Warning: This fiction is still rated M.

"Hush, my child, and come aloft

Where the stars are velvet soft!"

― Aleister Crowley, The Wizard Way

Moon Mad

Souls are tenacious things, for the things they go through, and still persevere.

Snape ground his heels into the dirt of the floor. The last dementor passed by his cell hours ago, and he knew another would come soon.

He had to use this small window of time, when his blood felt warm again and his thoughts were his own, to reconstruct his occlumency shields.

He was tempted to simply encase himself in a memory, to hide his conscious mind under a warm tide of childhood where he and Lily played by the pond. But he knew that was dangerous. The dementors would take away that memory, and then what would he be left with?

He needed to hide himself away, but it could not be a good memory.

Snape needed to break the loop of thoughts that had plagued him: finding Potter, finding Potter unresponsive, then finding that Potter had been damaged by the Cruciatus curse, irreparably.

He needed to continue the loop. What had happened after he found Potter? Somehow, he knew, Potter ended the war, and ended the Dark Lord. Snape closed his eyes, and stilled his breathing. He was the master of his mind.

He repeated it to himself again. I am the master of my mind.

The cold stone of Azkaban's cells faded out of his view. The howling wind outside was now barely a whisper.

I am the only master of my mind.

Finding Potter, and bringing him to Hogwarts: He had the boy safely hidden. It was December 18th, 1997. He had the boy for just over a day. Potter was hidden away in a little chamber, close to the Headmaster's study, accessible only by the headmaster himself. Nothing there but a neat infirmary-style bed, and a wooden end table.

Snape, for his part, was done drinking fire whiskey and raving at the portraits. He felt ashamed for losing control. It had felt so hopeless, when he found Potter in the basement of the Lestrange Manor. But Snape had been in hopeless situations before. When he had taken the Dark Mark, and sold out the Potters, it had seemed so utterly hopeless. He would be stuck doing the Dark Lord's bidding for the rest of his days; his own heart's murderer, his master forevermore. Until, that is, Dumbledore offered him a silver ladder, where he could at once avenge his love, and protect her son.

Dumbledore was dead, true, but Snape was now the man in charge. And he would wear the mantle with pride. Snape resolved himself to do all he can, and very likely die trying, to restore Potter, and finish this bloody war.

He had finished all the diagnostics on the boy. It was clear what the problem was. Extensive nerve damage, likely as a result of the Cruciatus.

He blew into the Headmaster's office, and as was his custom, announced his findings to the portraits. There was, after all, hundreds of years of experience, all gathered in that room. Snape would be a fool not to utilize it.

"Nerve damage. I'll start brewing a Nerve Tonic right away. That should at least remedy the physical ailments." Snape said, to no one in particular, but hoping the old portraits around the room would give it consideration.

"Do you know Headmaster," drawled Phineas Nigellus, "I also happen to have a portrait at St. Mungo's."

"I am aware." Snape ground out. He hated when Nigellus beat about the bush in this manner.

"I believe young Potter's ailment is similar to the two aurors, now permanent live-ins there. What were their names again-" Nigellus made a show of pondering his own question, "Oh, that's right. Alice and Frank. The Longbottoms."

"Yes, this is what happened to the Longbottoms." Snape said, no more a question than a statement. Their nerves were damaged beyond repair.

"So then, why don't you ask the Longbottoms how effective Nerve Tonics have been for their…condition?" Nigellus finally got to his point. Nerve Tonics didn't help. Those two had received every possible restorative potion to no avail.

"So then, Phineas, what do you recommend?" Snape asked.

"Find Potter a comfortable ward, and a competent caretaker." The Slytherin drawled.

"But why," Snape backtracked, "why don't the potions have any effect? If one were to restore the nerves, the patient should improve-"

"Because, Headmaster, the damaged nerves, the blank stare, the unresponsiveness, are not the ailment. They are only side effects." Nigellus was obviously taking pleasure at being the one with the upper hand. Snape didn't care.

"How so?" He asked tersely.

"It's not to do with the nerves, but rather, what inhabits them." Nigellus said.

"And what inhabits them?"

"In Potter's case, Potter."

"I don't understand," Snape sighed. He was in no mood to play with puzzles when the war had probably been just lost because of one teenage boy.

"Souls, Severus Snape." Nigellus huffed.

