A/N: Some gruesomeness in this chapter. Probably mild for the general run of readers, but it's not often I write gore and I'd rather err on the side of caution.

I re-wrote two-thirds of this chapter in a hurry, so if anyone spots typos or incoherence, please feel free to point them out.

Chapter Five

xxxxx

When I was nineteen, Snape saved my life.

I was a junior Auror on a raid, tracking a rogue werewolf who made a point of hunting down humans and inflicting horrible, disfiguring bites. Shades of Fenrir Greyback and an insult to Remus Lupin's memory. My partner for the stakeout, Nigel Finstock, had far more experience at trapping Dark creatures than I, so I reckoned it was simply practise in working doubles and watching his back.

"No leads so far on who Wolfie might be or why he's on a rampage," Finstock told me once I'd finished studying the gruesome photos of the victims. These were attached to a crime scene board, and in each frame the camera's eye scanned up and down the bodies and then reverted back to their faces and started over again. At least they'd all survived.

What a fucking awful way to start my shift. I wandered back over to the desk. The department had supplied scones and coffee to fortify us for the long watch, but after what I'd just seen, I couldn't imagine putting anything in my stomach.

"Wolfie?" I muttered, because humour seemed out of place here.

"They're dark creatures," Finstock said, shrugging. "I don't like giving dark creatures an exaggerated sense of their own importance. Mockery's a pretty good leveller, in my opinion."

He was seated on the desk, one leg drawn up and his foot gently swinging back and forth. As he talked, he managed a gangly backwards twist that reminded me of Ron, as casually graceless as if we were sharing a cuppa in his kitchen. He spelled open a drawer behind him, but instead of the witness reports I expected, out floated a container of chocolate syrup. Finstock poured half of it into his cup, then repeated the contortion to summon a small glass jar of cinnamon, tapping it carefully until the coffee's surface was sprinkled with powder. I stared at him as he flicked his wand and the concoction started churning and frothing.

Oblivious, he nattered on, "But in the end, you know, werewolves are people first. Most of them find ways to stop themselves from savaging others. It's an affliction, not a moral disease, so this pattern of mutilation is a sign we're probably dealing with a monster."

I folded my arms, not doing a very good job of covering my annoyance, because it wasn't as if I didn't already know a few things about werewolves.

Finstock picked up his cup and took a quick swig, closed his eyes for a moment, then screwed up his face and set the coffee down as far away from him as possible. "Merlin's nose hairs, that's disgusting." I must have snorted, because he levitated the cup over to me with a mischievous look. "Go ahead, I'm open to second opinions. No? You sure? Smart boy." His short beard scrunched in an amused scowl as he vanished the contents. "Muggles always do such deliciously strange things to coffee. I just can't seem to get the hang of it."

Feeling I'd probably been an arse, I relaxed enough to fetch my own cup. "Potions not your subject, then?"

He finger-combed his curly fringe and considered. The hair was receding on both sides, so the curls clustered like an island over his forehead. It put me in mind of a poodle. "I coulda been a contendah," he sighed suddenly, in an accent so atrocious I had trouble identifying it as cod-American. Finstock cleared his throat and went back to speaking in his perfectly serviceable Devonshire. "I tell you, old man, the pains I took to be mediocre in that class. I could have scored a pretty decent potions NEWT, but no. Didn't want the Lord High Bollocker to get me in his sights. So I underperformed like mad. Half the boys in my house believed the greasy wanker could shrivel your testicles from across the room with a single death glare, no Shrinking Solution required."

I was about to comment snidely on Snape's ability to shrivel grades, too, when Finstock rose from his perch and stretched his long arms and legs, revealing a soft middle amidst all the lanky angles. He must have been teased about it a lot, because he gave his paunch a little self-conscious pat. "Behold the Finstock bump. Blighting the physique of Finstock males for untold generations. Fortunately the lad at home likes a man who supplies his own customised pillow." I noticed he fussed with the drape of his robes and even so ended up looking about five months pregnant.

