It was very early in the morning, before the sun came up - perhaps three thirty. I had been acquiring rare (illegal) ingredients for making a rare (illegal) potion at the behest of my new employer. They were now stuffed into hidden pockets in my robe. I had just become a death eater. I was beginning to see the how seriously I had erred. Between being errand boy and being cheap whore for all senior death eaters as well as Voldemort, I was beginning to hate - well - everything and everyone.
And then I saw him stumbling ahead of me. I knew the story without being told. Sirius had gone to a bar with some friends to get drunk. He had found some luscious brunette and his friends had left the two to their own devices. He was then been intoxicated, propositioned, led on, most likely groped, robbed, and abandoned on a street in the proverbial ‘bad part of town.’ Finding himself in this state, he sobered somewhat and began wandering to find help.
And ran into me. He straightened into his usual arrogant swagger - bred through years of being the heartthrob of Hogwarts. “You look tense Snape.”
“Not at all Black. I’m just terribly, terribly alert.” I moved to pass him.
“Going already Snape?”
“I have greater worries than you to attend to.”
“And I would love to leave you to them, but I’m in a bit of a state.”
I laughed cruelly. “Good God. Sirius Black, asking for my help?”
“Not bloody likely, prick,” he hissed. Since when did Black hiss? It must have been extenuating circumstances, I assumed. I very much doubted it becoming a new trend in his behavior. “Bloody hell, he is! Well, I might help you - if you beg me nicely.”
He filled with rage at my remark, and advanced on me. Sirius Black did not beg, as tantalizing as the image was. He didn’t have to. I rather thought I would have done anything for him. The thought made me bitter - and angry. Angry enough to respond with surprising violence to Sirius’s incumbent enraged attack. And then we were really fighting. It was animal. It was bliss. Every blow was vindication. And perhaps later I could lick the blood of his split lip from my knuckles, mingled with that of my own scraped hands. On that very disturbing and twisted thought I punched him hard in the mouth.
He grinned maniacal red and spat blood and moved forward for a sharp backhand whose loud crack seemed to hang heavily in the air. More vicious fighting ensued, where flailing arms laid damage randomly and pain sharpened, then dulled to a throb, then numbed. Brutal punches fell indiscriminately until I found myself slammed up against the wall of the alley, and suddenly, inexplicably, his lips were on my mouth and his hands holding my arse and everything I had felt before paled before this newly discovered naked hunger. He leaned away and I tipped my face up, panting, to stare blindly at the hazy blue strip of almost-dawn visible between the roof ledges of the alley buildings.
He ripped open my robes, under which I was rather scandalously bare, and then moaned his approval as he unbelted his pants and shoved them down to reveal an impressive erection. He yanked my legs up and around his waist. My thighs gripped his as brutally as my muscles allowed, and he surely bruised from it. I wanted to bruise him, hurt him, brand him. Mostly I wanted him to fucking hurry, and finally, finally, I felt him slip up the cleft of my buttocks to enter excruciatingly slowly, the burn sharp, despite his dripping natural lubrication, the pleasure seizing me until pain evaporated to insignificance. I’d be feeling it later. Merlin, I was feeling it now. Reality frayed and then unraveled completely and release came in a spill over his abdomen. I waited for lucidity to reemerge, breathing heavily, struggling to form cognizant thought. When cognizant thought finally did form it was to the accompaniment of a lascivious grin:
I slid to my knees, clasped Sirius’ hips, and spun-shoved him until he was backed up against the wall. I then proceeded licking myself off his stomach. He gasped and stilled. I did not swallow; I would have use for the stuff later. I drew my tongue up his member from the base and then down the underside, continuing back, back, as he slowly widened his legs in unconscious compliance. I reached his puckered opening and with a happy groan dipped my tongue into the tight hole, pouring in my mouthful to wet his passage. Sirius’s held breath dissolved into incoherent babbling, which became loud protest when I pulled out. In a swift jerk, I dragged his legs forward from the wall until he lost balance and fell, completely stretched out on the street. I then grasped his knees and pulled them over my shoulders and entered him with violent fervor.
