Two Lockets

by Acid and Sinick

Harry, Snape, and the grim old house that keeps its secrets.

6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

Snape hadn't expected his patient to awaken so soon, but there was an uneven, deeper breath, then green, unfocused eyes flickered and opened. "How bad?"

A knot twisted in Snape's gut. "I've seen worse."

"Ah. Like Dumbledore's 'worse' or worse 'worse'?"

Snape gazed in past those eyes: a familiar mental routine, only this time Potter never pushed back; he just let him in, into a chaotic whirlwind of visions and sounds, a disordered mess only Potter could control.

Dumbledore in the doorway of a Muggle house, Dumbledore drinking from a cup, Dumbledore's blackened hand: that unstoppable cellular death reminding Snape once more that there were injuries that even all of his knowledge couldn't heal.

There was also an ache, a burning – not an actual pain of his own body, but an induced kind, like the Dark Mark's summons – forced into his brain, like the visions.

Snape sighed as he broke the mental contact. "Honestly." He paused and swallowed. The image of Dumbledore's blackened limb lingered fresh in his mind, especially with the same blackened flesh on Potter's chest and throat. "You saw his hand. If the same curse had struck you, your neck would have been too withered to support even your completely empty head." He smiled painfully. Even with every potion, every countercurse at his and the Headmaster's command, it had taken less than six months before even Dumbledore had admitted it was hopeless.

"The locket," Potter wheezed. "Did I get it?"

Snape glanced up past his patient's line of sight, to the headboard of his bed where a locket with an ornate S dangled from its chain. He snuck it off the headboard and safely out of Potter's reach with a wandless, silent Leviosa, even as he looked down at Harry. Somewhere behind his composed mask of a face he berated Potter for suicidal lunacy, though aloud he only murmured, "You got them all, bravely, as usual." He brushed back the hair that threatened to fall into Potter's eyes, imprecise and defenceless without his glasses. "Go to sleep."

"Wait," Potter protested weakly. "Gotta give you something."

"Later," Snape insisted. "Sleep." For once he didn't have the heart to tell Harry the bitter truth, just as he knew he didn't have the guts to yell at him. Damn Potter for growing up and not turning into his father, for turning into someone deceptively like Regulus instead.

Or not like Regulus at all. No matter how much I've tried to teach him, his mind is still an open book: his heart on his sleeve, his thoughts in his eyes. For the first time, these thoughts twisted Snape's gut with worry rather than resentful rage. Yet another reason why he will be lucky to survive the Dark Lord.

Regulus was never so foolish, so daring, so damn reckless. Harry can't go on blithely opening one dark artefact after the other and expect others – expect me! – to save his skin. Not when I can guard him day and night, and still fail to keep him safe! He managed to set off that curse here, on my watch, and I couldn't stop it in time.

I can't let him die! Not like this.

'Protect him until the final battle,' Dumbledore had said. 'Only until the final battle, then it's up to him, as he faces his destiny.'

Until he faces Voldemort. Every road in Snape's life led to the Dark Lord. So did the lives of others, who hardly deserved the end he would give them.

Snape pushed away those thoughts – With my luck, he'll summon me soon enough – and unwound a fresh roll of bandages. It didn't matter at that moment whose wounds they would soon conceal; Snape welcomed any refuge from his fears, even the temporary one offered by the work of tending to Potter's curse wounds. Scourgify to sanitise the cloth; Tergeo to clean out the discharge; manually apply a layer of salve: the wizardly will working with the ancient magic of caring touch, pushing healing energy beneath the surface of the skin, deep into tendons and muscles, joints and bones. Though healing had never been among his natural magical gifts, by now such battlefield mediwizardry was an all-too-familiar routine. It grounded him.

It's maddening to have so little to work with: like trying to fight a wildfire with a wet rag. At Hogwarts I had not only my own resources, but Pomfrey's, Sprout's and Hagrid's, all at my beck and call. I could've done so much more. First-rate facilities, wasted on the trivia of schoolchildren. But now, with Harry… My hands have never been more tied. I only have a kitchen to brew in, only the ingredients for simpler, slower remedies. And what few ingredients I do have won't last much longer: there's still some rosewater and honey, and plenty of olive oil, but one more batch and I'll be out of saffron and truffles…

oOo

When Harry woke up again, bandages were wrapped tightly all around his chest and neck. It didn't hurt, in fact, his entire chest was numb.

There was a note next to his pillow. Harry unfolded it.

Summoned. it said. Back tonight. Our next lecture will be on common sense!

The script spiked angrily at the end, as if Snape could only barely restrain himself from adding insults.

oOo

He said he'd be back tonight. Harry stared at the window, worried, chewing his fingernails and glaring at the portraits. He'd misplaced his Advanced Potion-Making book. Maybe I left it in the library. I ought to check it again. Or do something else more productive than sitting here and worrying over nothing. Still, Harry sat at the bottom of the stairs, gazing blankly across the hall at the stubbornly motionless front door.

Last one gone. I should add a sixth tally mark to Mrs. Black's canvas, only she'd wake up and start asking about it. Instead Harry lifted the edge of the bandages on his shoulder and caught a glimpse of something dark and tentacled under the surface of his skin, like an odd bruise. No! he told himself. He said it wasn't like Dumbledore's. Harry swallowed. But even if it is, it's worth it.

The thought did nothing to dispel the heavy anxiety at the sight of the angry mottling of his skin; it did nothing to banish the thought of other curses.

But what if he's hurt, or worse? I can't leave here to help him. If he never comes back, I'll be stuck here forever.

But maybe I will be able to leave, eventually. I wonder how long you can ignore loneliness until you forget it's there? Can you Obliviate yourself to forget something like that? I wonder if Snape's ever tried that. If he even cared. Or if he likes being lonely.

There was a time when Harry liked that portrait – the bloke his own age, who spent more time in others' frames than his own – but now Regulus seemed like the rest of the Pureblood prats. Horrible, the lot of them. All the Blacks. Every single one who's still got their name on that tapestry. I don't know what Snape sees in a dusty old portrait. A portrait isn't a person, how can he not know that? Just shows what a mad bastard he is.

There was a dry pop outside. Harry rushed to the front door and swung it open, not caring if Voldemort himself and every last Death Eater were out there waiting for him. But Snape was alone. He leaned against the doorway and panted, gathering his strength, before staggering inside.

Instinctively, Harry reached out and held him up. It punched a spike of agony through his chest and Snape winced as if the same agony speared through him as well. Harry felt something wet and cold, and for the first time he wondered if the stains on those dark robes were Snape's blood instead of someone else's. "What happened?"

A wry smile stretched across Snape's sallow face. "I haven't had a welcome this warm since… never, actually." His hands shook. He didn't try to pull away. "The Dark Lord's temper wasn't the best."

"What'd he do to you?" Harry cried. Snape must've really felt like shit, because one long arm draped itself over Harry's shoulders for support; Harry hoped the support he was offering wasn't just physical.

"Ohh, nothing out of the ordinary," Snape was trying for airily casual, but to pull that off, Harry reckoned he would've needed his usual silky voice, not this hoarse-from-screaming rasp. And he would've needed his usual prowling stride, not this shocky, unsteady totter: even worse than when he'd first showed up at Grimmauld place, after Harry had damn near cursed him in two. "Now that I'm back from my latest pleasure jaunt," Snape croaked, "let's take a proper look at your wounds."

oOo

First thing after breakfast, Snape converted the kitchen into a Potions lab: conveniently, it was even located in the basement. And even though it lacked slimy jars and boxes, it smelled like a Potions lab when Snape locked himself in there till teatime, banging pots and pans around. Multicoloured smoke seeped under the door. It smelled like old boots. So did the potion that Snape fed Harry afterwards.

"Any luck?" Harry asked after swallowing down the third batch. At least this one was different: it smelled like boiled cabbage and tasted like tar.