"Pity," he remarked, summoning a satchel with a succinct twirl of his wand. "Snape paid the price for being a right convincing bastard, didn't he? I'm rather sorry I tucked tail and threw the match when I did. Now I'll never know what it would've been like to cross wits in a fair fight with the old mind-fucker."

And I remembered, with a blow to my heart that was almost staggering—because there was no way that should have hurt, no way—that Snape was dead. Years dead. To everyone but me.

"Right, then. Let's not stand on ceremony," said Finstock. Flick, and his robes darkened from red to black. Flick, and so did mine. Camouflage. "Any objections to being on a first name basis with the likes of me? Smashing. Call me Nige."

"Harry."

"You don't say." He grinned. "Now, I can't promise we'll get lucky tonight. Wolfie might show. Or Wolfie might second-guess us and bugger off. No way to predict. The crucial thing is, if Wolfie breaks cover, Stupefy like your life depends on it. Because it bloody well does. Hex the wretch into the ground, cast Incarcerous, and no faffing about, because werewolves don't stay down for long. Bloody beasts throw off stunning spells sooner than you can say 'Merlin's left tit.'

"I'm packing a silver muzzle," he continued, holding it up to show me. "And," he dug around in the satchel, setting off a suspicious clinking, "a matching set of cuffs." Pulling out several glittering links of chain, he waved the manacles around for my benefit. "Kinky, eh? Our preferred option is to incapacitate the wretch, but sometimes you have no choice." He piled everything into the satchel and peered at me. "Sometimes it's kill or be killed. You okay with that?"

"I fought in the war," I said, more sharply perhaps than the question warranted.

Nigel had every right to reprimand me for my cheek. Instead he frowned, sucking his lips in with a thoughtful grimace, his brown poodle curls bobbing as he gave his head a little shake. "You were a kid," he said quietly. "You're still a kid, by my estimate. Yes, I'm aware you defeated Voldemort in a fight to the death, but he died essentially by his own hand. You didn't curse with the intent to kill. From all the testimony I've turned up, you never have." When my control started to slip—I hate it when people harp on about the Boy Who Did This and That Unbelievable Thing, but I can't abide the assumption that it was pure luck and nothing else—Nigel cut me off with a sympathetic noise. "I don't doubt you, Harry. That's not what this is about. I'm just trying to prepare you for the worst."

I flushed. One of my first assignments, and I was already behaving like an oversensitive prat. "Sorry," I said. "I'm not used to having my inexperience taken into account. Usually whoever's in charge just tells me they have faith in me and tosses me in at the deep end."

"Don't worry, I'm not the type to withhold information," Nige said. "If anything, I tend to overshare." He patted the Finstock bump meaningfully. "So you won't take this as a criticism if I ask to see your boots?"

Smirking, I stuck one foot out. "I got your memo reminding me to wear dragonhide. I gather I shouldn't expect reimbursement?"

"Oh frabjous day, a partner who reads my memos!" Nige said, ignoring my question. He stuck out a foot of his own, and together we admired our expensive accessories. "Werewolves prefer the juicier bits, throats and stomachs and so on, but if our mark is laid out flat on the ground, he's going to lunge for the nearest body part. Ergo, feet. Furthermore, if you have to kick Wolfie in his great toothy snout, this is going to inflict a bigger dent than your average leather."

Regaining his balance, he cast Tempus, and something in his shambling, affable persona seemed to change course and flow into a subtly different configuration. He stood straighter. I realised, perhaps for the first time, that I was in the presence of a trained professional.

"Ready to face the devil? Good man. Remember to Disillusion yourself. Featherweight charms on both feet. Once we're there, I'm going to cast a spell to mask our scent, but it messes with the sweat glands, so it's not easy to sustain for longer than two hours at a stretch." He fell silent, concentrating on a thorough check of his kit. "Speak only when necessary. And keep in mind this beast's been targeting Muggles, so our non-magical counterparts in local law enforcement have probably studied the pattern of assaults and come to similar conclusions about the location of the next attack. You don't want to step in front of a Muggle bullet meant for our predator.

