Chapter II

Albus stares in the mirror, and the mirror stares back. He was never afraid of growing old, but now that streaks of grey are streaming down his beard, he finds that the wish for eternal youth comes very naturally. Albus doesn't feel old. He feels young, younger than he ever felt. But being young, that feels different. It's frightening and heavy and capricious. He thinks of Severus, so young, and carrying all the weight of the world, as the young tend to do.

Severus is one of the few who manages to enter his office without him noticing. The door doesn't sing when he pushes it open and the floor muffles his footsteps. They have lukewarm tea.

Albus can't say he feels sorry. The wounds are unnecessary jabs at an already broken man, but they will heal. What Severus did to himself, that might never. One chance. He gave the boy one chance, and he's not planning to take that away from him. A chance to patch himself up. He knows that Severus despises teaching and that the students despise him, but he also knows that Severus has no one and nothing else left.

And Albus has a weakness for boys who have no one and nothing else left.

In the afternoon, he has tea with Minerva. Her office is a deep, gentle red that he remembers well. As a Headmaster, he knows he is supposed to remain neutral, but he never lied to himself about his fondness for Gryffindor.

"Deep in thought?" Minerva catches him staring at her walls. He is very fond of her too. Her, her office, her House.

"Just a little nostalgia. I am growing old, after all."

She arches her eyebrows. "You were born old, Albus."

He smiles. If only she knew. He was born just as flawed as everyone else. Just as open and exposed. When he was Severus' age, he was stumbling between great love and greater implications. Severus is still so young. Willingly blind, he had been, and he thinks Severus would know what he means.

Minerva straightens herself, licks her lips and inhales sharply. A serious matter, then. "I had a few questions, regarding Severus."

She has never been too good with words, and worse yet with ignoring the elephants that lurked in every room lately. Albus nods. "What do you want to know?"

She purses her lips into a thin line. Her face turns grave; older and sharper and far more worn than it ought to be. "How did his trails go?"

"He was declared innocent."

Innocence. Always the first thing to get lost in war. Severus in particular never held much of it. Albus himself is just as lacking in innocence, but he was lucky enough to look the part, and clever enough to play it.

"He is not innocent."

And he never was. Some children are born with cracks and dents and patches. Some children don't learn to heal themselves. Albus feels his heart weigh heavily in his chest. "No, he is not."

"But you saved his life."

He thinks of Severus, rotting away in the dungeons. A much quieter, slower death. "I don't want him to die, but I'm afraid he is more stubborn than I thought."

He likes giving people chances. Maybe it's because he's getting old, but he loves hope, and he loves sharing it even more, so be blames it on that. He doesn't want to end a life so full of mistakes that all got to be regretted but never forgiven. He remembers holding Severus' bony, cold hands in his, remembers the frightened look on his face and how he howled into his chest. Big hearts like his have space enough for lost boys like Severus.

"Well then," she says. "What are we going to do about that?"

He smiles softly; he can't help himself. She's always eager to do the right thing, as soon as she figures out what that is. There's no time to be idle with her. "I'm afraid Severus is not ready to accept help."

"Not ready?" She arches her eyebrows. "I think Severus wouldn't be Severus if he was ready to accept help." Then she pauses, and her face softens. "I've known you for years, Albus, and I can tell that you don't want to lose the boy. You've always had infinite hope."

He smiles; he can't help himself. People like Minerva don't need magic to read others. He leans forward a little, touches her hand over the table. "Does that bother you, my dear?"

"Sometimes I think it should." She sighs, staring pensively at her teacup for a moment before glancing up at him. The smallest of smiles tugs on her lips. "Oh dear, Albus, we are getting old."

Severus brews. That's what he does. A Potions Master. That's who he is. He holds onto these things and tries to overwrite the rules of his life once again. Headache potions and flu potions and contraception potions and concentration potions and what not. The process is an endless loop of stirring and boiling and cutting. It fits him just fine because he doesn't have to think or feel or decide. Just work. He wonders if that's how his father felt, working the same job for over forty years. Maybe the Snape's were meant for thoughtless labour.

"Madam Pomfrey, the Invigoration Draughts are ready."

That's his sentence. Whenever he walks into the hospital wing, that sentence ready on his lips. Only the name of the potion he brings varies. And she has her own sentence too.

"Please, call me Poppy."

He never does. Never acknowledges that he hears the words either. They're not meant for him. Sometimes she talks to him but his answers tend to be monosyllabic. Sometimes she looks at him like she wants to say something more, and sometimes she does.