"So, Potter's soul was damaged?"

"Oh no, one cannot damage a soul so easily. No, the soul merely departs, as it usually does when the body expires. However, in this case, the body has not expired yet. I suppose the horror of relentless agonies spurs the soul from its home. Quite simple."

"And the nerve damage?" Snape asked, trying to focus on the conversation, keeping the topic strictly theoretical.

"Well of course, without the conductor, the machinery breaks down. The soul's main pathway to the body is the nervous system. If the animating force leaves, you cannot be surprised that there is some damage." Phineas finished his monologue.

Snape thought. A word floated to the top of his conscience. Catatonic. His father made young Snape visit his ailing grandmother decades ago. What's wrong with her? Snape heard his father's voice in his head, clear as day. She's catatonic, Sir, the nurse answered. Is that what the muggles called it?

"What do we do? How can we fix him?" Snape asked Nigellus. Not heal him. Not help him. Fix. Snape had trained himself to think of Potter as a working menagerie of parts, which had one ultimate purpose. He found it much easier than considering Potter a human being that would have to be sacrificed if the Dark Lord were to ever be vanquished.

"Fix him?" Nigellus propped up one eyebrow.

"Yes. You're obviously eager to show how knowledgeable you are about the subject. How do we fix him?" Snape spat out.

Phineas' thin lips stretched into a terrible smile. Snape always suspected him to be more than a little sadistic.

"Why, it's very easy. One must simply entice the boy's soul back to this mortal plane. Although, it's not very possible. It's not possible at all."

"Has it ever been done?" Snape asked, knowing the answer.

Phineas made a show of thinking long and hard and fell silent.

Days passed and Snape continued in his duties as the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He kept Potter hidden away. Snape supposed that eventually, he would either be found out, or die, leaving Potter with no caretaker.

On December 21st, the day students were meant to go home for the winter holidays, something extraordinary happened.

Harry spoke.

Snape had been tending to the boy, bringing him nutrient potions, when Potter, looking past Snape, blurted it out.

"I don't know what happened to your bike, Sirius."

Snape was so taken aback he wheeled around, half expecting to see a ghost of Sirius Black standing behind him. Of course, no one was there. Immediately, he dropped the nutrient potions and rushed to his office.

"You heard that? He spoke!" Snape did his best to keep the excitement out of his voice.

All the portraits were silent, but Snape thought they looked like they were thinking it over.

Finally, it was Phineas Nigellus who spoke.

"I wasn't quite correct; Potter's soul has not completely departed." He stated simply, and did not appear as though he would elaborate.

Snape swore. He didn't know what that meant. A soul was either departed, or it was not.

"I think, Severus, I might have the answer to this riddle." Dumbledore spoke up for the first time since hearing the news of Harry's damage.

"I've told you of course, of Harry's connection to Voldemort," Snape thought that even in the painting, Albus's eyes were twinkling. He was talking of the Horcrux in Harry's scar.

"It's possible that connection was the tie, or the anchor if you will, and kept Harry's soul from departing."

Snape thought he understood. The Dark Lord's Horcrux kept Potter's soul tied to the mortal plane. So, then, the soul has departed the body, but it has not moved on. Potter was likely stuck, in a sort of limbo, one leg in the world of the living, one leg in the world of the dead. Perhaps Potter was truly able to see his late godfather, when he spoke to him minutes ago.

Of course Potter would be a special case, Snape thought, without any real animosity towards the young wizard.

"You could perhaps help the boy, Severus," Phineas started, "by trying to entice his soul back to the mortal plane, and into his own body."

Snape ruminated on the idea. What would entice a teenage boy's soul to come back to the world of the living? Suddenly he had an idea. He grimaced at the thought of it. It was not at all something Snape wanted to do, but he figured he had little choice.

Snape looked at his watch. The train for the Hogwarts students heading back home for the holidays would be arriving in less than an hour. He would have to hurry to make sure that Miss Weasley was not on that train.

Sherlock had no idea, but he had exactly three days until everything fell apart. Fortunately, he languored in those blessed few days, enjoying them to the last drop, not knowing, but perhaps sensing, that they were coming to a close.

He sought physical proximity and contact with his wizard at every opportunity. Harry didn't seem to mind, and was an enthusiastic participant in every movement to which Sherlock invited him.