Snape glanced at him blankly and rubbed the bridge of his nose, concealing the tired circles under his eyes. "I'm making progress," he said levelly.

Harry snorted at that.

"I've learned a lot of things I shouldn't try again. It's a start."

"Did you learn anything you should try again?"

"It's time for your lessons," said Snape, ignoring Harry's question. "You didn't think you'd get out of them just because of a mere chest injury, did you?"

I'll show you 'chest injury', you rotten sod. …Or, no. I've done more than enough of that already. "Not me. You didn't think you'd get out of them just 'cause of your Potions experiments?"

"How droll," Snape drawled; yet, somehow, it lacked the chill of his classroom contempt.

oOo

Regulus' canvas in the corner was empty today. Harry was suddenly glad of it, even as he caught Snape's searching glance at the vacant frame. The portrait's neighbour, an old witch in an elaborate gown and a dust-powdered wig napped on a painted sofa: the same sofa as the one downstairs, Harry recognised the armrest. Irma Black, the plaque on the frame said, and if the tapestry was right, she must've been Walburga Black's mum, the one who'd collected all those house elf heads.

"What was it that I'd futilely attempted to teach you during our first lesson?" Snape asked over the portrait's ominous snores, which were loud enough to rattle the surrounding canvases. "Do refresh my memory."

"How to make a sleeping draught, I think," Harry shrugged. "Asphodel'n'wormwood, wasn't it?"

"Draught of Living Death," Snape couldn't help correcting, before growling irritably, "And I meant our current lessons."

"Oh." Harry glanced at the pensieve in the corner. He remembered it quite well. "Horcruxes are dangerous. They like sacrifices. And I'm not supposed to touch them."

"So then, why did you?"

"I didn't! Look, I remembered that bit right away, and I pulled my sleeves over my hands so I wouldn't touch it. I suppose it just looked so harmless, like the rest of the junk, when we first cleaned out Grimmauld. And what else was I supposed to do? Leave it there?"

"Ask for help, perhaps. I realise consulting a Death Eater on this issue might not seem entirely advisable, but you did have an entire Dark Arts library at your disposal…"

In his pocket, Harry's left hand clutched at the plain locket with all its strength. "It's not that I don't trust you. I do, but…" Harry's throat was suddenly, betrayingly tight. You've already sacrificed too much,he thought, gazing straight into those hollowed, dark eyes, willing Snape to see him, to understand what he meant. I wasn't about to ask you to sacrifice more.

"You, trust me?" Snape stared at Harry as if he'd suddenly sprouted wings.

"Well… Yeah. Innit obvious?"

"Why?" Snape breathed.

"You're on our side. You showed me your Patronus."

Snape's strangely open, stunned expression faded into his usual shuttered, cynical look. "I don't suppose you ever verified my story with the Order?"

Harry blinked. Never even thought of that. I probably should've, but what's done's done.He shook his head.

"Typical!" Snape cried. "I could have easily created an illusion of a Patronus; I could have been acting on the Dark Lord's orders. It wouldn't've taken a minute to gain your trust and then abuse it, but you didn't even consider the risk then, and you still haven't considered it now. That's precisely the sort of thinking – or lack thereof – that'll get you killed! …As well as me."

I can't get anything right with him, can I? "If you're so afraid of getting killed, why do you keep coming back here and risking everything?" Harry snapped. "I almost killed you, and in return you saved my life. Again. What 'sort of thinking' is that?"

"The sort of thinking that realises someone has to keep you alive, since you're clearly incapable of doing so yourself."

"That wasn't what I asked!" Harry protested. "Stop changing the subject. The point is, I can owl the Order any time, or tell the Aurors all about you. I know where your house is. The next time you go there, or come back here, a trap could be waiting for you. But it won't be," Harry said hotly, "'cause sometimes, just occasionally, it's all right to trust people!"

"Once," Snape's quiet tones overrode Harry's raised voice as effortlessly as ever they did in class, "I put my life into the hands of another man, simply because I had no other choice," he concluded sternly, "Don't insult me by assuming that I would ever make the same mistake twice."

"M'not asking you to do that, or to prove anything to me. Or even tell me what happened!" Harry blew out a breath, and when he spoke again, the strident note of protest was gone from his voice, leaving it level, certain. "I don't have to ask you anything. 'Cause I trust you anyway."

"That's precisely the problem. You trust things, even though there's no logical reason why you should."

But Harry thought of many reasons why he trusted Snape, large and small: the way Snape reacted to certain portraits, the way he'd killed Bellatrix Lestrange, just so Harry could live. The way he kept coming back here again and again, brewing him potions and patching him up and teaching him, even though Harry knew he drove Snape spare in the process. But he didn't say any of that, because he was more or less crap with words. He said something else instead, something he could explain.

"I want to kill Voldemort," he told Snape quietly, and then asked, "Do you?"

Snape's hand rose to cover his left forearm. "For the last eighteen years," he replied just as quietly, "I've wanted nothing more."

"Right, then." Harry nodded. "We're good."

"Good?"

"Yeah. That's what normal people do. They trust each other, without Marks or anything like them. Didn't you ever just trust someone before?"

Snape nodded slowly. His reply, "Once." was so soft it was barely more than mouthed.

oOo

"So, d'you really think it was a mistake, going to Dumbledore? Being his spy?" Harry asked that night as he followed Snape downstairs.

There was a long and awkward moment of silence, as Snape stood facing away from the staircase, looking at the serpent candelabra in the corner. "Don't mistake me for a hero. I merely chose the lesser evil."

"Evil?" Harry asked. "How d'you mean?"

Did Snape's face just turn gloomier? "Do you really want to hear this?"

"Yes." Course I do! He's never said anything about Dumbledore. "I promise, I won't… do anything to you, or start hating you, or… I just want to know."

"Very well," Snape finally said. "I swore an Unbreakable Vow."

"What?"

"It's a spell. I was magically bound to obey him. Any infraction meant my inevitable death."

Harry frowned. "But that's… that's slavery! It's almost as bad as a Dark Mark! Dumbledore'd never lower himself to Voldemort's level!"

"At least his methods of ensuring obedience were less sadistic."

"Dumbledore was not like Voldemort!"

Snape turned his back. The movement reminded Harry of the scars Snape's inevitable black cloth armour hid. A heavy silence fell; full of the weight of voiceless dissent to Harry's last cry. At last, Snape breathed into the stifling hush, "Are you satisfied?"

"Sorry." Harry sighed. I really, really am. For everything.

oOo

Harry took a sniff of this evening's potion. "They're different, every night," he grumbled, "but they all smell and taste bloody awful – different, but awful." A thousand different horrible tastes. Like Bertie Botts Beans, for masochists. He scowled at the glass and tried to swallow it all at once. It was just as ghastly as he'd thought.

"They're good for you," Snape said, taking the empty glass. As if that explained it all.

"It really is worse than what Dumbledore had, isn't it?"

Snape said nothing, just peeled the bandage back and set it aside. His hands felt cool against Harry's inflamed chest. Must be time for the numbing salve. Snape put it on him every morning and evening now, and it took all feeling from his chest completely.

"How long would he have lasted, if you didn't… help him?"

The hands rubbing the salve into his shoulder were gentle, from what Harry could tell before the salve worked. "A week longer, at most, even without the potion he drank at the cavern."

Harry flinched at the memory. "So, at least nine months to go. Good. Got time then." He tried his best to smile, to sound normal. "Right, I'll just figure out how to break the curse tomorrow morning, and sort Voldemort before supper. What're you doing day after next?"

Snape replied dryly, "I'll be up in the observatory, doing a bit of research on the moon," He paused for a beat then added, "to find out if it's made of Stilton or Swiss."

Harry's smile widened. "Well, I was thinking about going on a holiday, and I reckon I'll want you along with me." He explained earnestly, "No one else'll be able to tend to the wound."

Was it just a trick of light, or was that an answering grin on Snape's face?

