Title: When the Rose and the Fire Are One [1]
Author: Perverse Idyll
Team: Phoenix!
Genre(s): Alternate Universe (HBP but not DH-compliant)
Prompt(s): Flesh Memories, Spilling Fire
Rating: NC-17
Warning/Kinks: *Violence, rough sex, character death (not Snape or Harry)*
Word Count: 81,000+
Summary: Harry's haunted by guilt. Snape's warded by roses. Each must free the other in order to free himself.
A/N: First, thank you to the mods for creating the Games in the first place and for having the patience of saints. leela-cat did a phenomenal job with this in a ridiculously short time. Whatever coherence the fic has is due to her heroic efforts and hand-holding. Also thanks to Team Phoenix for putting up with my fumbling captaincy and for helping to make this an enjoyable ride. Lastly, many thanks to my beloved rinsbane for talking me through to the images I needed. I wish this were a better first offering, my dear.

[1] With gratitude to leela-cat and apologies to T. S. Eliot.

When the Rose and the Fire Are One

Harry Apparated to Spinner's End mostly in the evenings, or on overcast days. Six months of shadowing Snape had taught him that the canal was the safest apparition point. Along the more desolate stretches it was rare to encounter another living soul. Teenagers loitered under the bridge sometimes, and an occasional homeless person. If any of Snape's ghosts haunted the embankment, Harry had never met them and hoped it stayed that way. He had enough of his own.

Beyond the iron railings, the city sprawled like an old, sick dragon covered in cracked, smoke-blackened scales. Snow and soot mingled to slush on the asphalt. After dark, an eerie glow rose over the slate rooftops, their shingles frosted bright as phosphorus.

Harry wandered the strand, half-listening to the car tyres hissing by. The icy mud glittered, and streetlights reflected off the dark water. The voice of reason in his head (which sounded embarrassingly like Hermione) urged him to go home.

He wouldn't, though. Not until he'd seen Snape. He considered it his responsibility to see that the bastard was still locked up. The argument with his inner Hermione was just part of the ritual, a sop to his conscience. Shivering with sudden loneliness as the water's quiet gurgle stirred up memories that didn't belong to him, Harry wrapped his robes tighter and scrambled up the muddy bank.

Wand out, he ducked through a gap in the railings. Rust streaked his sleeve, and he removed it with a thought. No red marks. No memories. On one corner, plastic-bagged bundles of newspapers leaned tipsily against skeletal Christmas trees, tinsel sparkling in the sweep of passing headlamps. The new year was only a few days old. Already an entire year free of Voldemort. Funny, Harry didn't feel much like celebrating. He loped along like a hungry werewolf, soles slipping on the worn, damp cobbles.

As he turned the corner, fog drifted through the street like smoke from a gutted building. Harry let it roll over him, willing to enter the flames head-on. After all this time, he was the only one still burning.

Stop it. There were no flames, no fire.

Silencing his - well, not conscience, maybe his sense of self-preservation - he crossed to the kerb. Stay away from the house. It always went like this. Don't do it, stay away. But the urge to trespass was overwhelming. If he didn't stop giving in to it, sooner or later he was going to get caught.

He looked forward to that, actually.

Distracted by happy thoughts of hexing Snape, he stuck the tip of his wand between his teeth and nibbled. Practically everyone had pointed out how dangerous this was. He was tempting fate. What if he blew a hex through the back of his head? Well, so what? Score one for his ghosts, then. The rest of them could carve FUCKING IDIOT on his tombstone.

He spat out a splinter and paused. Spinner's End stood shrouded in darkness, save for one yellow rectangle in the upper storey glaring at the rundown street. It was a tall, narrow house, dark and ugly, a perfect fit for its lone occupant. Harry craned his neck. Somewhere inside the lit room, a candle wavered. Snape was a restless git. He was probably pacing. Harry scooted closer to the front of the house to avoid being seen, pressing against bricks so cold they burned. Harry chafed his fingers, and a thorn jabbed him.

"Hey, lay off," he whispered, half in jest. "It's me." The wards crackled irritably, but the creamy scent of roses swirled up in greeting.

His ghosts chose that moment to invade his lungs. Shielding his mouth to keep the fog at bay, Harry tried to cough them out. They wouldn't go. Of course not. He'd long since given up the hope that he'd ever be rid of them.

"Alohamora." Unoiled hinges complaining, the door to Snape's home creaked open. Knowing he'd underestimated Snape in the past, Harry waited, restoring circulation to his stiff face by rubbing it with his scarred hand. The magical residue lingering in I must not tell lies tingled faintly against his chapped lips. With his other hand, he wrestled several lengths of balled-up, shimmering cloak from his pocket. He checked the window again, but still no silhouette.

Not that Harry needed to see it. Snape was there. For how much longer, Harry couldn't rightly say. He’d decided, months before, that he wanted this window empty. Unlit. That was why he kept coming back. He intended, someday, to extinguish it.

He swung the shining cloak over his head. The shadow of his obsession swallowed him up.

From a creature essentially bereft of a soul, he’d inherited the guilt of a thousand mortal sins.

That night in bed, Harry dreamed of it again. He often did after visiting Snape. It had been the last curse to leave Tom Riddle’s lips, his last act in this or any other life. It had struck Harry down before he could Disapparate - Harry, who'd thought he'd won. Who'd thought it was over, at a cost no one had calculated yet, but over for good. Hemmed in by flames, he'd collapsed in the middle of the burning Ministry, screaming in shock, not knowing what had hit him.

Neither had the healers who'd toiled over him for days, weeks. Months, if he hadn't thrown a tantrum and walked out. It had been touch and go with his sanity for a while; he'd been so obsessed with turfing the ghosts out of his head and purging his body of Voldemort's sins. Only it hadn't worked, had it? St. Mungo's had been crap at identifying the spell derivation and its counter-curse. After weeks in hospital, the shamefaced healers had seen him off with one absolutely shitty piece of advice: get used to it. Learn to live with your ghosts.

Learn to live with the faceless wraiths hungering through him? No problem, mates. How bad could it be? No worse than being eaten alive by Thestrals.

Anger didn't help. It merely fed these bitter spirits. They craved vengeance, tormenting him in ways that would never have worked on a Dark Lord. Why should Voldemort care? But Harry did. They couldn't know he was innocent of their blood.

Clutching at his pillow, Harry almost smothered himself in his sleep. The wisps of ghostly presence inside him - Merlin, those were bad enough. But what was like to drive him mad if he let it obsess him was the guilt about his mother and father's deaths.

At least the dream was different that night. Flames still roared, like they always did, but it was Spinner's End that burned, not the Ministry. And in the middle of it all, Harry sat atop Snape, his hands around Snape's throat, and it didn't matter if they were both going to die, it had felt -

A brisk knock at the wall of his nightmare snapped him awake. Groggy and disoriented, he blinked as a head of bushy brown hair poked around the door.

"Harry? Sorry," Hermione said. "I know you got in late last night, but I was wondering if you could come to breakfast soon. I need help with Ron."

"'Kay," Harry mumbled. Only after Hermione shut the door again did Harry register the throbbing in his groin. He'd come all over his pyjama bottoms. To a wet dream about Snape.

"Merlin," he groaned in disgust, and dragged himself out of bed. Of all the jokes for fate to play on him. He pulled a dressing gown over his soiled clothes and summoned his glasses. Maybe the dream was his reward - or punishment - for having revealed himself to Snape at last. Well, not like that - revealed his existence, was all. Pretty bloody stupid thing to do, but it had been bound to happen sooner or later.

He found the book he'd dropped next to his bed and tossed it into a corner, knocking a few other items to the floor. It was the corner he reserved for all the things he'd stolen from Spinner's End. Mostly books. Snape was pretty skint these days, and the loss of a book hurt him like nothing else.

Out in the hallway, Harry crossed paths with Remus and Tonks on their way to the loo. Harry immediately backed up a respectful distance. His ghosts had a malicious streak and tended to use him for some literal bumping when Tonks was around.

"Morning, you," she grinned. She had a spectacular case of bed head, and her hair sported the orange-streaked magenta that always appeared whenever she and Remus had just had sex. Harry kind of wished he didn't know this. She was just so - well, bouncy about it.

"Going for a shower," Remus said, looking a bit sheepish. "Unless you need - ?"

"I'll use the w.c. downstairs," Harry said. "Ron first, shower later."

"Won't be long," Tonks said, and they both crowded back politely while Harry sidled around them. He could just endure being touched, but he preferred to avoid it, and everyone in the house bent over backwards to accommodate him.

Just then a door banged open across the hall and Ginny darted out, already dressed for Quidditch practice. Behind her sauntered Owen Thornycroft, the boyfriend she'd acquired once Harry had finally got it across that when he said he didn't like being touched, he didn't mean "except for Ginny Weasley." He'd had to cast a Body-Bind on her the night she tried to sneak into his bed. He reckoned that had been the breaking point. But for Merlin's sake, his hands froze when he touched people, and his ghosts frosted the surface of his skin. Harry had no way of knowing what they'd do to his friends if they ever broke free.

"Hey, slug-a-beds," Ginny called out. "You'll never guess. Owen finished my portrait!"

Tonks beamed. "Congrats!"

"Cheers," Remus offered, shuffling rather urgently in the direction of the loo. Tonks snagged his arm, tugging on him to wait. Her hair was dandelion-yellow with curiosity and her ears slimmed to points and swiveled forward. "So, when do we get to see it?"

"By invitation only," Owen apologized. "Eh, love? Thing is, it's a wee bit risqué."

"Harry?" Ginny spoke right over him. "Don't you want to see it?"

"Sorry, I'm past late for Ron's feeding," he blurted, and Apparated downstairs to Scourgify himself in the loo before Ginny started pouting.

Back upstairs, he found Hermione finishing up with Ron's breakfast. She was neatly turned out in her Ministry robes and dictating notes in a happy, sing-song voice. She'd spooned most of the porridge into Ron's mouth, but some of it had ended up on his jumper, as usual, and some on the table, and pumpkin juice had splattered all over the floor. Ron moaned at Harry and drooled porridge bits.

Taking charge of the spoon, Harry smiled at Ron and made funny faces, pantomiming, "Open wide." Ron gurgled. Behind his back, Hermione stealthily pulled out her wand and cast cleaning charms, then tucked the wand away again before Ron spotted it. The last thing they needed this morning - any morning - was a screaming fit.

"Sorry to leave you alone with him," Hermione said, stuffing her Auto-Quill and parchment into a satchel. "Adrian Owled me about some fantastic old scrolls he's requisitioned from the Department of Mysteries. I imagine they're proofs relating to our latest experiments in sympathetic magic."

Hermione had got a job straight out of Hogwarts as a research assistant in a small back office stuffed to the gills with crazy Arithmantic types. She had, in fact, converted almost overnight to being a crazy Arithmantic type herself. By the time she returned home, she'd be covered in ink and chalk dust and would be spouting the most incomprehensible gibberish.

"Have you seen our resident sylph and faun this morning?" Hermione said archly, pouring herself half a glass of juice.

"Ginny and her painter bloke? Nearly tripped over them in the hall."

Hermione grinned slightly. "Did they stampede you into the bedroom to see her portrait? It's finished, you know. Very nice, too."

Harry wiped a smear of butter off Ron's chin. "They tried, but I gave 'em the slip. Tonks was pretty keen on having a gander, I think. They fobbed her off. Kind of rude, if you ask me."

"Ginny doesn't give a toss for Tonks' opinion, that's why." Hermione set down her glass. "I know they won't rest until they've pestered you into taking a look. Prepare yourself, Harry. She's absolutely starkers."

Harry blinked at her, spoon arrested midway to Ron's mouth. "Cripes. They can't both be trying to get a leg over, can they? I mean, what's up with Owen?"

"You're the famous Harry Potter, that's what," Hermione said. "Are you sure you'll be okay here?"

Harry shrugged. "We'll be fine. Ron will help protect my virtue. Won't you, mate?"

Ron scrunched his face and grinned vacantly at the sound of his name. Hermione leaned down to plant a kiss on the top of his unbrushed head, and her wand slid about two inches out of her sleeve.

It was bad luck Ron's head happened to be turned toward her at that moment. He caught sight of the wand and bleated softly. His eyes started to roll. "Shite," Harry said as the blubbering sirened into pathetic wails. Ron swept out his arms, and the bowl of porridge went flying.

The bedroom door burst open, Ginny behind it, and the bowl ricocheted back, catching Hermione in the breast. She cried out and staggered against Ron, and her already-jostled wand shot out. It spun as it hit the table and skated so fast it probably would have vanished out of sight if it hadn't fetched up, with a loud ding, against a Black-family china saucer.

Ron went berserk.

It took all three of them to catch him, hold him, get a calming potion down his throat, and then coax him, weeping, into bed. Ginny drew the covers over him and murmured gently. Face pale, Hermione put things to rights.

At the first opportunity Harry sat down, fists jammed in his pockets, while he listened to the crackle of burning skin. His tongue scraped against his teeth in a fruitless attempt to dislodge the taste of smoke. His memories were all of fire, but his teeth chattered with cold. Fucking ghosts.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione said for about the fifteenth time. "Is he asleep yet?"

"Yes, no thanks to you," Ginny snapped. "Stupid cow, can't even manage a proper sticking charm."

Hermione looked at her for a minute, but said only, "See you tonight, Harry."

Owen timed his moment nicely, popping his head round the door to say, "Jump your broomstick, love. We need to be off out. I told your brother I'd meet him for a sitting."

Harry didn't look up as they bustled variously out the door. Once they were gone, he shifted over to sit beside Ron and watch his sleeping, tear-stained face.

It was all bollocksed up. Back when he'd thought Ron might still be reachable, sealed up in memory somewhere, he'd wanted to try legilimency. Snape would have come in handy, if he hadn't been in Azkaban at the time. Of course, Snape would likely have dismissed Ron's condition with the same cold words he'd once directed at Hermione: "I see no difference."

Harry listened to Ron snore and put his face in his hands. He wasn't going to think about Snape.

The household had hung together for not quite a year. Ten months, tops. Long enough for Harry to wonder, sometimes, if he'd made a mistake. Not in Ron's case, obviously, but for himself. He hadn't realized how hard it would be to tolerate other people while he was a walking grab-bag of Voldemort's guilt.

It had sounded so brill, the idea that they should all live together. Ron needed to be taken care of, right? So did Harry, come to that.

With the Burrow still under repair, Molly and Arthur had signed off on Ron’s release into Harry’s - no, Hermione’s custody. Harry wasn’t considered mentally fit enough to be responsible for another person’s welfare. At the last minute, Harry persuaded Remus to board with them, in exchange for helping out with Ron. It was like a two-for-one sale. Ask for Remus, get Tonks free.

With one week to go, Harry had consulted Kingsley Shacklebolt on a troublesome clause in the St. Mungo's guidelines.

"Patient’s magic is unstable and sympathetic. Liable to be affected by the proximity of Dark intent." Kingsley raised his eyebrows at the dark corners and the Darker artifacts and the constant scrutiny from soot-darkened paintings. His verdict was, "You’re going to need a specialist for this."

Generations of Blacks had sowed spells in secret corners, specifically designed to escape notice. They’d made an art of pitting magic against itself in long-forgotten, often lethal, ambush. Their history, and therefore their house, bristled with feuds, paranoia, and hideous practical jokes.

Well, when he put it like that. Harry grimaced. No wonder Sirius had been such a dab hand at devising cruel pranks.

"I know someone who enjoys a bit of a challenge." Kingsley polished off his firewhisky and stood up. "A bit Dark, but I think magical affinity counts for something in these cases."

On the appointed day, a clack of heels in the parlour signaled the sudden landing, portkey in hand, of Senior Class Warden Odile Lalique. Harry fumbled with the leather wallet she presented. He’d meant to glance politely at her credentials - hadn’t Kingsley vetted her already? - but such a flurry of miniature scrolls greeted him, squeaky testimonials breaking into disembodied clamour, that he practically threw the wallet back into her hands.

She turned from him in a swirl of robes slit up the sides. While Harry trailed behind her, she stalked from room to room in calf-length black boots, stroking surfaces and pressing her ear to the floorboards, casting spells that provoked crackling from alcoves and furious buzzing from drab-looking splotches of mildew. In no time at all she detected a number of active layers infesting the walls, newest upon old upon ancient.

"Positive nest of snakes, ‘mid lots of rusty old snakeskins," she murmured. The opal stud in her nostril sparkled fire. Her russet hair was rolled high in a stylish bun, held in place with a double-serpent clip, similar to a caduceus. Her nails were immaculate, red-tipped except for the index fingers of both hands, which were black as beetle wings. Bugger. Kingsley had sent a Slytherin to bail them out.

In a brisk voice, she ordered everyone out until the buried frictions in Grimmauld Place could be isolated and their raw spots cauterized.

"Hard to believe this place hasn’t gone up like a bloody volcano by now," Odile remarked as Harry joined her at the foot of the stairs. "There are invocations here that oughtn’t to abide in the same historical moment, let alone co-habit beneath the same roof."

They stood by, watching Remus and then Hermione and then Remus again shepherd Tonks in and out of the Floo. Remus looked harassed; they’d only just finished moving in the week before, and it was a bit much to have to move right back out again. Tonks kept popping back in with one of them in tow, chirruping, "Don’t mind me. Won’t be a minute," scattering fireplace ash on the carpet before ricocheting upstairs to fetch yet another misplaced possession.

A dimple fleeted by on the Warden’s face, probably telegraphing silly bint. Harry's temper flared. Merlin’s maiden aunt, did all Slytherins smirk?

Odile turned, caught his sullen glance, and interrogated him with an eyebrow. Harry immediately added eyebrow-cocking arrogance to his list of Slytherin traits. Unless-

"Did you study under Sna- I mean, uh, where’d you go to school?" he blurted. On the basis of her name alone, she could just as well have been a Beauxbatons student who’d never had to deal with House divisions.

"You don’t do subtle, do you, Mr. Potter?" the Warden replied, not missing a beat. "Refrain from making Sonorus-level assumptions that can be heard all the way down in Diagon Alley, and you may actually merit an honest answer."

She studied him for a moment, then her gaze swept the entrance hall. It snagged briefly on the covered portrait of Mrs. Black.

"If you must know," she addressed the heavy red drape, "I took my N.E.W.T.s at Hogwarts, class of ‘89. My former Head of House was a brilliant Dark wizard with a stiff wand lodged up his skinny white arse. At any rate," wry fondness flashed across her face, a sly mockery of herself as a besotted student, "that was the consensus of the dim twits who provoked his right bastard of a temper. Which, I’m sure it will astonish you to hear, was pretty much the lot of us. Now he’s shunted away - this is about Professor Snape, I take it? Trapped like a basilisk by the Ministry of Magic, for," her head jerked, and a dazzle of rainbow flamed her cheek, "the crime of unexpected heroism. Had the gall to pull their bleedin’ stones out of the fire still sporting Voldemort’s Mark, the stupid git."

She wheeled to face him. "Mr. Potter."

Forget hexes; the contempt in her eyes could have knocked Harry off his feet at fifty paces.

"Out of respect for the immense service you have done us all in offing the Dark Lord, I shall gladly pass your case to another Warden who might better suit your unspecified . . . preferences. I can promise you at the very least a Ravenclaw. You may Owl him at your earliest convenience."

"No!" Harry said. "I didn’t mean- It’s just, the eyebrow thing reminded me of-"

"Did it now?"

Back straight (Harry suspected she’d also got the wand-up-the-arse thing from Snape), Odile smiled, displaying a lot of teeth. Harry blushed, resisting the urge to back away.

"I do believe I’ll take that as a compliment," purred the Warden. "That is, if I’m not misreading your intent and may still expect you to honour our contract?"

"Please," he nodded vigorously and gestured towards the walls. "Carry on with whatever you were doing."

The dismantling precipitated days of strife, of shrieking and groaning throughout the house. Shadows frothed down the walls like potions catastrophes. Staircases creaked. Chandeliers went berserk, their cut-glass ornaments dinging and rattling. The drape slid to a heap beneath Mrs. Black’s frame, followed by the painting itself when the Sticking charm let go and the whole thing crashed to the tiles.

With a lazy, lounging stride, Odile strutted over and stood with arms folded, grinning down as the old lady shrieked abuse.

"Add this to my payment," she instructed, stubbing the toe of her boot against the canvas.

Odile also took it upon herself to offer Harry practicals in ward structure and the magical equivalent of breaking and entering.

"Here, feel this," she urged, the tip of her wand teasing nimbly along the joins between stone blocks. She put away the wand and performed a scooping motion, easing back with a length of - well, nothing, in her arms.

Harry humphed. Way to make an impression.

Without warning, the thing she was holding thrashed wildly, nearly lifting the Warden off her feet. Blimey! Harry started forward, but Odile’s scowl drove him off. The breath hissed between her teeth, and a black flash of Parseltongue zigzagged through Harry’s mind.

The next second, the vestibule wall bulged outward, accompanied by an ominous rumble. The entire house shook. Harry reached for the wall to steady himself. Gritty fragments of rock drizzled from the upper mouldings and bounced across the carpet. With a splintery, ringing report, cracks started to spread, their black lightning-bolts splitting stonework and wallpaper.

Harry had his wand out before he realized it. Mentally, he slagged Kingsley for not vetting this witch more carefully. A rush of frigid wind sucked his hair back and drove his glasses hard into his cheekbones.

Darkness descended with a bang. The house groaned. A black hole in its gold rococo frame, the tarnished mirror started to glow. Frantic, Harry glanced around. Every shadow, every bit of moss and mould, every ineradicable stain in Grimmauld Place was oozing into the front hall. Prisms rippled through the black sludge, refracted from the opal in Odile’s nose.

Braced, intent, she stood hugging an armload of writhing cables. Or so Harry supposed; he couldn’t tell if his eyes were playing tricks or not. Shiny snake-like veins strained out of the walls, dislodging bits of marble and mortar.

Just as Harry was about to yell, "Stop!" Odile staggered. Her snake clip came flying loose, skipped off the stair railing and fell to the rug. A knot of hair uncoiled after it, spiraling down her neck as if alive. Face rigid in a feral grin, she gave a yank, and a large splinter of something shot out of the wall, just missing her face. It clattered across the floor and rolled to a stop.

She wasted no time wrestling the coils of ward fibre back into the shuddering bones of the house. Wand pinning them in place, she raised one boot and stamped. The walls boomed upright. Cracks dried on their surfaces like water stains.

Every bloody candle in the room snapped alight. Harry, who’d been about to investigate what had come whizzing out of the stones, flinched for a second, shading his eyes.

Odile pirouetted, agile fingers re-winding her bun. With a single stride she bent and snatched up her hair clip, shoving it haphazardly onto her head as she Summoned whatever the Wards had spat out in such fury.

"What was that?" Harry said.

Odile glanced up, red streaks of excitement just fading from her cheeks. A cracked, twisted wand lay in her hands.

"Foundational magic of the house. Nasty stuff. Best leave that to fester in peace, you agree?"

"Yes, ma’am," he said, reaching out. "Do you mind if I - ?"

A knowing eyebrow made him withdraw his hand quickly, as if she’d caught him reaching for a wank mag. Smiling and shaking her head slightly, Odile pulled a thin, filigreed tube from her toolbelt, slid the wand inside, and snapped it shut.

Every nail on her hand glittered black. Where before there’d been an opal in the arch of her nose, now burned a ruby.

"Tell you what," Odile said. "Let’s not report this, shall we? Just for the time being. And if we find another one, it’s yours. Agreed?"

In the end, they unearthed three ancient, gnarly, magic-laden wands. Odile kept two of them. Harry’s was currently stashed upstairs with all the things he’d stolen from Spinner’s End, the things no one else knew about.

From Odile, Harry gleaned everything he knew about sabotaging Wards. He learned to weave, smother, disembowel, subdue, and forge magical signatures in a variety of castings. Not without setbacks: he had to Firecall her one night because he’d created a vortex in the upstairs loo.

But he also wondered why. Had someone close to Scrimgeour instructed the Warden to lure him under her professional wing? In the wrong hands, this kind of knowledge was a weapon. Was she waiting for him to use it? Was the Ministry of Magic?

Ron came home on March 1st. By July Harry was searching for excuses to get out of Grimmauld Place. Everyone else had jobs and a routine; he had to devise his own escapes.

At the time of Snape's trial, Harry was still in hospital. Reading about it later, he snorted at the headlines. "Albus Dumbledore's Snake-in-the-Grass!" "Death-Eater Redux!" "Murderer or Martyr?" "The Spy Who Betrayed Them All Six Ways from Sunday!"

Culling through pages of lucrative hysteria, Harry only cared about two things. One, Snape hadn't been sentenced to Azkaban. Two, the house where he was shut away from the world was warded.

The first time he laid a finger on Spinner’s End, Harry half-expected a Petrificus Totalus to knock him flat on his arse.

Thorns sliced through his palm. Shocked, he stopped the bleeding. Then he drew his wand and ran some tests on the wards before he touched the bricks again. The minutes ticked by. Silence, stillness, were his only companions. Before he knew it, it’d gone an hour. He pulled his hands out puffy with welts.

No Aurors. No one at all. Snape was a sitting duck.

For weeks, Harry kept at it. The thorns savaged him at first. Before Apparating home, he always spent a few minutes tidying the torn skin.

He got into the habit of watching for Snape's shadow at the window. The scent of roses touched him, the submissive kiss of elusive perfumes. Harry pressed in deeper, until his hands ran with blood. Always, he got his roses. Always, he pushed as far as he could go.

Slowly, in the darkness, with a single light blazing at the window, he wormed his way into the heart of Snape’s solitude.

One night the briars parted, and Harry stepped through.

He told no one. Spying on Snape was his secret. Concealed beneath his father’s cloak, Harry broke into Snape’s house, sprawled on Snape’s chairs, prowled Snape’s hallways, and, when the mood was on him, stole his books.

Mostly, though, he watched.

Snape was still Snape. He practiced elementary potions using a battered, blackened saucepan and anything else he could scare up, including, on enough occasions to be worrisome if Harry were inclined to worry, his own blood. Harry thrilled with disgust every time Snape’s skin split under the knife and he stretched his pale, smeared arm over the hissing potion. Every batch was dumped down the sink. Harry held his breath and watched, fingering his own scars. Or he watched Snape cook elaborate meals, using every pot and pan and utensil and spice in the cramped, lino-tiled kitchen, only to turn off the burner and bin the lot, so savagely the container hit the floor with a crash. Food splattered the tiles. He wasn’t much of a one for eating, was Snape.

Harry watched him stand at various windows with arms folded, staring out into the street or the back lot. (Since this happened every time, it was a fair bet Snape did it every single day.) He watched him pull books from shelves and read and take notes and read and mutter and read and close the books and rest his cheek against their covers. He watched him pace. And drink. And throw things just for the pleasure of seeing them shatter. This was Snape, after all. Not books, though. Harry never saw him throw a single book. He watched him refuse to clean up, so that the broken pieces were still there the next time he came to visit. But later he watched Snape clean obsessively, wash and dust and scrub and knock cobwebs out of corners. In private, Snape rolled his shirt sleeves up, and the Dark Mark banded his left forearm like a bruise. Once, Harry caught him opening the door, thrusting his hand forward, saw him snatch it back, swearing, and stick his bleeding fingers in his mouth. He watched him practice Accio over and over, without a wand.

He watched Snape fail, and he smiled.

He didn’t watch him undress. Or follow him into the loo. He wasn’t so far gone yet that he’d creep in at night and watch him while he slept. Or wanked, if he ever actually did, which Harry doubted.

For this, Harry incurred not a single reprimand. Not the slightest indication that the Ministry was aware of him or bothered by the news of someone breaking in. Hermione asked him once about his bloodshot eyes. Ginny let fly a few childish remarks about tomcats prowling back-alley fences. But if an Auto-Quill were jotting details of his visits onto Ministry parchment, Harry had yet to see the forces of Light come racing to investigate.

It was January now. Six months, and he'd finally been caught at it.

Fresh from their shower, announcing their appetites as they came through the door, Remus and Tonks had found Harry still hunched over beside a sleeping Ron. They offered to take his place while they ate. Still tasting smoke, Harry filled a glass with pumpkin juice and fled to his room.

He locked his door and lay back on his bed. He wasn't going to think about Snape.

He put a hand down his pyjama bottoms. Or maybe he was.

He closed his eyes and stroked himself idly and dreamed, half-awake, about the previous night.

Fog and freezing bricks and squealing hinges. Invisible, Harry stepped inside. Woolly puffs of fog followed him in, and he smiled. In this guise he could very nearly pass for a ghost. He liked to imagine himself haunting this building, driving Snape mad with small displacements of household items and terrible noises while he slept. Tormenting Snape the way his own ghosts tormented him.

Harry glanced back at the brooding silhouette of the mill chimney before clicking the door shut. For a moment it was pitch-black, and he stood listening, wand drawn, before casting a silent Lumos.

The room smelled, as always, both cozy and stale: snuffed candles, calf-leather and hippogriff bindings packed on sagging shelves, a breath of damp in the dour curtains and threadbare carpet. There was a scatter of Muggle circulars and newspapers on the sofa, alongside a small, dim stack of books. Snape had been diligently researching, Harry wasn’t sure what. He nicked one of the books and slipped it in his pocket.

On Featherlight feet he crossed to the wall of imposing bookcases, and tapped one open with the tip of his wand. It creaked in a surly manner to do his bidding, then swung shut behind him with a raspy snick.

Harry waited again, the wand’s halo of light picking out the bottom step of a wooden staircase carpeted by a moth-eaten runner. It climbed up, shrouded in dusty shadow, to quarters once occupied by Wormtail.

To the left was another open portal. This one led down into impenetrable darkness. so still, so utterly unbreathing, it resembled a plunge to an underground cave.

As always, Harry’s heart started to canter, quick and thudding. His phantoms coagulated around his pulse points. The cloak rippled with his fast, shallow breaths.

He nudged one foot forward and began the descent, pushing against the subtle spell that implied he was going the wrong way, that he was approaching the edge of a bottomless pit, that his next step would not meet the tread of a stair and he would topple through a gap in the earth, in the fabric of reality, falling ever downward, flailing, helpless to stop, his body bouncing off stones and shearing against invisible walls, tumbling forever.

He kept thrusting his foot out, kept going.

Eventually the stairway ended, and Harry inched forward along a short, dark corridor, hand reaching for the doorknob. His armpits and behind his ears were damp with sweat, the light wobbling at the end of his wand. Erasure marks streaked the wall ahead, where the view disappeared behind wrinkled cloth.

At the moment of opening the door, Harry always smelled burning. Smelled fire, and wood streaming with acrid smoke.

He ducked around the door and pulled it to, and glanced around the upper-floor hallway. He'd been baffled by this spell at first, disturbed by the sensation of falling, and confused to find himself on the second floor. Now he knew what to expect. It was clever of the old bat to throw off pursuers by making it necessary to go down in order to go up. Harry still had no idea how it worked, but he didn’t care. All that mattered were the cracks of light burning around a far-off door, a faint, spooky gleam in the corridor’s darkness, empty but for a marble-topped end table.

Music rolled in great swells through the walls. Muggle music, to Harry's surprise. Some nights, lush, lonely notes traveled serpentine paths through the darkness. Other times, earsplitting guitar riffs would hammer the stairs, singers screaming their throats hoarse as if trying to be heard through thick prison walls.

Let Snape do his bloody best to rage against his fate. Let the music do his begging and screaming for him. It wouldn’t change a thing. It sure as hell wouldn’t bring Dumbledore back.

Tonight, though, was different. Through the wood grain sifted a melancholy chorus, voices like bells, dissonant and strange. Checkered with duets and echoes, the softly sung tides washed forward and back. Harry wasn't used to beauty. This seemed unbearable to him.

He shut his eyes, and his chest began to ache. Flames started weaving behind his eyelids, and he blinked them open. He felt very alone and knew he shouldn’t be here. His fingernails pulled splinters from the paneling.

Something was breaking free inside him, swelling to terrible proportions behind his ribcage, something that threatened to burst forth in waves of fire. The dead souls within him crowded forward, divining their own histories deep in the music. The echoes down wells. The cries for mercy. A shiver of bereavement swept down Harry’s spine, passing a thrill of pleasure on its way up.

This was it, then. Tonight. Tonight he would finish it.

He pushed the door open and sucked in a breath.

Snape was standing right in front of him, inside the door, arms folded, eyes black as canal water. At the sound of Harry’s gasp he struck, snake-quick, and with a harsh yank snatched the cloak from his head.

For a long, paralyzed moment they stared at each other. Then Snape’s lip curled, just the way Harry remembered.

"Do come in, Potter," he drawled, and to Harry’s astonishment, turned his back.

Harry, if he’d stopped to guess what would happen, would have bet half the galleons in his vault that Snape would advance upon him at once, snarling vicious slurs and spitting condemnations. But his former Professor merely walked away. He tossed the invisibility cloak onto the bed in passing, and then stood with head bowed in front of a cabinet, paying no further heed to Harry’s presence until the tide of voices ebbed.

Snape pressed a switch. Steely silence chopped off the sound. To Harry’s surprise, the music’s source was a Muggle CD player, a cheaper model than the one Dudley had been given for his birthday, was it six years ago? No, that couldn’t be right. It was more like an eternity.

Still not bothering to glance at him, Snape dropped into the black leather armchair he’d evidently been occupying before Harry’s intrusion. It was seamed and cracked-looking, scuffed grey in places. The brass buttons dimpling the upholstery were so scratched the tin had worn through. On the nightstand beside it rested a squat glass containing a residue of dark liquid, a thick, ivory-coloured book, a platter displaying a cheese rind, an apple core, a tiny, sharp knife, and a dessert cup holding olive pits. A napkin had been flung over one arm of the chair exhibited the fastidious traces of Snape’s lips. Whatever he was drinking had bestowed a purple stain, still visible on his mouth. For some reason this made Harry uncomfortable.

Snape rested one temple against two fingers and glanced up. "Gesualdo."

"Sorry?" Having seen Snape try his hand at wandless magic, Harry was poised to throw himself from the path of an unknown spell. But this merely sounded as though Snape were calling him a first-rate tit, in a language entirely lost on him. "None of that," he raised his wand. "I’d be careful what I say, if I were you."

Shadows deepened under Snape’s brow, though nothing in his face moved save his lips. "Carlo Gesualdo," he said drily, "Prince of Venosa. The composer whose music had you scratching at my door." Two knife-edges of shadow slit the outer corners of his eyes. It was the faintest, most humourless concession to a smile Harry had ever seen. "A musical prodigy, Potter. Famous for murdering his wife and her lover while they lay abed, recuperating from their latest bout of cuckoldry."

Harry wasn’t sure he knew what ‘cuckoldry’ meant, but the word ‘murder’ was a snap. "Figures," he snorted.

For an instant the smile lines cut to the bone, as though Harry had done exactly as expected. Then Snape sighed and sat up, rubbing one restless hand over the other as if washing them under a tap. "To what do I owe the unlooked-for eruption of your presence?" One eyebrow spiked in contemplation of Harry’s wand. "Carrying out a little vigilante justice, are we? With an unarmed man who must bow to the power of your superior wand. But of course, the Gryffindor code of honour always did favour unfair odds."

"I’ve been watching you," Harry retorted, his voice hoarse. He felt a right hooligan. A curious thing was happening as they talked. Harry had invaded Spinner’s End a dozen times before now, surely he’d had the leisure to get used to Snape's diminished appearance. It was just - Snape wore a dressing gown over his clothes.

Such a mundane Muggle item should have been incongruous. Harry regretted for his own sake the loss of Snape’s teaching robes, so impregnated with the fumes of a thousand boiling cauldrons, the creepiness of the dungeons slithering in their every fold. The black billowing sweep of their passage had increased Snape’s menace by a magnitude of nightmare, endowing him with the kind of negative charisma not often granted to skinny, bitter men.

Now, staring at the gaunt man seated in the shabby leather armchair, a candelabra flickering and twinkling on the cabinet behind him, a four-poster bed with its frayed, soiled counterpane inhabiting the opposite wall, Harry felt the spectral lodgers within his body floating to the surface of his skin and lining themselves up, as if pressing against glass. Behind this ghostly layer, the flames and falling timbers of the Ministry roared, distantly echoing. He saw Snape wreathed in flames, sitting alone in his high-collared white shirt, a belted, burgundy-velvet dressing gown hanging down over the seat cushion, long black narrow trousers, one black boot planted on the worn floorboards, the other, his leg crossed at the knee, tapping a slow beat upon the air.

He appraised Harry’s condition in silence. Then with a grimace Snape rose, gave the cabinet a disgruntled look, and disappeared through a back-corner doorway that led to the loo.

Harry heard splashing and clinking and the sound of Snape muttering an oath. A moment later he returned with a tooth-rinse glass, snagged a decanter from a tarnished silver tray and examined its contents in the flittering candlelight before pouring a shot. He left the tooth glass on the cabinet and refreshed his own tumbler, which was fashioned from the same clunky, chipped glass as the decanter. Subsiding into his chair again, he raised his drink in ironic acknowledgement.

"The other’s for you," he said. "Take it or leave it."

Harry marched over to the cabinet, picked up the improvised shot glass, and stiff-armed the air with his glass. "Gesualdo," he mocked Snape’s pretensions, and quaffed it. A tongue of wet fire with a sweet aftertaste, the drink speared his sinuses. He gasped like a fish.

"Port," drawled Snape, as if Harry ought to know better. "Not cough medicine," he added, as Harry cleared out his windpipe with a bark. For years Harry had been holding his nose and knocking back a variety of utterly foul potions concocted by this man. How else was he supposed to drink anything handed to him by the likes of Snape?

"So you’ve been watching me," Snape took up the gauntlet at last. His eyes never left Harry’s, even while he savoured his port, spacing out each sip and touching his tongue to his lips with odd delicacy.

Harry wondered whether the bastard had any inkling of the ghosts coiled inside him, quivering at their proximity to this ripped and damaged soul, or of the flames stirred in him by the kindred heat inside Snape’s bony, sallow exterior.

"I wasn’t aware that it was part of a Gryffindor’s make-up to watch," Snape murmured. "I would have thought it more your style to blunder in, announcing your presence in a fashion calculated to draw the most attention. But then," arching his foot back, he examined the toe of his boot before fixing his dark gaze on Harry again, "try as I may to repress the memory, Pettigrew will come to mind. Now there was a Gryffindor for whom sneaking and spying were obviously their own rewards."

Harry snorted. "You’re one to talk, Snape, seeing as how you spied your life away."

Even at this distance, Harry could see the murderer’s eyes dilate, black swallowing black. But all Snape said was, "It would be pointless to deny it. Especially," the port glass hovered at his mouth for an exaggerated sip, "in the face of your conviction that you have divined every nuance of my motives," another lip-licking pause, "every Slytherin-style intricacy, every," long, slow swallow, "niggling ramification.

"I imagine," Snape purred, "the Daily Prophet would enjoy plastering news of its saviour’s voyeurism all over its front page. Miss Skeeter and her quick-quotes quill could be on my doorstep tomorrow, I wager."

"Don’t fob your perversions off on me," Harry choked. He was astonished to note that he wasn’t the least bit cold any more, despite his ghosts. "So I’ve been checking up on you. Are you surprised? You may be enjoying house arrest--"

"Enjoying." Snape turned his head away for the first time and raised a hand to his high-buttoned collar. He squeezed, as if protesting its tightness. "Go on."

Harry stumbled. "You, um, can't be trusted not to break the wards and run. See, I’ve figured out how you’ve been spending your time. All those books on sympathetic magic. I'm sure that violates the Ministry’s terms of parole."

"Acquittal, Potter. Do not make me lecture you on the difference." His glare stopped Harry from launching into a tirade. "And you see evidence all around, do you not, of the progress I have made in liberating myself? Permit me to suggest that you are an imbecile and that this interview is at an end. You may escort your fire-breathing sense of justice and your self-righteous idiocy off the premises."

With that Snape slammed his empty glass down on the nightstand by his chair and wrapped his long fingers around the thick volume resting there. Vellum-bound and bordered in gold leaf, it reminded Harry of the Restricted Section in Hogwarts’ library. Snape settled the book in his lap and let it fall open to a section marked with a greasy, green velvet ribbon. On the both pages, from what Harry could see, hand-tinted drawings of roses were surrounded by geometric designs and arcane symbols.

Harry pointed his wand. The book shot off Snape’s lap and flew across to strike Harry hard in the chest, making him grunt as he trapped it in the sling of his robes.

Snape bellowed, "Careful with that, you fool!"

Right. Time to see how he liked it for a change. A spark of glee kindled in Harry at the sight of Snape riled but helpless to do anything about it. So the bastard was capable of self-restraint. All it took was a reversal of the odds, a plunge into powerlessness.

Harry pushed aside his memory of the three Marauders ganging up on a swotting, greasy stringbean in a shapeless school uniform; ignored the fact that Snape had crawled at the Dark Lord’s feet, risking the Cruciatus, shredding his soul, earning the hatred of the Wizarding World, all because - well, because he was incurably Dark, he was born that way, right -

Because Albus had asked him to.

No. Harry banished that thought like a bloodstain. This was bad. Even he was starting to believe the lies, and he’d been there.

The nighttime fires that so often tormented him burned at his core, and a strange flutter passed over his skin. His ghosts were panting. They were eager. Harry walked forward, the book held in the crook of his arm. His body felt warm and relaxed, his upraised wand humming with power.

"The Ministry underestimates you," he said, looking down. "But not me. I’ve no doubt you could break the wards if you put your mind to it."

"So the celebrated Potter has faith in me," Snape sneered. "Will wonders never cease. I do so hope for the enlightenment to guide me in the art of living down to your expectations."

He sat back, inch by inch, leaving clawmarks in the leather where his nails had sunk in. "But you in turn underestimate the Ministry. In theory, I could find a way to break the wards, wandless or not. Would I get far? No."

"That’s right, because I’d come after you." Harry shifted the book from arm to arm, before he remembered to Shrink it and stow it in his robes. Then he put the end of the wand in his mouth, watching Snape’s eyes narrow as he sucked on it casually and pulled it out wet. The candlelight kindled a golden point. Smiling, Harry rolled the wooden shaft between his fingers, letting it drift like a compass needle in Snape’s direction.

"I’d find you," he purred, feeling the Shrunken book in his breast pocket thump against his heart. "And there’d be nothing the Ministry could say about the tactics I’d use to stop a fugitive Death Eater."

"Spare me the rape threat, boy." Shocked, Harry almost dropped his wand. "Your faith in yourself hasn’t diminished, has it, Potter? As always, it falls on me to bring your ego to heel. Because I promise, you wouldn’t catch me. No one would." Snape's lips tightened, barely parting. "They wouldn’t need to."

Outraged, Harry shouted him down. "You think you could outsmart us all? You think you’re superior to the entire Order, Aurors and everyone, and that nobody could crack the secrets of your devious mind?"

"It’s not a matter of who. It’s what." Snape hesitated. Then, stiffly, he rested his head against the back of the chair and began unbuttoning his collar.

What the bloody hell was he doing? Snape had worked four buttons loose and was spreading the wings of his collar wide apart. Meticulous fingers gathered up stray hanks of stringy hair and drew them aside, tucking them behind his shoulders. His face was stony. His adam’s apple and jugular vein were exposed.

Harry got a stare on. He whispered, "Shite."

Tattooed into the skin of Snape’s throat was a band of intricate runes, ornate and almost decorative in appearance. From a few paces away, one might easily mistake them for a crocheted choker or a brocade collar made of onyx and jet and lace. They were black as ink against his pale skin, disappearing into the long, dark hair at the nape of his neck.

"So you see," Snape spoke quietly, shoulders shifting as if pinned, "no matter what I do, I am destined to be marked to the end of my days." He shut his eyes, one hand sliding up to cover the runes, stroking them with minute brushes of his fingers.

Fascinated, Harry approached. With his eyes blotted out like that, Snape looked dead. Harry had seen so many dead faces, Cedric’s, Dumbledore’s, Fred Weasley’s, so many of his old classmates lying stark and cold in the wake of a curse, he could easily imagine Severus Snape with the life sucked out of him.

Those deaths had been casualties of war. Snape had only been obeying orders. None of these things mattered to Harry. He’d brought his own angels of death into the room, angels of ghosts and fire.

For a moment, he feasted on the exhaustion haunting that hated face, the long, sharp cheekbones untouched by kindness, the long, hard hands, wasted now to something approaching beauty.

Eyes still closed, Snape said, "I imagine this must please you, Potter. I’d hoped . . . but I was obviously mistaken. I suppose I should be used to it by now." He raised his head, freezing almost imperceptibly when he saw Harry bent over him, as if he sensed Harry’s desire to put a hand around his throat, to keep him utterly still. "Apparently freedom is reserved for those, like you, with nothing to regret."

Harry almost slapped him. Who was Snape to say what he regretted or not?

Instead, he reached down to trace the skin revealed by Snape’s unbuttoned shirt. Only when the other man’s fingers made the chair leather squeak in their grip and he twisted sideways without rising did Harry truly notice what he was doing - extending his wand hand, taking alarming liberties that would have Snape believing he’d gone spare.

But no, he could read in Snape’s face that he expected this, punishment, degradation. He expected the wand’s sharp tip digging into his throat, the Chosen One gloating over his shame.

Hastily, Harry withdrew and switched hands, passing the wand to his left, an awkward and somewhat ridiculous move considering that the chances of Snape permitting Harry to touch him in such a vulnerable spot were nil.

To touch him at all, come to think of it.

But he wanted to. The cross between revulsion and need made him dizzy. It must be the ghosts. In Snape’s presence, in Snape’s room, Harry had gone from feeling perpetually cold to almost feverish. As if the frozen spirits of the dead had thrown themselves into a cauldron of hot, crackling memories, and from the sudden hiss of steam arose warmth. Arose life.

Where else could it have come from, this longing to press his palms to the white skin beneath Snape’s jaw, the slightly sunken throat that testified to Snape’s weight loss, the delicate juncture where neck greeted shoulder, where the black band drew its decapitating line. He felt an urge to cool his hands there, the way you’d douse a burn in a bucket of water.

Alone in the air between them, his hand hovered. Snape watched, tracking where it would land. He was poised to lash out. He would rather fight, Harry realized, than let himself be touched.

Abashed, he jerked the offending hand up to adjust his glasses, raked his fringe back, then slipped his hand out of sight in a pocket, hiding the evidence.

Evidence? More rattled than he wanted to let on, he blurted, "Erm. So. They use it to - to track you down, is that it?"

After a long silence, Snape knotted the belt of his gown and sat straighter. For one agonizing second, he reverted to the sardonic potions master baiting his dimwitted, owl-eyed student. "Potter. I would have thought even you could draw the obvious conclusions. It doesn’t take a leap of intellect, for Merlin’s sake. Look again. Does it remind you of anything?" His eyes were searching, but Harry jerked his head aside. That was all he needed right now, for Snape to catch wind of his ravenous thoughts. "Perhaps if I were to roll up my sleeve."

"The Ministry’s using the Dark Mark?"

Snape winced at Harry’s yelp. "Very good, oh saviour of the Wizarding World. At this rate, few could deny that Hogwarts erred in awarding you passing grades." He stared coldly at Harry’s gaping confusion, annihilation of house points written over his face. "Of course they share a principle, you incorrigible dolt. Yes, Potter, you have uncovered the truth. All your heroics were for naught and the Ministry’s now a hotbed of Death Eater activity. Prepare yourself to wage the war all over again. Only this time, count me out."

Harry wrenched his mouth shut and powered up his glare.

Snape snorted at this pathetic imitation. "As I started to say, this," he made a throat-cutting gesture, "shares certain properties associated with the Dark Lord’s design. Though British Wizarding authorities, in their infinite wisdom, have declared it needn’t be deemed Unforgivable. Presumably because they’re not forced to wear it."

He lapsed into silence, tracing the symbols at his neck. Harry wondered if the calligraphy raised strange, warm welts or whether Snape’s skin was smooth to the touch. Oh Merlin, why did he care? Repressing the urge to find out, he pocketed his wand and took off his glasses, squishing each eye around in its socket with the heel of one hand. He ought to go home. Not that he wanted to. To be honest, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted. Well, maybe one thing.

Shut it, he told himself.

He blurted the first words that came to mind, "So if they call you by means of that thing, you’ll have to go? Like when Voldemort summoned you to Death Eater meetings?"

Snape studied him with predatory malice. "Potter, it’s a collar, not a leash. Apparently the Ministry’s not interested in dragging me back to my kennel, should I prove intransigent. They’re waiting, you know. Hoping I show my true colours by bolting for freedom." Snape slitted his eyes like a cat, seemingly in a dark good humour at his own expense. "Frankly, I’d assumed you had a hand in it. House arrest, Merlin’s arse. Condemned to wither away in solitary confinement, is more like it."

He stretched, and then was suddenly on his feet, startling Harry. "I spent years coming to terms with this despicable house. Making my peace with the past." His cold gaze raked over the dingy wallpaper, the spiders in corners, the squat, gap-toothed bookcase missing several volumes.

With terse, stabbing motions of his fingers Snape did up the buttons of his shirt, radiating disgust for the room, for Harry, for the situation in which he found himself trapped.

"Now I’ll be obliged to learn to hate it all over again. Because if I ever take leave of my senses and run screaming into the street, I’ve approximately five minutes in which to regain my sanity, repent the error of my ways, and get myself back inside the safety of these misbegotten walls. Assuming," his brow furrowed, "that the Wards have been spelled to let me back in. Otherwise," he stepped forward and pulled Harry to him, close enough that each could smell port wine on the other’s breath. Harry cringed in anticipation of a ghostly riot. But nothing happened other than Snape’s brisk, brutal hands rummaging in his robes and emerging victorious, the Shrunken book cradled in his palm.

"Otherwise," he said, "I will be condemned to stand outside the door and choke to death. Now, Potter, if you please?" He opened the miniature volume and held it out in one hand.

Momentarily bested, Harry drew his wand and tapped the spread pages, returning the book to normal size. Snape eased it shut with infinite care and laid it gently on one corner of the mattress. His fingers lingered on the cloudy binding. Without looking up, he said to Harry, "Now go."

Harry Accio’d his cloak. Snape intercepted it with a startled reflex.

Harry bristled. "You can’t order me around, Snape. I’ll drop by whenever I damn well please."