Sherlock marked down as a failure the first disastrous attempt at engaging in intercourse, when he had woken from the nightmare, and Harry had to pacify him. But Sherlock was nothing if not persistent. The very next day in the light of a lazy, sunny morning, Sherlock enticed the wizard into a long kiss, which ended with both men half naked.

Sherlock then led Harry back to his bedroom, where they finally had sex in an unhurried and relaxed way. There were many small missteps, but overall Sherlock found the act very pleasurable, and the slight pain was well worth it. He pressed himself into the mattress, Harry draped over him, Sherlock giving short directions to the other man. Harry finished, although Sherlock did not, and was not sure how he would go about it. Not saying anything, he let Harry hold him and pressed a kiss on the other man's neck. Sherlock wondered if the wizard knew that he had not come, and found that he rather Harry didn't know. It felt wrong somehow, but Sherlock was not sure why.

Although Sherlock enjoyed himself immensely in the moment, a minute after it was all done, he lay on the bed with a false smile plastered over his face. Something was happening inside of him. A clump of something poisonous and wretched was forming in his stomach, and he found himself craving more sex, yet hating the idea of it. Thankfully, he was able to push it down. With Harry none the wiser that something was horribly wrong, the two went on with the day.

That same evening, after strolling through London, eating dinner at a small Indian place, and finally returning to Baker Street, Sherlock decided to try again. He resolved to push down the poisonous ball of dread before it came up. He was successful in this, if only for a few more days.

They ended up entwined in the living room, as was becoming their custom. When the wizard held him that evening, Sherlock did not feel anything besides bliss. He smiled in the other man's chest, thinking how lucky he was to find this with Harry. Sherlock thought about all the roads that led him here; all the chances and wrong turns, and coincidences that led him to find his treasure. He was suddenly insanely grateful to the Surrey detective who called him on the Dursley case. How easy it could have been for this to have never happened to him? How thin was the string that connected them initially? But Sherlock did not want a string which could so easily snap. He wanted a strong rope. A chain even. He never wanted to be parted from this man and the way he made Sherlocks whole brain light up. Better than cocaine, better than opium.

Enmeshed on the couch, the two men softly talking, the subject of orgasm came up, a topic Sherlock was not keen on dissecting. Harry could perhaps sense that something was amiss, and began questioning Sherlock.

"You've never... not even by yourself?" Harry asked.

"Why would I? Doing it myself would be pointless. I've always viewed my body as transportation. If I don't need that activity to survive, why should I engage in it?" Sherlock answered, hoping that if he answered Harry would drop the subject.

"Sherlock, this morning, you didn't?" Harry asked, concerned crinkling the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock did not know how to answer. "No, I don't believe so. Why does it matter?"

"Why? There are a lot of reasons, Sherlock-"

"Then pray tell me some of them, Potter." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest.

"I'm not sure I can tell you, Sherlock. It has to be experienced." Harry bit his lip in that transparent way that meant he was deliberating something.

"Lie back, Sherlock." Sherlock, a bit taken with the command in his voice, did. He reclined himself on the couch.

He felt two hands on his thighs as Harry made his way over. Suddenly, the wizard was on top of him, and his hot breath was falling over Sherlock's cheek.

A few fluttering kisses on his cheek, and the crook of his neck, and Harry whispered, tickling his ear. "I can show you, if you want. But you have to say that you want it."

Sherlock looked into his eyes, trying as hard as he could to communicate wordlessly. He took Harry's face in both hands, and pressed their lips together. Somehow, Sherlock mused, kissing was not getting old. In fact every kiss had been better than the last.

He let a soft moan escape him, and tremble through his lips into the familiar ones pressed against him. He felt Harry stir and cling closer to him, deepening the kiss. He broke apart after a few more moments, and looked into Harry's eyes. The message was obvious. Yes, I want it.

"No Sherlock, you have to say you want to. I don't want to take anything that doesn't belong to me."

"Really Potter, do learn to read between the lines." Sherlock tried for a haughty smirk, but was promptly interrupted by another kiss. This one was light, caressing, with an entirely different meaning than the last. Harry broke away from his lips, and trailed down to Sherlock's neck. He pressed a delicate kiss to a sensitive spot where Sherlock's jaw connected to his artery, and Sherlock gasped.