"I was thinking, Italy. Or maybe France. Or Romania. And London," he added quietly. I want to see if Ron and Hermione are really all right. I want to tell them that no matter what, some curses can be broken. Maybe they'll have more luck than me. "Have you ever been to Romania?"

Snape shook his head. "Reg went one summer, after the O.W.L.s. He liked it."

There he goes, on about Reg again. "That's where we'll go then," Harry nodded. "You can have fun watching me go green when you dose me with your horrible potions day and night. And I'll…"

"Harry."

His given name caught Harry by surprise. "What?"

"You are not going to die. Not from a Horcrux curse, not from Voldemort."

"Y'don't know that!"

"I do," Snape shoved another foul-smelling concoction under his nose. "I'm not going to let you." he added. Quiet, final.

Wish it was that simple! Harry thought. But looking into Snape's dark, serious eyes, he came very close to believing him.

oOo

"You're finally starting to learn something. Will wonders never cease?"

Harry snorted. "I'd've learned sooner if you'd decided sooner to be a teacher instead of a sarky sod."

"I did nothing but teach," Snape huffed. "It wasn't my fault if you lot of hormone-addled nitwits couldn't be bothered to learn."

"Oh, come on, as if your lot never had hormones," Harry laughed. "Y'mean to say, back in your day you never snogged someone in the Astronomy Tower, or the Quidditch stands – OK, maybe not the Stands," he amended at Snape's appalled glare, before continuing cheerfully, "The Dungeons? The Library?"

"The Library? Certainly not!" Snape bridled, his lips thinning as if he'd just been insulted. "While the Gryffindors were in a hurry to breed the next generation of dunderheads in every spare broom closet, and die a brave and horrible death shortly thereafter, the normal students were busy revising for Potions N.E.W.T.s."

"'Normal students'?" Harry echoed, ignoring the jibe about his parents.

"Yes."

Potter blinked. "Who else was 'normal' then?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Who do you think?"

Harry glanced at the wall tapestry where, next to the scorch mark that was all that was left of Sirius, 'Regulus Black' was still stitched. Snape's gaze lingered on that name, and his harsh face seemed to soften, just a bit. Aha! Harry tried to sound as casual as possible. "Y'mean to tell me your Reg was happy to spend all that time revising without trying to cop a feel at least once?"

Snape's eyes widened.

Gotcha! Harry smirked, deliberate and gleeful. It felt good to be the one to catch the paranoid prick unaware for a change, instead of Snape always catching him. "That's not 'normal', that's mental!"

"It was two weeks before the Potions N.E.W.T.!" Snape snapped. "He spilled tea all over the notes I'd kept since the preparation for my O.W.L.s. He was fortunate I let him stir my cauldron."

"Stir your cauldron." Harry waggled his eyebrows. Puts a whole new spin to that song Mrs. Weasley likes so much. "I see. Is that what they called it back then?"

Snape's glare could've given him scorch marks to match the tapestry. "Get your mind out of the gutter."

Harry gave him a 'who me?' look and hummed the Celestina Warbeck tune with what he hoped was his innocent face.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Did you know," he drawled, "that an intelligent thought is considered to be an orgasm of the brain: those able to achieve it experience true pleasure…" he regarded Harry and added with a mock sigh. "The rest have to fake it."

Harry gathered his courage. Now or never. He seems in a good mood today. "I'd like to check something if you don't mind. Before you run off to your horrible potions."

Snape's eyebrow lifted. "Oh?"

"I think I know why I'm crap at Occlumency. Maybe it's 'cause I'm better at attacking than defending. Maybe if I attack first he won't even have time to… Let me try this." He stepped up closer to Snape. Looked into his eyes, gazing deeper and deeper and trying to read that enigmatic face with all his strength. "Legilimens," he whispered.

At first Snape looked shocked and Harry braced himself for the bristly, grumpy lecture that would surely follow, but Snape didn't break away. Instead that dark gaze turned clear and relaxed, though the tension in Snape's shoulders and arms hinted at the effort such openness demanded from him. "Concentrate," he murmured. "Faces are masks. Something we put on for the crowd. You must see past that mask, into the eyes. Into the mind. Gather all your focus, reach out, and above all pay attention."

Harry tried, looking deeper, past the black mirror of Snape's irises, past his own reflection in them. Past the darkness and the emptiness to whatever lay beneath. He reached out with his body as well as his mind, until his hands cupped Snape's face, until the murmur of Snape's voice melded with the murmur of his thoughts and that murmur gained an image, then a feeling.

"Severus… please!"

Perhaps if I could fake it somehow, Albus would still stand a chance. What spells are least harmful to an Inferius? He's nearly become one already!

The Killing Curse. I'm prepared.

I can't! There has to be another way. I can still…

That's an order!

NO! Don't force me! Take it back!

DO it! NOW!

When Harry broke out of that shared thought, they were both breathing heavily. For a moment he had to steady them both from falling, like chess pieces tumbling off the board. Harry relaxed his clutching grip, then gently rubbed the blood back into a cluster of white fingertip marks on the sides of Snape's face.

They didn't speak. Everything that could've been said already had been.

oOo

In the privacy of Grimmauld's kitchen, Snape stared at the boiling cauldron. As he continued the routine of stirring, mincing fresh asphodel leaves, watching the flame so the contents wouldn't boil over, his thoughts were far away.

"You can't possibly expect me to do that. Let me try again, there has to be a way. I can do better."

"You've done your best, and I appreciate your efforts. But perhaps, when all the books and cleverness cannot make a difference, it's time for action of a different kind."

"Headmaster?"

A calm, even gaze focused on Snape.

Snape felt the chill of the rooms despite the blazing fireplace. "What are you asking of me?"

He reached out with his mind and for once, Dumbledore welcomed him in, without any resistance.

"Now, now. I am not the monster you take me for. To give up one's life for another's: such sacrifice only comes from the heart. It takes nobility and courage. Not everyone has that courage, Severus, and not everyone should, on my behalf: Gryffindors are only good in moderation…"

Something fell with a clatter of broken glass. He'd dropped a beaker full of crushed wormwood and hadn't even noticed it. Dumbledore's quiet words still rang in his ears:

"Funny thing, death: an adventure not even Voldemort can escape. Sometimes it's everything, and sometimes it's nothing. Don't let this one be nothing, after all we've done. When the time comes, you must choose, and if you make that choice – you must make the Killing Curse swift."

oOo

"You spent all day with your cauldrons," Potter complained. "I hardly see you unless you show up to pour more potions down my throat. Where's my regularly scheduled torture? Or lesson, as you call it."

"Miss me, do you?" Snape sneered.

"'Course!" Potter beamed, not convincing a bit. "Terribly. Can't you see?"

Snape hmphed derisively at that.

"No, honestly, do I look mental? Miss you? After all your bloody insults and detentions. I've missed you something rotten!" The imp grinned. "All day! Oh, come and stir my cauldron…" he hummed and pretended to swoon.

Snape eyed the brat and yanked hard on the strip of cloth he was wrapping around Potter's ribs. "Manners."

Potter just snorted and continued singing. "And if you do it right…."

Clown. Snape was tempted to shove the bandage in his mouth. But that'd only stop his insolence for a little while, even if I wrapped him up from head to toe like a mummy.

"I'll boil you up some hot, strong loooove. To keep you warm…"

"Stop it!"

"Fine!" Potter's glare settled on Snape: cold, resolute, all that teasing lightness suddenly gone. It was getting harder to avoid that piercing glare. "I will. How soon'm I gonna die?"

"What?"

"You don't have to pretend. What with your potions and all. I know I'm running out of time. So I've got to try and kill Voldemort. Somehow! Ready or not! Or it'll only get worse."

"Don't be absurd," Snape muttered, setting yet another healing potion in front of him. "You still need practice. If I thought you were out of time, I'd personally invite the Dark Lord for a visit to Grimmauld, so you could take your best shot. But things are not that desperate just yet."