"As a form of slow torture, I’ll be bound. The Ministry does know how to inflict the chafing irritations and inconveniences minus which no prisoner’s life is complete." Crushing a handful of silk to his face, Snape sniffed. He pulled a length of the iridescent fabric through his fingers, examining the cloak with professional interest.

Annoyed, Harry said, "The Ministry knows nothing about me being here."

Snape gave a snort. "Don’t be daft. The Ministry’s had you pegged from the moment you first breached the Wards. It merely suits their purpose that you be left free to torment me as they see fit." He tossed the cloak at Harry. "Ever the innocent. Is it real or an act, I wonder?"

Harry blazed up. "Innocent? Fucking look at me, Snape!"

Snape glared at him. This time Harry didn’t hide, didn’t jerk away. After a moment Snape said evenly, "I misspoke. You’re right. You have indeed brought death into the world. Consider yourself one of the fallen, Potter."

When he could stand the sharp probing no longer, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, the flames so bright inside him he couldn’t have seen Snape clearly anyway. His lashes were wet with pain.

But the flickering veil that had sprung up between him and the world didn’t save him from the dry, lethal scrape of Snape’s voice: "Perhaps I should have guessed. Don’t hold it against me, boy. I didn’t know." Harry heard a moist lick of tongue on lips, a weary swallow, imagined the microscopic contraction of the runes inking the forty-year-old skin. He could almost smell the perfume of Snape’s hair, burning.

Rough and grudging, the dark voice continued, "I never thought I would be saying this to you," and the smokiness of it snaked sudden warmth into Harry’s crotch, a stroke of burgundy velvet around his bollocks, "but welcome to Hell, Mr. Potter."

Eyes startled open, Harry took less than a second to get his bearings before Disapparating in a panic. The image he carried with him from that dim-lit room was of Snape’s hand, bone-white, tapering and strong, knotted so tightly around a bedpost, if it had been a living thing he would have snapped its neck.

Gasping at the memory, Harry came, thinking of his hands around Snape's collar.

After the hash he’d made of revealing himself to Snape, Harry waited a week before returning to Spinner’s End.

During that week he helped George Weasley install a few alarm charms so that Harry, Hermione, and the Burrow would always be aware of Ron’s emotional levels. To Harry’s surprise, George was almost chatty. Tonks, who’d got it from Molly, who must have heard it from Ginny, said that George had commissioned Thornycroft to attempt a posthumous portrait of Fred. Harry traced the source of George’s newfound cheer to the likelihood that it was finished and already hanging in the offices of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

He hadn’t actually seen the portrait, but he’d stood outside the office during his last visit and overheard two familiar, no, identical voices, Fred teasing and George sniping back with a note almost of joy. Harry had wanted to burst into the room, but he’d known that, no matter how it sounded, only one twin would be standing there. Better to give them privacy. Even Molly would rather her son keep to himself, invent new toys, and trade quips with his alter ego than go through life with the quenched spark and listless tread that had marked him since Fenrir was driven from Fred’s savaged corpse.

"So, this Owen bloke," George broke the silence, while casting a handful of gaudy stars at the ceiling. "Still boffing Ginny, I take it?" The stars clung, twinkling like Dumbledore’s spectacles, a tiny rainfall of glitter drifting down from their constellations. Ron cooed, and George ruffled his hair.

Envious, Harry watched the ease with which George touched his brother. The ghosts watched, too, but never receded enough that Harry could safely comfort Ron.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah." Owen hadn't been around much this week, which suited Harry just fine. He wouldn't stop badgering Harry to sit for a portrait, even though Harry had turned him down flat three times now.

"Think he’s the one?" George tied off a bobbing handful of balloons, knotting their strings together and releasing them to tumble end over end from one wall to another.

"One what? Oh, uh. Couldn’t say, mate. She’s your sister, you ask her." Harry jumped a bit as the tail-end of a feel-good charm tickled over him, swirling and contracting in the balloons’ wake.

"‘Spect she’ll spill the beans before it comes to that." The stocky, fox-faced redhead gazed curiously at Harry. "Got a smidgin of Veela in him, you noticed?"

"Owen?" Harry thought about it. "He might. Why?"

George was still pinning him with that look. "I was thinking it might be a great way for Gin to wean herself off certain other, ‘scuse my saying so, romantic obsessions. A healthy dose of Veela sex, you follow me? Might be just the thing. Sometimes it takes a little magic, you know? To heal." He gave Harry a strange, lopsided smile. "You know it’s not her fault, right?"

That she’s having sex? Harry bunched his eyebrows in confusion.

"Ron," George said, and his brother wheeled around, giggling. "She didn’t know he’d put himself in the line of fire. It was a horrible accident - "

"Merlin," Harry said, "I know," because really, he couldn’t have this conversation.

Sod it, it had been Harry who’d shouted, right? Pinned to a wall by two assailants, he’d felled one with a hex just in time to see Ginny’s hair ignite. It was nobody’s fault that Ron had got there first, that Harry’s shout made him look up, that he answered his sister’s scream.

Ron had Apparated at once from a blood-slippery, broken stairwell, past smashed desks and burning parchment scrolls. He'd peeled the fire off his burning sister, shouting, "Finite Incantatem!" Those had been his last words. No one saw what hit him. He’d convulsed and collapsed at Ginny’s side, his wand flying from his hand and snapping in two.

In the last minutes before the building caved in, Kingsley Shacklebolt had pulled Ginny out, and a sobbing Hermione had struggled to gather up Ron where he lay curled in a ball, clutching his head. Arthur Weasley had found them, and they’d managed a three-way Sidealong Apparition. The heat had been horrible, sparks exploding through the air in vicious jets of fire.

In the moment they’d whirled away, they’d heard screams cut through the windy roar of flames, and believed it was Voldemort, whose body was burning. No one had recognized Harry’s voice.

George knew this, damn it. And Harry dreamed about it all the fucking time. "I feel responsible for making her happy," he said. "If Owen can provide that, great."

"You’re not jealous?"

Harry tipped up one shoulder. He almost blurted, 'Relieved,' but decided that might be taking the confession thing too far.

About to clap him on the shoulder, George caught himself and nodded. "So, have you been sleeping all right yourself, then?"

Harry looked away. "Same as ever." His dreams had changed in the last week, but were no less disturbing for that.

"That bad, eh?"

George might have said more, but Ron barreled into him, squealing with delight as he blundered after the balloons in their languid crisscross of the upper air. They had floated to the ceiling. One of them pricked itself on the glittering point of a star and, with a noiseless pop, it chucked its contents in a hail of chocolate frogs and a sudden downpour of glorious well-being. All three of them laughed beneath this fountain of sweetness, and for a moment Harry basked in it, remembering what it was like to be happy.

"Who’s a big boy, then?" George tore the wrapping from a chocolate frog and let it go, then slung an affectionate arm around Ron as he gaped, not daring to move, watching the frog spring from his sleeve to his shoulder. George caught it and held it for Ron to bite, before pushing back his fringe and angling a sideways glance at Harry. "We through here for now? I could sure use a cuppa."

It was also, by chance, the week of the full moon. Tonks had Auror patrol on two of the three nights, so Harry filled in for her on werewolf-watch. He didn’t mind. It was better than the sleep-perchance-to-dream thing. Besides, in the mornings he enjoyed bringing Remus tea and scones and chocolate on a tray.

Hunched inside a tatty embroidered blanket, in which lingered, rumour had it, the faint fragrance of Sirius Black, Lupin sat letting the steam from his Earl Grey drift around his worn, whiskery face. Hermione brewed his Wolfsbane fresh each month, but Remus had confided to Harry that it twisted his guts and gave him diarrhea. Snape’s version had been superior, but he mustn’t say a word. He was grateful for whatever Hermione gave him.

At dawn, as the eastern sky edged the rooftops with fire, Remus had come painfully out of his crouch, stumbling and bumping his way to the bathroom. In his absence, Harry rummaged for an incense stick and lit it. He kept his back turned to the burning horizon as he waved the stick around, and then passed the time rearranging the tea things. Remus made no apology on his return. They said little as the sun bored holes through the gloom, and the room lightened by degrees to a pale gold. It smelled of bergamot and dog fur and singed rose petals. Remus snuffled sleepily and sucked on his chocolate.

"I have a question."

A mild silence followed. Remus ran a finger behind one ear and scratched, blinking quizzically.

"Would you--" Harry paused, but couldn’t imagine a subtle or secretive way to put this. "If Dumbledore had asked you, do you think you could have killed him?"

The weary eyes fastened on his, and slowly Remus sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He tilted his head back, and Harry realized he was scenting the air, probably searching for a whiff of nerves or troubled sleep or, perhaps, candlewax and potions. For the first time Harry wondered, did his ghosts have an odour? He resisted the urge to sniff himself.

Finally Lupin said, in a troubled undertone, "Perhaps. But I couldn’t swear to it." He squinted past Harry at the door, as if watching the scene play out before him. Then his brow cleared, and he shook his head, in fact his whole body shuddered. "No. Not like that. It would have been beyond me."

"Thought not." Harry nodded.

Remus turned on him a shaggy, doleful look. "Harry, you fail to understand. If it had been up to me, we would have lost the war."

Appalled, Harry scrambled to correct his mistake. "That’s not what I - "

"Shh, it’s all right. I know." Remus studied him, smiled a little, then snapped off a lozenge from the chocolate bar, curled his tongue around it, and tipped a few quiet swallows of hot tea into his mouth. After the chocolate had melted and the sweetened beverage slid down his throat, he tried again. "Many traumatic things happened during the War, but Albus’ death was one of the worst. I’ll forever regret that you were put in the position of watching him die."

"He didn’t just die," Harry growled. "He was murdered."

"Murdered," echoed Lupin, in a dull voice that made Harry glance at him in concern. "You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. It was . . . yes. Horrible. But a sacrifice that paid off in the end. Please keep in mind, Albus chose that path largely because he had faith in Severus. Not even you can deny that we had need of an inside agent, and without Severus - " He shrugged.

"We’d have destroyed the horcuxes without him," Harry argued, not bothering to camouflage his disgust. "We needed Professor Dumbledore far more than we ever needed Snape."

"But, Harry, the plan was Dumbledore’s. And since his sacrifice could not be undone, let’s just thank Merlin that it worked." Harry twitched in protest, and Remus gazed unseeing into his half-empty cup. Then he drank more tea and wiped his upper lip. "Except for the part about you being there. I sincerely doubt Albus would have wanted you to bear witness to that, had he been given a choice in the matter."

He sighed then, burped a little, and propped himself against the back of the sofa, eyelids drooping. "My point being, as I’ve said before, you can’t blame Severus for carrying out what were in fact Dumbledore’s orders. I’d hazard a guess that, even more than the friends who accompanied you to the Ministry and whose love helped you survive, it was Severus who got you through."

"Bollocks," cried Harry. If Remus was going to switch sides like that, he’d prefer a prior warning, thanks very much. He scrambled to his feet and started pacing, ghosts darting from one end of his body to the other.

A sudden pang constricted his heart. "Merlin’s beard, Remus, don’t tell me you’ve forgiven him!"

"Forgiven?" Remus stretched his head sideways and gazed out the window, blinking at the pink and peach-coloured sky, a tracery of silhouetted branches framing the view like stained glass. Harry noticed that the paint on the windowsill was peeling. "I haven’t stopped to consider it, actually. I’m not at all clear what I think of Severus these days." He slumped back, yawning. "I’ve always found him something of an enigma, you know, and that’s certainly not changed with age. But I’d say gratitude. Maybe a dash of admiration."

"I don’t believe you," Harry spluttered. His trainers squeaked on the wooden planks as he spun around. "A cold-blooded killer and you admire him?"

"By your rather strict construction, we’re all cold-blooded killers. It’s what the times have made of us. But I’m not awake enough right now to split hairs." Remus was obviously struggling to keep his eyes open. "You’re alive," he said simply. "Snape played a part in that."

In the silence that followed, Harry heard the chirping of birds outside. He paced, while the sound of gentle wheezing, the prelude to even gentler snoring, issued from the sofa. The restless dead climbed his spine like dragon’s snare, spreading over his shoulders, burning and stinging. It gave him the shakes. Raising one hand, he tried blowing on it for warmth. Merlin. Was that a blue tinge? He could sense unknown fingers worming their way through his own, delicate as dark lines of poison. The next thing he knew, he was clutching his wand. He hadn’t summoned it, but the tingle of power reassured him. He ran his fingers along the radiant heat, stroking it, feeling the throb of magic.

His dreams worried him. Lately they featured Snape - no surprise there - and Harry’s hands petting, circling his throat, gradually bearing down, while, one by one, flames sprang into being around them. Fire spiraled up the walls, rippling in long streamers that left sooty shadows, chewing steadily, the smoke sifting through the room. Sometimes Snape appeared seated, swathed from neck to ankle in robes so dense, the body inside them was pure surmise. Sometimes he was below Harry on the floor, lying flat on his back, his white shirt peeled open and his dressing gown flung out like wings, his inky hair staining the scuffed wood.

Throughout the dream all Snape did was stare at the ceiling. That forced Harry out of the tight cocoon of sleep, although, until he was awake and remembering, he didn’t know why.

Snape never fought back. That was the thing. He let Harry choke him. Harry’s hands were frozen with ghostly bile. Harry’s rage burned the walls around them.

Just thinking about it made him angry. He started to say something along the lines of, "The ugly git’s been keeping me awake nights," but what came out instead was, "I went to his house."

The wheezing paused. Damn. He’d thought Remus was asleep. "I’d heard rumours to that effect," Lupin mumbled. "That you’d taken it upon yourself to, erm - "

"Spy?" Harry supplied gruffly.

"Say rather, keep an eye on him. So, how did he seem?"

"Arrogant. Sarcastic. All things Snape. Just like he’d get when Slytherin lost the House Cup." After a moment, though, honesty won out. "Kind of desperate, I think, being cooped up in there. He gave me a glass of port."

"He did?"

"And I drank it. Barmy, right? Nearly choked to death."

Remus sat up quickly. "Please don’t tell me he put something in it."

"Didn’t have to. It’s port. Went right up my nose. You ask me, it tastes like cough syrup."

Remus relaxed. "Young philistine. I’m surprised Severus wasted the good stuff on you." He eyed Harry from the depths of the sofa cushions. "So, would you say he’s having a tough time of it?" At Harry’s scathing look, Remus added hastily, "Adjusting to life after Voldemort, I mean."

"Ask me if I care. Come on, Remus. He still snarls at the drop of a hat." Harry fiddled with his wand and was on the verge of sticking it in his mouth, when he felt Remus’ eyes on him. The tip was thoroughly riddled with toothmarks. Swallowing, he slid the wand up his sleeve. At least his hands had stopped bothering him.

"He’s lost weight. And he looks," that brought to mind so many conflicting impressions that he settled for, "really tired."

A faint smile stretched the tawny grey stubble along Lupin’s jaw. "He’s not alone in that. I’d wager we all look a bit ragged around the edges."

Harry removed his glasses, breathed on them, polished the lenses, and replaced them on his nose, carefully hooking the arms over his ears. Sadly, the world remained the same. Remus heaved a sigh. "He’s not a sympathetic figure, Harry. I’m well aware of that. But you’re mistaken if you think he didn’t suffer."

"Not enough," Harry whispered. The words burned the roof of his mouth and hung in the air, even after Remus had drifted to sleep.

The third thing different about that week happened on a school night. It was one of the days Hermione spent prepping Muggleborns on Wizarding culture, so no one was surprised that she was running late. A brisket of beef and mashed potatoes were the evening’s fare, and all hands were busy passing the plates around. Everyone glanced up - Molly was eating with them, and her face stiffened for a moment, Ginny’s nostrils pinched, Remus blinked and nodded and Tonks waved a cheery hello - as Hermione strode through the door.

"Good evening, everyone," she enunciated, rather too brightly. "I’d like you to meet Adrian Hailstork, who’s very kindly been assisting me with an inquiry into certain arithmantic principles I’ve been researching in my spare time." The tall, gawky gent standing behind her gave a series of bows as if bobbing for apples. There was a slightly blurry quality to his immediate vicinity, and it took Harry a moment to identify it as shyness. He looked stuck halfway inside a Disillusionment charm. A flop of fringe draped his eyes, and he peered out from behind it like an intelligent cavy.

"We were in the middle of a potentially brilliant discussion of the synergetics of intent, and its role in, well, I guess you’d call it the arithmancy of emotions, the way it applies to spell-casting, you know, and Adrian dug up this set of documents from 1873," and here she shot Hailstork a smile that made his cheeks glow, "Professor Inglewort’s treatise on the ‘incalculable calculus,’ that’s his term, claiming irrefutable proof of love as a measurable arithmantic phenomenon, and - well," she interrupted herself, catching an abrupt, angry twitch from Molly, "I thought, seeing as how we hadn’t finished sorting out the evidence regarding love’s - or, or, really, any emotion’s transformative properties as the structual basis for sympathetic magic, I thought we could. . ."

Hermione trailed off, recognizing the glassy kneazles-in-the-wandlight expression staring back at her from every face at table. Well, every face but Ron’s.

"Erm, anyway," she mustered a smile, "I thought if Adrian came to dinner it would be a fabulous chance for everyone to meet, and then the two of us would be able to continue our discussion," at the mild flash of alarm reflected in the rapidfire blinks and sidelong glances whizzing like snitches over the steaming platters, she threw up her hands, "after dinner."

Harry had been slicing small pieces of beef and aiming them carefully at Ron’s mouth, while Molly did clean-up duty, wielding the napkin to the tune of a fond and slightly shrill, "What an obliging boy it is!" and "Hands off the mashed potatoes, pet. When Mummy says no she means it, all right?" Through the scrape of knives on plates and the sound of Tonks inundating Remus with flirtatious chatter, Hermione led her friend Hailstork around the side to Ron’s chair. At their approach, Molly’s face turned from its normal biscuity color to pink to rose to a blood-vessel-bursting scarlet. She made a great show of scrubbing Ron’s mouth, straightening his collar, fluffing up the mashed potatoes. With a fleeting look at Harry, Hermione signaled Help me!

"How do you do, Mr. Hailstork," he said, getting to his feet. "Harry Potter."

"My pleasure," the young man said gratefully, dunking for another apple while presenting a slim, ink-smudged hand for Harry to shake. Harry pursed his lips and swallowed. Do it, he told himself, frozen in place. Lanky and vulnerable, Hailstork’s wrist poked several inches beyond a buttoned cuff blotted with runic smears, small quill-strokes of the alphabet. He must be a messy note-taker. Either that or he wrote at a speed that prevented the ink from drying. To Harry’s surprise, a beautiful antique watch was strapped around the slender forearm.

Harry’s own hands felt ridged with icy parasites, just waiting to grab hold and crush. In that moment Harry loathed his ghosts, despised their hunger for revenge, before remembering that his Mum and Dad were among them, and that none of them had asked for death. A tide of guilt swept through him. For a second, to his horror, tears pricked his eyes.

Hermione drew her visitor gently away. "Adrian, remember what I told you," she said, and Hailstork gave a small flutter of consternation that ended with him balling both hands together like a child afraid he’s just broken something.

"And this is Molly Weasley, and her son and my - my very dear friend Ron Weasley," Hermione added, proud and quiet as she pressed a hand to Ron’s shoulder.

At her touch, Ron whipped around, gobbling with joy, and a sudden shower of wet, masticated dinner bits sailed through the air. Most of them connected with Harry’s shirtfront in a reeking spatter not unlike vomit. Hermione and Hailstork came in for a small dousing of their own.

A giggle lilted from Ginny’s end of the table.

"Whoops," Hermione remarked, "sorry," while serviettes were passed around the circle, and she and Harry made haste to wipe themselves down.

"Not at all," smiled Hailstork. "Got two nephews of my own, don’t you know," and he made a gesture they all recognized, the hand-curl that betokened a wand about to be fetched from its sleeve. Agonized apprehension froze the room. Hermione averted disaster with a jostle of his arm and a swift, "Not in front of Ron, please."

"Ah. Oh. Indeed, of course." Poor Hailstork wilted under the combined stares of all those at table who’d expected their dinners to go flying across the room. Ducking behind his fringe, he glanced to Hermione for guidance. She’d already plucked a cloth from the nearby pile and proceeded to dab quickly at his waistcoat, murmuring, "We’ll do a proper clean-up later." Hailstork looked chastened, and the pink in his cheeks spread charmingly. By the time Hermione had escorted her guest to the vacant chair beside Tonks, pointing out, "Now you have your choice of butterbeer or pumpkin juice," with the same stubborn serenity she deployed for Ron’s sake, it was clear to everyone how smitten Hailstork was.

As they passed beyond him, Ron swiveled in his chair and emitted an anxious lowing sound, like a calf separated from its mother.

After dinner, Harry and Ginny helped a tight-lipped Molly Weasley get Ron kitted out in striped pajamas. To their relief, Ron was so docile and sleepy that he pulled away from their helping hands to curl up in bed.

Mrs. Weasley was more than ready to buttonhole anyone within range to complain about how Hermione’s friendship with Adrian Hailstork was a knife to her son’s heart. "Incalculable calculus, my foot! Have you ever heard such nonsense? What’s the point of reducing love to a set of equations, may I ask? And don’t get me started on the synergetics of intent! We don’t need fancy theories to tell us what that young upstart’s intentions are. They’re so far from incalculable, you could do a pop quiz on a roomful of first-years and they’d all score a perfect O."

Ron confounded her, however, cuddling the pillow and staring round with a vacuous smile. He looked a right shoo-in for the role of naughty cherub, the very type assigned to bring lovers together.

Until you noticed his eyes: the fine, pale lashes flickered over emptiness.

Moved by the sight, Harry sat beside him. Plastering an encouraging grin on his face, he forced himself to reach out and stroke the bright hair off Ron’s forehead. That was all he could endure before he snatched his hand back. Shaking inside, he smiled to show his friend how happy he was. If he was happy, Ron was, too. Love you, mate, he thought, though he was pants at legilimency and words wouldn’t help, anyway. Damn it, Ron, I miss you.

Huddled under the covers, Ron reached up to stroke Harry’s mouth, as if checking to see that the smile was real. Harry froze, holding himself utterly still as his ghosts breathed into Ron's hand. Then the hand traveled down between them, unharmed, and Ron patted his own lips with a look of dawning wonder. Harry would never know what that look meant. Seconds later, knuckles fisting his chin, Ron was asleep.

Molly stayed by her son, with instructions to Ginny to firecall Arthur and let him know where she was. As they walked down the creaky stairs together, Harry stayed close to the wall and fumbled to make small talk. "What’s up with Owen? Didn’t see him at dinner."

"Owen who?"

The spray of freckles stood out like a pox on Ginny’s face. Harry shut his mouth and peered closer. She did look awfully waxy, as if she’d spent the day tossing up in the loo. The skin under her eyes was baggy. Before he could say another word, she grasped the mahogany handrail and launched herself down the next three steps in one go. Harry recovered in less than a blink and caught up with her before she could make a smart turn around the bottom post and escape.

"Ginny, what’s happened?"

She paused and drew her shoulders together before shaking herself angrily and meeting his eyes. "Not bloody much. Merlin knows, I can pick ‘em. Apparently, all this while Horny Thorny’s been turning tricks over half London. Male, female, Muggle, magical, he’s an equal-opportunity bedwarmer, is our Owen. Feels compromised by the amount of time he spends with me. So I said, don’t feel obliged." Her freckles practically glowed, afloat on a sea of flushed pink skin. "I knew he could be an abominable flirt. I mean, so can I. But Harry, it kills me to think I was just a casual bit on the side."

"I’m so sorry." Harry descended the last step and stood gnawing his lip. He wanted to hug her, but the moment the desire entered his arms he could feel them grow hollow. A chilly wind whistled along his bones. "You’re through, then?"

"No lie. After what Owen said? At one point I zapped him with an Impotens hex. He deflected it all right. ‘Spect he’s used to them. After that, things got nasty. Owen said," she toyed nervously with her hair, "he said it’s like a mortuary in here. That we should all bloody well just let Ron die. It’s ghoulish, the way we’re hanging onto the past. Like we’re all mortally afraid of what to do next."

"Let Ron die?"

"Uh-huh. Told you it got nasty."

A bright burst of anger seemed momentarily to shatter his ghosts. "Bastard," Harry growled. "Say the word, and he’ll weep for the day he ever flaunted his prick."

"No," Ginny whispered. "Don’t tell anyone. It’s not been two days yet, and I don’t - I mean, there’s Hermione bringing her new bloke home and all. Be six kinds of slag to upstage her, you know? And Mom’s in a rare old mood tonight, anyone can see that. I don’t want her getting up in my face, even in sympathy, all right?"

Harry nodded. Ginny swallowed and peeked over at him, blinking watery, hopeful eyes. Harry wanted to tell her how adorable she looked, how sorry he was, and that Owen was the puckered back end of a Centaur. But his teeth were so clenched with cold and a sort of horrible sinking feeling that he couldn’t get the words out.

The blush died on Ginny’s face, and something crumpled around her eyes. "Don’t worry, Harry," she quavered. "I’m not going to hit on you, for Circe’s sake."

She spun suddenly on her heel and darted into the front room, where a pink-cheeked Hailstork was ensconced on the sofa, head bobbing in unison with Hermione’s quill-waving tirade. The Arithmantic noise Harry found so impenetrable bubbled from her lips, punctuated now and then by something he recognized, like "love" or "hate." Hailstork was obviously the basin-bearing acolyte eager to catch every word. Seated together, they gripped opposite edges of the same stained parchment and pored over it, poking their fingers at favorite passages as if sharing a love letter.

Flipping them a curt, "Hi," Ginny made a beeline for the Floo and crouched down.

From the hall, Harry stared at the long, red hair that had been Ron's undoing. No, it wasn't her fault. But he was shocked that she had so completely misunderstood him. The thought of Ron upstairs asleep, fisting his fading smile like a baby, had already left a fragile spot inside him. He felt brittle, breakable. Now this. Out of nowhere, he wanted to smash something. He thought he might run mad if he didn’t get a chance to hit something right now.

Raising a hand toward the stairs, Harry Accio’d his heavy winter robes, checked the pockets for his invisibility cloak, and after a moment of searching, summoned that, too. He didn't see Ginny’s head turn as the door thumped shut behind him, or hear Hermione’s speech cut off in mid-sentence as she furrowed her brow at Ginny and received a despairing headshake.

It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. He’d put this off long enough.

He Apparated to the steps of Spinner’s End with such force that he practically splinched his nose in the door.

A blast of wind, stinging with snowflakes, instantly swept his robes horizontal. The icy shock made his body ache, a perfect match to his ghostly inner turmoil. Triggered, the wards grabbed him. Harry waited, breathing clouds in the darkness. Within seconds a petaled fragrance insinuated up his nose, and the air warmed in apology. Hastily he threw his father’s cloak over his head, and without further ado slipped inside the house.

Dark as usual, right? Wrong again, Potter. A flickery glow splashed the darkness just ahead. In the sitting room, Snape sat sprawled on the sofa, hemmed in by books.

Of all the rotten luck. There was no way the git could have missed the door opening. Harry counted the seconds until Snape’s port-wine voice burned through the silence, the kind of voice you’d expect the smoke to have, curling upward from knives of fire.

He waited in vain. Perhaps luck was with him, after all. Harry charmed his feet and cast a wordless Lumos. He glided into the tiny, book-lined space where a single candle guttered, a grotto of dying light beating small wings against the dark.

Snape was asleep. He had one black-clad leg tucked under him, and his face was tipped so loosely over one shoulder, his neck looked broken. Black hair straggled across his cheek. Pages blurry in the dim light, six or seven books lay open around him. More were stacked on the floor next to one bare, tapered foot that was tilted on edge against the carpet, supple toes extended as if pointing. A teapot steamed on the low table, keeping company with a half-finished cup.

Harry listened to Snape breathe, thinking how peaceful it was here, how private. It was almost as if the Severus Snape of Spinner’s End were some fellow Harry’d never met. An obscure scholar, his typically crowded English teeth stained yellow from late-night cups of tea, beaky nose expressive of intellectual ferocity, the hollows of fatigue carved into his face by dreams Harry could scarcely imagine.

He was drawn to the sight of Snape’s narrow hands lying open on the sofa cushions. Elegant hands, just crying out to be lifted and smashed, stripped of all humanity and competence, all beauty.

Battling the sudden urge to wake Snape with a Sectumsempra straight to the chest, Harry wondered that the violence of his emotions didn’t bring the neighbors pounding on the door. The blood and shouting would have created a scene perfectly in tune with the murdered souls inside him.

But it was his turn, right? To be unreasonable. To punish a wandless man and bring a Death Eater to his knees.

His sweaty grip on his wand tightened. It wouldn’t heal Ron’s mind, true. But it might staunch the wound of irreparable loss that was bleeding Harry to exhaustion, and which sometimes wore his sanity down to a single unsnapped thread.

Still uncertain, he extended the tip of his wand toward the exposed side of Snape’s face.

All of the books lying open slapped shut at once.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. At the same time, without shifting his head or opening his eyes, Snape grunted, "Potter," his voice dark, tired, not in the least malevolent, echoing up from the chambers of dream.

Heart wild as a house elf’s, Harry extinguished his Lumos and stood stock-still, hoping to escape notice.

But Snape was coming fully awake now. He kept his eyes shut while his head rolled upright on the sofa’s backrest. "Can’t a man be allowed to nap in his own parlour without suffering a constant invasion of idiocy?" he muttered, raking a hand through the stringy hair still draped across his eyes. After a moment, as it was brought home to Harry that Snape was right about him being a fool, Snape snorted, one arm still slung above his head. "Give it up, Potter. I can hear you breathing. You also smell rather strongly of," the drowsy voice strengthened, savouring each word, "perspiration, beef stew, January night air, and," briefly the black eyes gleamed, and Harry glimpsed in them a yellow spark from the room’s single candle. Then Snape lowered his lids again, purring, "hothouse roses." A miniscule twitch, standing in for a smile, ghosted across his face.

With a flick of his wand, Harry scoured the remaining bits of Ron’s spit-ball from his shirt, then raised his arms. The invisibility cloak rustled to the floor like a shed snakeskin, loud enough for Snape to hear.

His voice dead in his mouth, Harry whispered, "I could have cursed you while you slept."

"Indeed." Snape sounded bored. "Why didn’t you? It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble."

"I didn’t," Harry said, one painful word at a time, "because you woke up first."

A deep crease knitted the skin between Snape’s brows, and slowly, blinking once or twice, his eyes peeled open to consider that statement. For a moment Harry recognized the Snape he saw in dreams, mute, unmoving, staring into darkness.

Then Snape grimaced and sat up, wincing in annoyance as he straightened his bent leg. With swift, concise movements he gathered and stacked the books, betraying no particular emphasis when he asked, "Potter, what is it you want from me?"

Harry debated what to say, but having just given his opinion that he wanted Snape dead, it seemed fruitless to hold back the only thing left. "I want you to take your sweater off."

A book thudded to the floor. The last remaining candle guttered so low, the room shrank into a primitive huddle, all black and ragged gold. Shadows breathed in every corner, pulsing and flickering in time with the candlelight.

Towering up off the sofa, Snape was unreadable, painted all in black by his choice of attire. Black hair tented his face, hiding his expression. His voice could have frozen a cauldron at full boil. "You insolent, petty-minded brat. Get out of my house."

"I want to see your collar." No, that came out wrong. It sounded like begging. That wasn’t what Harry intended at all.

"Don’t be nauseating." The deep voice rang off the walls. "You are truly a blockhead for the ages, Potter. Does it mean nothing to you that I dragged your sorry arse out of the Ministry that night? That I saved you from the fire when I could have let you burn?"

One side of his face was visible now, in the eerie, stark manner of moonlight on rock. Harry could see, just in case there was any doubt, that Snape was absolutely livid.

"I’m not the one who needed saving," he whispered.

That was the instant the wick chose to drown. A brief flare of light, like a clap of phoenix wings, then the sitting room was plunged into darkness. Through it crept the wandering smell of cooling wax. The winds shrilled at the window sounding like wolves howling to get in.

Snape’s voice seemed to swell in the velvety blackness, filling Harry’s senses to overflowing. "I suppose you had someone else in mind?"

Luckily, the spirits of the dead had congregated in his chest, numbing him. Otherwise he mightn’t have got the words out. "Ron. You should have saved Ron. If not you, someone. He doesn’t deserve - I mean, what’s left of him - shite. Seeing him like this is worse than living with - "

Ghosts, Harry almost said, but caught himself in time.

"Ronald Weasley’s alive?"

Cracks raced through the ice sheathing Harry’s heart. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Furious, he extended one hand in the direction of Snape’s voice, moving into the darkness. Something rammed solidly against his legs. The sofa, by the feel of it. In an instant, Harry went from feeling safe to the senses-prickling panic of imminent danger, signaled by the dampness welling in his eyes, creeping down his face, pearling in drops along his chin. He had to erase those signs, right now, hurry the fuck up, before the lights came back on. A hinge creaked, and he heard Snape murmur, though not to him. Angrily he bumped his glasses up with his knuckles and scrubbed in punishing haste.

The far side of the room brightened unsteadily, like a rehearsal for sunrise. Gilt titles on innumerable books glittered up and down the dim wall. The bulky, floor-length curtains shrouded the windows. Shadows controlled the room and herded the renewed light into one little halo, keeping it at bay. The teapot was gone.

Harry blinked at his knuckles and found them streaked with grief.

Raising the lantern toward the wall, Snape motioned curtly, not sparing him a look or a single strafing eyebrow. Slowly the hidden door squealed open, burdened with books. A descent into nothing, the terrifying darkness on the other side yawned.

Inside Harry, the dead swirled, like the awful things bottled in Snape’s potions lab.

Snape paused on the threshhold in a nimbus of wobbly yellow light. "Go home, Potter. There’s nothing for you here. It’s time you learnt to leave well enough alone."

Harry blurted, "Ron’s dying, isn’t he?"

The look that earned him was splintered, savage. The bastard had scarcely been awake five minutes before the mask of the bookish scholar was shown up for what it was, a ludicrous fancy.

This was the real thing: this sunless, unconsoling face.

"Go home, you stupid boy. Spend time at your friend’s bedside while you still can." Snape turned away, toward the black pit of the stairs. "I cannot help you."

In a sudden fury, Harry screamed, "You know what cursed him, don't you? Maybe you're the one who did it, you murdering prick!"

"Feel free to express your immaturity elsewhere," Snape said thinly. "And while you’re at it, piss off, Potter. I won’t stop you." Not staying to waste words, he proceeded down the stairs.

The lantern vanished as if doused in a pool, and the bookcase started creaking back toward the wall. Shaking all over, practically steaming from his pores as the cold melted inside him, Harry conjured a Lumos. Aiming his wand, he felt the strength of Snape’s will as the heavy door tugged against him. Then it slammed back and collided with the adjacent bookcase, toppling fragile volumes from the shelves.

He lunged for the threshold. Once across, anxiety laid into him hard, as if he’d run stomach-first into a steel bar. Sweat popped out on his skin as he forced himself down the first two steps. Where had Snape and his lantern gone? He urged his Lumos brighter. The darkness seemed to stick to his skin. No, that was his shirt. The ghosts of the dead surged inside him, trying to leap the dam, vault clear of Harry into the oblivion rising up the stairs.

Panting, he stumbled lower and then stopped, bent over as if in pain. "You can do this," he muttered. "Come on, idiot." He went down another step, the slats stained and sway-backed from decades of pounding feet. Bent double, he was treated to a view of the wood grain and the nothingness that waited below.

His ghosts rocked back and forth behind his eyes. Harry started to feel seasick. On the next step down, he almost fell. Seeking purchase, he fumbled for the left-hand wall, and his fingers closed on a clump of rose petals. They disintegrated in his hand. A thorn pierced the meat of his thumb, and he squawked.

"Potter."

Startled, Harry forced his head up. A drop of sweat wended its way down his neck, like the tip of a tongue making lazy progress. Warmth soaked his collar.

Below stood his nemesis, lantern aloft. The lit face was grotesque, the eyes like slots carved by a knife.

"I can do this," Harry whispered, angered by the croak in his voice.

"Bigger jackasses than you have had trouble with these stairs." Snape extended a hand, and a huge spidery shadow sprang across the only visible patch of wall. "Come toward me."

Harry’s lips skinned back from his teeth. He lowered his wand so that he could see the next step, and wobbled downward.

"Stop dawdling," growled Snape, "you’ll only make it worse," and with sudden impatience he ran up the stairs, noiseless in his bare feet, until his outstretched hand was just within reach.

Snarling, fighting the sickening pressure to give way and pitch forward, Harry refused. Snape curled his lip. Without further ado, he leaned forward and tugged Harry down the stairs, gripping so hard that the articulated bones of his long fingers and the narrow stem of Harry’s wrist practically grinding together.

At the bottom, having kept his feet just one degree short of letting Snape drag him, Harry smacked into his former Professor in a graceless display of botched motor control. For an moment, they were in smothering physical contact. Fumbling, Harry sucked a faceful of wool. Through it came the same note over and over, Snape’s black heart insisting he was human, human.

What he needed a heart for was anyone’s guess.

Harry felt the blood vibrating through the soft fibres crushed beneath his cheek, beating time where his lips mashed into the distended blade of Snape’s shoulder. Long, trailing hairs found their way into his mouth, the strands tasting of smoke. If he’d lifted up a couple of inches on tiptoe, he could have brought his teeth down on Snape’s black turtleneck, bruising the embroidered skin beneath. As for a body, all Harry got only a fleeting impression of narrow heat.

Then Snape practically threw him into the corner, barking, "Stand up at once and stop playing the buffoon."

Harry handed himself shakily along the wall, his back to it. Recovering control of his limbs, Harry stumbled after, glad to get shut of those cursed stairs, the horrible, head-spinning feeling of falling. By then Snape had stalked the length of the hallway and vanished from sight.

Should he follow? His ghosts seemed to think so, hungering forward, drawn to the magnet of Snape’s bedroom door. Harry’s rage re-kindled with every step, but he was wary now, tracking the devil to his den.

He paused once to fish out a long black hair that was stuck between his tongue and teeth. Holding the wet strand at arm’s length, he touched the tip of his wand to one end and watched a red spark zip its way to the top. He stamped it out on the carpet runner. The stench of scorched hair hung in the hall.

When he reached the doorway, the candles were dancing merrily and Snape lounged at a window, sipping as before from the cut-crystal glass. Through the pulled-back curtains, flurries of snow pelted his ghostly reflection. There was nothing else visible in the blackness beyond.

"Something I’ve been meaning to ask," Harry said finally, striving for calm. "That night. At the Ministry." A sudden, bewildering urge to throttle Snape swelled inside him. He burst out, "Why’d you save my life? Voldemort was dead. You were free. Why didn’t you just Apparate the hell out of there?"

Snape huffed into his drink. "I had my reasons." He didn’t bother to turn around. "My very Slytherin reasons."

"Maybe I didn’t make myself clear." Harry took one careful step into the room. "Stop playing hard to get and tell me your ‘reasons’."

Snape angled his face in three-quarter profile, eyes lapidary. Tendrils of hair screened but didn’t quite hide his sneer. "Really, Potter. Have you ever in your life done one single thing to warrant a confidence from me?" His face stone, he turned away and moodily swirled his drink, bringing the bouquet up to his nose and inhaling, then lowering the glass and swirling some more. "You’re alive. You could thank me for that, but I daresay it’s beneath you."

He reached out and placed his hand on the window. It was a tentative gesture, uncannily close to that of Ron reaching up to pet Harry’s smile. Swallowing, Harry covered his mouth with his hand, imitating Ron’s touch. Snape’s long fingers barely made contact with the white-bordered glass, just the tips at first, his palm gradually easing flat against the cold surface. He held it there, hiding his reflection.

Harry saw his jaw tighten, and realized that Snape was consciously provoking the power of the Wards, paying the price required in escalations of pain to determine how far he could trespass.

After an uncomfortable silence, Snape peeled his hand away. For a moment it hung limp in the air before Snape turned it over to scan the palm. His face gave away nothing. Gaze fixed, he downed half his glass in one swallow.

"It’s no use trying to bully me," he rasped, throat obviously burning. "I’ve no intention of letting you have anything of mine simply because," he turned, with a slight cough, "your wand’s pointed at my heart."

Hand steady, Harry advanced farther into the room. "What exactly were you doing during the battle? Who else did you curse from the shadows, Snape?"

"Oh, grow up, boy." Snape’s body language was vastly unimpressed, but a duelling glitter awoke in his eyes.

"You’re planning to make a break for it, aren’t you? You’ve been spending your days figuring out how to fool the Ministry."

"Naturally. As would you. As would any sane person locked up in here, day after day, with nothing to do, no conversation to dispel the monotony, unable even to shop for your own food. Why else do you think I tolerate your company?" Snape shrugged one-shoulder. "It makes a change."

Great Merlin, his hand. Harry knew Snape would sneer if he looked away, so he didn’t. The bony fingers were tangled in strings of blood, the palm flecked with shreds. Well, the Ministry could rest easy tonight; Odile’s wards were doing a bang-up job.

A sudden honest desire to heal the mangled hand jumped inside him, but he suppressed the impulse. His wand sparked a little, startling them both.

Frustrated, Harry said, "Why save me? You’re a Slytherin. Why go to the trouble of helping your worst enemy, when you could have been halfway across Europe?"

Snape sniffed disparagingly. "Don’t flatter yourself. You were hardly my worst enemy." He strolled away from the window. Harry pivoted, keeping him in the line of fire. "I told you, Potter, you’re wasting your time. Besides, that’s not the real question, is it? The real question is why you can’t stay away from me."

He smirked. Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Snape talked over him, "Save it, boy. Just itching to hex me, aren’t you? That’s why you’re so intent on catching me in an act of magical transgression. You want a reason to punish me, don’t you, oh high and mighty Gryffindor? Your friend Weasley’s cursed, and here I am, your horrible professor, Dumbledore’s murderer," his mouth contorted as if he’d swallowed poison, "and I’m alive in spite of all that’s good and fair in the world. Isn’t that it?"

"Belt up, Snape," Harry gasped. Fire raced along his veins, threatening his fragile control over his temper. The dead rose through him in burning plumes.

"A scapegoat," Snape snarled. "That’s what you really want from me. I snatched you from the fire, boy, with the Ministry offices coming down around us, when all you could do was roll on the floor screaming. You, in all your Slytherin-killing glory. You wanted me dead, and I shoved you back into the arms of life." Drops flew from his wounded hand in punctuation. "Believe me. I know exactly how it feels. And I take it you want your friend Weasley to live, even though there’s nothing much left anymore. Yes, Potter, I saw him cursed. I saw it snatch from him the only thing resembling a mind--"

Abruptly, the glass in Snape’s hand shattered. A hail of crystal shards stuttered across the wooden floor, ringing against each other like tapped windchimes. Amber drops spangled his sweater, the last dram of liquor dripping down his hand. Either one of them could have caused it, but Snape backed away, hissing as alcohol burned into fresh cuts. Now both hands were bleeding. He curled them into fists.

"You little monster."

"That’s enough," Harry warned him.

Snape’s voice was venomously soft, a black ribbon curling around Harry’s heart, tightening with every word. "I will not be bullied into taking on this guilt for you. So your odious Professor saved your worthless hide? Yet you don’t have the power to keep your oldest friend from dying. You, the ultimate slayer of Dark wizards. It happens, Potter."

"I said, shut your mouth--"

"Not even the Dark Lord had magic enough to stave it off in the end. You of all people should remember that. Where do you get off blaming me, should Ronald Weasley’s ghost end up joining all the--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, you stupid fucking git!" Harry screamed. He scarcely felt the power sizzle down his arm.

Snape was standing at least five feet from the wall. The magic slammed him into it, hard. Harry could practically hear the impact of each individual bone on wood.

The fucker didn’t go down, though. The air blackened suddenly, flailing with thorns. Around him, in a snapping, splintering rush, white roses boiled out of the wallpaper.

Shaking, Harry kept the wand on target. Serrated edges hooked Snape’s clothes, yanked him upright. Body stiffening, he was hauled up the wall, higher, higher still, heels straining off the floor. Thorns tacked him flat, arms pinioned to either side. A length of briar caught him around the ribs. Drifts of petals cascaded down, white on dark wool, on black denim.

The wall vanished beneath a sea of roses. The mass heaved, and pulses of magic burst like small lava bubbles around Snape’s body. A tight-furled bud slithered over his left shoulder like an eyeless white snake and burst into bloom. White ruffles unfolded at his throat, pearly and pulsating, layers snarled with strands of black hair. Snape’s head arched back as a rose tried to cram itself into his mouth before disintegrating in a heap of glossy, silky snow.

Outlined in glowing white blooms, Snape hung. He didn’t fight. Beneath his limp fingers, clusters of roses slowly turned from white to red.

Then it was just Snape, blossoms gone, briars too, Snape hanging alone still pinned to the wall, his clothes twisted and puckered, the mere tips of his long toes brushing the floor. The air smelled of blood, and the smell was sweet.

Harry was too hard-pressed to gloat properly over Snape’s plight. Spitting fire - through his wand, out his pores, breathing it like a dragon - he fought to keep the room from bursting into flames. The ghosts thronged inside him, harsh as smoke. He struggled to master them, to master himself, to stop death blazing out of him in jets of fire.

Eyes bloodshot, he glared at the long, dark body spreadeagled against the bedroom wall. By god, he could destroy this house. He could sweep his arm around the room and watch the flames blossom. Snape was in no position to stop him. He could burn it to the ground, make it flare and dance, watch its timbers fall crashing, booming, like the Ministry. He could stand inside the fire, as he had that night, gouts of smoke blurring through the caved-in roof, mingling with the desolate fog. He’d been alone at the end, just charred bodies for company. He’d been screaming, he remembered, his friends fled or burned, Voldemort ash or so near as didn’t matter. Around him the flames had rumbled and seethed, cut through with a high-pitched hissing whine. Harry heard it still, those nights he lay wakeful. Pieces of his clothing had started to blacken, breaking away like sheets of scorched newsprint.

Then a figure had appeared out of the smoke.

Harry'd never told anyone, and part of him still believed he'd been delirious. A Death Eater had come striding through the fire, directly to his side. Later he realized it must have been the coward who'd stayed circling on the sidelines, awaiting his chance. The white mask bent over him, absent eyes glinting in the shadows. Too weak to fight, Harry crab-walked backwards on his heels and palms, gasping, protesting. The man pushed him down and covered his forehead with one hand, and what was Harry supposed to do? He'd been crazed by ghosts, by guilt, and fuck, he'd just killed a Dark Lord, and -

And it had been soothing at first, how one hand lifted the burden of terror off his exhausted heart. It had been the only kind thing in that whole experience of hell. The windy roar of the fire died down, his body cooled, and just like that he was able to breathe. Harry had been so intensely grateful that he'd clutched the man's hand and said, "Thank you. Thank you." He'd trusted that hand. He'd mistaken it for a promise that everything was going to be okay.

At first. And then something moved inside his skull. He'd cried out, then, at the pressure, as a singleminded magical intrusion pushed deep into the core of his being, exploring, splitting him open, pushing layers aside. Harry hoped never to feel pain like that again. Agony had radiated through every nerve in his brain, along with a sucking, clinging horror. The invader kept on until he found what he was looking for. He stopped, gathering power. Then his magic - pulled, and Harry screamed. After that he hadn't been able to stop. It had felt like a - a parasite with tentacles and mandibles and hooked legs was being dragged out of him inch by inch, extracted by sheer magical force. In the death grip of the invading magic, the thing in Harry's brain had scrabbled to stay put, scoring his sense of identity with its own furious will to live. Its myriad writhing limbs left bloody furrows behind, scarring some essential part of him forever. The part that trusted. The part that hoped.

The black-sheeted figure hunched over him staggered up. His wand flashed, and a volcano erupted in Harry's skull. Something seething and malevolent and alive exploded outward, molten to the touch, utterly grotesque. It left a gaping hole behind, and Harry whimpered in terror that his soul was about to be sucked into the flames.

The ejection of this loathsome presence was the last straw. It scorched his consciousness beyond enduring. Or perhaps it was the heat of the fire battering at him now that his human shield was gone. For a second, he blacked out. When the world - the burning world - came back into focus, he caught a flicker of movement that wasn't fire, and instinctively reached out his arms for help.

There was none. Only an emotionless white mask, black robes billowing behind a ragged, snapping curtain of gold. The flames screened Harry's view, leaping and subsiding, warping the air with a heat-haze. The office carpet had shriveled, and the floor under it seared his shoulders. He saw the shadowy flap of a sleeve, like a carrion bird rising from the soot and split flooring. With a great sweep of his arm, the Death Eater pitched something across the room, into a corner where some Ministry clerk's desk burned like tinder. Harry heard a smack as the object made a mushy landing. Pale green flames started weaving upward, and a wet crackle rose, popping and sizzling like bacon on a skillet. The smoke in the room became flavoured with rot. It was like breathing death. Harry gagged, and a frightful whistling started, like a mad tea kettle on the boil. A series of strange, demented vowels yowled upward, struggling to become words.

The Death Eater aimed his wand. An earsplitting shriek of wordless rage exploded in flaming shrapnel as a section of the ceiling caved in, burying the desk in fiery rubble.

Shuddering all over, Harry lay helpless, wondering if he was next.

The man wiped his hands on his robes and lifted them to his face. Turning, he simply faded away. In his wake, a white disk came clattering across the room, bounced once, rolled over, and cracked in half. The Death Eater mask. The man who'd worn it was gone.

"Wait!" Harry sobbed. "Help me!" His face was sticky; he was masked in blood. He started crawling over the splinters and cinders and sticks of broken furniture, but the fire blocked his way. There was nobody there, and he was too exhausted to Apparate. He was alone in a building more fire than stone, more ash than wood, stinking of death, the air so hot that his clothes spontaneously combusted.

Then sparks had roared over him, "Accio Harry Potter!" and the next thing Harry knew he was outside gasping in the cold night air, heavy black robes bundled around him, and there were Order members all over the place, spells whacking and sizzling, shouts ringing in his ears. He was being carried. Oh god, it was like heaven, he was being held. The shock of it had jerked a sob from his throat.

