to order his thoughts before he spoke again. Sad crinkled eyes glanced at Kingsley before resting on the potions teacher.
"I will tell you all that we know so far. We have found the body of a wizard in his seventies. The robes are by an eminent Canadian tailor. A wand was found snapped in two and placed on his chest in the manner of a Death Eater execution, though he does not bear the dark mark. Mr Ollivander identifies the wand as your father's. I am sorry to have to ask this of you, my boy…"
"I will look at him," Snape interrupted calmly, placing his cup on the side table. Kingsley immediately rose to accompany him, but he shook his head, frowning slightly. "No, thank you. I shall go alone. No, Albus, I would prefer you to remain behind too." He turned to the magicoroner, who had been listening silently in the doorway, his clipboard balanced nonchalantly on his hip. Grayling straightened up without a word and lead him towards the morgue.
Dumbledore and Shacklebolt stared at each other for a moment.
"I can't tell you how pleased I was to find out about your relationship. He would die rather than admit he needed someone to take care of him."
"I doubt he would allow me to do that," Kingsley blushed. "But I'm going to try."
Dumbledore beamed. The auror was about to ask about any developments with Harry Potter or Arabella Figg, when he suddenly remembered his odd conversation with the befuddled squib when he had been trying to find the missing Severus.
"Arabella mentioned Tristan Snape!" he exclaimed. Dumbledore's gaze went from avuncular tenderness to razor sharp in an instant.
"What did she say? Why didn't you tell me?"
"She seemed to be confused. She referred to Severus as 'Tristan Snape's boy', as though she knew his father better than she knew him. I thought it was rather odd."
"I think you will find that she did know Severus' father, a long time ago," he answered carefully, after a short pause. "It is a strange coincidence that she should mention him at that moment, then he turns up dead in Little Hangleton when no one else has seen him or spoken to him in decades."
Before Kingsley could ask any more questions, the door opened and the potions master entered with a dignified step, the distinctive mixed aromas of hospital and cadaver wafting in with the dark grey robe he had snatched from Kingsley's wardrobe before they had hurried to answer Moody's summons. He bowed his head to the headmaster and stated quietly;
"It's him."
…….
A/N: Oh dear, more angst. I always intend to write a fluffy chapter but can never resist torturing poor Severus a little.
Thank you for another crop of really lovely reviews, you've been very kind about this story, bless you all! (Curtseys prettily). (Falls over).
Ellrohan – Ow! (rubs head) Thank you, you darling you! Am updating as soon as I can, but things have got a bit busy around here so I find I am actually having to do work. Outrageous.
Lucidity – I'm sure there's plenty here for Severus to have a crisis about! Though being outed is the least of his worries just at the moment…
Cdk – Sorry, sorry, I'm rubbish. Glad you're still with me – a girl never forgets her first review! x
Oya, Mon, Rob – Glad you liked the Anthony story. Thanks for the lovely reviews, you are charming wee sweetpeas, all of you x
Coffeedreams – Am pleased that you likey. The answer to your question is a four-letter cliché, I'm afraid. x