"Bugger," he said abruptly. "Nearly forgot. There's something I wanted to ask you. You grew up Muggle, right?"

I loosened my stiff shoulders and suppressed a sigh. This sort of opening was usually followed by an insinuating and extremely personal question about the war, my background, or my opinions on any number of political issues. "Yeah. I had no idea the wizarding world existed until my Hogwarts letter arrived."

Nige radiated delight. "Wicked. You wouldn't happen to be a movie buff, would you? Back when I was merely an aspiring young novice in the field of dangerous creatures, I researched every bloody thing I could find on werewolves, from medieval horror stories to the published results of aconite experiments on lupine volunteers to modern-day incident reports. A rather snotty footnote in a scholarly journal put me onto those Muggle inventions called 'movies'—yes, yes, I'm sure I sound like an idiot to you, but the whole concept—brilliant! I was quite bowled over. Unfortunately, there are dozens of things that make no sense. Perhaps some night you could be persuaded to join me and my partner for a movie marathon? And perhaps you'll even let me pester you with hundreds of foolish questions? For example, the question of why a man would think gluing fake fur all over his face qualifies him to impersonate a wolf?"

I'd never really had a chance during my years at Privet Drive to indulge in Muggle pastimes like television, and the very thought of me wasting pocket money on the cinema—having pocket money at all—would have given Petunia a case of the collywobbles.

I grinned at Nige, unexpectedly cheered by the thought. "I'm no expert, but sure. I'm game. Would it impose too much if I invited a couple of friends along? One's even more Muggle than I am."

"Splendid," Nige said. "I'll talk to Emilio about ordering dinner in. You lot can help me choose the lineup for the film festival." He continued to beam privately to himself, keen as a child, then his expression sobered and he stepped closer, curling one hand around my arm just above the elbow. "I've got the Apparition coordinates, so I'll perform the Side-Along. Be ready to cast an infrared Lumos or you'll likely walk smack into a tree and reveal our super secret agent surveillance plot, understood?"

I nodded, nerves prickling.

Reality compressed around us for an unbearable second, then my feet hit the ground and the countryside slammed into existence around us: a shaggy, owl-infested neck of woods in a valley not far from a Muggle village. There was a cold snap that night, and the peaks on the skyline shone like a bunch of bald heads. I shivered. Nothing up there but a dusting of snow. The full moon glared, silver-bright enough to make you squint, but so black under the trees it was like being blind. Hard to get a positive ID with that checkerboard effect contradicting and cancelling everything out, the trees rustling nonstop, kicked up by the wind. Chilly, too. We wrapped ourselves in black robes, cast warming charms on top of all our other protective spells, and settled down to wait.

The howling started about an hour into our watch. Nige elbowed me gently, and we crept toward a break in the trees. An empty hillside sloped up in front of us, coldly glowing, and we could hear the wolf panting and snuffling, ranging around nearby, but it was wily and refused to move any closer.

"Nothing for it," Nige muttered in my ear. "I'll provide the bait and you'll provide the backup. Keep a steady hand on your wand and Stupefy at will."

He dropped his Disillusionment charm and walked fearlessly out between the trees, head high, a tall silhouette with robes flapping and curls doing a crazy dance atop his head. I was suddenly deluged by memories of the breathholding tension from my year on the run, the frozen woods, the threadbare tent, Ron and Hermione following me into hell. The paralysing knowledge that danger was constantly circling, constantly searching for us. All the calm of that years-long death sentence flooded back to me as if it had never gone.

I pushed the dread down into the pit of my stomach.

It got colder. The silence deepened, crackling over the world like frost. It went on for a long time, longer than I'd expected, weirdly peaceful except for the wind. I'd reckoned once the werewolf spotted a prospective victim we'd be able to wrap this up in no time. Wrong. Nige wandered back and forth, ignoring me, every now and then stooping to peer at something on the ground, apparently unconcerned.