The harsh cry, "Drop him! Don't move or we'll Stupefy!" had smashed through his fragile shell of safety. Heaven reverted instantly to hell. The arms clutching him inside the warm robes - Harry still remembered the heartbeat banging against his cheek, reminding him he was alive, alive - tightened for a moment in denial, then let go. They let go, spilled his brokenness right out onto the pavement. He remembered falling into a ring of fire, bones jarred, glasses knocked spinning from his nose. He'd been coughing. His own robes had covered him in cinders, and all he'd wanted to do was crawl away from the light.

The way had been barred by two black leather boots. In the red-gold flicker of the burning building, he'd rolled over, blinded, body swarming with ghosts, face wet with blood.

But he hadn't needed to see. He'd been there before, in the dungeons of Hogwarts. He already knew at whose feet he lay screaming.

He hadn’t died that night, although to this day he sometimes crawled in his sleep. But just because he fell out of bed on a regular basis didn’t mean he had all that much interest in dying. He’d things to do, right? He had Ron to look after.

A shame, that. He could have taken Snape with him.

Fine, then. He’d settle. It was enough to see the Dark bastard snagged, ensnared, too stunned to speak a single horrible word, too much at Harry’s mercy to be a threat to anyone. Mercy. Harry’s breathing accelerated. Smoke puffed from the tip of his wand.

Snape’s head was tilted back, his scalp in disarray. Something rooted through the oil slick of his hair. Harry shuddered. He didn’t need to see the thorns to know what they were doing. They’d pierced his own skin often enough. Bastard ought to flinch, at least; his stillness wasn’t natural.

Something wet and dark welled suddenly at Snape’s hairline, anointing his pale brow, and began dribbling downward. It detoured down the side of Snape’s nose and crawled within touching distance of his lips. On his sunken cheeks, in the candlelight, the colour was ghastly.

Harry swallowed and his fury began to clear.

He lowered his wand. As if awaiting his signal, the wards began to tear loose, and the unresisting body sagged downward. Hearing the sweater rip, then rip again, Harry gulped. He was sweating. He rubbed his forehead and forced himself to stay calm.

Tiny shreds of black wool littered the floor, amid rose petals and fragments of glass. Snape went to his knees with several muffled thuds and nothing at all of his usual grace. Thorn-tangled, his hair branched out behind him and then fell, lock by lock, across his bent shoulders.

Harry trembled. Okay, this was it. This was what he’d hoped for, wasn’t it? Severus Snape kneeling, head bowed until his hooked nose risked catching splinters, his torn hands supporting him on the worn floorboards. Snape’s breathing filled his ears, and he remembered standing silent, watching Snape sleep, marveling at each even, ordinary breath. Nothing like this.

Well, Hermione had warned him. Lupin, too. Why hadn’t he listened? Whatever Snape had done, whatever he deserved, Harry was the one who’d just unleashed the full force of his magic against an unarmed man.

Then Snape’s head rose. He focused through the sticky part in his hair, his expression through the gap was bone-hard and bone-white. "I knew it," came the cracked whisper. The crooked stripe gleamed. "I knew the Dark Lord had willed you his sins. No wonder you’re so angry with me for keeping you alive. You’re mad with guilt, Potter."

"Stop talking," Harry said. A cinder of rage popped under his heart. His insides felt pitted with these tiny, nasty scars. "Don’t you know when to quit?"

"Even choking on my own blood, I’d still find the means to tell you what I think."

Bold words, oh sure, until it came time for Snape to rise from his knees. Then the git, right enough, was forced to shut his trap and save his energy. Especially since, at the first attempt, he had to sink back and try again. Harry knew better than to offer to help. With a whisper, he cleaned Snape’s face of blood and banished the tacky patches from his hair. Otherwise, really, he didn’t bear looking at.

Upright, Snape swayed for a moment, glaring dizzily like a drugged hawk. He was clearly waiting for Harry to mock him. When no remark was forthcoming and it seemed reasonably certain his knees wouldn’t give way, he wrapped the tatters of his dignity around him and placed his feet carefully among the glass and white petals.

"Optimistic to imagine you could free yourself of your ghosts by killing me, don’t you think?" he said in passing.

"I wasn’t trying - I didn’t - " Snape gained the bedstead while Harry was still babbling. Seeing him steady himself against the newel post with his fingertips alone, Harry was by his side at once, demanding, "Let me see your hands."

The sheer wattage of rage that flared in Snape’s face would have incinerated a lesser mortal.

"I’m sorry," Harry whispered. "Yes, I’m haunted, okay? You don’t know what it’s like."

Death Eater incarnate burst off Snape in waves. "Clear your self-pitying arse out of my way, you presumptuous Gryffindor prick, or by all that’s unholy, I’ll Crucio you where you stand. I’m in no mood to pander to the Boy Who Whinges."

Harry backed off. "I wasn’t going to hurt you."

Snape expelled a sibilant breath and continued onward, his movements slightly freer, his steady, cat-like tread carrying him to the cabinet. Harry listened to the sucking kiss of the stopper being jerked from the decanter, heard glass clink, watched Snape’s head tilt back as he washed down his anger with firewhisky. His view of Snape’s sweater, tufted with threads and gashed in places all the way to his waist, gave him some idea of what the man’s back must look like.

Then Snape set down his drink and turned, leaning against the cabinet with folded arms. "For Merlin’s sake, Potter, why aren’t you gone?"

"What? I don’t know," Harry said, wanting to cry ghosts, fire, Ron. He knew he should take a hint, but feared that if he Apparated back to Grimmauld Place he’d inevitably end up causing a scene. "I don’t know."

"Too bad for you, then." Snape’s smile was as cold as the winter night outside. "I do."

Arms still folded, he raised the fingers of one bloodstained hand to his thin lips and began slowly stroking back and forth, as if deep in thought. Brooding, he stared straight at Harry. Rage and pain had left his eyes dilated. The effect was disturbing. Harry watched that pale, willow-boned hand trace Snape’s mouth from side to side, outlining its shape, leaving smears of blood, and he began to feel as if he were back on that staircase, struggling to resist the sensation of falling. Stripped of his billowing robes, Snape was thin. The Muggle clothes streamlined his body and made him look, in their own way, just as forbidding.

Harry knew, for a certainty, that he ought to go. Get out of there now. There was no love lost between him and Snape, and he was exhausted from all the fire and loathing.

"I recall you asking me to remove my sweater," Snape said, and Harry’s insides flipped. "Claiming to want another look at my ‘collar’, as you so delicately put it."

It wasn’t a question, but Harry nodded anyway. He wished passionately, but in silence, for a shot of firewhisky. In a startling flash of memory, the vibration of Snape’s heart passing through soft wool and into his lips swamped his senses. Or more specifically, his prick. Harry experienced an agony of embarrassment, refusing to examine too closely what it might mean, to be so acutely aware of his crotch while standing in Snape’s presence.

Then his tormentor said, "So what would you offer me in exchange? An illicit delivery of potions ingredients? A promise to keep me in food and drink?" He crooked a meditative eyebrow. "Actually, Minerva’s been extremely good about ensuring that my palate doesn’t die of boredom. The budget the Ministry’s allotted for my upkeep runs to bangers and mash twice a day, plus the occasional ale. On that front, giving credit where it’s due, Draco’s been the soul of generosity, buying off his conscience with varietal wines. Or anything else I’d prefer to drown my sorrows."

Harry bit his tongue. His stare was drawn helplessly across Snape’s bottom lip in the wake of a slow, trailing caress.

Snape’s hand stilled, and he smiled faintly through his fingers. "Obviously the rumours going around Hogwarts that the Sorting Hat considered you for Slytherin House were a gross distortion of the truth. You couldn’t strike a bargain to save your life." To Harry’s intense relief, he lowered his hand. "We’ll just have to see, then, won’t we?"

See what? Harry wondered. Then Snape grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled up. The utterly inane thought pierced Harry’s mind, Help, he’s going to kill me! After which, thinking became the least of his worries.

Halfway up, Snape hesitated, his movements slowed by the need to work loose the fabric stuck to his mangled back. Thus Harry was left staring at his flat white stomach. The knowledge churned through him Snape has a body under his clothes. It’s always been there. Now I’m going to see it. That’s his belly, okay. It’s not deformed. It’s just - god, he’s pale. Why doesn’t this make sense. I am staring at Snape’s skin.

For the love of god, look away!

Harry did not look away.

For an instant, when Snape was drawing the sweater over his head, arms upraised and spine slightly arched, all Harry could do was endure the impact: the amazing way it pulled Snape’s stomach concave, the horseshoe arch of his ribs casting shadow, drawing out of his waistband a slight spicing of very black hairs. His chest was stretched to the utmost for Harry’s dumbfounded perusal, the layer of lean flesh over bone a scarcely adequate padding. There were some scars and a few new welts and scratches, red pinpricks beading along the skin. Athwart each flat breast was a nipple like a thumbprint of blood, and around each dark center grew a circle of wild black hairs. The effect of these on Harry was much as if he’d walked into a static-electric hex. Every fine hair he owned anywhere on his body came erect in response, and any place any one of them brushed the surface of, say, his heavy winter robes, sent an agony of sensation back through his nerve endings and nearly electrocuted his cock. A cock that was already feeling five times larger and heavier than Harry had ever known it, ensuring that the tightness of the underpants pressing his groin threatened disaster.

His cock pulsed, and he wailed inwardly, Fuck. I’m going to come just from seeing Snape’s nipples.

It was either that, or spring across the room and, er -

Suck them. For a moment Harry thought he might lose the few spoonfuls of stew in his stomach.

Then the grim head emerged from the confining turtleneck, disheveled hair scattering limply onto Snape’s bony shoulders. The contrast of oily black tickling naked white skin was so unbearably erotic to Harry’s overburdened senses that he couldn’t keep down a squeak.

Snape stared at him, poker-faced, as he peeled the ruined sweater off his wrists. It hit the floor unnoticed. Harry was too busy cataloguing things he’d missed during the first shockwave, things like the ink blots of hair under Snape’s arms, drawing attention to the curvature there, the wings of muscle. Harry was no stranger to the mystery of armpits, or nipples for that matter, he’d seen plenty of them in the boys’ showers at Hogwarts. He couldn’t have said why this hollow-eyed, ugly man, his body gaunt as a greyhound’s, could break through his inhibitions, his barriers, the cold horror of his ghosts, and appeal directly to his groin.

It didn’t make sense or bear thinking about. So, for however long he stood in this room, he wouldn’t. Thinking was overrated, anyway.

Impatiently, Snape leaned back and shook each length of hair behind his shoulders, tucking unruly strands over his ears. "Potter. Get on with it before I throw you from the house."

A second earlier, Harry would have doubted his ability to walk at all, let alone in a straight line. Now, his attention re-directed to the black filigree banding Snape’s throat, he came forward as if under Imperius, heavy robes undulating around him. Switching his wand to his left hand, he nerved himself to stand within touching distance of Snape’s nakedness.

At Hogwarts, the Potions master had always been covered in layers, flowing and enfolding, from his neck to the ground. Seeing Snape in shirt sleeves would have been disturbing enough. But nudity, Harry was just now beginning to realize, made everything erotic. It made candlelight erotic, Snape’s belted black trousers erotic, the scuffed leather armchair off to one side a seat of impending pleasure. It lent a tingling charge to everything, a crackle of possibility.

Right now it made the very act of breathing indecent, lewd and beautiful beyond Harry’s comprehension. He forced himself not to look at the narrow belly rising and falling, or the slight swell of chest that raised Snape’s nipples just enough to attract the eye. Even so, he noticed that each of the nipples, no longer flat, had grown a bump, a tiny, enticing nub hardening in the middle. Extremely precise, in a very Snape-like way. Which meant either that Snape was cold, despite the warming charm in the room, or he was - Harry tried not to think it too loudly, though his entire body thrummed with the word - aroused. Severus Snape was aroused, and shirtless, and Harry willed his hand to please stop shaking as he reached up-

Gasping as Snape, shifting position without warning, caught his wrist and wrung it.

"You said look, not touch." Snape’s voice had always been deep, but there was something extra to it now, a kind of dark purr, nearer a rumble, the sound of something much larger than a cat. He’d used his left hand, and Harry couldn’t help but slide his glance down the wiry forearm, searching for the Dark Mark.

"I just want to see how they--" Harry floundered, at a loss for words. "How it works. What kind of magic they put into it." He edged nearer the truth. "What it feels like."

"Oh, well, in that case," Snape said, still in that strange, dark tone. "By all means, let's give you what you want," and he pulled Harry forward one step. For a moment he frowned at Harry’s hand, reading the subtle map of scars. Then he rested the knuckles of his other hand against Harry’s neck and stroked up the underside of his jaw, so gently it made Harry’s chin tremble.

Cool fingers fanning out around Harry’s throat, Snape purred, "This is what it feels like."

He clamped down, hard.

Harry wheezed. Snape’s hold tightened, slowly strangling him, his fingertips nearly meeting at the nape of Harry’s neck.

He thought at first it was a test. He didn’t really believe that Snape would try to choke him. But within seconds he could feel himself thrashing for air, the skin around his sockets growing tight, his eyes bulging. Snape was crushing his windpipe. Blackness speckled Harry’s vision, and a terrible pressure built in his head. Panicking, he raised his wand.

Snape’s grip slackened immediately, though he didn’t remove his hand. Harry coughed at the burn of air, the terrible ache of bruised ligaments, choked on his Adam's apple as it moved back into place, a bit dizzy on his feet as blood hammered his skull. But for some reason he didn’t baulk at letting that hard-boned, brutal hand support the weight of his pounding head. When Snape’s fingertips kneaded the sides of his jaw and a muttered spell eased the soreness in his throat, it never even occurred to him to explode in rage. Panting a bit, he simply waited.

"Never be so foolish as to ask for that again," Snape whispered. He still gripped one wrist. Harry nodded, his jaw moving awkwardly in the cradle of Snape’s hand.

Several seconds of staring passed between them before Harry rasped, "My turn."

He was halfway convinced that Snape would refuse, but the weight at his throat lifted and Snape leaned back, bracing himself on the cabinet. Guiding Harry’s arm forward, he allowed it to rest alongside his neck.

The tattoo was warm, pulsing with life. Harry could feel the magic of the runes even before Snape let go, leaving him awkwardly petting the black curlicues. They were practically breathing into each other’s faces. Snape studied Harry in thin-lipped silence as he traced the intricate pattern, shifting suddenly to look over Harry's head as an errant thumb strayed down into the depression where Snape’s collarbones met in a dip and a careless finger grazed the lobe of his ear. He finally closed his eyes as Harry pocketed his wand and brought his other hand into play. It showed extraordinary trust, Harry had to admit. Especially coming from an ex-Death Eater, who viewed the most innocent slip as a violation of privacy.

But throttling Snape as payback wasn’t on the programme.

The collar was fascinating. It tickled and hummed very faintly against Harry’s palms, and as he’d hoped, the twining, serpentine shapes could be discerned by touch, raised in shallow relief around the white throat. They felt as smooth as Snape’s skin. Harry followed the interlocking designs with his fingertips, leaning forward, and breathing into the faintly humid area under the smoky curtain of hair. He’d never experienced such a haze of lust. Not just his cock, but his swollen balls, his hands, lips, his entire body, were achingly aware of all the places he wasn’t touching Snape. The sleeves of his robe trailed down the man’s chest, and they both twitched. Harry kept swallowing and nervously wetting his lips, trying to keep his tongue occupied, when all it wanted to do was lick. The points of Snape’s nipples had the tight look of berries about to burst, ripe enough to leave a red smear on anything that touched them. Dear Merlin, he wanted those in his mouth.

As he let his hands wander, Harry noticed that there was something familiar about the surface tension of the runes. It affected him the same way as an unknown ward. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the magical weave. Clearly the creators of the collar had never imagined anyone being desperate enough to touch the disgusting, notorious spy. Perhaps this was why Harry found divining the signature no more difficult than any other ward he’d faced.

Blinking, he fondled the pale throat possessively, emboldened by his knowledge of the right technique to use. Snape swallowed; Harry’s hands greedily drank in the spasm. He leaned closer still and saw the black sigils separate into stylized serpents of greater or lesser length, intertwined and rippling, making their rounds.

Whoa. His hold clenched slightly as he fought the impulse to jerk his hands away.

The instant stiffening of Snape’s shoulders recalled him to his task and the delicate issue of Snape’s permission. His fingers whispered a quick apology along the narrow jaw, and he realized Snape had been holding his breath when a careful exhale ruffled his fringe. He almost rested his cheek against the place where his fingers had touched, but stopped himself in time. Was he really so keen to court disaster that he’d give Snape a reason?

He focused on the runes - the snakes. The longer he watched, the more he caught the flicker of minuscule tongues. Merlin, no wonder it tickled.

His eyes widened when a delicate serpent just above his left thumb, with one quick strike sank its fangs into Snape’s throat. As he stared, more of the animated runes followed suit, biting in an apparently random manner before gliding onward in their preordained tracks. A rush of gooseflesh swept over him. How must that feel?

On a sudden whim, he rested his lips against Snape’s throat and whispered in Parseltongue.

Snape bucked against him, practically scrambling upright. His hand caught Harry’s jaw, forcing him back with a growl of, "Potter, what in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?"

Startled, Harry put out a hand to balance himself, and it landed squarely on Snape’s chest. "Trying to help you, believe it or not," he mouthed, hampered by the pressure squeezing his jaw. Unable to resist the opportunity, and figuring Snape might throw a tantrum no matter what, he rubbed his hand up and down Snape’s nipple, feeling the nub of flesh yield when pressed, finally betraying himself utterly by trapping it with one finger, caressing it with his thumb as if punishing his own prick with curt, flicking strokes.

Which wasn't far off the mark. The excruciating weight between his legs was so intense, Harry was grateful for the fingers muzzling him. They provided the grip on reality he needed to silence a groan. Best not to let Snape see the depth of his extremity. It took all his years of knowing what a vicious git this man was, and what a maniac Snape could be when provoked, not to risk groping the front of his trousers. Harry was dying to know how far gone Snape was, to hold throbbing in his hand the evidence of a bulging erection.

The mere thought of Snape having a cock was both revolting and thrilling. Mostly he wanted to see whether squeezing it could make Snape lose control. Because he had no doubt, looking into his face, of the state of Snape’s groin and the strain it was placing on his Muggle zipper.

"Reckless child," Snape breathed in his smoke-laden voice, making no move to dislodge Harry’s hand. Not even when Harry, inspired by the frustrated longing to jerk his own cock, twisted the hard red bud in his fingers. Snape’s nostrils flared, and he bent forward with hooded eyes, as if taking Harry’s measure. Looking head-on at the hooked nose and prominent bones, Harry knew he’d awakened the hunting instincts of someone who’d been cooped up for far too long.

He’s going to kiss me, skittered through his mind. He almost panicked, his fantasy shattered into confused fragments. Snape’s head tilted and he turned Harry’s face forcibly toward him. Then his open mouth brushed over Harry’s pursed lips, breath warming his skin. Harry stiffened, but Snape’s unyielding grip held him still. The tip of Snape’s tongue swiped at a corner of Harry's mouth, traced the shape of his upper lip, teeth grazing the opposite corner. Snape's lips parted, pulled Harry’s bottom lip in between them, isolating it for individual attention. He laved and rolled and suckled it, taking his time.

As Snape released his prize, now tender and swollen, Harry gave in, and Snape’s thin lips forced his mouth wider, entirely open for the tongue that moved into him. The heat of it collided with his own, demanding, as Snape had always demanded, that he respond to his abrasive presence. Harry kissed back, knowing he wasn’t very good at it but not caring, trying to give Snape whatever this mutual flight from sanity required.

Fuck, this was - fuck. His mouth was crammed full, his chin slippery, and Snape’s hair was getting in on the act. They both reached up to swipe it away. Their hands bumped and tangled together. Snape forced Harry’s arm down, holding it there as they kissed.

Snape tasted of firewhisky and tongue, just tongue, slick and insinuating, thrusting around Harry’s teeth and bruising his lips, not brutal exactly, more famished, exploring with such intensity that the inside of Harry’s mouth rocketed to the position of second most erogenous zone on his body. Their teeth clicked together more than once. Snape growled whenever his nose or Harry’s glasses got in the way. Intent on adhering to Snape’s mouth, afraid the spell would break if he let go, Harry clung and devoured, using his teeth to keep Snape’s attention. Snape crushed him a bit, and Harry pressed forward, seeking more. At last, bending his head back, Snape clutched Harry's skull and fucked him with his tongue in steady, ferocious strokes, as if determined to suck the taste of Harry down to the dregs.

Doing his best to pump in rhythm with this assault, Harry finally tore his mouth away, hating to give up the drowning, druglike submergence but coming all at once and unable to scream and kiss at the same time. He convulsed against Snape’s leg again and again, creaming in deep, wrenching spurts, soaking his pants, sobbing and almost hysterical with a release he hadn’t experienced in months.

He came to with one hand locked in Snape’s hair and one arm around his waist, still straddling Snape’s thigh. He’d been so utterly absorbed in keeping the kiss going that he hadn’t stopped to consider the advisability of riding Snape’s thigh to orgasm. When the leg had presented itself, he’d climbed aboard. Now, shaken and panting, he removed his mouth from the runes shivering around Snape’s throat. He left behind a smear of saliva. One of the snakes, rising in an S-shape, flashed its tongue daintily, tasting.

Still throbbing inside, Harry peeked upward. Snape stared back, his face flushed and unreadable. Oh gods, this was so far out of the realm of anything Harry knew. Embarrassment didn’t begin to cover it. Snape was still hard, his crotch radiating heat. Harry had only to arch forward to feel its imprint against his leg. Though dizzy and uncoordinated, he rubbed against the rough swirl of hair on Snape’s chest, smelling sweat as he laid his cheek there. Giving in to a need he’d felt since Snape had pulled the sweater over his head, Harry tasted the red oval fringed in black, then molded his lips directly onto the nipple and timidly bit down.

He heard Snape hiss, and was just feeling pleased with having got a reaction, when the leg supporting him suddenly straightened and Snape stepped back, dumping Harry onto the floor.

"Hey!" He scowled reproachfully up, uncurling one hand to shake loose the strands of Snape’s hair that had made the descent with him.

Ribcage heaving, Snape stood glaring down at him as if debating whether to pounce or run. He exuded the wild tension of something trapped behind bars, animal or prisoner - in this instance, perhaps both.

Then he shifted to glower at the wall, pressing the heel of one hand to one black eyebrow, and the strange power faded. "I must be mad," Snape said in a flat, disgusted voice. Turning away, he groped for the firewhisky.

"Pour one for me?" Harry started to say, but interrupted himself with a, "Cripes! That must hurt!"

He lurched to his feet, wand out in one fluid motion. Without asking permission, he swept it over the broken skin of Snape’s back, muttering the basic healing spells that everyone had practiced during the war. He worked his way from one side to the other, closing gashes and puncture wounds, mopping up blood until Snape’s skin was white again, scattered here and there with clean pink tissue. He even, with some trepidation, knotted Snape’s hair in one fist and twisted it up out of the way so he could attend to the lacerations beneath. He had to ignore the impulse to bury his face there and inhale the peculiar fragrance of potions master.

Snape stood silent while the spells crawled over his back. Satisfied, Harry retreated a step to give him some room and said, "Now your hands, please." When Snape swiveled with a frown that presaged some face-saving jibe, he repeated, "Please."

Still frowning, Snape extended one hand. "Potter, I’ve just brought you off against my leg, why aren’t you swearing and throwing things?"

Harry thought of sniping, That’s more your style, but he couldn’t contain the burst of enthusiasm, "Are you kidding? It was brilliant!" Grinning, he looked down and his jauntiness vanished. "Shite." Grabbing Snape’s arm to steady it - not that he expected Snape to flinch, but any excuse to touch right now and Harry was all over it - he traced the wounds with painstaking care, cleaning the ones that had crusted over and even stripping the dried blood from under his nails. Fuck. The thorny-toothed Wards had made a veritable lunch of Snape’s palm.

"Now the other." The silence radiating from Snape wasn’t very encouraging, but Harry soldiered on, repeating the procedure. He glanced up halfway through, realizing, "There’s blood on my face, isn’t there?"

"Also neck, hair, and wand hand, as you were clinging to me for dear life." Harry blushed. "I’d recommend Scourgifying yourself before you return home or your housemates will conclude I’ve tried to murder you."

As he extracted a sliver of glass and watched new pink skin follow in the wake of the wand’s bitten tip, it dawned on Harry that once he’d finished here, Snape would expect him to go away. If not for Snape’s obvious ire, he would have offered - what, a hand job? Harry had never sucked cock before and wasn’t going to volunteer now.

His wand had been hanging lax for several seconds, but he was surprised when the arm in his keeping pulled away. "I’ll take care of the rest," Snape said, squelching any ideas Harry might have had about further hanky-panky. "The loo’s in the corner. I suggest you avail yourself of the facilities and leave me in peace."

Well, that stung. Harry opened his mouth to retort, then turned on his heel and stomped into the lav. It was small and dim, full of old, chipped porcelain and cracked linoleum. The tarnished mirror presented him with a glass-bubbled view, warping the image of rumpled hair and red-sucked lips in a most unflattering way. Harry was relieved it was Muggle and therefore unable to express an opinion. He Scourgified himself from head to toe, paying special attention to his crotch. Then he washed his face for good measure, managing to soak the sleeves of his robe in the process. The sink smelled of rusty water dredged from icy well-housings. Mistaking it for a towel, he almost dried his hands on the faded nightshirt hanging on the back of the door.

Snape had shrugged his dressing gown on by the time Harry emerged. A steely expression, like a knife drawn partway from a sheath, warned Harry to keep his distance. Having given it a bit of thought while in the loo, he opened with, "Well." Snape turned away in disgust. Drawing breath, Harry pursued, "About that bargain."

Growling, Snape cast himself down into the armchair and dragged his hands through his hair, his posture not so much seated as crouched. "Our bargain is at an end, Potter, and my patience will shortly follow."

What patience? Harry wanted to snort. He swallowed instead. "But you know," he hated how his chest grew tight with hope and resentment and the lingering response to Snape’s physical presence. "You do know what Voldemort cursed me with, right?"

Hands still buried in his hair, gripping as if his head hurt, Snape regarded the floor. "And if I do?" he said at last, in a voice so quiet his throat barely vibrated.

"Well. Can you," Harry shook his head, already knowing what the answer would be, but driven to ask anyway, "do you know how - I mean, would you be able to help me lift the curse?"

The black eyes glittered up at him like tilted blades, light sharpening their edges. "No." Snape lunged from the chair, and Harry could practically see the shadow of his robes swirling around him. "It might be best if you learned to live with your demons. For a while, at least." He walked a few paces up and down as if agitated, forcing his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. Harry sympathized with the impulse to grope for his wand.

"What happened to the Slytherin instinct for bargaining? You don’t even know what you’d get in exchange."

Snape whirled in a way that betrayed he’d been waiting for it. "I don’t need favours, Potter. Sexual or otherwise."

"I didn’t mean - I’m not offering - fuck, you’re such a git." Harry forced out the words he’d come up with in the loo. "I was going to say, I can help you with that collar."

For a second, Snape looked positively hexed. It was almost comical, how utterly taken aback he was. His eyes widened, then closed, and for a moment his sockets formed perfect dark circles in his pallid face.

"Why?" He sounded shocked. Then his voice lashed out, throwing Harry’s words back at him. "You hate me, boy. Why help your worst enemy?"

"I don’t - " Harry protested. But it was foolish to deny it. All the others were dead, even Voldemort. Snape was his worst enemy. Or he had been, before this evening. Where Snape was concerned, things never stayed simple.

"Look. I know it gives you pleasure to see me suffer. So the incentive has to be big enough to compensate for giving that up. Plus it’s an issue of survival, for you and me both. I don’t know how much longer I can," he suppressed a gasp, a huge, icy ball forming in his chest as his sins condensed there, as if providing an audience, "can live with my mother’s and father’s ghosts."

Snape’s lips thinned. "What makes you think your parents are haunting you, Potter?"

"These are Voldemort’s sins we’re talking about," Harry replied as snidely as he could. "As much as you deserve credit, he was the one who actually murdered them. So they must be here," he pressed a hand to his chest, surprised it felt so warm when underneath he was freezing. "They just don’t know it’s me."

Snape scowled at the wall while his hand strayed up to his throat. The snakes arched when he touched them. This time the sparks of desire that shot through Harry were more exasperating than exciting, and he made an effort to stamp them out. He recalled Ginny mentioning the Impotens hex, and hoped to Merlin he wouldn’t have to resort to cursing his prick every time he visited Spinner’s End.

"In wondering why I saved your sorry arse," Snape addressed the wall as he drummed his pale fingers against the writhing serpents, stimulating them to a frenzy of striking, "did you never stop to think I owed your father a life debt? And since I not only failed to save him but even, as you point out, contributed to his death, I’ve never been sure I wouldn’t be called upon to die in your stead. As payment, so to speak. Payment with interest."

He craned his neck, twitched his head slightly, scratched his nails over his throat, then seemed to realize what was bothering him, and tucked his arms in tense restraint. Harry recognized that gesture; he was prone to it himself. "Rather than risk finding out the hard way that my debt had come due, it behooved me," he was speaking through his teeth, and Harry wondered just how much the collar must hurt, "to stop you from self-destructing prematurely, solely as a means of safeguarding my own life.

"So there you have it. Reason number one." He swung around to gaze at Harry over the knobbly architecture of his nose, and nearly fell over him. Harry’d inched his way across the room and maybe should have left a bit more space between them, for decency’s sake. But Snape was talking about his father, right? This was important.

The dark voice went exceedingly dry. "Mister Potter."

"I’m just looking." Embarrassed to be caught ogling again - yes, ogling, his mouth had opened to give his tongue some licking room - Harry made a great show of pretending interest elsewhere. A small, framed photograph on the cabinet caught his eye, and he was briefly intrigued: could that be Snape’s mum? A moment later, though, he peeked.

Too late, he saw the hand flash up. Cripes, Snape was going to throttle him again. His Seeker’s reflexes sent him dodging, but he’d misjudged Snape’s intent. Long fingers scruffed him, spearing his hair, a sensation divided between pillaging and petting.

"Ow!" Harry yelped, flailing. "Get off me!"

Snape wrenched his head up, silencing him with a haggard look. His voice reeked of baleful, exhausted bitterness. "Mr. Potter, how old are you?"

Yet another standard crack about his immaturity. That was bloody rich, coming from Snape.

"Are you even twenty yet? Merlin have mercy. Three days ago, Potter, I turned forty-one." Harry stopped struggling. Snape let him go, as if that capped his argument. "So you’ll agree we’ve both behaved with colossal stupidity tonight."

Well, that would be hard to argue under most circumstances. And things just kept getting stranger. First, it turned out Snape had a body. Now he had a birthday, too. It had never crossed Harry’s mind that Snape would give two knuts for such ordinary things.

For one searing second, as pure and without conscience as a flame, a tiny smoulder in the corner that could burn down a house, Harry knew for certain he would someday fuck Snape. He wanted it, and he would make Snape want it, too. Even if it meant choking him into submission. Even if he had to use the collar to persuade him.

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and Harry, in sudden fury that he wasn’t allowed to keep his thoughts to himself, flung a silent oath in the way of his Legilimency. He swore, too, at Snape’s treachery, his command of non-verbal spells, his wandless deceptions. He even cursed his own libido while he was at it. Scrambling to Occlude, his mind hit on the trick of shoveling insults in Snape’s path.

See how you like this, you slimy, evil, greasy, snarky, disgusting - hey, this was kind of fun - bony, bad-tempered, vicious, murderous, grudge-holding - no stopping him now - hook-nosed, heartless -

He channeled every foul thought he’d ever had about Snape into a swarming mass at the front of his brain, but it couldn’t drown out the pulse of going to want to need to fuck you, damn it, the insane need, the awareness that he had yet to rip Snape’s trousers down his hips for a -

Snape’s crotch thudded against his own so hard it almost hurt, butting him backward, their cloth-covered pricks rutting amid a tangle of legs and the blasted interfering robe. Harry produced a noise very squealing in nature. Fuck, that had been a dumb thing to do. Fuck, this couldn’t get much hotter. Snape shifted his grip from Harry’s head to his arse, thumbs rippling down his flanks, strong fingers rounding and squeezing as if to test the firmness of Harry’s squirming bum.

"You pea-brained, impetuous, virgin dolt," Snape growled in his ear. "Famous as your luck may be, you’re pushing it right now. I’m sorely tempted to compound our mutual stupidity and skewer you with no qualms at all. No lube, no finesse. Do you understand me, Potter? To fuck you so hard I split your arse up the middle." Harry moaned, and would have assaulted him with hands and teeth, but Snape gripped his upper arms and flung him off.

Then, with sneering deliberation, he smacked Harry across the face. His hand was cupped to lessen the blow, but it still delivered an air-pocket wallop of noise.

To Harry it felt as if he’d just struck the side of his face on a doorframe. Glasses knocked askew, he stumbled back as pain streaked up his jaw. Smarting and clutching the spot, he stood staring in furious disbelief.

"Remember who you’re dealing with," Snape spat, and Harry’s rage mounted. "Now get out. I’ve had enough of you for one night."

Harry snatched up his wand. Almost before he knew what he was doing, an angry hiss burst between his teeth.

No, that was a lie; he’d been longing to do this all evening.

It was pure savage impulse, joyful in its release. When he’d pressed his lips to Snape’s throat the first time, the necklace of snakes had quivered, he was sure of it. He had no idea if this would work, standing across the room with no contact, but if it did -

"Squeeze," he said in Parseltongue. "Go on, do it. Choke the fucker."

Snape lurched, his head whipping back as if someone had yanked his leash. His eyes flared, first in shock, then raging at Harry, finally bulging as the noose tightened. One hand rose to claw his throat. With the other he grabbed at the armchair for balance, lips writhing up from his crooked teeth as if to roar out a detention.

The only sound to emerge was a harsh gurgle. Patches of red spread like slapmarks across his face. His nostrils whitened, distending in panic.

As Snape fought to breathe, to neither kneel nor fall, something curdled inside Harry, a sense of power mixed with a shrinking horror that he could wish such a thing on anybody. That he could bid this to happen and then stand watching, the wand handle burning in his grasp.

Watching as Snape’s legs gave way, as he twisted to slam awkwardly across the back of the armchair in a last-ditch refusal to go to his knees. The chair tipped as his weight struck it, front casters rearing up off the floor. The narrow end table toppled. Plates splintered, there was a wooden clatter, a wing-like flutter and thump of books colliding as they fell. Snape braced fore and aft, hands splayed on the sturdy arms, his toenails scrabbling across the floor. The chair crashed upright.

Folded upside-down, body jerking, Snape gagged into the dimpled leather. Locks of hair crawled off his shoulders, striped his purpling cheeks.

Harry thought of the serpents twining tighter, constricting, imagined their fangs piercing Snape’s throat, the magical venom creeping through his bloodstream.

Bile seethed in his stomach. He’d got what he wanted. He’d got it, okay? And what he wanted was foul, wrong. It was -

"Let him go," he hissed. "That’s enough. You can stop now."

Snape wheezed, and dots of spittle sprayed the upholstery. His body thrashed and seized up, and blind panic whirled through Harry, because if the snakes hadn’t heard, or were refusing to obey - Merlin, what had he done? How long before the man strangled to death?

"Let him go!" he shouted, forgetting to say it in Parseltongue.

No mistaking, oh thank god, that first in-drawn breath, a spasm so intense it almost broke Snape’s body. He erupted in deep-chested, shuddering coughs. But he was breathing. Oh thank god, Merlin, god, thank you. Snape was breathing, like someone destroyed by grief, but Harry hadn’t killed him. He wasn’t lying contorted and purple-faced on the floor. Harry gasped in unison with every breath Snape drew.

In a tight voice Harry forced out, "I shouldn’t have - fuck, I’m sorry, that was-"

He couldn’t say what it was. There were no words to excuse it.

The man collapsed over the worn, black armchair inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again. Then Snape heaved himself upright, like a swimmer lifting from the water and flinging soaked hair out of his face. Tremors coursed up and down his rigid body. He swiveled to keep Harry in view, the black pits of his eyes brimming with nightmare.

Meekly, Harry waited. He’d tucked away his wand so that his hands would be empty. He felt like a student again, one who’d broken every rule in the book and could expect no leeway.

Actually, no, he felt like someone who’d just attempted murder.

Snape had always had the knack of appearing taller than he truly was. At Hogwarts, that stage presence had helped him strike terror into many a student heart. Right now, it was a prop. There was something creepy about the way he stared at Harry, something cornered and hopeless, as if he’d just discovered he was sharing a room with the last shred of the Dark Lord’s soul. He didn’t look afraid, exactly. Not even angry. Just extinguished.

After a moment, Snape ventured to let go his support. He ran his fingers around his neck, back to front, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. "They’ve put a collar of snakes on me?" His normally deep voice sounded parched. Harry nodded. Snape managed, through his hooked nose, the ghost of a snort. "Lovely." Harry watched his hands; they were shaking. The thought came to him: he’s breakable. I could actually break him.

"I’m sorry," Harry said. "I shouldn’t have done that."

"What did I tell you, Potter?" The strange, bitter humour that had been coming and going all evening flickered in and out, like a snake’s tongue scenting the air. "There’s a bit of Slytherin in all wizards, if they’d only admit it."

"You shouldn’t have slapped me."

Snape laughed, low and roiling in his throat. An unpleasant sound that quickly deteriorated into coughing. "We’ll make a Death Eater of you yet, boy." He scrubbed his sharp cheekbones, swept his hands over his hair, and then, scarcely touching, re-traced the runes once more. "You don’t know whether to fuck me or kill me, do you? You’d better just get on with it, then. I’ve suffered enough humiliation to last me several lifetimes, and I’ve about reached the end of my tolerance."

Harry kept silent. What could he say? He resisted the urge to chew the tip of his wand, imagining how it might look to Snape if he stuck it in his mouth right now.

Snape belted his gown with a brutal yank. "Obviously it would be foolhardy to allow you ever to touch my," he huffed the word, "collar again. As far as I can see, a pact between us is out of the question. Unless you have a better offer in tow the next time you come barging in here like a runaway Boggart. Though I expect you," cruel shadows knifed his face, "to stay the hell away until Ronald Weasley dies. You will otherwise regret every moment you spend here. While he lives, I strongly suggest that you do not cross my wards again."

Harry shuddered. Die. It was like a sword sliding all the way through his heart. Ginny’s words from earlier that evening seemed to echo through the room.

We should all bloody well just let Ron die.

Suddenly he was glad he’d made Snape choke. "I hate you," he whispered. Even to his ears, it sounded pathetic.

Snape crossed the lapels of his burgundy dressing gown tightly upon his chest. "Why you think I should care, after everything that’s happened in the last twenty years, let alone the last five minutes, is a mystery best left to those who find your smallest, drooling idiocy compelling. I am not of their ilk." His mouth adjusted upward by a pinprick’s span. "And there’s something wrong, Potter, if I’m the one setting your priorities straight."

Abashed, Harry found himself staring at the photo of Eileen Prince. She turned and stared back, but he was too far away to determine her expression. He knew it wouldn’t be friendly. She stood behind a figure no taller than a child, her hand gripping its shoulder.

Harry flicked his gaze away. At this moment he couldn’t face Snape as a boy. Severus. It was so utterly strange. They’d all been children once, James and Lily. Sirius. But only Snape and Lupin had survived to tell the tale. Harry supposed he was a survivor now, too.

Snowflakes breezed past the window like icy white rose petals. Numb to the lips, Harry whispered, "Please. Please. I don’t want Ron to die."

Snape had both hands up now, massaging his throat. With his head bent, only his nose was visible, and all the rest was hair. "I didn’t want Albus to die, either," emerged from behind the tangled black drape, in the dream-roughened mutter Harry had heard downstairs.

Then Snape yanked his hands down, shooting Harry a chagrined look, a glance like a cigarette butt being quickly stubbed out. He turned to the cabinet and began fiddling with the CD player.

A pure, sweet song trickled from the speakers and then soared as Snape adjusted the volume knob. The clearness of the voice sent waves of transparency through the moment, so cold, so - Harry shrank away - so pristine with longing, to call it angelic wouldn’t be far off the mark. Yet it was the darkness inside him that struggled up to meet it.

Harry almost yelled at Snape to turn the damned thing off. He fidgeted, wanting to stuff his fingers in his ears.

Snape picked up his nearly empty glass, walked to the bed and sat heavily, his back to Harry. "Now, for the last time, leave me alone. I can’t tell you how sick I am of being a teacher."

Eerie and sinuous, voice and violins wove a spell of longing through the candlelit room. It was magic, and yet it wasn’t. Harry watched the pinched anger on Snape’s face relax. Under the bracing stream of song his exhaustion edged into view, leaving his cheekbones stranded so high that any expression attempting to get down them was bound to come to grief. Strange, the way music humbled Snape. Or, no, better to say it concentrated him, with the same solitary passion visible when he brewed.

By contrast, Harry’s ghosts roamed his skin, seeking refuge from the unnerving purity. Yet what they fled was the very thing that gentled Snape’s ugliness. Harry felt - odd, wasn’t it, and no way was he ever admitting this - privileged. What he witnessed here was something private, a man suffering beauty to keep himself sane.

Alongside the exhaustion, something else emerged, something persecuted and unpacified, so obviously a part of Snape that it was proof against anything music could do.

"I--" Harry stopped his tongue before it could betray him with the bleak words Please let me stay.

Snape corkscrewed around. "You ridiculous halfwit, why are you still here? Why haven’t you Apparated straight to Weasley’s side, assuming he is, as you claim, your best friend? This is unacceptable, even from you. Go. You have no good reason to be here."

Harry shook his head violently. Snape was wrong. There were reasons. Not least of which was the fact that Snape was the only person he’d been able to touch in so long, he’d almost forgotten how.

"I can’t -" He shouldn’t be telling Snape any of this, but what the hell. Let the bastard do his bastardly best to use it against him. "I can’t touch him. Ron, I mean. Or anyone else, for that matter. Ron did this today," Harry patted his lips in demonstration, "and I nearly bolted from the room. I wanted to break something."

Snape lifted an eyebrow.

"Anybody I touch," Harry whispered, "the ghosts touch, too."

The other eyebrow went up: a rare sighting, as only the worst indiscretions merited a double-barreled no-comment.

Well, that was well and truly blown. Harry ploughed on, "I can feel them, all these murdered people inside me, reaching for my friends. I’m bloody freezing all the time, and my hands have - dead things inside them."

He looked down accusingly, as if the spirits were visible in his hands right now. In truth, he was avoiding the way Snape glowered at him. "If anyone else tries to touch me, the ghosts go crazy, and I - I haven’t actually wanted another person near me since they let me out of St. Mungo’s, not until you - " Without looking up, he waved in the direction of the bed and its occupant.

A hiss of breath from across the room was followed by the faintly barbed remark, "Once more, the gods look down and laugh."

Peering through his fringe, Harry met Snape’s eyes, and had to control the suicidal impulse to walk over there and straddle his lap. Not to be consoled, no. He wanted Snape to throw him to the bed and pin him down.

Then Snape said, "For Merlin’s sake, Potter. Only you could find a way to make me feel like a necrophiliac."

It took Harry a second to work out what the word meant. Then, "No!" he cried. This was important. "That was me! Don’t you understand, it’s different." He stretched his hands forward, fingers outspread. "I’m warm here. And when I, um," he couldn’t believe he was blushing, "touch you, I forget all about the ghosts." The older man just glared at him, one part disbelief, one part grudging sympathy, every other part a hairline fracture of temper.

"What I want to know is, why?" Merlin, would you look at that, he was wringing his hands. He’d never understood what that meant before, and here he was, clutching and twisting as if in pain. "Why am I able to touch you, when you’re the last person on earth I’d--"

Harry clamped his teeth together. Better not burn those bridges behind him just yet.

Too late. Frown lines snapped into existence at every corner of Snape’s face. Just like that, his face became a thunderstorm waiting to happen. He was a bloody poster boy for the aging effects of tension.

"I said I’m through with being your teacher, Potter. Figure it out for yourself. I’d recommend starting with the obvious."

"I didn’t mean--"

"Be silent, you oblivious child!" Snape jerked his arm up as if to hurl the glass. "You are utterly merciless! Get out of my sight!"

When Harry failed to obey, he swore viciously, thudded the heavy glass to the floor, and then, to Harry’s utter shock, buried his face in his hands.

For a moment, neither one of them moved. The singing ribboned through the silence between them, in the voice of a lover whose beloved is lost. It hurt just to breathe. Harry didn’t know why. Where once it would have filled him with triumph to see Snape desperate, now wretchedness streaked through him. He tingled with - oh, what a crock - rejection? Much more of this, and he’d be back at St. Mungo’s. This was Snape, remember? The foul-tempered, cold-blooded git who issued rejections as routinely as other people tendered greetings, to the world at large, but especially to all things Potter. Being rejected by Snape was a sign that life went on as usual, that some things never changed.

Through the back of his dressing gown, Snape’s shoulderblades curved up like the stumps where two wings had broken off. He said through his hands, "For the love of Merlin, Potter, go away."

So much for good-byes, then. Feeling empty, Harry went.

The sun had risen. Harry knew, because there was light on his face. So much light, in fact, that he could barely see. Yesterday he’d taken the concealment charm off the window and folded the shutters back, needing to look at something outside, something impersonal, something. . . not Ron.

The mist beyond the window was clearing. It sparkled with a sudden blaze of late morning on a city’s length of water molecules, melting away. Colors sprinkled the air, and the new green buds on the trees dripped flecks of silver. Every living thing out there was clamouring for the April sunshine. Rooftops glistened, and birds twittered from branch to branch, bearing bits and bobs of nesting materials.

Behind him, Molly Weasley wept. By now he knew the sound of everyone’s grief. She’d been given a calming potion, and her tears were quieter, not the shrieks of denial and the bewildered, uncontrollable moaning of her son’s name that had clawed the halls yesterday.

Harry’s eyes watered as sunlight flamed across the window. He turned around.

Ron lay in bed, his mother huddled in a chair beside him. Ginny perched on the chair’s arm, pressing her cheek to Molly’s faded red hair and rubbing circles atop her mother’s shaking back. Bill and George stood side by side at the foot of the bed, their jaws patchy with stubble, faces sagging and scalded by grief. Charlie had retired across the hall not long since, having Apparated from Romania to sit night-long vigil with his sobbing parents. A numb and hollow-eyed Arthur had been called downstairs to sign papers and ignore a research wizard from St. Mungo’s arguments that they really ought to allow a curse-breaking team to perform a spell autopsy.

About an hour ago, Fleur had slipped tactfully away to the kitchens, murmuring something about making breakfast in case anyone was hungry. A very faint aroma of coffee drifted through the open doorway. Just before that, Remus and Tonks had withdrawn to give the Weasley family some privacy.

Hermione was in her room, drugged unconscious after the healer who’d pronounced Ron dead had insisted she be given a potion and made to lie down.

No one, Harry least of all, had expected Hermione to go to pieces. She’d progressed from a strange, breathless whimpering to increasingly desperate screams of, "No!" until finally Mr. Weasley and Bill had had to wrestle her up from the bed and guide her firmly out of the room. Adrian Hailstork had been Owled a portkey and was with her now, even though the Dreamless Sleep meant she wouldn’t wake for hours.

Harry walked over and touched Ginny, then Molly. He’d been making a habit the past two weeks of submitting himself to be touched, offering comfort where he could, when he could. It wasn’t penance, exactly. He’d decided, after wanking himself raw in the wee small hours of a sleepless night, that if he was going to let a greasy bugger like Severus Snape kiss him, the least he could do was make an effort on behalf of the people who truly mattered.

Half the time the touches left him so cold that he shook uncontrollably, half the time he was up for the rest of the night re-living the burning Ministry and having his nightmares invaded by ghosts.

But Harry was stubborn, and after the initial surprise his friends had started hugging him back. Ginny squeezed him and whispered embarrassing things in his ear, Hermione rested in his arms, saying nothing while gently rocking to and fro, Remus bestowed a short embrace and a shoulder-pat, Tonks slung an affectionate chokehold around his neck and almost knocked him into a wall, and George - well, George had held him rather tightly, then pulled away to look him in the eye. After the briefest blushing pause, Harry had looked back and nodded.

George hugged him frequently after that, often waiting until they were alone. Nothing was going to happen while Ron was alive, but Harry had reasoned that after kissing Snape he could go no lower, and if he didn’t start defying Voldemort’s curse he’d be doomed to wank to memories of Snape’s tongue in his mouth, of the collar around Snape’s neck, of rocking against Snape’s thigh for the rest of his life.

And that was just not on. So if George Weasley wanted him, he’d do everything in his power to want George back.

Snape had told him not to return to Spinner’s End, and so far he’d taken him at his word. Nearly every day for the past three months had been spent in Ron’s room, reading to him, playing with him, feeding him chocolate frogs. He’d even combed Ron’s hair. Doing his best to keep touching. Doing what he’d thought he couldn’t do.

One day, Harry had braved Muggle London and bought a CD player, letting the retailer pick out a selection of innocuous, upbeat music. He’d made a point of asking for something sprightly, not sad. "Not beautiful," he’d almost blurted.

The rhythm of the days, and the fragile innocence of Ron’s company, had somehow reached him, and he was grateful for the way his heart had opened at last to embrace this changeling. It wasn’t so much that the older memories of Ron had faded, as that Harry had grown used to the gangly, slack-faced, infantile fellow trapped in Ron’s body, who looked like Ron but wasn’t. Watching him grin at the melting colours on the walls or drop plates of food in his lap or lie a-bed sucking on the sleeve of his jumper, listening to him shriek happily and make foghorn noises, seeing him move through a world that obviously made no sense, had brought Harry closer, inch by inch, to loving this helpless stranger. He’d learned to treasure his existence for its own sake.

After so long, he’d finally forgiven him for taking Ron’s place.

Gone now. Both gone. Harry lowered himself onto one corner of the bed and stared dully. The body was already stiff, and a faint bluish tinge, like milk that has separated and gone off, clouded his skin. Otherwise, he seemed at peace. The tousled Weasley hair stuck up, bright and alive against the pillow. Harry gazed at the freckled hands curled on the counterpane. The nails were all bitten down to the quick.