"It's been quite busy already, hasn't it?"

"Hmm."

"At least the weather is lovely. Still, I'm glad Hogwarts always remains pleasantly cool inside. I suppose that's the advantage of castles."

He carefully places the potions in their designated drawers or on their designated shelves. They all have their label, their place to be, and their purpose. He'd like to have that too, but the thought passes him without eliciting any hopes or plans.

"It gets a little stifling to be here all day, especially when the sun is out, don't you think? I spend most of summer on the continent, but the sooner I return to start preparations, the smoother the year starts. That's probably true for most of us, but I always catch myself wanting to postpone my return. It's not that I mind being here, but, you know what I mean?"

"Hmm."

"Hogsmeade is great during the summer too, so at least there's that. The students don't know what they're missing, but I suppose they have their full of it during the rest of the year. To be honest, I don't really mind that Hogsmaede is a little more private for us right now. What do you think?"

"Quite so."

"I'm going there in an hour, actually," she pauses, and he stares at a potion that is a shade too light for his liking. "If you want to join me for lunch, we could go together."

"No." He thinks he is supposed to excuse himself, or at least make it sound like he is trying, but he isn't. He really isn't trying anymore, lately.

"Oh, okay, just thought I'd ask you."

There's something soft and disappointed about her voice that reminds him of the years he labelled "Flushed Down", but he lets it pass before it can reach down too far into his mind. He leaves the hospital wing and heads for his potions lab. There is no one there. He sits on a chair and waits, because the potions he already started on need him to, and the others aren't ready to be made yet. Maybe he is like that too, stuck between waiting for one thing to end and another to start. He sits there for hours. No one comes and no lunch is had.

He drafts schemes for his classes and the schedules are discussed. Dumbledore invites him into his office. It's been a while, he thinks to himself. Maybe today is the day. He sits down across for the Headmaster. There is tea and silence between them. Dumbledore laces his fingers and waits. And so they wait.

Just Dumbledore and him.

Severus has patience. All the patience in the world. It's new for him, but it doesn't feel that way. Patience sounds too pretty a word for what he feels. Purposelessness. Yes, that feels better. He could have sat there all day, but most people tend to have life going on, so Dumbledore speaks.

"What are you waiting for, Severus?"

He's still not used to being called by his first name. Not by them. He shrugs, because he has no answer. God, he really isn't trying. If only he could be less obvious about it.

"Can you tell me something, Severus?"

It's not a reprimand. It's a question, too kind and careful to be directed towards a murderer. But Severus' eyes raise to those sharp blue ones. His voice sounds rasp and unused when he answers. "Anything."

His chest tightens, though he can't say with what. Anything he can do, or say, he will. Anything. Even if Dumbledore will just tell him to leave. Then at least he can finally finish this. Put an end to what should have ended long ago.

There is an expression on Dumbledore's face that he can't read. As if he said something Dumbledore didn't want him to say. But then it softens again, and he takes a small sip of his tea. "Then tell me how you feel."

Severus stares at him for a long while. The words resonate through his head, again and again. They don't make sense. "Excuse me?"

"How do you feel, Severus?"

I don't, he thinks. I don't feel at all.

Dumbledore leans forward, his hands sliding over the desk towards Severus. He thinks that if he had his hands on the desk as well, Dumbledore might have held them. He's glad they're in his lap.

"Fine."

Dumbledore straightens himself again. Severus feels transparent; absolutely see through. "You don't have to answer me, Severus, but if you do, I want to hear nothing but the truth."

"It is the truth," he says, too quickly and too obviously. Dumbledore takes his hands back.

"Very well." He crosses his arms, and Severus thinks he will feel Dumbledore pressing into his mind any moment. He doesn't look away. Let him see. He already knows anyway. What I really am. What I did. But instead of magic prying open his mind, it's only Dumbledore's voice. "Then tell me who interrogated you."

Severus sits very still. He is afraid his breath will give him away. The push of Legilimency still doesn't come. "Excuse me?" he says, lamely, dumbly. A part of him is already drifting back to those memories, to the days before his hearing, and he suppresses a shiver. They might just have been a preview to what still awaits him. One word of Dumbledore is all it needs.

Dumbledore's voice becomes harder every time he speaks. "Which aurors interrogated you, on the days before your trails?"

"Ronan Fieldhopper. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Justice Parrey. Alastor Moody."

"In that order?"

"In that order."

