His Masterpiece - Mr_Customs_Man - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Chapter Text

Harry Potter awoke to his wife banging around in the kitchen, turned his head around to look at the clock, and swore under his breath. He had an appointment with Minerva to attend the new exhibit at the Highsmith Gallery in Diagon Alley. In truth, he didn't want to attend. He had no particular interest in art, but as Minerva said, "It's what we're expected to do."

The artist wasn't anyone Harry knew, but the man had been commissioned to paint Snape's portrait as Headmaster based on an earlier work he had done of him in his youth. Unfortunately, Snape's portrait was to remain forever unfinished. The man was found dead in his studio from a heart attack. The painting of Snape had been left sitting on its easel, the paint still wet.

And so Harry had found himself roped into attending this "celebration of genius." After all, Harry had championed for Snape's recognition as a hero of the Second Wizarding War and his inclusion among Hogwarts's greatest headmasters; as Minerva said, it was expected of him. Merlin, he better find out what the artist's name is and quick; knowing his luck, he'll get badgered by a reporter and end up looking like a fool.

With his eyes still swollen from sleep, almost bewildered, Harry managed to dress himself, scolding himself the while for having slept so long. He couldn't find anything that morning, had to hunt on his hands and knees, one shoe tucked under his arm, for his wand which had rolled off the side table during the night and was spotted wedged behind the bed. He had promised to meet Minerva at Diagon that morning and he was sure she had left for the gallery on her own by now.

Harry finally managed to dress himself, kissed Ginny goodbye, and apparated to Diagon Alley.

As luck would have it, Minerva was running late herself. Something had come up at Hogwarts that delayed her arrival, and when the two spotted each other across the street they both ran up to the other and started issuing out apologies in the same breathless manner, at the same time.

Since it was past eleven, they decided to have lunch before going on to the gallery, giving Harry time to brush up on the artist, bombarding his old professor with questions as if he was preparing for a test.

"I don't really remember that much about him," Minerva admitted. "He was at Hogwarts the same time as your father and mother were, but he was in Ravenclaw and as quiet as a churchmouse besides that. I had almost forgotten him until I learned the Board of Governors had commissioned him to paint Severus's portrait. On Lucius Malfoy's recommendation, if you can believe that! How that man escaped Azkaban a second time is beyond me…" She said as she dove into her basket of chips.

The clock was striking one o'clock by the time they made it to the gallery. It was a lovely day, somewhat chilly, with a bright azure sky. Beneath the sun, a crowd had gathered at the entrance. This stream of bustling, bewildered people, surged beneath the archway into the gallery, like a colony of ants.

Harry and Minerva allowed themselves to get swept up in the crowd. They passed a bronze bust of Venus, two white Doric columns, and then, at last, they were stepping through a red curtain and hanging directly across from them was a massive, unfinished landscape of Knockturn Alley at night.

The breadth and width was monstrous. It must have taken the poor man years and years – decades, even – to get this far, and now it would never be completed. Harry had stopped in his tracks and stood there unmoving as he tried to take it all in, until he felt Minerva slip her arm in his and tug him toward a collection of portraits.

"Harry, look," Minerva said, coming to a stop. The two portraits of Severus Snape had been hung side-by-side. Harry remembered Snape as he was when he had been his teacher: a hard and bitter man, worn and tired, and what few smiles Harry had ever seen on his face were tight-lipped and unpleasant. And there had been Snape's memories; memories of Snape as a dirty, unloved child and memories of Snape as a haunted, broken creature.

The Snape in the portrait was a Snape Harry had never before seen. The plaque underneath it dated the portrait to 1979. Snape would have been nineteen years old at the time he sat for it. Here he was as a young man, well-cared for, richly dressed, his long black hair looking glossy against the blue background as Snape shifted in the chair he was sitting in. A half-smile, full of some private amusem*nt, tugged at Snape's lips as he leaned over, trying to get a better look at himself inside the unfinished Headmaster portrait, as if he couldn't believe what he had grown up to be. Lovely, Harry thought, which is not a word he ever thought he would attribute to Professor Snape.

Unlike the other paintings in the gallery, the unfinished Headmaster portrait did not move. Harry could see the pencil sketch peeking out from underneath the thick coat of brown paint. There was a splash of colour for his skin and robes and hair, in big blocky patches, but nothing else.

Harry and Minerva drifted onward. The artist seemed mostly a student of landscapes, and Harry spotted a beautiful rendition of Hogwarts Castle as seen from Hogsmeade, but there were other portraits interspersed between. Minerva stopped in front of a large canvas depicting a nude male lying on his back across a sofa, his face hidden behind his arms so that only his black hair could be seen.

"Look at the brushstrokes," Minerva said and Harry tried not to blush in front of his old professor.

He averted his gaze away from the man's co*ck resting between his thighs, preferring to look around the room he was standing in. As Harry glanced around, he spotted Draco Malfoy with his wife, Astoria, and was about to give a polite nod in acknowledgment. He stopped when he noticed that Draco looked… he looked enraged, his pale, pointed face was flushed red with anger. The crowd parted for him as he stormed past, his wife trailing behind in his wake and shooting little apologetic glances as she went. Harry wanted to call out to him, to ask him what was the matter, but Draco swept by without even seeing him.

Harry looked about in confusion. It seemed as if Draco had just come from a spot near the back of the room where a large crowd stood huddled together around one painting in particular, their voices rising higher and higher in pitch as they whispered amongst themselves.

"Excuse me for a minute," he said to Minerva, and went over to see what all the fuss was about. Whatever else could be said about the Malfoy heir, he was not a prude. It seemed absurd that any painting could be shocking enough to send him into such a fit of rage.

Harry elbowed his way through the crowd, pushing to the front until he stood directly in front of a medium-sized painting in a gilt frame. Unlike the landscapes and portraits that populated the walls, this was a scene from life. It looked to be a bedroom, some little bedsit in a tenement slum, maybe even in a run-down inn. Like the painting he had just come from, this one also depicted a nude male reclining. He was laid out on a bed, his black hair fanning the pillows. His face– it was Snape, again. That was Severus Snape lying there, naked, his face twisted in fear, his arms upraised in helplessness as another man – half of another man, only half of him could be seen, everything below his waist didn't exist and there were thin, silvery lines painted across the floor, as if an invisibility cloak had fallen from his shoulders – wrestled with him, a knife in hand. They moved, as all magical paintings moved, and Harry watched with a pale face as the two men were forced to continue their violent struggle for all eternity.

Harry glanced down at the plaque and saw that it had been painted in 1980. How can that be? Harry thought as he looked back up at the man with the knife. That's me.

Same wild black hair, same jaw, same ears. The glasses were different, and the eyes… the eyes were brown, not green.

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

Chapter Text

1975

When Severus came down the stairs one August morning and found his mother asleep in a chair, her head resting on her folded arms atop the greasy kitchen table, he knew at once that his father had not returned home the night before.

He took a step backward, hoping to ease out of the kitchen before she awoke, but it was too late. The creaking floorboards was enough to rouse her, and she jerked upward, one side of her face red and wrinkled from her knitted sleeve, her eyes still veiled with tears. She scrubbed at her face, saw the morning sunlight streaming through the dirty windows, and said, “Oh! Severus. What time is it?”

“It’s eight,” he answered, taking another half-step back.

“Let me make you some breakfast,” she said, standing up to dash about the wretched little room.

“You really don’t have too–”

“Don’t be stupid. Sit down.”

Severus bit back a sigh and dropped down in one of the rush-bottomed chairs, bracing his chin in his hand.

“Your father stepped out for a moment. To the shops.”

Severus hummed, not bothering to give her a proper response.

“You just missed him.”

He glanced around. This little crooked house in co*keworth was full of broken things. From the chipped milk jug, to the missing drawers, to the woman pulling out a pan to fry the bacon on. Above the window his mother had set up a line of clothes to dry, protected from the rain. Pinned to it was a shawl full of holes, and a pair of trousers stained brown with old mud, the last rags which dealers in second-hand clothes declined to buy. Lying on a shelf above the stove, tucked underneath the milk jug was a bundle of pink pawn tickets.

His mother, Eileen, set down in front of him a strip of bacon and a slice of buttered bread. Severus had only just taken a bite when he heard the front door open and a string of muttered of curses. Eileen was rushing out of the kitchen and Severus gobbled down what was left of his breakfast in case he needed to make a quick exit.

Tobias Snape stood on the threshold, still a little hungover and slow-footed, his eyes bloodshot and his clothes smelling of liquor and perfume.

“You! It’s you!” Severus heard his mother yell.

“Yes, it’s me. What of it?” Tobias replied.

“Where did you spend the night!? Whose bed did you crawl into!? Tell me now, where have you been!?”

“Ah! There’s the music! If you don’t shut up I’ll blacken your eye and go right back to where I just came from!”

“No, no, don’t do that…” Eileen whimpered, more upset at the threat of his leaving than his pulled-back fist.

Severus heard his father stomping around. He wished they would take it upstairs, so that he might at least escape the kitchen. “It’s a mess in here! You never clean! God, look at you. Do you even wash yourself now?”

That insult hit a little too close to home and the fire inside Eileen roared back to life. “Who are you to criticize me? I’d like to see you do better! Do you think Amy will cook and clean for you? Oh, I know all about her! You think she’s so great because she puts on airs. Hah! You want a blueblood, well there’s hardly any blood that’s bluer than mine! Amy is nothing but a cheap whor*! Every man on the street’s had her!”

Severus heard a series of dull thumps, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, of his father striking his mother, of his mother hitting back, until there came a crashing as furniture was toppled. Severus leapt to his feet, ready to put a stop to it if it got any worse, but before he could do anything, Tobias burst into the kitchen, his face scratched, and did a double take when he saw his son standing there. The sight of Severus only gave him pause for a second, and then he was grabbing the milk jug and reaching a hand inside to pull out their savings, scattering the pawn tickets across the floor. He shoved the money into his pocket and was once more heading out the front door.

“Where are you going!? Tobias! TOBIAS!”

Severus ducked out of the kitchen, not sparing either of his parents a second glance, and went out through the back, climbing over the broken garden wall and onto the street. He took the long way to Lily’s, just to make sure he didn’t run into his father. He left Spinner’s End, with its gutters full of trash, and its crooked little houses, and crossed into what was considered the nice end of co*keworth.

Lily’s house was a square box made of bricks, with white shutters and window boxes planted with scarlet pansies. Severus thought it one of the prettiest houses on the street, made prettier by the sight of a small face with red hair peeking out from one of the upstairs windows. One day, he was going to live in a house just like this one.

He knocked on the door and put on a smile when it opened to Mrs Evans’s tight-lipped face. “Is Lily home?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“Severus,” she said, her tone beleaguered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. You and Lily are getting older, and, well, I’m not sure it’s right for the two of you to run around – by yourselves – as you do–”

“ByeMumI’llbebackforlunch,” Lily said in a rapid-fire speech, squeezing her body past her mother and popping out of the house like a mouse from its hole. She grabbed hold of Severus’s hand and took off running before her mother could protest. She careened down the street, dragging Severus the entire way, and only stopping when she turned a corner and her house was no longer in sight. Lily braced her hands against her knees, sucked in a breath, and shot Severus a wild grin. “Want to go collect ingredients?”

They’d all but been banned from the park after that stunt with the swings two summers ago, and now they spent most of their holidays wading around the pond, their jeans rolled up to their knees, searching for frogs and salamanders to be used in their experiments. Sometimes they went into town and listened to music at the record store, or went to the movies, but most days they ran wild in the tangled wilderness just outside of town.

“Potter sent me another letter,” Lily said as she plunged into the frigid water, the mud squishing between her toes. She put her shoes on top of her head and stuck out her arms, just like she had seen Petunia do with a stack of books. Ladies walk with their heads perfectly straight, she said, and went up and down the stairs like that until one of the books slid free and landed on her toe.

“That’s because he’s in love with you,” Severus said as he searched around for frogs.

“Don’t be gross.”

“It’s true! He’s probably already picked out names for your children: Jamesina, Jamette, and James Jr. All named after himself, of course.”

Lily clutched her stomach and made gagging noises while Severus laughed.

“Your parents are still going to take me to King’s Cross when school starts up again, right?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know. They’ve been weird all summer.”

“It’s because we’re growing up,” Lily said, fluttering her eyelashes like a maiden in a fairy tale. “My Mum gave me the talk last month. What about you? Has your dad talked to you about… that stuff? Growing up and all that.”

“No, but he did give me one of his cigarettes the other day, which I guess means he thinks I’m a man now.”

“Sev, do you need me to tell you about the birds and the bees?” Lily asked, laughing. “I can borrow one of Mum’s books. How about Menstruation and Me?”

“Gross.” Something small and brown darted between the reeds and Severus yelled out, “I’ve got one! Help me, Lils!”

Lily dove forward, crashing into Severus, and sending them both slipping underneath the water.

When lunchtime rolled around, Lily waved goodbye and ran back home, and Severus started the long trudge back to Spinner’s End, soaking wet and covered in mud, but three frogs richer which he gave to Lily for safekeeping. He was still a block away from his house when he ran into Victor Creswell, Amy Cresswell’s son, loitering on the sidewalk.

“Finally took a bath, Snape?” He sneered from where he sat on the curb. “Or did you crawl out of a sewer?”

“You might want to be nice to me,” Severus yelled back with a smile as he walked past. “We might end up step-brothers!”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that my dad’s f*cking your mum. He’s probably f*cking her right now. Is that why you’re out here sitting on the sidewalk? Did your mum kick you out? Don’t be mad, she’s got to make the rent somehow.”

Cresswell was no longer sitting, but up on his feet and running straight for Severus. They collided in a whirlwind of fists, punching and grabbing whatever they caught hold of. Voices rose up as several other neighborhood kids peeked out from behind doors and garden gates. They drew nearer, some cheering the combatants on while others called for them to stop. Severus had the height, but Cresswell had the weight, and he soon managed to shove Severus to the ground. Cresswell, one arm thrown across Severus’s chest, used his other hand to grasp around the dirty gutter, coming away with a thick glass bottle.

Severus managed to wiggle free and snatched up a broken broom handle left lying by a trash bin, raising it up like a club. The two of them remained there, on their knees, menacing each other. Their clothes were torn and dirty, their faces swelling with bruises. They watched each other. Severus gave the first blow. His broom handle glanced off of Cresswell’s shoulder, and the bottle missed his nose by an inch. The other kids around them no longer laughed.

Cresswell’s bottle shattered against Severus’s arm, cutting into him. All at once, Severus seized Cresswell around the waist, bent him down, and pressed his face against the pavement. Raising the broom handle he commenced with a beating with deceptively thin arms made strong from stirring, chopping, and mincing day after day. The wood hit upon flesh with a damp sound.

“That’s enough!” Someone cried out.

Severus heard nothing, nor did he tire, and he started to sing a potioneer’s song he had learned from his mother.

“One, two, three, she’s stirring at the pot!

Four, five, six, tries to win back his heart!

Seven, eight, nine, the potion’s black with rot!”

A hand grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him up, away from Cresswell who was trying to bite back tears as he struggled to get his feet underneath him. Severus felt his teeth rattle in his skull as someone violently shook him, his toes barely touching the ground. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” He heard Tobias yell from somewhere above him.

His old man hadn’t even had time to buckle his belt. Severus threw back his head and laughed.

One week later, Severus piled inside Mr Evans’s car with his trunk, his face still coloured green and yellow with old bruises. Once again, his mother had seen him off with a kiss and a, “The Evanses are nice people. Act like you've got some sense.”

Mr Evans pretended not to take any notice of Severus’s face. It wasn’t his business how parents disciplined their children.

They made their train on time, boarded the Hogwarts Express, and spent the ride playing Gobstones, which proved difficult with the rocking of the train. Gobstones went flying, spraying everywhere, and Severus and Lily jumped onto seats, trying to dodge the mad things. By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade, they stumbled out of the carriage, their faces red from laughter, stinking from the foul stench the Gobstones released.

“Whoa, look at Potter,” Lily said. Severus turned to look and made a face.

Severus used to console himself with the fact that he may not be popular like Potter, or handsome like Potter, or athletic like Potter, but at least he was taller than the other boy and if he ever got Potter alone he’d probably be able to beat him in a fistfight. Of course, Potter was never alone; James Potter, King of Gryffindor, was a coward. He never went anywhere without his little gang of ‘Marauders’ to back him up.

But as he turned to see Potter walking up the stone steps into Hogwarts Castle… Potter had shot up like a tree over the summer. His shoulders had widened, his muscles seemed bigger than before, and his cheeks were covered with little nicks and cuts. Was James Potter already shaving?

Severus felt his own face, which was still smooth and soft. He hadn’t grown up so much as grown tall, like a stretched-out piece of taffy. He was still wearing his old robes from two years ago and the white lines of his ankles and wrists peeked out beneath the hem.

“Meet me later at our spot?” Severus asked Lily as they entered the castle.

“Of course. What time?”

“An hour before curfew?”

“I’ll see you then.”

They broke apart, each to their respective tables. Her to Gryffindor, and he to Slytherin. Severus sat at the very end of the bench. No one bothered to say hello or ask him how his summer was. He sat quietly, ate quickly, and tried not to watch Lily joke around with her other friends.

By the time the Sorting Ceremony was finished, Severus was twitching, ready to jump up and leave. He was the first one up, moving quickly, dodging prefects as they gathered up the new first years. Every autumn Severus descended into the dungeons, into the Underworld, like Persephone, only to rise again next spring, thrust back into the arms of his mother, no matter how unwilling he might be. Unlike that crooked little house in co*keworth, the dungeons felt safe. Cold and damp as they were, dark and cramped, he had never felt as free as he did when he was down here.

He hurried along, past a group of sixth years, and went deeper underground. The flickering sconces were spaced further and further apart the deeper he went, and they no longer glowed a bright warm orange. Instead, they almost shimmered with a sickly, pale green light. He turned down a dusty corridor where a row of unused classrooms lay empty. Lily and he discovered them their second year and had claimed one as their own private laboratory (Severus’s words) and secret clubhouse (Lily’s words).

He only had to wait a few minutes before a familiar face popped inside. Lily grinned at him and closed the door before taking a seat on the cold stone floor beside him. “What do you think of the new first years?" She asked as she settled in. "They seem to get smaller every year.”

“Lily, half of them are taller than you.”

Lily stuck out her tongue. “Not everyone has chicken legs like you. Look at all that ankle you’re flashing, Sev! You trollop!”

Severus laughed, unable to keep the tinge of pink from colouring his cheeks at the mention of his too-short robes. “Has Potter proposed to you yet?”

This time it was Lily who blushed. “He wrote me a poem.”

“You’re kidding! You have to read it to me!”

“No! It’s too embarrassing!”

“Lils, please, please, I need a dramatic reading of it. Did he talk about your eyes? I bet he talked about your eyes.”

Lily’s face was as red as her hair. “I should have never told you. Don’t go blabbing it to people. You know Potter will murder you if you do, and then he’ll murder me.”

“He’s not going to murder you. He’s in love with you.”

“Well, I’m not in love with him!” Lily said defiantly and Severus felt something warm spark in the pit of his stomach at those words. She shifted closer until they were touching from shoulder to thigh. “I’m not interested in bullies with more hair than brains.”

Severus could feel his face and neck grow hot. “Oh. Good– I mean, you’re too good for Potter. Is there– what kind of boys do you like then?” He asked, his voice cracking.