A sudden galloping, snarling rush shattered the suspense. I saw a shadow hurtling through the shadows, heard paws racing over the grass. Nige pivoted, and I gripped my wand, and we both shouted.

"Stupefy!"

A furry shape flipped into the air, somersaulting to earth with a solid thud. Moonlight gleamed on its fangs and its staring eye. Sprawled in darkness, the body jerked alarmingly, and Nige's wand flashed. "Incarcerous."

I ran out into the open to join him. The lower half of his face twitched in a perfunctory smile, but his attention was entirely on the wolf. We stood gazing down at the massive creature crisscrossed tightly with magical rope, its sides heaving, its lips streaked with foam.

"Got you," Nige said softly.

He drew a pair of thick gloves from an inner pocket and donned them neatly, smoothing them down over his fingers before crouching to examine the angle and calculate the most efficient way to force the muzzle over the gaping jaws.

Just as he was gripping the wolf's nose, a bloodcurdling wail wavered out of the woods to our left, trailing off into a hacking growl. The silver muzzle hooked in his fingers, Nige shot to his feet, and I spun, determined to get a fix on the animal through the moon-washed darkness.

A hand squeezed my shoulder. "Stand fast, Harry. I halfway expected this. Something about the timing and distance between the attacks didn't add up. Wolfie having a mate clears that up nicely." He let go and raised his wand. "Don't worry, I've brought enough bondage equipment to subdue them both."

We heard paws thundering over dry leaves, then the lean shadow leaped out from between the trees. At the same time there was a sharp crack behind us. I cast, but Nige cried out and fell against me, fouling my aim. Rather than catching the werewolf full on, my spell only glanced off its flanks and sent it rolling and stumbling.

Nige was on his hands and knees. "Jelly-Legs Jinx. Can't stand up yet. Guard your back!"

I turned just in time as a hooded figure behind us threw a curse, and a spray of red detonated against my shielding spell. The hillside lit up. Nige shouted a hex, bracing himself upright on one gloved hand. I concentrated on hurling counter-curses. Even illumined by moonlight, the hills and the woods were strange and shadowy, and it was hard to see the target.

Somewhere in darkness, a wolf coughed.

Two more cracks, like bones breaking, and Nige gasped, "Ambush."

A voice I didn't recognise pronounced a spell, and the bindings on the fallen werewolf vanished. I forced everything I had into my next cast, so furious it knocked my adversary several feet through the air. Then I ducked, intending to grab Nige's arm and get us out of there. I had to deflect an Incarcerous first, slithery, snaky ropes swarming down upon us. I threw them back at their caster, but the wizard knotted them up in a ball and destroyed them.

The voice called, "Ennervate!"

The silver muzzle glinted in the grass. I lunged for it. On the ground at our feet, the shaggy body quivered, then convulsed. Nige fell on his arse and tried desperately to crawl backwards, and I reached for him, saying, "Grab my hand," but the wolf squirmed over, its eyes flaring red, and clamped its teeth onto his arm.

Nigel screamed like a child, and Merlin, I couldn't curse it off him because I still had two wizards (no, fuck, three, my original attacker had rejoined the fight) and the other werewolf trying to kill us. I couldn't go for help or I would have left him to be mauled to bloody rags. Locked together, they struggled and kicked and rolled at my feet, growling, grunting, Nige occasionally crying out in agony. A thought pierced my concentration: Stupefy them both. I turned, and a spell hissed past my head, blinding me. I risked a moment to hurl a Patronus, then staggered around, pouring with sweat and parrying curses, flinching and twisting at every snarl and snap of teeth.

"Harry, get out of here! Apparate!" Nige groaned from below, choking on the words. He was answered by a harsh, deranged noise, the snarl of an animal. Merlin, that was me. Barely in time, I flung another Protego. Green light burst over us like a tropical fountain and blackened the grass.

"Harry— "

Something crunched, crunched again with a deep, splintering sound, and Nige gurgled and stopped talking.