When he glanced up, Ginny’s eyes met his, but there was no demand, no actual sense of tallying or keeping tabs in the way she looked back at him. She’d been purified of the possessive yearning and resentment, until all that was left was a mute, private pain. Her gaze seemed to come from very far away. After a moment, with a bashful twist of her shoulders that struck Harry as an unwitting imitation of Ron, she turned to whisper into her mother’s ear. Molly shook her head in denial, and Ginny pressed her point at greater length, in an urgent whisper, before helping her mother unfold from her seat.

Even standing, Molly looked bent, disjointed, her hair a bird’s nest, her robes rumpled and distinctly a hindrance as she hobbled toward the exit. Mother and daughter supported each other step by step from the room. At the last second Molly might have turned back if Ginny’s arm hadn’t guided her out.

For a brief while, Harry, Bill, and George formed a triangle of silence. The lines between them were taut with fatigue. If one of them shifted, the other two jerked upright a bit, resisting the lure of collapse. Gradually Harry realized that the brothers were suspended in a kind of waking torment, and needed someone’s permission to stop playing honour guard and go seek what rest they could find.

"I’ll sit up with him for a while, shall I?" he offered, and his throat nearly seized up with grief at the casual, familiar sound of those words. They were the same ones Hermione had used every night for the past month, after the healers had informed them that Ron's decline was inevitable.

George slurred, "Guess I should take you up on that, right? Maybe nip downstairs and grab myself a cuppa. If no one minds." He shuddered like a sleepwalker roused from a bad dream to face a devastating reality, and turned almost blindly, deferring to his older brother.

Bill passed a weary hand over his eyes and mouth, kneading his facial scars as if sorrow made them ache. "Just give me half an hour’s lie-down," he muttered to the body on the bed. "I promise I won’t be gone long."

"We’ll be fine," Harry said gently. He watched the two men out the door, each of them staring back from the threshold as if to cross it would mean leaving a part of his life behind.

Harry waited another minute, wand in hand, and then spelled the door shut in silence. He’d stayed, even when it might have been more compassionate and respectful to withdraw and leave the family a little space in which to mourn, because he’d been hoping for a chance to be alone with Ron. He didn’t need long; just a bit of privacy.

Since the chewed fingertips had drawn his attention, he touched those first. They were cool, wooden, all resilience fled. He didn’t try to clasp the dead man’s hand. Instead, he stroked the floppy blades of orange hair, the most vibrant and, well, Ronnish remnant of his friend.

Then, taking a deep breath, Harry leaned down and lifted the cold-smelling, uncooperative corpse, arranging it in his arms with extreme care, conscious of the stiff bones inside the soft, cottony pyjamas. Strange, how very clear it was that he was holding an empty vessel, and that what it had contained, from birth until yesterday evening at half past eight, had spilled out of it. Some essential weight was missing. Ron’s absence from his earthly remains was mysterious but undeniable, and although it broke his heart, it contained just the slightest breath of hope. For it meant, as well, that Ron’s spirit was free.

All right. Harry fumbled Ron closer, defying the masses of cold grinding like icebergs inside him. This was it, his last chance. He couldn't make up for all the times he’d been unable to touch Ron, but Harry cradled his friend now, rocked the rigid body with such delicacy that the mattress barely dipped. "Sorry, mate," he whispered, and then stopped, unsure. It sounded sillier than he’d expected, speaking aloud. Maybe it would have been as well to think about what he wanted to say, but he’d assumed it would just come pouring out, that having the feelings guaranteed he’d find the words.

"S’not fair. Life’s not fucking fair, you know?" He sighed at this bit of clichéd wisdom, and suddenly what was really on his mind came tumbling out. "You’re the best friend I’ll ever have. I know that, mate. If you hadn’t been, maybe you’d still be alive and I’d be the one dead. I’m so sorry about that, I can’t even tell you. It’s been awful not having you around. It’s going to be so sodding lonely now."

This wasn’t supposed to be about him, though. Get a grip, Potter.

Angrily, he wiped a sleeve across his eyes, disturbing the set of his glasses so that they ended in a cock-up across his nose. "We love you, mate. Me and Hermione, we’ll always love you, okay? You," his voice caught, "you pillock. You’re a hero, you know. Thanks for saving Ginny. I - " He had to stop again and muster up enough voice to start over with. "I wish I could have been your brother, Ron, but I can’t. I can’t be with her. "

He sighed and for a few seconds contented himself with simply holding his friend’s body, with no fear of what his ghosts might get up to. Ron could no longer be hurt by his sins. It was such a wonderful feeling to just sit there, hugging him, aware of the ice accumulating along his veins, knowing he could go on holding Ron and that no one else would suffer. He’d been waiting for this… this liberation. He could press Ron to his curse-ridden breast and not care if the ghosts reached out to -

Harry grunted suddenly, with the pain of understanding. He freed one hand to tug his glasses off, fogged with tears that had slipped down at random. There was a constant trembling sheath of water balanced on his lower lids, and occasionally a blink would spill the excess onto his cheeks. His breath ragged, he maneuvered Ron reverently back onto the bed and watched the scattered, shining hair fall outward over the pillow. "Good night, best friend," he said hoarsely, even though it was morning and the room had swelled with a glorious, unbearable benediction of light.

He smoothed the knuckles of one hand along Ron’s papery cheek, while his other hand flicked a concealment charm back over the window. The bed darkened.

Harry grimaced in disgust. No wonder Snape had given him a good, hard belt across the face. Don’t care if I hurt you. I don’t care. That’s what Snape had meant by starting with the obvious. Well, too bad, but it was true. He couldn’t help how he felt. He would have traded Snape’s life for Ron’s in a wand flick. After all, was there anyone who’d miss Snape, the way every single person in this house would miss Ron? Not hardly. Lucky for him it wasn't Harry's choice to make.

The funeral was family-only, but in the wider sense, meaning that all of Grimmauld Place was gathered at the grave. Stoop-shouldered and mild, Remus stood protectively close to Harry on one side, while Hermione clung to his hand on the other. Within minutes, layers of ghosts had frozen their fingers together, and Hermione took pity on him, and on herself, pulling free with an apologetic wince. Harry’s hand dove at once for his wand and held on for dear life.

Sweet-smelling with new grass, a great gust of wind ruffled the heavy robes of the mourners. Out of the sighing of the nearby trees a low, shivery hum seemed to rise. Harry looked up as Mr. Weasley filled his lungs and tried again, chanting louder this time in an unsteady voice, his face blotchy. One by one his sons joined in, and the sound grew richer, deeper, despite a detectable quaver in their voices. Then Ginny’s higher pitch and Fleur’s soprano entered on the octave, and Harry felt the resonant warmth beside him as Remus’s baritone husked the next line, hesitant but nicely on pitch. Alongside Remus, Tonks struggled tunelessly, a wavering thread of wrong notes stitching in and out of the fabric of voices. Molly’s lips moved, but Harry couldn’t tell if she actually made a sound. He bowed his head, staring at the new boots he’d bought for this terrible occasion, their polished tips poking out from under his robes mere inches from the grave’s edge. He didn't know the song. He could only listen. A gentle weight pressed his shoulder as Hermione leaned closer. They stood listening, heads bowed. Even Harry’s ghosts seemed caught in the spell.

The harmony changed key, rising in volume. Slowly, caressingly, the strands of chant twined outward and Levitated Ron’s shrouded body from the pallet where it had been laid. The draped figure floated toward them as if passed from hand to hand, from voice to voice, its shadow on the grass like a boat gliding on water. Steadily, but with such emotion that the very air trembled, the wizards and witches who had known Ron and loved him sang his body downward, down into the hole prepared for it, graced with flowers and a potpourri of herbs used for tranquility and untroubled sleep. Whatever magic remained in his rigid muscles would pass into the earth and rise anew each spring, shimmering through the grass.

Some of the voices had dropped out now, but still Arthur and his boys chanted, and still Ginny sang. The grave filled rapidly and grew to a raw, crumbling mound, terrible in its nakedness. Ron was down there, disappearing forever. Hermione wrung Harry’s arm and his hand spasmed so tightly around his wand it was a wonder the wood didn’t snap. When he would have turned to console her with his death-haunted hands, she shook her head, her touch softening, and tugged him back around.

The soft, bespelled harmony had converged into a single low note, unbroken and more reverberant than was humanly possible. With the same shared wonder and sense of loss with which they’d stood listening, the two of them watched. Small flower heads started pushing through the freshly turned soil, unfurling and bobbing in the wind like tiny flags. Within seconds, the long, low, earthen pile was quilted with springtime colors.

And then it was over, and silent, except for Molly inhaling a sob.

Once again, Harry made a heroic effort to return hug for hug, to wrap his arms around his friends and stave off the ghostly siege that swarmed his battlements and sucked at the skin of the living. Mr. Weasley attempted nothing more than a careful squeeze of his shoulder, but the shaky words, "Harry, thank you for everything," nearly undid him. Old memories boiled up, as if there were some Legilimency at work, summoning Platform Nine and Three Quarters to the forefront of his mind, along with the faintest echo of bantering, boyish voices.

Arthur shuffled back to where Percy, the prodigal son, stood propping up his mother. When the shroud had vanished under the swiftly rising layers of dirt, Molly had listed to one side as though she might faint. Harry didn’t blame her. His own head felt a bit swimmy, and the bright sun and biting air were merciless.

After Ron died, Ginny was the first to leave.

Harry wasn't surprised. The whole household felt rootless, full of people needing to get on with their lives. Ginny would have moved out long before this if not for Ron.

Harry was surprised when Odile Lalique showed up to escort Ginny to Diagon Alley. He discovered her upstairs admiring Ginny's portrait, which was propped against a wall in all its pink-and-white glory.

Harry raised his eyebrows at ten paces and grinned at three, and was relieved when Odile grinned back. "Snaffling portraits again?" he said.

Odile placed a manicured hand on his arm. " You wouldn't believe the hours of entertainment Walburga's provided. What a bitch she is, I'm sure I don't need to tell you. The original Dark mother."

She drew his attention to Ginny sleeping naked on silk sheets. "Got to hand it to Horny Thorny, he's halfway decent with a paintbrush. He's got her to the life, don't you think? Just look at that skin tone."

Harry tried to tread carefully through the personal implications of that, but he couldn't help blurting: "Odile. Wait. Are you the one who told Ginny - "

"About the many and varied ways in which Horny Thorny lives up to his nickname? Might be. Could be. I'll get back to you on that." Odile cast him a sidelong, measuring glance. "You know, I never told you, Mr. Potter, but I did enjoy this assignment. Heaps more than the previous high-security job Kingsley tossed my way. I don't suppose he mentioned that I was given the task of warding Professor Snape’s house against him?"

Harry frowned at her. Odile gazed back, unblinking. Her nails flashed and glittered with stray reflections, like mirror chips. Save for the index fingers, of course; those were green. "If ever I detested a job, it was that one. Not that it lacked points of interest, mind. In fact, I’ll let you in on a secret."

Was that a trace of mockery, or were Slytherins incapable of unshadowed smiles?

"I invented a very ingenious ward for that house. Based on sympathetic magic. Entirely different kind of locking system."

Harry hesitated. "I've heard of it. Haven't the faintest idea how it works, though."

Odile tapped her gold piercing. "What are they teaching children these days? Love and hate, Mr. Potter. Two of the most powerful sources of magic known to wizardkind." She smiled fondly down at Ginny's portrait.

Then she said, "Here's a clue. You know Snape’s mum? That is to say, you know he had one."

Confused, Harry wasn't sure whether to nod.

"Work with me here, Mr. Potter." Odile's lips twitched. She leaned back against the wall and crossed her ankles. "Well, Eileen Snape, Prince as was, used to grow roses. Some gnarly, tough-as-nails variety, all over thorns and manky as bones. Rumour has it she grafted the hybrid herself. Severus roses, she called them."

Harry started to interrupt, but Odile tut-tutted and raised her hand. "No need to say what you're thinking, Mr. Potter. Wretched things half the year, can’t argue with that. But to see them bloom?"

She pushed away from the wall. Her smile came out of the shadows and touched him, just for an instant, before darkening again. "Like innocence incarnate. Like watching life blossom out of death, my lad. Have you ever stopped to wonder if hope has a smell? I assure you - "

Footfalls came pounding up the stairs. Ginny bounced into view, shouting, "I think that's the last box, Madame! I'm ready to go."

"Madame?" Harry glanced between them.

Odile's mouth widened in a lazy, slinky smile. "My dear," she purred to Ginny, "you light up this gloomy old pile like a torch."

Ginny shrieked, "Harry! For Merlin's sake, who said you could look at my portrait?" She flicked her wand, and a blanket came sailing out of Ron's room. It swooped down and prudishly enfolded the entire painting. They all looked at the tiny golden snitches fluttering along the borders, and Ginny's eyes grew bright.

Odile intervened with roguish frankness, "That portrait belongs to me now, Ginevra. Have no fear. Mr. Potter will never know what he's missing."

Ginny flushed to her hairline, looking deeply pleased. "But he saw me naked!"

"That does not change the fact that you are completely off-limits to anyone else. In paint or out of it. " Odile stood aside as Ginny levitated the portrait and floated it away, flashing a cheeky grin back over her shoulder. Watching the long, red hair disappear down the stairs, Odile remarked, "Sometimes it takes a Slytherin to do the job right, Mr. Potter."

Harry snorted. "What, never try to tell me Owen's not Slytherin."

"You really ought to revise your assumptions. Horny Thorny was a Hufflepuff," Odile said coolly. "His downfall is his obsessive need to have everyone like him."

Harry had no idea what to say to that.

Odile smirked at his silence. "Snake got your tongue?" When she sauntered to the top of the stairs and turned, Harry got a flash of how deadly serious she could be. "Think about what I've said. Go sniff the roses in Professor Snape’s garden. See whether or not I know what hope smells like."

After Ginny moved out, George wasted no time in propositioning Harry. "All for a lark," he said, and how could Harry object to that? The first time George sucked him Harry almost couldn't come from embarrassment, but he soon got over that. Going down on a bloke wasn't half bad, either. Once you got used to the taste, of course.

Their affair managed to last beyond the first fifteen times George leered to a friend, "Oi, right blushing virgin I've got on my hands." Since protests only spurred George on to more merciless teasing, Harry learned to maintain a poker face.

It lasted beyond the first twenty times that something exploded next to Harry or whizzed screaming past his ears or dumped strawberry-flavoured goop all over him when he least expected it. Actually, he never expected it. Harry could have lived the rest of his life without one more blessed thing, no matter how harmless, blowing up in his vicinity.

It even lasted beyond the first thirty times he awoke to hear George analyzing his sexual prowess with one of Fred's portraits. On the first occurrence, he'd pretended to sleep right through their banter. He'd just sucked cock for the second-ever time in his life, and George had relayed the news to the snickering piece of pigment that contained the spark of his twin brother. "Early days, mate, but I'd rate him a three."

"Eh, give him points for enthusiasm," Fred's voice rejoined. "Besides, that arse alone is worth a ten."

"Nine," George parried. "Still haven't met an arse to touch Oliver Woods', if you take my meaning. A pity the punter's picked up three stone since the war. Never met a chap with a more delicious backside."

There must have been eight or nine portraits of Fred scattered around George's flat, one in every room, including the loo, and all of them naked. Harry quickly came to accept that he was little better than a sex toy for the brothers to share. It was nearly impossible to escape Fred's presence, not that George ever wanted to. He and Harry never ate out, never made plans to go anywhere together, never had sex unless Fred was awake and on the wall and able to contribute salacious quips and commentary.

Harry didn't object too much. Within these limits, he was able to give and receive without fearing for the touch of his frozen lips on George's prick. For that matter, his sexual organs were rarely, if ever, possessed by ghosts; he didn't worry about George swallowing guilt and sorrow down with his spunk.

He finally asked George why one portrait wasn't enough - why the multiplicity of Freds?

"Because," George said, "I lost him once. I watched him die right in front of me. One Fred can be gone in a matter of minutes, Harry. I can't stand the idea. He's as much me as I am. The more Freds there are in the world, the happier I'll be."

So it wasn't brilliant sex or anything, but it was a welcome diversion from lying in bed having wet dreams about Snape.

It wasn't until he arrived at the Wheezes one Sunday after hours and witnessed Fred Weasley's ninth portrait in the act of creation that he finally called it off.

His feet soft on the stairs, Harry followed the sound of voices toward the back of the flat. Fred and George were always nattering on about every detail of their lives, which made them easy to locate. "I'm partial to a nice outdoor setting," Fred's voice was saying. "I'm shut up too much indoors. Give me a lake to sit beside and a broomstick to ride - don't even start, berk, I've heard them all. Bet I've ridden them all, too. So, how's that suit?"

"Fine by me," George said. "I could do with you having a nice tan line, mate."

Harry stopped in the doorway and studied the scene that met his eyes. If he was surprised at all, it was by the fact that, no, he wasn't really surprised at all.

George was lounging in mid-air, levitating somewhat sloppily, totally nude and with his bits bobbing up and down. Fred was on the back wall peeking over his shoulder. There was an easel set up, and the sharp smell of new paint permeated the room. The artist standing with his back to Harry had curly, rakish hair and an overdeveloped fashion sense. He looked, as Hermione had once pointed out, very much like a faun.

"Harry!" George called. "Stop mooching about in the doorway like a pickled newt and get your arse in here."

Owen turned around, paintbrush raised, and his face lit up, utterly free of embarrassment. He seemed genuinely delighted to see Harry. "Harry, come in! How wonderful to see you again! Maybe you'd like to be in this painting?"

George's feet thumped the floor and he jumped off the small platform and came to stand between Harry and Owen. "Oi, now, no offense, but no one gets to share Fred's portraits but me."

Unabashed, Owen indicated that no offense was taken by flicking his paintbrush. Tiny speckles of white dotted George's freckled shoulder and pale chest. Magpie eyes flickering once in Harry's direction, Owen reached over and made an unnecessary production out of wiping the paint off or massaging it in.

That decided Harry. He took in the trappings of the small, impromptu studio and realized that he really had no desire to be in this painting anymore.

"So this is how you manage to keep producing portraits of Fred, even though he's, uh - "

Harry hesitated, and Fred shouted, "Even though I'm right here!"

"How does it work?" It nagged at Harry that he wasn't angrier. For Ginny's sake, if not his own. "The magic, I mean."

George shrugged. He Summoned a bowl of cherries from across the room and started popping them one at a time into his mouth. "Couldn't rightly say, mate. But I'm the template. Also, I've got insider knowledge, you know? I can correct Owen when he paints something based too much on me and not enough on old Fred there."

Harry adjusted his glasses and felt a twinge of recognition. "Sympathetic magic."

"Right," Owen piped up. "Surprised you know about it, Harry. But our friends the twins here - well, let's just say there's a very special kind of magic between them."

"Yes," Harry said, watching George nonchalantly pull a cherry stem out of his mouth and toss the pit across the room. " I know." He couldn't help smiling.

Careless as ever, George set the bowl down on the painter's palette, looped one arm around Owen's neck and leered frankly at Harry. "Gonna stay for afters?" he said. "Owen's got a standing invitation to stick around following a nice, long session of Fred-making. I usually need a little reminding by that point that I'm still George." He reached down and joggled his bollocks affectionately. Owen leaned against him, with a gleam in his eye that promised he'd take pleasure in painting directly onto Harry's skin.

"I'm sure it would be larks all round, but," Harry hesitated, "I just popped by to tell you that I won't be - I'm going to beg off on our - for the forseeable future. Changes in the air and all that." He smiled tightly. "New brooms."

"Sorry to hear it," George said, picking up immediately on Harry's inarticulate message. There was a brief silence. Then George sighed and pouted theatrically, rocking Owen against him. The painter seemed perfectly happy to act as a squeeze toy. "It's been fine times between us, Potter. If you ever need cheering up, you always know where to find us."

"I'll still be stopping around, you berk," Harry said, walking over to kiss George on his cherry-stained lips. Owen watched as if memorizing them for later inclusion in a work of art.

Harry raised his arm to Fred. "Enjoy your new broom, mate!"

"Will do," Fred called back. "And remember, Harry. You're sitting on a perfect ten!"

"Nine!" Harry heard George shout back as he went quietly down the stairs into the darkened joke shop.

Three days later he received a package that, when opened, covered him from head to toe in grape-flavoured purple gloop.

Two weeks later, Hermione told Harry that she was leaving Grimmauld Place to move in with Adrian Hailstork.

This time Harry didn't have to think twice. He immediately threw his arms around Hermione and hugged her fiercely, daring his ghosts to have one bloody thing to say about it.

"You're not upset with me?" she said, blinking tearily into his face.

"You're barking," Harry chided, and hugged her again. "It's fantastic. Don't you think some of us deserve to be happy? Cripes, Hermione, it gives the rest of us hope."

He hadn't meant that personally, but Hermione clung to him and said, "I feel like I'm abandoning you to this horrid house and its depressing memories. Like I'm running out on you."

"You're not," Harry said. "Invite me to tea first thing, agreed?"

Once Hermione was gone, the ghosts got stronger. He was cold ninety percent of the time, and they were into summer now.

The last straw was coming home to find Tonks anxiously waiting to speak with him. Harry assumed at once that she and Remus were giving notice.

He should have known better. Tonks's hair was mousy, her features drawn and tired. Harry realized it had been weeks since he'd been startled by her orange-streaked magenta hair.

Braced to be mature and supportive about the fact that all of his friends were leaving, Harry was horrified when Tonks broke down and sobbed into her hands. He brought her tissues and tea, then waited until she blinked up at him and whispered, "It's Remus. It's the Wolfsbane. Oh, Harry, I don't know what to do!"

Neither did Harry, of course. But he figured Snape would.

Harry had to Apparate everything to Spinner’s End, cauldrons and jars of ingredients and cutting tools, mortars and pestles, flasks and measuring spoons and stirring rods, and it all had to be Disillusioned and Levitated, and bloody hell if he wasn’t so anxious that he forgot about the wards and ended by getting hung up on the brambles outside the front door. Behind him, a parcel clanged to the pavement, a flask or two smashed and spilled down the steps.

Wiping a smear of blood off his nose, he blurted a few choice, unmagical words. Then he gently grounded the rest of his burdens. The early afternoon sunlight was clear and uncompromising on the grimy bricks of the old row house. It was too soon for most working folk to be coming off shift, but Harry worried that some random passer-by might spot his strange gyrations and challenge him for a suspicious loiterer.

Calling on the memory of Odile Lalique, he set about placating the irate roses. It took longer than expected. He could swear his ghosts had come forward to numb his fingers, trickle from his mouth in a guilt-ridden mist. They released an aura of death so strong, a chill so pervasive, it sent the wards into a prickly snit.

By the time the thorns finally stopped pinching and snagging, Harry was so flustered that he summoned and Levitated his precious cargo all in one go. He’d barely flung open the door before the cauldron banged the frame beside his head, denting a hinge as it ricocheted inside. A dinging and clattering followed, as though every single blessed jar and utensil had to collide either with one another or the doorway.

So much for making a dignified entrance. Harry banished the spilled wasp stingers scattered black and poisonous across the pavement. The powdered dragon’s blood was also a loss. He sighed at the scorched cement steps where the powder had combusted, and hurried inside.

He’d been so sure that Snape would be standing there, eyes glittering like the lost wasp stingers as he watched Harry blunder about, that at first he couldn’t believe Snape wasn’t. Letting the hodgepodge of potions debris bobble to the floor, Harry turned right, left, then around in a circle. Weird, that. No Snape in sight. Cross, he strode into the empty sitting room. Through the roped-back curtains enough daylight streamed in to mock the room’s age, but at least it was warm and glowing. Not half bad, really. The shelves had been plundered and some of the books pyramided in a corner, well out of the sun’s reach. Others, in an order scrutable only to their owner, were neatly stacked here and there on the knock-off imitation Persian rug. A pale scrim of dust, like an almost transparent velvet cloth, covered a tipsy marquetry table, circles clarifying where tea cups had come and gone.

"Snape?" His voice barely registered in the silence, so he raised it. "Snape!"

Not even a floorboard creaked. Jittery and cold, Harry went to search the kitchen. Nothing had changed there - still cramped and cheerless - and when he took a desultory poke about the cupboards, there was scarcely a crumpet to be found. Or, one need hardly say, a Snape. He binned a packet of mouldy biscuits Snape might have been cultivating for a potions experiment, then took the lid off a cold teapot and grimaced at the tannin-y muck inside. It must have been been sitting there for days. He poured the foul stuff down the sink. Snape was evidently throwing a royal sulk again, the kind where he never bothered to clean up.

It felt unsettling, though. Not just slovenly, but abandoned.

Harry pressed his wand tip to his throat and his voice boomed. "Snape! You there? Come on, you tosser, answer me!"

Bastard would have to be in his bedroom, damn it. Heart ricocheting against his ribs hard enough to dent a door hinge, Harry stomped back to the sitting room, slammed open the bookcase with a curt spell, and then bolted through the opening and down the bloody stairs.

He was a wobbly, tooth-chattering mess by the time he reeled into the upper-storey hallway, bashed into a wall, and steadied himself. Only four months. How could he have forgotten what a horror those stairs were? Merlin, his armpits were soaked. He didn't want to face Snape for the first time in four months feeling bilious, whey-faced, and in need of a shower. The charred flavour of smoke, which he’d put from his mind during Ron’s last illness, coated his tongue. He tried scraping it off on his teeth.

Knocked totally off stride and in less of a forgiving mood than ever, he groped his way to Snape’s bedroom. His sins were playing merry hell inside him, and if there’d been a spell to turn his skin transparent Harry was convinced the ghosts would have been visible eddying around his muscles, smoke-swirls flickering red. They swarmed to his anxiety about Remus, and the sick feeling in his stomach grew. He’d come here determined to bargain with Snape, to use threats if necessary, but suddenly he was convinced that the whole enterprise was doomed. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. All that would happen was that he and Snape would trade insults, he’d enrage the git by calling him a name. And never mind if it suited him down to the last black hair on his greasy head, the obstinate bugger would dig in his heels and refuse to cooperate, and Remus would suffer and die, just like Ron, because Snape was an arse and so was Harry, and neither of them could keep his effing mouth shut.

He was not at all composed when he barged into the room; he was more than ready, in fact, to let Snape have it.

The bedroom was quiet, rather dusty, and much brighter than when he’d been here last, on that wintry night in January when he’d - when he and Snape had - oh, bloody buggering hell. Thing was, the room was empty.

Harry stood, wand raised and mouth open around an unspoken hex. He felt the most tremendous berk. Okay, the bed was unchanged, the cabinet, the leather armchair - a remembrance of Snape’s struggling body rose shockingly fast in Harry’s mind. Long, bony fingers ridging the upholstery, black hair slipping down, exposing the sinuous lines around his neck. Short of breath, Harry jerked forward, hand outstretched to feel along the padded back of the chair. At the last second he turned away, embarrassed. Books? Huh, all gone. Snape must have lugged them downstairs. A few more cobwebs, maybe. All it lacked to complete the picture was -

Fuming, he stalked to the corner and kicked open the loo door. It crashed back to reveal - the lav. A flash of mirror. Nothing out of the ordinary. Harry blinked, gripping his wand tightly, not understanding why his heart had sped up.

He spun around then, knowing Snape would be leaning in the doorway. He fucking wanted to see Snape leaning in the doorway. It drove him half-mad that Snape wasn’t there. His palms were sweaty, goosebumps pricked his skin, and the guilt clouding his heart and mind filled him with terrible premonitions. He was going to fail. Remus was going to die. Everybody Harry loved was leaving him. He was beginning to be afraid - what if Snape wasn’t anywhere - and that led straight to wondering why. Could the stupid bastard have tried to escape? Might he really have been that desperate or that arrogantly sure of his ability to outwit the Ministry?

"Snape!" he bellowed, aware that he sounded an awful lot like Norbert right after hatching. "Where are you, you tricky bugger! Don’t you want to know why I’m here? I’ve brought you a bunch of potions ingredients!" That ought to bring the uncooperative git slithering out of the woodwork. But only silence rang back at him, louder than his voice. "Snape!" Harry waited, listening for an echo. Nothing. He sighed, volume dropping to normal. "Snape, for Merlin’s sake. Where the fuck did you go?"

It was so quiet you could have heard a nargle burp. Harry wandered to the bed and let his knees give out, so that his arse plonked down on the coverlet. He sat toying with the wand held loosely across his lap, his heart punching him so hard his teeth almost rattled. He kept swallowing against the tightness in his throat. Could Snape be dead? Was such a thing possible?

Shivering, he hunched forward and frowned at the incomprehensible thought. He knew he was being an idiot. Surely the news would be all over the wizarding world by now if Severus Snape had died. Besides, even if it were true, why let it get to him like this?

Sunlight filtered through the frayed curtains, but the room only felt emptier with all this light in it. Harry’s ghosts crawled into his chest; his heart ached with them. It’s all fading away, he thought numbly. Or maybe it’s me. A ghost’s just memories and light, after all.

Struck all at once with the certainty that he was being watched, he lurched to his feet. A subtle movement, and he whipped around, hoping to catch Snape off guard. Cold black eyes froze him in his tracks, so full of hatred that Harry was halfway through casting Protego before he realized and caught himself mid-flick.

Apologies shattering in his chest, he walked around the bed and extended his hand.

He hadn’t expected the dull metal frame to be so light. As he plucked it from the cabinet, the scowling woman in the photo flung out both arms and stumbled off-balance.

Instantly, as if tipped from hiding, a slight, dark figure shot into view: the boy Harry had once seen huddled in a corner of Snape’s memory, crying while his parents fought. He couldn’t have been older than five when this photo was taken: sallow, lank-haired, dressed in floppy, sack-like clothes. He wedged himself protectively in front of his mother, and the mean-little-fucker face he thrust up to Harry would have been funny if not for the fact that, beyond the ugly scowl, beyond the nose already shaping into a familiar beak, the child was clearly pissing himself in fear.

Harry held this fragment of the past between his hands and studied it, aware that he was witnessing a beginning of sorts, the evolution of Snape’s mastery of scowls and sneers designed to make the rest of the world back away.

"Look, I’m sorry," he said, more to the scrawny boy who faced down threat like a small, fierce crow than to the witch who’d given birth to him. "You don’t understand, we’ve always hated each other. I didn’t mean to - "

Eileen Prince Snape pulled her cardigan around her with a sudden, disgusted sharpness that lived on, years later, in her son’s mannerisms. Scorned to silence, Harry set the photo down with a hollow clack. What excuse could he make to this unforgiving woman who’d been forced, from her ringside seat atop the cabinet, to watch Harry throw her grown son into a wall of thorns and then magically throttle him? Not to mention - heat burned in his face at the memory - frotting against his leg?

Merlin, that had been a bad day. It felt so long ago. Ron had still been alive.

He shut out the accusing glare and concentrated instead on - hang about, he couldn’t call this figment Snape, a name Harry associated with cruelty and - well, sacrifice. This boy was innocent of his older self’s crimes. On the other hand, Severus? Harry really didn’t know if he could manage that. So he pressed one finger to the glass, squarely above the boy’s chest. The boy's attitude condensed from crow to mouse in an instant, his eyes rounding in alarm. With a brusque yank, Eileen hauled the child back and clutched him possessively, her cheeks flaring red while her son’s turned white. They both stared at Harry as if he were mental.

"Where are you?" Harry whispered, keeping his finger where it was. "I’ve looked all over the house and I can’t find you anywhere. You’ve disappeared." Scowling, the boy reached up to tug himself free of his mother’s arm, then used his new freedom to push at the giant digit poking his chest.

It was strange. Harry felt as if he were touching Snape with guilty fingers, touching the memory of what had once been Snape. His hands felt so cold it was a wonder the glass didn’t crack. "Don’t get your knickers in a twist, okay? Swear to Merlin, I’m not up to anything." Nervously, the boy averted his face, eyes glinting sidelong. "Besides, it’s not like you can’t take care of yourself." That provoked a small, secret indentation in one thin cheek, enough like a smile that Harry decided to treat it as one. "I brought you supplies for brewing Wolfsbane. Did you know you’ll be super at potions one day? One of the best in all of wizarding Britain."

Child Snape squirmed a bit until his awful, uncombed hair hung down in his face. Thus camouflaged and noticeably bolder because of it, he peered up at Harry, his eyes devouring.

Harry lifted his hand away. The boy shrank further inside his coat and sneered at the fingerprint smudging the glass.

Well, this was going sodding nowhere. "A man’s life is at stake," he told them sharply, as if there was a damned thing they could do about it. The boy raised his feral gaze again, radiating go to hell.

Giving up, Harry doffed his specs and pressed his fingertips to his eyes. When he could see again, Eileen Snape was still pinning him with her glare of doom, but her son had fled. Wait, no, there he was, a small figure getting smaller, dwindling into the background. Harry shrugged. He was bewildered by the adult Snape’s failure to turn up. What would he tell Tonks? When the tiny figure in the photo stopped and a thin arm shot up he almost missed it, but then the arm started flapping back and forth, and the coat fluttered with it, making the boy look like a stranded bird flailing to get off the ground.

Smiling a bit, Harry started to wave back, then his hand jumped forward and snatched the photo off the cabinet, sending the boy sprawling and Eileen Snape into a passion. Colour high, she worked her lips in a spate of obvious "bloodies" and "buggers," but Harry could only gasp, "Sorry," because he didn’t have time to care.

He held the photo up to his face and peered at the boy standing - well, sitting now, frumpy and disheveled, even more crow-like than before - between two rose bushes in full bloom. Then he thrust the frame down so fast it skidded and fell forward - Harry pelted back from the doorway to prop it up again - and took off running down the hall.

He retched and almost fell on the fucking stairs, then he had to kick the bookcase several times to convince it to open. No Snape, but by now he was expecting that. He paused for a moment to check that the potions apparatus were still there, then sprinted for the kitchen. Locating the door to the back lot took all of two seconds. He burst outside.

Snape must have heard him - Snape had undoubtedly heard Harry screeching like a crazed owl and banging about his house for the last half hour. He didn’t move, though. He was sitting rigidly erect on the porch steps, his back to the door, his long legs extended in front of him. Sunlight bronzed his shabby robes and nested in his filthy, stringy hair. Next to him sat an empty tea cup ringed with brown sediment, and a book, naturally, spanned his narrow lap. He didn’t speak or look around, not even when Harry loomed over him, although a muscle jumped in his pale, stubbled cheek.

"Why the fuck didn’t you answer me?" Harry panted, his earlier sense of loss blackening to chagrin. "I thought something had happened to you. Stupid of me, eh? I was actually worried."

Snape crooked his forefinger half an inch, and a page flipped over. His lips barely moved. "I don’t recall inviting you to my house, Potter. As far as I’m concerned, you are breaking and entering, and I’m under no obligation to entertain trespassers. Even one as illustrious as the Chosen Git." His eyes narrowed. "Since Albus died I no longer heel on command. So, on both counts, I fail to see why I should give you the time of day."

Harry stared at him, then around at the garden, up at the sun, and back at the house. "You lied to me," he said. "Aren’t the wards supposed to stop you? You’re outside, for Christ’s sake. According to what you said, you should have choked to death by now!"

"Yes, a great pity I’m not the withered corpse you were hoping for," Snape growled back. "If you’ve come to gloat, I’d advise your superiors to report back later. Another week should do nicely."

"I should’ve known better than to believe you," Harry grumbled, but a second later the sickle dropped. "What d’you mean, another week?

"Don’t play coy, Potter."

"Funny, I was about to say the same to you." Harry stomped closer, bumping the saucer’s edge with his toe. The empty cup rattled. Bugger. He was just no good at being menacing. Snape’s brows tightened at the sound, and Harry said less forcefully, his anger ebbing, "You know, you look like shite."

The hand resting on the open, sun-bright page twitched, as if Snape had registered the impulse to clench his fist but was fighting it. "Do you expect me to applaud your newfound ability to see what’s right in front of your nose? Owl post, Potter: most people understand the principle by the time they’re old enough to be fitted for a wand."

"Well, if you’d get off your arse and stop feeling sorry for yourself, I wouldn’t have to point out the obvious, would I? Merlin, Snape, my ghosts feel right at home here, it’s that depressing. I had to stop myself from Scourgifying your kitchen. And where does a master brewer like you get off making swill of your tea? It nearly turned the sink black, just like one of your nasty - "

There was a snarl, and Snape’s head snapped up, his eyes so wide the whites glowed around the black centres. The instant he moved, scarlet lines ripped down his forehead, gashed his right ear, stippled the side of his throat

"You dumped the tea in the sink?" The skin covering his cheeks was so thin Harry could see the tide of blood move under it, rising with his fury. "You sanctimonious little prick. You had no right!"

Harry said slowly, "Don’t have a bloody cow, okay, I’ll make you another blasted pot - "

"You despicable arsewipe, there is no more tea! There’s no more food, as you know perfectly well! It’s been three days since the last of the water pipes dried - "

Snape shivered, tirade choking to silence as Harry impulsively placed his fingertips on the other man’s brow. It hadn’t been his intention - he’d had no intentions, but he couldn’t just stand there and watch Snape bleed.

The torn skin beneath his hand was hot from the sun, stretched smooth over the skull, dry except where the blood was escaping the edges of each cut. He didn’t know what he was doing, only that his ghosts were straining to get to Snape, and that something else in him, neither guilty nor dead, needed the reassurance that Snape was right there. Alive. A sultry odour seeped upward from Snape’s sunsoaked robes, a blend of rancid and smoky-sweet. Harry had the faint urge to gag, but also, for some reason, wanted to stick his fingers in Snape’s mouth. That was disgusting, not to mention an incitement to losing fingers. The git’s hair, shining black and oily in the sun, was too vile to touch.

In the shadow of his hand, Snape’s eyes were locked on Harry's, his upper lip curled in a kind of emotional paralysis. Rage, most like. Harry swallowed. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought the git might be shaking.

When he took his hand away, his fingertips and the heel of his palm were blotched red. "For the love of Merlin, Snape. What the hell’s happened here?"

The sunlight was merciless, hitting the poor bastard directly in the face. The dark skin of his lids was purple-veined, as if he’d been punched in the eyes. Harry had never seen Snape anything but clean-shaven, and the stubble didn’t sit right with him. Neither did the skeletal hands. Melted almost to the bone, they held nothing but the memory of elegance in their length. He could snap each finger in two without effort, like pieces of chalk.

Snape’s voice was surly. "I should think what’s happened would be perfectly obvious."

"Not to me," Harry retorted, though he had an inkling. Several inklings, in fact.

Taking a deep breath, Snape composed himself, so black in the blazing sunlight that his image seared Harry’s retinae. He’d gone back to sitting absolutely still, staring across the garden instead of down at his book. Harry turned, not really expecting to see anything, but - oh, right, the rose bushes. They were lined up against the back fence where they caught the afternoon sunlight. Starved-looking things, barely any leaves on them and no hint of flowers. Thorny as fuck, though.

He blinked, the after-image of Snape flickering behind his lids like a black hole in the brilliant day. For a moment the visual negative burned a ghost among the roses. He thought of the child upstairs in the photograph, with his big nose and suspicious eyes and flapping black coat, then imagined him rooted there, growing older, skinnier, as hard as the iron railings on Canal Street, year after year refusing to blossom.

"Madame Lalique told me - she’s the Warden, I guess she worked on your house? Well, it’s funny, you know, she told me," Harry hesitated, realizing that acting as liaison between two Slytherins was bound to end badly for someone, namely him, "that I ought to, um, go smell the roses in your mum’s garden. I don’t know why. Well, I do, because they - what I mean is, she said they smelled like hope."

"Did she indeed?" With a slowness that was creepy and at the same time utterly maddening, Snape turned his head until he could skewer Harry with his eyes. "Now why would she do that, do you think?"

Harry started to retaliate in kind, How the hell should I know, but then he did know, he did, and in a burst of exasperated honesty blurted out, "Because she wanted me to tell you, right?"

Snape started to arch an eyebrow but the movement must have pulled at his scratched forehead, because the eyebrow backed down quickly. His voice, however, was all he’d ever needed to get his point across. "Do my ears deceive me, or did you just grow a brain?"

"Fuck you," Harry grumbled.

"Normally I’d see to it that you regretted your infernal cheek, but under the circumstances, Potter," Snape gave an odd kind of whispery chuckle, "I’d love to see you try." When Harry drew back, confused, he commanded, "Cast Revelaro."

Wondering what that had to do with anything, Harry did. And couldn’t help himself: he burst out laughing.

Oh Merlin! The greasy, stiff-backed crow was positively swimming in roses.

He sat snowed under, heaped with wind-blown flowers. The puffy white blooms tumbled lovingly about him. They were profligate shedders; petals danced and shimmered in the air around him. Fat white roses crowned his head, buried his shoulders, lay piled like tribute around his feet.

Harry stopped snickering when he saw the brambles. Thin, bristly, barely visible beneath their floral blanket, they snaked sharp-fanged and sinuous underneath, holding Snape wrapped in their stabbing arms. The longer Harry stared, the more of them he saw, crisscrossed like wickerwork, biting into every part of Snape’s body. They reminded him of some ingenious torture device left over from the Muggle Middle Ages. One false move and Snape would be dropped mangled and bloodstained on his own back porch. Merlin, how could he even bear their touch? Harry’s back twinged in sympathy.

"I hope you're through being amused at my expense," Snape said drily.

But Harry wasn’t laughing anymore. He wiped the blood off his hand onto his trouserleg. "Sorry. How in the world did you - "

"Hours of practice," Snape interrupted. "Don’t be dense, Potter. I have nothing but time, and an incentive to put it to good use. Although even the scant luxury of time will soon run out if things continue on the way they are now."

Two birds flitted into the yard and winged over to the others already hopping and chirping among the weeds. None of them came anywhere near the swaying waterfall of magical roses. Snape tracked them out of the corner of his eye, and the set of his lips was oddly wistful. "Since you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful," he said abruptly. "Take my book into the house. I’ll join you momentarily."

He made no move to hand the book over, and no wonder: brambles curled between his fingers and his arms were laden with spirals of thorn. Hunkering down, Harry manoeuvred the heavy volume off Snape’s lap, dragging it free of the roses and blowing wads of petals to the ground. Snape refused to meet his eyes. Standing back out of his line of sight, Harry waited, fidgeting, as Snape drew his feet under him with agonizing care and slowly, oh so slowly, unfolded, backing one foot at a time up the porch steps. His movements were dream-like, unhurried. At the last second he turned his head a centimetre and glanced down, and Harry squatted to scoop up the cup and saucer.

By the time they got back inside the house, Snape's sweat mingled with the blood, sending a rivulet down the side of his face. Crossing the threshold he stumbled, as if the wards had given him a parting shove.

Harry abandoned the tea things on the kitchen counter and followed Snape into the hall. By the time he caught up, Snape was standing in the entryway, silently cataloguing the items strewn across the floor. His expression gave nothing away and he said nothing, merely preceded Harry into the parlour and from there veered to the window, basking briefly in the sun’s warmth. Starvation thinned the blood, Harry suspected.

He started to say, "I’m here because Remus is - "

"Yes, you needn’t belabour the point. I recognize the makings of Wolfsbane when I see them dropped like rubbish all over my floor. Despite the curious absence of a crucial ingredient or two." Snape turned then and made his way to the sofa, letting himself down with crotchety care and relaxing his head back against the cushion. Harry’s ghosts wisped upward; he felt transported into one of those dreams in which Snape lay vacant and unblinking, while Harry wrung his neck and the fire closed in around them both.

Merlin, it had been a bad idea to come here. If not for Remus -

Snape broke the thread of that memory by saying quietly, with his eyes closed, "I suppose your unwanted reappearance in my life means that Ronald Weasley is dead."

Right, that tore it. "Not a word about Ron," Harry snarled, all of his anger re-igniting in a whoosh of pain. "I don’t want to hear anything you have to - "

"Spare me your theatrics, Potter. Asking after someone’s fate is not a sign of disrespect." Snape cracked his eyes open just enough to glare at Harry through his lashes. "Ordinarily Minerva would do me the courtesy of passing on the news, but she’s been," he hesitated, wetting his lips, "too busy of late to keep me apprised of the world’s events."

Harry said, more nastily than he might otherwise have done because the shock was still rippling down his nerves, "It’s not that she’s busy. She’s forbidden to speak to you. You’re persona non grata now, Snape."

That brought the git’s head up, and then he was off the sofa, more quickly than Harry would have thought possible after watching him move through the house at a shuffling pace. "You utter piece of shite! Almost strangling me to death wasn’t enough for you? You have to deprive me of my last contact with another human being, another person’s face and voice? I will meet you in hell, Mr. Potter. Do you know what it’s like being alone day after day, every single day, all fucking day long, all night, every night, with no one else, no one, to keep me from going mad?"

"Suck it up!" Harry shouted. "You could be dead, Snape! Like half the people we know! And for your information, I didn’t do this! I didn’t know you were starving, all right? I didn’t know your water had been shut off!"

Snape’s temper had given him a brief surge of power, darkness rising and spreading around him like a cobra’s hood. It deserted him just as quickly and he collapsed back onto the sofa, his mouth clamped tight around more insults, his gaunt face turning to seek out a ray of sun. The gentle light found every flaw in his face and carved it like cracks in marble. He said, "Azkaban would have been less cruel."

The feeling Harry’d had upstairs surged through him again, the feeling that Snape was dead, could die, that if he did, Snape’s ghost, fierce and dark and despairing, would take up residence inside him with everyone else.

Gulping, he poked his lower lip with his wand. "Look, I didn’t come here to fight. I’m only here because Remus is sick and you’re a potions expert and I reckoned you’d get a hard-on just looking at a cauldron."

"Proving, to no one’s surprise, that you are sadly mistaken about the nature of my desires," Snape drawled. The trio of scratches across his forehead were connected by lines of dribbled blood. He folded his almost transparent hands in his lap and his hair fell forward, and Harry thought, with a surreal pang, that Snape had once been five years old. "I’m willing to be persuaded on the matter of care and feeding of werewolves. But first I have conditions that must be met." He waited, so Harry waited, too. Snape’s hands spasmed in his lap and he rolled his eyes. "Potter, at least make some slight pretence of being interested."

"I am," Harry protested. "This is me, being interested. Go on, name your conditions."

For the first time since Harry had found him sitting outside, Snape reached up and ran a careless finger along the top row of serpent runes peeking above his crumpled black collar. Oh bugger, if he was going to play dirty - Harry went right to a chair and sat down. With Snape looking unwashed and rough with new beard, like a vagrant who’d been sleeping in gutters, sexual attraction had been the farthest thing from his mind. Snape was skanky and skeletal and his restless, erotic hostility had been defeated by other kinds of deprivation. Or so Harry had told himself.

Now the devious bastard shifted his legs apart, not enough to impair his dignity, but just enough to inflame Harry’s gullible libido, and with long, still-graceful fingers pulled down the neck of his black robes. The gesture bared his throat. His dark eyes were heavy on Harry’s, and the window light picked out the precise glitter of bristle shading his jaw, tickling Harry with the absurd desire to go scrape his own smooth face against it. A litany started up in his mind of bastard bastard ugly sexy sneaky bastard. He clenched both hands around his wand.

"Potter," whispered Snape, each syllable deliberate. "Pay. Attention."

Right. As if Harry had a choice.

He supposed his status as the Boy Who Saved Our Arses was the determining factor that allowed him to Apparate to the Ministry and meet with Kingsley Shacklebolt within an hour of Firecalling ahead.

"It can't wait until tomorrow?" Kingsley said, once Harry had explained the situation.

"I'm no expert," Harry retorted, "but he's not in the first stages of starvation, probably not even in the second. There's a noticeable difference between being an ugly git and looking like death."

"Give me half an hour to find a plumber who's had some experience with magical venom and backlash," Kingsley said. "I've got a feeling what you're describing doesn't fall with the realm of ordinary problems. That tends to be the case with Severus." He Accio'd a few files and started dictating notes. "You have the Apparation coordinates?"

They compromised on time: four o'clock, despite Harry's efforts to move up the hour. Satisfied, he set off to plunder the food and veg markets.

The plumber popped into view at the Apparation point a few minutes after Harry had arrived, and made a big deal of shaking his hand. He was a robust man with beefy forearms and curly hair who gave the name Oberon Culpepper but told Harry, "Call me Pipecleaner. It’s more professional, like.

"Funny sort of place for a wizard to live," he observed, squinting around at the industrial skyline and house after rundown house built of flint and chipped brick. As the got closer to Spinner's End, he started to erupt in gruff "hmph"-ing noises, small belches of disapproval. "Magical cesspool, if you ask me. Not exactly cozy for Muggles, neither."

Harry agreed, wondering how much Shacklebolt had told the hired help about the day’s assignment.

As they turned down Snape’s block, Pipecleaner's head reared back. "Cor’ blimey, you smell that? Makes me head spin round. What the ruddy ‘ell is it?"

"Rose garden," Harry said cryptically.

They reached Snape’s door, and Harry nearly dropped the two bags he was carrying. The figure standing patiently on the steps swiveled on one boot heel and surveyed them skeptically. "Well, of all the prodigious luck. If it isn’t the eminent and ever-honourable Mr. Potter. What brings you into this miserable pit of Muggle economic decline on such a gorgeous day?" The delivery, so subtly derisive it would have flown over his head in a different context, was almost worthy of Snape himself.

"Madame Lalique," Harry grinned, struggling to shift the bags to one side in order to shake hands.

She waved him off and got his companion in her sights. "Pipecleaner, as I live and breathe. Decent of you to join us on such short notice."

"It’s me job, ma’am," said Culpepper. They stood there like a pair of donkeys. Odile had come dressed with care to meet her former Head of House, in a tunic and black trousers that tucked neatly into her boots. An absinthe-green robe that sharpened the auburn tints in her hair was slung over the ensemble and floated down to brush her leather-clad calves. It was sheer enough that Harry could see her figure through it. She looked smashing.

"Well, that was unbelievably informative," Odile remarked, nostrils flaring slightly as she noticed Harry gawking. "Not to rush you, gentlemen, but shall we proceed?"

"Um, sure," he mumbled. "Are you here for a visit or - "

She quelled him with a glance and the poison-laced retort, "Silly boy, I’m here to escort you inside. Warden, remember? No trespassing, unless you’re looking to make a splash in the Daily Prophet. Only the signed and sealed Ministry-approved can set foot inside this house. We wouldn’t want you two handsome gents getting torn to pieces, now, would we? Such a tragedy for the saviour of the wizarding world to end up crucified on a rose bush intended to take the stuffing out of capital offenders."