Lily shrugged, her face still glowing. “I like smart boys. I like boys who can make me laugh.” She glanced up at him and it felt like she was digging into side, as if there was suddenly more of her than there was only a moment before, that Lily Evans – short, small Lily Evans – was suddenly large enough to swallow him whole. Severus felt his breath hitch, her face was much closer than it had been a moment before, and he was about to close his eyes, shut them against reality and let whatever happened happen, when his gaze drifted over to the door.

The door that now stood wide open.

Severus jerked back, away from Lily and onto his feet, ready to step up and take the blame should Filch come walking through. Lily turned her head, saw what had frightened her friend, and leapt up, brushing down her robes. She tiptoed toward it and peeked out. “There’s no one there,” she said, looking back at him. “I must not have shut it all the way.”

Severus took a step forward and froze when he felt fingers brush through his hair, grazing across the back of his neck. To his embarrassment, he let out a shriek and whirled around, his eyes wide but seeing nothing.

“What?” Lily demanded, looking all around. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I felt–” He breathed heavily through his nose, wrapping his arms around his torso. Someone – a man – chuckled, right next to his ear. Severus could feel hot breath against him and he jumped. Nothing. Nothing. There was nothing there, only empty space. “Someone touched me,” he finished lamely.

Lily wrinkled her brow in confusion. “Sev, there’s no one here but us.” She cracked a smile. “Maybe a spider fell on you. Well, I’ve got to go. There’s only a few minutes left until curfew.” Her smile dropped and she gave him a concerned look. “Are you going to be okay? You look really pale.”

He smiled shakily. “I’m fine. It’s probably Peeves just playing a joke.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll see you tomorrow. ‘Night.”

“Goodnight.” Severus let the smile fall as Lily closed the door behind her. He took one last glance around the empty classroom and then bolted for the Slytherin dormitory.

Chapter 3: Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The Potters, like so many old Pureblood families, had married themselves almost to death.

The Gaunts had all but disappeared, retreating into some hidden, backwoods cottage where, if rumours were to be believed, they married sisters to brothers and fathers to daughters. The Malfoys had somehow managed to limp along into the 20th century and now all hope fell upon just a single heir, a boy named Lucius, the last of that once great family. Walburga Black was the envy of her social circle for having produced not one, but two living sons. Probably got them with Dark magic, the Blacks’ less than charitable neighbors would sometimes gossip, their eyes green with jealousy.

The Potters were all expected to go extinct within a decade or two. An entire family had been whittled down to just two brothers, Fleamont and Charlus. Charlus had managed a son with his wife Dorea, but the boy, Benjamin, was born with a cephalic disorder and was not expected to survive to adulthood. Euphemia, Fleamont’s wife, had five miscarriages. By the time James Potter came along, the family was thought of as the walking dead and spoke about in hushed whispers as if they were already laid out in their caskets.

Euphemia Potter was forty-seven when she gave birth to her son James. Her living, beautiful, healthy son. Her miracle baby. There could never be a more perfect child in her eyes than him. He must be something special, he must have a greater purpose; after all the pain and suffering she went through, to finally have the one thing she always wanted, it was a fairytale come true. James was a blessing, her gift from God. All of this to say, the child was spoiled rotten.

By the age of nine, James Potter had become a princely terror, tearing through public places – both Wizarding and Muggle – on his broom, bringing fines down upon his father’s head and a backlog of work for the Obliviators. During one such occasion, while his parents were visiting Bathilda Bagshot in Godric’s Hollow, having turned their son loose out on the neighborhood while they chatted over tea, a little boy sitting on old Diana Knighton’s gatepost spotted James flying by and shouted out, “Hey, Four-Eyes! Close your mouth before you swallow a fly!”

James, despite being only nine-years-old, responded crudely, “Bet your sister swallows!”

The boy, not exactly knowing what it meant but not liking it at all, yelled back, “I dare you to get down off that broom!”

James jumped to the ground and the other boy did as well, though he descended inside the gate. “I dare you to come outside that garden,” said James.

“Yeah? Well, I dare you to come in here! I dare you–”

James immediately vaulted the fence. Four minutes later, Diana Knighton, hearing strange noises, looked out from her window and saw her grandson looking well-tenderized underneath young Master Potter’s flying fists. A quick Incarcerous, followed up with a Wingardium Leviosa, soon brought James Potter back to his parents.

“Stop! Do you know who I am?” James fiercely demanded as he struggled to escape the ropes he had been wrapped up in. He floated about half a metre behind Mrs Knighton.

“Yes, I do know!” The angered Mrs Knighton retorted. “I know who you are and you’re a disgrace to your mother! She ought to be ashamed of herself to allow–”

“You shut up about my mother being ashamed of herself!”

James Potter was deposited at his parents’ feet, his broom thrust into their hands, and the elderly couple received a dressing down by Mrs Knighton, who had gone to school with both of them and hadn’t thought much of them then either. As soon as the old lady left, Euphemia released her son from his bindings and said, in a sorrowful voice, “Jamie, is it true? Did you beat Mrs Knighton’s grandson?”

James looked worried for a moment, but then he brightened, “Listen here, Mama. You don’t have to worry about her. Father wouldn’t wipe his shoe on that old lady, right Father?”

Fleamont sighed. “Jamie…”

“None of the Potters would have anything to do with her, would they? She doesn’t even really know you, does she, Mama?”

“That hasn’t anything to do with it.”

“Yes, it does! No Potter would ever pay her a visit, and she never comes to our house. I bet,” James continued. “I bet if she wanted to see any of us, she’d have to go around to the servants’ entrance.”

The things James said and did troubled Euphemia and Fleamont, but they reasoned with themselves that once he started Hogwarts he would soon grow out of it. He wouldn’t be the center of attention anymore; he would have to learn how to share. But their prophecy proved incorrect– James only got worse.

Lily Evans was the most beautiful girl James had ever seen. She was… resplendent. He had used that word in a poem he had written for her, thinking it might impress her. She was so smart. The cleverest witch in their year. She had pinched her mouth together, like she was trying to fight back a smile, when he handed his poem to her. She’d thanked him, and said she was sorry, but she didn’t feel the same. Obviously, she was playing hard to get. Why had she fought so hard to keep from smiling if she didn’t like the attention? Girls were weird like that. They wanted to be chased, and James liked chasing them. He’d caught them all, all but Lily.

James watched as she bounced out of the carriage and waved off the other Gryffindor girls. “Don’t you want to come with us to Honeydukes?” Marlene cried.

“I already made plans with Sev. We’re going to Pippin’s Potions.”

Marlene made a face. “Ugh, he’s so creepy. He’s always watching you, you know.”

“Does he? I haven’t noticed.” But Lily was blushing.

“Are you his only friend? I never see him talking to anybody else.”

“He’s shy.”

“If you say so,” Marlene said with a roll of her eyes.

Lily watched them go, a slight frown on her face that vanished the moment she spotted Snape.

Severus Snape was an unpleasant boy with black, greasy hair hanging around his face and merciless black eyes. And for some reason, Lily’s face always lit up when she saw him. Her hair and eyes… they were glowing, and once again James was struck by her beauty. If only Snape wasn't there to mar her perfection.

They didn’t match. They looked wrong, standing next to each other.

James watched them walk through the streets of Hogsmeade, arm-in-arm.

“Three Broomsticks?” Sirius asked as he climbed out of the carriage behind him.

James jerked his head in the direction of the pair. “Got something I need to do first. Keep Remus distracted for me? That prefect badge is going right to his head, I swear.”

Sirius laughed. “Of course, you can count on me. Happy hunting.”

James pushed his way past the crowd of students all jumping at the chance to get away from the castle for a few hours. He made his way to a secluded alley behind a shop and pulled his invisibility cloak out of his expandable pocket, throwing it over himself. He had started up a new game this year, a fun game that he thought up that night he caught Snape trying to kiss Lily down in the dungeons. His greasy lips had been centimeters away; James had to do something, Snivellus was going to ruin her if he didn’t put a stop to it. Snape had looked so spooked when he noticed the open door, and James couldn’t help but drag his fingers through that disgusting hair, making him squeal.

He never made noises like that when James jinxed him. It was fun. It was addicting. James wanted more.

He followed them through Hogsmeade, keeping his steps light and noiseless, until he was able to creep close enough to whisper into Snape’s ear, “Disgusting.”

Snape sucked in a breath, his body shivering as he glanced wildly around. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Lily asked.

Snape’s eyes stared through James, seeing nothing but the old brick and mortar shops that crowded around the cobblestone street. His eyes were so large, so dark. “... Nothing,” Snape muttered. “I just… thought I heard something.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay? You’ve been acting strange ever since school started.”

The edge of his ear was peeking out from between that curtain of black hair. James watched as it turned pink. “I’m fine, Lily.”

James reached out and ran a finger along the tip of his ear.

Snivellus let out another squeal, his hands flying and James had to duck to avoid getting hit. The git was quicker than he looked. James grinned wildly as he watched the boy spin around, and slowly stood back up, dipping just close enough to whisper, “Freak.”

“SHUT UP!” Snape shrieked.

“Sev…” Lily breathed.

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m not telling you to shut up, I’m–” Snape stopped, suddenly aware of just how terrified Lily looked. “I’m sorry, I have to go, I didn’t sleep last night and I had too many cups of coffee and you know how I get, I have an essay to finish, I’ll see you at the library,” Snape blurted out all at once and fled, leaving Lily standing there in confusion and fear.

Patting himself on the back for a job well done, James made his way back to the alley, took off the invisibility cloak, folded it up, and tucked it safely back inside his expandable pocket. He went to the Three Broomsticks to meet up with Sirius, Remus, and Peter, knocking shoulders with Saul Pembry – the Hufflepuff Seeker – as he stepped inside. “Watch where you’re going!” Pembry barked out, his face red with anger, a bouquet of crushed flowers clutched in one hand.

James lifted a brow as he watched him storm out of the pub. Pembry was usually pretty polite.

He spotted his friends and made his way over to their table, snatching up Peter’s butterbeer and gulping it down before the other boy could grab it back. “So, what’s Pembry’s deal?” James asked, smacking his lips and slamming the glass down in front of Peter’s scowling face.

Remus gave him a rueful smile. “Alison Hayes stood him up.”

Sirius shook his head. “Kind of stupid of her, really. Pembry’s a pureblood, and Hayes is just a Muggleborn. She’s not going to get an offer like that again.”

“‘Just a Muggleborn’? Plan on joining the Death Eaters any time soon?” James laughed. Despite Padfoot’s very vocal protestations, he could sound just like his mother sometimes.

Sirius punched him on the arm, which did nothing to stop James’s giggles. “Don’t joke like that! If I could go the rest of my life without hearing about ‘Death Eaters’ ever again, I’d die a happy man. All summer I had to listen to Mother go on and on about the Dark Lord. How he was going to turn this country around and make things right. She’s in love with him. Probably cuts out newspaper clippings of him and puts them in a scrapbook. She’d probably bend over for him if he asked her to.”

Remus choked on his butterbeer. “Merlin, Pads, I don’t want to think about your mother like that!”

“Have you ever met him?” Peter spoke up.

“Who?” Sirius asked.

“This Lord Voldemare, or whatever his name is. Is he really a lord? The lord of what?”

“How should I know?” Sirius demanded. “And no, I’ve never met him. Why do you think I would have?”

“I was talking to a Slytherin–”

“Well, there’s your first mistake, Wormy.”

“–and he said that this Lord fellow has been making the rounds to all the old pureblood families, looking for money and support."

Sirius shrugged. “If he came by Grimmauld Place I didn't know about it. Mother doesn’t like to show me off to visitors. Too much of an embarrassment.”

“He didn’t visit my parents either. Probably because he knows Father would toss him out on his ear if he dared.” James cracked a smile. “It’s all a bunch of nonsense. He keeps blaming Muggleborns for the world’s problems, but he never explains what his plans are to fix it. Father says he’s just stirring up a lot of fear and outrage to get his foot in the door at the Ministry, and that once he’s in a position of power he’ll probably just sit on his ass and twiddle his thumbs. Come on, let me buy you another drink, Wormy,” James said, clapping Peter on the shoulder.

Chapter 4: Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Petunia was the one who showed her how to put on lipstick.

She traced Lily's lips with a tube of bright red paint and placed a tissue between her lips. When she pulled it back, there was a kiss pressed into it, her cupid's bow outlined in scarlet. "There," Petunia said. "Bet you magic couldn't have done a better job than that." Lily had grinned, she had been so happy.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched as Petunia leaned forward to get a better look at herself in the mirror. She darkened her blonde eyelashes with mascara, blinked, cursed, and rubbed at the black smudge that had appeared on her eyelid. Petunia had a date, and Lily was feeling shy. She wanted to talk to Petunia like she used to. Wanted to tell her that she had gotten her period last year at school, in the library of all places, while studying with Sev. And he had been the first one to notice it. Lily had cried, and Sev, bless him, had quietly spelled her skirt clean.

Lily had so many questions, questions that she was sure Petunia would know the answers to. But they didn’t talk anymore. Petunia hated her. And then Petunia looked down at her, took her chin with one hand, the tube of lipstick clutched in the other, and said, “Pucker up.” Lily had felt transformed, as if she had just undergone an ancient initiation rite, the kind she had read about in her History of Magic class.

Lily stood in front of her mirror and applied the lipstick to her lips. It's stupid. She was being stupid. She had Potions first thing this morning and there was a good chance it would smudge between the fumes and the heat, and then Sev would definitely laugh at her. She put on the finishing touches and blotted away the excess with a tissue. "Go get him," her reflection cheered, and Lily smiled.

She hurried through breakfast, occasionally stealing glances at the Slytherin table, but Sev was nowhere to be seen. Potter was missing from the Great Hall too. If he's bullying Sev again… She frowned, shoveled down the rest of her food, and said goodbye to her friends. "Where are you running off to so early?" Marlene cried out.

"I have revisions to do. I'll see you at Potions!"

She hurried down into the dungeons, taking the steps two at a time and nearly ran right into Mulciber. "Watch it, mudblood."

Lily drew up short. She could feel her face grow hot. "Watch yourself," she snapped. "I'm a prefect."

Mulciber shrugged and shouldered past her. "Still a mudblood though."

"Five points from Slytherin!"

Mulciber lifted his fingers in a rude gesture and trudged up the stairs. Lily continued on, a little slower, her feet heavier. She kept replaying what had just happened in her head, wishing she could come up with some devastating insult that would have cut Mulciber to the quick, but her mind came up blank. She's not Sev. She wished she was at times.

She spotted Sev already sitting at their desk inside the Potions classroom. He was hunched over, his hair hiding his face, and bracing his elbows against the table with his hands cupping the back of his neck. Lily breathed a sigh relief at finding him alone.

She fished out a mirror, checked her makeup, and walked in, dropping in the seat beside him. "You'll get a hump if you keep sitting like that," Lily said, parroting her mother, as she flashed him a smile. She waited to see what he would say about her new look.

Sev jumped in his seat and turned to look at her with wide, terrified eyes.

"Are… are you okay?" She asked, the smile slipping from her face.

"Fine. I'm fine. How long have you been sitting there?"

Lily arched her brow. "Uh, I just now sat down. Did you fall asleep waiting here or something?"

Sev gave a mix of contradicting answers; shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head and mumbling, "Yes, that's probably what happened."

Sev had always been kind of twitchy, but it had gotten so much worse this year. He jumped at shadows, lashed out at things that weren’t there, and he’d started muttering to himself. A steady stream of nonsense from the sounds of it.

Severus stole a quick glance around the empty classroom, as if he was expecting Potter and his little thugs to jump out of hiding. He leaned forward and whispered, “Can I ask you something?”

He was so close, his breath stirred her hair. Lily felt herself blush and she fervently nodded.

“Have you ever heard of a jinx that made you hear things and… and feel things? Like phantom touches?”

Lily blinked. “What?”

Some strange, fever-eyed expression came over Sev’s face. “I think Potter jinxed me,” he hurriedly confessed. “I hear his voice constantly, even when he’s not around, even when I’m alone. It’s always vile and awful and– and I can feel someone touching me. Like, little quick touches, there one minute and gone the next. I’ve searched every book in the library I can think of, and I can’t find anything like it. I’ve been badgering Slughorn for days now to get me a pass into the Restricted Section, but–”

“You’ve been hearing voices?” Lily asked, her brow furrowed.

“Don’t– don’t say it like that,” Sev insisted. “Not in a crazy way. Potter did something. This is his fault, and when I figure out what it is I’ll curse his tongue to flip inside out.”

Okay. Okay, she can fix this. This was fixable. There were medications for this sort of thing now, right? And the Wizarding World had to have a cure. They had a cure for everything.

“Sev,” Lily spoke slowly, in a quiet, soothing voice. “Maybe you should visit Madame Pomfrey.”

He jerked away from her, and the sudden loss of his heat left her shivering. “I told you, I’m not crazy!”

“I didn’t say you were–”

“You didn’t have to,” he snorted. “Madame Pomfrey, really? She’ll have me locked up in St. Mungo’s fast enough to make my head spin.”

Oh God. “You like Madame Pomfrey, remember?” Lily urged. “You think she’s the only one on staff that has any sense.”

“She also follows Dumbledore’s every order and he hates me. Everyone’s always blaming me for the fights I get into with the Marauders, when they’re the ones who start it!”

She’d had this conversation with Sev a hundred times, but it suddenly took on new meaning, knowing what she did now. Lily had always thought Sev was just prone to exaggeration, but this… this was paranoia.

Lily was not allowed to talk about Uncle George. Uncle George was sick. Uncle George was locked away. Uncle George did not exist.

She discovered him quite by accident. He had been completely erased from her father’s life, and her grandparents’. Walking into their home, looking at the pictures hung on the walls, you would be forgiven for thinking Henry Evans was an only child. Every photograph of George Evans had been systematically destroyed, all but one, a small photograph of a little boy on a swing tucked away in her grandmother’s Bible. Lily had found it, and when she asked about it her grandmother had sat her down and said to her, “You mustn’t tell anybody,” and she explained that George had been their perfect, wonderful little boy. And then, not long after he turned eighteen, something changed. A bomb had gone off inside his brain, and he was no longer just George. He was paranoid, suspicious. He heard things. One day her grandparents came home from the shops and found that George had taken a hammer to the living room wall in search of hidden cameras placed there by the government. George was placed in an institution after that. Disappeared. His pictures gone, the hole patched up and wallpapered over. There was never any George.

Lily sometimes wondered what it would be like to just pretend away a whole person, as if they had never been a part of your life. Could Petunia do something like that? Could she one day get so sick and tired of magic that she would take down her sister’s photographs and pretend Lily had never existed?

Ophelia Queensbury, the fifth year Slytherin prefect, poked her head in the classroom. “Snape, I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “Get back to the common room. Classes are canceled today.”

Sev narrowed his eyes in confusion, but obediently gathered up his things. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Just get to the common room. Slughorn will explain everything. Evans, you’re supposed to come with me. Prefect meeting with the Heads of Houses.”

Lily glanced over her shoulder as she followed Queensbury out of the classroom, but Sev wasn’t looking at her. He was shoving books in his bag and his hair was covering his face again. He hadn’t even noticed the lipstick.

“Alison Hayes never returned from Hogsmeade yesterday,” Queensbury murmured in Lily’s ear. “And some sort of skull has appeared above the Three Broomsticks.”