"All right." Harry shifted his glare from Snape to the potion. "M'sorry I yelled. You didn't force me to go after that locket, I did it myself," he said before he upended the phial. "And I'm not sorry 'bout that. So when it's my funeral, I want Celestina Warbeck playing. And I want you to sing along."

Snape gave him a We-Are-Not-Amused stare.

Harry grinned. "All right, no Warbeck. Weird Sisters playing 'God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs'?"

Snape snorted. "Anything would be an improvement over Miss Warbeck." Snape told himself that he wasn't at all amused by Harry humming the blasted song; he reminded himself that the seventh mention of it in two days was downright annoying.

But all the same, it was times like these when Snape couldn't help hearing Regulus' Black humour in Harry's voice. He had to gather all his self-control to dispel the illusion.

oOo

Dunno why Snape's so stubborn about keeping my chest all bandaged up, Harry thought, picking at the frayed edge. I don't even feel anything, so the burn or the bruise or whatever was hurting has to've healed by now. It's awkward as hell to practice for battle with my ribs all wrapped up like this, I can't even take in enough air to yell out a decent curse… oh wait, I'm not supposed to yell them, I'm supposed to cast nonverbally. But either way, how'm'I supposed to cast wandlessly if I can't breathe? Besides, it's rough and tight and the bandages tickle my elbows when I sleep and, right, that's it; I'm taking them off no matter what Snape says. How bad can it be? It's probably all healed anyway. Ha, I was right, no blood or anything, not even a scar. Only my chest's still bruised. Hang about, that's not a bruise, can't be! Harry peered closer, poked himself in the ribs. Doesn't hurt. That's weird. When he looked closer, the bruising over his ribs in the mirror looked like a snake… a snake and a skull, like the one on Snape's forearm only bigger.

He stepped back from the mirror in shock. Glanced down. Saw nothing. He pulled off all the bandages and stood in front of the mirror, and in the reflection it was obvious, a clear shape of a Dark Mark darkened his chest… where the eye sockets were, his skin was just beginning to turn black and flake off like a shed snakeskin. Harry covered it with his fingertips but felt nothing but smooth skin beneath. He looked in the mirror again and there it was, the Dark Mark.

NO! Impossible! Did that fucking locket Mark

How long will it take for the reflection in the mirror to start showing up in reality?

oOo

Snape had brought him to a different hall today: Harry could tell because actual sunlight was streaming through the dusty panes, bright enough to show galaxies of motes in every ray. The twins had left their mark here, that summer before Harry's fifth year. They'd taught the beastie-legged chairs to tango, and the scruffy old curtains to slip into people's pockets and nick spare change. Then Mrs. Weasley caught them at it and took all the charms down while yelling fit to beat a Howler; though the twins whispered to Harry afterwards: "Be careful anyway, mate, she missed a couple!"

"Concentrate!"

Sodding slave driver! Harry eyed his wand, which was currently in Snape's clutches. "I am!"

"You are not! All you're doing is screwing your face up and panting. You're about to burst a blood vessel. We're done for today."

"No, lemme try…"

"You managed to summon your wand before. It's a start."

"But I haven't done it without words yet. You're not giving up, are you?"

"It'd take more than your incompetence to make me give up!" Snape groused, but after a searching look he added in quieter tones, "You're too tired to cast properly anymore; all you'll accomplish now is to exhaust yourself further."

"Rubbish! I can do this! I know I can. Show me again, dammit!"

"If you must," Snape sighed; he muttered something about stubborn Gryffindors as he rose slowly to his feet, circling behind Harry with that bloody unnerving prowl of his. Suddenly, hands descended on Harry: long, narrow, bony hands that slid over his forearms, shifting them into a new posture. Firm fingertips pressed into the muscles of his shoulders, straightening them with a jerk.

"You're absurdly tense," Snape was close enough behind him that the whisper was clearly audible. "You'd think a Gryffindor would know a proper duelling stance by now."

His hands lingered on Harry's shoulders. Hard. Skilled. And warm. Harry tilted his head back, relaxing, at last.

"Try it now," a soft rumble brushed Harry's ear with heat.

We're about the same height, Harry thought when he turned his head and found Snape's face so close to his own. Strange. He should be taller. I've always thought of him as taller than me. Snape gave him a heavylidded stare, and his eyes weren't just dark anymore. They were warm. A bit warmer and they'd almost be like Ginny's. Harry didn't want to think of what that might mean, so he closed his eyes and tried not to think at all.

And then those hands were gone from his shoulders, all too sudden and all too soon. "Not quite what I expected of you," Snape's voice broke his reverie, "But the ability to surprise others is a very good trait." Thin lips quirked; he might've almost been fighting back a grin. "You may stop."

"Stop what?" I haven't even done anything yet!

"Levitating us." Snape declared with ironic patience.

Harry glanced down. The floor was a lot further down than he remembered, probably because they were floating near the ceiling. And then the floor rushed up really fast and it took Harry a moment to realise he was falling.

Deft hands caught him by the elbows before he fell far, and magic fell over his shoulders like a black cloak still warm from another's body, as Snape took over, lowering both of them gently the rest of the way to the floor.

When the floor was steady under Harry's feet once more, he realised he was right. He and Snape were about the same height, when they faced each other, eye to eye.

oOo

Seven days passed before the mark was visible without a mirror. Harry didn't have to look in the mirror any more to know that the patches of skin under the bandages would be withered and black, forming the vague shape of the mark.

Harry sprawled boneless in bed, in a fuzzy state of half-awareness, trying to resist the lulling pitter-patter of the rain, yet too lazy to get up. His fingers automatically kept tracing the place on his palm where his life line used to be and was not. "Sod it!" he muttered. He slowly rolled over until he got to the nearest edge of the bed and then he stumbled in his nest of sheets, out of the bed and eventually – after finding a clean set of robes – out of the room.

Harry felt restless. There were only so many books on the library shelves that didn't snap back, and only so many rooms to explore. He took to a new pastime, listening for Snape in the kitchen to see if he could guess what he was up to. He imagined him at the cauldron, the precise movements of his thin, bony hands grasping the knife or the stirring rod.

He didn't have to dig into his memories deep at all to come up with that image. It just rose to the surface.

He caught a scent – musty, smoky, enticing somehow – and followed it up the stairs and through a bedroom to an open doorway beyond. Snape was in the bathroom, standing by the sink, ladling something out of a small cauldron into single-dose phials.

"Er… What are you doing?" Harry asked.

"Brewing."

"What for?"

"Money."

"Oh." Harry had never really considered what Snape lived on after he left Hogwarts, but his teacher's salary couldn't've been much anyway and it'd been a while since he'd had even that, and those potions probably didn't bring nearly enough. "If you want, I've got some; I'd never use it all anyway. I can lend you a few galleons…"

"I don't want your money," Snape hissed, and added before Harry could, "Or the Blacks'."

Fair enough. Harry craned his neck and peered at the potion bubbling in the small cauldron. It smelled dusty and musty, like Grimmauld Place itself only more so: like Snape's makeshift Potions lab. "What's that?"

"Amortentia," Snape explained with a disgusted curl of his lip. "There's always a market for love potions and slow-acting poisons, but I ran out of the ingredients for the latter."

That's weird. Harry sniffed the air again, just to make sure. "It can't be!"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I think I can identify what's in my own cauldron better than you, thank you very much."

"It's just… there must be something wrong with it," Harry clarified.

The offended glare Snape gave him was even worse than previous one. It was accompanied by a 'Get out of my sight before I hex you' stab of his wand toward the door.

"It smells different!"

"Of course," Snape nodded. "Amortentia does that."

"What? It can't just change!"

Harry must've had the most puzzled expression on his face because an amused smirk twitched at the corners of Snape's mouth. "Amortentia is fickle. Especially for brainless fools about your age."