I didn't look. It wasn't a conscious decision. I was aware the struggle in the grass had stopped. I refused to think about it. My mind just switched tracks. I ignored the horrible noises of chewing and ripping I heard at my feet, otherwise I would have vomited and run stark raving mad.

A steadying voice started up in my head, whispering over and over not to be afraid. Death wasn't so bad; I'd been there before. (Curse green, hex red, fight, keep casting, don't look, don't think.) Dying would be horrible—not to mention I didn't want to—but on the other side of it my parents waited. (Look out! Turn around, here it comes, arm up, arm down, use a different spell, missed, missed again, can't see, there, there, Crucio you fucker.)

I ached for Ginny, though. For failing her. For being stupid enough to get myself killed.

Curse light flared in my lenses, and my arm spasmed so hard I nearly dropped my wand. Returning fire, I tripped over Nigel's body, and my Confringo flew wild, missing my target and blasting a piece out of the hill. Fuck. My pulse hammered in my ears. No. Not now. I couldn't afford to slow down. I wanted to live. I wanted to live.

A nearby crack of Apparition sent my heart into my shoes. So much for what I wanted.

The newcomer spun in my direction, as black and billowing as a Lethifold. This was it. Furious, I almost wasted what energy I had left casting Stupefy. But not everything. I saved one last spell. One last ounce of magical vengeance to kill the creature that had murdered Nigel.

My opponent blocked the spell, and in the brief splash of deflected magic I saw a crescent of face. Even cratered with shadow at eyes and cheeks, shadow pouring down both sides, the crescent glimmered moon pale. Dungeon pale.

At the sight of it I nearly bit my tongue in two.

Then a raging curse came whistling through the air like a bolt of pure hate, a curse propelled by old hurt and unhealed grievances. A curse that had waited twenty-five years to be cast.

A Slytherin curse.

Behind me, the werewolf feeding on Nigel burst into flames.

The meadow exploded with light. The terrified creature screamed as heartrendingly as Nigel, rolling over and over and biting at its haunches, sparks blistering the grass. It leaped to its feet and bolted flaming through night, running in circles and nearly setting one of its allies on fire. Then all hell broke loose good and proper and we were all yelling and lobbing curses back and forth, flares of power sizzling in the darkness.

Well, not all of us. Snape stayed mum. But his wand sliced the air, and one of my attackers shrieked in surprise, falling backwards, blood flying from his arms, his chest, spraying his face.

Sectumsempra.

I had the presence of mind not to shout Snape's name. Fair bet he would have stunned me right into the branches of the nearest tree. Instead, I pulled myself together and flung a Leg-Locking jinx, a Confundus, another Incarcerous, not stopping to think. I just fought.

Bloody fucking hell, I refused to die now. Snape was there. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Between the two of us, we routed the attackers. The fact that someone else had joined the fray, someone as Dark as they were, as unhampered by scruples or legal oaths, as bent on murder—well, it broke their resolve. The howls of the burning wolf, flipping and squirming horribly on the ground, the stink of scorched fur and flesh, probably helped to unnerve them. I know it did me.

The remaining werewolf broke away and streaked off into the underbrush. Shortly after, one of the wizards Disapparated with a hasty crack. The second realised his predicament, heaved his bleeding comrade to his feet, made a stumbling turn, and split the air with a sound like rubbish bins crashing over. I expect there was Splinching wherever they ended up.

A glass bell of silence closed around us, slightly echoey with my breathing, the roar in my ears. I wasn't dead even though that didn't make sense. My robes were spray-painted with blood, but I wasn't hurt, not even a scratch, I was safe, I was alive, dripping with another man's death, and it occurred to me Nige's body must still be warm, Nige's partly eaten body, and oh God, oh fuck it, this wasn't life, this was hell.

The night went on about its business, cold and aloof, like a lake's surface closing over a drowning man. So serene, as if nothing had happened.

Off in the depths of the woods, the werewolf's howl thinned to nothing like a pulled thread. I wouldn't have been surprised if the whole dark universe had unravelled around me, hanging in little squiggles of utter irrelevance.