It had started with Fieldhopper, but Shacklebolt had taken over the case too quickly for Severus to remember him. Just his name, and his fists. An old-school type of guy; that's what they call the aurors who handle situations with their fists. He realises now that Shacklebolt is part of the order, so his intervention with Ronan might have been Dumbledore's work. He doesn't ask. He's not the one who is supposed to ask questions.

"How was your interrogation with Kingsley."

Since he isn't entirely dull, he knows very well that Dumbledore has already heard exactly what happened during the interrogation. It's the aurors against Severus, once again. He swallows.

"I don't remember much."

"You resisted the Veritaserum."

"I'm an Occlumence for a reason."

"You didn't say a word."

"I don't answer to them."

Dumbledore nods, slowly, although Severus doesn't know at what. If he's being tested, he already knows the outcome. It's always Severus against the world, and it never turns in his favour.

"What about Justice Parrey?"

"Kingsley must have told you already."

He feels defiant for saying it. Dumbledore doesn't give away anything. "Kingsley told me she had a few moments alone with you."

Severus remains quiet for a while. It's true, he realises. He had been alone with her a few times. She was the auror with the sweet voice. She always stood behind him, so that he couldn't see her, and she always just spoke to him. It was a technique, not so very old-school, but it had sent more shivers down his spine than any beating would have.

"She just asked questions."

"Was she playing the good cop?"

"With Shacklebolt as the bad cop? Hardly."

She was playing the worm that crawled into his ear and ate its way into his brain. A sweet voice she had, and a talent for carrying it deep into someone's head. But for a voice so intense, her words have not stayed with him. The shivers they left did stay, and he barely manages to keep still.

"What did she ask?"

How do you feel, Severus?

That's what she asked. Those were her exact words. He thinks he can hear her voice again, trickling into his ears. He shivers. God, she sounded like Lily. Or like his mother. The air in the office grows thin, or maybe it's his chest growing tight. How do you feel, Severus? He stares that the desk. Maybe they're standing right behind him. The aurors. Or maybe it's Lily right behind him. Or his mother. They all know. They all damn well know how he feels. They're all heaving into his neck. His hands are shaking so he digs his nails into his knees. How does he feel? How does he fucking feel?

"I don't know," he breathes. "I don't fucking know."

The damp scent of tea makes him nauseous. That's what he feels. Nauseous. Or maybe he's just sick. Sick and twisted and, and, disgusting.

The word rings through his body. He looks up at Dumbledore, who could have been smirking or weeping all the same. Because all Severus can see is disgust. Severus feels disgusting.

The next days are no different from the previous ones. Dumbledore doesn't sack him. The others don't stare at him. He brews, mechanically. Soon the Blemish Blitzer will have ripened. No one asks him for lunch, and he stays in his quarters. He settles into the quiet nothingness.

It's an early evening when he stumbles upon a forgotten cupboard. It contains two bottles of wine, half a bottle of firewhisky and a few other ones that Severus only associates with the peculiarities seen in the Hog's Head. Leftover from Professor Slughorn, he reasons. Maybe they weren't good enough to be taken with. Maybe they were presents from people who weren't important enough. He feels like he's sneaking liquor out of Professor Slughorn's cabinet, even though he found it on accident. Besides, it's his now, he thinks defiantly. His hand inches towards the firewhisky. He never really drank. The appeal of it is lost on him. He would like to blame his father for it, but in the end, it comes down to self-knowledge. It's all about being a light-weight, and a tightly suppressed clockwork of self-hatred and pettiness.

He sits down on the floor, holding two bottles in his hand as though he knows what he's looking at. One bottle reads Solander's Sloe Gin, with a purplish shine and a silver stopper. He swirls the liquid in the bottle before prying it open. It smells strong and sharp and dry, like something that should have been poured down the drain a long ago. The bottle of firewhisky opens easily for him, the content sloshing as he shakes it lightly. This scent is familiar. He takes a swig, straight from the bottles. His eyes are closed and he swallows immediately, like a sickly child taking its medicine. It burns his mouth and throat, living up to its name. Another swig then. He tips his head back and takes a mouthful. A coughing fit overtakes him, and black dots and stars dance before his eyes.

He puts it down, wiping away a stray tear. There's a green bottle that shines alluringly, but the name doesn't ring a bell. He used to have wine with the Malfoys. All he knows about wines is that white goes with fish and red goes with crystal glasses and velvet smiles and cold, delicate hands. He takes another swig of the firewhisky, and thinks of the face Lucius would make if he saw him now. Sitting on the floor, his buttocks cold and his hands shaking. He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob.

