Darkfic, part 3
Again, I'm not friends-locking this. It's a hard-R rating for language and implied m/m relations. This one is from Snape's POV, and is the last of the trio. If someone would care to beta it, I may think of putting these over at skyehawke, though I'm afraid that Sirius's is the weakest of the three, and his is first.
Welcome to day three of darkfic.
III. Severus
Severus stormed down the staircases to the Dungeons, any staff or students in his path shunted aside in his Leviathan-equal wake. Two second years in his House suffered the misfortune of becoming unintentional flotsam, one eking out a question before the Potions Master cast back such an acerbic reply that even the foliage in a nearby portrait wilted. The Slytherins fled the corridor.
He could not have cared less.
“Fucking Order of Merlin. Denied. Blasted bloody hell, only have any use as a pawn ”
His one-person diatribe went on as he slammed the door shut to his office, then satisfyingly sent the door to his private quarters ricocheting into the doorframe, hearing the reverberating tremors even as he strode to his cabinet and with hands trembling in rage, liberated a decanter of scotch.
He willed his ire temporarily aside to carefully remove the stopper, then he poured a healthy splash, or tidal wave, more accurately, of the potent substance, regaining his composure as he did so.
“That should not have happened,” he uttered to himself, he left hand fingers irritably clasping at the buttons on his robe. “Fucking Ministry. Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking two generations of Potters, and Black to make the nightmare complete. All I am is a body to be abused by the Dark Lord and Hogwarts since I’m obviously so fucking expendable. Severus,” he spat. “Useful until proven dead. Hate them all.”
He looked at the amber liquid and swirled it around twice, counterclockwise for good measure, before draining the glass. He grimaced, relishing the burn down his throat. He could create potions far more powerful than Scottish whiskey, but there was an unmagical element to Muggle distillation that captured his imagination.
Oh, bloody hell. There was no point in romanticizing it. He needed it, could almost hear its siren call, knew exactly how much he had of what kinds of alcohol and where the bottles were. Even when he didn’t want it, he knew that he would pour some, that he would rationalize it because of the behavior of Potter/Lupin/Fudge/Voldemort/insert-hysterically-irritating-or-deadly-personage here, and he would continue on as though everything were perfectly fine. No one at the school would know, he made sure of that. One convenient attribute to being a double agent was his honed skills at secrecy, and he had them down to a fine art, not to mention breath-cleansing and sobering spells.
If only the liquor could make him forget his few encounters with Lupin.
Life, such as it was, proved to be far more tolerable with its razored edge blurred just a bit. But he despised it, despised himself. He was stronger than that, and yet, he wasn’t. He poured another tumbler full, and allowed himself a rare gratuitous moment of righteous indignation. “Fuck you all, and your Order of Merlin too,” he seethed before raising the glass and downing the contents.
Severus stretched out his arm and looked at his hand through a slightly buzzed haze, seeing the bony pale fingers clutching to the glass with a strength that had killed lesser men. Those fingers had grasped a wooden table when the Dark Mark had been burned into his skin, his freedom seared away, yet another chain that yanked him back, again and again. That hand had held his wand when he’d channeled his magic and uttered a variety of killing curses, seeing the souls of wizards escape as their corporeal bodies expired. Lupin had suckled those digits, had clasped his fingers to his furred chest, gently taken them behind his head and drawn him in so he could nuzzle Severus’s neck, since Severus had specified that there was to be no kissing, no intimacy beyond actual carnal release…
The glass shattered, a combination of accidental wandless magic and Severus’s now uncontrolled fury and loss. He watched his blood drip on the floor, making an intricate pattern with the glass shards and small stain of liquor.
He stared at the floor for a long time.
*************************************
Things were going poorly. Severus snorted derisively into his tumbler, wondering how he could even couch the fact that he was sure he would not survive the War and that the end was coming soon in such pedestrian terms within his own mind. A noise slowly roused him out of his morbid reverie. Knocking. Someone was knocking on his door. Well, he wasn’t in. This knight in Death Eater armor being called by Voldemort almost weekly and then perfunctorily listened to by Dumbledore before being sent back out to teach Potions and ensure that the Boy Who Lived stayed that way wasn’t in. Whoever it was could sod off.