Several yards away, standing alone, Snape swivelled sharply from side to side, scanning our surroundings. Only after he was sure there were no surprise attacks in the offing did he stride over, knuckles jagged around his wand. For a moment he stared down at the blackened wolf. The firelight jumping in the burning grass made a devil's playground of his face.

With a vicious slash of his arm, he doused the flames.

I stared down at Nige. His face, no. Not enough of it left. I didn't want to see his teeth grinning through his cheek. His beard—the wolf had eaten most of it. Stop. No. Further down. The Finstock bump—a messy, slimy, gaping hole. No. Don't think. My eyes darted to his dragonhide boots. Don't. I should have knelt, but I couldn't. I couldn't go any closer. My breaths were coming shallowly, fast, a frantic gulping for air, for control. The scent-masking spell had stopped working, and I was drenched with sweat. Something. Something about movies. We were going to watch movies together. He was shy about his pillow, but his partner liked it. A pillow with its intestines torn out. Oh God, Potter, shut up. Shut up, shut up.

Footsteps swished through the grass. A whiff of charcoal. I kept my eyes on Nigel's feet. A silent figure slipped past me and bent down, wand travelling back and forth. Bastard. He was very thin, his hair this extra drape of shadow, like a hiding place. I'd watched him die, too. I remembered him lying there with his throat torn out.

When he raised his eyes to mine, I couldn't read them. I didn't need to. I glanced quickly away at something stretched on the ground, separate and glistening with blood.

An arm.

"Fuck," I whispered, not meaning to, "fuck, damn it, fuck," wanting to howl, wanting to get away. From Nigel, from yet another dead body, someone I should have saved and didn't. He shouldn't have died, damn it. This was our first assignment. We were going to watch movies together. I couldn't prove it, but I'd bet anything that ambush was meant for me. Me, Harry Potter. The Boy For Whom Everyone Died.

I was shaking so hard I thought I might fall down.

Snape straightened, smoke blurring all over him. The wind flapped, keening through the trees, the sky looming up above. If it got any bigger or blacker, everything in my head was going to explode.

It seemed fitting that Snape would be there, too. Just me and Snape in all this head-ringing, tooth-chattering emptiness. My chest hurt. It felt like—like hunger, like wanting something so much my heart was eating a hole in my chest. Something chewing me up from the inside out. I didn't know why. I didn't know what was happening.

Oh bollocks. I'm not an imbecile. Of course I knew. Because you can't ever escape the past, right? Snape had found me, and now my heart was like this hot, aching crater because he and I were alone, just the two of us, with all this unfinished history and two bodies and death like a stink in the air. Desperation and failure and that terrible, bottomless look in his eyes.

Half an hour ago, Nigel Finstock had patted my shoulder. But people died. People died for me. Even Snape. I should have gone back for him. Why the fuck had he kissed me? Why, when I'd left him for dead?

He stood apart, wrapped in thought. I was suddenly sure he'd Disapparate. Disapparate and leave me alone in the dark.

Instead he passed one hand over his face and tilted his head so far back his hair ran down like water. In the moonlight it looked wet against his robes. He stared at the stars. I stared at him. When he lowered his head, I was still staring.

Another gust of wind swept through all that black—clothes and hair and smoke—and it took me a moment to realise he was being swept along with it.

Toward me. He stalked forward, robes undulating around him, spreading out, the kind of blackness that will swallow you up if you let it touch you.

The open slope of the hill was like a turn-of-the-century Muggle photograph, ghostly and colourless except for the charred circle where the half-incinerated wolf still leaked smoke. I remember the stars overhead being strangely intense, like holes punched in a blindfold. It was so sodding dark the pinpricks of light that got through pierced with all the force of a blazing sky.

Close up, Snape was as bony and creepy as ever, lips tense like a fish with a hook in its jaw.

I started to say something, because the silence ached too much. His hand came down hard over my mouth. With a shove, he steered and jostled me backwards until shadows cut off the moon and I banged my elbow landing up against a tree trunk.

He took his hand away and replaced it with his mouth.