*This is what home feels like.*
Sirius...beautiful...perfect...oh...bloody, *Sirius*. I heard screaming. It couldn’t have been me. Then again, why would Sirius have been howling his own name? I was still buried hilt deep, still shuddering, when my vision cleared to reveal his face, eyes slowly widening. Suddenly he arched spasmodically and came in a graceful camber between us.
I fell into short oblivion. I awoke to a trembling Sirius rolling me over and rectifying his state of undress. “So...how do I get out of here?”
I sat up and groaned at the too sudden movement. “Turn left. Walk for three blocks and then turn right. If you keep going forward you’ll hit Diagon Alley.” I noticed, as he left, that my senses seemed oddly acute. I recalled that after the first bout my every sensation had intensified. Even now, sight and smell held a strange intensity. I hadn’t the time to ponder the change. Dawn had broken, and I had been running late even before this distraction (hence the lack of underclothes due to undue haste). In any case, the feeling was forgotten with Sirius’s retreat.
It was when Voldemort went on his killing rampage that I went to Albus. I still thought of him as Professor Dumbledore at the time. Pettigrew had just come to my Lord, claiming he was the Potters’ secret keeper and could expose them. I had made a grave mistake, I realized, in joining Voldemort, but now a sniveling coward like Pettigrew was to gain more favor than I. Nothing was worth that. I sneaked to Hogwarts grounds and begged an audience with Albus, recently made headmaster. I told him everything, minus, of course, the ugly details of being forced into whoring for the other death eaters. I knew I could have been sent to Azkaban for my actions, but I offered myself as a spy. Albus, I knew, had good instincts as to whether or not people were lying. I was surprised to see that he did not look disappointed in me. Instead, his face reflected sadness, and perhaps a bit of hope. “Severus,” he said, “you are our first spy in this seemingly hopeless war. You are one of our only advantages in these times. And I’ve been needing a new potions professor anyway.”
“Professor? Headmaster Dumbledore -”
“Albus, please, Severus. You are no longer a student here.”
“- Albus, I was barely nineteen. Hogwarts has never had a professor as young as I, has it?”
“I don’t believe it has, but you know as well as I that you are as qualified as wizards twenty years your senior. You have a passion for the subject which is rare. Here you can get the master’s status you deserve.”
“I don’t know what to say to you, Albus.” The name sounded strange on my tongue.
“Say yes, Severus. Thank you would be a good answer as well.”
I knew I was quite likely far more qualified for Defense Against the Dark Arts. I had been qualified for that position since I was but eight years old. I suppose, though, that asking an ex-deatheater turned spy to teach about the dark arts was asking a bit much. Of course Lord Voldemort was ecstatic that he now had a spy at Hogwarts, or so he thought.
A month later Lord Voldemort struck the Potters. Black went to trial at a very biased ministry court. An unacknowledged pang went through me when he was convicted. He swore his innocence and they claimed the Veritaserum was administered wrongly. I smelled the brew myself, and it was perfect. I didn’t think it strange that I was able to ascertain the integrity of the potion by smell alone, and that indeed all of my senses had strangely amplified after that encounter with Black in the alley.
I didn’t really notice anything going on at all. I went on with my business. Then one night I fell asleep, and though I had not been aware of the night’s significance, it was Sirius’ first night at Azkaban. I dreamed that a dementor leaned close to me, and I was too exhausted to flinch away as the creature trailed a long, thin gray finger down the side of my face. I had never felt such despair as the dementors dragged me into a cell. I recalled every horrible moment in my life, finally pausing on the worst - the overwhelming guilt of realizing Severus had nearly died when I sent him to the shrieking shack, the pain of his piercing, hatred filled glare, the unending self disgust of loathing him, yet wanting him more.