"You must be able to deduce the answer for yourself, just simply observe-"

Another gasp, as Harry gently bit the edge of his neck, and then smothered it with a kiss. The wizard laying on top of him chuckled.

"I think I found a great way to interrupt you. Probably my favorite way. What was it you were saying?"

"I was saying-" another soft gasp, as Harry's hand wound its way through Sherlock's curls, "that if you simply observed the signs of arousal-" their bodies ground together, gyrating perfectly, "you would readily have your answer. Surely you don't need me to actually vocalize it?"

Suddenly, all the sensation was gone, and Harry was sitting up, straddling Sherlock's legs. He seemed to have a rather cross look in his eyes. It wasn't incredibly convincing, taken together with his blush and rapid breath. Sherlock (or partly his body) decided that play time was over.

"Yes, yes of course I want this. Don't be daft."

Harry grinned and lowered himself to give Sherlock another kiss. Sherlock now realized he had no idea what he had actually agreed to. Maybe he would, if his train of thought didn't keep crashing whenever Harry initiated contact.

He felt the touch of fingers at his collarbone, and the button to his shirt coming loose. Sherlock closed his eyes. A momentary flash of panic almost blinded him. He had to remember where he was. Had to remember who he was with, and that he had wanted this. Wanted it with all of his might.

Harry seemed to notice Sherlock's anxiety.

"Anytime you want me to stop, just say it." Sherlock looked up at him with the most convincing look of disapproval. He would never say stop. He was, after all, the master of his own mind.

Another button came loose, then another. Sherlock lost track before his shirt was already unbuttoned. Harry's hands were gliding over his ribs now, caressing his stomach. Sherlock idly thought that his own hands weren't doing much, and began to rectify that.

He had been making precise data spreads in his head about which spots seemed to get the best reactions from Harry. There was one right on his shoulder, above the clavicle, another on his chest, on his left hip, and another- His mind was drawing a blank again, although a very pleasant one. He let his logical mind simmer in the background. His hands, Sherlock was surprised to note, continued to follow the data without his prompting. Perhaps he had memorized it better than he thought?

A hand at his hip made him jerk out of his musings again. The hand lingered around his crotch, making suggestive up and down movements. Sherlock growled and pressed his hips upwards, meeting Harry's. It now seemed very silly that they had been wearing clothes in the first place. Why do people wear clothes anyway, when they're only in the way?

He decided to do something about the clothes thing and began ripping off the buttons on Harry's shirt, helped along with another set of steadier hands. Once Harry's shirt was off, Harry sat up again. Sherlock thought this a bit irritating, but it did serve as a nice view. He saw the light dusting of black hair from the navel to the chest (that his own torso so conspicuously lacked).

Sherlock felt his throat produce another growl, and reached up to get Potter back down, closer to him. A gentle hand stopped him, and Harry leaned in for another brief kiss. He seemed to give him another significant look.

"Remember, just say stop if you need to." As if. "And lay down. Close your eyes." Harry instructed. Why would he close his eyes? He rather enjoyed the visuals in front of him.

Suddenly, Potter was not sitting above him, but back at Sherlock's hips. He was barely paying attention to what was going on, as Harry had started kissing the edges of Sherlock's exposed hip. Before he knew it, his belt had been loosened, and a hand was cupping him.

Sherlock's brain seemed to kick in again, but only to say that there was one thin layer of cotton pants between him and another's touch. Potter seemed to be taking his time, still kissing and gently stroking, and that just wouldn't do. Sherlock sat up for a moment, and tugged at the waistline of his boxers.

"Alright, alright be patient." Easy for him to say, thought Sherlock.

Harry seemed to take the cue, however and pulled the waistline of the boxers down. Sherlock felt a brief moment of panic again, at being this vulnerable. Then there was a hand, sliding along his length and all of that was lost. Sherlock leaned his head back, his eyes fluttering shut, as Harry had suggested. He barely registered the heady moan that escaped him.

The sensation overwrought all of his higher functions. All he could think of was how amazing those strokes were, how much he wanted more of them. They were so slow, tantalizing him. Each one was delicious in its own right, but he needed more.

"Please, please faster..." For a man that's never begged for mercy that certainly sounded like begging. Thankfully, Harry was merciful and increased his rhythm.