OK. Fine. It can change. I can see that, even if I'm not the kind to get random crushes like a fourth-year Hufflepuff. The scent of Amortentia always used to remind him of Ginny, but after months of not seeing Ginny, and months of trying not to think of her after his decision to leave them behind, the summers at the Weasleys' seemed so far away. Funny how the knowledge of imminent death changes your perspective on things. I haven't flown a broom since forever. I dream of travelling to places like Romania or India. And Amortentia doesn't smell the same anymore. But it still shouldn't smell like that! It smells like… I dunno, like dust and dark, cold places, and, and… Grimmauld. It smells just like this Place.

The revelation didn't worry him as much as it should have, instead it brought him an odd sort of peace with himself. As if finally there was one direction in his life that was worth it. Yeah, it smells like dust, so what? At least it wasn't empty and dry like the need for revenge that'd driven him through most of his Horcrux hunt. It's a change of heart, and change for the better's hope and hope's good! Harry told himself firmly I thought I'd given up on hope a long time ago. But hey, looks like I'm not dead yet. For that, I can put up with the smell of dust if I have to.

This discovery, and the resolution that followed, lifted some of the wearying fog of melancholy – almost as bad as a Dementor – from his brain. With that clarity came a jolt of surprise, as Harry remembered something. Something he had to do.

He dug through his pockets for the parchment swallow, now folded around the fake locket, and laid both of them on the table amid Snape's ingredients.

"I think this is yours. And Regulus'."

Snape stared at the parchment swallow. Then at the note. "Where did you find this?"

"Cabinet in the drawing room. It's how I knew where to start looking for the locket. See," Harry showed Snape first the note on the swallow's wings, and then the note hidden inside the locket.

As the wings unfolded into a letter, Snape's eyes widened. He looked up, his glare so shockingly piercing, it was as if he didn't see Harry at all but instead saw the ghost of the man who'd written those notes.

Once Snape unfolded the note signed R.A.B. Harry smoothed out them both, pressing their torn edges together. They were a perfect fit. "Professor Lupin told me he died 'cause he was afraid and ran from the Death Eaters. But he didn't just die. He died for something."

Snape hmphed and regarded him with a sombre stare. "Only you would be so eager to 'die for something'," he accused. "The rest of us want to live for it."

"No," Harry protested, "I meant, he tried to make the world better."

"Well, he made it worse, by leaving it. Stubborn sod." Snape husked. "He was doing it for me as well as for himself. Couldn't stand to see either of us bound by the Mark: like the grimoires at Hogwarts, chained to the shelves." For the longest time, Snape traced the handwriting on Regulus Black's notes with a tentative fingertip, as if he wanted to make sure they weren't an illusion. And when Harry gave him the locket the note was found in, it received the same reverent attention.

"What was he like?" Harry asked.

"He never was one for foolish heroics," Snape said sadly. "But he was very passionate about the things he believed in."

"He sounds…" Harry swallowed, through a nasty pang of something very close to jealousy. "Great."

"He loved libraries, and had a wicked sense of humour. And he taught me what it meant to be Slytherin. To be proud of it. Though, to be fair, he always said he learned compassion for Half-Bloods, Muggleborns and Muggles from me."

What's wrong with me? I ought to be happy to have a normal conversation with him for a change! "There, see, you both influenced each other for the better," Harry argued. "That counts for something, doesn't it?"

"It was the downfall of us both." Snape's gaze was distant, his voice quiet and toneless.

"For what it's worth," Harry smiled, "I can't imagine you not proud to be Slytherin. You're a Slytherin to the core."

Something flickered in Snape's dark eyes, but it broke the ice. "When did you find this?" Snape murmured, holding the locket as carefully as if it were a holy relic.

"The swallow was here, but Dumbledore helped me get the locket. We thought it was the Horcrux." Harry shrugged. "Kept it in my pocket ever since."

"Ah. The pockets of a Gryffindor." Snape's lips twisted in a near-smile. Fond, wry. "No telling what surprises they might hold."

Under that unblinking, focused stare, Harry felt his face burn. Stop, he ordered himself, pushing those thoughts out of his mind. I'm a pervert. And not a very good one either, since I'm being one in front of a trained Legilimens. He tried to break eye contact before Snape did catch what was on his mind.

oOo

I can't, Harry berated himself later. I shouldn't even think about things like that around him. What's the point? Even if I did have more than a few months to live, Regulus sounds so wonderful when he talks about him. I'm just me. I'd never even come close to compare.

Snape stood in the downstairs hallway, facing Mrs. Black's portrait. There was a strangely wistful expression on his harsh face. "He does manage to annoy me just as much as your son used to at times."

"Not as much as the pair of you annoyed me," Mrs. Black chuckled. "Playing tag and herding my books up and down the stairs when you knew perfectly well they were not to leave the library."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Regulus put them up to it. I was merely trying to restore order."

Harry laughed softly, picturing Snape's indignant glare. Then Snape turned and Harry ducked, escaping through the long narrow corridor, away from the voices turning unclear, away from the stairs, before Snape saw him there and chased after him and… no, he didn't want that, honestly, he didn't want to be in Regulus' place. He didn't want that young, breathless Severus of Mrs. Black's memories to catch him a few steps later, tackling Harry and pinning him down in all the dust of the narrow hallway floor. Feathery dust and hair strands tickling Harry's face, making him sneeze and laugh even harder, and Severus' arms around him, strong and steady, like that one time Snape caught him to keep him from falling and held on tight.

Snape never came after him. And that, Harry knew, he did want, strongly, desperately: like he wanted to see Mum'n'Dad or Sirius again, like he wanted Ron and Hermione's magic back, like he wanted to rid the world of Voldemort.

oOo

For once, the kitchen smelled of something edible.

A ladle with a serpent handle, the one that once told Harry about a house elf's fate, coiled itself lovingly around Snape's wrist and flicked its tongue against Snape's pulse point, like a pet. It never did that with Harry, and he was Grimmauld's rightful owner, but now that Snape was touching it, it acted as if it planned to mate with his hand and have lots of tiny teaspoon babies. He stared at the ladle, but what shocked him more was what he heard next.

"Hold me closser, ssqueeze me – ooh like that – what lovely sserpentine fingers, ssuch warm skin…"

Harry's face heated.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, there's absolutely nothing that even an overgrown teenager like yourself could find blushworthy about cookery!" he declared loftily.

Yeah? That's 'cause you've got no bloody clue the ladle's chatting you up, mate! Harry smirked and sauntered over, reaching out and trailing a finger up the silver handle, just to see if it would pay any attention to him. It didn't.

"Such firm touch," Harry translated the next round of hissing compliments, "Such precision: it's shiver-inducing to be handled by a true Master."

Snape threw a disbelieving look, first at Harry, then at the ladle in his hand when Harry gave him a cheeky grin and nodded at it.

"Sspoilssport!" the ladle grumbled at Harry as it curled closer around Snape's wrist. The serpent-head on the end of the handle flicked its tongue out, as if tasting the delicate web of blue veins on the underside of Snape's wrist. Snape's lips tightened in a repressive line. Ever so slowly a drift of pink eased its way up his throat and along the gaunt cheekbones.

Harry slid two fingers over Snape's wrist and against that licking tongue, scratching the underside of the serpent-head's chin. "I think that last bit was about me," he added smugly. "I own it after all. The silverware in this place can get very friendly, don't you think?"

Snape lifted an eyebrow. "I ought to find a spatula and spank you with it, you impertinent scamp!" His cheeks reddened.

"Y'can't." Harry pointed out. He tried so hard not to break out laughing as he turned around and concentrated on chopping up the roots. "Your secret admirer here will get jealous."

"Really?"

"Uh-huh. It said you've got a 'sstrong, sseductive grip', by the way."

oOo

Impossible brat. Harry's thoughts made it clear that the grip he meant was definitely around something other than a spoon handle. By habit – honed by being around dozens of hormonal nitwits – Snape stopped himself from delving further in, even though in this case he was rather tempted.