By the time he's halfway through the bottle, the night has settled in. He breathes heavily, wondering whether he smells like his dad used to. He wonders if he looks like him too. Deflated and old, limbs too heavy to move and head to light to think.

There is a knock at his door. He doesn't move. Doesn't say anything. They're coming for me. He holds his breath.

"Severus, are you there?" Dumbledore's voice sounds older from behind the door. Muffled, when it should be clear and sharp. With a sluggish flick of his wrist, the door is unlocked.

Severus glares at him from where he sits, pretending he's unwilling to get up rather than afraid to. Dumbledore has the audacity to smile, and it looks all sorts of wrong. These are his dungeons, and they are dark and glum and lonely, as they should be. They are his, and they will be until the day they'll drag him away. Dumbledore, with his summer blue robes and gentle expressions, doesn't belong here.

"I see you've found what Horace kindly left behind."

There's no anger or disappointment in Dumbledore's voice, and that only makes it worse. Severus huffs and shrugs, opens his mouth to say something, but there are no words he trusts himself with.

Dumbledore offers his hand, but they both know it will be ignored. Severus is pleased when he manages to get to his feet with a hint of his usual grace. Just when he thinks he's fine, the room starts lazily spinning around him. He reaches out for Dumbledore, instinctively, and is met by two warm arms, holding him firmly.

Severus blames the alcohol when he leans against the warm chest. He pretends there's no clumsiness in his arms when he carefully wraps them around Dumbledore. He pretends even harder that he knows what he's doing. Dumbledore's hand gently holds his face, only inches apart, and he says something of which the meaning never reaches Severus. Warmth floods him and it's hard to breathe for a moment. He stares at Dumbledore's lips without hearing a word. He has never kissed a man. Never really did much kissing at all. A breath ghosts over his lips. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

Dumbledore's lips are warm and soft. Heat rises to his face as he pictures himself, kissing the Headmaster. He almost forgets he's not seventeen anymore, not a student anymore. He runs his unsteady hand through Dumbledore's hair, brushes his fingertips over the soft skin, just to make sure that it's real. He can feel the beard tickling his chin and the hand against his cheek doesn't push him away. The arm still wrapped around him presses him closer, until the heat in his gut is sizzling.

They draw back to catch their breath. Severus runs his tongue over his lips to savour the taste, and Dumbledore watches him. Severus has never seen him like this – his eyes glinting with desire and his cheeks pinkish. Severus basks in the sound of their ragged breaths for a moment. He can feel his body against his own, hot and moving with every breath. Then Dumbledore shifts, and his hip brushes over Severus', making him shudder with a need he can't remember feeling so sharply.

They take a step towards the couch, and Dumbledore guides him onto it carefully. Severus wants to say don't leave, but all he can do is curl his fingers into the cool fabric of Dumbledore's robs and keep him from pulling away.

"Severus," Dumbledore hovers over him, stuck between taking what is offered wordlessly, and taking responsibility. "I don't think we should."

Luckily, Severus is skilled at being deaf, and even more so at pretending things never happened. His hands may be shaking, but they don't hesitate to pull him closer. Another kiss, barely a touch. His body is thrumming, more alive than it felt in a long time. "Please."

His breath falters when Dumbledore's hand runs down his chest. It travels lower, until it's in his lap, and Severus shifts impatiently. But Dumbledore has time, or doubts, and he settles for Severus' thighs. His thumbs draw warm circles over the fabric, and Severus imagines what it would feel like if those hands were underneath his robes. He flushes as he spreads his legs a little, his erection eagerly tenting his robes. Maybe that's all Dumbledore needed, because suddenly his hand is roaming underneath the edge of his robes, travelling up until his palm presses firmly against the bulge in Severus' pants. Severus gasps, his hips twitching at the contact.

"More," he mouths, and Dumbledore leans forward and kisses him far too gently for someone palming his erection. Severus drags his nails over Dumbledore's scalp and robes, closes his eyes and stifles a moan when fingers curl around his erection.

He's never had a man touch him like that. Never had a man's mouth kissing soft promises into his skin. Never had a man's firm hand stroking his cock. Never came so hard that he shuddered and moaned and had his eyes shut so hard that he saw stars.

/ this took much longer than anticipated, my bad. hope you guys liked it either way :) please leave a review, it makes my day!