Night had fallen, and Lily could just make out a small green light glowing softly in the direction of Hogsmeade from her spot in Gryffindor Tower. It looked like a far-off star.

Despite how crowded the common room was, no one spoke above a whisper. It was well-past curfew, and Lily – as a prefect – should be herding the younger years up the stairs, but nobody wanted to leave the safety of the common room. Alison Hayes was dead. Lily couldn’t wrap her head around it. Alison Hayes was dead. Her body was found behind the Three Broomsticks, in an alley tucked behind some bins.

“It was Death Eaters. It’s their calling card, you see. When they kill someone, they create this ghastly skull with a snake coming out of its mouth. They call it the Dark Mark,” a girl whispered. “They killed a reporter for The Daily Prophet over the summer. My mum’s an Auror. She told me about it.”

When had it all started? She remembered there had been the odd disappearance or two last year. A politician, or a wealthy half-blood, or a community organizer. Grown-ups. Black had insisted it was the Death Eaters behind it all, and everyone had laughed at him. It sounded like crazy conspiracy stuff. The Death Eaters were just a silly political organization with a stupid name that held no real power. All they did was blame Muggles for the world's problems and anyone with half a brain could see they had no real plan, no direction; they were just angry, and they would soon fizzle out like so many before them.

Lily had never thought much about politics before. Her parents actively discouraged it. “You’re a pretty girl, Lily, don’t get mixed up in that sort of thing,” her mother said. “I wish you’d stop running around with that Snape boy,” said her father. “Tobias Snape is an agitator. He’s calling for a strike. Times are bad enough as it is without a drunk day-labourer stirring up trouble.” And anyway, Lily had too much to think about to bother with politics, like homework and getting her first kiss. There would be time enough for politics later, when she was grown up.

But this was Alison Hayes. Alison Hayes wasn’t an adult. She was a kid. She was seventeen years old and she was at the top of her graduating class. She had gotten all O’s on her NEWTs. She was going to be something.

“She was cut in half,” Pettigrew whispered and Lily shut her eyes, but she could still see that flashing green light from beneath her eyelids.

“No way!”

“You’re making that up.”

“It’s true, I overheard McGonagall talking about it to Flitwick. She said Hayes was bisected,” Pettigrew said, carefully stressing each syllable. “She was naked too.”

Lily opened her eyes. Pettigrew was sitting with his little friends– Lupin and Black and Potter. Lupin was biting his thumb and staring at his feet. Black was bouncing his leg, his arms folded into himself. And Potter– Potter was leaning forward, his eyes bright, his mouth parted. “Had she been– you know–” Potter asked.

“Potter!” Lily hissed.

“It’s just a question.”

“It’s not appropriate!”

“Scared it might have been you?” Potter asked and Lily shut her mouth, her teeth cracking against each other. Her breath was fast and shallow. “You should be careful from now on. You’re a Muggleborn too. Don’t go off to Hogsmeade by yourself like last time.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Lily growled. “And I wasn’t by myself. I was with Sev.”

Potter raised his eyebrows. “Really? Because I saw you get on one of the carriages heading back to Hogwarts. Alone.”

“Something had come up, Sev had to leave–”

“He just ran out on you?” Potter asked. His brows were raised, his eyes wide, like he was shocked, but there was something fake about his expression.

“Probably killed Hayes himself,” Black muttered.

“Don’t say that!”

“Come on, Lily, I know you’ve heard the rumors. Some of the older Slytherins have even met Lord Voldemort or whatever his name is. Bet you Snape was one of them. Greasy little git loves it when we have to dissect anything in Potions. Hayes was just another frog for him to gut.”

“Shut up.”

“He is kind of creepy,” Marlene spoke up from her spot by the fireplace. “He’s always watching you.”

“You said he left you. He could have been up to anything. He had plenty of time to murder Hayes.”

“He’s violent. Did you see the way he reacted when Sirius tripped him last year? I thought he was going to break his nose.”

“Shut up!" Lily screeched. “Shut your f*cking mouths!”

The entire common room was silent. They were all staring at her. Lily stood up from her chair and stormed up the stairs to her dorm, throwing open the door. She slowed to a stop in the center of the room and stared out of the purloined window, out across Black Lake where the green light twinkled in the night sky.

Chapter 5: A Portrait of the Artist as a Student

Chapter Text

I usually find him in the library, and while the towering books and flickering candles have its own appeal, there are days I want to pose him in front of the tangled rhododendrons that have invaded the courtyard, their violent colours haloing his black hair. I want to paint purples and reds and blues, and him as its dark epicenter, his eyes drawing the viewer in like a black hole.

Severus Snape sits hunched over one of the reading tables, his nose very nearly touching the page of his book. Sometimes I wonder if he's near-sighted. He has one arm on the table, his head resting against it, fingers tangled in his hair. They're clutching the strands tight, almost pulling.

It's not like I only sketch Snape. That'd be weird, and more than a little creepy. I have dozens of notebooks filled with classmates and neighbors, family and random passersby. But Snape is one of my favourites. He has an interesting face. He's long. Long face with a long nose, and long hair, a long torso stacked on long legs, long elegant fingers stirring cauldrons.

I look down at the sketch. It's mostly hair with a nose peeking out and fingers digging into the crown. I want to see more of him. Dress him up in silk and velvet. Dress him up in nothing at all.

Not that I would ever, in a million years, ask Snape to pose for me, let alone pose nude. I don't have a death wish.

Jenny drops her books on the table next to me. "I am going to pass this stupid class even if it kills me and you are going to help me."

I glance at the stack of divination books. "Why don't you just drop it?"

"I'm not going to give up. I'm not a quitter. Give me your hand."

I dutifully give her my hand while she skims through the chapter on palm-reading. "Now let's see… your palm is… disgusting." She wrinkles her nose as she takes in the ink-and-graphite stains covering my hand. "Do you ever clean underneath your fingernails?"

I pull my hand back and turn to my sketch. "You know what? I hope you fail."

Jenny drops her head on the table. "I will. I will fail," she mumbles. "They'll kick me out of Ravenclaw for this."

"They'll force you down into the dungeons with the Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, throwing birdseed at you the entire way."

Jenny shivers, stealing a glance at Snape. "I wouldn't last a day in Slytherin." She leans forward to whisper, "Do you think it's true what Potter says? That Snape's a Death Eater and he helped… you know…"

I roll my eyes. "An asteroid could hit Hogwarts and Potter would find a way to blame Snape. I swear, he's obsessed with him."

"I don't know, Snape kind of fits the type, doesn't he? He's so weird. He doesn't have any friends except for that Evans girl."

Maybe not even her anymore. I haven't seen her around as much these past few weeks, and when I do see them together they're usually arguing.

A sound breaks my musings, a clattering as Snape's chair skids away from his table, his entire form jumping with the force of a full-body shiver. "Shut your stupid face," he hisses, seemingly to no one, as he stands. He slings his fraying bag over his shoulder and all but flees the library.

Jenny watches him go and then turns to me. "See? Freaky."

Something is very wrong. I have sketchbooks filled with his face, from my pitiful, cartoonish attempts as a first year until now, and there is a clear trajectory, a slow decline. Snape's face transforms from one of wide-eyed innocence into hooded cynicism. The shaded parts are not just shadows, but bruises too.

He needs help, and I don't know if there's anyone willing to step up. I could. I'm willing, I think and flush at the thought. I've thought about it before, just walking up and introducing myself, "Do you want to form a study group with me?" Such a Ravenclaw thing to say. When I'm feeling particularly brave, I imagine myself saying, "I want to go with you to Hogsmeade this weekend. What do you say?" And sometimes, I imagine myself sketching in the library, as I'm doing now, and Snape walks past my table, glances down, and asks, in a tremulous voice, "Is that me?"

I should do it. I should just do it. Quit daydreaming about it and just go for it.

I say my goodbyes to Jenny and follow after him. He's moving quickly through the corridors, and I manage to screw up my courage, the name "Snape–" exiting my mouth when a jinx hits me in the back of my shoulder.

It feels like a very weak Flipendo, more of a Knock-Into than a Knock-Back Jinx. I stumble a little, just managing to catch the sounds of a chuckle and running feet, but when I look around me there's nothing there.

Chapter 6: Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Severus woke slowly, blinking away the sleep left clinging to his lashes. His roommates had already left. Severus dressed slowly, taking his time to savour the unnatural quiet of the room, the silence of his own mind.

He ran his fingers through his hair, snagging at the tangles, and, with mounting dread, stepped out of his sanctuary. The gas lamps – their flames tinged green – hummed as he passed by the Slytherin dorms. Was that a voice he heard? That laughter, was it coming from the common room or from inside his own brain? Severus ducked his head down and hurried to the Great Hall.

He slipped inside, his eyes flickering over at the Gryffindor table, taking mental note of each Marauder. Lupin had his head down and appeared to be asleep, despite being tucked in-between Black and Pettigrew who were in the midst of a raucous argument involving Quidditch. Lupin always looked worn and tired after a full moon (Wasn't it obvious? Why hadn't anyone else noticed?). Potter was leaning back on the bench, trying to get Lily's attention, who sat further down. If they noticed his arrival, they gave no indication.

Rain was pouring in sheets, battering against the roof, and looking up at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling was like staring up from the base of a waterfall. Severus slid into a seat next to Rosier and grabbed a plate, hoping to eat quickly and leave.

"She did more than just bite him," Rosier whispered to Avery. "She tried to kill him. On their wedding night."

"Merlin, why would she do that?"

"Because she's a nutcase. Who knows what was going through that squirmy brain of hers?"

"Is Rodolphus alright?"

"As well as could be expected. He was left bed-bound for a week." And then, much more quietly lest Regulus overhear, Rosier whispered, "Bellatrix is at St. Mungo's now. Psychiatric ward."

The eggs turned to ash in his mouth. Severus forced himself to swallow them down, ignoring the churning of his stomach. He wasn't crazy. He wouldn't end up in St. Mungo's like Bellatrix. Those voices… Potter did that. It was Potter's fault. He had somehow cursed him.

Severus looked over at the Marauders and his heart skipped a beat when he realized that Potter was missing. Where had he gone? What was he planning? A cold sweat pricked at his forehead. He needed to get back to the dungeons, where it was safe.

Severus stood up from the table, leaving his breakfast mostly untouched as he skittered back to where he came. The halls were quiet and empty, his feet echoing against the flagstone, and every now and then came the distant sound of thunder.

Severus slowed his rapid pace, pausing to listen. Was that a second pair of footsteps he just heard? He looked behind him and saw nothing.

"You're hideous. You should just kill yourself."

Severus pulled his robes tight against his body, hugging himself as he started walking again. His every instinct was screaming at him to fight, to strike back and strike hard, but there was nothing for him to fight against. He felt helpless, weak.

"Kill yourself, like you killed Alison Hayes."

He hadn't. He hadn't even known who she was until she died.

"Did you hear? She was found naked."

Something brushed against him, phantom fingers dipping into the crease where his ass met thigh.

"I'm going to strip you and chop you into pieces, just like Hayes."

Severus was frozen, his entire body shaking. He squeezed his eyes shut against the images that floated through his head. It wasn't not real. Not the voice, not the touches, it was just a curse. A curse to make him think he's gone crazy.

The hand that touched him lingered this time, growing bolder with each stroke, until a warm hand – Warm? Why would a spell feel warm? – pressed fully against him, cupping the flesh of his backside, the fingertips dipping into his inner thigh.

"Snape? What are you doing standing in the middle of the corridor?"

"sh*t," the voice whispered and the hand disappeared.

Severus opened his eyes to see Mulciber standing in front of him. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs. Thank you, thank you, he thought wildly. Thank you for making it stop. Thank you for chasing it away.

"Breathe, Snape, don't pass out on me. I won't do a damned thing to help if you faint," Mulciber said, his hands hovering inches above his skin, not quite grabbing onto the swaying figure. "Damn you, you stupid mudblood, come on. I am not carrying you."

Mulciber grabbed Severus by his shoulders and half-dragged him to the infirmary. He was placed on a bed– the shaking had gotten worse, his teeth were chattering.

"What happened?" He heard Pomfrey ask from somewhere above his head.

"I don't know. I found him like this."

"Potter did it," Severus managed to hiss out. "It's Potter''s fault."

"What did Potter do, dear?"

"He cursed me."

He felt a wave of magic settle over him, like a cool breeze. Pomfrey peered down at him, her wand still in hand. "Severus, I'm not finding any lingering traces of magic. There's no evidence of a curse or a jinx on you."

"It's there, I promise you it's there."

"Can you describe your symptoms?"

Severus shut his mouth, forcing his teeth together. His symptoms? Hearing voices, ghostly touches. They'd chuck him in the loony bin for that. That was probably what Potter wanted.

Madame Pomfrey sighed. "I can't help you unless you talk to me." With nothing else forthcoming, she said, "Alright, why don't you rest here for a bit. I'll send an excuse to your professors. Go on to class, Mulciber, I've got it from here."

With one last, puzzled glance, Mulciber left. A part of Severus wanted to beg him to stay, to keep the voices at bay, but he swallowed back the words and sank into the hospital bed, trying to force his body to be still. Madame Pomfrey tutted, smoothed out his blankets, and fluffed up his pillows, before heading into her office. He closed his eyes and let himself drift.

The shivers eventually stopped; Severus wasn't sure how long he laid there, his mind between waking and sleeping, when he heard Lupin's voice call out for Madame Pomfrey. Severus wrenched open his eyes. Lupin was hovering by her office door, hunched over and shuffling like an old man. "Joint pain?" Madame Pomfrey asked as she rummaged through her cabinet.

Lupin nodded morosely.

"Don't wait for the pain to get this bad," she scolded. "Come to me the moment it starts hurting. We've got all these potions here, no point in suffering unduly." She handed him a vial of dark green liquid. Iaso's Panacea. Most often used for arthritis and human transfigurations gone wrong, Severus thought.

Lupin thanked her and drank it down, handing back the empty vial. A spark of anger lit up in his stomach as he watched him leave the infirmary. Severus threw off the blankets and followed him out.

"Lupin!"

Lupin slowed to a stop and, with an exaggerated eyeroll, turned to face him. "What do you want, Sniv– oof!"

Lupin's yellowish eyes grew wide with shock and fear as Severus grabbed him by the front of his robes and shoved him against the wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. "I know what you are, wolf," Severus hissed. Lupin's eyes somehow became larger. He struggled in his grip, trying to twist away, and although they were both tall and wiry, Severus had experience on Lupin. Lupin didn't need to fight, not when he had Potter and Black to fight for him. Severus grinned with malicious glee and shoved him back again. Lupin's head bounced against the wall.

"I know what you and your friends have been saying about me," Severus continued, his teeth bared. "And if anyone killed that girl it would be you, you f*cking monster. Tell me, how'd she taste, wolf? You know, farmers shoot dogs after they've eaten human flesh. It changes them. Makes them go crazy. Feel any different after eating that poor girl?"

Severus heard the sounds of footsteps running toward him, but he ignored it, too focused on grinding Lupin's face against the rough stone. An arm came down to wrap around Severus's neck, jerking his head back and making him lose balance. He caught sight of messy, black hair and hazel eyes burning behind a pair of glasses. Something inside Severus snapped while looking up at James Potter. The anger exploded into something wild, something feral. He tore and punched and scratched, his wand slipping from his pocket and clattering to the floor, forgotten.

Severus managed to slip his head free of Potter's grip and latched onto the meat of his forearm with his teeth, sinking in deep until he felt blood pool in his mouth. Potter was screaming, and Severus felt two solid blows land against his temple as the other boy rained punches down on top of his head. His ears were ringing and his vision swimming, but Severus remained latched on, driving his teeth in deeper.

Severus managed to catch a glimpse of Black in his peripheral before a fist collided into his stomach. The blow forced Severus to let go of Potter's arm and he struggled to suck a breath into his suddenly empty lungs.

"Incarcerous!" Heavy, thick ropes wrapped around Severus's arms and chest and legs. He felt himself tipping backward, his watery vision blinking out for a moment as his head hit the ground. As his vision returned, he saw the bottom of Potter's dragonhide boot coming up to bash in his brains, only for Lupin to yank him bank. "Merlin, Prongs, are you nuts?"

"Look what he did to my arm, Moony!" Blood oozed from the perforated skin, soaking into Potter's robes. Severus laughed.

Lupin had to yank Potter back a second time. "Stop! Just stop! It's over! Let's just leave him here. Come on, I'll take you to Pomfrey."

Lupin pushed Potter out of sight, and he heard their footsteps grow further and further away. Severus spotted his wand lying a few feet away and he started wiggling towards it, his stomach rolling with the movement.

A pair of black boots entered his line of sight, the scuffed toes centimeters from Severus's nose. He looked up to see Sirius Black staring down at him with a funny expression. "I heard what you called Remus," he said softly, squatting down so that they were almost eye-to-eye. "And you know what? You're right. Remus is a werewolf."

Severus stilled and peered up at him. Why was Black telling him this? Why would he endanger his friend by admitting such a thing? Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe Severus was wrong, and Black was just messing with him.

"Every full moon, James and Peter and I lock Remus up inside the Shrieking Shack and take turns keeping watch until sunrise," Black continued.

Severus snorted and managed to mumble out, "Oh? And how exactly do you reach Hogsmeade from here?"

"There's a secret tunnel at the base of the Whomping Willow. Touch the knot on its trunk to open it."

"You're lying. There's no secret tunnel. You just want me to get caught outside after curfew." It sounded like there were marbles stuffed inside his mouth.

Black grinned. "There's only one way to find out." He patted Severus's head, the touches light but feeling like a heavy blow against his tender skull, before snatching his hand away as the other boy lunged at him with blood-stained teeth. Black laughed, stood up, and kicked his wand, sending it rolling behind a suit of armor, out of reach.

A string of curses followed Black as he left Severus lying there, tied up, to rejoin his friends. He was trapped there for well over an hour, his head pounding in time to his pulse, before he heard a familiar voice cry out, "Sev!"

Lily was kneeling in front of him, her wand out and dispelling the ropes, while a Ravenclaw fished out Severus's wand from behind the suit of armor. "Here, let me help you," the boy said, reaching out to grab his shoulder as he handed him back his wand.

"Don't touch me, you stupid mudblood!" Severus snapped, though the words were slurred as he sat up and made a grab for his wand. He clutched the familiar weight to his chest as his vision swam. Too fast, he sat up too fast. He leaned over to one side and threw up.

Lily's small hand rubbed circles into his back as Severus continued to heave. "I am so, so sorry," he heard her say to the Ravenclaw. "He didn't mean to call you that. Head injury, you know."

"It's fine," the Ravenclaw answered. "I'm actually a pureblood anyway."

"Thanks for helping. I can take it from here."

The boy hesitated for a moment, but he finally nodded and left Lily to it. "Can you stand up?" She asked.

Severus nodded, and with Lily's arm wrapped around his torso, he managed to get his feet underneath him. Her body was warm and soft against his back, and Severus wanted to close his eyes and sleep.

"Hey, don't close your eyes," Lily said. "I think you have a concussion. If you go to sleep now you'll slip into a coma."

"I don't think that's actually true."

"Humor me then. Keep your eyes open and tell me what happened. Potter said you went crazy and attacked Lupin for no reason, and then you bit him?"

"Oh, of course, you believe Potter," Severus snapped.