It might be Malfoy, though, and he couldn’t afford to lose faith with that one. He peeled himself up from his chair, put the glass on a nearby table, imposed his most Irritated Professor look on his face and strode to the door.
“Lupin?”
Fighting instinct, dulled thanks to the stunning amount of bourbon he’d consumed, he let the werewolf in. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Wheezes?” In the four months since the fight at the Department of Mysteries and Black’s death, Order meetings took place in the upstairs rooms at the Weasley twins’ shop, much to Molly’s despair. It didn’t matter to Severus- one place was as ineffectual as another. But he didn’t expect Lupin to be in his office at Hogwarts.
“I need something.”
“Of course you do.” Severus waved in the general direction of a high-backed chair. “I hardly assumed you were here on a social call.”
“I can’t stand it,” Lupin sighed, looking as though he’d aged a decade since Black fell through the Veil. “A potion, Snape. Everything aches, and I know you can make something. You did for Sirius, years ago.”
“Indeed. How ironic that now you’re asking for the same thing.”
“Look- I’m desperate. Will you make it or not?”
Severus considered the options. This situation was incredibly familiar, ringing with deja-vu, but perhaps it was merely that he had allowed this very scenario to run through his mind when he let down his guard. Alone.
“Yes,” Severus said, drawing out the final ‘s’ so that it hissed through his teeth. “But on one condition.” He explained his terms to Lupin, who didn’t look nearly as repulsed as he expected. In fact, he didn’t even appear surprised. At the final element, Lupin balked.
“Why?” he asked. “Before you didn’t-”
“Those are my terms,” Severus interrupted icily. “And you do know that it’s addictive, right? Even in school Black was practically begging to learn to make it himself.”
“He did learn,” Lupin shot back. “I hated him for it.” He sagged into the chair. “And then I discovered that I was just as weak.”
Severus walked over and, surprising himself, ran his fingers through Lupin’s greying hair, from temple to neck. “Everyone is addicted to something. I’m sure death will cure it, though.”
He retrieved the few volatile but common ingredients, walked over to his cauldron, and began preparing the potion in silence. He heard Lupin get up, pour himself a drink, then he brought one to Severus. There had been a time when Severus would never have allowed himself to touch any of the sacred tools and substances in his laboratory when not perfectly sober. That time, that control, was long lost to him, the cloaked self-destructive spiral starting in earnest after the bloody incident with Potter and the Pensieve. Severus raised the glass in mock toast to Lupin, who regarded him with an expression that disturbingly resembled pity.
After he set the hourglass near the simmering cauldron, he gave Lupin a pointed look. The other man nodded, and he took Severus in his arms. Per Severus’s specifications, this was unlike their prior encounters from two years ago; Severus wanted to explore every inch of Lupin, with teeth and tongue, biting, licking, possessing. His pride had been leached from him, beaten away in interrogations and bitter circumstance. Now he clung to the smug knowledge that soon it would be over.
They were lying on Severus’s bed, sated, when the chime came from the next room. Both men got up and dressed themselves, Severus not looking at Lupin. He walked purposefully to the cauldron, incanted a short spell above it while stirring a deliberate figure-eight four times exactly. He heard Lupin come in and stand behind him, Lupin’s heated breath on his neck. It was maddeningly intimate.
“You’ve completed your part of the bargain,” Severus growled, scooting away. “Don’t feel that you owe me anything above and beyond that.”
Lupin let out a deep sigh.
Severus ignored it as he got a large beaker and poured the potion into it. “This will last you for quite a while. And it should be mixed with something.”
He held it out and Lupin took it, then placed it on the counter. “Thank you, Severus,” he said, looking as wretched as Severus felt, despite the really good fuck.
Severus grunted in reply, then went and sat down in his chair by the fire, book and bottle at the ready. “Just do the final thing as you promised, then go.”
Lupin shook his head. “Are you absolutely sure you want me to-”
“Yes, bloody hell! Don’t get all sentimental. This is a war. We have occasional uses for each other. Now get on with it.”
Lupin hardened his expression, clutching the potion to him as he readied his wand at Severus.
“Obliviate.”