Cripes. If sarcasm could be fashioned into a club with which to beat the dimwitted, Harry reckoned that, between Snape and his disciple in irony, he’d be signing into St. Mungo’s before the day was out.

Pipecleaner’s sunny disposition was becoming cloudier by the minute. "Just get us inside, witch," he said. "We’ll take it from there."

"Well, since you put it so nicely." Odile pulled her wand, and sunlight streaked fire across her nails, spurting brief flames that rippled through the air and vanished. She pricked a finger and held it to the door, squeezing out a drop of blood and pronouncing a spell under her breath. For a moment the intense perfume surrounding the house gave way, and Harry drank in the clean breeze. Then the door swung open and they all trooped inside.

He had one gut-seizing moment as he realized that they’d forgotten to hide the potions paraphernalia, but the entryway was empty of contraband items. Whew. Trust Snape to be wise in the ways of deception.

Snape was standing rigidly in the parlour, and Harry had no doubt he’d been watching them through the front window. He held himself still as they entered, more people than Snape had probably seen gathered in one place all year. The furrows raking his forehead were stark against his pallid skin, but he’d somehow managed to remove the excess blood. Otherwise he looked as brittle and unkempt as he had three hours earlier when Harry had Disapparated away on his errands. The emaciated face was expressionless - in the Snapish way that implied general antipathy toward the world.

"Professor Snape." A beat too late, Odile spoke, in a voice so freakishly smooth Harry could imagine slipping and falling on it. He’d never heard her sound like that. At the same time he became acutely aware of the tension in the room, like a wall-to-wall sheet of ultra-thin glass, bearing up under terrible pressure. "It’s good to see you again, sir, I -" The Warden trailed off, evidently unable to produce glib sentiments in the face of such obvious starvation.

Snape picked up the dropped thread, though his expression looked downright homicidal at having to make the effort. "Miss Lalique. Understand that I don’t intend this personally, but we’re not here to reminisce about the good old days. At the moment I could care less about the social niceties. My only wish is to have my blasted water pipes repaired so that I may bathe and drink like any other wizard without feeling I have to grovel for the privilege. Beyond that, I - "

Harry must have shifted then, because the grocery bags in his arms crackled, and the thread of words Snape had been spinning snapped. Instead, his sunken eyes acquired a desperate, carnivorous gleam. For the briefest instant Harry imagined that his only chance of getting out of Spinner’s End alive was to throw the groceries down as a diversionary tactic, turn tail and run.

Odile also looked over at the sound. Her face was calm and professional, all the teasing malice wiped clean. As her eyes met Harry’s her gaze seemed to grow colder and farther away, promising: I’ll deal with you later.

She cleared her throat. "I don’t mean to presume, Professor, but it would be no bother to - that is, it would be my pleasure to get you something to eat, if you’d like."

Harry blushed. Sod it. That should have been his line.

The high, patrician ridge of Snape’s nose whitened. He took a couple of steps back, bony fingers braceleting his upper arms, squeezing hard enough to cut off the circulation. "No thank you," he said. "It can wait."

But not for long, Harry guessed. Gossamer-fine cracks were beginning to spread through the transparent tension holding Snape’s sanity in place, and if they didn’t get right to work, Odile Lalique and Oberon Culpepper would still be there when the bastard’s control went to pieces. And they didn’t want that. Or anyway, Harry didn’t.

At that instant, Pipecleaner dropped the bag of groceries he’d been carrying. It smacked the floor, the bottom splitting open with the sound of tearing paper. Odile had her wand out and was Levitating the spilled fruit and tins of soup toward the kitchen almost before they’d had a chance to touch the carpet.

"Just a bleedin’ minute," said Pipecleaner.

"Don’t worry about it," Harry interrupted, trying to stave off the confrontation he could feel speeding toward them like a ten-ton bludger. "Come on, I’ll show you where the kitchen is, and you can - "

"Just a bleedin’ minute," Pipecleaner repeated. He was staring at Snape. "I know who you are. I recognize you. They printed your photo in the Prophet after the war. You’re that Death-Eatin’ half-blood who killed the Headmaster of Hogwarts. One of that Dark Bugger’s followers. Name of Snape, am I right?"

"And here I’ve been labouring under the misconception that I was actually christened Urquhart Rackharrow at birth," Snape intoned. "What a relief to have my true identity established to the satisfaction of all the menaced innocents in the room. Miss Lalique, if you feel inclined to swoon, the sofa’s to your right."

Odile was equally sardonic. "I’m afraid, sir, in typically Slytherin fashion, I’d already lost my innocence by the time I entered Hogwarts."

"Which leaves Mr. Potter. Who, to the best of my knowledge, still views me as the devil incarnate."

Snape could reel off mockery by the yard without breaking a sweat, but his expression had sunk past Grim into basilisk territory. Harry, feeling he might shortly have reason to use his hands, abruptly stowed the groceries on a nearby chair.

Deaf to irony, the plumber gave him an approving clap on the shoulder. "Right-o. Smart lad. Papers said the same," he pointed a finger at Snape, "said you didn’t respect no one. Got the devil’s own arrogance. I read all the articles. I read about what you did. You used an Unforgivable on that old man, that poor Mister Dumbledore. He was a war hero and a friend to the children, and the Wizengamot found you guilty of murdering him in cold blood."

Snape’s left eyebrow nearly vanished off his forehead at the words "friend to the children," but all he said was, "Yes, what of it?"

"You’re - you’re scum!" stammered Pipecleaner. "Look at you, standing there cold as ice. You’ve no conscience! It’s because of your lot that so many of our good ‘uns are gone and buried. Well, you know what I say? Your kind ought to be stamped out like poisonous spiders and shown no mercy, that’s what I say."

Pipecleaner’s forehead and ears were sunburned with anger, and Harry couldn’t decide if reasoning with him would do any good or if he should stuff diplomacy and hustle Oberon Culpepper straight out the door.

"You ought to be rotting in Azkaban!" the plumber sputtered.

"But I’m not," Snape said, smiling one of those deadly not-smiles that used to reduce his students to quivering puffskeins. "In case it has escaped your notice, I’m rotting away in a warded house with blocked pipes on a dead-end Muggle street." He glided forward, and Harry was surprised to see the bigger man give ground. But then, Snape’s face was as uncanny as something you’d expect to see in the dead of night, coming at you from behind a crumbling tombstone. His footsteps, undetectable in the corridors of Hogwarts, were soundless here. "You have been summoned to unblock those pipes and restore water pressure to the taps. If you’re not prepared to do so, then I suggest you get out."

"Auror Shacklebolt signed off on your contract," the Warden broke in. "It’s all legal, Pipecleaner. You’re wasting our time."

The big man turned to Harry, practically pleading. "You’re not in on this, right? You don’t condone clemency for the likes o’ him. You wouldn’t ask me to come here and help a ruddy Death Eater!"

Part of Harry could understand Pipecleaner's dismay at being asked to play janitor to such a moral basket case. All the papers had had a field day with Snape's trial. Anything the least bit ambiguous about Snape's character (and what wasn't?) had been treated as incriminating evidence. Every mistake of Snape's life had been put through the wringer of popular opinion. Every unpleasantness he'd ever committed - and Harry would bet that the actual number of incidents would fill several bound volumes and occupy an entire bookshelf - had been flogged to a pulp and used as proof that Severus Snape deserved to be Kissed. Anyone whose knowledge of Snape was limited, like Pipecleaner's, to the Daily Prophet would naturally see him as the Darkest of wizards.

Not so long ago, Harry would have stood back and let Pipecleaner call Snape every name in the spellbook. "Look, we just want you to clear out the pipes, okay? The sooner you do it, the sooner you can go."

"Merlin have mercy on us. I can’t believe the Boy Who Rid the World of Voldemort would let a bastard like that get away with murder."

"And yet he’s perfectly capable of giving a bigoted cretin directions to my house and indulging his emotional outbursts." Snape turned. "Potter, you idiot, all I asked was that you bring me someone who would - "

He hissed suddenly and recoiled, his left arm flinching up as a Stinging Hex hit him.

"Shut it, you filthy bugger!" Pipecleaner had his wand raised to cast again. "Don’t you speak to the Chosen One like he’s dirt!"

Harry was halfway through an, "Expelliarmus!" when Odile beat him to it with a whip-sharp, "Petrificus Totalus!" Pipecleaner’s wand somersaulted through the air and clattered to the floor. Frozen in place, he started to tilt, but the Warden flicked her own wand and the stiff figure, arm still raised, rocked upright

For a moment there was an odd, fragile silence, and Harry thought again about glass at the breaking point. Then they split ranks. Harry went to relieve Snape of the hex. Odile held onto the petrified but still upstanding Pipecleaner while she conducted a one-sided conversation full of angry sibilance. Harry could hear her summarizing his future lack of job prospects if he failed to meet his contractual obligations and had his license revoked.

Stinging Hex neutralized, Harry got busy healing the cuts on Snape’s face and neck. It helped to distract him from the runes undulating, sliding out of sight at Snape’s neckline. "I’m really sorry. I had no idea. Who could’ve predicted he’d go bonkers like that?" He glimpsed disgust dragging at Snape’s eyelids and the corners of his mouth, and realized that Snape probably had. "Sorry," he said again, feeling helpless. "Are you all right?"

"I refer you to our earlier conversation in the garden," Snape muttered, staring over his head. "You have eyes. Judge for yourself."

"Fuck, it’s just a courtesy, okay? No need to - " He almost said, " - get your knickers in a twist," as he had to the five-year-old child in the photo. But that might be pushing his luck a flippancy too far. This was Snape at forty-one, a Snape rabid with starvation and so stained with violence and suffering and debt, any innocence he still possessed probably gave him hives.

But Harry was too embarrassed to admit, It’s because I can see what’s in front of my nose that I’m asking, you berk.

He was startled when Snape swung around and knotted one hand in his shirt front, shaking him. "You idiot. For the love of Merlin. I need food. Water. I need to bathe. I can’t have any of these things until the three of you stop abusing my privacy with your classroom antics and do your jobs. After which I need you to leave."

Harry’s heart thudded hard enough to bruise on the splinter of cold where Snape’s knuckles dug into him. For a split second longer Snape’s eyes held him hostage, sucking him headlong into memories of his Occlumency lessons. His palms started to sweat, his adrenaline levels spiked, and he barely stopped himself from shoving Snape away.

Weirdly, his knees also tried to buckle, as if his body remembered how often this kind of communion ended with him on the dungeon floor.

The murdered souls inside him, each a separate entity, grasped at Snape through Harry’s skin.

"Do whatever is necessary to make this happen," Snape whispered, his fingers relaxing their grip and trailing down Harry’s body a little further than strictly necessary. "Keep to the terms of our agreement, Potter. A certain werewolf’s longevity depends on it."

Harry nodded, feeling as though a hole had opened in his heart through which the ghosts were suspended like a washline, stretching between him and Snape.

He turned just as Odile pronounced Finite Incantatum on Pipecleaner.

"Well, I believe we’ve arrived at a mutual understanding," she announced, flipping and catching his wand repeatedly with her left hand. "Haven’t we?" she snapped, with an arse-kicking look at Pipecleaner. He shrugged assent, and Odile raised an eyebrow at Snape, as if saluting a superior officer. "We’ll see to your water problems, sir, and then if there’s nothing else you require we’ll be on our way."

"Thank you, that should suffice," Snape said. "Potter, why don’t you accompany them. They may need your assistance once your friend locates the source of the blockage."

Harry started to say, "He’s not my friend," but settled for, "Why? It’s just a backed-up pipe," because he wanted to stay and keep Snape company. Although it was likely that Snape would have preferred to be alone with the grocery bags.

"Yes, and I’m just a Death-Eating half-blood who killed Albus Dumbledore," Snape retorted. "I’m not joking, Potter. Go with them."

Pipecleaner shifted and looked around, as if expecting an escape hatch to appear, or at the very least a portkey. He was twitching and shrugging and fiddling with his toolbelt, nervous and belligerent all at once. Harry felt sorry for him but not enough to take his side.

"Slytherins," the plumber blurted, his eyebrows bushing up and his scowl fixed on the carpet. "Not much to choose between ‘em and bubotuber pus. Sticks together just the same, they do."

Harry drew an aggravated breath, but Snape and Odile exchanged glances, as if drawing straws on whose turn it was to field this pathetic attempt at slander. The Warden inclined her head, and Snape did that silky-voiced thing that went straight to Harry’s crotch. "If that were true, plumber, then at this moment Mr. Potter would be a late, lamented memory," Harry glanced up, startled, "and you and the rest of wizarding Britain would be suffering under the rule of an invincible psychotic. Do try to get it through your narrow, one-track mind that this war wasn’t won by Gryffindors alone."

"Sorry about that, ain’tcha? If it’d turned out the way you planned, you could’ve been sitting at the Dark Lord’s feet divvying up the spoils of victory a-tween you."

"Yes, because hanging by my ankles from the ceiling and being Crucio’d five times a day and buggered on Sundays is the fulfillment of my life’s dreams," Snape sneered. Then to Odile, "Take him to the kitchens before we have an incident involving accidental magic."

"Right-o, Professor," chirruped the Warden, then turned back and planted one hand on her hip. "You’re welcome, by the way."

That earned her a harassed example of his you-are-so-angling-for-detention glare. "Oh? For rescuing me from the Ministry’s patriotic lackeys?" Snape wrapped himself in his threadbare robes and haughtily crossed his arms, snakes of dirty hair coiling in his face. "Very well, Madame," he stressed each cold word, laying them before her as if pulled drowned and waterlogged from a well, "my gratitude knows no bounds." No one dared touch that statement, and a moment’s silence elapsed before Snape growled, "And considering you brought him here, that’s abasement enough."

Odile’s face split in a grin, and a sparkle of green flew from the side of her nose. "Delighted to be of service, sir." Hang about, were they flirting? Harry scowled. They were! Or at least, she was. Snape’s expression was definitely more in the "throttle now, repent later" vein.

Annoyed with Odile for teasing a man who was obviously unwell - and whose dick wasn’t up for grabs - Harry stalked after her toward the kitchen, but she waved Pipecleaner on ahead. "Have a look, Mr. Culpepper, we’ll be with you in a tick. I’ll just hold onto your wand until I’ve had a brief word with our saviour here."

Harry blinked as Pipecleaner shot them an obscene look and stomped through to the kitchen. The next thing he knew, he was being backed up against the wall, his head and arse arriving with an audible thud, the way barred by the Warden’s forearm and the tip of her wand.

"Pleased with yourself, Mr. Potter?" Odile hissed. Streaks of temper glowed across her cheekbones, and that faraway chill he’d seen earlier frosted her piercing stare.

"Uh?" he said, startled.

"I’ve half a mind to throw you to the wards and let them rip you to bloody rags. Sodding hell, did you think I wouldn’t notice?" She stepped back, still holding him to the wall with her out-thrust wand. "The Professor’s nothing but skin and bones! Never would’ve pegged you for the kind who tortures prisoners - " Harry’s mouth fell open, and his stomach cramped with shame. " - but you’ve been standing by, watching him starve to death. Worse, I gave you the means to do it, you disgusting little twat."

"Hey!" Harry said.

"Keep your voice down." Odile poked him. "This is between you and me."

"But it’s not my fault," Harry argued in a whisper. "I haven’t been here. I haven’t been watching him, okay? Snape told me to fuck off and not come back, and I - well, I did. I mean, didn’t. Months ago! I just showed up today to ask a favour, and," he waved his arm toward the sitting room, "I found him like that. I’m doing what I can to set things right, so will you gerroff me? He won’t eat, you know, until we’re out of his hair."

The Warden retracted her wand by a few inches and studied him, one finger stroking the emerald gem in her nose. She said abruptly, "Did you tell him about the roses?"

Harry wobbled on his mental footing for a second. "Erm, yeah? I mean, yeah. Earlier today, in fact."

"Today? Shite, you’re slow off the mark." The Warden scowled, then jerked her wand toward the kitchen. "All right, let’s get this show on the road before the Professor has a psychotic break and chops us all up for meat pies." As Harry sidled past her, she glared down her nose - she really did borrow heavily from Snape’s mannerisms - and muttered, "Gryffindors."

Refusing to be intimidated, Harry glared right back. "Look, choosing me to pass secret codes between Slytherins, how smart was that?"

Odile gave an involuntary snort of amusement. "Far be it from me to argue with logic like that, my little protégé. After all, everyone knows that a gullible Gryffindor is an indiscreet Gryffindor."

Harry sighed. "Right. So now that I’ve committed your indiscretion, will you at least let me in on the secret?"

"Nothing doing," she said, shepherding him toward the kitchen. "I already walk a fine line between following my conscience and jeopardizing my job. If Professor Snape chooses to tell you, that’s his business. I’ve compromised myself enough for the sexy son of a bitch."

Harry inhaled in shock, and a gob of spit flew down the wrong way. He was so busy trying to say, "What?" and not choke that he nearly collided with the doorframe. Pipecleaner, standing braced over the sink looking dour and mistreated, jerked a scowl over his shoulder, and Harry backed away from the kitchen, dragging Odile with him.

Voice sore with suppressed coughing, he rasped, "Sexy? Are you mental?" doing his utmost to sound scandalized rather than jealous.

At first he thought her Slytherin half-smile was the only answer he was going to get, until the point sank in. Gryffindor indiscretion. Way to throw her off the scent, Potter. Smooth operating. Then she said, "Eh, maybe not so much in his present condition, but in general? No question. I’ve had a thing for the Professor since my Hogwarts days." She flicked her thumbnail with her index finger, and a spark snapped out. "’Course, he was younger then. If I were a fourth year now, it’s conceivable I might not go for him, considering how much more - damaged he is." A speculative excitement chased through her eyes, bringing that distinctive flush back to her cheeks. She clicked her wand against Pipecleaner’s once, twice, then glanced toward the sitting room. "Nah, it’s hopeless. Fact is, I’d just go for him more."

"But he’s - "

"Intense? Kind of scary? All hard edges and angles? With a voice to die for?" She stared him down, smiling. "And the courage of ten Gryffindors to boot?"

"No," Harry croaked. "Ugly. With that huge frickin’ nose, and for Merlin’s sake, tell me why you’d ever want to touch his awful hair - "

Odile's amusement bristled, and her eyes acquired the hot, dilated look they got when she was dealing with violent magic. "I happen to like big noses. As to hair, give me enough that I can wrap it around my fist and yank when I’m in the middle of a wrestling match, and I’m happy."

Harry felt his eyes go as wide as the lenses of his glasses. To make matters infinitely worse, his face burned, and he worried he’d just outed himself as a priggish virgin.

"Really, Mr. Potter. Who do you think you’re kidding?" Odile raked an auburn wing of hair off her face, her nails flickering fire. "I’d take Professor Snape up against the wall in a heartbeat. Assuming he’d have me. And so, my fine Gryffindor bumpkin, would you."

Having won that round, she didn’t stay to rub it in but sailed through the kitchen doorway, leaving Harry, gobsmacked and distracted by wall-slamming thoughts, to fall in line behind her.

Odile was very polite and official about returning Pipecleaner's wand. Huffing and unable to look either one of them in the face, Pipecleaner proceeded to blast the living daylights out of the plumbing. The awful thought crossed Harry's mind that he might have overheard their conversation. Harry hadn't a clue what to do about it, except pray that the choicer tidbits didn't turn up in one of the scandal sheets.

Having cast several diagnostic and dissolution spells, Pipecleaner grunted and swore. He seemed perturbed by the results, even before he tried the taps. When he tested the hot water, the floor shuddered and a foul, greenish fluid dripped rapidly from the spigot. Where it splashed the basin, the old porcelain disintegrated with a hiss. Pipecleaner backed away, breathing loudly through his nose, then fished a net bag of polished white crystals from his tool belt. He shook them around the area near the sink and swung them past the bottom cabinets. More than half the crystals promptly turned black, and Pipecleaner swore again. He re-hung the bag on his belt and raised his wand.

"Get ready," he said curtly. "This is more'n I can handle."

Harry and Odile took up identical defensive positions behind him. White-knuckled, Pipecleaner flicked his wand in a long, beautiful motion, as if casting a fishing reel. He maintained a gentle bobbing rhythm, like a conductor counting beats with a baton. Harry and Odile watched tensely for the signal to attack.

Pipecleaner’s arm suddenly shot forward, drawing the plumber toward the sink. Struggling, he jerked it back and almost dropped his wand. "Look sharp, you lot! Bad things coming up!"

With a sucking, guttural slurp, a fountain of sludge erupted from the drain. Throwing rapidfire spells, Harry and Odile incinerated the stuff as it flooded across the counter. Globules of stinking black sewage splashed out and pitted the floor. Wherever it touched, sections of linoleum melted. Standing fast, the three of them destroyed or banished every molecule in record time, but not before Harry had spotted the mummified remains of dead boomslangs, the multi-legged knots of acromantulars, the carbuncles of poisonous toads in the sodden mess. Bits and pieces of rot kept heaving out of the sink, as foul in death as they’d been in life. Harry’s eyes watered from the stench. Grimly, he kept banishing the monstrous remains.

Just when it seemed they'd reached the end and Odile had relaxed her guard enough to examine a splash wound on Pipecleaner's shoulder, Harry heard a rapid fluttering coming up through the drain. A shred of blackness whipped out of the sink and shot right over their heads. Harry spun on his heel. Fuck, a lethifold. It ignored them and flew straight for the sitting room. Faster than Odile this time and keyed up on adrenaline, Harry blasted the horrid thing out of the air.

Its flaming carcass hit the floor and burned to scraps in mere seconds. Harry shuddered and faced the sink, prepared to stop anything else that crawled, flew, or leaked out of the pipes. Still jittery, he glanced back and saw Snape standing over the smouldering ashes. "What the hell are you doing?" Harry shouted at him. "Get back in the parlour! There might be more!"

Snape studied the remains a second longer, then shook his head. "I doubt it." He sounded tired. "How do you think this one survived? It fed on all the others."

Harry’s stomach quaked a bit, mostly from relief.

Odile came up beside him and said, "Shite." She gave Harry an approving nudge, but kept her eyes fixed on Snape. When he finally glanced up at her, she smirked, "Don’t say it."

Snape frowned, but Harry could tell that his mind was somewhere else. Harry reckoned that since Odile had nudged him he could nudge her back. "Don't say what?"

"Oh, you know how it is. When people think they can tell you how to do your job. I hate that. I hate it even more when they turn out to be right." She flicked her fingers in Snape's direction, and another spark snapped out. "Professor here insisted I be extra careful in warding all access. Windows, chimney flue, pipes, that sort of thing. The bloody cracks in the plaster. Now I understand why." She raised her voice, because Snape wasn't paying attention. He was stirring the lethifold ashes with the toe of his boot. "Thought you'd renounced the teaching habit a while ago, sir."

At first it appeared Snape hadn’t heard her. "Pointing out the obvious isn’t nearly as unpleasant as teaching," he said at last. "There is an occasional small, dim reward." Voice empty of sarcasm, he hardly sounded like himself. When he raised his thin, unshaven face, Harry felt Odile tense beside him. They both expected Snape to fall over at any second.

But Snape’s glance flickered past them to Pipecleaner standing in the kitchen doorway. "So," he demanded quietly. "Is there water? May I finally drink and bathe like any other self-respecting wizard?"

"Yes, sir," Pipecleaner replied, his voice equally quiet. "Flowing fresh as a spring now. Purified it meself." The sight of all the Dark, venomous creatures jamming the pipes in their efforts to get at Snape seemed to have given him some respect for Dumbledore’s murderer.

"Thank you." The desperation that sharpened Snape's face was terrible to see, and Harry shoved his clenched fists into his pockets. He knew what came next: "Now it only remains for the three of you to bow yourselves out the door. I’ll make no pretense of inviting you to stay for tea." Thank Merlin, the sarcasm was making a feeble comeback. "I hope I never need call upon you again."

Pipecleaner snorted, "Bloody cheek," but he didn't disagree. He saluted and made a break for the door.

"Wait!" Odile cried. "I have to escort you back through the wards, man." Pipecleaner froze, one hand on the doorknob. He'd clearly learned that appearances in this house could be deceiving.

"I’ll, er, just hang out for a bit," Harry blurted. They all looked at him, Snape with absolute refusal in his face. "Just to be sure the plumbing doesn’t have any more surprises up its - uh - sleeve."

"Oh, but the wards are all ship-shape now, Mr. Potter," Odile intervened before Snape could draw Harry a verbal map of the shortest route to hell. "Stop playing hero and come along."

"But," Harry cast about for inspiration, "I should get started on the roses! Don't you agree, sir?" Okay, ‘sir' might have been laying it on a bit thick.

The arch of Odile's eyebrows defied description. "Begging your pardon? Roses?" She could definitely give Snape's eyebrow-habit a run for the title of ‘most versatile in a pinch.' "Someone care to clue me in? I'm a bit of a rose-fancier myself."

Harry rather liked having a secret from Odile, but Snape snarled, "I've hired Potter to be my gardener."

In the background, Pipecleaner groaned, "Blimey."

Snape held Odile’s gaze until she’d managed to wrestle her smirk into a reasonable semblance of a polite smile, but annoyance coloured his face and voice when he said, "As such, he is exceeding his authority at the moment. If you were familiar with his record as a student, you’d expect no less."

Harry humphed. "I’d stack my student record up against yours any day, Snape."

"One moment while my new employee and I have a private word. Apparently, I must yet again explain the error of his ways." Snape jerked his head toward the sitting room. "Potter."

Harry followed, prepared to argue his case, but the moment they were out of sight of the other two, Snape said, "Very clever ruse. I was hoping we might speak alone before you left. Perhaps I should revise my low opinion of your Slytherin potential?" He held two sheets of folded paper out to Harry. "Here’s the list. I’ve itemized the ingredients you must bring with you next time. You’ll notice I require several samples of Lupin’s blood. Also, an undented cauldron. On a separate sheet I’ve written out instructions for an aconite purge that must be followed precisely to the letter. Have Lupin start on it tomorrow. I’ve no doubt some of his debility is due to the build-up of aconite in his system." Snape gazed over at the grocery bags still sitting on the chair and added, "Be aware that he’ll necessarily feel worse before he feels better. At the very least, expect vomiting."

Harry accepted the papers and tucked them away. "That wasn't a clever ruse, you know."

Snape sighed. "Yes, and Albus loved purple and my father was a drunken sot and what was your point, Potter? That I gave credit where it wasn’t due? I was hoping you’d agree to be subtle for three whole seconds, take your marching orders, and leave."

"But - "

"I didn’t advertise for a nursemaid. You may return in three days."

"But you’re not well. What if you need help?"

"Oh, for fuck’s sake." Snape’s face was hollow with strain. "And here I was complaining of the lack of human company. Remind me next time to specify intelligent human company. I’m beginning to think it possible to expire from a surfeit of the obvious." He leaned toward Harry and snarled, "You’re right, I’m not well. For the past week I’ve barely eaten, and I’ve rationed water for nearly as long. For the next twenty-four hours, I expect to be in constant communion with my newly-repaired plumbing, because any food I take in will likely pass right through my system. Believe me, I neither need nor want an audience for that."

Harry was about to retort, when Pipecleaner appeared in the doorway. "Don’t want to complain, guv’nors, but I’ve done me job, just like you asked, and there’s a bottle of old Ogden’s at home with my name on it." He sounded plaintive.

Stuck between a glaring Snape and a fidgeting Pipecleaner, Harry decided that surrender might be the better part of compassion. "Right," he said. "In three days, then."

At his words, the stubbornness seemed to leak out of Snape. He groped back and found the sofa, then maneouvred himself down onto the cushions, hands knotted in his lap. He looked horrifyingly fragile. "We'll talk more when you return. Please give my regards to Madame Lalique."

The moment the door to Spinner's End shut behind them, Pipecleaner announced, "Well, it hasn't exactly been fun, mates, but it's been an eye-opener for sure."

To Harry's surprise, he held out his hand. Harry shook it and said, "We couldn't have done it without you. Thanks for all your help."

"'Spect to read in the papers someday that your body was found in the basement," Pipecleaner grinned. "I wouldn't turn my back on that one, sir. He's got Dark written all over him."

"It's a Slytherin thing," Odile said sweetly. Pipecleaner grunted, checked his toolbelt to be certain everything was in order, nodded to them both, and Disapparated.

Odile walked Harry toward the canal, her translucent green robes fanning out around her. "Gardener, eh?" she said thoughtfully, just as Harry was starting to believe he was off the hook. "That was outstandingly fast work, Mr. Potter. You've more guile than I gave you credit for."

"He asked me," Harry pointed out.

"Right," she said. "A pity the Professor's not much of a switch, or I'd consider cutting in on the action."

"Merlin, will you stop implying that I'm after his body or something?" Harry complained. "We've worked out a deal. He brews Wolfsbane for a friend of mine and in return I tend his garden."

"I bet you do," Odile dead-panned. "Just remember it's not all roses, my little protégé. Having a tremendous prick doesn't always make up for being a tremendous prick, if you know what I mean. But I expect you get off on that or you wouldn't be here in the first place."

When Harry blushed with annoyance and started walking faster, she called after him, "If you're really intent on protecting your virtue, I'd advise you not to bend over too far when you're pulling up the Professor's weeds. I realize he's pretty far gone, but there must have been some reason he was staring at your arse, and I don't think it was because he mistook it for a lamb chop."

"What?" Astonished, Harry almost fell off the kerb, but Odile had timed her exit line perfectly. The pop of Disapparition saluted him when he turned around.

Three days later, Harry knocked at Snape’s door. Being admitted, with as little fuss as if he were actually welcome, did little to calm his nerves.

Snape snatched the packages from Harry the moment he stepped inside, then whirled and strode into the parlour. He had the bookcase open and was stepping through by the time Harry’d gathered his wits together enough to cry out, "Hey! Where are you going?"

Snape paused and glanced back. He was clean-shaven again, clean in every respect, and despite looking both tired and anorexic, he’d regained a good deal of the subtle power that itched under Harry’s skin. "Follow me and find out," he sneered, and vanished into shadow. Harry heard the whisper of his descending footsteps and swore.

He trudged to the head of the stairs. "Hello to you, too." Rubbing his scar, he put his foot on the next tread, and was three steps down before he realized that he didn’t feel either sick or in danger of falling. Also, the steps were cement, not wood. Puzzled, he thumped down after Snape. Fire flared below as Snape lit the torches along the wall. Convinced he was entering a miniature dungeon, Harry ducked into a small, low-ceilinged room.

Hectic shadows swirled over bare brick walls. The old coal cellar had been converted into a potions laboratory. A heavy wooden table was shoved against one wall, shelves installed above it in lieu of a supply cupboard. Every inch was crammed with bottles and jars. Plain old beer bottles and jam jars, Harry realized on closer inspection, pressed into service to hold powders and tinctures, beetle wings and salamander eyes, and all of the other repellent detritus required to brew a hundred potions. Carved wooden boxes and silver receptacles, multi-colored rocks, feathers, and beads were stacked and stuffed into niches. On one end of the table, a slotted block of wood bristled with half a dozen cleavers and cutting knives graded for chopping, dicing, and precision flaying.

On a second, lower table at a right angle to the first were spread the cauldrons, crucibles, flasks, and alembics of Snape’s trade. Some of them were shoved to one side, lost in time, forgotten beneath several years’ worth of dust.

On this table, Snape had already cleared a space and arranged the ingredients to his liking. He fitted the new cauldron onto its tripod, then extended one hand to Harry. "Get your arse over here, Potter. We need to run a few test batches. It will take an unpredictable number of false starts to isolate Lupin’s problem, and, as I understand it, we don’t know how much time he has."

Harry approached warily, avoiding Snape’s summoning hand. "You were right about the aconite purge. Poor Remus threw up every two hours for a solid day. The only thing he could keep down was water."

"Pity the poor werewolf," Snape said coldly. "Only imagine how deeply I relish the news that Lupin and I spent a day being brothers in vomit. I assume you brought your wand?"

Okay, Harry had anticipated this. He was trying hard to be responsible and as, well, ungullible as he knew how, even though it didn’t come naturally. But Snape had just admitted he’d spent his first day tossing up the food he’d finally been able to put in his body, and all Harry could think about was the fact that Remus had been cared for and Snape had been alone. By his own choice, of course, but still. He cleared his throat. "Erm, yeah. But weren’t you the one boasting about how good you are at brewing potions without a wand? How do I know you’re not trying to get your hands on mine for something else?"

"You can't possibly be that dim-witted," Snape snapped. "Your wand is the only one here," and for a fleeting moment Harry wondered if Snape was propositioning him. A flicker leaped across the pale features, too fast for Harry to identify. It was probably just the torchlight, but Harry’s pants suddenly had to deal with a growing bulge.

"Wolfsbane’s difficult to brew, very delicate. Certainly not a task that can be accomplished wandless," Snape continued in his snottiest lecture-voice. "You don’t want me passing off inferior-quality results to your precious Lupin, do you?"

"Well, yes, I mean no, I don’t, but - "

"Merlin," Snape said through his teeth. "Come over here and stand in front of me, Potter, and draw your fucking wand. We shall do this together. Will that lay your trust issues to rest, oh unsullied and simpleminded defeater of Dark Lords?"

Harry had no answer to that. He was too worried about other things that clearly had no intention of being laid to rest. Especially if Snape came anywhere near them. Sidling up to the table, he eyed the ingredients neatly laid out beside the cauldron. Shite. He swallowed. His very own private potions tutorial. He didn’t think there were enough words in the English language to express how much he didn't want this. He could feel Snape crowding impatiently behind him. He was bloody well hovering, the git. Uneasily, Harry drew his wand.

Snape leaned forward without a word and laid his long arm in its black sleeve right on top of Harry’s. Almost subtly, as if anyone under any circumstances might believe it to be an accident, his body brushed Harry’s. Harry discreetly scooted out of reach, hoping Snape would take a hint. The merciless bastard followed, the touch of him on Harry’s back, Harry’s arse, light and confusing and right there, herding him forward until the table edge bumped Harry’s crotch. Ow. Harry gulped down a whimper. He didn’t know whether to say something or wait and see what Snape would do next.

He waited.

Snape’s body jostled him, positioned him, pressed so close that their robes didn’t hide anything. One thigh slid between Harry’s legs and Harry felt surrounded and overheated and really, really sodding embarrassed. Snape was practically draped across his shoulder. All Harry had to do was turn his head and he’d be nuzzling Snape’s hair. Merlin, this was going to be torture.

Then the long, cool grip of Snape’s hand enfolded Harry’s, gently, as if afraid that he might panic and rip the wand away. The tips of his fingers slipped across Harry’s skin, over his bitten nails, until they touched the wand’s shaft. They hesitated and then, with an undeniable sensuality, curled around both hand and wand. For a heartbeat or two, Harry stood there while Snape perfected his grasp, his muscles aching from the tension of trying to hold steady.

After a trembling moment, Snape raised their arms into the air until the wand was pointing straight at the ceiling. His voice sounded as sardonic as ever, but it cracked slightly when he said, "At last, my arm is complete again."

Harry peered at him sideways. His ear was burning, as if Snape’s breath contained a sensitizing agent. Harry’s beleaguered prick, which seemed to be in communication with his ear, jerked with an almost delirious pulse, begging Snape to please come down there and breathe on it, too.

Then Snape drew the wand closer, pressed Harry harder against the table, and growled, "Potter, what’s this? Care to explain?"

No, Harry really didn’t. He thought it was pretty obvious. Then he realized that Snape was talking about the wand. "Oh, uh, that. It came flying out of the wall. Odile took down some of the wards at Grimmauld Place back when Ron - so that Ron could come home. I didn’t like the idea of using mine, because I knew you’d - um, because I don’t want the Ministry recording what we do here."

"So what you’re saying is, this is an unregistered wand?"

"Yes?" Harry had never actually bothered to find out. He’d been more worried that Ollivander would impound the wand than that the Ministry would fine him for misappropriation.

Snape made a pleased noise. "Is there no end to your painful naivete, Potter? If we ever have time, allow me to teach you the subtle and indispensable art of lying. It may save your life someday." Snape reached around Harry with his other hand to fondle the cracked and twisted wood. Smothered on both sides by black cotton, Harry tingled. He was nine-tenths certain that the lump pressing into his arse was an erection. Although, really, it could just be something Snape had stuffed in his pocket to carry around.

Then Snape’s chin came to rest on Harry’s head for a moment, and Harry’s heart almost stopped. What did the bastard think he was doing? "Speaking of somedays," Snape drawled, "you’re going to give me this wand."

Harry struggled up through the draperies into the devilish, dancing torchlight. The cold air bit his cheeks. "You’re joking, right?"

"Why else would you have brought it?" Snape lowered his left arm but kept it wrapped loosely around Harry’s stomach. "Relax, you imbecile. You did catch the part where it’s not today? I’ve no intention of stealing it. But even you can’t be stupid enough to wave an unregistered wand in the face of a desperate prisoner." His thigh shifted suddenly between Harry’s legs, almost lifting him off the ground. Harry’s prick scraped against the table, and he swore under his breath.

"You must have an ulterior motive," Snape grunted, thrusting up again. "Even if you don’t know it yet."

Snape eased off then and allowed Harry to stand panting in silence. Fuck, that had been excruciating. He wanted Snape’s leg to do it again.

"Arsehole," he panted.

"Your wit slays me," Snape muttered into his hair, then began guiding Harry’s wand hand back and forth. "Loosen up, Potter. You can’t expect me to brew with you so bloody tight."

"I hate you," Harry wheezed.

Snape’s free hand dragged down the front of Harry’s body, drew him away from the table, dipped between his legs, and squeezed. "No, you don’t," he whispered. Harry rotated his aching bollocks in the cup of Snape’s hand. Snape continued to hold him even while raising and lowering the wand, moving it side to side, guiding it in a circle. Harry’s arm followed obediently wherever Snape’s led. Their magic intersected, and Harry felt a tiny current of excitement scuttle up his arm.

Snape hummed, "Interesting." Then he pointed. Abruptly a small red bottle blew its cork, spun upward to the ceiling, dropped alarmingly fast to the cauldron’s rim, and spat three drops one after another in high, perfect arcs. The cauldron vibrated when the drops struck bottom, each one hissing and sputtering as they merged. Smoke curled over the cauldron’s edges.

Banishing the drops, he growled into Harry’s ear, "I do hope that wasn’t some sort of sexual display. As a performance, it leaves a lot to be desired."

"Oh, belt up," Harry gasped as Snape’s hand kneaded his crotch. "Just be thankful the bottle didn’t explode."

"Enough with the moronic symbolism," Snape purred. "I’d advise you to work on that. Also your self-control. Now, shall we review? Dragon’s blood forms the basis for the Wolfsbane potion, as you no doubt recall, unless your brain stopped functioning so long ago that you’re merely a collection of survival instincts. Which is entirely possible."

Irritably, Harry kicked him in the shin, which itself wasn’t exactly conducive to survival, but he didn’t see why he should let Snape insult him. Not if he was going to stand there fondling Harry’s prick. For that matter, Snape was wearing boots, so he couldn’t have felt more than a careless thump.

This was Snape, though. "Do that again," he said dangerously, fingers exerting obscene pressure until the whole world dwindled to a throbbing, smarting bundle between Harry’s legs, "and you’ll leave these premises newly christened ‘the Eunuch Who Lived.’"

Harry could have pushed him away, but - God, it felt too good. Not to mention that his ghosts seemed utterly confused by Snape’s approach. Harry arched and moaned and nearly fell face-forward into the cauldron when Snape’s fingers relaxed.

"In the case of incendiary ingredients," Snape resumed, hauling Harry upright, "one must measure carefully so as not to exceed the specified dosage, unless of course the point is to ensure a long and lingering death to one’s pet werewolf. And I believe the only reason you’re here is to prevent that very outcome, yes?"

"If you say so," Harry gasped, pressing urgently into Snape’s hand. He was glad the basement was so poorly lit, because he reckoned his blush might just qualify as an incendiary ingredient.

"Potter," Snape mouthed against his throat, "has anyone ever told you how disgustingly easy you are?"

"No," Harry chuckled. "I don’t usually do this. Ghosts, remember? Bet George would be surprised. Cold fish, he called me."

"Weasley?" Snape huffed, and tweaked Harry’s earlobe between his teeth.

"Shite," Harry hissed. It occurred to him that he was barely standing on his own anymore. He’d pretty much melted into Snape’s arms, leaning on him at such an angle that Snape was forced to support the lion’s share of his weight. Also, Harry was now ninety-nine percent sure that he’d found Snape’s cock, so he did his best to plant his arse on it. He fitted his neck over the curve of Snape’s shoulder and stared heavy-lidded at the cobweb-strewn ceiling. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so blissful and warm. He didn’t even care that Snape was responsible. Although maybe he ought to be taking a more active role in whatever this was. This non-potions-making. Otherwise he risked leaving everything in Snape’s hands.

Barely touching, hardly more than breath and moisture, the tip of Snape’s tongue traced a path along the base of his ear to the outer rim. A shiver seized Harry. Snape held him through it, absorbed it into himself. The rise and fall of his chest rocked Harry gently.

Then, without warning, he pushed Harry upright. "Stop lounging about, you fool," Snape snarled, hand firmly knotted around the wand. Harry scrambled to his senses, shocked and rubbery-limbed, while Snape yanked the wand sideways, pulling Harry into position. "If we don’t practice using our magic together, you might as well kiss Lupin good-bye. Limber up, Potter. We need to get started."

Mildly traumatized, Harry tried to focus, but ultimately it was Snape’s show. He submitted to Snape’s mania for doing things a certain way, for timing each movement precisely, for laying out his ingredients in sequence. He felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy, doing next to nothing while Snape moved his arm here and there, guiding Harry where he wanted him, manipulating Harry’s wrist to achieve a fastidious angle, a strict follow-through, a meticulous formation. Harry was rather astonished by how much artistry Snape put into the whole brewing process, the sheer elegance of his style. Using Harry’s entire body as his wand, Snape channeled his intelligence through an instrument supremely unsuited to it. They both concentrated so hard that Harry felt irradiated to his bones with the dark taint of Snape’s magic.

For several mornings running, they kept to this pattern. Harry showed up after breakfast and let Snape stampede him into the basement. It was always dim there, always torchlit and chilly. Harry would take up his position in front of Snape and get pushed into the table, while Snape teased him and sent bottles and spoons and old roots flying expertly to their allotted places. They grew proficient at assembling and preparing ingredients together. They mashed and chopped and measured and stirred. The cauldron simmered on cue. Still, Snape banished every batch and demanded more of Lupin’s blood. Apparating to Grimauld Place, Harry apologized profusely, gave Remus encouraging reports, endured long, disjointed conversations with Tonks, and returned to Spinner’s End bearing the requested specimens.

Every morning, Snape devoted a set period of time to driving Harry crazy, wrapping his arms around him and submerging him in erotic distraction, pronouncing his insults against the whorls of Harry’s ear and sending delicate electrical shocks from his lips to Harry’s groin. Harry’s cock always leaped to Snape’s hand, longing to be stroked and squeezed. Snape played with the straining head until the fabric of Harry’s robes grew moist under his fingers.

But Snape never finished him off. He never brought Harry to climax. He never reached under Harry’s robes to touch naked flesh. At a certain point, he invariably drew back with the same explosive impatience and insisted they get on with the job.

Afternoons, Harry worked in the garden. He always shucked his robes, telling himself that the sun was too hot and his sleeves got tangled in the branches. Snape sat out on the porch and kept watch. He had an extraordinary gift for stillness, like some dark guardian from another era, carved in stone. Now and then, under cover of wiping dirt off his hands, Harry cast a silent Revelaro to make sure the wards were behaving themselves. Outside, they rarely spoke. Snape might turn a page of his inevitable book and or levitate a cup of tea to his mouth, but that was as much as he'd provoke the wards. Which was okay, because Harry enjoyed being watched by Snape. Like the warmth of the sun on his hair and arms, it made him glow.

The roses he’d been charged with reviving were pitiful-looking things, all dry and black-boned and gangly, with razor-sharp thorns like dragon’s teeth. Harry dutifully watered them and sprinkled fertilizer, pruned away dead wood, uprooted weeds with sharp flicks of the gnarly wand, and at every opportunity bent over to give Snape a gander at his bum.

On the fourth day, Snape fetched a small copper cauldron up from the basement and steered Harry into the kitchen. Before Harry knew what he was about, Snape had set the cauldron in the sink, stripped back his own sleeve, produced a silver scalpel from one pocket, and slashed his arm open. "Oi!" Harry yelled in protest, but Snape ignored him and waited calmly while the blood trickled and dripped down his white skin. When the wound started to clot, he peered into the cauldron, made a face, then squeezed the edges of the cut to keep the vein oozing. Harry had to look away. After a moment Snape apparently deemed that he’d donated enough blood. He held out his arm to Harry and let his eyebrow speak for him.

Muttering mutinously, Harry healed the wound. "Please tell me you’re not going to use that in a potion."

"I’m not going to use it in anything," Snape said. "You are."

Harry stared at him. "Like hell I am."

Snape examined his new scar critically, then shook his sleeve down over his arm. He turned on the tap and watched the water swirl pink. "It’s for the roses, imbecile." Shutting off the faucet and lifting the cauldron with both hands, he sloshed the water in a circle, speaking softly over it. Harry tried to catch the words but failed. Snape studied the pink clouds of diluted blood and suddenly spat into the mixture. It started to bubble, and he smirked, passing the cauldron triumphantly to Harry.

"Your mum used your blood to grow roses?" Harry demanded, incredulous.

"For Merlin's sake, stop pawing the ground like a centaur, Potter. Yes, she did, and no, we are not going to discuss it. Without my blood, they cannot possibly bloom. That's all you need to know." When Harry thunked the cauldron down on the countertop, splashing a few drops over the side, Snape snarled, "Spill that, and you're fired. You agreed to the terms. No roses, no Wolfsbane."

"But it's," he waved his hands in search of the right word, "depraved!"

Clearly exasperated, Snape turned away and rummaged in a cupboard. He fumbled with a package of chocky biscuits. His clumsiness just upset Harry further. It hadn't been so long ago that Snape had been starving, damn it. Now look how the bloodletting had hollowed out his face and darkened his eyelids.

Making short work of the first biscuit, Snape scrutinized Harry with a nasty half-smile. "I suppose you'd prefer if I masturbated and poured my spunk all over the garden instead?"

"Yes!" Harry threw up his hands. "At least it's healthy!"

Snape choked a little on a second biscuit and put a hand to his throat. Harry quieted; he hadn't seen the snake collar since the day of the great plumbing purge. "It might have presented some difficulties," Snape pointed out, between coughs, "for a child. Since the ratio of blood to spunk at the time was one hundred to nothing."

"That's just it," Harry said, thinking of the photograph upstairs, and the scrawny boy flinging his arms among the roses. "All it means is that you were too young." An image formed in his mind of that rude, ragged child, so protective of his mother, standing mute in her grasp while she carved up his arm. No wonder Snape hadn't baulked at being seared by the Dark Mark.

"I was a miserable, puling wretch," Snape retorted. "Is that what you want to hear, Potter? That knives and blood scared me half to death?"

"Well, so what? You were a child," Harry almost shouted, and wow, wasn't that weird, defending Snape. Defending Snape's right to be innocent, once upon a time, just like any other boy.

Snape leaned back against the sink and massaged his nose. "We all have to grow up some time, idiot."

"Right," Harry snapped, and picked up the cauldron. Stomping to the back door and shouldering it open, he didn’t respond when Snape called after him, "Sprinkle a little at the roots of each plant. Be careful not to overdo it. I don’t need any more flesh-eating roses around the house."

When Harry Apparated home that afternoon, he went straight to his room and locked himself in. He couldn’t face Tonks’s droopy brown hair and anxious eyes, couldn’t deliver to Remus a progress report on the fucked-upedness of Severus Snape, the wizard on whom his life depended. Shite. Usually Harry spent some quality time in his room wanking to the fresh, infinitely frustrating memories of Snape earlier that morning teasing his cock until Harry was practically crying for release. In the privacy of his bed, he could go beyond reality, close his eyes against the sight of his own hand, and imagine that long, potions-stained fingers were jerking his prick.

Today, though, he felt no desire. He was haunted by Snape’s twisted priorities, by the passionate face of the boy in the photo, and all he could do was turn over and curse into his pillow.

He delayed for three days before returning to Spinner's End. Before deciding whether or not to go back, he firecalled Hermione and invited himself over.

This was only his second visit since she’d moved in with Hailstork. After Grimmauld Place and the hours spent in Snape’s windowless cellar, Harry was almost overwhelmed by the light in their flat. The place was small but airy. Even though parchments, papers, books, quills, tea cups and coffee mugs were scattered everywhere, it still felt clean and sparse, as if that was merely the necessary evidence of two scholars living together.

Seeing the roses that glowed from a vase on the windowsill, Harry lost his artificial cheer for a moment, but he didn’t think Hermione noticed.

She shooed him into the breakfast nook and made them tea, chattering nervously all the while. Levitating pot, cups, crumpets, jam, cream, and sugar over to him, she let it all alight neatly on the table and then burst out, "Oh, Harry, I'm so glad to see you!"

Harry looked at her, really looked at the distress on her intelligent, serious face, at the wisps of hair straggling out of her hastily-tied bun, and felt like a heel. He took her affection so much for granted. Standing up, he opened his arms, and she came to him gratefully. They shared a silent hug. His ghosts floated and shifted but did not attempt to touch her.

"Sorry, Hermione," he said. "I've meant to stop by before now. I really have. But I've been - "

"Obsessed with Snape," she interrupted. "I know. That's not news anymore, Harry."

Harry was pouring tea, and he almost missed the cup and watered the tabletop. "Hey, not fair. I was going to say that I've been preoccupied with finding a cure for Remus's reaction to Wolfsbane." He shrugged. "Which involves having to deal with Snape, true. But I - "

Seated across from him, Hermione patted crumbs from her lips and smiled mischieviously. "I was teasing you. Well, maybe not. I brought it up on purpose." Her smile quirked, and she set her cup down. "In fact, hm. I have a better idea." The next second, she was standing and levitating all the tea things she’d just laid out, and Harry’s cup was floating away. "Come along. Adrian’s in his study. The two of you haven’t talked in a while."

Surprised, he followed his crumpet as it bobbed in Hermione’s wake. He caught up to it outside Hailstork’s study.