Suddenly I was snapped back into my own mind. These were not my memories. This was not my suffering. I was shocked and frightened and bewildered at the idea of sharing the thoughts of who could be none other that Sirius Black himself, and still more stunned with the knowledge of his true feelings the night he nearly sent me to my death. So he hadn’t wanted me dead after all. Though snapped back into my own mind, I remained in the dream, now a spectator, watching Sirius curl up and sob on his meager cot. I never wanted to hear anything like that sound again. He suddenly morphed into a dog before my eyes, and the sobbing turned to pathetic whimpering. I awoke then, the sound still echoing in my ears.
I would have dismissed the nightmare as merely that, but as I finished breakfast the next morning I was struck with the image of dementors entering his cell - again from his point of view. Sick, nightmarish horror washed over me - an overload of foreign emotion. I vomited into my plate, students and fellow teachers looking on with worry and concern and distrust. I escaped to the bathroom and vomited again over the toilet bowl. I didn’t think I would ever stop heaving when Sirius began a mantra of guilt - *I deserve this. I belong here. I deserve this...* I knew Pettigrew had betrayed him. It was his unrelated guilt over me that was destroying him. With an unconscious effort, I began chanting “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your...” over and over again, through my raw and abused throat, speaking desperately and demandingly to what I feared was only a hallucination. I spoke until I heard his whisper, soft and faint. “It wasn’t my fault.” He made it almost sound like a question. But he held the thought, and his despair receded, and I was once more alone in my own head. I had the vague thought that it was well into my second class of the day and I was abandoning my post, just before I fell unconscious.
When I woke up I was in the infirmary, and Poppy and Albus were peering down at me with concerned expressions. They tried to convince me to talk about the incident at breakfast. I refused. They left. That night, I made my way to the restricted section of the library, searching desperately for some reference to thought linkage. Finding nothing, I stopped to ponder. It occurred to me that this linking might have had something to do with our having fornicated. As I thought further on this possibility, every detail of how I had changed since the incident in the alley came into focus. My vision had improved. Tastes and smells had sharpened. I had become less prone to exhaustion (at least, I had before that nightmare). I even recalled someone screaming in my head when Lestrange hit me with cruatius (just for fun). I returned to research, but again my efforts were fruitless.
When the weekend arrived, I traveled to Snape manor, where there resided a large collection of dark books that would never be permitted in any section of the Hogwarts library. I made little leeway, and was close to abandoning my search when I came upon a volume entitled ~Love Spells and Related Curses~. It was a bleak possibility, but perhaps our connection and unbearable lust for each other was the result of some invasive curse. I came upon a passage within where it was written:
~A bonded pair is a particularly vulnerable target for magical, psychological, or physical attack.. Their connection amplifies their vulnerabilities in addition to their powers, reflexes, and senses. Any inflicted damage on one member will affect damage upon the other, regardless of the other’s physical location in relation to the origin of the attack.
Unfortunately, magical soulmates are extremely rare, and this level of bonding will often not be achieved until an act of coitus has taken place. Situations where this weakness can be utilized are uncommon and largely unresearched.~
- Moribus Orbis Vidasgard
Stunned did not properly describe my state. I felt rather as if my brain had been removed, pressure-cooked, and then returned to my scull. I felt rather like curling up in a fetal position on the library floor and weeping uncontrollably. Instead, I sighed, went about my business, and returned to school determined to throw myself into my work. I told Albus that I had discovered the cause of my sudden illness and that he needn’t worry about it. He seemed to realize I did not wish to explain further and, as was his way, gave me a wise and concerned look before wishing me a good day.
Silently I raged at fate, raged at Voldemort, raged at Sirius, and pined for him. I had long stopped referring to him as Black in my mind. He haunted me. Some nights I would still wake up to the sound of his sobs in my ears, but these were rare. Most nights it was his withdrawn silence - and that was worse. Very, very rarely, I would dream of Voldemort, waiting and hungry, and when I awoke the dark mark would burn. And I knew that none of it was over.
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