"Sev, he showed the whole class the bite marks you left!"

Severus pushed away from that warmth, his feet stumbling forward as he managed to regain his balance on his own. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't. He had a perfectly good explanation for attacking Lupin, but Lily didn't want to hear it. She had long grown bored of his theories.

"Sev!" Lily protested, reaching out to touch him again, but Severus jerked out from underneath her hand. He was going to prove to her and the entire school that he wasn't mad, or a killer, or a monster.

Chapter 7: Chapter 5

Chapter Text

You're taking things a little too far.

The thought popped up sometimes, a distant siren muffled by the fog that enveloped James whenever he got too close to Snape. But the thing was, Snape didn't fit. He was too proud, too strange, too solitary. He sneered at all the lesser creatures that scurried around, he looked down on James. James Potter, who had wealth and blood and power, and Snape looked at him as if he wasn't fit to wipe his shoes on. Nothing James did made any difference.

Touching him, making him shake, making cry and scream and bleed had become addicting. He wanted to see how far he could push. He wanted to touch more of him, he wanted to cut him open, and prove once and for all that James Potter was better than him. He wanted Snape to look up at him with those dark eyes and know he was nothing; just some poor, pathetic animal who should feel lucky that James even noticed him.

Maybe we took things a little too far, James thought as he dragged Snape from the Shrieking Shack. The other boy was clutching at him, his hands grabbing fistfuls of robe, their bodies pressed against one another. There was no proud, imperious expression on Snape's face now, only terror. James wrapped an arm around his waist as he helped carry him across school grounds, feeling oddly indulgent. If only Snape was like this all the time: docile, clinging, domesticated. Then James wouldn't have done the things he had.

You have to first break a horse if you want to tame it.

James gently brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen across his face, and within that single, crystallized moment something snapped. The glazed-over look in Snape's black eyes vanished, replaced with a burning hate. "Get away from me!" He shrieked, shoving his way out of James's arms and stumbling forward.

Whatever tender feelings James had felt just then instantly vanished. He was reminded that Snape was scum. Incapable of experiencing anything like gratitude, even for the man who saved him. Something must be done about him. He wasn't fit for human society. He would just pollute others, he would pollute Lily with his dirty, greasy hands.

Snape's fingers dug into the wet earth as he stumbled up the path. James followed him silently. He should probably just kill him now. Snape was a danger, he knew Moony's secret. James could do it. He was sure he could. A spell, maybe, or he could just pick up that rock over there and bash Snape's brains in. He'd be doing the world a favour.

He kept thinking about Alison Hayes, and what it must have been like for her killer to see the light fade from her eyes.

Snape picked himself up and started running, and the moment slipped from James's fingers.

It was harder to sneak up on Snape after that. He was spending more and more of his time with Mulciber and Avery and Rosier, sucking up to them, doing their homework for them, willing to do just about anything to keep them around. It was disgusting to see. Snape never acted that way to him, and the Mulcibers were nothing compared to the Potters.

It left James feeling jittery, his mind at loose ends the longer he had to wait to get Snape alone. The only good thing about Snape's newfound friendships was that Lily hated it too.

"... Thought we were supposed to be friends," he overheard Snape say. "Best friends?"

"We are, Sev," Lily answered with a sigh. "But I don't like some of the people you're hanging round with! I'm sorry, but I detest Avery and Mulciber! Mulciber! What do you see in him, Sev, he's creepy! Do you know what he tried to do to Mary MacDonald the other day?"

Lily reached a pillar and leaned against it.

"That was nothing," said Snape. "That was a laugh, that's all–"

"It was Dark Magic, and if you think that's funny–"

"What about the stuff Potter and his mates get up to?" Demanded Snape. His pale, sallow skin had taken on a high, red colouring that sent James's heart thundering.

"What's Potter got to do with anything?"

"They sneak out at night. There's something weird about that Lupin. Where does he keep going?" His eyes were feverish, almost begging her to pick up the clues he had dropped for her, the oath Dumbledore had placed him under kept him from physically saying the words. That f*cking snake. Even now he was trying to get Moony in trouble, after everything James had done for him. He should have killed him that night.

"He's ill. They say he's ill–"

"Every month at the full moon?"

"I know your theory," said Lily, and she sounded cold. "Why are you so obsessed with them anyway? Why do you care what they're doing at night?"

"I'm just trying to show you they're not as wonderful as everyone seems to think they are."

"They don't use Dark Magic, though." She dropped her voice. "And you're being really ungrateful. I heard what happened the other night. You went sneaking down that tunnel by the Whomping Willow, and James Potter saved you from whatever's down there–"

Snape's whole face contorted and he spluttered, "Saved? Saved? You think he was playing hero? He was saving his neck and his friends' too! You're not going to– I won't let you–"

"Let me? Let me?"

Lily's bright green eyes were slits. Snape backtracked at once.

"I didn't mean– I just don't want to see you made a fool of– He fancies you, James Potter fancies you!" The words seemed wrenched from him against his will. "And he's not… everyone thinks… big Quidditch hero–" Snape had taken on that twitchy, incoherent quality he got whenever James touched him.

Lily's eyebrows were creeping up her forehead. She seemed torn between pity and disappointment. "I know James Potter's an arrogant toerag. I don't need you to tell me that. But Mulciber's and Avery's idea of humor is just evil. Evil, Sev. I don't understand how you can be friends with them."

And then it happened. After weeks and weeks of being forced apart, James spotted the slimeball sitting all by himself underneath a tree and he couldn't hold himself back anymore. He had Snivellus dangling by his feet, exposing his graying underpants to the entire school, and Snape, in his infinite wisdom, called Lily a mudblood and whatever was holding them together shattered. She looked like she had been slapped, shocked that Snivellus would dare utter that word to her. And then her expression hardened. She walked away. James had won.

"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?"

The laughs and hoots of the crowd fed his euphoria, and with a quick flick of his wand Snape's underpants were left floating in the lake. Something hot pulsed beneath James's skin as Snape, his eyes wet with tears, glared hatefully down at him. He was trying to cover himself with his hands. Those long legs were curling against his body. All that skin. James wanted to touch.

The urge was overpowering. James flung Snape into the lake to keep from succumbing to that urge.

Peter clapped his hand on his shoulder. "Now that Snivellus is out of the way, you need to up your game. You've got to woo Evans. Prove to her that you're not a complete Neanderthal. If you want her, you've got to lay off Snape. At least for a little while."

"'Lay off Snape?'" James echoed, dumbfounded. It was absurd. How could he just lay off Snape?

"You want Evans, don't you?"

Of course he wanted Evans. She was perfect. But Snape…

He tried. He honestly tried. But Snape would sneak into his thoughts, consume his brain, and he couldn't help but look for him on the Marauder's Map. He was always surrounded by Mulciber and Avery.

And then, one stormy Thursday evening, he opened the map and saw Snape leaving the library, alone, the dot that was marked with his name hurried along, afraid to be caught out after curfew. James grabbed his invisibility cloak and raced to after him.

He caught him on the stairs leading down into the dungeons.

Snape was oblivious to James's presence. He padded softly behind the other boy, his breath muffled underneath the cloak. James didn't think about Lily. All he could think about was Snape. He remembered him as a first year, and even then Snape had been violent and strong-willed. He had grown taller each autumn he returned to Hogwarts, his ankles flashing underneath his too short robes. Those pale legs dangling in the air, his long-fingered hands cupping his co*ck, trying to hide. James felt a swimming in his head. Those legs were bent on making James a murderer.

Snape paused, and slowly turned his head, his black eyes searching the empty darkness. He was nervously clutching at his patched and fraying bag. "... Potter?" He whispered.

James was silent. Snape stared for a few seconds longer. The moment he turned his back, James let the cloak fall to the ground and rushed him.

Snape, hearing his charging footsteps, whirled back around, but his hand – clutching at his wand – was crushed against James's chest as he fell backwards against the stairs. They slid down a few steps, Snape's wand slipping from his fingers and rolling until it ended up at the bottom of the staircase.

Snape was screaming something, but James, not hearing a word he said, crushed his lips against his own. Snape uttered out a feeble cry, more like a moan, and it sent James rocking into him. James tore his mouth away and stared down at Snape's dazed expression, and he was all at once seized with a terrible frenzy. He glanced around for a weapon to kill him with. Snape's bag had been ripped open, spilling out books and parchment and a pair of scissors they used to cut the nubs of their quills.

With one hand, James crushed Snape against him, kissing, and thrusting forward, his other hand reaching around to grasp the scissors. He wanted to do it. He wanted to drive them deep into Snape's stomach when an icy chill came over James, bringing him back to his senses. He looked down at Snape, his eyes wet, his breath hitching with barely contained sobs, and felt a little of what he had first experienced when he pulled the other boy from the Shrieking Shack: an unexpected flicker of kindness.

James let go of the scissors and delivered a swift kiss to Snape's forehead as he stood up. "They'll never believe you, you know," James said as he straightened his robes. He looked down at Snape, who was slowly crawling to his feet. The Slytherin was clutching at his cloak, drawing it around his body like a bat. "You're hideous. Why would I ever touch you when I could have any girl in this school? You should feel lucky if someone like me raped you."

Snape didn't say anything. He kept his head down and gathered up his scattered belongings. A sniffle escaped from between that curtain of black hair.

"The thought of touching you was too disgusting for me to even go through with it. Better luck next time, Snivellus. Maybe there's someone out there desperate enough to want to get between your legs."

Snape ran, leaving behind pieces of torn parchment. James watched him go and then bent down to pick up his discarded cloak left lying hidden on the floor.

Chapter 8: Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Lily couldn't help but let her eyes drift toward Severus, searching for some lingering flicker of that boy she had loved. There was a viciousness to him now; or, rather, it had always been there, bubbling beneath the surface, but tempered by something. Lily's presence maybe. Isn't that a stupid, girlish thing to believe, she snarled within her own mind. 'The love of a good woman changing a man.' Ha! That's for the movies.

Maybe he hadn't changed. Maybe she had.

The world had once seemed so complicated and confusing, only making sense when she was with Sev. Without him, she had felt like a square peg in a round hole. But now that he was gone she felt her corners sanded off to allow her to slide neatly into place, and she wasn't sure if she liked it.

Lily coated her pale lashes in mascara and straightened her hair. She adjusted her skirt, making sure the pleats were neat and even. "A Potions mastery?" Marlene parroted back when Lily told her what her plans were after graduation. Marlene's nose wrinkled at the thought. "Do you really want to come home smelling like fumes and animal guts? I can't imagine a worse turnoff for any man. You're really good at Charms, you should do something with that."

And so Lily had gone to Slughorn, thanked him for the recommendation, but informed him that she would be pursuing a field in enchantment. "What a shame," Professor Slughorn had sighed. "I had rather hoped you would take over for me when I retired."

She would sometimes spot Severus tramping out of the Forbidden Forest, his hair unwashed and covered in leaves, his cloak filled with mushrooms, boots muddy and untied. She thought, he needs to grow up. We're not little kids anymore. Doesn't he know the things people say about him? Lily opened her compact, checked her lipstick, and tried not to think back at how it used to be. Barefoot, jeans rolled up without a care for her unshaven legs, splashing in the muddy waters outside co*keworth.

Snape. He was Snape now. Only Mulciber and Avery ever called him Severus. Severus or Mudblood, and it made her sick to her stomach to see him roll his eyes good-naturedly at their words.

"He's an idiot if he thinks he'll somehow be different. No matter how much he sucks up to them, he'll always be just another half-blood," Lily growled into her butterbeer, wishing her birthday would hurry up so she could order something a little stronger. Her birthday was January 30. Sev's was January 9.

"Mmm," Remus hummed, knowing that Lily wasn't looking for a response, only a warm body to rant at.

Remus was the only person she could talk to about Sev. Snape. He was oddly tolerant of the subject, compared to everyone else in her life. It was a shame Remus didn't have a girlfriend. He was kind of cute, even with all the scars. Maybe because of the scars. Sev had scars too. Girls would probably flock to him if Remus didn't dress so shabbily. Lily liked shabby. It made him seem… eccentric. Like he had too much on his mind to bother with how he looked. Unlike Potter, whose carefully messy hair reeked of artifice.

"Hey," Lily said, catching his attention.

They were tucked into a booth, sitting side by side at the Three Broomsticks, waiting for their friends. Remus looked up, a quizzical expression marring his yellow-tinted gaze. Lily leaned forward and closed her eyes. Her lips had only just brushed against him when Remus jerked back, looking frantically all around him.

"Don't do that," he scolded. "We can't do that."

Lily narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean can't?" Why was everyone always telling her what she could and could not do?

"You're Jamie's girl."

Lily let out a laugh, but it sounded more like an explosion of hot air, sharp and disdainful. "I am not Potter's girl."

"He's been in love with you since fourth year. I can't date you. It would break his heart."

"And what about my heart?" Lily demanded. "Doesn't anyone care about how I feel?"

Remus looked away and kept his hands to himself.

"Come on, give James a chance," Marlene cajoled a few days later. "It's our last year. What have you got to lose?" And then, a little lower, she said, "Do you know what people are saying about you?"

"She's a bit cold-hearted, isn't she?" The whispers followed her through the halls. "The way she strings along James Potter like that. Would it kill her to go on one date with him?"

"Maybe she's frigid."

"Or she's one of those Muggleborns that hates anything Muggle. She was friends with Snape after all. Ha, ever wonder if they've f*cked? Maybe she likes dirty, Death Eater co*ck."

"Nah, Snape would have chopped her up into bits if he ever got her naked, just like poor Hayes…"

Fine. She would go on one date with Potter, if only to shut everyone up. Maybe she was a coward. Maybe she didn't belong in Gryffindor after all, but the thought of everyone gossiping about her sent her mind spiraling. She didn't know how Sev dealt with it all these years, how he could keep showing up to class day after day, pretending not to hear the things they said about him.

One date turned into two, and three and four, and suddenly, before Lily quite knew how it happened, she was engaged. It was easy, floating along through life. Why did she ever try to resist? James was happy. Her parents were happy. They had never liked Sev.

Henry and Rose Evans were dazzled by James's wealth, handsome looks, and good-natured personality. They were stolid, middle-class people with delusions of upward mobility, and James was like a gift from heaven that had landed squarely in their laps. Lily was starting to feel a little like a blue-ribbon pig at a country fair. She pulled out her compact and checked her lipstick, and beside her on the couch, Petunia did the same. Her sister had an angry, mulish expression on her face that she tried to hide beneath a veneer of boredom.

"It will have to be a small wedding," Lily's father said delicately. "My finances aren't what they used to be since the mill closed."

If her family was hurting for money, Lily could only imagine how it must be for the Snapes. Was Sev alright? Was he eating enough? She hadn't seen him since graduation.

"Don't worry, my family will pay for everything," James assured him. "It's my idea that girls shouldn't have fortunes. At any rate, men should never look for money in a girl. A man is more likely to be comfortable and affectionate when the money belongs to himself." He turned to smile at Lily, as if she was supposed to find this comment romantic, or maybe he thought it would reassure her. His way of saying he didn't care if she was rich or poor. Instead, it made her skin crawl.

Too late to turn back now, she thought. You've made your bed and now you must lie in it. Just think of the embarrassment if you broke off the engagement. People would talk.

Henry Evans grew to like his son-in-law more and more. By Lily's own admission, James had done very well for himself at school, earning the top spot in Transubstantiation or whatever the subject was called. And he was popular, not a bookworm, or a dry philosopher, or a prig. He could talk on all subjects, was very generous, a man sure to be honored and respected; and then such a handsome, manly fellow with messy black hair, a nose divinely chiseled, and six feet high. He liked him better than Tuney's beau, and that Snape boy wasn't even worth mentioning. Only, as Rose was the first to find out, he liked to have his own way.

"But his way is such a good way," said Henry.

"But Lily likes her way too," Rose answered.

Henry argued the matter no further, but thought that such a husband as James Potter was entitled to have his own way. Yes, he could concede that as a young girl Lily had been headstrong, but she had blossomed these past few years into a real lady.

The wedding took place in July. It was called the "Wedding of the Century" by The Daily Prophet. Only Regulus Black's upcoming wedding next year to his cousin Narcissa was more highly anticipated. Lily's dress alone had cost more than what her father had paid for their house. Petunia had been her maid of honor, but she had ruined every picture she was in with her sour, unpleasant scowl. When Lily flipped through the album, she saw the image of her sister make a rude gesture with her finger, before running off to hide in another photograph.

They went on a long honeymoon, passing a winter and a spring in Paris. To Lily's great embarrassment, Euphemia had gifted her some lingerie right before they had boarded their ship. "There are a few potions, you know," she had whispered to her, glancing around at the waiting crowd. "To ensure you conceive a son. They're not… strictly legal, but Fleamont is a Potions Master. He can get it for you. James… James is the last of us. Our line cannot die with him." And she had stared at Lily as if her womb could save the world. She had felt sub-human as she linked arms with James.

Their first night at the hotel had been… awkward, to say the least. Lily had worn the lingerie Euphemia had gifted her – a sheer blue teddy that left nothing to the imagination – and couldn't help but think of the old woman as she sat in the middle of the bed, waiting for James to come out of the bathroom. Maybe this teddy is a family heirloom. Maybe Euphemia wore it when she conceived James, Lily thought and burst into laughter at the image of Euphemia as she was now, sixty-five years old, breasts resting against her stomach, as Fleamont plowed into her, his dentures in a glass beside the bed.

James came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, his eyebrow raising upward. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Lily said as she leaned back, putting everything on display. "Want to fool around?"

"Oh, I'm planning to do more than just that," James assured her and disrobed.

He was tall and well-built, his skin tanned and there was a dusting of black hair everywhere. Not exactly her type. She liked boys that were long and willowy, perhaps a little feminine, but she would make do. She could learn to like all that hair.

James climbed on top of the bed, settling between her legs. They kissed. It was soft and sweet and… not boring, Lily would never say boring, but… she wondered if maybe James was tired. It had been a long day after all. She wouldn't blame him if he was tired.

He wrapped his fingers in her hair, only to pull back quickly, as if he didn't like the texture. She could feel him frown against her lips. He pulled back just enough to run his eyes over her face, taking in her red hair, her button nose, her green eyes. "Nox," he whispered, plunging the room into darkness.

James and Lily strolled through the Académie des Arts Magiques, taking in this year's submissions. The painted trees shivered in windy, desolate landscapes. The portraits all chatted to another, and had to be scolded back into their proper places by a member of staff. There was a Japanese print of Yuki-Onna who shook the snow off of her umbrella.

She caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, and as she turned to look she felt her heart stop. It was a painting of a male nude in recline. He had thrown his arms over his face so that only his black hair could be seen. He was twisting on the sofa, curling his long legs against one another, his co*ck soft between his thighs. Her first thought was, Sev. But that was a stupid thought. Of course the model wasn't Sev. Lily might have been able to tear her gaze away from the painting, to push it completely from her mind, if James hadn't whispered, "Snape."

He stood frozen beside her, staring just as intently at the painting. There was a dark, angry expression overtaking his face. Then he glanced down at her and seemed to shake himself free of whatever black thoughts had seized control. He plastered on a smile and said, "I'm not really an art guy. Want to get a bite to eat at that cafe we passed?"