Sherlock's hands twitched and he felt something strange and beautiful, like a far away storm. Thunder and big, gigantic clouds blooming over the horizon, completely unstoppably and coming fast.

And then the sensation stopped. Sherlock immediately snapped up on his elbows to see why something so amazing would ever think it's okay to stop. He saw Harry kneeling between his own legs. Later Sherlock was incredibly glad that he chose this exact moment to look up, as this was one memory he would never want to part with.

Harry looked up and gave him a quick grin, his hand resting at Sherlock's base. Then, he bent down and touched his lips to Sherlock's tip, his tongue giving it a playful lick. His hand came up to meet his mouth, and down again. More of Sherlock went into Harry's mouth and he felt his body begin to go into an involuntary tremor.

The thunder that Sherlock thought he had seen was now inside his body, rumbling every muscle nerve and sinew. It was all around him, and his vision blurred. He shut his eyes again, and his vocal chords released whimpers, moans.

The wet heat that encircled him didn't have a name anymore. It was years of longing, and loneliness lightening their stranglehold on Sherlock. It was something deep, and ancient as the forest, and thunder, and it was calling him somewhere. Somewhere faraway and beautiful...

Sherlock was holding the dread at bay, but just only. He was an obstinate man, and he knew, in his very innermost core, that he loved Harry. Therefore, he reasoned, there should be no reason for him to feel anything besides happiness. And sometimes, with Harry, he was very happy.

But some horrible monster kept prowling, just on Sherlock's heels; some strange shadow that chased him, and made him feel so scared that he could barely breathe.

Sherlock gritted his teeth through it. He did not want Harry to think him a nutter. He did not want to think himself a nutter, either. In truth, Sherlock had no idea, no explanation for why this was happening to him, besides, knowing that somehow it all related to his labyrinth. He had believed that escalating his relationship with Harry would help him and heal him of this dreaded affliction, but all it seemed to do was bring it to the forefront.

The next evening, a dark stormy night raging over the city of London, Sherlock pulled the wizard into his bedroom again. It was becoming custom that the two men shared Sherlock's bed, and Harry's own bedroom, formerly John's, became nearly disused.

Sherlock was quick about discarding his clothes and he had Harry's body leaning over him again. Sherlock wished Harry would be more aggressive; he wished the wizard would grab Sherlock's neck, bite him, press him into the mattress and take what he wanted.

But this was not the way Harry was going about things. If anything, this time the wizard took it slower than the first time. After Harry came, he kissed and stroked Sherlock until finally, he finished as well.

After the storm passed, the air was so uncharacteristically fresh and cool for the summer, that Sherlock threw open his bedroom window. He laid down on the bed, Harry next to him, and looked out at a fat, yellow moon hanging over the rooftops of London.

With the warmth of the wizard in his arms, and a refreshing breeze, he felt quite content, and it was easy to forget about his earlier troubles. Harry fell asleep quickly, but Sherlock stayed up, and let memories flood him.

His boarding school days were coming up to the surface of his mind more and more frequently. Perhaps it had to do with the collapse of his labyrinth; Sherlock had dumped most of his school days into his mental trash heap, as he was not always fond of remembering them.

Sherlock could certainly say he didn't enjoy his brief stint in a boarding school.

Of course, he could almost always tell when his classmates had been having trysts, and would out them to anyone around if those same classmates annoyed him. Intellectually, he had the information, and understood it. It was cold, dry, logical data. He also understood the mechanics behind most of the acts he knew his classmates engaged in. But that's all it was, just information, just data. He had never seen them performing any of those acts. He just spotted the tell tale signs on their school forms, and in the way they sat at breakfast, and in the way their pupils dilated when they caught sight of each other. Teenage romance, he would think derisively, was way overrated.

He had never seen any of these instances, but he did hear one, once.

He remembered an evening in April, just after the Easter holiday, laying in his dormitory bed, staring at the ceiling. There was an empty closet right above his room, and he knew exactly what was happening, as soon as he heard it. His window was open, as the miraculous weather had turned fair much earlier in the year than anyone was used to. Through the open window, he heard a feminine voice, almost a sigh, almost a moan. Just breath escaping with only a lilt of vocalization. Sherlock got up with a growl, reaching his window to slam it shut, but then stopped. The sigh repeated, and it sounded so content to Sherlock's ears. He thought, for sure, that he'd never heard anyone sound that happy. He stood by the window sill, unable to help himself, and listened to the couple. He was curious, in a cursory way, of what could possibly make a human being sound that happy.