"If you like its commentary so much, perhaps I can persuade it to give you a 'strong' grip, somewhere where it'll be the most 'seductive'." he rumbled.

"Only if you let me come and stir your cauldron." The imp leered. The ladle echoed him with an appreciative hiss at the idea. "Y'know I'll do it right." Harry's hand joined Snape's at the handle, scratching the triangular serpent head. His eyes glistened impishly under his overgrown fringe. "Y'can both count on it."

"Tease," Snape declared, but his voice was warm with approval, just as his gaze was dark with promises.

"Ah," Harry beamed as if it was a compliment. His fingertips trailed along the back of Snape's hand before pulling back. "But only when it counts."

"When does it count, then?"

With a slight nod, Harry leaned forward, closed his eyes and inhaled, so close his breath fanned the side of his face. So close, yet for once Snape couldn't recognise a single thought behind those closed eyes, and Harry didn't answer.

"Does teasing me count, or not?" Snape repeated. He refused to be irritated by whatever game the brat seemed to be playing.

"Absolutely," Harry finally murmured, never really answering the question.

Then he clutched at Snape's shoulders, his face pale.

"What?" Snape asked, worried. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Harry smiled. "Just need t'sit down for a bit. I think I overdid it with all the… standing, n' walking."

"Bed," Snape said sternly. "Now. And you will take the Sleeping Draught tonight, no arguments."

"Not till after dinner. Please. I can last that long."

Snape sighed. Potter still looked as pale as a ghost but at least some colour had returned to his lips. Stubborn imp. "Fine."

oOo

Harry's entire world had changed.

The change was all-encompassing, but so slow that half the time Harry thought life had always been this way. It felt as familiar as breathing, or speaking, or 'biting back' every time Snape snapped at him, but now the whole world was inside out, upside down, and so confusingly vivid and raw.

He didn't know what to make of it or how to react, now that something familiar – something that should, by all rights, have been unpleasant – had suddenly changed into an awkward, brilliant, wonderful feeling: wanting, and daydreaming, and holding onto hope and other foolish thoughts.

For the first time in ages, Harry's nightmares had gone, and other dreams took their place.

oOo

The brat had insisted that Snape didn't need to help him up and out of his room. He was pretending everything was all right, but Snape could tell by the strained breaths, the coltish wobble to his legs, that Harry was gradually taking a turn for the worse. More energising potions, he told himself. That should last him another few weeks, to keep him from wasting away. Then we'll have to try more drastic methods.

They sat on the stairway facing Mrs. Black's snoring portrait.

"Grimmauld," Harry said, or something close to that; Snape couldn't tell between Harry's strained breaths.

"What?"

Harry shrugged. "Grim'n'old. S'what this house used to be. Just a grim ol' place."

Snape blinked, surprised. "Regulus used to say that. 'A grim old place for the grim, old creatures.'" He also claimed things were going to change when he took over the house.

"Not anymore! I'm not one." Harry protested with a defiant smile. "And neither are you."

"Don't lie," Snape smirked and reached, tousling Harry's messy hair. So familiar the gesture and the feel of it was, it would've been so easy to pretend that it wasn't Harry who was sitting here, but Regulus. "I've been one for a long time and you will be, soon enough." He stretched his lips a bit in a parody of a smile. "In twenty years you'll come back here and this Place will fit you just perfectly."

"Twenty years!" Harry repeated it as if Snape had told him a memorable joke. "No need. Fits already, don'tcha think?" Harry leaned back and stretched on the stairs like a cat trying the stairway out for size, raising a solemn eyebrow. A gesture he borrowed from watching Snape for hours at a time no doubt.

"Too charming," Snape murmured. "Work on it."

He withdrew his hand and moved as far back against the railing as he could get. The temptation to reach again for that unruly black hair, to move to the top buttons of Harry's robe and bury his face there, to let his hands and his mouth roam where they would, to let go, to forget the present and immerse himself in the past (or was it just the reverse?) was becoming too great. Harry likes me for some reason. I could make it happen; we aren't that different, he and I. It wouldn't be easy, exactly, but it's so tempting.

He focused on the portrait's dusty frame instead of the tempting sight. I can't. Harry deserves so much more. Someone young, something like what Regulus and I had. He deserves someone who would love him for himself. Not because in certain lights he resembles a man who died before he was born.

After a minute of stillness, he felt something: a soft touch. Harry, perched two stairs below him, pressed his forehead against Snape's knee.

Snape let him. After a long moment spent looking thoughtfully down at that tousled hair, he let one hand drift to rest atop it. The natural curve of his fingers seemed a perfect, inevitable fit for the warm curve of Harry's head.

Harry rested more of his weight against the side of Snape's leg; one hand came up to hide a yawn.

"It's late," Snape informed him.

"What was in that potion of yours?"

"Many things. All of them good for you."

"M'tired, is it s'posed t'make me tired?"

"A side effect. Sorry."

"Are not, y'sly sod." Snape could hear the smile in Harry's voice; he could even feel it in the curve of cheek against his knee. "Knew it was a sleepin' draught."

"Come on," Snape murmured, "Let's get you upstairs."

Once they reached the room, Harry started talking, Snape suspected if only to keep himself awake for a while longer, fighting the draught. "Y'know. This was Sirius', right? Every time I look at all those bite marks on the bedposts I wonder if they're Padfoot's." Harry reached out then and slung one arm around Snape, moving closer to where he was on the edge of the bed.

Snape bared his teeth in a feral smile at the gashes and scratches on the bedpost, but then he turned back to Harry and leaned over, just barely brushing his lips across Harry's forehead. "Sleep. Everything will be better in the morning."

"Night," Harry murmured.

Snape didn't reply.

Afterwards, he climbed the stairs to the dusty attic. There he stared out though a grimy window at the London smog, which blanketed out the stars behind the sallow glare of the city. But despite all that pollution, of chemicals and of artificial light, still he could see Regulus, shining in his mind's eye.

But by the time he came back downstairs, moving silently in an instinctive effort not to disturb the sleeper, the present – and Harry – had once again eclipsed the past.

In the corridor, he sidestepped a candle. The foolish thing had probably mistaken him for Harry. It scurried after him, its flame a-fluttering and casting deep shadows on the walls.

oOo

"Oh come and stir my…"

"Don't start that again! Even the house elf heads sing it better than you by now: at least they're in tune."

The 'drastic methods' that Snape tried did restore Harry's energy: for two hours at a time, anyway. At least they didn't leave him drowsy or weak with reaction afterwards.

Harry grinned and shifted some stacks of books and study notes he had all over the bed onto the floor. It was that time of evening again. The part of their routine that had him looking forward to evenings all day long.

It was really a pity that Harry couldn't feel it when Snape applied the salve to his shoulders and chest. The salve numbed everything it touched. Usually Snape had to soak his hands in some other foul-smelling goo, just to get the feeling in his own hands back. I suppose it's just as well it numbs everything so much, 'cause I'd probably be in a hell of a lot of pain otherwise. But just once I'd be willing to take that chance, so I could know what his hands feel like.

Snape finished all too quickly.

"No horrible brews for me today?" Harry teased.

"Not now. Perhaps later."

The reply sounded so resolute and sombre, even for Snape, that Harry had to ask: "Have you given up?"

"No," Snape shook his head and looked up, his lips stretching into something that might've been a smile. "In fact, I believe I may be making progress."

"Really?"

"Yes," Snape nodded, just as serious as ever. "Really."

"But that's great!" Harry beamed. "Brilliant!"

Snape smiled.

"Uhm," Harry looked up and realised, that's it. "Y'know, I was thinking and…"

For a second after he said it, he paused. How the hell could he even begin to explain 'I think I like you and I'd like to spend all the nights I've got left showing you just how much, before my silverware beats me to it', to Snape, of all people? Especially in a way that wouldn't get him hexed? There was still a chance not to say it, to throw something silly and wild at Snape instead, to take both of their minds off what was in Harry's thoughts and about to escape from his mouth. But Harry was a Gryffindor, and that meant he had a reckless streak that made him charge ahead when others ran. It'd kept him going this far, and hadn't failed yet.