Lily agreed. They left the art gallery and crossed the street. They drank their coffee and ate their pastries and chatted about the weather. Lovely day, isn't it? It's been unseasonably warm this winter. A shame, I would have liked to see Paris covered in snow. And then they fell silent.

Lily picked at her pastry and stole glances at James, who kept looking at the waiter. Their waiter was tall and thin and had black hair reaching down to his shoulders. "I'm tired," Lily announced. "I think I'll head back to the hotel for a lie down."

James nodded. "I'll be along shortly. I want to take a walk."

James didn't come back until after midnight. Lily pretended to still be asleep as she opened her eyes just wide enough to peek at him as he stumbled through the dark room. She watched him shuck off his Muggle shirt and trousers, but he did not place them with the rest of the dirty laundry. "Scourgify," he whispered, and then again, "Scourgify." His clothes must not have been cleaned to his satisfaction, because he grabbed some towels from the bathroom, wrapped his shirt and trousers up in them, and stuffed them down into the bottom of the trash bin, covering it all up with pieces of hotel stationary he took from the desk. Now almost completely nude, he went back into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the light. A few seconds later she heard water running.

A part of her, the Lily that had been Sev's, wanted to get up and rummage through the trash, to find out exactly what it was this arrogant toerag was trying to hide. But Sev's Lily stopped existing at the same time Sev himself did, and James's Lily thought it would be too much effort. He probably f*cked that waiter, she thought. His clothes are probably covered in cum. No wonder the sex is so terrible. He's queer.

If she went digging through that bin, her suspicions would be confirmed, and she'd have to divorce him. Her pride wouldn't allow her to accept anything less. But if she stayed where she was, she could go on floating and life would be easy.

Chapter 9: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Chapter Text

My family was never so rich as the Blacks and Potters, but we lived a comfortable life, our modest fortune built on trade. There were certain expectations of me. I was supposed to join my father and brothers in the family business, but when I told my parents I wanted to be an artist my father became so enraged that he said, "If you want to live the life of an artist, then you can starve like one," and promptly kicked me out of the family home.

With nowhere else to go, I found myself renting a garret room in Knockturn Alley. Knockturn Alley consists of several little cobblestone streets filled to bursting with narrow, crooked buildings held together with magic and a prayer. Their facades have turned black from centuries of chimney smoke and they are crowded so close together that only a sliver of the grey sky could be seen. From my garret window I can see a small, overgrown cemetery where last century's whor*s and pickpockets were tossed in all together. An old hagwitch is moving between the tombstones, harvesting the wild yarrow that grows there. There is a tavern in the building directly across from me where music can be heard at all hours of the night, and on both sides of the street hawkers cry out their wares. Two ragged-looking children are playing in the street while an old woman – a woman with a bit of goblin blood in her if I'm not mistaken – keeps an eye on the pair while she darns a sock from her spot on the stoop.

Despite the fact that I have been reduced to buttered bread and potatoes, I like this neighborhood. It is so full of life, and in the distance, through the cloudy haze of smoke, I can see the dome that sits atop of Gringott's and, a little further, the Ministry. One of these days, when I have enough money, I'm going to paint this street and all the people in it.

Every year the Académie des Arts Magiques hosts an exhibition and I am determined to earn a spot. My submission from last year had been rejected. I had put so much effort into it, nearly flunking all my NEWTs in order to complete it in time, and I had felt crushed when the Académie turned me down. But not this year. I am going to succeed. I already have the subject in my mind – a nude, male, a simple background – the only thing I lack is a model.

So I put an advertisem*nt in the paper, feeling extremely silly about the whole thing. Right there, next to a grinning witch with wind-blown hair and holding a bottle of Sleekeazy's, are the words: WANTED! ARTIST'S MODEL. MALE. PREFERABLY TALL AND DARK HAIRED. MUST BE COMFORTABLE POSING UNDRESSED. WILL PAY. It embarrasses me to read it, and I was the one who wrote the damned thing. It makes me sound like a p*rnographer. There isa p*rnographer who lives two flights down from me, a husband-and-wife team who take moving photographs of naked women in funny poses. I went down to call on them once and found the man's wife riding atop a housecat that had been transfigured into a tiger, her bare breasts bouncing with each leap. "You know, like in that story, The Lady or the Tiger," the husband said to me with a grin. "Pretty clever, eh?"

"I don't think I've ever read that story," I told him faintly.

It has been almost a week since I put in the advertisem*nt and I have yet to receive any callers. I had positioned the sofa where I wanted it, hung up drapes, my canvas was primed. I have everything but my model. I suppose I could try my luck on the street; there are a few male prostitutes that come out at night, or else look in at the brothel on the corner, but the thought of actually asking someone to take off their clothes so I could paint them to their face makes me want to curl up and die.

I had almost given up on the whole endeavor and resigned myself to painting another landscape when a knock comes at my door. When I open it I can feel my heart stop.

Severus Snape stares defiantly down at me.

"Oh, it's you," he says, apropos of nothing. "You were in Ravenclaw, right?"

"Y-yes," I stutter.

"From your advertisem*nt, I thought you might be a kidnapper trying to lure vulnerable men to some secluded spot in Knockturn."

"And you came anyway?" I ask, before my brain fully catches up with what he just said. "Wait, are you here for the modeling gig?"

A faint blush spreads across his cheeks and his face grows stony. "You weren't specific," he says, his voice defensive. "All you asked for was a tall man with dark hair. Well, here I am. Take me on, or don't. I don't care which."

I realize that he expects to be thrown out on sight. "You're perfect," I blurt out, and his blush deepens. He looks at me like I'm crazy, but he doesn't protest, merely steps inside my little garret room. It hasn't been that long since I last saw him, at our graduation, but there is a marked difference between then and now. Free from our old school robes, he looks so much more grown up.

"How much is the pay?" He asks me.

"A galleon an hour," I answer as I watch him make a slow circle of my 'studio.' His eyes rake over the sofa, the drapes, the blank canvas, but always drifting back to the sofa. He is chewing on his lower lip, deliberating. I can tell he needs the money.

"These are your paints here? Are they magical? What is the process?" He asks as he stops in front of my mixing table.

"It's, well, I guess my paints are classified as potions. You mix them up with magical ingredients to give them that spark of life. You can buy them already made, of course, but the really dedicated artists all have their own formulas. I like to add ground moonstone to mine. Take a look at this landscape here–" I gesture towards one of my rambling forests. "Do you see the way the light filters through the leaves, how it moves? The tiny dust motes that float through it? That's the moonstone."

Snape studies the painting with an air of appreciation, and while he might not be an artist, he is a potioneer.

After a minute he straightens back up, and turns his head to look at the sofa. "This painting…" he says. "Do you… plan to show it to many people?"

"I was going to submit to an exhibition in Paris."

"An exhibition," he huffs out. He is starting to get that wild-eyed quality I remembered from school. He keeps looking between the sofa and the door, but he must have come to a decision because he announces, "I don't want my face shown."

"But your face is so lovely–" I start, only for Snape to shut me down with a glare.

"Either you obscure my face or I walk out of here right now."

There is no way I was going to miss out on this chance. "I promise, no one will be able to see your face."

He nods. He is chewing on his lower lip again. "Do we… do we start now, or–?"

"The light is good, unless you've got prior engagements–?"

"No, no, now is fine."

"Alright, once you're undressed you can set your clothes on that chair."

Snape's face is cherry red and I move over to fiddle with my paints to give him some privacy. I don't look up until I hear the sofa's metal springs creak as Snape sits down.

Snape sits at the edge of the sofa, hands in his lap and his knees pressed together. That long, black hair of his hangs down around his shoulders in waves. He shudders when our eyes lock. "How do you want me?" He asks.

I swallow thickly and have to take a moment to clear my throat before answering, "On your back. Part your legs slightly. That's right. Okay, now bring up the left leg, bend it, good. As for your face… throw your arms up, like you're shielding your eyes from a burst of light. Bring the right arm down a little more. Perfect. Oh, just a moment–" I step up to the sofa. Snape's body tenses as the sounds of my footsteps grow nearer. I run my fingers through his hair, brushing it over the pillow so that when the light catches the strands they shine. "There. Stay just like that. Don't move."

I go back to my canvas and throw myself into my work, starting with a rough pencil outline. Snape's body, something that had long been an object of fascination for me, becomes lost in the lines. It transforms into a mosaic of colours: whites and yellows and inky blacks bleeding into the blue velvet of the sofa. I become so absorbed that I jump when Snape suddenly says, "I don't know why I'm so nervous, it's not like this isn't anything you've seen before."

"I'm sorry?" I squeak out.

Snape moves his arm to peek at me, "You were there, weren't you? When Potter stripped me at the lake?"

I had heard about that. Everyone had heard about that, though the teachers pretended to be ignorant of the whole thing. I shake my head. "No. I think I was studying. I knew I had failed my Charms OWL and I couldn't afford another bad grade. Put your arm back."

Snape does as I command, but I don't know if it was nervousness or genuine curiosity that prompted the next statement. "What are you doing slumming it in Knockturn?"

"I could ask you the same question. I figured you'd be going for a mastery and have a grant from the Ministry already under your belt."

"A mastery requires either money or connections, of which I have neither," Snape drawls out.

"Slughorn didn't set you up?"

"Slughorn thought I was mad. He probably imagined me creating some sort of Frankenstein's monster if I had full access to a laboratory."

"Who is Frankenstein?" I ask. "Is he a magizoologist?"

I can see a smile hiding between his arms. "Something like that. Now, answer the question."

"My parents have cut me off."

"And you decided to do this instead of getting a real job?"

"I have to do this. I can't do anything else. It's the same with you." He snorts, and I press on, "I saw the way you looked in Potions. You can't stop brewing anymore than I could stop painting."

Snape is quiet for a moment. "Watch me often, did you?"

I am glad he can't see my face. "I liked to draw you."

"Why?" I can hear the disgust in his voice.

"Nobody else looks like you. You're... fascinating."

Snape barks out a laugh. "No accounting for taste then."

"Snape, I am an artist. I have a highly developed palate," I say.

"Merlin, I'm lying here naked. You can call me Severus."

Severus leans over my shoulder and studies the finished portrait. "That's not me," he insists.

"It is!"

"You made me look nicer than I do in real life."

"I painted you exactly as you are."

"I do own a mirror, you know."

"Mirrors lie. Everybody knows that. Just the other day my mirror told me I'd never amount to anything and now I have a painting that will hang in the Académie des Arts Magiques!"

"It hasn't been accepted yet," Severus cautions.

"It will," I say, and I was right.

My painting received good press, and commissions started to roll in. I am still living in my little garret room, and working on a family portrait for the young Mr and Mrs Potter when Lucius Malfoy knocks on my door. I assume he has come to make arrangements for a sitting, like James Potter had done a week before. Potter had come in, swept his eyes over the sofa that was now tucked into a corner, and made pleasant small talk. He mentioned he had seen my painting while honeymooning in Paris and loved it. "Who modeled for it?" He asked.

"Oh, one of the locals here in Knockturn," I answered. I knew Severus would not want me telling anyone, much less James Potter, that he was the one who sat for that painting.

Potter gave me a rather severe look. "A whor*?"

"No," I answered and quickly changed the subject. "How can I help you?"

My family never had much to do with the Malfoys, though not for a lack of trying on my father's part, but the Malfoys have no use for what they term as 'tradespeople,' pureblood or not. "I've come to inquire about a painting you did, a nude," Malfoy says.

"Oh, are you looking to purchase it?"

"I'm merely acting as an agent. My associate wants the piece for his own collection, and if you would be so kind as to provide the name of your model…?"

I give him the same false, apologetic smile I had given Potter. "I'm sorry, but the model wishes to remain private."

I hear a footstep cross my threshold, the tread so soft I almost miss it. My door opens and I turn my head to see a shadow pouring into the room. There is a white, grinning face half-obscured by a cloak and peeking out between the black folds are a pair of red, slitted eyes.

"I'm sure he won't mind," the man says in a hoarse, snake-like voice.

Chapter 10: Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Severus stepped off the Hogwarts Express for the last time with his shrunken trunk tucked into a satchel, and a slip of paper Avery had given him. Scrawled across it was an address. Severus had no intention of ever returning to co*keworth; let it burn to the ground for all he cared. He was free. Free of his father, of Hogwarts, of James Potter.

Even now, he could still feel the prickle of hands and eyes, and he was never too sure if it was Potter or his own paranoia. He could see Potter on the platform with Lily and his friends, a little ways down from where he stood. Severus couldn't even muster the energy to feel that familiar sting of jealousy; he could only feel relief, because if he could see Potter then he wouldn't, he didn't–

Severus hurried through the barrier, the slip of paper clutched tight in his hand.

The address led him to a boarding house in Knockturn. "You should talk to Herman. He lives there. He's a friend," Avery said. "He'll set you up with a job."

The boarding house was in fairly decent condition compared to the derelict shacks that squatted on either side of it. It was run by an old hag. "Rent's to be paid in full and on time," she said as she led him upstairs to a small room with an iron bedstead, a wash tub, and a coal-burning stove. "Or I'll eat your liver. Toilet's in the closet down the hall. You'll be sharing with everyone on this floor, so mind you don't take too long. Laundry and supper is included. Pump for water is out back if you can't summon your own."

She left him standing there. "What a dump," he said and tossed his cheap, imitation leather satchel on the bed.

He met Herman later that day on the stairwell. He was a thick-jawed, thick-armed half-blood; never even sat for his NEWTs, he'd dropped out of Hogwarts in his sixth year. "What sort of work can you do?" He'd asked.

"Anything," Severus answered. "I'll do anything so long as it pays well."

"There's a butcher here in Knockturn looking for someone who knows how to keep their trap shut."

"I am the very soul of discretion."

Severus found himself delivering wrapped cuts of meat too illegal to risk sending by owl – hippogriff, dragon, and he was fairly certain some of it came from sentient beings, possibly even human – for 12 sickles an hour. In the evenings he went to the pub with Herman and the rowdy group of wizards and witches he ran with, nursed his single beer, and listened to politics. They were, after all, friends.

"Have you ever actually met him?" Severus quietly asked one evening at their usual table as he flipped through The Daily Prophet.

"Of course not," Herman scoffed. "Only a select few ever get to meet him. I get my orders through Avery, same as you."

"You've gotten orders?" Severus asked. "Avery hasn't told me anything since he installed me here."

"He'll let you know what he wants from you. Just be patient."

"What sort of things does he have you doing?"

Herman, who was well on his way to being drunk, grinned a little goofily and glanced around, making sure no one was listening in. "Sometimes, people need a little… incentivizing. Nosy reporters, loud-mouthed mudbloods– I listen, I report, and sometimes I do a little roughing up."

Roughing up. Severus couldn't help but think back to Alison Hayes. "You ever kill anyone?"

"Of course not. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the paper. We're a political party, that's it."

"Who do you think is doing all the killings then?"

"Think about it, Severus," Herman said, leaning in close enough that Severus could smell the whiskey on his breath. "This 'Dark Mark' that shows up every time there's a murder? Who came up with that? I've certainly never seen it before the papers started plastering it across the front page."

"What? You think it's a conspiracy?"

"What else could it be? The Ministry wants to discredit us. The Muggle Prime Minister is using Muggleborns to infiltrate our world, and he is the only one willing to stand up against it. They want to make us look like terrorists and they invented this 'Dark Mark' as our calling card. As if we'd be stupid enough to sign our names to a murder." Herman, through the haze of drink, eyed him warily. "What's with all the questions anyway? You thinking about leaving?"

Severus sighed and downed the rest of his drink. "I don't know what I'm doing here," he admitted. "This isn't how I thought it'd be. All my life I've been used and stepped on and tossed aside, and I'm sick and tired of it. I want to be something worthwhile." He wanted Potter to look at him and regret every terrible thing he had ever done to him. He wanted to be rich and powerful enough that no one would ever touch him again.

Herman clapped his shoulder. "You just need to give it time. Everything will be different once he's in charge."

Severus gave Herman a nod, and that seemed to placate him. He turned back to the paper, idly flipping through the want ads. He needed to make more money. What little the butcher gave him was barely enough for rent and food, he was saving next to nothing for his mastery.

He spotted a short advertisem*nt: WANTED! ARTIST'S MODEL. MALE. PREFERABLY TALL AND DARK HAIRED. MUST BE COMFORTABLE POSING UNDRESSED. Included was an address to some Knockturn hovel. Ha, if Severus went there he might just end up as one of the cuts of meat the butcher had him running all over the UK to deliver. He wasn't as desperate as that.

Which is why he cursed himself to Hell and back when he found himself knocking on the door to a garret flat a week later.

Once the painting was finished, Severus made sure to bury the memory deep within his brain. He had gotten his money, that's all he cared about. So what if complete strangers would gawk over his body? So what if they would make little comments to themselves, and whisper at his ugliness? It didn't matter. They didn't know it was him. He'll survive it. He just won't let himself think about it.

Severus wrapped his robes around his body as he trudged home after another long day of work, the collar coming all the way up to his neck despite the wet heat steaming up from the cobblestones. This damnable summer was going to be the death of him.

He entered the boarding house and went upstairs to his room where he found two letters waiting for him. One was written on cheap parchment, the kind one might find here in Knockturn, and the other… Severus felt his brow arch as he took hold of the heavy envelop, sealed with wax and stamped with the Malfoy family crest. He forgot all about the other letter, riveted as he was to the elegant scrawl in front of him.

Dear Mr Snape,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am not sure if you remember me, but you and I were in Slytherin together. I was Head Boy during your third year. Avery has spoken of you, and we have a mutual friend who is interested in meeting you. Would you be amenable to attending a small party here at my estate this evening at seven o'clock? I have enclosed a portkey if you decide to come.

Sincerely,

Lucius Malfoy

Severus tore from his room, bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, and threw himself into Herman's room, barely waiting for his answering, "Come in!" to the rapid pounding against his door that had left Severus's knuckles smarting.

"I need to borrow some money," he announced without so much as a by-your-leave.

"What for?" Herman demanded, but Severus was already shoving the invitation under his nose.

"I need shoes, mine have holes in them, and robes that aren't a decade old–" Severus started babbling, tripping over his own words at the thought of meeting him.

"You should probably buy a hairbrush too."

"Oh, shut your stupid face! Are you going to help me or not?"

"I wish I could," Herman said, and he sounded genuinely apologetic as he handed him back the letter. "All I've got is a handful of knuts. Hey, hey–" he interrupted as swears started to roll off his tongue. "If this 'mutual friend' is who I think it is, he won't care. He's above all that stuff. This is your chance. Don't let doubt stand in your way."

Severus nodded, though his brow was still furrowed. He went back to his room and spent the next two hours pacing, stopping occasionally to pause in front of the looking-glass and run his fingers through his hair, though each time he stopped his reflection snapped back some foul comment that sounded suspiciously like the ones Potter had used.

"Disgusting."

"Freak."

"You're hideous. You should just kill yourself."

When the clock struck seven, Severus was glad. He couldn't stand the waiting. He took hold of the portkey – a silver button – and let it transport him to a sprawling country estate populated with roaming clans of pure white peaco*cks.

The house itself was massive, some sort of stone monstrosity from the Georgian era though its bones were much, much older. Severus nervously walked up the drive to the large, double oak doors. He had barely brushed it with knuckles when it swung open and a house-elf wearing a pillowcase ushered him inside with a bow.

"My master is expecting you," he said. "Wait here, sir." And he popped away.