It wasn't like before. It wasn't slow. He was thin and dark and burning up, feverish and bitter-tasting, grinding against me and pretty much gagging me with his tongue. My back scraped up and down the tree bark as he rubbed off against me, hard, short thrusts of his hips, as if in punishment. The branches forked overhead, and the stars misted above my slipping-down glasses. I had Nigel's blood on me. It was on Snape now, too. The reek of burnt fur surrounded us, although most of the stench had been blown downwind.

I was on the verge of tears. My arm hurt. My heart hurt. I didn't want to deal with this shite. I wanted him off me.

Having punished me with the pressure of his tongue and groin, Snape suddenly bit my lip and pulled away, and that was—I don't know what, but that did it. He stepped back, and cold air slapped away his heat. Then he was turning, he was going to Disapparate, and I—

I yanked so hard I pulled him off-balance. He practically fell on top of me, and for a second I thought he was going to punch me in the groin. But then he caught on to the fact that I wasn't fighting and pinned me in a flash. We struggled, and he hoisted me up against the tree. Christ, I was panting for it. I just wanted to climb him, climb higher, leave that place of death and get into the sky. But I couldn't do that without letting go of him and, no. Just no. Not unless he came with me.

Damn it, it wasn't enough. I needed—I didn't know what I needed.

The smell of damp wood and trampled grass, the shifting, elusive tang of potion fumes: not enough. The crushing, smothering, sexual heat holding me upright, Snape's angry mouth leaving wet marks, the harsh scrape of breath through his nostrils: not enough. I burrowed into the chill folds of his robes, as if he weren't already slamming me into the rough wood, as if I weren't already going to have friction burns all down my back. He has a long grip, and his hands that night were greedy and restless, all over me, all over, not letting go.

He didn't say anything, but the brutality of his touch made it clear: You're alive. Teeth bared, arms tense, and cock driven by panic, I insisted: Show me, you fucker, show me, my legs bracketing his hips. Our mouths shredded speech into wordless sucking and panting, and for a few seconds it was nothing but squirm and thrust and grunt.

It was just us, the owls, the snowy hills, a million stars, my dead partner, a dying werewolf, and this overwhelming sense that I needed something and Snape was there to provide it. I swear I would have fucked him right then, right in the shadow of that tree, even though it was so wrong it bordered on madness.

The air cracked.

Cracked again.

Cracked a third time as Snape Disapparated. Just like that, he vanished without even taking his tongue from my mouth. His heel-spin of Apparition half-threw me out from under the tree.

Standing across from me were two—crack!—three, make that four Aurors, wands poised. The air spat magic. Someone shouted. Someone else cast a searchlight Lumos, and I covered my eyes against the glare.

Saved. Not sure from what.

Myself, obviously.

I spilled face-forward into the grass as if hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx, barely managing to catch myself on my hands and knees, shuddering, retching, my cock screaming with frustration and my stomach about to lose its battle for self-respect.

Escorted back to the Ministry, I filled Kingsley in on everything I could remember. Everything except the identity of the mysterious wizard who'd come to my aid and what the hell I'd been doing under that tree. My superiors checked my wand for evidence of the Incendius curse, took Nigel's body to St. Mungo's and the werewolf into custody, and granted me a brief leave of absence.

I wanted to be the one to tell Nige's partner. Request denied.

It was two days before I was able to look Ginny in the face without my body locking up in a mortified flinch.

The whole time, I beat my head against the obvious questions: how had the bastard known where to find me? Easy one, I guess. The spell he'd cast back in the Room of Requirement—that had to be it. But why did he come at all, when it put him in mortal danger? Why, after two years? And why the fuck wouldn't he speak to me?

I didn't say one bloody word to myself about the kissing thing. I knew better. Next time—Merlin forbid there was a next time—I'd be absolutely sodding sure I didn't kiss back.

They never found out who was responsible for the ambush.

The werewolf didn't make it. The reversion to human form was too much for her, and by morning she was dead in her cage.

Fucking hell.