Snape looked up at him and Harry wondered Is he reading my mind? "I'm…"

"Shh." A finger against Harry's lips silenced him as Snape pressed yet another potion into his hand. "Drink this."

Harry groaned. Wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, he downed it in one go. I'd've much rather be licking that fingertip instead! Or something else… With a flash of daring Harry held that thought in the very forefront of his mind, locking gazes with Snape in the next best thing to a gilt-edged invitation to come in and see what he was thinking, as he handed back the empty phial. "Thanks."

"Welcome." Those warm fingertips against Harry's hand were all he could focus on. With his whole body, Harry leaned into that gentle contact.

Snape pulled away all too quickly. Does he know? Harry didn't have the chance to find out.

Snape took a thin golden chain out of his pocket. Harry's broken key to Godric's Hollow dangled from the end. Snape held it for a bit longer, as if unsure how to proceed, but then reached out and slid the chain around Harry's neck, locking it on the back, leaving the key hanging over Harry's bandaged chest. "Dumbledore wore the Gaunt ring as a keepsake," he said. "I believe you should do the same. True achievements are seldom marked by medals; but some battle honours mean just as much."

Harry felt his face warm up. He might've been blushing. "I haven't done much to deserve a medal."

"You have. Don't ever doubt that."

"Um. Well. In that case," Harry closed his hand on Snape's – which was still over the key on his chest – just in time to catch and still it in place. "We both deserve that honour."…Because both of us have fought this war, on our own, for far too long.

Snape's hand was perfectly still. His face was unreadable. Harry leaned closer, gauging his reaction. Snape didn't move away, so Harry tilted his head, and leaned closer still. Maybe, Harry thought, the strongest curses can be broken without a spell, if we just make the improbable happen.

It was only then that Harry sensed something had happened, by the way Snape's eyes widened. He looked where Snape stared and it was Harry's hand he was staring at, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the pulse. I can't see anything different about it. What's he seeing that I'm not?

The rays of candle light fell on Harry's palm in a fine filigree, a little like the ornate handle of a key from Godric's Hollow, but imprecise, as if it was dissolving into light. "Curious," Snape whispered. "What if…" He reached for a candle and before Harry could ask what that was for, tilted it over Harry's hand.

Harry sucked in his breath. A spatter of wax drops, clear as tears and and warm as blood, pooled in the cup of his palm. Just as the wax cooled and hardened and turned creamy white, Snape lifted the edge of it with his wandtip and peeled it off like a shed snakeskin. Underneath – Harry couldn't believe his eyes – three lines, not two, crossed his palm again. His lifeline circled the base of his thumb, as clearly as if it had never been gone. Its curve was as insistent as the curl at the back of his head that never lay flat.

Harry gaped. "Wow," he breathed, "How'd you do that?"

"I didn't," Snape murmured, triumph glinting in dark eyes. "You did."

"Really?" Harry gave an adrenalin-shaky laugh, "All right then, how'd I do it?"

A dry chuckle shook Snape's chest. "By retreating here, you made Grimmauld the target of the curse." he explained softly, "It became your prison and it would have been your tomb. But despite the curse, the solitude, despite everything, you brought back life to this Place, and light to its inhabitants, simply by being you." He nodded at the candle, whose flame bowed in reply: Harry beamed at it. "For the curse to be broken, they had to be willing to help you."

Harry smiled warmly at Snape. "But you helped me too. I'd've never even known how to do all that, or how to keep going if it wasn't for you. We did it together."

Snape stared at Harry's palm. With his long black hair hanging in his face, he looked oddly like a gypsy who'd just found a particularly interesting fortune to tell. "Mm, perhaps we did."

Harry nudged Snape amiably, eyeing his palm, "What's it say?"

"You ought to know by now," Snape declared loftily, "that people choose their own fates."

"Then what was all the fuss about it being gone?"

Sallow fingers traced the line on Harry's palm. Gentle, clever. "That was exactly what the curse robbed you of: the capacity to make such a choice."

"Choice, hm? Mind if I test that?" Harry leaned up. "Stay," he murmured, his heart in his throat.

Snape's hand tensed.

"I want you to. It might be the last night either of us will ever get to spend the night in Grimmauld, or maybe anywhere. D'you really want to spend it alone?"

Something flickered in Snape's dark eyes that Harry's tentative Legilimency couldn't quite catch, but then Snape's chest rumbled in a purr like an approaching thunderstorm. "When you put it that way, I don't have a choice, do I?"

Harry chuckled warmly. "Oh, but you are my choice." Mine. He slid his hands – fingers splayed – against Snape's forearms and nudged Snape down with him into the nest of blankets and warmth. The grimoires on his bed shuffled grudgingly to the foot of it, rolls of parchment clenched between their pages, reluctant to surrender their hard-earned space.

"The choice of a Chosen One. How can I argue with that?" Snape murmured wryly, sitting on the edge of the bed as if on the edge of a cliff. He met Harry's eyes again and added, warmer. "So be it." His hands left Harry's to open the fastenings of his robe and tug at the laces of his shirt.

There were scars on Snape's chest; Harry definitely remembered them from the glimpse he'd had at Spinner's End. He looked and tried to figure out what left them and who, and at the same time tried not to make Snape even more self-conscious by staring; but there was that one fresh scar, cutting across so many others, that still shocked Harry just by being there. The scar was raised and pink: when Harry brushed tender, tentative fingers down its slanting length, he found it was a little warmer than the surrounding flesh, as if it was still a bit feverish. But there was no sign of infection; perhaps it was just that Snape's body heat was that bit nearer to the surface, that bit easier to feel. Beside it lash marks criss-crossed over his ribs and there was a rip from a belt-buckle at his side, the symbol ½ cut into his shoulder and I'm just as bad as all the rest of them! Harry choked out, "I'm sorry," as his fingers traced the ridge from his thoughtlessly cast Sectumsempra.

"Sorry?" Snape's mouth curled sarcastically. "Have I put you off so quickly?"

"Not a chance! I just… listen, I didn't mean 'choice' in that way. It's not an offer offer, y'know." It's not that kind of offer, I don't want him to think I only want a shag. I just want him to stay, even if nothing happens. Even if we talk all night, or snore all night. Doesn't matter what we do; I'd just like him here, with me. Only, I don't have much time to waste and I can't afford to let this one chance pass by. "Not unless you want that. I just don't want you to spend tonight sleeping all the way across the hall. And I think – um, I hope – you don't want to either."

Mutely, stained fingers curled around Harry's, lifting them gently away from the scar: terrible looking on its own, but on Snape it just blended into the background of a hard life. Thin lips brushed Harry's fingertips, dry and light as the flick of a black robe's trailing edge.

"I never saw it heal," Harry half-explained, half-apologised. It looks like they tried to turn his skin into one giant tapestry …and I tried to cut his heart out. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, forehead against jaw, against shoulder. One hand was still trapped between their bodies, the other held on tight. "I didn't mean to; if I only knew then I, what kind of… How much I… if I knew all this! I'd've never… I'm so glad you're alive!"

A gust of warmth ruffled Harry's hair and the chest under his hand hitched with Snape's wry, dry, amused snort. "I can't say I'm disappointed, myself." One wiry arm wrapped around Harry's body, as single-minded as a snake wrapping its mate. The other hand slithered up the back of Harry's neck, fingertips stroking the soft hair there. "Especially given a recent … 'not an offer'."

"Um." Harry hoped his face wasn't as burning red as it felt. "What's this from?" He trailed his hand down Snape's chest, possibly picking the one farthest away from the scar whose story he knew for certain, because he left it. "I mean. I don't mind, they're just scars. I've got one – a few – myself. Besides the…er." He tilted his head into the touch of those fingertips, a flick of a fringe covering his lightning bolt scar. I didn't mean that one! I'm such crap at this! How does anyone ever just talk, in bed?