Within minutes, Malfoy was there, sweeping into the vestibule with an air of grace that Severus envied.

"Mr Snape," he said, his grey eyes raking over his shabby appearance, bringing a blush to Severus's face. "I'm pleased to see that you've made it." He looked him over again and Severus seemed to think there was something like disappointment in his gaze. "I do apologize for this awkward situation, but there is a dress code for this evening. I should have specified that in my invitation, but not to worry. I have several alternative dress robes that you may borrow."

"It's quite alright–" Severus started to say as he took a step back towards the door, but Malfoy quickly wrapped an arm around his shoulder and guided him – forcefully – up the stairs.

"Nonsense. We'll have you cleaned up in no time at all. Here is the bath." He pulled Severus into a large room made of marble with a sunken tub in the middle.

"I have bathed today," Severus quietly seethed.

"Of course you have," Malfoy said, rather condescendingly. "But you haven't lived until you've tried the baths at Malfoy Manor." He waved his hand and the tub began to fill. Blood red rose petals floated up to the surface. Malfoy gave Severus a forceful shove inside. "Take your time."

Severus was rather bewildered by this bizarre treatment. He had never spent much time with fancy folk, but he was fairly certain this was not the typical way they treated dinner guests. Malfoy, his wand waving like mad, scrubbed and primped within an inch of Severus's life, and by the time he managed to escape the confines of the ensuite his hair was shiny and fluffy and his skin was raw and pink.

"Well, look at you," Malfoy said as he looked him over. "I think our mutual friend will be very pleased. Stop fiddling with your robes."

The collar on his borrowed robes was left open; Severus kept it closed with a firm grip on the fabric. "It's been nearly an hour. We're late. Was all of this really necessary?"

"Of course, you want to make a good impression for our Lord, don't you?"

"I hardly think he'll care what I look like."

Malfoy smiled, but said nothing, merely guiding him forward into a grand dining room where over a dozen people had gathered. Malfoy sat him between Bellatrix Lestrange and, to his relief, Regulus Black. He remembered Regulus from school and they had always been on friendly terms.

"Severus, it's good to see you again," Regulus said as Severus settled into his seat. Almost at once, oysters still in the shell appeared on his plate. It reminded him of Hogwarts. Severus glanced around at all the different forks and spoons, wondering which one he should use.

Regulus took pity on him and whispered, "This course consists of hors d'oeuvres. You eat it with your hands." And then he demonstrated this by taking one of the oysters and slurping the gray, wiggling mass down his throat.

"These are European flat oysters," Malfoy said from his spot at the head of the table. The other end was left empty. "They take five years to mature. You won't find any American breeds at my table!"

Severus picked one up, feeling very silly using his fingers in such a fine place as this, and copied Regulus. The lumpy mass squeezed down his throat, and he coughed, his stomach twisting at the slimy feeling coating his throat.

"How's it taste, Snape?" Someone called out, and the table erupted in laughter.

"Don't tease him!" Narcissa Black scolded from her spot between her fiancée, Regulus, and Malfoy. She leaned over to smile at Severus. "I, for one, am glad we've finally got some new blood in here. These parties were starting to get a little boring."

"So long as the blood isn't too new," Bellatrix commented with a grin.

The dinner continued pleasantly, with Severus chatting mostly to Regulus and Narcissa, and dutifully answering any questions Malfoy put to him. The chair at the other end of the table remained empty.

Malfoy listened carefully as Severus explained that he was saving up to apply to a mastery program. "Well, you shall have it, of course," Malfoy said, waving away Severus's problems with a flick of his hand. "If money is the issue, I can help."

"I couldn't possibly–"

"Nonsense," Malfoy cut him off. "Think of it as an investment if it bothers you. The Dark Lord wants you to succeed." He hummed a little himself, caught up in whatever plots he was scheming. "We'll need to set you up somewhere nicer. A pair of rooms in Diagon, or even Muggle London would be better than that flophouse you're staying in."

"I don't need all that–" Severus could feel himself grow red in the face.

"Of course you do. You can't expect to receive visitors where you're staying now, do you?"

"What visitors?" Severus bitterly asked. The people around him shot each other little smiles, as if they were all in on some private joke.

"Snape, can you step outside with me for a moment?" Bellatrix asked. "There are some things I want to discuss with you. About your future."

Severus's gaze drifted past her to look at her husband, Rodolphus. There was a noticeable dip in the flesh surrounding his jaw where Bellatrix had taken a bite out of him. Rodolphus smirked and lifted his glass of wine in his direction.

Oh, they're going to kill me, Severus numbly thought as he followed Bellatrix out of the dining hall and out onto the veranda. The moon was half-full; it was chilly, despite it being early summer. Such a change of pace from London. He could even see the stars out here.

"What do you know of the Dark Lord? What have you heard about him?" Bellatrix asked as she pulled out a cigarette from a gold case. She offered him one.

Severus took it, lighting it without the use of a wand. "Nothing at all, except what I read in the papers. Avery hardly ever tells me anything."

Bellatrix snorted, blowing out a puff of smoke. "The papers, filthy rags. Don't they realize they're maligning a god?"

Severus stayed silent. What did she mean by a god? Nothing, she's crazy, and if you're not careful you'll end up just like her, he thought. They even looked alike. Black hair, black eyes, pale and tall and haughty.

"He's immortal, you know," she said, casually, as if she was discussing the weather.

"Is he?" Severus carefully asked. Bellatrix smirked.

"You don't believe me. You'll see. You can feel his power. I've never felt anything like it." She pierced him with a stare. "He's not like other men. His appetites are greater. We must make allowances."

"Of course," Severus said, without understanding.

Bellatrix smiled, pleased, and put out her cigarette. She wrapped her arm around him. "I think you and I are going to become fast friends," she said. "Let's go back inside. He's here."

"How can you tell?"

Bellatrix didn't answer. They passed through the now empty dining room, to a small staircase that led down into the kitchens where Severus spotted a pair of house-elves cowering over a stack of dirty dishes. They went down another flight of stairs, into a wine cellar. There was a heavy, re-inforced door nestled between rows and rows of bottles. Muffled noises could be heard from the other side.

Severus felt his heart start to race as Bellatrix opened the door. There were voices. A dozen of them. Chanting. Up ahead he could see the flicker of candlelight. He followed Bellatrix into the dark room and as she walked she unclasped the buttons running down the front of her red dress.

"Mrs Lestrange," he started to say, very respectfully, but her dress fell into a heap at her feet. She was completely bare.

She was a well-formed woman, though not what Severus would call voluptuous. Her hips were narrow and her breasts small, but pert. His eyes were pulled away from her chest to a tattoo on the inside of her left arm. It was a skull with a snake emerging from its gaping maw. The Dark Mark.

Bellatrix reached down and grabbed her dress, handing it off to him. "Just watch for now. I'll show you what to do."

She walked into the candlelight, and as Severus's eyes adjusted, he could see Malfoy and Narcissa and Regulus, and all the rest of them kneeling on the floor in a circle, their foreheads pressed against the stone. In the middle there stood… not a man, but some otherworldly creature, naked and radiating power. The magic was pulsing. Anything might happen. They might all start to fly.

The white, red-eyed fey-creature smiled at Severus as he held out his hand for Bellatrix to take. Bellatrix joined him in the circle of prostate bodies and tilted her head for a kiss, which the man obliged, though he kept his eyes open, staring at Severus.

Don't you wish you could take her place? A voice, one unknown to him, whispered in his mind. It wasn't Potter, or even his own black thoughts, but an echo reverberating though his brain. I can give you everything you've always wanted. Money. Power. All I want in return… is you.

Chapter 11: Chapter 8

Chapter Text

James had read a bit of Shakespeare. He was, according to his father, 'the only Muggle author worth studying.' He cast another cleansing charm on his waistcoat, and when that didn't work he plunged it into the bathroom sink, grabbed a bar of soap, and started to scrub.

Out, out, damned spot!

The blood had somehow gotten into his suitcase and contaminated everything inside. Or else he was just crazy, and there was no blood, only his guilty conscience manifesting the stains. I didn't mean for it to happen, James thought. Snape did this to me.

He shouldn't have gone back to the restaurant. He shouldn't have hung around until after the waiter got off work. He shouldn't have followed him into that alley. That waiter was just a Muggle; he hadn't deserved any of it. He wasn't Snape. But when James had propositioned him, the man sneered at him and cursed him in French, and it was… it reminded him too much of Snivellus.

James loved Lily. She was perfect. He just needed to get this out of his system. Once he f*cked a man, he would be fine. He could love her like he was supposed to. He just had to find the right man.

With a growl of frustration, James pointed his wand at his waistcoat and muttered, "Incendio." He went to his wardrobe and pulled out a set of robes that were free of the Parisian taint and pulled them on. He was already late. Not that the Ministry would fire him even if they wanted to.

James and Lily had set up house in one of his family's London properties. London was where the action was. It was a seedbed for criminal activity, and the Auror Department knew there were small cells of Death Eaters in Knockturn. It was a very dangerous place to live, especially if one was an Auror. Nearly once a week James found himself in an argument with his mother, begging him to quit.

Lily was already gone when James came downstairs, grabbed a piece of toast from a dutifully waiting house-elf, and apparated to the Ministry. Lily had probably already left for her enchanting class, but James wasn't too sure. They hardly had time to talk these days, and when they did find themselves sitting together in the same room, they were too tired for anything beyond pleasantries.

Shacklebolt was already in the middle of debriefing when James arrived. Shacklebolt leveled him a glare as he slid in next to Sirius, but otherwise said nothing. What could he possibly do? Half the department was empty: either dead, or missing, or turned coward. James glanced around and noted three more missing faces. He would check the memorial later, after the debriefing.

"At 3:34 am last night, the Dark Mark appeared over the Bones residence." At these words, Sirius sank low in his seat. His face was puffy and jaundiced, and he stank of drink. "Upon arriving, it was discovered the entire family had been murdered, including the children. They had been led down into the basem*nt, were tortured, and their throats were cut using an enchanted knife of the same kind used in the Davies murder three months ago, leading us to believe that the person or persons involved are the same."

Bellatrix. The name had circulated throughout the department; whispers, hearsay, but no concrete evidence linking her to the crimes or even to the Death Eaters other than a few public statements openly sympathizing with their cause.

They were each given a folder with the details. James let his eyes linger on the photographs; despite the magic, the bodies didn't move. Corpses didn't move. He looked at the double mouths of Mrs Bones: the rigor scream frozen into place, and the one just below it, across her throat. It was almost beautiful in a way.

Sirius dropped his folder and lurched to his feet, ignoring Shacklebolt's calls as he staggered out of the room. He made it only as far as Samson's desk and promptly threw up in her wastebasket. James hurried after him and placed a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles until Sirius angrily shoved him off.

"I'm fine," he mumbled. He managed to straighten about halfway, his hand braced against Samson's desk.

"You're clearly not."

"f*ck off, Prongs."

"Black–"

Sirius pushed away from the desk, his body swaying as he met Shacklebolt's pitying gaze. "Go home, Black."

Sirius opened his mouth to protest, but Shacklebolt cut him off. "Go. Home," he ordered. "Get some rest."

"f*ck you too," Sirius mumbled and stormed out of the department.

James looked questioningly at his superior. "He was one of the Aurors who arrived on scene," Shacklebolt explained.

James hadn't known that. Padfoot didn't tell him. Why wouldn't he have told him?

"Potter, I want you to head over to Kent, see if you can find–"

"Actually, sir, I think I might have a lead into the Death Eaters," James said. Shacklebolt raised his brows and looked at him expectantly. "You remember I told you about Severus Snape? He's had dealings with an artist in Knockturn. A pureblood. I paid off some transients to keep an eye on his studio. Lucius Malfoy recently visited him. I was hoping to scope the area tonight." James knew from the speculative look in Shacklebolt's eye that he had gotten his way.

The days in Knockturn were dark and grey, and at night it was like a black hole. There were few lampposts here, and James got the sensation that many of the neighborhood's denizens could see just as well in the dark, whether from mixing with non-humans or dabbling in forbidden magics.

He moved stealthily down the cobblestone street, bundled up underneath his invisibility cloak. He could feel his blood pulsing with every beat of his heart. He felt untethered. He had finally, finally gotten Snape's address, only to find out he had moved just a few days ago.

"And no, I don't know where he's gone, but he's not here," the hag that ran the boarding house told him. "So don't you go bothering my tenants."

"What do you want him for anyway?" A big, thick-jawed man asked.

"Just need to ask him a few questions," James said with a strained smile. Half of him wanted to storm upstairs and kick in every door until he found the greasy bastard.

The man let out a disbelieving snort.

"Whats so funny?" James demanded.

"Nothing. Just a friend of mine was picked up by one of yours named Moody. Haven't seen him since. Even went to the Ministry and they say they haven't any record of him. Funny that," the man drawled out.

"We're here to protect you," James said with a vicious smile. "These are dangerous times. Who knows what might happen if we aren't here to keep you safe."

"That a threat?"

"Just an observation. Have a good night. Ma'am." James nodded to the landlady.

As soon as he was outside he found a dark alleyway to hide in and threw his cloak over his head. He had no idea what he was doing. He couldn't bang on every door in Knockturn asking for Snape. James found himself searching for Snivellus in every face he passed, his turbulent emotions were twisting further and further around with every second that ticked by.

He sucked helplessly for a breath when he spotted a tall, lean, black-haired man chatting up another man under the soft glow of a lamppost. He took another step forward, his eyes taking in the sight, ready to spring and wrap his hands around him, pull him close, but... James finally had to concede it wasn't him. This man was too old to be Snape, maybe in his late thirties, and the nose was all wrong. A prostitute most likely.

Money changed hands and the two men walked off together, and James, as if pulled along on an invisible string, followed after the pair. He watched them kiss. They were pressed against the brick wall surrounding an overgrown cemetery. The other man – short, balding, wearing a ragged cloak – reached inside the dark-haired man's trousers. He stroked him once, twice, and then they suddenly ducked through the broken cemetery gate, the tall grasses quivering as they pushed their way through.

James came to a stop at the entrance. He could see their bodies surrounded by dark green foliage and towering wildflowers, illuminated by the sickly yellow lights streaming from neighboring windows. The dark-haired man was on his knees, his mouth wrapped around the other's member. James felt himself harden as he watched the other man dig his fingers in the prostitute's black, inky hair.

It was over far too quickly. The balding man pushed the prostitute down onto his co*ck while the dark-haired man struggled. James watched him pull off, gagging, cum running down his chin. "You f*cking bastard," the dark-haired man growled. His voice was hoarse. "It's extra for that."

"Haven't got any more money."

The prostitute scrambled to his feet, pulling out a chipped wand that looked taped together. The balding man took off at a run, and James had to flatten himself against the brick wall to avoid being run over.

As soon as the balding man was out of sight, the dark-haired prostitute sagged back onto the ground and wiped at his chin. James edged into the cemetery. The leaves beneath his feet crunched with every step.

"Who's there?" The man called out. He stood up. "Lumos." The cemetery was flooded with light. The man peered all around him, but saw nothing until it was too late.

James landed on top of him, his cloak sliding backwards so that it looked as if he was only a head and torso floating in mid-air. James's hard co*ck was trapped in his trousers and he couldn't help but press it into the man's stomach. The man let out a scream that was swiftly silenced when James pulled out his pocket knife and ripped open his throat.

Blood poured from the wound, coating his hands. It felt hot and sticky. The light from his wand was flickering, echoing the rapidly fading light in the man's eyes. He went quicker than the waiter. It was shocking how how much death could changed a human body. Already the muscles in the man's face grew lax and seemed to hang from his bones. He looked even less like Snape than before. Soon, the death pallor would set in as the blood still trapped in his veins pooled at the bottom of his body, patterning his skin with bruises.

James's erection wilted. The man was dead, the light from the wand snuffed out. James stood up. He re-adjusted his cloak, making sure his bloody hands were well hidden and ran.

Chapter 12: Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Lucius could sometimes see the coquet from the painting in the angry, sullen boy that stood hunched in front of him, especially when Snape moved. He had, at some point, developed a slow, liquid stalk that was both menacing and seductive and made all the more intriguing by the fact he seemed unaware of its power. But more often Lucius was reminded of Snape as a little first year, unwashed and knobby-kneed and swearing like a sailor.

"I can't take this," Snape said stiffly and tried to thrust the pouch of gold galleons back into Lucius's hands.

Lucius pushed it back. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course you can. It's as easy as slipping it into your pocket. And you need a cloak and new shoes."

"I'm not a whor*."

"Of course not. No one thinks of you in that way."

"The Dark Lord does," Snape hissed.

Lucius shot a worried glance around him, but the street was thankfully empty. Now that the danger had passed, Lucius felt himself grow angry with this irritating child. "You're no more a whor* than Adonis was, or Hyacinthus, or any other mortal beloved by the gods."

"Adonis and Hyacinthus died," Snape pointed out, which Lucius ignored.

"What do you want then, Snape? Do you want to stay in Knockturn, saving up for your mastery knut by knut, year after year, until you die, used up and grown old before your time?" Snape looked down at his worn shoes. "Well, is it?" Lucius demanded.

"No."

"What he's asking from you is no great thing, and he has promised greater rewards than just money." Lucius dropped his voice, "Bellatrix's magical power has been growing."

Snape's eyes widened slightly. Magical cores grew with children, but upon reaching adulthood that all stopped. However deep their well of power was upon reaching the age of seventeen or eighteen, there it would remain. The fact that Bellatrix's core had started to grow again was only a testament to the Dark Lord's power.

Snape let his eyes drift over Diagon. There it was, so great, so fine when one is not poor. An elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its upholstered depths a wealthy wizard. The coin purse, pressed into Lucius's chest, drew back slightly.

"What will you have if you turn him down?" Asked Lucius. There was no subtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that Snape would have nothing at all of the things Lucius thought worthwhile.

"At least get yourself a nice cloak. The money is a gift. There are no strings attached to it. Why shouldn't you have a nice cloak? We'll get you a set of rooms, and a new pair of shoes. You needn't be afraid."

"Do you think I could get my mastery?" Snape asked.

"Sure," Lucius answered. "I'll help you."

Snape allowed himself to be drawn in by Lucius and together they set off. In Madam Malkin's, they found that shine and rustle of new things that Snape's dark eyes lit up at seeing. Under the influence of Lucius's radiating presence, it all seemed within reach. Snape looked about and picked a black cloak with a gray silk lining. The saleswoman helped him on with it, and, by accident, it fitted perfectly. Lucius smiled when he saw the improvement.

Snape turned before the mirror. Lucius could see a warm glow creep into his pale cheeks.

After Malkin's they went to a shoe store where Snape was fitted for boots. Lucius stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, he commanded, "Wear them."

"Come, I know a place where you can stay," Lucius said, sweeping Snape along.

With the Dark Lord's permission, Lucius had leased a large flat in an upscale Muggle neighborhood in London and furnished it to his liking. He took Snape there now. The outside was made of white marble and a man stood ready to open the wrought-iron door for them. The apartment was located on the fourth floor. Lucius pressed the key into the lock and guided Snape inside. The moment Snape stepped into the parlour, his eyes lit upon the painting hung above the fireplace. His painting. The blood drained from Snape's face and Lucius was fairly certain the boy had stopped breathing as he watched his own nude body writhe on the sofa.

"This is why?" Snape breathed out.

"Hm? What do you mean?"