It might have been a broom cupboard at one time, but now sunshine poured in through a latticed window, and the room looked about to explode with light. A desk that was slightly too small for its occupant faced into the day, and Hailstork was folded over it, his fair hair hanging in his face, his sleeves covered in ink. He smiled when he saw Hermione, then turned pink when Harry poked his head around the doorway, the rosy round spots blooming like clown make-up.

Around him, on the walls and the few surfaces not crammed with books, ticked every possible variety of clock known to horology. Harry saw wood-framed clocks and water clocks and pocket watches and elaborate gold-inlaid pieces of jewellery and marble sundials and so much polished wood and metal and glass faceplates and painted dials that it was like walking into a museum full of dazzling toys. As Harry and Hailstork shook hands, a mahogany grandfather clock standing sentinel in the corner chimed the quarter-hour. It reminded Harry for some reason of George Weasley, and he felt a twinge of regret. But this was an entirely different model of toyshop. Everything on display seemed delicately engineered. Practical, yes, but with an almost breathtaking emphasis on beauty.

After a minute, though, he wondered how in the world Hailstork ever got any work done in the middle of all this racket. The ticking, tocking, gurgling, chirping, clicking and chiming would have driven Harry spare.

Greetings transacted and tea poured, Hailstork folded back into his chair like an origami bird, and Hermione tidied some papers off to one side of the window seat so she and Harry could sit down.

"Adrian," Hermione prompted, sipping daintily and then setting her tea cup down with a click, "I know you're up to your ears in work, but wasn't there some info you wanted to share with Harry? Something to do with sympathetic magic?"

"Yes? Was there? Oh, quite right, there is!" Hailstork's face lit up, and his fingers started carding through his fringe. "Thank you for reminding me. Well, you know, it's a very interesting question, isn't it? You see, I got to thinking, Harry. So Hermione and I devoted some time to discussing it between other projects, and I've taken a stab at some preliminary research, and, well - doesn't this somehow involve a curse?" When Harry gazed at him blankly, wondering what in Merlin's name he was on about, Hailstork amended, "Not a curse, well, no, those tend to be impervious to sympathetic magic, don't they? But I'm sure Hermione mentioned some form of restrictive spell, some punitive bond, similar in nature to - to the Dark Mark, but not so iniquitous, you understand. Not illegal, per se." By now Hailstork's entire face was suffused with pink. Hermione smiled placidly into her cup, refusing to meet Harry's eyes.

"Erm, yeah," Harry said, not wanting to reveal too much. Even so, he could feel himself joining Hailstork in the pink spectrum.

"In any case," Hailstork got himself back on track, "I believe the question bore on the corrective or, hm, that's not quite right, I mean to say the transformative power of sympathetic magic. You're interested to know, if I understand properly, whether the arithmantics of - of emotional intensity, of certain kinds of emotional resonance, whether they can alter or, or dispel such a bond, am I right?"

Harry looked down at the tea cup in his hand. He remembered Snape's longer, bonier hand, the way it had covered and claimed him, the way Snape's hand had guided, stroked, strangled him, brought him right to the edge of losing himself and then held him back. He straightened his glasses and frowned at Hailstork. "Yes," he said. "I'm interested. If it's possible, I'd like to know."

"Well, yes!" Hailstork sounded relieved. "Of course it is! It's very advanced arithmantic theory, but like much sympathetic magic, putting it into effect isn't the same as mastering vectors and equations - "

"Yeah, no incalculable calculus, if you don't mind," Harry interrupted.

"No, of course not," Hailstork said eagerly. "Only, you do understand, don't you, that's just a euphemism for - well, in this instance, love? The kind of possessive or punitive spell Hermione described - I gather it involves potentially fatal side effects? Well, it's a tremendously powerful type of magical control, I really don't understand how it can be considered legal, but counteracting it will require an equally powerful intervention driven by - again, I hope you don't mind me harping on this. But the emotional distinctions matter here. It's not just intensity. It's intent. It's - "

"Right, I got that part. Love." Harry nodded uncomfortably. The clocks ticked and nattered, as if gossiping behind his back. Discussing the absurdity, perhaps, the sheer gall, of Harry pretending he could ever free Snape. Because the way Hailstork presented it, what that would involve ruled it totally out of bounds. It made Harry the last person in the wizarding world to whom Snape could turn for help.

"Good, then. Good." Hailstork fiddled absently with his messy cuffs. Harry felt a hand touch his shoulder and looked up to see Hermione's troubled face. He realized that he was sitting bowed over, tapping his teaspoon against the saucer in syncopation with the predominant ticking rhythm in the room.

After a moment's silence, Hailstork went on, "So, in practical terms, and depending upon what kind of love we're talking about, and begging your pardon, not to say that we're talking about you at all, and I hope you don't think I'm implying any, erm, well, anything, but," Hailstork paused and cleared his throat. The pink in his cheeks made a valiant effort and finally turned red. "But the fact remains, arithmantically speaking, that the easiest way to change the kind of spell we're discussing here is to - well, take hold of the leash oneself. Transfer possession. Become, I suppose one might say, the possessor."

A brief, awful silence followed, and Harry just managed not to drown himself in his tea cup.

"I don't wish to foster a misunderstanding," Hailstork continued when nobody said anything, his voice slightly higher than before, his hands desperately sorting and straightening parchment. "I'd been led to believe that some kind of collar was involved in the - well, never mind. We can all see its usefulness as a metaphor, agreed? Because no matter what the outcome, that sort of transference is the first step and can't be dismissed, regardless of unpleasant associations. One must own the spell, you see, before one can release the - enspelled? The, ah - "

"Prisoner," Harry said softly.

"Yes. Well. That's it, isn't it? The prisoner." Hailstork gave Harry a shy, brilliant smile and leaned forward over his folded hands. "I'm so very sorry," he said. "But clearly, all is not lost. You're the most powerful wizard in Britain from all accounts, and according to your friends - My dear?" He looked to Hermione for help.

"You've got an amazing capacity for love," Hermione said, smiling wistfully at him.

Sunbeams filtered through the window behind them, touched the gold filigree in the clock casings and the crystal glitter of the faceplates. Time ticked onward, and it was almost possible to feel preserved in a bubble of pure light, pure thought and friendship. Amidst all of this harmony, drinking tea in this sweet haven, the only thing Harry could focus on was Snape. Hailstork talked about love. Well, Harry's feelings for Snape coursed through him, through his blood, through his prick, but he didn't think they went anywhere near his heart. These two well-meaning, intelligent people could never understand. They thought it was about love. Harry didn't really know what he felt for Snape, but he was sure it wasn't that.

"Right," he whispered as Hermione took his cup from him. "Not possession. Purity of intent."

"That's it exactly." Hailstork's voice was clear, vibrant with significance, and Harry thought that perhaps he hadn't given the man enough credit. Perhaps, beneath his blushes and his gently eccentric demeanor, Hailstork, too, had struggled with darkness. "The strength of the emotion is only part of the equation. Love can kill, as we - as history shows. It can be a conduit for all that is best and worst in us. You have to mean it, Harry."

Reaching under his fringe to touch his scar, Harry wished that he could locate a time-turner tucked away somewhere among all these marvelous machines. He longed to spin it wildly on its chain and let it snatch him away from here, far beyond ghosts and runes and the deformity of love. Far beyond Snape.

Because, Christ. To own him. Harry knew he could do that. He knew he could put his hands around Snape's throat tomorrow and make the bastard his. Forget love. He could fucking go to Spinner's End right now and own Snape.

The next day, Harry knocked on the front door. Snape, after a moment’s disdainful scrutiny that left Harry feeling like a door-to-door salesman, let him in.

"I have no idea what that little temper tantrum was about," Snape remarked, leading the way into the parlour, "but you realize you’ve lost us several days’ work."

Harry had waited until the afternoon to come by, because he hadn’t wanted to engage in more basement shenanigans. He’d been hard even before he lifted his fist to knock through the wards; foreplay would be superfluous at best, torture at worst. He’d been thinking about Snape all morning, about the collar, about himself.

The bookcase creaked open, and Harry said, "No. It’s waited this long, it can wait a little longer." He raised his voice, trying to sound commanding. "It wasn’t a tantrum. I’ve been having second thoughts. So I’m here to propose an amendment to our agreement."

Like a shrewd snake, Snape coiled about. He sized Harry up, then surprised him by sitting down. He was wearing his usual black robes without, Harry was sure, anything underneath. No cuffs peeked out beyond his sleeves. No extra fabric covered the runes around his neck.

"If you’re here to make a scene, Potter, keep it short."

Snape still looked haggard, as if the blood he’d shed to feed the roses had set him back more than he’d been willing to admit. Harry couldn’t afford to worry about that now, so he said, "This is crap. You’re not even trying to save Remus. You just keep dicking around with the potions, stringing me along, and thinking you’ve got me fooled." He knew this was a bit of a stretch, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything else to throw Snape off-balance.

As he’d expected, Snape refused to be thrown. He merely sat back and folded his arms. "You know, Potter, I do weary of the, 'ah, ha, you villain, I’ve found you out,’ sort of rhetoric. After eight years or so, it begins to get old."

Snape could think what he liked; Harry stuck to his plan. "I’ve decided we ought to up the stakes. We both need a more compelling motivation."

"More compelling than Lupin’s impending demise? Do tell."

Trust Snape to point out his total lack of logic. Harry huffed, wanting to nibble his wand, except that of course he’d brought the gnarly one and he really didn’t think it was safe to do that. Besides, he needed his mouth since his brain had apparently deserted him.

"Okay, it's like this. I use arithmancy to free you of your collar and in return," Harry's tongue tried to choke him, probably to save him from an embarrassment worse than death, "you, uh, you let me fuck you."

Snape's eyes flared, and he suppressed a lip twitch that could have been either a smile or a snarl of rage. "I believe you've mistaken which of your wands I'm actually interested in, Potter. It's no business of yours, but I've been fucked enough in my life that nothing could induce me to put my arse on the line again. No matter how heroic the experience."

"But - " It had never occurred to Harry that Snape might turn him down flat.

"You’re barking up the wrong broomstick," Snape said. "But since you’re throwing accusations around so freely and not scrupling to question my professional ethics, let me set a few things straight. I’ve no desire to be caught in a Ministry trap. Did you really think that if you waltzed in here and waved your wand around, I’d swoon in front of the almighty Potter prick? I’ve whored myself as far as I’m willing to go, and even if I were tempted, I’m acquainted with more deterrents to sexual importunity than you have," he scowled at Harry contemptuously, "ghosts."

For a blinding second, Harry's desire to put his hands around Snape's throat had nothing to do with owning and everything to do with killing. "You think this is a trap, you paranoid bastard?"

"Well, if we overlook the obvious rejoinder that this entire house is a trap," Snape sneered, "yes, that's exactly what I think. For Merlin's sake, Potter, what do you suppose would happen if I were really stupid enough to do what I've been wanting to do since you showed up with your collar fetish and your persistent erections and, oh yes, your tendency to treat my leg as an accessory to wanking? I can guarantee that a nice little squadron of Aurors would pile right through that door, haul me up on rape charges, and pack me off to Azkaban faster than you can say ‘lemon drop.' And anybody accused of sexually molesting the saviour of the wizarding world would be slaughtered about three seconds into his prison sentence." Snape released a hiss of frustration. "So thank you, I’m terribly flattered by your offer, but my right hand is eminently capable of satisfying my physical urges. Being sexually thwarted is not exactly a new development."

Snape had, perhaps, revealed a bit more than he’d intended, because his face tightened up and his eyebrows twisted into a knot. Harry said carefully, "So you do want me."

"Permit me to shatter your illusions once and for all, Potter. I'm not a monk. I never have been."

"And I'm not a liar!" Harry shouted. Snape sprang up as Harry stalked toward him, wand in hand. "Let me set you straight on a few things, yeah? The Ministry has no idea what I do here, and if it's up to me they never will. This is between you and me, Snape. It's my business, not theirs."

"Yea, verily, a pretty show of moral indignation," Snape said, with a sardonic hand-clap. "Your attempt to impersonate a Slytherin is amusing but totally off the mark. I don't buy it, Potter."

Slowly, Harry pocketed his wand. He was shaking, and hoped Snape didn't notice. "Nobody knows what I do here," he repeated. "Only a couple of people even know I visit you at all, and they haven't the faintest idea why." Which was probably not true anymore, come to think of it. But never mind that now. "What I do in this house is a complete secret. You are my secret, do you understand? Mine." He stepped closer and showed Snape his spread hands. "I could kill you. Right here, right now. You know that, don't you? I don't even have to touch you. I could be on the other side of the room, and you'd be dead, and you couldn't stop me. For all your insults and bluster and your refusal to cooperate, you're totally at my mercy." He looked Snape in the eye. "You always have been."

Not caring how the bastard responded to that, Harry curved his hands to either side of Snape's neck, linking his thumbs together. The uncontrollable shivering vibrated through his fingers into the tattoo'd skin. He was a little afraid of himself, but even so he couldn't resist the wave of weird exhilaration. Snape didn't back away from his touch or try to stop him, and Harry kind of loved him for that. Okay, maybe not loved, but he'd known the fucker would stand his ground.

He brushed his fingers up and down the softest part of Snape's throat and traced the runes over and over, as if painting them darker. "If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't need the Ministry to do it. As you've just pointed out, you're trapped. With me."

"And death is preferable to some things," Snape said. "I understand. Which brings us to the point: what do you want, Potter?"

"Besides being free of ghosts and guilt and Voldemort's sins? Besides having my best friend back, and my parents, and my - " Harry's mouth wavered, and he felt . . . not weak or small but like an infant unable to articulate exactly why and where it hurt, a newborn who wants to cry but doesn't know how. "I want my - "

"Your innocence back?" Snape said.

Harry nodded.

"Don't expect me to help you." Snape's voice was flat, and for the first time he broke eye contact. "It's all very affecting, Potter, but not the reason you're here. You're not foolish enough to think I or anyone else can change history, and as for innocence, I'm the last person - " He swallowed suddenly, even though Harry's hands were nowhere near squeezing, merely tiptoeing over Snape's jaw and wandering up into the wilds of his hair.

"You know what I want." Harry clenched hold of two greasy black handfuls and tugged until Snape had no choice but to lower his head. "I'm not sure how much clearer I can make it. We're alone, all right? We're in private. Nobody knows."

He wasn’t sure how convincing he sounded with that excited tremor threading his voice, but suddenly, finally, the space between them disappeared, and Harry let himself be swallowed up in the rustle of Snape’s robes. The little ripples of need that kept jerking through him synchronized and sped up to match Snape’s heartbeat.

"You utter imposter," Snape said, quietly furious. "You expect me to believe that with all the people out there who worship the bloody ground you walk on, you could conceivably want - "

Harry twisted, securing his two-fisted grip. Finding it actually necessary to use muscle, he dragged a raging Snape down by the hair and planted a kiss on his snarling mouth. Okay, maybe a bite. He was a little short on technique, and Snape was mostly teeth.

Snape jerked back and stared at Harry. "You are a remarkably foolish boy."

Then something just - snapped. Next thing Harry knew, he was slammed into the sofa with Snape on top of him. Hadn’t Snape just been standing with his back to it? Not that it mattered. Snape straddled him in a billow of robes. Harry kicked frantically. He got one leg free and crooked it around the bastard’s arse. Snape held Harry down and attacked his mouth, more teeth than lips, and maybe Harry should have cared but he didn’t. Snape didn’t seem entirely sure what he wanted to kiss first, so he trapped Harry’s head between his hands and devoured whatever he happened across. Harry’s cheek burned as Snape’s teeth raked over it. Bruises bloomed where Snape’s mouth jarred on bone, where he stopped and sucked and worried the skin. Harry kept his own mouth open for every opportunity that arose, nipping and licking like a puppy at Snape’s throat and jaw. Snape’s hips humped him into the sofa. They grunted and panted, wrestling irritably because they had different ideas about what to do with their hands and kept getting in each other’s way.

A voice at the back of Harry’s mind warned him that he was going to shake right out of his skin if he didn’t find release soon.

Finally, yes, fuck, they were kissing, and that was what Harry had been waiting for, this circling lunge and shock as their faces connected, mouths open and Harry pushing, straining to swallow all of Snape's tongue, with Snape hunched over him like a madman, mouth stretched wide and hungry, sucking at the whole lower half of Harry's face, painting Harry's lips and chin with saliva. Fighting one arm free, Harry clawed at Snape's arse, the stupid yards of fabric draped over his back, pummeling him in frustration, lifting up to rut against the swaying shaft he could feel jutting unrestrained under Snape's robes. In response, Snape cupped Harry's head in his hands again and tilted it upward, holding him in place while he plunged his tongue deep into the wet, gasping center of Harry's mouth, over and over, Harry almost gagging on it, his eyes watering, each tongue-penetration screwing him closer to coming.

Then Snape sat back, shaking hair out of his eyes. He crouched over Harry, his black robes pooling around them, his hands pulling at Harry’s clothes. Panting, they regarded each other with something like shock.

Harry knew he must look a right mess. His face ached all over and his lips trembled.

Snape wasn't in any better shape. The skin around his mouth glistened. His cheeks burned as if Harry had just backhanded him one-two across the face. His upper lip was puffy, and his hair hung around him in shredded rags, glued to his damp skin. And yet, somehow, his ugliness enhanced by lust, Snape looked so extremely raw that Harry wanted to crawl right inside him and fuck his brains out.

Harry expelled a breath, adjusted his glasses, and sat up, reaching for Snape’s throat.

Snape caught him by the wrists. "You are such a little pervert."

Harry rotated his hips under Snape and said, “You’re not exactly an advertisement for safe sex and the missionary position yourself.”

"That was a compliment, you idiot," Snape growled. He guided Harry’s hand forward and down to the peak of fabric that announced to the world that Severus Snape did indeed have a cock, that it was currently rampant, and that under no circumstances were they allowed to see it. "What a pleasant surprise," he said, his voice sinking to a purr as he pressed Harry’s sweaty hand to the front of his robes, "to discover that someone of your youth and relative inexperience is so . . delightfully . . twisted."

Harry didn’t answer; he was too busy holding his breath. And latching on. Snape moved between his fingers, the fabric bunched up around the shaft, the heat and oh my God, fuck, the hardness. This was it, what Harry wanted, this pure, exquisite sex.

Snape canted his hips. Harry hung on as the shaft thrust upward through the ring of his fingers. "Uh," he said, forgetting their conversation, aware only that every inch of his skin was sensitive from wanting.

"So, Mr. Potter." Snape pulled him up by the hair, preventing Harry from putting his head in Snape’s lap. "Exactly how much have you learned from George Weasley?"

"Sorry?" Harry blinked, confused. Why wasn't Snape rubbing his cock in Harry’s face?

"George Weasley," Snape repeated. "Am I wrong in concluding that a Weasley boy, not a Weasley girl, is your sexual mentor?"

"Was," Harry said sulkily. "Past tense now."

Snape smirked. "Even better. I’m not the sharing kind."

Surprised, Harry smiled at him, and Snape fingered the thin cotton of Harry's shirt. Then, without explanation, he balled his fists in the fabric, and with a single, violent jerk, ripped it down the middle. Harry gaped down at his own chest. "What did you do that for?"

Snape’s fingers slithered under the torn edges, smoothing along Harry’s ribs. Harry went from outrage to deciding that Snape was a genius. A bit mental, but a genius. Oh Merlin, his hands. Harry had fantasized for ages about Snape’s hands mapping his body. Then a fingernail caught on his left nipple, shocking it erect. Harry clenched his teeth, barely able to breathe. Like a dull knife, the slightly ragged edge slid back and forth. A squirming, exquisite pain bloomed in Harry’s chest. Twice the nail scraped upward, hurting and hardening his nipple. Always returning to stroke the same spot. Harry’s cock mainlined the intense, thread-bright pleasure-pain directly from that spot. Merlin. He was starting to see stars.

A sharp tug at his ears, air on his face, and a faint clatter as his glasses were levitated to an end table. He didn’t open his eyes.

"Breathe, you imbecile," Snape whispered, his words tickling Harry's lashes. Then, with slow swipes of his tongue, he licked each of Harry's eyelids.

Harry inhaled and his eyes fluttered open. His lids were slightly sticky. A rather blurry Snape was leaning over him, but the two fingers he slid into Harry's mouth were very real and bony and not blurry at all. They tasted like salt.

"Are you a cocksucker, Potter?" Snape asked, in that dark voice, and Merlin, there was nothing blurry about it.

Harry smiled and sucked on the fingers moving gently in his mouth. His tongue reached out to follow when the fingers withdrew, bridged by spit and connected by a glistening thread to Harry’s lips. But Snape interceded, breaking the string, his tongue flicking against Harry’s. They lapped at each other, then dueled, while Snape’s wet fingers smeared and circled Harry’s burning nipple.

Then Snape licked the palm of Harry's hand, drawing his teeth lightly over each knuckle. "What do you want, Potter?"

Harry curled his other hand over the runes and squeezed, gasping, "Blow me."

There was a moment's silence. Snape's pulse beat steadily, and the collar tingled in Harry's grasp. Feeling a slight jolt of panic and the unwelcome return of common sense, Harry summoned his glasses. He felt at a distinct disadvantage, not being able to read the changes of emotional weather in Snape's face.

Then Snape's weight lifted off Harry's legs, and his black robes whispered down Harry's body, the hem rustling to the floor. Still hastily tucking his glasses behind his ears, Harry risked an upward glance and was shocked by the feral look on Snape's face as he surveyed Harry sprawled on the sofa, shirt torn and knees open.

"Sit up, Potter," Snape said.

Gulping, Harry obeyed.

"Now scoot forward to the edge."

Harry hesitated, waiting for Snape to step back. When he didn’t, Harry opened his legs a little wider so that Snape could fit between them, wiggling his arse to the very edge of the cushion. Since Snape still didn’t move, this put Harry’s face smack on a level with Snape’s groin. Pretty nearly in it, to be honest.

Snape cupped the back of Harry’s head and pulled him forward. Harry’s mouth filled with cotton, and his cheek budged up against Snape’s erection. "Remember to breathe," Snape said, and Harry understood it as an order. He exhaled, hot and moist, and Snape pushed up slightly. The musk of sweat and hair and semen filled Harry to the brim. Guessing that Snape’s bollocks were right there, right in front of him, he mouthed the heavy sac and breathed on it and felt the radiant heat from Snape’s groin on his face.

Snape’s voice was less than steady this time, and Harry grinned. "Keep breathing, Potter. Now take your cock out and lower your trousers." Harry squeaked and started to pull away, intending to shed his clothes as quickly as possible, but Snape held him fast, mashing his face against the unyielding bulge of his prick. "You can manage it with your hands alone. I assume you’re sufficiently acquainted with your own body?"

Breathing hard and fumbling, Harry wiggled his trousers and his briefs down, doing his best not to imagine how ridiculous he must look from Snape’s point of view.

Snape retreated just enough to tilt Harry's chin up. He bent down, long hair covering both their faces, and they shared a strenuous kiss while Snape - dear God, Snape went to his knees, sliding down between Harry's bare legs, his robes drifting out, cool and scratchy. When Snape broke the kiss, he was kneeling with his arms over Harry's thighs, his hands on Harry's waist, and Harry's lower half was nearly buried in long, black draperies. Except for his prick, which stood up anxiously, one drop like a pearl in the slit.

Snape stayed that way for a moment, studying Harry's rigid penis, eyes flashing now and then to Harry's face. Anxiously, Harry flexed his arse cheeks, and his erection toppled a bit to the right.

Snape reached out and straightened it, his touch cool against Harry's burning, needing, wanting cock. Harry clamped down hard, managing not to come. He was so bloody close. Air whistled nervously through his nose, the pitch jumping about half an octave when Snape tipped his cock forward.

"Relax, Potter," Snape said, and then he hunched down, lips bumping the slit, and Harry said, "Okay, fuck," as Snape’s mouth closed around the knob. And this was weird, intense and just, just unbelievable. It wasn’t some total stranger with his mouth on Harry’s cock, it was Snape. Snape who looked just as Snape always had, with those voluminous robes and all that greasy hair. Harry’s cock was already in there, laved by that vicious tongue, at the mercy of those yellow teeth. And, where Snape’s hand had been cool and Harry’s flesh burning, now it was Snape’s mouth that burned, halfway up Harry’s shaft.

Then Snape pushed Harry’s thighs apart and sank onto him, with the hollow-cheeked, fish-mouthed concentration of someone totally focused on sucking. Harry grabbed a handful of Snape’s hair, moaning as Snape picked up the pace. Harry rammed into the wet, contracting hollow of Snape’s throat, back and forth, in and out.

A hand groped at his face. Harry was riding the edge of the sofa now, fingers digging into the upholstery, his other hand anchored in Snape’s hair. When Snape fumbled for his mouth and pushed two fingers in, Harry sucked them gratefully, rocking up and down, in thrall to Snape's rhythm. Oh fucking God, he loved shoving his cock down Snape’s throat, having Snape on his knees. Not in his wildest dreams had he imagined Snape would do this.

Then the fingers pulled away with a wet pop. And Snape rubbed behind Harry's bollocks, and then there was a pressure at his hole, and he realized what Snape was doing. The tip of a finger slipped inside him, and Harry gasped, "Fucking hell," as Snape’s mouth backed almost all the way off, tongue washing around his slit and flirting with the intense spot just under the head. The long, cool finger sank into Harry’s arse, and he sat there, breathing in shallow gasps, shuddering all over. Then the finger began gliding in and out, and Harry's head fell back, eyes rolling slightly.

He hadn't expected the second finger.

"Fuck," he moaned. "Don’t." But Snape pierced him a second time, wiggling another finger in to join the first. His progress into Harry’s arse was much slower, the two fingers meeting more resistance as Harry involuntarily tightened to keep them out. Trying to ease the burn, Harry arched back on his elbows, and Snape pushed his fingers right to the core of him and out again. Harry made a weak, strangled noise. Snape whispered something, and this time when his fingers thrust up inside Harry, their way had been smoothed. The sticky sound they made, plunging in and out, was lewd, disturbing. Satisfied, Snape worked Harry’s arse with one hand, kept Harry’s cock in position with the other, then leaned over and swallowed the entire length down his throat.

Harry flung his legs wide and babbled obscenities. Snape probed deeper inside his arse, slid back off his prick, breathed wetly, found what he was looking for, then sucked Harry down again just as his cruel, cunning fingers pressed.

As if Snape had flicked a light switch, Harry’s body lit up. He cried out, panting, "Coming!" as Snape flicked the switch again. Then the hot mouth pulled off, and Snape snarled hoarsely, "Go ahead, Potter. I know what you want."

Harry shot him a frantic look. "What?"

Snape’s mouth was wet. His black eyes gleamed. "You want to come on my face. Go on. Do it then. I dare you."

And suddenly, Harry did want that. His entire being vibrated with yesyesohGodyes. Fucking himself roughly on Snape’s fingers, pushing against Snape's bruising grip on his thigh, Harry fisted his own prick. His body arched up. He clenched and swore. And then a spasm of sensation exploded through his prick, shorting out his nervous system, jerking and streaming out of him in milky spurts that spattered Snape’s face with dripping come.

Harry felt like he’d broken something, hopefully non-essential, in his gut. He wanted to collapse backward on the sofa in a boneless heap, but that meant taking his eyes off the thick white stripes oozing down Snape’s cheeks. And, thank you very much, but Harry was going to stare at that until either his eyeballs fell out or Snape decapitated him. He would wank to this sight for the rest of his life. Panting like a long-distance runner, his arse on fire and his spent prick hanging between his legs, he started to curl sideways on the sofa’s edge, never taking his eyes off Snape.

Milky flecks spattered Snape's hair. His mouth was sticky with come, and as Harry watched, Snape's tongue flickered out and thoroughly cleansed his upper lip.

Still kneeling, Snape slid his hands up Harry's bare thighs and raised his wet face. "Now lick it off me," he growled.

"Whaah?" Harry floundered, trying to gather his wits, pull his trousers around him, and stand up at the same time. Snape couldn’t be serious, could he? Lick his own come off the bastard’s face? No bloody way.

Without ceremony, Snape yanked Harry down onto his lap. Eyes still shut, he bent their heads together. "Every drop," he whispered. "Now, Potter. With your tongue. Clean me off."

A weak throb, like a tiny flame from a burnt-out fire, pulsed through Harry’s prick. Shuddering with disgust, but thinking that Snape was probably right about him being a pervert, he timidly stuck out his tongue and dabbed at Snape’s cheek. It was unappetizing but tolerable, and his gorge didn’t rise. Really, though, all of it? Couldn’t he just wipe it off on his robes? He swallowed.

Snape sat waiting. With his eyes shut, his lashes damp against his cheeks, his skin mottled with fading passion and Harry’s ejaculate, he looked astoundingly submissive.

A shiver of ownership swept Harry. He situated himself more firmly in Snape’s lap and took hold of his throat, fondling the runes. Snape’s erection twitched, and he hissed encouragement. Leaning forward, awkward but determined, Harry laid the flat of his tongue on Snape’s cheek. He licked, and Snape turned so that Harry’s tongue traveled all the way up to his hairline. The serpentine magic wove through Harry’s fingers. Another lick, another twist of Snape’s head, like a cat having its chin scratched, and Harry was kissing the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say much for the taste, but he was aroused by the way Snape offered himself from every angle, gave Harry access to every vulnerable spot.

Snape’s prick, pressed taut against his robes, also spurred Harry on.

Harry began washing Snape’s face in earnest. He cleaned come off Snape’s mouth, licked around the line of his chin, up his jaw, the hollows of his cheekbones, laying great flat swipes of his tongue across the sarcastic eyebrows, biting the ridge of his nose - his nose, for fuck’s sake! What could possibly top that? On Snape’s eyes he used just the tip of his tongue, delicate against the thin, quivering skin, and felt another deep clutch of possessiveness when Snape wound both arms around him and hitched him closer. He lapped up every last rivulet of spunk and left Snape’s face shining. Then he rose on his knees to chase down random droplets, hesitating only a fraction before putting his mouth into Snape’s greasy hair. He slid his tongue greedily along the thick strands, wetting them down.

Snape was arched against him now, allowing Harry to do as he pleased. Harry wound downward with his tongue and butted Snape under the chin. With unexpected sensuality, Snape let his head loll back. Throat bared, Adam’s apple exposed, he offered himself.

Harry accepted. He attached his mouth to the snake runes, and Snape groaned. Fuck, thought Harry. A groan like that, in a voice like Snape’s, was more potent than an Engorgio straight to the groin. Biting his way along the intertwined serpents, he sucked the magic-drenched skin into his mouth. Snape’s hips bucked under him once, then stilled. Magic sizzled against Harry’s lips. The snakes whispered. Snape’s heart beat fiercely against Harry's teeth.

Snape's heart. Harry no longer believed it was a murderer's, only that it was trapped and untrustworthy. Human.

Harry wanted it.

Eyes closed, to help him concentrate, he slid his hands up Snape’s face, along his hair, and back to his neck again. His mouth never lifted from the runes. The snakes undulated, dancing for him, flirting against his lips, nipping his fingers. Their poison stung through him like an aphrodisiac. In return, Harry smeared them with his magic, entered them, inhaled the smell of Snape’s skin, treasured the ripple that passed down the long, white column when Snape swallowed. He insinuated himself into the design, twined himself around and around Snape’s throat, around his life, reaching deeper and deeper from the darkest wells of his magic. He crooned in Parseltongue, and Snape dug his fingers into Harry’s sides as if riding a twisting, speeding broomstick into the teeth of a storm.

No longer so supple, or so accommodating; Snape's body was strung tight, struggling to resist. Taking charge, Harry wrapped his arms and legs around Snape, his magic around Snape, his mouth, his desire to possess, to have this man’s entire fucking life dependent on him. After he’d seduced the runes, absorbed them without effort, his power took their shape, winding past Snape’s defenses to spiral jealously around his heart. The power pounded within him, shook and swelled in his grasp. Harry felt Snape’s heart burn at the centre of his magic like a blood-rose, petals spreading and contracting, a red darker than the naked eye could see.

Filled with awe, Harry realized that he could end Snape’s life now, and all it would take was a pinch, no more effort than dead-heading the withered buds in Snape’s garden.

Instead, he trembled with the most extraordinary tenderness. Where had that come from? He wanted suddenly to weep, to beg Snape’s forgiveness. Only, not at the price of letting him go. Rather, he wanted to keep him safe. Snape was his; he just didn’t know it yet. Harry heard him cry out, somewhere beyond the dark, private lust of his magic.

Something molten hissed under Harry's hands, almost blistering his lips, then cooled and settled back into softness. Oh, he realized, the work was done, then.

Snape collapsed onto his back, pulling Harry along with him. They were so intertwined that neither had much choice. They lay for second, both in shock. Then, groggily, Harry sat up. He unlocked his hands from around Snape’s throat - easier said than done - and mumbled down at Snape’s chest, where his heart pulsed through layers of magic and sent waves to the core of Harry’s being: "I, uh, sorry, should’ve warned you. Arithmancy. First principle." He risked a look at Snape’s face, and then wished he hadn’t. "The - the collar’s mine now. I’m sorry, but it’s the only way to free you."

"Free me?" Snape echoed. He looked ill with suppressed emotion. "Don’t insult my intelligence. I know the nature of arithmantic transmutation and what lies at the bottom of it. Either your arrogance has totally unhinged you or - " Lying on the floor, he raked Harry with a glare. " - or you’ve dissimulated so well that even I was fooled. "

"And now," Snape drove his elbows into the carpet and hoisted himself up while Harry sputtered, "since this sexual travesty has come to an unforeseen end, I’d appreciate it if you’d take your arse off me."

"But - " Harry didn’t mean to touch Snape’s prick, not really. The current of erotic energy sparkling through him was probably to blame. The fact that he steadied himself on Snape’s body - well, he had needed leverage to stand up, and when his hand just happened to land on Snape’s groin, on an erection still in full and unsatisfied flower, that was purely accidental, right? Squeezing Snape’s hard-on wasn’t compulsory, of course, but it seemed a natural response to the evidence of such unflagging arousal. "Hey, you haven’t -"

"I’m aware of that, you tongue-tied moron. Please note that groping me will not improve the situation. Anyone else wouldn’t need me to point this out, but you are, as always, the irritating exception."

"Merlin, I know that. I just want -" Harry met the wary challenge in Snape’s eyes. Thank God, he also met lust.

"You always want, Potter. You cannot always have."

"Shut it, will you? Just let me - " Christ, he was a tongue-tied moron. Frustrated, Harry drew his wand, and Snape’s eyes got big, like a nocturnal creature that had just been exposed to the light. Despite the toll taken on his face by thirty-five years of spite and suffering, he looked uncannily like the photo of himself at age five, suspended in time. Harry flicked, and Snape’s robes parted as neatly as if Harry had cut them open with a basilisk fang.

Snape's eyes lost none of their alarm, but his expression darkened. "Repair those at once."

Harry pushed the fabric aside and Snape's naked prick rose into view, long and blunt, flushed with heat, pulsing almost imperceptibly. "Fuck," Harry breathed. His hand gently shaped the word around Snape's swollen flesh. "This. This is what I want." He felt around under the robes, marveling at how smooth Snape was to the touch, when everything else about him was so sharp. "I'm not the only one who needs a lesson in the obvious." He pulled at Snape's cock. "I want this. Whatever you can give me, Snape. I want you."

That lit an Incendio. Snape pulled him down and flung him sideways, rolling over on top of him.

Harry fought briefly, though he was at a disadvantage with his trousers around his ankles. Then he almost laughed aloud as he focused on getting his hands inside Snape’s robes, petting and sculpting the bony slopes. It satisfied something deep inside him to take hold of Snape’s arse and squeeze both handfuls as hard as he could. Skin to skin was so marvelous, so much more intoxicating than trying to find friction through three layers of material.

They kissed until Harry was left gasping. Without warning Snape rose on his hands and knees and flipped him over onto his stomach. Harry’s arse flinched up, because his squishy bits demanded immediate rescue from the scratchy carpet. Snape grabbed his hips and hiked him up further. Then he snatched the gnarled wand from Harry’s fist, and Harry squeaked as something whisked through his bum.

"Cleaning spell," Snape said tersely, dropping the wand. His hands caressed Harry's raised bottom, and Harry rested his head on his forearms, not wanting to be caught blushing.

Then Snape’s thumbs took hold and pulled in opposite directions, baring him to God and Merlin and who knew what else. Well, to Snape, obviously. Wow, that was a little too much exposure, thanks. Harry was about to object, when something - teeth? - started nibbling along the stretched and tender inside of one arse cheek, right alongside his hole. Was Snape putting his face there? Cripes, nasty. Then a wet, warm swipe along his crack caught Harry so off guard that he emitted a truly embarrassing noise. Behind him, Snape chuckled. Into his arse, for fuck’s sake. The vibration and heat thickened Harry’s cock.

Then the tongue was back, tickling so delicately that it awakened a strange, answering quiver in Harry's belly, as if his insides were connected by the most sensitive wire to that tongue’s least touch. He groaned, vibrating to the rhythms of Snape’s licking.

Then, oh god, Snape pressed his mouth directly to Harry’s arsehole and sucked, teasing him with increasing roughness. Harry bit his own wrist. He was pulsating with wonderful sensations, yes, but he was also trembling inside, wrestling with a terrible, almost panicky sense stirred by Snape touching him there. All that attention lavished on his backside, the agonizingly slow breaching of his entrance, made him want to crawl away shivering. He felt unbearably vulnerable, freaked out that Snape was licking him in a place where no one else had ever touched him - not until Snape had finger-fucked him without asking - freaked out that it left him so helpless.

One thin finger was entirely inside Harry now. In and out. Harry tried to relax and concentrate on the strange, slippery pleasure.

Snape murmured, "Easy, Potter. I’ve got you," and Harry realized to his horror that he was moaning. He clenched his teeth together when Snape muttered the lubrication spell. Shortly after, two fingers slammed into his prostate. The corners of Harry’s eyes were wet, and he shifted his knees a little further apart. His glasses had fallen halfway down his nose. He wished he’d removed his robes, because they were bunched up around his face, and it was like a furnace now. Then - God! - the fingers thrust in and out of him with harsh, fast smacking sounds. Harry lay there and trembled as Snape took him apart. The intense jolts of pleasure, the terrible physicality of lying on his face while Snape explored deep inside him, was devastating.

He cried out when a third finger forced him open wider. A lot wider. Merlin, how was that possible? Were arseholes meant to expand like that? The fingers stretched him and kept on stretching, and Harry whined and swore, beyond shame. He didn’t care if Snape considered him a pathetic twit. He almost groaned, "Stop," but not yet. He could take it. For just a little longer. To see how far he could go.

Snape ran a fingernail along his back. "Potter," he said hoarsely, "has anyone ever told you that you have the most disgustingly beautiful arse?"

That startled a laugh, a whimper out of Harry. "No."

Snape’s fingers withdrew. The sudden emptiness shocked Harry, and a tear leaked down the side of his face. His arse ached, his cock swung between his legs, he had a rug-burn on one cheek, and he felt so fragile, so strange that he doubted he could ever look Snape in the eye again. Exhaling, he dragged the hem of his robe forward so he could wipe his face on it.

Something hot and rubbery pressed against his loosened hole. Harry said, "Oh," and his legs spasmed as the blunt head of Snape’s penis pushed into his arse. It didn’t even finish breaching the muscle before it retreated. Snape pushed in, pulled back. He kept up this maddening back-and-forth, dipping the slick knob of his cock into Harry’s arse again and again, not entering, just teasing the pucker open and shut. Harry wiggled, the nerves in his gut twanging, his heart dizzy inside him, in such a stupor of arousal that he could only lie there moaning, "Fuck. Please. Fuck."

Still, he wasn’t ready when Snape penetrated him, pressing through the sphincter and driving deep in a slow, controlled thrust. Merlin, his cock was huge, and Harry’s arse closed like a fist, trying to refuse entry, to expel the intruder.

Snape grunted, "Bloody buggering fuck." But he didn’t batter against Harry’s resistance, only curled possessively over him, breathing harshly. A sweep of hair trailed across Harry’s spine, before the hot, moist brand of Snape’s mouth suckled a kiss onto his back.

Harry's eyes blurred. He wanted to explain, "Don't be gentle with me. Please. I can't stand it right now," but he couldn't find his voice.

Then Snape wrapped one arm around him and whispered, "I've spent months, Potter. Alone." The prick in Harry's arse jerked a little. "Months without talking to anyone. Except you." He sank in a little further. "I would have starved to death if you hadn't come back. And now look. My cock's inside you, Potter." They both shuddered, Snape arching into him, Harry making noises he would have thought his self-respect ruled out. "I haven't touched anyone in a year - years - and I want - I have to - "

Snape shook as he spoke. Then his cock plunged in, and all Harry could do was bite down on a mouthful of fabric and claw the floor and try not to split open. Snape pulled out, raised Harry higher, and buried himself again, overloading Harry’s arse, his senses, and Merlin, Harry couldn’t do this. He was throbbing and distended and spiraling out of control. It was too big. Too much.

Picking up speed, Snape's hips and bollocks slapped Harry’s haunches. The weird, vulnerable place at Harry’s centre cracked, first in half, then into more and more pieces. With an almost musical sharpness, the broken fragments fell one by one to the bottom of his soul, all cutting edges and grief and defenceless misery and, God, most of all, guilt. Guilt. Snape was fucking right through him into his ghosts.

Harry wept. He tried to keep it quiet, tried to muffle it in his arms, but then everything stopped. Buried to the bollocks inside him, Snape panted against his neck. His hot, narrow body and torn robes surrounded Harry, which was - good. Wonderful.

"I thought you wanted," Snape started to say, his voice ragged. Then, to Harry’s shock, Snape’s prick slithered right out of him, and he released Harry, the warm, concealing robes sliding away as Snape sat back. "I can’t come with you whinging like that. I’m not a rapist, Potter. If you didn’t want me to -"

Holding his glasses in place, hoping to cover his wet, puffy eyes, Harry rolled - well, fell over - sideways and flopped onto his back. Through his fingers, he blinked at Snape who was kneeling over him, his prick flushed reddish-purple. They’d slid halfway across the floor during their struggles, and Harry was lying close enough to the window that a rectangle of sunlight almost blinded him.

With a soggy, drainpipe-clearing snuffle - and Merlin, not only was he an idiot but he knew how to kill a sexual mood - Harry managed to say, "I do want. It just - hurts, okay? Not physically - " Snape glared, and Harry gave a sad, wet laugh. "Okay, physically, you’re right, but that’s not - it makes me feel, I don’t know. Scared." He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. To Snape, of all people. He squinted up into the sunlight. "Like I’m helpless. Like I could - I could die."

Snape sighed and tucked his robes around him. "Potter."

"Wait," Harry interrupted. "I really, really want you. But." He took a breath. "Can you? I mean, fuck me. Fuck me like this. If I can see your face, it will help."

"You must be the first person ever to think so," Snape mocked him, but he scooted into position and clasped Harry's knees.

"Robes," Harry bit out, stomach fluttering. "No clothes. What part of 'see you' isn't clear?"

"Feeling entitled, are we?" Snape shrugged, and his black robes spilled off his knobby shoulders. He unsheathed his arms from their sleeves, and the wings of cloth settled behind him almost sacramentally. His lean arms reached for Harry. His chest, thighs, arse, all of them were naked and pale and scarred, and it turned Harry's sense of what was right, what was even permissible, topsy-turvy. He felt jubilant, seeing Snape undress for him like this, his skin bleached white by the slanted beam of sun. The dense black of his bedraggled hair soothed Harry's eyes. His red, red cock bumped against Harry's hole as Snape coaxed him to lift up. Carefully Snape slung Harry's legs over his shoulders.

When Snape entered him, Harry choked, trying to hold back any other sound. Snape lay on top of him and leaned into his face, whispering, "Look at me, Potter." His expression reminded Harry of the day he'd found Snape near starvation, a cross between predatory and restrained. He pinched Harry's glasses between thumb and forefinger and wiggled them off. "How well can you see without these?"

"Well enough," Harry grunted, his teeth chattering. "Just don't get too far away."

"I wasn't planning on it." Snape levitated the glasses out of the danger zone and then dragged Harry's hand up to the runes. "Hold on," he said, and Harry clasped Snape's throat and opened his mouth for a kiss. Snape thrust suddenly and filled his arse, while Harry smothered his cry around Snape's tongue. His legs slipped down to Snape's back, the thin muscles humping and arching under him as he locked his ankles around Snape's prominent ribs.

Then, at last, everything clicked into place. Magic twined up Harry's arms. Their hearts beat against each other. Snape’s prick slid home and nailed Harry's prostate.

Harry rocked with Snape’s deep, hard thrusts, urging him to let go, give it to him. Since Snape had clearly only been reining himself in for Harry’s sake, all it took was one blurted, "Harder," and Harry found himself being pounded into the carpet. The terror at the core of his soul melted, and finally he was flying. It was glorious. It was the most fucking fantastic thing ever. He was washed in Snape’s magic. The long pulses of his cock hammered pleasure into every part of Harry’s body. A pleasure that ached and burned and left him feeling elated, it was so fucking alive. Grunting with every thrust, he tried to laugh but only managed mindless sex noises. This was freedom. He bucked upward when Snape slammed into him, and they both shouted. This was what it meant to be free, of ghosts, of sorrow, to let somebody into your darkest places and not be afraid. God, he loved Snape. He loved what Snape did to him. He could do this forever.

He was so far gone in sensation that when his orgasm hit, it just sent him spinning higher. Then Snape's voice barked in his ear, "Potter, what is it? Harry," and he opened his eyes, tremulous and happy and wanting to tell Snape he was fine.

Snape's grim, beaky face hung over him, shiny with sweat. His prick was still firmly lodged in Harry's arse, but his hips had stopped pistoning. "I wasn't sure you were still with me."

"You called me Harry." Sloppy and dazed, Harry grinned up at Snape. He supposed he looked like a right idiot, but he rather thought he'd earned it this time.

"Shock value," Snape huffed. "Don’t get used to it." He pulled Harry’s hips into his lap, and then plunged deep, watching Harry’s face intently. "Potter. Don’t go away again."

Surprised, Harry promised, "I won’t," and then hung on for the ride, jerking and sliding over the carpet, as Snape proceeded to fuck him halfway across the room. When Snape came, he arched backwards, but Harry grabbed his hair and forced his head down. He wanted to see the grimace that gripped Snape’s face, the way his eyes screwed shut, wanted Snape’s shuddering gasps against his face. Fuck, the snakes were swirling, the whole ring of them going wild.

Snape's chest heaved, pale and damp, right there within reach. Harry stroked his nipples. Snape's face quieted, the way it did under the influence of music.

Harry thought, I love you, and then shoved that heresy right down to the bottom of his heart, where it belonged.

Snape dropped on top of him like a stone, and they lay together in an exhausted heap. Harry, his face tilted to one side, amused himself with watching the sun shine directly on Snape's arse. After a minute, Snape groaned and lifted some of his weight off before saying out of the blue, "There was another reason I pulled you out of the fire that night. The night the Dark Lord died."

Startled, Harry wriggled out from under him, and they both spent a moment re-arranging themselves. Snape summoned his robes and draped them loosely over his shoulders. They sat on the floor, frowning at each other.

Harry said, "Go on."

Snape took a bit more time to compose himself, reverting to the git Harry knew and distrusted. He ran one finger along his collar, as if it were too tight and he wanted to hook a nail under the edge and loosen it. "I did it because," he said, shifting so he could stare out the window. He wet his lips. "Because Albus loved you."

Harry gaped. Knees bright red from shagging him around the carpet, Snape rose, his movements stiff. Winding his shredded robes about him, he dredged a sneer up from his seemingly endless supply. "Yes, you abominable Gryffindor slut. Even Albus loved you, and I -"

Strangely, both the sneer and the sentence died away. Snape turned and stalked to the window.

Confused, Harry crawled around, searching for scattered articles of clothing, then began pulling them on. "And what? And you always did exactly what Dumbledore told you?"

Bad guess.

Snape said witheringly to the street outside, "I suppose that’s one way of looking at it." He glanced over his shoulder just as Harry was tucking himself into his pants. Their eyes met, and Snape turned away again. "If one were simpleminded and basically clueless."

"I may be clueless," Harry said, hoping to lighten the mood, "but I've got a disgustingly beautiful arse."

Snape pivoted. Harry's smile died. No one should look like that after giving a bloke such a brilliant fuck that he forgot about his ghosts.

Then the faintest traces of humour quirked Snape's mouth. "I suppose you’re allowed to quote my own words against me. I’ll concede that a beautiful arse provides some consolation under certain circumstances. But that’s hardly going to help me."

Harry had to swallow the retort You’re beyond help, Snape. He probably didn’t gain anything by repressing it because Snape shot him an evil look anyway. Then he breezed past Harry, hooking him by the elbow and propelling him toward the kitchen. "Come along."

"Good idea," Harry said, stumbling beside him. "I’m famished."

"Try to control your baser urges for a moment," Snape retorted. "I have something to show you." He paused and glanced down. "Accio Potter’s shoes." Harry’s trainers flew into the room and bounced across the lino.

Harry realized suddenly, "Hey, I left the wand on the floor somewhere. Accio -"

He shut his mouth when Snape drew the wand from his left sleeve. "Hm, yes, you did, didn’t you? How very careless, Potter." He skewered Harry with an eyebrow before raising the wand to examine the cracked wood. "This is quite old and extremely Dark," he murmured, and they eyed each other like an owl and a raven disputing a piece of parchment. Then Snape reluctantly handed it over.

"As I was saying, I have a job for my gardener." When he chose, Snape could be as immune as a dungeon wall to Harry’s glare. "I would like you to go out back and bring me a bouquet of roses."

"Sorry?" Harry blinked at the idea of giving Snape flowers. "But they're not - "

"In bloom? A minor quibble. Pick the ones with the biggest buds."

Harry had been about to say, "Not even starting to bud yet." Three days before, the bushes had just started putting forth leaves, purple-green shoots that had looked incredibly new and frail. Harry shrugged, tied his laces, and trudged out the back door, feeling his arse twinge at every step.