There were more little sighs, not just feminine. Sherlock had imagined that sex sounded differently than this. More growls and moans, like animals bleating and mooing. What he heard was very human. The little sighs were punctured now and then by giggles and quiet mutters. He couldn't make out any of the words, but it wasn't necessary, as the meaning behind the words was quite plain. I love you. You and Me. We're Together, We're One.

He pictured the two of them, wrapped up completely in each other. To them it must seem that the entire universe held only that one other person, and resolved itself in their shape, and their face, and their voice. They had their own secret place, and their own secret language, made of sighs, whimpers and gentle whispers. Sherlock stared out at the window, where a full moon hung over a rolling northern countryside. He thought then, longingly, how it might be very nice to share himself so completely with another person. To have their thoughts, and to let them have his.

The moon was so huge, as it cast its yellowish glow over the forest and hills, and Sherlock for the briefest moment saw what all those romantic idiots admired about the satellite. It was so full and huge, it looked like it could drop out of the sky at any moment, and come crashing to earth, but instead hung there, lazily casting a glow over the wandering clouds. He wrapped his arms around himself, and thought that he would like to have someone next to him to admire it.

The sighs eventually stopped, and were replaced with more whispered secrets, and giggles. There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and the two lovers must have decided to disband. Sherlock felt a strong and surprising swell of bitterness. He was just like those romantic idiots he despised, staring at the moon and thinking up metaphors. He slammed his windows shut, and even closed the curtains, throwing himself on his small bed. He tried to go to sleep directly, but a small voice in his head kept insisting that perhaps being a romantic idiot wasn't so bad if he could share a private little universe with another person, and make those same little sounds that were so happy. Sherlock excused the traitorous voice, making the case that he was only fifteen at the time, and everyone his age (including himself) was an idiot. Incidentally, that was around the same time that he read Jane Eyre, which didn't help his case at all.

Since then, he hadn't thought about that night. He was surprised by how clear his memory of that night was. Sherlock considered that perhaps it had impacted him deeper than it should have.

He looked down at the wizard laying next to him, and ran a long finger up his exposed spine. Harry shivered first, but then hummed his appreciation. Sherlock stroked his hair, and Harry gave a content little sigh. Sherlock froze, as the sound was so familiar, and so similar to what he remembered hearing that night. Except, it was him now, with Harry, and if anyone heard them they would sound just like those two happy lovers. Oblivious to everyone, their world complete with just the two of them.

It occurred that he could have that with Harry, he very nearly did, if it were not for Sherlock's own problems. And the worst part was that Sherlock had no idea how to solve these problems. He sighed, and fell into an uneasy sleep next to the wizard.

"Sherlock please," Harry pleaded with him. "You have to go to the center. And you have to get that monster out of here. He's already taking hold of you. You'll hurt us both if you don't do this."

Sherlock started walking towards the dark heart of his maze. The passages twisted and became narrower and the light from the torches faded.

He was stumbling through darkness when he saw it. Something white on the floor.

Two things, right next to each other, in the distance. They could have been a pair of rabbits, but they were completely immobile, clearly inanimate.

He approached. When Sherlock could make out the objects he found a pair of boys' sneakers. A name floated to his mind. Carl Powers. What happened to him again? An unimaginable terror filled his lungs and he woke up.

As soon as he woke up he realized that his cell was buzzing on the nightstand.

Happy for the distraction from his dream, Sherlock picked up the call without even checking who was ringing.

"Hello?" He spoke into the phone, his voice grainy with sleep.

"Sherlock," it was Mycroft's voice, "I have some very bad news."

Author's Note:

Big thanks to daemonwise for designing an absolutely stunning cover for this series! Thank you so much!!!

As always, please leave a review. A lot of effort goes into writing these chapters, and reviews always make me feel like it's all worth it.

On a side note, we're nearing the end. I reckon we have 4 or 5 chapters (depending on how editing goes) until this series is wrapped up. If you've stuck with me since the beginning, know that I appreciate you more than any words can convey :)