"I thought…" Snape swallowed. He looked like an animal caught in a cage. "I thought Avery must have told him about me. That I was smart, or powerful, or–" He cut himself off, unwilling to say anymore than that. "I didn't realize he saw that painting, that it was the reason why he asked to see me..."

"You're lovely–" Snape bit off a hysterical laugh. "Severus–" He looked at Lucius at the sound of his own first name. "The Dark Lord wants to see you tomorrow night. In these rooms."

Severus's lips were bloodless, but he nodded. Lucius smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "It'll all turn out alright, you'll see. Life will be so much better. You'll never want for anything again. I'll check in on you again soon, but why not settle in the meantime? I've set up a laboratory for you just through those doors there. Go. Experiment. Have a little fun. Goodbye, I'll see you soon."

Lucius left the boy standing there, wondering idly if he would try to run. No, he decided. Snape is much too smart for that. He traveled through the city, heading north to Grimmauld Place.

He knocked on the door and was surprised to see another house-elf instead of Kreacher's scowling face. "Lucius Malfoy, here to call on Narcissa and Regulus."

He was led through the foyer and into the sitting room. The house was gloomier than ever before. The drapes were all pulled shut and the mirrors were covered in a dark cloth. The gas lamps were turned low and the passages were dark despite it being a cheerful, sunny afternoon. None of the sweltering summer heat managed to penetrate Grimmauld's stone walls. It was as cold as death. This was a house in mourning.

In the sitting room, Lucius found Walburga Black and her niece, Narcissa, each resting in her own chair. Walburga, dressed in heavy black silks and lace, her head covered in a mourning veil, was working on her embroidery, while Narcissa, also dressed head-to-toe in black, had her nose stuck in a book. They both lifted their heads, greeted him warmly, and summoned a house-elf to bring tea.

The Black sisters – Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa – and all been auctioned off at birth. Bellatrix was the only daughter so far to fulfill her marriage contract; Lucius had been engaged to marry Andromeda, but it was broken when she eloped with a mudblood, and Narcissa was first betrothed to her cousin Sirius, Heir Black, and then to his younger brother Regulus when he was disowned. Regulus, being much younger, had to first finish his schooling before the marriage could be fulfilled. They were supposed to have wed this summer, but the wedding had been pushed back after the death of Regulus's father that April.

Lucius took a seat beside Narcissa. "Where is Regulus?" He asked as he sipped at his tea.

Walburga gave an indelicate snort that Narcissa was quick interpret. "He's tending to Kreacher. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but the little thing appears quite ill. Regulus is beside himself."

"He's being ridiculous," Walburga insisted. "It's just a house-elf. It should join its forebears. There would be no greater honor for it than to have its head fixed to the house it was bound to."

The hallways were decorated with the decapitated heads of past house-elfs.

"Regulus is too attached to the thing," Walburga continued, her voice taking on a petulant, childish air. "He spends all his time with it now. What about me? His poor mother?"

"It's just until Kreacher is well again," Narcissa said with a strained smile. Lucius didn't know how she could stand it, shut up in this house, waiting on Walburga hand-and-foot as if she was a house-elf herself.

"Shall we go up and visit him in the sickroom, then?" Lucius suggested and set down his tea.

"Leaving already?" Walburga cried out.

"We'll be back down soon," Lucius assured her and quickly set off up the stairs with Narcissa, his hand hovering above the small of her back but not quite touching, both of them eager to flee Walburga's oppressive presence. What a happy day it must have been for Orion when he was finally free of her.

"He's put Kreacher into his own bed," Narcissa explained as she guided him up to the very top of Grimmauld Place.

"His own bed?" Honestly, that was just excessive.

"You know Regulus," Narcissa simply said.

"Unfortunately," Lucius conceded and let his hand press against her back, his fingers sliding around her waist.

He let go when Narcissa knocked on Regulus's bedroom door. Her cousin beckoned them both inside and Lucius almost missed Kreacher, swaddled as he was in bedsheets, on a too-big bed. Regulus was sitting in a chair next to him, his elbows braced against his knees. There was a full glass of water next to him.

"What's wrong with him exactly?" Lucius demanded.

Regulus flitted his gaze over him before turning back to the house-elf. "I'm not sure," he murmured without looking up.

"I know how fond you are of him, but he is rather old–"

"I'm not letting him die!" Regulus hotly announced.

"I'm not saying you should, just that these things are to be expected. There's no use making a scene over it," Lucius said with a roll of his eyes. "Now, I've just come to inform you two that I've installed Snape in his new flat. I think he'll go through with it, but he's still a bit skittish. If you could go over tomorrow afternoon and check in on him I would appreciate that. Oh!" Lucius lit on an idea. "Bring Bellatrix. She can give him a run-through of what to expect. I do believe that boy is a virgin."

Lucius watched as Regulus turned cherry red. "What's the matter, Reggie? You're acting as if you were a blushing virgin yourself," Lucius laughed, knowing full well that he was.

"I'm just uncomfortable with this whole thing."

"That's the Muggle taint talking. There is nothing immoral about sex magic, and even if it is what does it matter? Whatever the Dark Lord requires from us, we should be happy to give it to him. Sex is a natural thing, it's only because of the influence of Christian Muggleborns that it's been warped and reclassified as something Dark." Not that Lucius believed Dark magic was anything to be shunned either.

"Still…" Regulus shrugged. "What exactly does the Dark Lord need this power for? If he's immortal then why doesn't he just storm the Ministry now and be done with it all? Why play these games with Bella and Snape and–" He cut himself off and looked angrily down at the house-elf wheezing on the bed.

Lucius's gaze grew cool. "You have barely just turned eighteen, and some impetuosity is natural. But you will want to be very, very careful of how you speak of the Dark Lord from now on."

Regulus ducked his head and didn't look up again until Kreacher opened his bleary eyes and croaked out, "Water?"

Regulus was up in an instant, helping the house-elf to sit up and drink. Lucius opened the bedroom door. "Come, let's leave him to it."

"I hope your cousin has enough common sense not to say anything of that sort where other people can hear," Lucius said as they went down the stairs. He could hear the soft clicking of Narcissa's heels behind him. "That damned fool will get himself killed–"

Two small hands suddenly grabbed his waist and pulled him from the stairs, forcing him through an open door into a room Lucius vaguely recognized as the library. He was spun around, and Narcissa pressed herself against his chest, pulling at his hair to yank his head down far enough for her to kiss. "Lucius," she breathed against his lips. "Shut your pretty mouth and lift your robes."

Lucius had a retort resting on the tip of his tongue, thought better of it, and let Narcissa tumble him onto a Chesterfield sofa.

Chapter 13: A Portrait of the Artist as a Coward

Chapter Text

I don't tell You-Know-Who anything. I don't have to tell him.

I can feel him digging around through my brain, picking up each memory and examining it like a customer at a shop. He lingers over the ones that feature Severus. He seems amused by my schoolboy crush. "You had him here, baring everything to you, and still you couldn't tell him?" You-Know-Who laughs as he releases his tendrils from my mind. I flinch.

His eyes are red and I think, they should be warmer. Like an ember. Red is such a hot, vibrant colour. But instead his eyes are cold, as if they were coloured the deepest blue. He looks at me with curious amusem*nt. We're the same height, him and I, but he seems so much taller. Bigger. His magic fills the entire studio and I can feel it pressing against my chest and lungs, making it hard to catch a breath.

"I look forward to seeing more of your work," he says with a smile, bows his head, and takes his leave. I can do nothing but gape at him like a fish.

Malfoy presses a few galleons into my limp palm. "For your discretion," he says. There is a warning in his tone. A hint of a threat. I'm not stupid. I've read the papers. "I'll make arrangements regarding the purchase of the painting at a later date."

He follows his master and as soon as the door closes behind him, I sink to my knees, unable to support my weight any longer.

I can suddenly breathe again and as oxygen floods my brain, I think of only one thing: Severus. He has to be warned. I scramble up, swaying slightly as I manage to stand upright. I make my way over to Gertrude's cage. The barn owl had tucked her head underneath her wing the moment You-Know-Who appeared. She peeks out at my approach, and seeing him gone, lets out a series of shrieks and chirps, nipping lightly at my fingers as I take her shaking form from the cage.

I scribble out a letter to Severus, warning him of what has just transpired, and send Gertrude on her way. She returns within an hour, but I can't sleep. I spend the entire night stroking her feathers, keeping watch outside my garret window in case he returns. I wait.

I wait four days and then I can stand it no longer. I breach the threshold of my door and go outside, feeling the prickle of eyes on me as I scurry down the street. I go to the boarding house where Severus lives, and there I am duly informed that Severus has moved out. "Has he given you a forwarding address?" I ask.

"No," the landlady succinctly answers and closes the door in my face.

He must have read my letter. He must have gone into hiding, I think as I trudge back to my garret. I should probably leave too. Just in case. But when I get back to my room, I can't find the energy. I like Knockturn. It's dirty and dangerous and everything my family disparaged, but there's life here, more than that cold, sterile house I grew up in with my cold, sterile parents.

Instead of packing, I pull out the large canvas I bought a week prior and place it in front of my window. I begin sketching. I trace the outlines of the buildings, feeling their shape as twilight descends, scattering the light until everything glows a hazy purple. I move down to the cemetery, drawing and erasing and drawing again to ensure the perspective is correct when a knock on my door sends my pencil skyward.

My hands are shaking as I put my pencil back down. I'm terrified. What if it's You-Know-Who again? What if he's angry that Severus escaped? My fingers are completely numb as I turn the knob and pull open the door.

I am not prepared to find Severus Snape standing in front of me.

He pushes past me and I am helpless in stopping him. I don't even try. I simply stand there as he closes the door, marches into my garret room, turns back around to face me and… he says nothing. He's fidgeting a little, twitchy, his eyes darting from side to side. He looks different. His clothes are very expensive and his hair shines. He looks well taken care of.

"Why did you come back?" I somehow blurt out despite how dry my mouth has become. "It's not safe for you here."

"Safe," he laughs. "I've never felt that."

"But You-Know-Who… he's after you… Surely, you got my letter."

He laughs again and doesn't answer. "You're a wonderful artist," he says, and I can't help the warmth that fills me with his words. "But you're not much of a wizard. Have you ever even been in a duel? Have you ever cast a curse?"

"Um–" I hadn't. I've never been in a fight. I don't know what I'd do if someone tried to hex me. Run, maybe.

"You're very gentle. Kind, even," Severus continues. He looks me up and down, and I shiver. "You told me you used to draw me at school. You said I was fascinating. Was that all it was? Was I just some bug under a magnifying lens to you?"

"No," I force the single word from my lungs.

"Are you attracted to me?" His eyes are glittering.

"Yes."

He lets out a breath, his arms wrapping around himself for a second, only for him to drop them again. Without another look at me, he marches to the sofa I had pushed into the corner, sits down on it, and starts to disrobe. "How do you want me?" He asks.

"You want me to paint your portrait again?" I ask. My voice is shaking.

"No." Once he's completely naked, he looks back up. I find myself tethered to him, sinking down onto the spot beside him, my clothed knee brushing against his bare body.

He's watching me like I'm some kind of wild animal and then, quite suddenly, he leans forward and kisses me. It's very soft and hesitant and he's pulling away as soon as he's done it, but I chase after him, stealing another and another.

He lets me guide him down onto his back. I keep kissing him, my lips pulling away every so often as I tug off my waistcoat and shoes and trousers. I feel his fingers, feather soft, brush against my shoulders, and then grow bolder, pressing firmly against the flesh there.

I move to his jaw, kissing just below his ear as I skim my hand down his chest, running over his nipples. He breathes deeply through his nose – not quite a moan, not quite a sigh – as my hand dips lower. I can feel him harden against me, the weight of him in my palm. I want to move lower, taste him, but he's clutching at me, his body is shivering.

"We need lube, don't we?" He nervously asks. "I was told… for penetration…"

"We don't have to do any of that," I say, honestly surprised that he wants to go so far, so fast. I don't think he has much experience.

"You want to, don't you?" He asks, and there is something challenging in his voice.

"Sure, but–" Severus looks half-ready to get up and leave, and I quickly swallow back any protest. "Okay, did you want to top, or–?"

He rolls his eyes and opens his legs. "Okay, okay," I say again and let myself sink fully against him. That seems to settle him somewhat. "There's a spell I can use."

"Then get on with it."

I flush and, not knowing what else to do, I kiss him again. He lets me. He does everything I say. Bend your legs, hold them just like that, breathe, relax. It's like I'm painting him again; directing each little movement to suit my needs, and the disquiet grows in my brain.

I work my fingers into him. He's silent. "Does it hurt?" I ask worriedly.

"No. It's fine. Keep going." The words aren't breathless with emotion. They're clinical. Cold. It's not until I lean down and lick the head of his half-hard co*ck that I get a proper reaction. He yelps and his hand fists my hair, yanking me up. "You don't have to do that," he says, flustered, his face bright red.

"I want to do it."

He snorts, rolls his eyes again, and snaps, "Fine. But none of this means anything. Once you've finished, I'm leaving. You don't mean a thing to me."

I don't say anything. I can't say anything. The words get stuck in my throat. I wonder if there's anyone that's important to him. Lily Evans was once, I know, but it seems so long ago now.

I lean back down and take the head of his co*ck back into my mouth while I continue to work him open. I can hear his muffled gasps above my head. It sounds like he's biting his lip. His entire body is stiff and all of a sudden I want this to be over. This is nothing like how I imagined it to be.

I remove my fingers, drag myself back up, and I'm surprised when he brushes a hand against my cheek and kisses me just as I push inside.

I rock slowly into him. Severus's long legs, dangling in the air, drop until they're wrapped around my waist, his heel digging into my back. "Go faster," he says, and I speed up, pushing harder into him.

"Faster," he commands, and I can feel the sweat dripping off of my forward.

"Faster."

"No," I tell him. I want to slow down, I want to savour this, but I'm lost to the sensation. He's so tight and warm and wet, his breath is stirring against my ear. He's clutching at me, his fingers tangling into my hair and I can hear him suck in a breath every time I push back in. He starts to move against me, pushing back, and his thighs tremble against my sides as he comes between our bodies.

I follow him, pushing in deep, coming inside. I keep my eyes open the entire time. I want to look at him. I take in his red, bitten lips, and his flushed complexion, and the dazed, uncertain expression on his face. I can feel myself soften, his walls still squeezing around me, and I try to stay inside him for as long as I can, but my co*ck slips free with a rush of cum.

As soon as I pull out, he's already skittering out from underneath my tired limbs. I watch him as he pulls on his clothes, his legs shaking like a newborn colt's.

"Stay."

He ignores me, his long fingers working the buttons on his sleeve.

"We can run away together."

He laughs harshly, but something softens when he sees the pain and want in my face. He leans down, his collar still undone, and kisses me again. "This never happened," he whispers against my lips and leaves.

I continue to lie there on the sofa until the dark, twilight hours slip well into the night. I don't know what to think. I don't want to think. All that build up, and then… I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. I'm a walking cliche. The garret room, the weepy artist, and the model he's in love with. There's probably a novel written by some Victorian author that describes my life down to the vase of sunflowers I keep next to my easel.

I hear a shout from outside. I continue to lie there for several more seconds. Shouts, screams, shrieks– those sorts of noises are common here in Knockturn. Like the sound of crickets out in the countryside. But at the second yell, I climb to my feet. I have to get up sometime anyway. I'm not spending the night on that sofa. Pretty it might be, it's damned uncomfortable.

I shuffle over to my window and peek out. There's a light coming from the cemetery. It's from a wand and I can see a man, a local, I think, on his back struggling against something. At first, I think he's fighting a ghost. Don't be ridiculous. Ghosts can't touch. And this… this thing has his hands wrapped his neck. It's only a head and half a torso. Is there a Legless Hunt? I think stupidly. But this man – what is left of him – is as solid and real as I am. It's definately a man, with black messy hair, and spectacles. He looks familiar.

There's a knife glinting in the light. The torso drags the knife across the man's throat. I'm already numb from what just happened, and all I can think as I watch the man bleed out is, he looks like Severus.

The torso stands up and he does… something. It's like he's pulling on a cloak, but there's nothing there. His shoulders and head disappear.

I duck back, not wanting to draw the thing's attention and crawl into bed. Like Severus said, I'm not much of a wizard. Someone will find the man's body in the morning.

A month later, Lucius Malfoy commissions a portrait. I'm scared sh*tless, but I'm also too scared to make a run for it. And here I thought they had forgotten about me, I think hysterically as I find myself standing in a fancy apartment, my easel tucked underneath my arm. It is by far nicer than anything my parents own.

A house-elf leads me to the parlour and I pull up short when I see my painting – Severus's painting – hanging above the fireplace. And there is Severus himself, cool and poised in an armchair. He doesnt say anything to me. He... feelsdifferent. More powerful than before... He feels a little likehim.

"My associate is a fan of your work," Malfoy says as he comes to stand beside Severus, bracing a hand against the back of the chair. "He would like for you to paint Severus's portrait again. Something a little less provocative this time."

I look at Severus. He lifts his brow, as if daring me to mention what happened between us. I swallow and look away. "A traditional portrait? Full body or a bust?" I ask.

"Bust, if you please. Money is no object."

Chapter 14: Chapter 10

Chapter Text

It was Bellatrix's birthday and instead of gifting her jewelry or furs, the Dark Lord brought her a young, blonde woman to do with as she pleased. Severus did not drink much, the stench of alcohol reminded him of his father, but he swallowed down glass after glass of champagne in an effort to block out the woman's screams.

Lucius's ballroom had been decorated with balloons and streamers. There was a banner above the door that announced 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BELLA!' in big, cheerful letters. A set of enchanted instruments was playing a waltz in the corner. Lucius and Narcissa were dancing, his hand far too low on her waist. "Go on," Mulciber jeered and slapped the Muggle on her bare bottom, forcing her to crawl naked across the floor. Bellatrix had stripped the skin off the palms of her hands layer by layer. Bloody handprints dotted the floor as she crawled, her body heaving with the force of her sobs.

Fingers curled into his hair, scratching at the base of his head. Severus desperately tried to empty his mind of the disgust he felt. The Dark Lord's breath was warm against his ear. "Not enjoying the festivities?"

"I'm not one for parties," Severus answered. He watched as Mulciber reached for the Muggle again, squeezing the flesh of her rump, his fingers dipping between her thighs until Bellatrix slapped his hand away.

"She's my present," she said, her voice taking on the whiny quality of a child who did not want to share.

"Hm," the Dark Lord hummed, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. "Perhaps, with just a little change…"

He could feel the Dark Lord sink into his mind, and Severus scrambled to hide his most damning thoughts and memories. He had read about Occlumency, just a short excerpt in an encyclopedia during one of the many hours he had spent hiding in the Hogwarts library, but he had no idea if what he was doing was actually Occlumency or not. It felt more like sweeping the dust underneath a rug than creating a mental barrier. But the Dark Lord didn't seem to notice, or if he did he didn't care to mention it, and when Severus next blinked the woman had disappeared and James Potter was crawling around in her place.

The illusion was uncanny. Potter looked exactly as he had when Severus last saw him over a year ago, but now he was naked, crying wetly, bruised and bleeding. It was as if the Dark Lord had plucked from his brain one of his many revenge fantasies and brought it to life. Severus might have even enjoyed the sight if he didn't know the truth behind the illusion.