He was astonished to find the garden thick with glossy green leaves and studded with fat, tapering buds tipped with a suggestive red. Birds burst into the air at his approach like tiny feather dusters, and the wind tousled his hair. Snape’s blood must have done the trick. Harry moved among the radiant, healthy bushes and pointed his wand at the first dozen buds that looked closest to bursting. Levitating them to avoid their bristling thorns, he glanced up at the blue sky, expanded his lungs with a deep breath of non-magical air, and strolled back inside.

The moment he blundered into the kitchen, he felt the waves of tension rolling off Snape. Okay, what was up? Without a word of thanks, Snape held out his hands, and the roses drifted over and let him wrap his fingers gently around their stems. He cradled them in the crook of one arm, smiling down - and Merlin, things had just got weird again, because Harry was jealous of a bunch of prickly flowers. Strangest of all, without fanfare or haste, the roses opened up one by one, velvety and silent, and lay glowing in Snape’s arms.

A lump filled Harry’s throat. He watched, mutely.

Snape stared down with a reminiscent smile, long fingers moving among the petals, tracing their edges. "Do you smell them, Potter?" he whispered, as if the bundle of roses were a baby asleep in his arms.

Harry hadn’t noticed until that moment how fresh the kitchen smelled, as if a breeze from some faraway open meadow were rippling through the windows. The scent was very faint, and he no sooner caught it than it was gone again.

"Yeah," he said huskily, and Snape finally looked up. His face was concave over the flame-gold blossoms, their centres a deep red, the edges of their petals the colour of Snape’s blood. His black eyes seemed to reflect the cluster of flames as he stared at Harry.

Harry felt a throb deep in his arse and almost clapped his hands over his bum. He waited.

"The runes," Snape said, walking closer. "This collar that you now claim to own. Do you know how to control it?"

"Erm," Harry said. "I don’t know. I haven’t tried since - You know I haven’t."

"You taunted me today with how easily you could choke me and not lift a finger," Snape remarked. Harry flushed, not wishing to revisit that conversation right then. "Can you do the opposite? Can you prevent it from killing me?"

"I don’t know." He felt stupid, repeating that, but it was true. "I’d be afraid to try."

"I sincerely doubt that," Snape murmured, stroking the roses. "Care to join me in an experiment?"

Harry had a bad feeling about where this was heading but didn’t think he had the right to say no. He nodded jerkily.

Indicating the door to the garden, Snape said, "Cast Revelaro," and paused to allow Harry to precede him.

Frowning, Harry stepped outside and pronounced the spell that would reveal the wards. A gigantic mountain of white roses, interlaced with black thorns, shimmered into view. It cascaded down around the building, burying its narrow brick outlines in a floral blanket. The wind ruffled the petals. The aura of magic around the house was so strong that the sunlight bent at different angles through its wavering rim, showering prisms down upon the mass frothing like a lace-covered bosom.

Snape was still inside the house, completely hidden from view. A thick drape of white roses, smelling overpoweringly of burnt sugar, hung across the doorway. Harry started to yell at him not to risk it when Snape appeared in the middle of the magic-laden overflow of thorns and flowers, his head tipped down, both arms cuddling his mother’s roses in a protective gesture.

Like a child with a doll, Harry thought. He held his breath, and for a moment Snape just stood there while the wards rippled uneasily around him. Then the brave bastard stepped forward, and a thrill of unbelievable joy ripped through Harry as the wards parted like a curtain and let him through.

Blood roses. They were the key. The manky, thorny, gnarly ones that smelled like hope.

With anyone else, Harry would have hurtled forward and thrown his arms around them in glee. Instead he waited, trying to channel his magic into a river, a serpentine insinuation that could sneak up on the collar.

There. Snape choked. His fingers tightened on the bouquet and his eyes pleaded, no, demanded that Harry make this stop. Harry threw his magic into it, and felt the pounding of Snape’s heart ricochet through his blood. Nothing. He hissed in Parseltongue, bidding the runes loosen their hold. They ignored him. Snape staggered, glaring past Harry at the sky, then his lip curled and he turned unsteadily, admitting defeat. Harry abandoned his efforts to overthrow the collar’s design and steered Snape, tense and spasming in his arms, back inside the house.

Safe again, Snape bent over and coughed. He dropped the roses, and Harry saw that his hands were spotted with blood.

They both stared down at the delicate, disheveled blossoms, scattered about like small cups of flame. Harry drew breath to say something, I’m sorry or Let me heal your hands, but Snape hissed through his teeth. Without looking up from his rapt, unblinking contemplation of this false promise, this incomplete freedom, he said, "Go home, Potter. Come back tomorrow, when it will be my turn to discover whether or not I succeed or fail at my end of the bargain."

Oh God, Remus. Harry hesitated, but he could feel how much Snape didn’t want him to be there. With a whispered, "Tomorrow, then," he went out, taking care not even to glance into the parlour as he fled.

Weeks passed, and for a while Harry's life revolved around the house at Spinner's End. His ghosts and his guilt had met their match in Snape, and Harry could no more stay away from the git than he could resist the Mirror of Erised as a child, in thrall to his desires. The days ran together, but each was gloriously distinct, incised into his nerve endings. Often, the minute he set foot inside the door, he was greeted by Snape slamming him to wall, shagging him until it hurt to walk. There was a desperate sense between them of making up for lost time. They feasted on each other, and Harry was amazed the first time he took Snape's cock in his mouth. His flesh was smooth and burning, and he sat back, legs open, and let Harry tease him, growling obscene endearments. He seemed almost as undone by Harry's touch as Harry was by his; almost, because Snape always, in everything, held something back.

They fucked in the parlour, in the potions lab, and upstairs in Snape's room. Harry made sure to angle the photograph away from the bed, but he sometimes forgot and wandered past it naked anyway. He made a habit of smiling or waving to child Snape whenever they came in, and to his astonishment the boy was starting to smile back. One day, well-fucked and with sore nipples and his hair standing on end, Harry turned around and caught the boy staring at him with the funniest expression, somewhere between smirky and intrigued. It was only a photo, but Harry blushed and jumped out of range.

"Are you flashing your assets at my mother, you depraved monkey?" Snape drawled from the bed.

"No!" Harry protested. He barely paid attention to Eileen anymore, since she tended to sneer at him and turn her back. He said mischieviously, "I was flirting with you."

"You're aware, I hope, that I'm only five years old in that photograph," Snape said languidly. He was always more sinuous and sensuous after pounding Harry's arse through the mattress. There was a pause. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Did my infant self appreciate the show?"

Harry laughed and threw himself onto the bed. "As far as I could decipher the look on your face, I'd say 'depraved monkey' pretty much sums it up."

"I was a precocious child," Snape remarked, and rolled on top of Harry to stifle any questions.

They continued to refine the Wolfsbane together, and Snape often sent Harry home with lists of ingredients he needed re-stocked or newly added to his stores. Few things made him more irritable than reaching for something that wasn't there. Remus hadn't improved much yet, but at least he wasn't getting any worse.

Harry had learned to love these sessions. He relaxed into Snape's arms, giving him carte blanche over his power and his wand. Harry thought that dancing must be like this, among those people who talked of it as something pleasurable instead of something to be avoided at all costs. It was mostly a puppet show, anyway. If Snape had ever asked Harry for unrestricted access to the wand, or informed him that he'd make better progress if Harry removed himself from the equation, Harry would have allowed Snape to brew alone. He would have trusted him with the wand. But Snape never questioned their arrangement, and Harry wasn't going to bring it up unless Snape did.

Most days, usually after sex, Harry would wrap his hands around Snape's throat and try to reason with his collar.

Understandably skeptical, Snape had shared his lengthy and contemptuous opinion of this ongoing charade, and he didn't spare Harry's character or true motives in the process. Still, he allowed Harry to fondle his throat and whisper into his neck. Sometimes he even fell asleep while Harry was communing with the serpents.

Something burned and deepened in Harry every time Snape offered up this proof of his captivity into Harry's safekeeping, but he had no illusions about the likelihood of ever freeing Snape. His feelings about the bastard had grown more complicated, not more pure. If he'd thought that Snape invested even a shred of hope into his efforts, he might have stopped. It bordered on cruelty, even so. But Harry felt compelled to keep trying.

There was another element, of daring. Harry dared himself to test his feelings. Because if some day he ever did free Snape, Harry would freak out about what that revealed, and how it put him in Snape's power. He didn't think he could handle that right now. He doubted he ever could. But he had to know. So every time he put his hands around Snape's neck, and every time he failed, he felt - it was horrible to say - relieved.

On the other hand, he couldn't imagine ever giving this up.

"Well, well," Snape said one morning, rocking back and forth behind Harry in the darkness of the crowded lab. Three cauldrons simmered and steamed on the table, their smells mingling, creeping into their clothes and hair. Harry understood now why the intermingled odors of murtlap and boiled honey, clove dust and armadillo bile always seeped from Snape's shirt, his untended nails, the darkest crevices of his body. Snape pointed the wand, and suddenly two of the cauldrons were empty. He doused the fire under the third, which bubbled with a soupy, pea-green mixture.

"I do believe I've isolated the problem," Snape said, sounding smug. "Back to basics, Potter. Lupin's allergic to dragon's blood."

Snape was a stickler for exact dilutions and essences, never mind that his potions would never be sold to the public or his name attached to anything he created. But his professional standards decreed that he make as many modifications as his tests would bear before he announced, three weeks later, that the potion was as good as it was going to get, considering his limited means.

And he was right.

After the first month, Lupin's system perked up immediately. The results were dramatic enough to make Snape, though forced to rely on hearsay, downright insufferable for a week. Tonks' hair turned electric blue. Remus hugged Harry repeatedly and asked, with genuine emotion, to be allowed to see Snape so he could thank him in person. Harry was careful to translate Snape's response to that request into a socially acceptable, "No."

Remus and Tonks proceeded to celebrate the way Harry figured they would. Harry thought he and Snape ought to do likewise. He fancied things up a bit by laying on a feast for just the two of them that included several kinds of smoked meats and cheese and bread and bottles of champagne, a beverage he'd been wanting to try for ages. "Very French," Snape snorted. It turned out that getting Snape drunk, while it took some doing and required a second visit to the grocer's for an inferior brand of champers after they'd made short work of the first, resulted in Harry being shagged front, back, and standing up, not to mention smack in front of the window.

"Christ, this is embarrassing," Harry panted, holding onto the drapes and rutting against the small, tasseled cushion he'd clapped over his groin.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Snape panted back. "You're fucking lovely, you are." With enough juice of the grape in him, Snape's accent tended to slide back and forth over the median line. "Besides," he pulled out unexpectedly and gave Harry a stimulating smack across the arse, "we've got to work off all the rich food you brought. Really, Potter, I'd like to see more of this decadent streak."

Being such a bloody brilliant potions master, Snape also had the best quality hangover remedy on hand the next day to temper the pain.

Thirteen days after that memorable occasion, Remus and Tonks came smiling to Harry, hand in hand. "Guess what? Tonks crowed. "We've found ourselves a place! We won't be hanging about underfoot anymore."

The exhilaration of his success with the customized Wolfsbane wore off, and Snape grew increasingly moody. So did Harry, for that matter; he was now living alone at Grimmauld Place.

Their sessions in the potions lab tapered off to nothing, and Snape returned to his reading and research and note-taking. He also went back to staring out the window every day, sometimes at the street, sometimes at the roses in the back garden. He insisted that Harry harvest fresh cuttings daily, and he arranged the roses in jars and vases and champagne bottles all over the house. They were beautiful, but Harry was starting to feel that Snape paid more attention to them than he did to Harry.

Snape never repeated the experiment of stepping outside beyond the wards, but Harry knew he thought about it, just from the way he sometimes stood, staring at nothing and stroking a finger up and down the soft, brilliant petals.

When Snape withdrew sexually, though, Harry started to panic.

"Sit down," he said nervously, one cloudy-bright October day. "I haven't worked on your collar in a weeks. Time's passed; let me give it a try."

Snape didn't turn from the window. "No," he said. "Enough. It's never going to happen, Potter. Not least because you don't know what you're doing."

Ah, so they'd finally come to the point. Harry cleared his throat. "So? That shouldn't matter. Hailstork told me I don't have to understand the - "

"May I be allowed to finish my thought?" Snape did turn then, subjecting him to a long, sour stare. "I mean you have no concept of the power underlying the arithmantic formulas."

"I just told you, I don't need - "

"Interrupt me again, you smart-mouthed little cocksucker, and I'll hang you from the chandelier by your bollocks." Harry's answering grin faltered when Snape's face took on that cadaverous, Potter-smiting coldness he'd come to detest. "Of course you see no need to master the theorems. You feel perfectly content to remain ignorant of the underlying magical properties of love and hate. I can't say I'm surprised. But that's entirely beside the point." He grimaced and pinched the skin of his throat; the snakes squirmed and sank their fangs into him. Harry's fingers twitched. "Simply put, you'll never be able to free me of my collar. Because the power to do so is based in the arithmantic complexities and interactions of emotions you can't control. You know which emotions I mean, Potter. It's far more likely that you'd be able to alter this collar by converting your hatred of me into magic. Now that I could believe, though I forbid you to try. Merlin only knows what the result would be."

Harry swallowed. He was acutely aware of what Snape wasn’t saying. Love was the only force with the synergetic magical resonance to dissolve the spell on Snape, and Harry didn’t have enough. Of course, he’d known all along. He’d thought he was hiding it pretty well, but Snape had always been too bloody smart, and besides, it wasn’t exactly a secret that Harry didn’t - couldn’t - feel that way about Snape.

Desperation stirring in the back of his mind, Harry muttered, "Well, that’s no reason to throw in the towel, is it? Just give it, I mean me, more time, okay? Just give me more time."

"Potter, don't be stubborn. You don't have it in you." The muscles in Snape's face looked congealed, but his voice was bleakly amused. "Believe me, if I could blame you for it, I would. I'm under no illusion about our liaisons here. Even if our entire history weren't a record of unalleviated mutual loathing - "

"But - no, that's not - hang on a sec - "

" - there's still the matter of all the guilt and sin and death with which the Dark Lord cursed you. Your soul's been contaminated, your once-astonishing innocence - so often indistinguishable from your astonishing egotism - compromised." Snape turned his hands palms-up and studied them a moment, then gazed down through the window at the yard below. A flare of resentment shot through Harry. Some days he really despised those fucking roses. They were all the bastard cared about anymore.

"It has also not escaped my notice," Snape went on, in a voice that drew Harry forward as if carried on the suck of an outgoing tide, "that you have an extremely unhealthy obsession with my collar."

"What?" Harry froze. It had been weeks, months, and suddenly Snape was deciding to get puritanical and sarcastic about this - this thing they'd been doing? "Oh, come on," his mouth was instantly crowded with the excuses he'd been stockpiling for weeks. "It's not like I have a choice. I mean, bugger, if you don't want me working on the spells, all you have to say is - "

"Please," Snape drawled. "You get hard from the simple act of putting your hands around my throat." This time his voice rasped like velvet rubbed backwards, and the plush, roughened texture caught on Harry's skin. Goosebumps prickled in its wake, a faint sparkle of sensation all down his body.

Acutely turned on, he almost missed the faint snort. That unbelievable arsehole. He was doing this on purpose.

"I know what possessiveness feels like, Potter. In fact, I'd wager you're hard as a rock right now. It excites you, doesn't it? To have me under your control." He tilted his head to one side and stroked the runes. Damn it, fuck, but Snape's hands were beautiful, and the sharp clarity of that thought tore through Harry like thorns.

"Not - not control," he said, wavering. "I'm trying to - I thought I was helping. I thought - "

"You are deluded about many things, Potter, but not that." Snape turned opaque, Occluded eyes on him. "Shall I be blunt?" He paused, as if giving Harry a say, then shrugged. "Why, yes, I believe I shall. You have no desire to remove my shackles. Because once free, I will leave this bloody house and this bloody war and the whole bloody wizarding world behind, and that includes you." The words sliced Harry's insides to ribbons. "And you'd rather have me here, safely under your thumb. You're not so very different from Albus in that way."

That he didn’t mention Voldemort showed remarkable restraint. Being a master of innuendo, he didn’t have to.

"For that reason alone, you're incapable of undoing this spell. Because deep down," he smiled nastily and gave Harry a once-over, "or perhaps not so very deep, you being a Potter after all, you don't really want to."

Verdict delivered, he turned his back.

Harry, feeling as if he'd been Stupefied and Rennervated in the space of seconds, blurted, "Please. Don't. Don't send me away," because he knew that was what they were leading up to, and he could appreciate the irony, he really could, that it was the exact opposite of detention, he was being forbidden to suffer Snape's presence, and where once he would have rejoiced, right now he just - couldn't handle it. "I'm sorry I can't - "

"Don't insult me with further apologies, Potter. Even if, Merlin forbid, you harboured a miniscule scrap of feeling that could be mistaken for some attempt at love," the curled lip he flashed over his hunched shoulder beggared Harry with its bloodcurdling contempt, "it would be useless. Do you hear me? Anything you feel for me is - shall always be - flawed beyond repair."

Harry stared at Snape’s lean arms, his obstinate back, as if there were some way to decipher what was going through his head by parsing the untrainable straggle of his hair, and then it came, the thing he’d been trying to stave off.

"It's time we ended this charade. It does neither of us any good, and although it makes no difference to me, if you had half a brain you'd realize that it does you active harm."

"No," Harry said, chest tight. "That's bullshit. I won't abandon you. I don't want to stop."

"And that matters, how?" Snape swung around, his elbow almost knifing Harry in the ribs. "Fuck your abandonment issues, Potter. I'm speaking of exorcism. If you had the sense Merlin gave a woodlouse, you'd accept the fact that you're one of my ghosts. You're well on your way to becoming one of my sins." He shook his head, and a sliver of hair flew up and perched on the sharp edge of one cheekbone. Harry stared at it and yearned to catch it in his teeth and bite the bony corner of Snape's face. The despairing thought flashed through his mind, It's not just the collar. Oh god, I'm so screwed.

"Go suck someone else's cock for a change," Snape said cruelly, as if reading his mind. "I need to focus my attention on escaping from this prison house. I have several ideas, and making it work will take time and care and concentration. The last thing I need is some whinging, arse-kissing Gryffindor tripping me by the ankles and rolling over for sex."

"You sodding hypocrite." Harry's wand hand trembled, and the smell of smoke curled faintly through the room. He fought down his temper and said, "Right. Okay. And if your grand plan of escape fails?"

Snape crossed his arms. "All the better for you to be far, far away when they find my body, then, don't you think?"

"Are you crazy?" Harry lunged, getting a grip on Snape's wiry bicep. The flesh was cool, the muscles ropey in his burning palm. He bore down hard, as if the git were attempting to escape right then. Blue veins surfaced in the crook of Snape's elbow.

"It's preferable to doing nothing at all," Snape huffed, regarding Harry's hand as if it were a particularly disgusting example of a bloodsucking leech. "I prefer it, for example, to being sexually beholden to a besotted idiot who behaves as though a regular diet of fucking will make it all better. Well, it won't, Potter. You can squeeze me by the throat and fantasize about strangling me all you like, and it won't help one bit. It doesn't free me or restore my place in the world or make me your equal. And it never will."

Brutally, as if wringing the spigot that would stop the flow of words, Harry continued to hold on, hoping to bring Snape to his senses and himself some degree of calm. He was distractedly aware that he was digging in hard enough to rupture blood vessels. He didn't care. It wasn't as if they hadn't marked each other already.

"I don't recall giving you permission to touch me," Snape rumbled, low and dangerous. "Let go, Potter. Now."

"What kind of fucking stupid game are you playing?" Harry said, refusing to be shaken off.

"What do you mean, game, you insolent wretch? This is my life, Potter, in case it's escaped your notice. Oh, for fuck's sake. I don't have to explain myself to you. Get out." He wrenched sideways, but Harry hung on. Colour mottled Snape's face, and he grabbed Harry with his free hand. "What exactly do you hope to gain by this?"

"The truth," Harry panted. "You're hiding something. I'm sure of it."

"And if I am? Am I not entitled to the same consideration given the meanest scavenger in Knockturn Alley? My secrets are mine, Potter, the only thing of value that still belongs to me." He dragged Harry forward by his shirtfront until they were practically nose to nose and Harry was almost cross-eyed. He was just about to succumb to his dick's monotonous plea of fuck fuck fuck - for Merlin's sake, Snape's mouth was right there - when Snape said deeply, quietly, his breath breaking in small puffs over Harry's lips, "Lay a hand on me and you betray yourself. Your noble intentions aren't worth shite. You haven't the foggiest notion even of what it means to let me go."

He pulled back far enough that Harry, mesmerised by the burn in Snape's eyes, got one second's forewarning. "Well, live and learn, Potter."

"Aah," Harry yelled as Snape almost wrenched his arm from its socket. Son of a bitch, that hurt. Snape swung him sideways in a half-circle and threw him. Fingers torn from their anchorage, Harry swore, shouting as he stumbled over a small steamer trunk before thudding to rest half-on the bed.

Glasses lodged partway up his forehead, he stared bug-eyed at Snape who, expression blanketed by disheveled hair, continued turning until his left fist hit the window.

Snape's arm went right through the glass with a high-pitched, splintering, musical crash. Shards sprayed the room and cracked tinkling on the street below.

"You crazy bastard," Harry panted, groping for the gnarled wand. He had to crawl under the bed to find it and then wriggle out arse-first before scrambling to his feet. Once up, he almost fell down again. His ghosts were suddenly in full riot mode, bursting and swirling through him with each beat of his blood, fountaining into his skull and then draining back down. Harry had the urge to clap his hands over his ears and hug his head. Yeah, like that would help.

Snape’s back was to the room, and Merlin, why did he keep doing that, turning his face away so Harry couldn’t see? Serrated fragments curved and hung from the window frame like glass knives. A recurring sunbeam fractured on their edges, spreading a sheen of iridescence that blossomed and faded on Snape’s exposed bicep, colouring the ring of deepening bruises.

Harry was hypnotized by the sight of Snape's forearm. It stretched beyond the walls of his prison, red-smeared and pale, brightening and dimming as clouds drifted over the sun, his bloody fingers extended to the passing breeze. As Harry stood blinking at it, a pain like the pricking of hot needles stung his eyes until they watered. He had no idea what had just happened here; all he knew was that it hurt.

"Don't move, I'll get your mum's roses," he croaked. Snape's shoulders twitched at the sound, or perhaps at the burn of thorns coiling around the soft skin of his elbow. The uneven ends of his hair slid down as his chin lifted. Then, snarling obscenities, Snape took a sudden giant step backwards and wrenched his arm free of the wards.

More bits of glass flew with a brittle smashing sound to the floor. It was accompanied by the toothpick-splintering of branches and the terrible rip of flesh.

Harry lunged forward as the recoil sent Snape staggering. He flung both arms around Snape from behind and caught him, almost losing his balance when Snape’s weight fell on top of him. Harry braced himself and shifted his wand from hand to hand, searching for a position that wouldn’t poke. For all Harry’s attempts to feed him up, the fucker was still too thin. And what a stupid thought to have at a time like this. Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry buried his face in the nape of Snape’s neck. It smelled of sweat and dark, greasy hair. The git was panting so violently his entire body rocked in long, shuddering swells. It was too much like sex. Eyes closed, Harry couldn’t help reacting to the sensation of riding a hot, solid wave, damp and hard against his belly. His cock was rigid, and Christ, did he hate himself right now.

He held Snape in place, his boner plastered to Snape's arse, not because he found this the least bit erotic but because, if he could have figured out how, he would have melted right through Snape's skin. Strange that he was the one enveloping Snape. With his ghosts acting as another set of arms. With his guilt wrapped around Snape the way a spider wraps a fly. He supposed this qualified as "not letting go," but he didn't especially fucking care.

Then the bastard broke his hold, pushing round with a blood-spattered, animalistic grimace that would have done Fenrir Greyback proud. They stood glaring at each other.

Harry said the first thing that came to mind: "What the living fuck did you do that for?"

Snape panted through his mouth, upper lip jerking back from his front teeth as he breathed. "Because, you feeble-minded refugee from a dungheap," he got out, "I wanted to show you what you evidently cannot imagine for yourself." He held his mangled arm out in front of him, and it was every bit as stomach-turning as Harry had feared.

"Right, you've shown me," Harry said, raising the old wand, wanting nothing more than to make the bleeding stop. "Hold still and I'll - "

"Don't be so bloody patronising," Snape slurred. His uninjured hand caught the wand and forced it down. "Look at it."

But Harry couldn’t, he could only stare into Snape’s eyes. His ghosts crawled into his sockets to stare likewise, seeing death, seeing a murderer getting what was coming to him.

"This is my life," Snape whispered. "This is what it costs me to touch the open air, with no thorns, no emptiness, no walls closing in." He clenched and unclenched his torn fist. "No masters."

Harry had an aching need to say something, but he didn't trust his voice. What if he spat fire? What if the words emerged shrouded in ghosts?

"The idea of you - of you having the sort of feelings for me that could fundamentally alter a punitive curse is so patently absurd that we shall never speak of it again. Because this," Snape didn't wave his arm in Harry's face this time, but indicated the room, the house, the years ahead, "this is what the utter denial of my existence looks like, Potter. Imagine it if you can."

His ruined hand alighted then on Harry's shoulder, and within seconds the sleeve of Harry's robe darkened with the slow drip of blood. A soft tap, tap announced the bright red spots smacking his white canvas trainers. Snape ignored them, and with his other hand pushed Harry's fringe out of the way, his thumb tracing the scar, the snake pattern, over and over. He smelled of blood, sex, dark magic, of everything Harry had come to associate with need.

"I'm not surprised that you can’t change it. But if you," Snape took a breath, "if you can’t, no one can. No one alive." The sun struggled through the overcast sky, and in a rush of pale gold and glimmered blue and the jewel-like clarity of broken edges the window suddenly sparkled. Snape scanned the walls with drugged-looking eyes. His next words were so soft that Harry felt it was more like lip-reading than actual sound: "So it’s up to me. I can’t do this for much longer."

For a few seconds the sunlight glowed so hard it seemed to be trying to take shape. Then it was gone, leaving the room grey. As if forgetting that Harry was right in front of him, Snape snarled, "God-damned fucking Dumbledore!"

Harry's insides, already twanging with guilt, knotted tightly. "Oh, shut up. Why is it always somebody else's fault with you?" If he pushed the bastard away he'd probably fall down, so all Harry could do was place his hands on Snape's chest, warning him. That brought the tip of his wand right up against Snape's jawline. "Can't you even have the decency not to insult the people you've killed?"

Whatever memory Snape had temporarily fallen into, he climbed out at once and sneered, "Don’t presume to judge things about which you know fuck-all. Oh, excuse me, that means everything pertaining to me."

It was odd to stand grappling like this, with Snape leaning on him for support, the outrage so thick between them that Harry knew his ghosts must be basking in it. When Snape spoke, head bent, his lips tickled Harry's ear, which was - cripes. Intimate. Harry wanted to turn so that his mouth got the benefit of the tickling instead.

But then Snape murmured, "Thus endeth the lesson, Potter. Heal me, like the interminable saviour you are, and then get the bleeding fuck out of my life. I'll keep Lupin in Wolfsbane, and you'll keep me from starving. We'll consider all other debts cancelled."

Harry said curtly, "Hold your arm up," and proceeded to do what Snape had asked. Once he'd stopped the blood flow and mended the worst of the gashes, he said, "What do you mean, debts?"

"I saved you," Snape replied. "You've done your best to save me. I had the power of life and death over you," he paused briefly, as Harry put the skin of his elbow back together, "and I managed to carry you out of hell and throw you back to the overjoyed world. Arithmantically speaking, it wasn't as much of a challenge as changing a collar through the foce of love, but in other ways . . ." He watched in silence while the wand passed up and down his arm, and white skin emerged from under the red muck. He raised his voice suddenly. "Accio blood replenishing potion!" Clinking and rattling, like a jealous tiff between cocktail glasses, issued from the loo, before a phial the size of a beer bottle zigzagged out the door and flew smack into Snape's upraised hand. When Harry made a disgusted, "I knew it," sound, he shrugged, pulled the cork out with his teeth, spat it on the floor, and drank down the entire contents of the bottle. With each swallow his throat rippled. The runes stood out starkly against his skin.

Snape levitated the empty bottle to the cabinet. "If I'd guessed wrong," he paused to wipe his mouth, "the removal of the horcrux would have killed you."

What? Harry's arms went slack, and his mind whited out for a second. This couldn't be. But no, of course it could. The familiar guilt and cold spread through him. His ghosts had been there. His ghosts had recognized Snape. He'd recognized Snape, but that was later, outside, and he should have known Snape would leave him in the flames and walk away.

It could have been any Death Eater in black. But there was only one wizard who'd been a traitor to both sides.

Before Harry knew it, flames were roaring up behind his eyes. He remembered that horrible hissing whine and the blinding agony of that night, the blood sheeting down his face, the Death Eater who'd -

"Fuck," Harry said. "That was you"

A flame spurted from his wand. Snape jerked back, and it missed.

"Merlin, you must be willfully blind. Yes, Potter, that was me. I was there in the shadows. Watching over you, on Dumbledore's orders. I'm the Death Eater who ripped the Dark Lord from your soul."

Harry shook, sweating from the memory of fire inside him and the increasing heat in the room. "You - oh my God, you did it. You're the one who cursed Ron."

Snape’s eye roll would be the death of him someday. "Merlin protect me from stupid brats." With an effort, Harry bit back the hiss that would have choked the bastard on the spot. "You would leap to that conclusion, Potter. Use your head. My whole purpose that night was to keep you alive and to destroy the Dark Lord. I had no idea if those goals were incompatible. I'm afraid Ronald Weasley was incidental to that. Sod it all, my life was incidental to that."

As if the very sight of Harry gave him a headache, Snape pincered his forehead between thumb and index finger. "If I'd seen the spell cast, I might have tried to block it. Or I might not. It would have depended on the timing. I couldn't allow myelf to be exposed as a traitor." He dropped his hand and glared. "To the Dark Lord, Potter. I already had enough on my hands just avoiding being hexed by my colleagues on both sides." He crossed his bare arms, fingers traveling restlessly over the new and prominent scar tissue. Harry had been rather skint with the precision wandwork this time.

"Once the spell caught him," Snape said coldly, "there was nothing I or anyone else could do."

Oh, Merlin, this was bad. Harry's body throbbed with whispers of death, memories of fire, the temptation to end it here and burn this miserable, ugly house and this horrible man to cinders. The knowledge of how intensely he'd ended up wanting Snape made him physically ill, how much he wanted him now, even knowing, knowing, that it was Snape who'd reached into him and wrenched his soul inside-out, torn a crater in the screaming centre of his skull. Harry's chest ached, and it hardly mattered if he set the house on fire, because the deepest part of him was already burning, the cavity where his heart clapped in frantic time with his accelerating knowledge.

Fuck, oh fuck. Harry moaned, and Snape said, "Put that out, you fool. Now."

Blinking up past his cupped hands, Harry saw tiny spikes of orange-gold heat shoot from cracks in the plaster, flicker along the ceiling mouldings, dozens of hot, deadly flowers dancing over the room's weakest points. Smoke began trailing up between the floor boards. Faster and faster the flames licked, more like tongues now, snaking out in sudden darting streamers. Snape barked, "Potter!" but Harry, with a scream of, "What!" spun around and slashed the air with his wand.

The vase holding the bouquet of Eileen's roses exploded.

He stood gasping, watching a mess of water and pottery shards slap the floor. The long-stemmed blooms scattered in damp heaps, hissing wetly where they touched the smoke. Snape cursed and knelt to gather them up, coughing.

Harry stared around, awed by the brilliant, lightning-fast swoop of fire flapping up the walls. He did nothing to stop it. Because the devastating truth of the matter had hit him, the sickening and wrong and unbearable fact. Snape was the figure in the Death Eater mask, the one who’d had Harry screaming for mercy. It was Snape who’d pulled the Dark Lord out by the roots. Then he’d walked away while Harry crawled after him on his hands and knees, begging and sobbing through the fire-ravaged Ministry, out of his mind with pain while Snape - what? Harry could only imagine. While Snape ditched the Death Eater costume and Apparated outside? Summoned Harry to safety in full view of all the Aurors and Order members? It was permanently imprinted on his memory, that feeling of being cradled, the thunder of Snape’s heartbeat, the utter betrayal he’d experienced when Snape’s first impulse had been to defy the shouted order to give Harry up, and still he’d let go.

But that wasn't what sickened him. That wasn't the dirty, shameful secret twisting his heart into unrecognizable pieces.

"Potter, snap out of it!"

Harry jerked his wand up, but he was already tumbling, being yanked sideways. Sparks snapped over his head as a flaming branch tore loose from the wall. Falling against Snape, clutching at him, Harry realized in horror that the wards had caught fire. He crowded against Snape's side, wadding a fistful of black t-shirt and peering over Snape's thin shoulder. How had it happened so fast? Fire was springing up everywhere. Stepping away - it was impossible to put himself between Snape and danger, because they were surrounded on all sides - he swept his wand forward. "Finite Incantatum!"

Which turned out about as useful as saying, "Heel!" to a werewolf.

Snape cried out, "Behind you, Potter!" and Harry whirled at the sound of shattering glass. A gaseous cloud of fire billowed from the doorway of the loo. "Potions," Snape yelled behind him. "Not an ordinary fire. It's drawn to magic."

Unnerved by that, Harry cast with all his might, and jets of water poured from his wand. Wide dark sheets fanned over the walls, spreading downward. The flames sang and hissed, and the water evaporated into steam. Swearing, Harry tried to freeze them. No luck. The whole room was crackling, black thorns and white roses fluttering in and out of view, like a tapestry weaving a treatise on torture and seduction. The fire spread, eating its way along the vines. White petals sizzled to nothing; petals of ash filled the air. The briars surged and fought, lashing out. Snape ducked a burning whip, pulling Harry down with him.

"Do something," Snape snarled. "I don't give a shit if you burn this bloody house to the ground. Except for the small detail that I can't leave."

"Tell me what to do and I'll do it!"

"Potter, are you a wizard or not? Use your magic!"

"I don't know how!"

Snape stared at him, enraged and disbelieving. Then he grabbed Harry by the arm and snapped, "We'd better make a run for it."

As if the inferno had been waiting for just this moment, the bedroom door blew inward, belching fire. A blast of heat roared out at them, and Snape dragged Harry over backwards. Crouching, he panted in Harry's ear, "Bubble-head charm." Harry was so shaky that it took him two tries to manage it.

They huddled together, staring in shock at the multiplying flames. Pressed to Snape's side, Harry felt him twitch violently. He glanced up; Snape's face had gone utterly still, his eyes dilated, stricken. He looked oddly young. Harry followed the line of his gaze, and flew to his feet, yelling, "No!"

"It's too late!" Snape grabbed him the robes and yanked Harry back on his arse. "There's nothing you can do."

Harry knelt on the floor, swallowing. The dull metal frame on the cabinet was tarnished black. A few chips of singed paper curled out at the sides. Of the photo, only a burnt hole remained.

"Potter." Snape squatted beside him, batting at his hair as jets of sparks rained down on them. He had to bellow to be heard over the roaring chaos: "Are you sure you don't know how to stop this fire?"

"Do you think this is a joke?" Harry's chest ached with tension and he wondered if it was possible to have a heart attack at his age. "It's the ghosts," he hollered, high-pitched. "My fucking ghosts." He spread his arms to demonstrate what his sins were doing inside him right now, taking over, hell-bent on destruction. "I'm sorry. This shouldn't be happening. This isn't your fault - "

Snape, who'd been staring directly into his eyes, suddenly swore, "That fucking bastard," and then he pushed Harry down as a wave of fire rolled over their heads. "God damn him to fucking hell! Even in death, he wins." Snape's voice was splitting, and Harry tried to peek under his arm to see who he was talking about. And hang on, how had they ended up like this, with Snape crouched on top of him, shielding Harry from the worst of the fire? Harry was the Gryffindor here! Then Snape snarled, "Voldemort, you idiot!" and Harry really did almost have a heart attack. Breath harsh against his neck, Snape railed, "Take a look around you, Potter! Where do you think you are?"

In the awkwardness of trying to do as he was told, hedged in by Snape's arms and heaving chest and drapes of suspiciously scorched-smelling hair, Harry wondered if the fear of death had driven Snape completely around the bend. There was nothing to see but sheets of flame, towers of flame, clouds of flame. Exasperated, Snape yelled at him, "You've recreated the night the Ministry burned!"

Oh Merlin. Oh fuck. Harry gaped across the room. Snape was right. The conflagration Harry saw around them mirrored, not just his memory of the final battle, but the capering ghosts inside him. No, not just capering. Dancing. Celebrating. If the fire outside didn't get him, the fire inside would.

Snape pulled him around. Sweat was running off his face, glistening down his throat. "Listen to me, Potter. If you stay here, we're both going to die, and - I have no words for how stupid that would be. You've got to go. Save your justifications and your blithering apologies and just get the fuck out of here, all right? I didn't put myself in this situation only to have you make some insane sacrificial gesture and get your arse burned to a crisp."

"But if I leave, you'll die," Harry said stupidly. Well, shouted stupidly. "No. I can't do that."

"You can," Snape barked back, with a death's-head grin that was all teeth and no humour. "And you will. Two is not better than one, in this instance. Basic arithmancy, Potter." He squeezed his eyes shut as if something pained him. "Fuck me, a fucking teacher to the fucking end." Harry blinked at that. His eyes were stinging hard and he wanted to blame it on the smoke, but the Bubble-head charm hadn't stopped working. "Go, before it's too late, you numbskull!" Snape bellowed. "I only ask that you do one thing." His long fingers dug into Harry's shoulders. "For me. One Unforgivable thing."

Horrified, Harry struggled in his grasp. "Are you barmy? No!"

"Shut up, Potter." Snape shook him, as if it was what he wanted to do to himself and Harry was just conveniently within reach. "Stop thinking like a Gryffindor! Just cast the Killing Curse before you Disapparate. I'm sorry," and Harry could barely hear him above the monotonous whine of the fire. "I know your soul's been damaged enough. But I've no desire," he stopped, his heat-chapped lips hovering over the unsaid words, and when his throat convulsed, it was all Harry could do not to press his lips there. "I don't want to burn to death."

That was when Harry decided. He could do this. He could. He understood what was needed and he’d come to terms with it and it had to work, it had to. Now if his heart would just bung out of his throat for a minute, he’d get Snape to agree and -

And then Snape's weight was on top of him and the air was being crushed out of Harry's lungs and they were rolling over in a tumble of arms and legs and ouch. The next minute Snape was hunkered on the floor, dragging him into a sitting position, then mandhandling him roughly onto the bed. The spot where they’d been huddled mere seconds before was engulfed in flame.

"Snape, listen, I've - "

"For just once in your short life will you follow instructions, you disobedient little shit!" Snape shrieked at him. His teeth were bared, his whole body trembling. His eyes couldn't possibly get more dilated, they were that enormous, like mad black holes. Harry couldn't remember ever having seen him this way. Maybe burning to death was his nightmare, too.

"I've never asked a favour before, Potter. But I haven't - there's no way - we have no choice!" Snape's narrow, twitching hands framed the sides of Harry's face. "Sodding hell, if I could do it for Albus, surely you can have the bollocks to do this for me!" Snape tore his hands away with a violence that made Harry flinch, certain he was about to get belted. Instead, the unpredictable git hitched his arse back across the counterpane, pushing himself to the very edge of the mattress. Red-gold petals and broken stems fell into his lap: the mutilated, dried-out roses he'd held crushed to his shirt all this time.

He was - oh bloody buggering hell, making room for the necessary wand movement. "For the love of God, Harry. Please. Just do it."

Okay, no, he was not going to bawl like a baby. He wasn't going to have an episode in the middle of a burning building just because Snape had finally called him by name. Especially since, yeah, it was for the sole purpose of manipulating Harry into killing him.

There was no more time left for explanations. Branches of shriveled, spitting thorn broke from the ceiling, spiraling down upon them like flaming arrows. With a sudden tackle, Harry hooked Snape under the armpits and hauled him over onto his back. Snape cooperated, and that was - well, disturbing, actually. Harry straddled the unnaturally submissive body and with a silent Accio summoned the roses. Swallowing nervously, because surely Snape would misinterpret what he meant, he laid them on Snape's chest.

"Do you trust me?" Harry screamed. The heat buffeted them on all sides, with a sound deep in its muffled fury that reminded him of laughter.

"In a pig's arse!" Snape snarled back, clutching the roses, and Harry nearly snorted all over him.

"Good." He tucked his wand away, and Snape's dilated eyes widened further. Harry leaned over him. "I can do this!" he shouted, for both their sakes, and slipped his trembling hands around Snape's throat.

Startled, Snape stared into his face, and for a moment vulnerability stripped him bare, but that was all Harry got, one moment, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out if what he saw in that brief flash was surrender or betrayal or something else entirely. The strength of the feeling is only one part of the equation.

Snape exhaled, and all his long bones relaxed into the mattress, his stringy muscles going limp. Harry didn't need to be a genius to read that particular body language. Snape believed that Harry was going to strangle him with the collar instead of using the curse. He actually thought Harry was agreeing to kill him.

He didn't understand at all.

Hands as gentle as he could make them, Harry bent down. I can do this, he told himself. Before his resolve buckled under the weight of sheer panic, he confessed into Snape's sweaty, expressionless face, "I love you." And if he spoke at normal volume and maybe Snape wasn't able to hear him over the noise of the fire, well, at least he'd said it, and with only the slightest catch in his voice, too. His dirty secret was out. He tipped forward, practically falling against Snape's mouth and forcing it open with his tongue, because he needed to say it again, in another language entirely, in a way that was somehow more real than words.

Snape let him in without a fight, and that was strange, too. Merlin, even Snape's mouth was afraid, a slight tremble of his lips that caused Harry's heart to crack just a little. A curious warmth that had nothing to do with ghosts or death blazed inside him. Mine.

What must it take to kiss someone (and Snape was offering himself up, the tips of his fingers tentative on Harry's back, and if there was more desperation than desire in his response, well, no wonder), to kiss a person, him, believing, as Snape apparently did, that he was about to die at that person's hands? Harry knew Snape was a courageous git, but surely this took more than courage? Harry hoped so.

I can do this. Hands locked around Snape's throat, tongue deep in his mouth, in a room almost entirely wrapped in flame, Harry Disapparated.

They arrived in roughly the same positions, Snape on his back with Harry smack on top of him. It was a rather bumpy landing, especially for Snape, whose back was undoubtedly going to be a mass of bruises. By sheer luck, neither one of them chipped a tooth, although Harry's tongue got quite a mashing. It hurt so much that he cupped his mouth and groped inside with his fingers to see if he was bleeding.

The weedy bank was more pebbly than he remembered, strewn with stubbed-out fags and styrofoam cups, and Harry prayed they'd avoided the dogshit. Gliding alongside, the gurgling water of the canal smelled brackish, a mild low-tide stench. But the breeze was fresh, even brisk, and there wasn't a wall in sight. Best of all, nothing was burning.

Harry had no idea if their abrupt appearance had spooked any Muggles. He couldn't waste time worrying about it right now. Sitting up, he cast a Disillusionment charm and checked to see how Snape was doing.

Blank, smooth, and cool as marble, that's how Snape was doing. All his emotions were concentrated in his eyes, and he kept those fixed on the sky.

Then his calm broke and his teeth clenched, his nostrils flaring in and out as if agitated by an intense fragrance. Cripes, that collar worked fast. The runes merged, separated into their serpentine parts, and then merged again, undulating over rigid tendons and sliding down into the hollow of Snape's throat. His neck arched, but a stifled wheeze was the only sound he made. In the bracket of his legs Harry felt Snape's thin ribcage bucket upward, saw his bony elbows dig into the dirt. The choking had started. Time for the old saviourial magic, or whatever the right word was.

Mouth dry, a terrified pulse in his stomach, he cupped Snape's neck. I can do this, I can - ow, fuck! One of the snakes had bitten him. Harry ignored the resentful throb of poison. He couldn't fail. He just couldn't. Bumping his glasses straight with his shoulder, he took firmer hold of the long throat stretched beneath him, warm and straining. He'd cradled it this way so many times before, holding the thread of Snape's life in his hands, owning it -

No, wait, where had that come from? Completely the wrong line to take, you arse.

Tasting panic, he tried to summon the feelings that had bubbled up shockingly at Spinner's End. Mine now. The collar swirled under his hands. No, that wasn't it, either. He was supposed to be letting go.

Snape's body jerked uncontrollably, pebbles rasping under his shoulders and the rougher texture of his jeans. Harry bent his face into Snape's neck, wanting to breathe life into him, thinking love and experiencing instead that intense, shameful burning he'd felt just before the fire started, that he still felt, as he listened to the gargling, agonized noises that crawled from Snape's throat. His magic tickled at the runes, reaching out to them, begging them, but his own thoughts were such a horrible muddle of contradictions, and Merlin, maybe he didn't love Snape enough. Maybe he wasn't capable of it. Maybe it was true that he was a shallow, arrogant prick, just as Snape had always claimed, without the magical control or the heart to do this. He hadn't been able to return Ginny's love or prevent Ron's death, why should it be any different with Snape?

Panting, he sat up, and a shiver ran through him. Oh God, it was his dream. Snape's face was contorted, his lips darkening from lack of oxygen. Through it all he'd stayed remarkably still, save for the small of his back humping up off the ground, his body desperate for air. His fingers were buried to the second joint in the clawed-up dirt, and he was staring at the sky through eyes that looked ready to roll out of their sockets. Like something washed up by the canal and left to dry, his long, greasy hair draped the weeds around his head.

Harry'd always woken up before the dream ended; he'd never let his sleeping mind go that far, never actually let himself kill -

No, he thought hysterically and clutched Snape's throat, whispering in Parseltongue, "Please don't. He's not supposed to die. Let him go. Let him live."

Something rattled in Snape's lungs. A sensation like ice encrusted Harry's fingertips, and he realized, too late, that the ghosts had taken over his hands. They seemed to be feeding off the dying man, and he knew, with sudden furious impotence, that no, he couldn't save Snape, he couldn't change the collar, because his hands didn't belong to him. His soul didn't belong to him. Snape was right. He was contaminated.

"I can't do this," he said aloud, then lost control and screamed out, "Snape, do you hear me? I can't do it!"

Which meant they had to go back.

Back inside the wards, and oh fuck, Harry didn't know if he could face the fire again. His heart seemed to have found the equivalent of a control panel in his chest and was pounding against it as if trying to destroy the source of his willpower, making the world go in and out with a kind of black drumbeat. He felt dizzy. He didn't want to go through that horror again, the smoke, the inferno. And there was no one watching over him anymore, no black-robed figure to summon him out of the flames -

All thoughts fled as he looked down. His heart emptied. Snape had closed his eyes.

Harry cast himself across the limp body and Apparated them back into hell.

He hadn't aimed for the bed, so they ended up sprawled sprawled on the ash-strewn floor of Snape's room. Harry gasped as the heat surrounded him.

Thank Merlin, the fire was less ferocious now that most of the wards hung limp and scorched. But the moment Harry cried out, an ominous muttering and hissing rose around them, and the fire gathered again. He and Snape were now its sole magical focus.

Tendrils of flames sought them out. A red-hot geyser spurted from the floorboards and leaped over them like a sizzling cat. Swearing as sparks burned through his clothes, Harry shielded Snape with his body. Crouched low, he fumbled for a pulse at Snape's throat, peering anxiously into his face, terrified of what he would see and feel.

Snape blinked at him.

For a moment they simply stared at each other, then Snape's eyes shifted from side to side, scanning the walls, the burgeoning flames. His eyes dilated and he looked at Harry again.

"I didn't know what else to do!" Harry shouted. "You were dying! I thought I could save you, and I couldn't, all right?" Which, right now, seemed like a bloody stupid excuse, all things considered.

Another gout of flame lashed out and clutched onto Harry's arm. Screaming, he tried to shake it off.

The room roared around them, as if they were surrounded by a bloodthirsty audience just waiting to knock them down and have a go.

Snape struggled beneath him, still sluggish and disoriented. He pushed Harry off, stretched on his belly towards the bed, and with some effort pulled the coverlet down. Panting, he rolled over and beat out the flames. As Harry trembled with reaction, Snape shoved him upright and scooted in close behind him. "Together," he croaked in Harry's ear. "No choice."

Harry shook his head, not understanding. His arm hurt, literally like blazes. Barely able to think, he only knew one thing for sure: . Snape had been right. If Harry stayed here, they would both die, and it wouldn't do anyone a bloody bit of good. Snape's only choice in the matter seemed to be which of several hideous deaths he preferred. Clearly, being burnt alive terrified him. Well, it terrified Harry, too. But he couldn't just leave Snape here, and he couldn't just sit by while the collar strangled him. And the Killing curse was just not on. Maybe he could drag Snape back and forth from place to place, keeping just ahead of the moment of death. But how long could he sustain that? And how long would Snape put up with it?

"Wand!" Snape squawked.

Barely able to think, Harry fumbled his wand out and held it up.

"Together," Snape insisted. He wrapped his hand around Harry's, with the same grip that had led Harry through the intricacies of brewing Wolfsbane. "Need strength."

Merlin, for once Harry wished Snape could be more articulate, but if his voice was this painful to listen to, it must rip his throat up just to speak.

"Arith - " Snape inhaled and coughed. Then, his reflexes still sharp, he somersaulted when Harry shouted and the fire abruptly attacked from two sides.

Harry was bruised and bumped, because Snape kept tight hold of him as they tumbled about. Pain savaged Harry's arm; he clenched his jaw and buried his face in Snape's shoulder to keep himself from vomiting.

"Power - Dark Lord knows not," Snape cawed in his damaged voice, forcing Harry to look at him. "Both. Have to." He glared into Harry's eyes. "Arithmancy."

Oh dear God. Despite the heat, Harry goosepimpled all over. Arithmancy had the status of a code word between them by now. It meant the capacity for love, the thing everybody talked about Harry having that Harry didn't. Snape should have known better. If Harry were such a shining example of that, Snape would have been free of his collar long ago. Why did he think it would be any different now? This was magic of an entirely different order.

And did Snape think he was going to contribute? Harry couldn't believe he was serious about dredging his own unguessed-at feelings out of their haunted wells. Did he intend to feed them to Harry, the way Harry had fed Dumbledore the poisoned contents of the horcrux basin?

He sat petrified until Snape shook him so hard his glasses nearly fell off.