Suddenly it was so important that Snape knew: Harry really didn't mean the scar on his forehead. It mattered that Snape knew he was talking about the scars that weren't famous: one on the back of his knee, another on his ribs where the belt buckle tore across skin, almost in the same place as one on Snape. But there were warm hands on him and warm breath against his cheek, and dark, questioning eyes. "Yeahh," Harry breathed. "What was I saying again?"

"Entirely. Too. Much." Snape murmured, punctuating each word with warm brushes of lips against Harry's jawline. Then his hands slid up and down Harry's shoulders, kneading and stroking as he reclined back against the covers, pulling Harry with him.

Huh, Harry thought. Here I was trying to seduce him, at least I think I did and then… What just happened? Did it work? Is he seducing me back

Then that mouth was on Harry's throat, warm lips and slick tongue making his whole body tingle.

He is! Wow! He leaned back a little, braced over Snape on elbows and knees, and just stared down, wide-eyed with awe, as he fought to catch his breath. Fought not to come. His hair hung in Snape's face, and the key dragged across Snape's newest scar, before coming to rest over his heart.

Snape's gaze remained dark and scrutinizing on Harry's, and his presence in Harry's mind was unmistakeable. Harry leaned down, closer, but as the teasing git had been doing all evening, he pulled back again, his hands rubbing distracting circles on the small of Harry's back. No. Kiss me, Harry thought, please!

Snape's eyes widened in surprise, but he craned swiftly upward. At first it was light, gentle, tentative, testing and tasting the way, then his kisses intensified into a demanding, hungry exploration and Oh wow! In return Harry tried for something fierce and skilled, but he probably only managed fierce and clumsy. Harry didn't know how long the hot-slick-wonderful feeling lasted; he only realised, breathless, that Snape was panting against his skin.

"OK?" Harry asked. Please, let it be OK!

"You underestimate yourself." Snape's breath was warm as he tilted his head against Harry's neck, his lips moist. "You are so much more than merely 'OK'."

And then it all was so warm and awkward; even Harry hadn't thought it could be this awkward. He'd certainly never dreamed it could be this incredible. There were covers and books and buttons and noses all getting in the way, but Snape was there with him as well, and that made all the fumbling worthwhile.

There were a thousand things Harry wanted to try right now, if he could only decide which one to start with. So Harry tried several at once, then he tried others one at a time, and only then realised – from the feel of a hand sliding up his naked thigh – that the sneaky sod had been banishing his clothes, wandlessly, silently, one by one, starting with his socks and working his way up.

Snape was so much better at this seduction thing than Harry was, and it was all so good: that mouth soft and hot against his own, then trailing down his neck and chest. Those clever hands kneading and knowing and learning Harry's body an inch at a time; moving so slowly and deliberately that Harry whimpered in frustration. S'not fair, 'cause I started it, but he's just taken over and he's still teaching! But I reckon I could really love learning these lessons. And life's not fair anyway, but sometime's life's good, and right now it's bloody brilliant!

There was one especially vivid moment, amid Snape's warm, skilled touches and Harry's frantic need, when Snape stopped that slow, wonderful torture and looked up at him: dark eyes gleaming in his pale face, dark strands of hair framing it. In that moment, the realisation struck Harry. He's so damn sexy! I must've been blind! Why didn't I see it before? The desire to explore and taste every inch of his skin, look deep into his eyes and his mind and lose himself in that skilled sensuality, was almost unbearable.

So Harry held him close, and did exactly that.

oOo

The light dimmed, and Harry noticed all of the candles but one hopping off the bedside table and trailing out the door. Harry looked at the one that remained, which apparently had no plans of leaving. Snape noticed it too, he reckoned, 'cause of the "Bloody little voyeur," he grumbled under his breath.

"No it's not," Harry pointed to the one that stayed, "It just doesn't want to leave us in the dark. Look, it's even blushing." Indeed its flame had turned red and thinned, yet the candle remained lit, snuggled down into its wax drip skirt. Harry cupped his hand loosely around the flame, shielding the bed from the glow, as he leaned closer to Snape again. The light turned the flesh of his fingers a rich fiery red, and cast long shadows on the bed. In the warm darkness, Snape's eyes glistened and Harry could hear each breath. This time he was careful and slow, tilting his head and kissing Snape almost with reverence. The warmth of the candle flame and the warmth cascading down his body burned like banked coals.

They fell together onto the bed, rolling and rubbing until they settled into a steady rhythm: sliding and slick with sweat, hotter and harder with every thrust and So fucking good! Ohyes, again! Over and over until Harry melted into Snape's arms like wax running from a candle and pooling in a palm, like a waxen voodoo doll with a living, pounding heart.

Snape wrapped his arms tighter around Harry, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. Harry felt him breathing, slow and deep.

"G'night," Harry murmured to Snape; in response, the candle too settled down and flickered out, leaving the room to soft shadows. Harry wriggled deeper into his nest of blankets. His eyelids were heavy and his mind languid, but he thought he heard Snape reply.

"Good night… Harry."

Harry slept, his hands curled like a lion's paws around Snape's forearm, cheek against his wrist. He wouldn't've let go for anything.

oOo

Harry had traced his scars as if tracing the page of a book, his fingers examining the raised letters.

Not that it was too much of an exaggeration; Snape's scars contained quite a few letters. SNIV, white and raised: a brand in firewriting, one letter per Marauder before they were interrupted by Hagrid as Wormtail traced the V. There were multiple souvenirs of Auror interrogations, not just the usual manacle scars and whip weals, but a sigil on his back, left over from a spell they'd cast to enhance the sensitivity of his skin. There was ½, carved into his shoulder by Macnair in a creative fit of punishment.

There were some scars he wasn't in a hurry to talk about, for various reasons. There were the claw marks on his arse, from Reg's overprotective owl divebombing him while he was in the middle of… well, of Reg! Mad sod of a bird, Snape smiled a bit at the memory, though he certainly hadn't been smiling much at the time, lucky for Reg I was too busy using my other wand, to hex it into a feather duster!

The smile slid away from Snape's face as he remembered the oldest marks of all: from Dad's belt and his fag ends. He was particularly glad Harry hadn't asked about those.

Harry had responded to Snape in a way he never would have expected. He remembered Harry's nearly immediate transformation from a teasing imp to someone with all of his wants and vulnerabilities wide open, his body writhing on the bed shared by a jumble of books. He'd bitten his lip and fisted his hands in an attempt to keep still against Snape's mouth. Wicked. Wonderful. Snape had seen those thoughts in his eyes, and many more: need and desire and brilliance and Severus.

Now, Harry slept on his stomach, sprawled over most of the bed like a skinny frog, just as vulnerable and awkward as the frogs on Snape's workbench. His knobbly knee was poking Snape's side, his nose was cold against Snape's shoulder, and his tousled hair tickled Snape's skin with each breath. He was still holding onto Snape's forearm.

Snape could smell the lingering, waxy scent of smoke from the now-unlit candle. Moonlight filtered through the window, painting Harry in dreamlike hues of misty silver and soft shadow: a young personification of Sleep.

Snape had never felt more awake in his life.

'You lie awake night after night, thinking, turning over all the possibilities in your mind, until one night you realise that there's only one possible way to succeed.' Dumbledore had told him that once, long ago. 'And that there's no one else but you who can do what must be done. And when you realise that, you act on it. Because you must.'

Snape didn't think he was ready. He didn't think he could ever be ready to lay down his life for a Noble Cause, like a Hero. Like a Gryffindor. But there was no cause here. Just Harry, slowly eaten alive by a curse. Just Snape, the only one who could stop it.

He slid out of Harry's embrace, careful not to wake him. He stood by the bed, memorising Harry's face, then he bent to wrap the blanket a little closer around Harry, protecting him from Grimmauld's chill.

And then, having made his choice, Snape left.

Because he must.