"Sympathetic, magic." Looking murderous, Snape jerked Harry into position, curling around him from behind, his legs like a set of parentheses enclosing Harry's, his right hand familiar and reassuringly steady around the wand. The rapid, shallow movement of his chest fluttered noticeably against Harry's damp back, but his breath on Harry's ear was barely distinguishable from the scorched oxygen around them.

"Not a coward." Snape's voice cracked on the last word. "This or die."

Sick with pain and trying not to pass out in Snape's arms, Harry leaned back against him and echoed, "This." He was looking at the blazing wall as he said it, so he wasn't sure Snape caught the word. Snape's chin bumped his shoulder - either a tiny nod of acknowledgment or preparation for the death that likely awaited them. An astonishing emotion swelled in Harry's chest, and if he could have twisted about in Snape's arms and faced him, he would have said something. But he couldn't. Not now. Maybe never. He could only lie back against the other wizard's thin, mortal body and concentrate on the ancient wand held in their joint grasp.

Besides, if Snape was right, he needed that very emotion to stay alive.

A solid wave of fire roared up and hung over them, like an open maw. The fumes scorched Harry's face, igniting the hem of his robe. He moaned, in the grip of his old nightmare, trapped in the Ministry all over again. If they disappeared inside that red mouth, they'd never come out.

Face pressed to Harry's hair, Snape growled, fierce and wordless, shaking uncontrollably as if hit by a freezing hex. Harry wiggled backward, trying to merge with him, desperate not to be alone when the fire consumed them.

Then, as if not their bodies but their souls had intersected, a dark presence slid over the border of Harry's heart. He wasn't alone. A shadow lay between him and the broiling, vivid death in the room, like the long, suspended moment of a solar eclipse. A strange tide of conflicting sensation pulsed through him, cold and feverish, raging and focused, and he realized, holy Merlin, that was Snape. That was Snape's heart, practically bursting in its effort to reach Harry, to sacrifice everything he felt and would have kept hidden forever if not for Harry being a stupid fucking Gryffindor who didn't have the sense to Disapparate from a burning building. Snape, who filled, possessed, touched everything he could as he swept through Harry and sent his embittered, impure love into the wand's care. Echoes of Take me. Use me, detonated through Harry's system. They faded, but Harry would remember them for the rest of his life.

Harry's heart broke. Broke open at last and released its own bright, nebulous burning. If he was going to be consumed, let it be like this. Let it all pour out, beyond the barriers and the ghosts and the sin of loving the wrong person. Maybe it could save them and maybe not. But for one second before everything was torn away in horror and obliterating agony, he wanted to let go. He wanted to be innocent again.

Imagining himself an empty vessel, he gave his whole heart to the wand.

Snape bit him on the neck.

The world snapped back into focus. The infuriating bastard bit him. Maddened beyond bearing, Harry screamed, "Fuck!"

"You, too," Snape snarled. " Stay with me." He braced them both, hugging Harry and raising the wand as the fire came hissing down upon them.

Panicking, Harry struggled. Another rush of violent, erotic emotion seared the conduit of his soul, heading for the wand. Their joined hands glowed briefly, luminous with power. Harry had the strangest image of Snape kissing his fingers. Then the wand spat out a brilliant, twisting blossom, and the red-hot wave above them exploded into burning flakes, twirling down and crumbling into dots of ash.

It worked.

Finally, Harry knew what to do. If Snape had the courage to share his most extreme, private, prohibited feelings, then Harry did, too. He might die trying, but he would open his heart and keep Snape alive.

Almost shouting with relief, he unleashed his emotions, calling upon every scrap of love he possessed, starting with the kind of memories that had driven back the Dementors. But he needed more than that. He needed to mean it. He closed his eyes and summoned up everything to do with Snape: lust, jealousy, joy, hope, hatred, the way Snape had shrieked at Sirius, the memory of Snape's face as he blasted Dumbledore off the Astronomy Tower, the child in the photograph, Snape cradling the roses, the cock in Harry's arse, the intensity with which they fought again and again, the horror inside him when he'd watched Snape's eyes close on the canal bank.

And he realised, all those times that Harry couldn't let him go. They belonged there, too.

He threw it all at the wand, thinking I sure as fuck feel something for you, you bastard. Christ don't you fucking go and die on me now. So maybe it wasn't magic, but it was power, and it collided with the iridescent current of Snape's emotions, that twisting, brilliant rose of light that Harry had seen once, dark and heady and anything but pure. Snape's desire was a burning thing. It branded and claimed him before swirling onward, mottled with passion and regret, doing in one moment what probably required twenty pages of Arithmantic proofs to explain, by merging with Harry's emotional maelstrom.

The wand vibrated. Circling around them, flames darted and split and leaped to the ceiling. The incessant crackling and popping made it hard to think beyond the impulse to Apparate or throw himself out the window. Desperately Harry suppressed his magic, even though all his training and experience screamed at him to start flinging spells. He had to give this other power time to build and strengthen. It had already saved them once. He had to let Snape guide him, trust that between the two of them there was enough purity, enough selfless intent, to wreak an arithmantic change in whatever was giving life to the fire.

If he wanted to live, he had to stop lying to himself. If he couldn't, they were doomed.

A molten shape grew swiftly from the wand like a globe at the end of a glass-blower's tube. It expanded, colours revolving over its wobbly surface. Increasing, it stretched, larger and rounder, connected to the wand's tip only by a thin, weak strand. As the sphere of power swelled, so did Harry's prick. The sheer emotional intensity was giving him a hard-on

His hand trembled, and Snape worked his own fingers up the wand. "Hold," he growled. They switched hand positions, Harry clinging to Snape and gripping the wand between thumb and forefinger. He was enchanted and aroused by this exquisite thing rising out of them. As it grew in size, the deepest part of him strove to rise up with it, to fill the house and embrace them in its monstrous clarity.

"Beautiful," Snape gasped, then, "Harry."

With an eerie, singing, rumbling noise, the fire met over their heads and crashed down upon them.

Harry felt as though a lid of flame had slammed down on their heads, and the whole world had turned orange and unreal. The heat sucked every last drop of moisture from his skin. He shrank from the unbearable brightness and felt his skin blister and from somewhere far away heard himself scream.

The sphere flipped inside-out, folded back, and spread around them. They were enclosedin a dark, silvery limbo of shifting colours, where it was cool and they weren't dying. Harry hacked, loud in the silence, expelling smoke from his lungs. From Snape, he heard nothing at all, but he didn't need to. Snape was in him, all around him, and that was enough.

Eventually the raw material of whatever had formed between them, the heat and fury, the hunger and shame and awful, aching, unwanted sweetness, reached its utmost limit. The globe's substance thinned, grew clearer, then finally transparent. A delicate membrane beyond which the raging shapes of fire still consumed the world.

Then it popped.

There was no explosion, no sound. The sphere's circumference blew outward in a silent ball of light, sucking the fire into its backdraft and extinguishing the flames, expanding through the walls of the house. The air around them inhaled a giant, ecstatic gasp, and then the sphere was gone, taking the fire with it.

The room looked ordinary, unravaged. A bedspread was thrown carelessly on the floor nearby. If not for the smouldering nets of briars hanging in blackened shreds from the walls, you would never know that they'd almost died here.

The charred wards reminded Harry of his arm. Now that they were safe, the bone-deep, throbbing agony returned. When Snape's grip slackened and the wand started to drop to the floor, Harry summoned it back. Holding it in his injured hand, he grimly stripped away the pieces of burnt cloth adhering to his skin. Retching, he cast as many healing charms as he knew and slumped over in relief when the pain eased. The scars would be bad.

"Any burn salve?" he asked after a minute. "Or dittany?"

Snape had pulled away to give them both some room, but not so far that Harry couldn't reach out and lay a hand on the booted foot lying next to him. A bit distant, the rough voice croaked, "Gone. Fuel."

Harry turned over on his hands and knees, concerned about Snape's own injuries. The older man was lying flat on the floor, eyes shut, his skin and clothes peppered with angry red scorch marks. Expelling a tired breath, Harry focused his magic and cast a general healing spell. Snape didn't move.

"Are you all right?"

Snape's eyes opened a crack. He pointed to his throat, and Harry thought for a minute and then aimed his magic at the collar. The snakes could bloody well help out here. He directed some of their venom to Snape's vocal cords and used it to relax the bruised tissue.

Wincing, Snape massaged under his jaw, then said, sounding more like himself again, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." They looked at each other, and slowly, Harry allowed a grin to spread over his face. "Hey, we're alive."

"Merlin knows I would never have figured that out if you weren't here to announce the obvious," Snape muttered, but his tone wasn't particularly scathing. He continued to lie there in his tattered black t-shirt, his scarred arms at his sides, the runes around his throat writhing and re-arranging.

Harry shifted, wondering if they needed to talk about what had just happened. Wishing he had a shred of subtlety to call upon, he coughed. "I'm sorry." Snape tilted his head to the side, his face skeptical. "About the fire. I'm sorry that I - " - almost let you die, he started to say. But no, he had to admit the truth. " - almost killed you," he finished in a whisper.

You could have knocked him over with a puffskein when Snape said, "It wasn't your fault, Potter. I know you feel as if it must be, and it's unfortunate you have so much magic at the disposal of these ghosts. But that doesn't change the fact that you're possessed. You've been cursed with a murderer's guilt and that murderer's conscience will take any revenge that comes its way." Snape had gone tense again; Harry could see it as he exhaled and stretched, grimacing. "But when it came down to it, you did the opposite. Even when I asked you to kill me, you wouldn't."

Snape rubbed his eyes, then stroked his hand along his chest, kneading bone and muscle as if checking to be sure everything was still there. "We're alive, Potter." His hand dropped to his crotch and stroked that, too. "Perhaps we should celebrate."

"We should?" Harry said weakly. He'd been too bleary to notice the bulge in Snape's jeans, though he hadn't forgotten the erection hiding under his own robes. A side-effect of sympathetic magic, he'd reckoned.

"Unless you'd rather not?" Snape thumbed open the snap on his jeans and undid the zip.

"Don't be mental," Harry said. Feeling pretty worn out, he thought perhaps they could lie side by side and just toss each other off. Already between Snape's legs, he crawled closer. "What do you want, should I -"

"You should fuck me."

Harry stared. His exhaustion didn't evaporate, but at the sound of those words his prick produced a mini-orgasm and Harry's desires underwent a sudden shift in priorities. A hand job was too paltry a way to celebrate not being burned alive. "Are you s-sure?" he gulped. "I thought you said -"

"Are you trying to talk me out of it?"

"Jesus," Harry said. "Of course I want to fuck you." He tried to smile at Snape, but the git's expression was unreadable. That didn't exactly inspire confidence.

"Take my boots off," Snape said. "And help me with my trousers." Harry did as directed, his hands shaking. Then he pulled his own clothes off, paying no mind to whether he tossed them aside or banished them entirely. He was a bit bewildered and, since he was mostly thinking with his dick, not terribly clear about what the hell was going on. The sight of Snape's curving, rigid cock and pale legs, splayed open in invitation, overrode his anxiety and filled him with the yearning.

"Arithmancy as foreplay," he joked.

"Are you surprised?" Still sprawled on his back, Snape raised an eyebrow. Harry wished he would stop expecting Harry to do everything, because Harry would really appreciate some guidance right now. " Just because our mutual feelings tend to express themselves through relentlessly fucking each other's brains out."

Blushing, Harry trailed the tips of his fingers over Snape's kneecaps and then, very shyly, petted the creased skin alongside his bollocks. Snape closed his eyes and said, "I won't last long. I want you inside me, Potter. Do you remember the lubrication spell?"

"I think so." Harry's need to cherish was almost as strong, just then, as his desire to fuck. He leaned forward and kissed the tender underside of Snape's cock, but Snape continued to lie silent and tense, eyes shut. Sodding hell, this felt awful.

"Don't you even want to look at me?" Harry said.

Snape's eyes snapped open, and he glared. Then his frown faded and he sat up, saying hoarsely, "Yes. I want to know who's fucking me. Come here, Potter." He kissed Harry, gently at first, which was still so new a thing that Harry marveled at it. He'd had many revelations about Snape, but this unpredictable gentleness was a surprise every time. Then Snape's mouth turned rough, and they kissed as if trying to climb inside each other, to return to that moment when each had been immersed in the other's metaphysical passion.

Snape broke away first and gasped, "I want you. God forgive me, it's completely stupid and wrong, but I do. Give me the wand, Potter."

Harry did, and Snape pronounced the spells to prepare himself. He braced his hands behind him and raised his legs. He was still wearing the black t-shirt, and Harry noticed a lot of frizzy ends where Snape's hair had sizzled. Every detail seemed designed to inflame his lust.

"Now put a finger inside me."

Exhilarated and nervous, Harry touched Snape's pucker and looked to him for permission. Snape's face was full of shadows and lines and an almost terrible concentration. Hesitating, Harry blurted, "I don't want to hurt you."

"It doesn't matter," Snape said through clenched teeth.

Wow, that was reassuring. "It does to me," Harry snapped, because it did. It really mattered, and after being surrounded by the spontaneous magic he and Snape produced when their feelings merged, he couldn't pretend otherwise. He cupped his hands to the back of Snape's thighs, easing his awkward position. "I've almost killed you several times. Don't let me hurt you again, okay? I want this to feel the way it does when you're inside me. Like you never want it to stop. Like you love - love, you know. It."

Damn it all to hell. He still couldn't say me.

Harry didn't know what Snape heard when he said that, but his face lost some of its strain and he got that look he sometimes wore, of surrendering to beauty. Harry swallowed.

"You're not Voldemort," Snape said. "I know that, Potter."

Okay, what could you do when your worst enemy offered you his heart? Not to mention his arse. If you were Harry, you accepted them. He and Snape watched each other as Harry pressed his finger against the small, moist button of Snape's hole. It yielded. Oh God, the inside of Snape's arse was hot and extremely tight, and his body shuddered at the slightest touch. Harry's heart thumped; he could feel it vibrating right up to his glasses. He slid his finger in and out, watching Snape hood his eyes and part his lips, as if he was one breath away from hyperventilating.

Snape nodded, and Harry introduced another finger, biting his lip to remind himself to go slow and not cause pain.

"You feel fantastic," he confessed. The words just slipped out. Still trembling in reaction to every thrust, Snape exhaled carefully and smiled at him. Not smirked. Smiled. It was a horrible smile, grotesque from lack of use, and Harry blinked, embarrassed at the tears that swam to his eyes. He wasn't exactly in a position to wipe them away, but he could do better. He could shut his eyes to his own embarrassment, lean forward and kiss Snape's ugly, perfect face while continuing to stroke deep inside his body.

Snape banished Harry's glasses and pulled him closer, legs entwining Harry's waist, while Harry teased Snape's arse with one hand and held his throat with the other. He felt as if he might overflow soon. Not come; it wasn't something centred in his cock. This feeling brimmed throughout his whole body. His skin was tight with emotion and he couldn't take much more.

"Now," Snape groaned, leaning back on his elbows. "Do it now. Fuck me, Potter."

Part of Harry was ready to argue about needing a third finger and whether Snape was stretched enough and why he was still tense. But he could no more have disobeyed the command in Snape's voice than he could have got up and left the room. It wasn't possible.

He gasped when Snape bent his knees and braced his feet on Harry's shoulders. This raised Snape's arse enough that Harry could fumble the head of his cock against Snape's distended pucker and push.

He sank inside, and Snape hissed and fell back against the floor, twisting his head up and to the right. This left Harry staring at the runes around Snape's long, gorgeous throat, at his greasy hair, his burnt t-shirt, his heavy, untouched cock. Everything but Snape's face. The thin body twanged under him like a bowstring about to snap under pressure.

"Look at me," Harry begged. His prick was halfway in, and it was dizzying to kneel there and not finish his thrust. He almost wished they'd never started this. "I can't see you. Snape, will you fucking look at me. Please."

His ghosts stirred inside him, and Harry realized I'm doing it again. He'd put Snape in a position to be hurt, and his sins had congregated for the final impalement, the thrust that would prove Harry could never be trusted. He would break Snape for his own pleasure and amusement. What choice did Snape have? Hadn't Harry come right out and rubbed his face in it? You're at my mercy. Their near-death had just proved that. Snape was trapped here with Harry and Harry's ghosts, the sins of his old master. He couldn't escape.

But that wasn't the whole truth, it hadn't been for a long time. Only, Harry didn't know what to do about it. Sure, there were words for it, but he couldn't say them. To himself, maybe, but not to Snape.

There was another word, though, as basic and powerful as any spell, equally strange to his lips.

"S-severus." There, he'd managed it. "Look at me. Please."

Snape's head jerked toward him, his eyes subterranean and terrified, trapped in some private hell. He stared at Harry without a flicker of recognition. Fuck. You're not Voldemort. I know that. Well, it hadn't taken Snape long to forget. Harry didn't know what the memory was, but he didn't want to be part of it.

He turned and kissed the first thing he encountered, a bare, bony ankle, and whispered, "Right, this hurts too much. We have to stop."

"No." The gravelly voice startled him. He looked at Snape's face. "Potter, I'm - " Snape tilted his head back and drew a deep breath. "I'll be fine. Just do what I tell you." He tensed his forearms, levered himself up, and surprised Harry by pushing his arse an inch further onto Harry's prick. "Go deep." Harry shook his head, more in shock than denial, and Snape growled, "Do as I say, you idiot. My cock's hard and my arse is empty. I need you. Go as deep as you can."

He scowled, but the heat in his eyes was the permission Harry had been waiting for. Thigh muscles bunching, he shoved his prick inside Snape - Merlin, the bastard's arse was tighter than a fist - and grinned when his bollocks landed with a slap. But the strange, throaty noise Snape made, and the way his sphincter muscles squeezed and released, almost pushed Harry over the edge. He leaned forward, completely sheathed and afraid to move.

"Well?"

"Give me a sec." Harry blinked away spots and slid back, exhaling. "All right now?"

"Potter, which of us is behaving like a fragile flower here?"

It was so very Snape that Harry smiled, as he was meant to, and answered by embedding himself with a satisfying thwack. It was amazing. He refused to believe that he'd never get to do this again. Instead, he thrust deep, the way Snape said he wanted. Snape jerked, and his face darkened. He wore the same expression that used to greet students caught out after curfew: sneering, malevolent, implying he knew something about you that you didn't know, something he'd have no compunction about using against you. Feeling challenged, Harry fucked him harder, just to watch his eyes flash and his lip curl with erotic outrage. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Snape scarcely blinked, burning Harry up with the ferocity of his stare. Harry watched sweat creep out on Snape's pale forehead; it brought a sheen to his cheeks, and Harry's own lips stung. He tasted salt. He shifted the angle - cripes, fucking on the floor was murder on the knees. Snape twitched and vibrated like a coiled spring tapped in just the right spot. Slamming that spot again, Harry reached down for Snape's cock, and was surprised when Snape knocked his hand away.

Instead, Snape pulled Harry into his arms and smothered his last rational thought with angry, wet, biting kisses. One leg was hooked over Harry's shoulder and the other bounced against his back as Harry, with no finesse but much enthusiasm, threw himself into fucking as deep inside Snape as it was physically possible to go. He'd been there emotionally; this felt like the necessary equivalent, a different language complicated by arms and legs and pricks and arseholes and Snape's dangerous tongue and snapping teeth and their sweat and spunk and all the physical evidence that they were alive.

Harry reveled in every second of it, while a phenomenal ache built inside him and intensified in his groin.

Hips pumping, lungs heaving, he gasped, "Oh, Merlin. Fuck. Gonna come. Snape. Oh holy fucking - "

He lifted up, scissoring Snape's legs open and plunging deep as the first spasm hit. Through glazed, unfocused eyes, he saw Snape reach sideways and swing his arm up. The wand tapered from his hand. Wondering what that was about, Harry gave himself over to coming as hard as was humanly possible without passing out.

Snape's voice rang in his head, absolutely clear, "Redde mihi sanguinibus," but it barely registered. Harry was possessed, gut-wrenchingly wrung out, by bliss.

Magic cracked over him like a whip. Harry's orgasm had just peaked, yet he found himself spasming again, coming with even more ecstatic violence. His body rammed brutally into Snape, and if he'd been in his right mind he would have struggled to stop. He would have called it rape.

"Redde mihi peccatis tuas," Snape shouted, arching up to receive a fresh battery of thrusts as Harry shook and screamed, feeling as though the ball of light that had swallowed the fire had just detonated inside him. Moaning, he buried himself inside Snape, clawing to get deeper, every cell in his body yearning to be inside him, to posses him and be possessed.

The wand hit the wall and clattered to the floor. Light streamed behind Harry's eyes, and he felt irradiated, brilliant, like one of the glass edges in the broken window, cruel and sparkling. Magic prismed through him and turned the world into shards of colour.

Then it dimmed. Drained and exhilarated, he collapsed in a heap. Snape grunted as Harry's weight landed on him, but otherwise he didn't object. They lay panting, twitching with aftershocks, and Harry made a feeble effort to figure out what the hell had just happened.

"What d'you do?" he mumbled into Snape's damp, warm stomach. There was no answer. Harry sprawled atop Snape and nuzzled him and couldn't hold back the contented little grunts and groans in his throat. The silence was nice. He didn't quite doze, but his sense of well-being hovered just this side of a pleasant stupor. At last he pushed himself up on trembling arms and yawned. "Merlin, what was that spell?"

Snape didn't answer. He was flat on his back, one arm crooked across his eyes. He seemed to be communing with the inside of his elbow, and Harry wondered if he'd even heard the question.

Feeling weightless and uncoordinated, Harry backed up and hunkered between Snape's legs, a hand to either side to balance himself. He wanted to praise Snape's shins for being so skinny and hairy and right there, where Harry could touch them. He laughed at how silly he felt. As if he might float away if he wasn't careful.

"Potter," Snape whispered. "Take your hands off me." When Harry teetered there, confused, Snape snarled, "Are you deaf? Stop touching me!"

"What?" Harry snatched his hands away and ended up on on his arse. "Sorry."

"Don't be," Snape muttered, sounding angry nonetheless. "Not your fault."

Confused, Harry hunted around for his clothes. Snape hadn't enjoyed the spell, then. Which was a shame, because Harry still brimmed with contentment, a wonderful afterglow. He felt freer than he had in months, happier, full of possibility. He felt ready, in fact, to take on the world.

He tottered to his feet and stood naked, scratching his arse. He gazed down at his body, shamelessly pleased by it, and stood wiggling his toes, grinning with joy at how lighthearted and alive and sexually satisfied it was, this body with its sore thighs and flat nipples and its fixation on all things Snape. It had come through the fire. It had been burned free of impurities. He felt himself again.

He was himself again.

The realization, once arrived at, was like a blow, and Harry's whole being hollowed around it. He clutched at nothing, crying out.

"What did you do?" His voice was high-pitched and disbelieving. " Did you just - what did - oh my God, Snape, answer me."

For one second more, Snape refused. Then he dragged his arm away from his face and let it land on the floorboards with an audible thud.

Alarmed, Harry summoned his glasses. When he leaned over, Snape turned his head in the other direction, as if Harry's very presence hurt.

Cloudy sunlight sleeked his black hair. "I will not repeat the actual words. And I'll translate only if you swear to me, Potter, that you will never attempt this spell yourself."

The dappled light through the window touched the corners of Snape's eyes. They were wet. Bent over, Harry thought he might die of self-restraint, because he could only commit the sight of Snape's face to memory. In his mind, he kissed the dampness over and over, but in that moment he respected Snape's wishes and refrained from touching him. "I swear."

"I suspect you know the gist already, but by all means, let us be gratuitous. It's quite simple, after all. 'Restore unto me your blood-guilt.'" Snape spoke the words caressingly, as if they were a poetry he knew by heart. "And the other, of course. 'Restore unto me your sins.'"

"You took my ghosts away." Harry's voice caught on a sob. He yanked his glasses off and pressed the heel of one hand to each eye in turn. He'd never realized how much strength it sometimes took just to speak. "You took them into yourself. Oh dear God."

He backed away and sat down on the messed-up bed. Every fibre of his being insisted he should go on his knees to Snape and gather him up, bear witness to his sacrifice. Justify it, somehow. But Harry knew the dreadful sensations that chilled Snape's blood at this very moment, knew how horrible touch would be to him now. Knew exactly and from personal experience. He hid his face in his hands, fingers spanning the scar on his brow end to end.

When the silence grew to be too much, he looked up. "There's no possible way for me to thank you for this. It goes beyond anything, it's just - God. Snape. Why did you - "

Eyes blurring, he looked toward the shattered window. It was the one he used to watch at night, waiting for Snape's silhouette to appear.

Sitting up, Snape hunched over and groped for his clothes. "Don't get emotional on me, Potter. You weren't the only one."

"Sorry?" Harry watched him struggle into his pants. "One what?"

"Only one haunted by the Dark Lord's sins."

Harry stood up in a flash. "Are you saying -"

"I'm saying that you never carried the guilt for your parents' deaths," Snape growled, drawing his jeans slowly over each leg. He boosted himself off the floor and zipped up, avoiding Harry's eyes. "I did."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "Voldemort cursed you? But how did he - oh, fuck. Fuck."

"Crudely put, but accurate," Snape said sardonically. "A curse involving the transfer of sins must be cast at birth, death, or," he looked away, "during sexual intercourse. When the soul, in other words, is at its most vulnerable." Avoiding Harry's stricken stare, Snape wandered over to the cabinet and picked up the frame that had contained his mother's photograph. "The Dark Lord favoured it as a means of purging himself of unwanted clutter - having a neat and tidy mind is essential, one gathers, to succeeding as a murderous bastard with delusions of grandeur. It also implicated the rest of us in his crimes. As if we weren't already. You may imagine how much he enjoyed inflicting it."

"Merlin," Harry said. "You mean he fucked you. How could you - I mean, why - "

Snape set the frame down with a bang and stretched out his hand. "Accio wand!" It flew to him, and he swung on Harry. "Yes, how dare I consent, given how gallantly the Dark Lord held me down and raped me! Whatever was I thinking?" The ghostly chill must have sharpened something bleak and horrible in Snape's arsenal of coldness; Harry had never seen him look so old. "Buy a fucking clue, Potter. I'm fed up with your idiocy. Give me one good reason not to hex your arse straight back to London."

Braving it, Harry walked forward. When Snape twitched the wand up as if about to cast, he froze. "I'm sorry. I'm a right berk, and that was a cruel thing to say, but I - "

He paused, and a breeze through the broken window ruffled his hair. Naked, Harry shivered. He felt incredibly clean, open and raw, as if his insides were lined with young, tender skin. Every word from Snape, every harsh twitch of his hand, sent a ripple through that tenderness. "There's something I've been wanting to give you. For a long time now. I wasn't capable of it before. My magic's always been strong enough, but my heart - not my heart."

He stepped forward. Snape stepped back. Harry said, "You have to let me touch you."

"I don't have to let you do anything, Potter." Snape's voice was like glass ground under a boot heel. "Say that again and I'll make you eat this wand."

"Please," Harry said. "I won't - " Hurt you, came thoughtlessly to his lips. He knew better. "It will be worth it, I promise. I know you don't believe me, but," he blinked down at his hands, "I can free you now. I'm sure of it. I feel so different." When he risked a glance up, Snape looked tired, as if all the tiredness in the world were wrapped up in the body of one beaky, scarecrow potions master.

"You took everything," Harry ventured. It wasn't an accusation; it was a thank-you. He ran his hands down his body again, and Snape's eyes tracked him. Almost against his will, the joy welled up. "I'm free. Even of my own guilt. Even Ron."

Turning away, Snape flicked the wand at the broken glass scattered about the floor. It swept in a tinkling, glittering wave to the far corner. "You weren't responsible for Ron Weasley's death. Who will it harm if you're spared that?" He stalked away from Harry. "And most emphatically you do not deserve to suffer for the Dark Lord's sins. You can go away now, Potter. I've made amends as best I can. You are free to find out what you want now that this godforsaken war is over. And it is over, you foolish child. Go forth and experience life. Have lovers. Travel." Snape dropped into the scuffed armchair and set the wand in his lap. "Or settle down and start spawning, I don't really care."

Harry swallowed. "How can you say that?"

But Snape had his eyebrow loaded and ready. "I've been haunted all my life, Potter. For me, this is nothing new. I've dreamed of Lily Evans for years and been tormented by your miserable father. I can handle a few more ghosts. You, on the other hand, were twisted from your true course." He touched his throat. "That's all over now."

Harry opened his mouth.

"Don't ask a jot more of me. I'm already stretched to the limit."

"I'm not asking. I'm offering." All things considered, it was probably a blessing that he was naked. It corresponded to how he felt inside, utterly open and vulnerable. He wanted Snape to see that. "If I remove the collar's power, you'll leave, won't you? I mean," he gestured hopelessly, "go away and never come back?"

Snape lifted his chin. "Unless I'm cursed down to my constituent particles, yes. Nothing will stop me."

"And you'll forbid me to come with, am I right?"

"Smart boy," Snape sneered. "If I ever find myself a free man, I intend to Apparate the hell out of here. Alone. I'll leave my past sins and present entombment to grow ever larger and uglier in the public mind until I cease to be remembered as a human being and pass safely into legend. But I won't give a knut, because I'll be out of it at last. I'll be living my life. And heed me, Potter, I'll not tolerate pursuit. By anyone. Most especially you."

"Right," Harry said. Maybe it was a little too cold in here for him to be naked, after all, because he couldn't stop shivering. Of course, the real coldness came from Snape. "You're not making this easy, you know. But if it's what you want - " He extended his hands, as if expecting Snape to grasp them. "I'll do it. I'll set you free and I won't lift a finger to stop you."

Snape's fist tightened around the wand. "I've warned you once, imbecile. Don't touch me."

Something flickered over by the wall. At first Harry thought it was just the swaying of the withered vines, all that remained of the burnt wards shuddering in the intermittent breeze, but his peripheral vision informed him that the colour was green, not black. He turned his head slightly. A sleek, leaf-green shoot, like a delicate snake, was emerging from the blackened cerements of the wards and crawling slowly across the wallpaper.

"Please," Harry knelt down and surprised them both by laying his head in Snape's lap. At once, thin fingers gripped his hair as if to fling him off. Harry stayed like that, utterly submissive. Snape made an angry sound, tugging at the trapped hair, as if he feared he might start stroking and couldn't afford the weakness.

"I can do it," Harry mumbled. "I can let you go. What you did made it possible." He took a deep breath and exhaled against Snape's leg. "In case that gives you the wrong idea, I should warn you that I may never be this generous again. Whatever people think, defeating Voldemort doesn't make me a saint. If it were up to me, I'd never let you go, and I should think that's pretty fucking obvious.

But," he girded himself to carry out his resolve and lifted his head to meet Snape's eyes, thinking, Legilimize me, you bastard. "But - I love you so much right now. I fucking love you in a way I've never loved anybody else, and that makes me the only person, apart from the Ministry's spell-casters, who can give you your freedom. Even though it's the very thing I don't want you to have. Because I know what you'll do with that freedom the minute it's yours." He stopped and laughed sadly. "Fucking poetic justice, don't you think?"

He reached out gently and waited, and when Snape, as pale as the ghosts that possessed him, leaned forward, and then forward that last bit more until his throat fit into Harry's hand, the die was cast. Harry savoured the contact with a sense of almost ecstatic grief. "If something were to happen to you," he whispered, "I just - well, Voldemort's sins and all the fire we've survived together wouldn't even come close."

Snape's face was so quiet that Harry couldn't make head or tails of what he was thinking. He hadn't reacted to Harry's declaration of love, although his eyes burned like holes in white paper.

"Do what you must, Potter," he said finally. "But when I'm gone, renounce me."

"No," Harry said. "Why?"

"Because I'm the last ghost standing between you and the young man you will become, untainted by darkness." Snape pulled his fingers reluctantly from Harry's hair and traced his lips with the edge of a nail, as if skin to skin were too much. Then he clenched his hands in his lap. "Freedom it is, then. But the price, I don't mind telling you, is very high."

Harry agreed with that. Striving for calm, he placed his other hand around Snape's collar. He was kneeling up between Snape's legs, Snape's boots nudging his calves, Snape's smoky hair tickling his nose. This time Harry didn't force himself on the runes. He waited, balanced between joy and grief, and little by little his magic and his gratitude seeped through his fingers and embraced the intricate ring of death around Snape's neck. He was conscious of the magic connecting him to the collar, and he teased at it, played with it, let his own knowledge of lightness and relief surge through him. He coaxed the snakes to stray from their appointed places, to disband and disentwine, separate from each other and slither between his fingers. He moved among them one by one, defanging them with small touches, with almost surgical delicacy.

Then, stroking the head of a small, stylized S-curve, he pinched it experimentally between thumb and forefinger. Concentrating on the thought, You are free to go. All of you. Even him, he peeled the snake away.

It wiggled up from Snape's skin and dissolved through Harry's fingers. It re-appeared at his wrist and wrapped itself around, constricting his pulse a little. The next snake rose up and followed it, swinging a little in mid-air. It hung there as Harry pulled, and another rune slipped loose. Then another, and another. Awed, he reeled them in like links in a chain, unspooling each slender symbol from Snape's throat in a careful, glistening-black sequence. The moment they lost contact with Snape's skin, the runes stiffened into their sigil shapes and acquired a metallic gleam, going cold and still.

Harry took his time. When the last rune came gliding into view, his heart swelled painfully. This was it. Fighting down his longing to beg Snape to change his mind, Harry firmly pulled the last snake from his throat.

It refused to come off.

Around him, Snape's muscles jumped, caught off guard. Harry eased the tension on the last rune, relaxed his own stubborn resistance, calmed his breathing and tried to remember that he was happy, he was capable of love, he had the power to do this. Then he exerted a steady, beguiling pressure, coaxing Come here.

A fine line of shadow appeared around Snape's throat, darkening as Harry continued to pull. The white skin pinched. Finally Snape gasped, "Potter, stop."

Harry did. He knelt there, rigid with horror, realizing that he'd failed. That no matter how much he told himself he could let Snape go, apparently he couldn't, and he was going to have to admit it to Snape.

No. He wasn't giving up yet. Acting on magical instinct, he let the smooth, flat runes spill through his fingers in graceful spirals, let them chase each other's tails down and around, coiling, curving, until they'd re-fastened themselves to Snape's throat. All except the first link. That one stayed tied to Harry's wrist, which he hadn't expected.

No time. He shaped his hands into a second, looser collar, barely touching Snape's skin. Then he tilted his head up. "One more thing."

Snape frowned. "Potter, don't try to disguise the fact that you just - mmph."

Harry knew he might be ruining everything by sticking his tongue in Snape's mouth, but if he had a prayer in hell of saving the bastard, he figured it would be due to this private language smouldering between them, the unlikely and ever-burning intimacy that had devoured their misunderstandings and reduced their mutual hatred to ashes.

He kissed Snape as if pouring out a confession. To his astonishment, Snape received his confession and answered it with absolution and extravagance, his mouth frantic, his hands sliding down Harry's naked back.

In Harry's grasp, the runes started to spin. Snape moaned, and Harry hung on as the palms of his hands grew warm, then hot, then burning, slick and sweaty, a stripe of friction racing faster and faster between skin and skin. Snape swayed, and Harry urged him to sit back in the chair, rising to his feet and keeping his mouth glued to Snape's until he felt the sparks of magic catch fire and crackle up his arms. He was suddenly soaring with joy. He could do this. He really could.

Panting, he pulled back and opened his hands.

Snape looked as if he'd just taken a bludger to the head, dazed and shocky and rather drunk around the eyes. The snakes were gone. In their place was -

Harry wasn't sure what. A silvery-pearl, iridescent sheen banded Snape's throat, swirling and flickering with an internal fire that pulsed, patterned like the underglow of opals. In the few seconds Harry stood watching, it stopped circling altogether, and the moth-wing brilliance of colours faded into Snape's skin. It paled but didn't disappear completely, still glimmering and catching the light as Snape moved and breathed.

"Cripes," Harry said. "I think I did it." He straightened up and ruffled his hair into a haystack, gaping. "Actually, I don't know what I just did."

Snape wheezed faintly. It might have been laughter. "Merlin. Why am I not surprised."

"It's kind of beautiful," Harry told him, and then held his breath as Snape's fingers came up to explore this new addition to his body. "So, um, how does it feel?"

"On the outside," Snape said dreamily, "like silk. Rather pleasant, actually. Inside?" An introspective frown creased his features, rather distant and pained. Harry worried at his thumbnail, then jumped when Snape focused on him with a sharpness that hurt. "I'm still bound to something."

Harry frowned. That couldn't be right.

"It's only to be expected," Snape said, but he turned his face away. "If our positions were reversed, I doubt I could have managed any better."

"It's me," Harry blurted, realizing. "Shit. Snape. You're bound to me."

Snape stood up, looking ready to explode. Harry searched through the threads of magic inside him. "I'm sorry." Remembering, he held out his arm. Snape stared at the opalescent ribbon shining faintly around Harry's wrist.

"I know you hate the idea, but listen. It doesn't have to matter. You're still free to go. You must know by now I'm not going to kill you. And I," Harry paused, making sure he spoke the truth before he said aloud, "I won't stop you from leaving."

Snape wrapped his arms around himself as if he felt a chill. "Really, Potter? So sure of yourself?"

"Um," Harry said. He had a point. "Why don't we step outside and see?"

"We could do that. You might want to put some clothes on first."

"Right." While Harry scrambled around, Snape raised the wand and started summoning his own clothes and shoes, whatever personal items remained. They were all Muggle; his robes had burnt to nothing. He transfigured the scorched bedspread into a winter coat, then shrank the CDs and stuffed them in his pockets. The other clothes went into a leather bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

Dressing, Harry watched as Snape made his meagre preparations, and his heart started to race. Snape was taking him at his word. He was going to leave. Not tomorrow, not at some future date after Harry'd had time to get used to the idea, but now. Merlin, this was happening too fast.

Snape crossed to the loo in the corner, taking in the sooty, smashed glass and potions stains burnt into the tiles. Curtly, he banished them, then went inside and shut the door.

Fully clothed and about to fly apart at the seams, Harry looked around. More and more strands of green were feeling their way across the walls, looping and sneaking and shuffling, sprouting small, shy leaves. The vines really did ripple like snakeskin, emerald and supple. Anxiety twitched inside Harry, and suddenly he understood. He didn't panic, but he held himself very still. God forgive him, Snape was right. He needed to go. Now, in fact. They needed to hurry. Because Harry's possessiveness hadn't been exorcised with his ghosts. It was biding its time, climbing his insides, as resilient and unstoppable as the wards patiently re-weaving their nets.

He hadn't been lying to Snape about his short-lived generosity. The longer Snape delayed, the harder it would be for Harry to step back and let him go. The idea of never seeing him again triggered a hundred new shoots of selfishness, all quivering with hunger, all sprouting from a central conviction of mine.

He raised his arm, holding the narrow strip of iridescence up to his eyes. All he had to say was, "Come with me," and Snape would have no choice but to follow him to Grimmauld Place.

He doubted that, as betrayals went, even Voldemort could go one better.

Harry might not be a saint, but he wasn't a monster. Still, the temptation to at least ask made his mouth go dry.

He was clutching the empty photo frame when the door clicked open and Snape emerged. Harry's heart still ached for the child who'd gone up in smoke. And even though he hadn't liked Eileen, that didn't change the fact that she'd been Snape's mum. He touched one of the shreds still clinging to the metal. It disintegrated.

Hand hiding his throat, Snape strode up to him.

"I'm impressed, Potter," he said, sounding actually rather irked. "It's a very good thing for the wizarding world that you have no interest in being the next Dark Lord. You would be unbelievably hard to resist. Your violence would come veiled in beauty, your darkness in light. People would love you, and as a consequence the world would never be rid of you."

Harry wasn't sure what to say to that. "I guess that means you don't like it much, eh?"

Snape glared. "Why do I waste my words on you? I didn't say that." He gestured irritably. "Shall we go down?"

Harry followed Snape out in silence. They were halfway down the stairs from the landing before he noticed. "Hey!"

"Yes?" A small shred of amusement curled in Snape's voice

"The stairs!"

"Yes, Potter, these are stairs. What of it?"

"There's no spell! I don't feel like I'm about to fall into - into nothing."

"The spell burned, Potter," Snape said. "Like all the rest of the magic. It's just an ordinary staircase now."

"So going down doesn't mean going up?"

Snape snorted and half-turned to look at him, one hand on the railing. "It never did. You were always climbing up. You just believed you were climbing down. That's one reason it was so disorienting. The spell used your empirical confusion against you."

"Oh." Harry put a hand on his shoulder. He hadn't planned to; he hadn't even been thinking about it, except in the sense that his entire being was saturated with the thought: "Let me come with you."

Snape sighed and turned completely around to face him. "Shall we have this out now? Because once I'm outside, I don't intend to stand about arguing until the Aurors show up."

Harry said quickly, "Look, I won't get in your way. I promise. And I can help cover your tracks so that no one ever finds us - "

"Yes, because running away with the most famous celebrity in the wizarding world is an incalculable aid to disappearing off the face of the earth."

"And I'm legal and everything, which could be very useful, because you're - "

"An escaped Death Eater," Snape supplied helpfully. "Who may be cursed on sight. Yes, a brilliant idea to play decoy for a dangerous fugitive and end up taking the hit for him. Keep talking, Potter. Your every word confirms my original decision."

Harry was starting to get annoyed. "But what will you do? How will you live? All you've got is a bag of clothing and an unregistered wand!"

"Speaking of which." Snape pulled the wand from his coat pocket. "I never thanked you for this."

"I always meant to give it to you," Harry grumbled. "You kind of ruined the surprise by - um - "

"Taking the transparency of your intentions at face value?" Even in the darkness, it was possible to make out Snape's smirk. "I needed the wand when I needed it, Potter, not when it pleased you to bribe me with it."

Harry blushed. He hadn't expected Snape to figure that part out.

"As for funds - Albus set some money aside for me in a vault outside Britain. If I fail to collect it within seven years, it reverts to Hogwarts for scholarship purposes. I'm afraid Hogwarts loses out this time."

Surrendering, Harry leaned forward and rested his face in Snape's neck. Around them, the wards rustled. It smelled like smoke on the stairs, and even though the falling spell had been consumed by a stronger magic, the acute memory of not wanting to fall, the spell-induced sense of there being nothing down below to catch him, skated along his nerves.

Snape didn't push Harry away. Neither did he embrace him.

"What you just said," Harry said, blinking against the lenses of his glasses. "None of that would matter if you wanted me to come with you. So I guess you don't." He really hoped Snape would say something to that, but the git kept his own counsel. Maybe he was only tolerating Harry's presence. Maybe it was the excess of ghosts and guilt in his system, in which case Harry should take pity on him and stop with all the touching.

He straightened up. He could see Snape's collar in the dark, a faint, rainbow smudge of beauty. "Fuck, I'm going to miss you. You'd laugh if you knew how much."

"Potter, you're being an idiot," Snape replied, echoing a little in the dark stairwell. Even his voice withheld any scrap of comfort. "Don't you understand? I have more ghosts to bury than you can possibly imagine. I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll end up having to live with a goodly number of them, perhaps forever. But you," he grasped Harry by the shoulders and slid his hands up to Harry's face, his thumbs pressing into the middle of Harry's lips and smoothing outward, over and over, "you’re like a walking manifestation of guilt. My guilt. Your presence is a constant reminder of events I would prefer to leave behind."

"Okay," Harry said. "That kind of hits below the belt."

Snape kissed him. That was even more below the belt, but Harry was willing to take what he could get. "You haunt me, Potter," Snape said, his breath hot. "That's the long and the short of it. You come to me trailing ghosts. I'd rather not take the past with me, but I’ve no choice. Except for you." Snape paused, then passed his fingers across Harry's forehead, outlining the horcrux scar. They were both quiet, remembering. "Stay here and have the life you deserve, free from everyone else’s sins. Especially mine."

"I don't have a life here," Harry said.

"Then make one."

"I thought," Harry said angrily, "that's what we were doing."

That silenced Snape for a moment. The wards made slithering sounds around them.

"Think again," Snape said slowly.

Harry wondered how it was possible to feel so strongly about someone, to the point that they were a constant, gnawing, hungry ache that you carried with you everywhere, and still there would be moments when you'd happily throttle them with the collar conveniently provided for that purpose.

Snape gave a little grunt. "It's ridiculous to argue about this." He turned and finished descending the stairs, his footfalls stealthy, the quick, quiet steps of a boy who'd learned how to sneak about the house without being heard. For a moment Harry stayed where he was, feeling that they hadn't argued nearly enough. Then he thumped down the steps after Snape, making as much of a racket as possible.

Snape was already feeling around the shadowy alcove for the latch. Finding it, he pressed down, leaning his weight into the hinged wall and pushing the shelving unit far enough open that they could squeeze out.

Partway through, Snape stopped, blocking the opening and leaving Harry stuck behind him. Before Harry could ask if something was wrong, Snape reached back, grabbed Harry's hand and then scraped past the wooden shelves, leading him out. "Potter, look." His voice was almost a laugh, breaking slightly on Harry's name.

The sitting room was full of roses.

Far ahead of the upstairs wards, the vines here had grown lush, thick, restored to their former glory. They covered the walls and ceiling, hung nodding in the window, cast their glow across the room. They filled the now-empty bookshelves, knocking the ash of burnt books to the floor. Their colours were both delicate and intense, dark gold, pale orange, stippled with silky red edges. They blazed from wall to wall, but they didn't burn.

"There, you see?" Snape said. "From the blood of one miserable child, something beautiful can grow." He looked intensely satisfied, his black eyes gleaming as he turned to face Harry.

"This is what I've been trying to say, Potter," he said. "I’ve given you back your innocence. You have a fighting chance now. You're capable of fashioning a life that's not simply one long penance for having saved the world."

These words were very cold comfort, and Harry looked away. Snape gripped his jaw and forced Harry to look back at him. "You’re the one beautiful thing I’ve ever made in my life," he said sharply, "and you want to cheapen it by following me. No, Potter." He released Harry's jaw and waited, as if expecting some sort of argument or objection. Harry's failure to speak evidently implied assent, because Snape nodded. "I’m bitter. I always have been. I'm full of ghosts, and that will never change. Anything pure that comes near me will not stay that way for long."

Still holding Harry by the hand, Snape led the way to the front door. Petals dropped onto him as they walked under the wards. Not in thick handfuls, but one here, one there, small touches, a fire-bright kiss sliding down his black hair, before each petal fell off and drifted to the floor. The roses didn't try to claim him; no thorns clawed at his coat, no blood beaded on his skin.

Harry felt them, too. No, actually, they were too weightless for that. It was more their scent as they brushed his cheeks in passing, the faint, remote sweetness, the hint of dew on a cold morning.

The rose-laden vines swayed, parting as they neared the front door, and Snape's chest expanded as he drew a deep breath.

Harry wanted Snape to keep talking; the moment when Snape would slip from his grasp was approaching steadily, as if they were walking toward a mirror, watching themselves in it, and the moment Snape reached his reflection was the moment Snape would disappear.

Harry didn't know what to do. "Shouldn't you say good-bye? To," he waved a hand, "to everything."

"I said my good-byes to this house a long time ago," Snape replied, opening the door. He stepped through it, into the world.

Concentrating very hard, Harry followed him. He wanted Snape to be free. He was afraid the collar might pick up on the treacherous undercurrents of emotional coercion, though, so he was silent and preoccupied as he trailed Snape into the street.

It was sunset. Salmon-bellied clouds burned in the western light, but the wind had opened up the sky. Most of the street lay in shadow, except for a few upper-storey windows brilliant with reflected fire. It was the dinner hour, and the few families around Snape's house had retreated inside. A car crossed at the intersection, accelerating with a growl.

Snape stepped off the kerb and walked into the middle of the tarmac. His head was tilted up, as if daring the collar to stop him. As he went, his fingers slipped from Harry's, and it was all Harry could do not to grab them back. He didn't, though; he kept his word.

Snape was utterly indifferent to the street around him; he looked instead at the sky. The seconds passed, and an expression of triumph possessed his face. Under his heavy black coat, he was still wearing the burnt t-shirt, which left bare the subtle markings around his throat. They seemed to pick up the sinking rays of the sun, shimmering with the lustre of opals.

Harry fisted his hands in his pockets. He wouldn't touch. That was all over now. He'd behave himself.

Snape looked past him then, his black eyes exultant, alive. "Potter," he said. "For God's sake, turn around."

Harry's muscles locked. The moment his back was turned, Snape would Disapparate. He turned anyway, leaden and cold, because Snape wished it, then was surprised to feel him step closer instead, the wings of his coats brushing Harry's arm.

The house. Good God, the house. Streaked with the last light of the sun, it flamed, incandescent. Roses crammed every window, spilled over the bricks, wound around the chimney pot and the outside pipes. Harry stared in wonder, his mouth open. The bitter house of Snape's childhood was practically unrecognizable, joyously alight, burnished and a-blaze with a red-gold so deep it rivaled the sun. There was a splendour about it that hardly seemed possible. It glowed.

Snape's arms wound around Harry from behind, tightening. The unexpectedness of it jarred Harry's tongue loose, and all his precious control went out the window. In a rush, he said, "There are different kinds of innocence, you know. I'm too old to be a child anymore. I like being impure." He could feel Snape's heart beating as if through his veins, Snape standing pressed against him as if they still shared the same wand, Snape's lips crushed to his ear, hot and velvety like petals, but sharp, too, making no effort to hide the teeth behind the kiss.

"There are some things about me you can’t change," Harry said. "Because you made those, too. I don't even know who I'd be without them." He hesitated, then admitted the obvious. "Without you."

Snape's tongue striped his ear, a long, wet lick that burned straight to Harry's groin. "Then find me," came the whisper, and the street grew cold and empty at Harry's back, where a thin body in a black coat had been pressed against him in the fading light.

Darkness took a long time falling. Harry stood there alone and watched the house burn.

In bed that night, Grimmauld Place empty around him, the roses of Snape's blood still blazed behind his eyes. Sighing, Harry flopped over and hugged his pillow.

Around his wrist, in the gloom, the iridescent thread glimmered.

Harry kissed it. Against his lips, he felt the pulse flutter. His heart. And far off, beating at the end of the leash, another's.

Find me. Smiling, his mouth barely touching the rune, Harry closed his eyes and dreamed of roses.

THE END

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