His stomach curdled and the illusion shattered. Bellatrix struck the girl with a short whip. "Go on, give the boys a show," she said with a vicious smile.

"Careful, Snape, if you keep drinking like that you'll pass out," a man named Pembry smiled as he came up to them, bowing deferentially to the Dark Lord. Severus vaguely recognized him from school. He was ahead of him by two or three years, and had played Quidditch.

"One can only hope," Severus sneered. "I'd rather be unconscious than suffer through another hour of boredom."

"Still the haughty bitch you always were, I see. I'd figured Potter and his little friends would have beaten that out of you by the time you graduated." Pembry's gaze flickered over to the Dark Lord, who looked on with mounting amusem*nt. "Or f*cked out of you."

"Oh, I can be nice when I want to be," Severus said, letting his voice drop an octave. He sank into the Dark Lord's hand, where it still lingered on the back of his neck. Let the work see who he belonged to. "You're just not worth it."

Pembry's mouth twitched. "Worth it? Everyone else here has earned their place in the Dark Lord's inner circle. We've all killed to prove our worth. You just spread your legs–"

"Now, now," the Dark Lord smoothly interrupted, still smiling. "Severus has many talents."

"Of course, my Lord," Pembry murmured, averting gaze.

"Who did you kill?" Severus asked.

"What?" Pembry's eyes darted back up to meet his.

"You said you killed to earn your Dark Mark. Who was it? I can't imagine a Hufflepuff killing anyone."

Pembry burst into laughter. "Don't you know?" He asked. "It was Alison Hayes."

"Alison–" Severus felt his brain grind to halt.

"I wouldn't have picked her if she hadn't been such a bitch and stood me up. Mudbloods need to know their place."

"Everyone thought it was me!" Severus choked out, which only made Pembry laugh harder.

"I know! It was so funny."

The Dark Lord ran a cold hand down his back. "Come, there's no reason to be upset about it now. It's all in the past. Why don't I take you upstairs so you can calm down."

The Dark Lord started to herd him out of the ballroom and toward the grand staircase when Bellatrix's voice stopped him. "My Lord? Where are you going? Aren't you going to stay?"

"I'll be back down in a bit. Severus needs tending to."

"Do you want me to come with you?" Bellatrix was already stepping forward, but the Dark Lord waved her back.

"Don't be silly. This is your party. Enjoy yourself. Go play with your new toy. Although if your lovely cousin wants to come and help…" The Dark Lord's red gaze landed on where Regulus sat in a chair in a corner, his eyes glazed over and seeing nothing.

As if sensing the heavy stares on his person, Regulus shook himself awake and glanced around. "What?" He asked, looking at everyone who stood quietly watching him.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "It is nothing. Don't worry your head about it. Come along, Severus."

Severus caught sight of tears springing to Bellatrix's eyes, before she whirled around and pointed her wand at the Muggle and yelled out, "Crucio!"

The Dark Lord took him upstairs into Lucius's bedroom, and once the door was closed he was on him, his teeth grazing his neck above his collar as he pulled at the buttons running down his chest. "You broke through my illusion," he hissed, but to Severus's relief he didn't sound angry, but almost… excited. "Your power is growing…"

He pushed Severus onto his knees, and knowing what the man wanted, he dipped his hands into his robes to pull out his co*ck and suck at the head.

Severus opened his eyes, rubbing away the crust that clung to his lashes. He turned, not wanting to get up, but unable to find a comfortable position. His entire body ached. Dealing with the Dark Lord was different from dealing with his father. Tobias Snape was predictable. He didn't like anything, especially not magic. The Dark Lord, on the other hand, liked to sometimes play the magnanimous king, and other times the tyrant. He was chaotic. In a way, he reminded Severus of Potter: a handsome, smirking face hiding something cruel and sad*stic.

He often found himself thinking of Lily as of late. He had wanted to tell her so many times… what Potter had tried to do to him. But they had stopped being friends, she wouldn't even look at him anymore, and Potter was right. No one would have believed him, least of all Lily. She thought he was crazy. They all did. Twitchy and dirty and… he had probably looked like some street corner prophet, ranting about the end of the world. Now look at him. All dressed up in silks and velvets, sleeping in a palace, and all for the low, low price of his soul.

The Dark Mark was stark against his pale skin. Severus traced his fingers across the black lines. He could feel the Dark Lord's presence through it; he wondered if it was the same for the Dark Lord, or if there was something more to it than that.

Poor Lily. Poor me, he thought with a laugh. I wonder which one of us has the worst partner: Potter or the Dark Lord? The Dark Lord has never attempted to drive me mad, but Potter has never murdered anyone. Not that he didn't try. Severus thought back to the Shrieking Shack incident. He should have tried harder to warn Lily. Even if it only drove her further away, he should have told her everything that had happened that night on the staircase. It made him sick to his stomach knowing what kind of man Potter was, imagining the horror Lily must be suffering.

Severus finally dragged himself out of bed and threw on a robe to cover the bruises. He needed to get back to his potion. The Dark Lord expected it to be done within the next few days. Severus shuffled into the dining room where the house-elf had already laid out his breakfast and that morning's Daily Prophet, along with the mail.

KNOCKTURN KILLER STRIKES AGAIN

Another one? That made four now. Severus scanned the article. Victim was twenty-six year old Vincenzo Bianchi, a store clerk in Knockturn Alley. He is survived by his wife and three year old daughter. The picture staring back at him showed a tall, thin man with chin-length black hair and a large, hooked nose. This killer seemed to have a thing for skinny brunets.

Not wanting to read anything else on the subject, Severus started to look through his letters, immediately spotting the Black family seal. He broke it and unfolded the letter, his eyes growing wide as he read it.

Dear Severus,

I am in serious trouble. I'm pregnant, and the father isn't Regulus. I'm sure you know who it is. I think everybody does, except for Regulus and his mother. I am begging you not to tell him anything. Lucius and I have agreed to end it. I'll be getting married soon anyway; we have no future together. I was hoping you might be able to help me. I need a potion, something, anything to end this pregnancy. Regulus can't find out about it. Please, help me.

Narcissa

Of all the idiotic–! Severus rubbed at his forehead. Why did sex turn everyone into morons? It wasn't that good. He started listing the ingredients in his head, everything he would need to brew an abortifacient. He'll have to pick up a few things from Knockturn Alley.

There was a knock at his door and he heard the house-elf, Whimsy, open it. "Good morning, is Severus here?" Severus cursed under his breath at the sound of Regulus's voice echoing from the hall. He quickly folded the letter and shoved it into the pocket of his robe just as Whimsy showed Regulus into the dining room.

"Still at breakfast? You're usually up and working by now," Regulus commented as he took a seat beside Severus.

"I had a late start this morning."

Regulus's gaze fell to his neck and, without thinking, Severus's hand flew up, wondering if there might be a bruise there. "Can I–" Regulus swallowed and bit at his lip as he tried again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course." Merlin, please don't let it be about Narcissa and Lucius.

"Your core… it's started to grow again, right? Like Bellatrix's?"

Severus shrugged. "I suppose. The Dark Lord seems to think so."

"And a core… it's tied to a person's soul…"

"So the theory goes."

"What do you think would happen if a person injured their soul? Cut it in half maybe?"

Severus wrinkled his nose. "Cut it in half? I've never heard anything so drastic as that happening, but people have injured their souls before. It can oftentimes damage one's magic, sometimes permanently unless measures are taken, but I am no mediwizard. Why do you ask?"

Regulus looked down and dug his fingernail into a groove in the table. "Just doing a little research is all. Academic curiosity. Did… did you know Bellatrix wasn't the Dark Lord's first lover?"

"He's much older than us. I assumed there had been others in the past."

"It wasn't all that long ago actually. Her name was Artemisia Bulstrode. You might not remember her. Slytherin, but she was a year ahead of Lucius. Her magical core started to grow again too. She was fierce in a duel, or so Bellatrix says. Undefeated."

Severus could feel dread growing in the pit of his belly. "What happened to her?"

"No one knows exactly. She disappeared. Most think she was brought down by the Aurors and buried somewhere in an unmarked grave, but she had been so powerful. And the Dark Lord… he didn't seem to care. He never mentioned her again, and she had been his favourite."

"You think she might have done something to displease him?" Severus asked.

Regulus snorted. "Something like that," he muttered darkly. "I'm sorry to just drop in like this and rush out, but there's a lot of things I have to get done today. Thank you for taking the time to indulge my questions." He stood up and gently placed his hand on Severus's shoulder. "Be careful, please? I've got few enough friends as it is."

Severus arched his brow. "We're friends now?"

Regulus grinned brightly and it reminded him so much of his brother Sirius that Severus couldn't help but shudder. "Of course! We're all in this together." He patted his shoulder and left, leaving Severus confused and bewildered by what had just happened.

Severus spent the rest of the day working in his laboratory, splitting his time between the potion he was brewing for the Dark Lord, and the one for Narcissa. He checked the time, noting it was past five o'clock. The sun would be setting soon. The blistering summer heat had given way to the windy chill of October. He debated whether or not to wait until morning to get the rest of the ingredients he needed, before shrugging on his cloak. He had no reason to fear this 'Knockturn Killer.' Nearly everyone in that neighborhood knew who Severus Snape was and the crowd he ran with. No one would dare attack him.

The apothecary he frequented was small and dark and nondescript. It boasted high quality ingredients for reasonable prices, and despite its unsavoury location, Severus preferred it to any of the apothecaries in Diagon. "Severus," the old man behind the counter gave him a curt nod. "You shouldn't be out this late. Ministry's thinking about instituting a curfew 'round here."

"As if they hadn't wanted to put you lot under a curfew for years."

The old man gave a toothless grin before he quickly sobered. He nodded out the window at the shop across the street. It was dark on the inside and there was a sign that said CLOSED. "The last victim… he worked there. That's a little too close to home for my taste."

Severus thanked the man, took his purchases, and left. Night had fallen and, with another glance at the dark shop across the street, hurried along. After a few minutes he stopped, pausing to listen. It sounded as though there was another set of footsteps echoing behind him. He turned to look and there was nothing. The street was empty.

Severus could feel his heart beating wildly inside his chest. He hadn't felt like this since Hogwarts. It's the news. It's making you paranoid, making you hear things. Stop acting crazy, he scolded himself. Potter was off making fat, happy babies with Lily. He wasn't standing behind him, he–

The cold, chilly breeze suddenly grew warm, tickling the back of his neck. It brushed through his hair with a distinctly human sigh. Whatever thoughts that had been swimming in his brain seconds before dissipated as instinct took over. Severus turned on his heel, his fist swinging out. He expected it to fly through the empty air, and was shocked when his fist connected with something solid, something invisible.

Severus didn't stay to find out what it was. He took off in a run, apparating back to his apartment mid-step.

Chapter 15: Chapter 11

Chapter Text

James stared at his reflection in the mirror. Months had passed, and his nose looked as good as new. As if Snape had never broken it. James had cursed himself a hundred times over since that night. How could he have let him escape? He'd been so close. He'd been watching the apothecary for a long time, waiting for the day when the streets were empty, when Snape would be all alone, and then–

He didn't know where Snape got his ingredients now, or where he was staying. But James would find him. It was only a matter of time.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw a silver vision. A lynx, ghostly and ethereal padded silently through the halls of his house, slipping into the bathroom, to deliver a report. "Another body has been discovered in Knockturn," the voice that emanated from it was Kingsley Shacklebolt's. "You will meet Black at the Ministry and investigate the scene together."

The patronus disappeared, evaporating into a fine mist. I should probably tell Lily where I'm going. She's pregnant. I shouldn't worry her. It's not good for the baby, James thought as he stepped out of the house without even saying goodbye.

He met up with Sirius in the Ministry Atrium beside the fountain. His old friend was looking worse for wear; his clothes were rumpled and there was a sour stench wafting off his unwashed hair. He reminded James of Snivellus at his worst. His mouth twitched, wanting to smile. Pads would probably deck him if he told him that. "Any word of your brother?" James asked as he came to a stop.

Sirius flicked his cigarette into the fountain's churning waters. "Nothing."

"He's powerful. There's still hope–"

Sirius barked out a laugh that was as sour as his breath. "We both know there isn't. If it wasn't the Knockturn Killer, then it was the Death Eaters. Maybe even Malfoy. He and Cissy didn't waste any time." Sirius scrubbed at his face. "Let's just go."

These days, James rarely saw Knockturn in the daylight. He squinted up at the winter sun high above, and despite how bright it was the air was cold enough to see his breath puffing in front of his face. The light didn't do Knockturn any favours. It illuminated all of Knockturn's filth, the trash in the gutters, the dead cats left lying to rot. The people were just as ugly, just as filthy. Their souls were as rotten as the ramshackle buildings that lined the street. James didn't know why the Ministry was putting so much effort into finding the Knockturn Killer. These people… they didn't matter. They lived like animals, and they would die like animals.

The only death James regretted was the Muggle waiter; he had been an innocent. But these people here, in Knockturn, they were suitable substitutes. Of course, they wouldn't have had to die at all if Snape didn't–

Sirius slowed down as they made their way to the crime scene, his feet dragging behind him as they edged closer and closer to the circle of Aurors who lingered at the entrance to a back alley. "Prongs," Sirius whispered, his voice hoarse. "What if it's him?"

"It's not," James quickly assured him.

"You don't know that. You can't know that. James, he fits the profile."

Regulus was thin and had black hair, but he wasn't that tall and he was far too aristocratic for James's taste. He would never touch Sirius's brother. Whatever happened to him, it wasn't because of James. "I'll go first, alright?"

The Aurors parted to let him through. James stepped up to the corpse he had made the night before. "It's not him," he called back.

Sirius went boneless for a second and leaned against a building for support. James felt that familiar spark of heat and anger flare up inside of him. Since when did Padfoot care about his brother? He was acting pathetic. He had tried to feed Snivellus to Moony, and yet a few dead kids was enough to drive him to drink? What did he think would happen if James hadn't been there to pull Snape to safety? Idiot. Big, tough Sirius Black falling apart at the sight of a little blood.

Weak. Pathetic. Dirty.

James liked them dirty.

Sirius let go of the building and walked over to examine the corpse. James stared dispassionately down at the young man. Those dark eyes that had inflamed him last night had turned milky. "Throat was cut. His trousers are undone," James said.

"Assaulted?" Sirius asked.

"There's no tearing, or any traces of sem*n."

James never even got a chance to take his co*ck out. He always came way too soon. And, anyway, that man lying there wasn't who he really wanted. It'll be different with Snape. He'll take his time. And then he'll be able to put all of this behind him.

"His name was Cyrus De Mille. Pureblood, though one born on the wrong side of the sheets. Friends with a few suspected Death Eaters." Sirius pursed his lips. "All the victims have different backgrounds and political leanings. I don't think a Death Eater is responsible for these attacks."

"The method of execution is similar–"

"I know what it looks like," Sirius hissed, his eyes darting to look at the Aurors guarding the entrance. "Trust me, I'm well aware of what my cousin is capable of. But Bellatrix doesn't discriminate. Men, women, old, young. She doesn't care who they are. There's a very deliberate pattern here."

James wished he knew the spell to cast the Dark Mark. It'd make covering his tracks easier. He was going to beat the spell out of the first Death Eater he caught alive.

"Any witnesses?"

"If there are, no one's talking."

They covered the area with magic, searching for any small clue the killer left behind. They found nothing. James knew all the tricks. "Let's bag the body."

"Any family?"

"None have come forward."

Another bound for Potter's Field. James felt a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Have you talked to Moony lately?" James asked as they made their way back to the Ministry.

Sirius frowned. "No."

"Well, Dumbledore has him going on all these special missions. He's probably just busy."

"He's been pulling away ever since the prank." Sirius didn't need to elaborate which prank.

And whose fault is that? Pathetic, he thought again, and his mind turned speculative.

James looked over at Sirius. His eyes weren't that beautiful shade of dark brown like Snape's, or that man he had met the night before. They were instead a pale, colourless grey. And he wasn't waif-thin like Snape either. Sirius had packed on some weight since school, his carefully sculpted physique wasting away from a diet consisting mostly of beer and liquor. That spark fizzled out the longer James studied him. Anyway, this was still Padfoot. James would regret it if he hurt him. What's that old saying? Don't sh*t where you eat?

"Pads, look, I'm saying this as your friend, but maybe the drinking has something to do with Remus not wanting to hang around anymore–"

"f*ck you, James, I'm not heartless like you!" Sirius snapped, baring his teeth like a wild dog. "Maybe you can go home and forget everything you see, but I can't! Not when I know my baby brother is probably lying dead in a gutter somewhere with his cut throat and his pants around his ankles!" Sirius choked up, his eyes red with unshed tears.

He doesn't even cry like Snape. "I do what I have to do," James coldly told him. "While you're sitting around drinking and feeling sorry for yourself, I'm working. People depend on me. I have a wife, and a child on the way. If you think that makes me heartless, then fine. I don't care. At least I'm doing something."

Sirius flinched. "I didn't mean–" he stuttered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be better."

Sirius bit his lip, like a chastised little boy. "I am sorry, though. I don't mean to do the things I do. Thanks for sticking around. You're a good friend."

Yeah, I'd miss him too much. James slung his arm around Padfoot and guided him along. "Come on, let's go."

"I'm home!" James called out as he stepped inside their London townhouse.

"Upstairs!" Lily's voice called out from above.

James took a step forward and felt something crunch underneath his foot. He looked down and spotted a folded piece of parchment that was half-hidden underneath the rug. How long had it been lying there? It wasn't there when James left that morning, was it? No, he didn't think so. He picked it up and examined. It looked like a letter. No seal though. Had someone shoved it underneath the door? Why not use an owl? James unfolded the letter and saw very familiar handwriting.

Lily,

I'm sorry. I know you never wanted to speak to me again, but there is something important I must tell you. I have a meeting with Dumbledore at the Hog's Head on the 22nd at three o'clock. We can talk there. There will be plenty of people inside, including Dumbledore, if you're worried about your safety. Just don't bring Potter. What I have to say concerns him. I know you think I'm crazy and obsessed, but you don't understand. Please, you need to know the truth.

Well, well, well.

Chapter 16: Chapter 12

Chapter Text

Lucius could feel beads of sweat dot his upper lip as the others filed out of the room, leaving him alone with the Dark Lord. He had asked him to stay behind after the meeting. That never meant anything good.

The Dark Lord sat across from him on the other end of the dining table. He looked at Lucius with a cool and inscrutable gleam. Finally, he asked, "Did you kill Regulus?"

Lucius sputtered. "What? No, no my Lord. I wouldn't–" He sucked in a breath. "He might not be dead. It's only a few days. He might have needed to go to ground to escape Aurors or–"

"He's dead," the Dark Lord brusquely interrupted. "We're connected through the Dark Mark. That connection has been… severed."

Lucius felt his heart drop. "I didn't do it," he insisted, pleading with his eyes.

He felt the brush of the Dark Lord's mind dipping into his memories. The Dark Lord perused through the past week, picking up each memory and examining it like a bored customer in a shop, before finally withdrawing. "I had wondered if you and Narcissa hadn't concocted a murder plot in order to marry," he mused, leaning back in his chair. "But it seems I was wrong. Someone else has killed him then."

"You don't think… well, there are all these stories coming out of Knockturn these days."

"You mean the Knockturn Killer?" The Dark Lord gave a raspy laugh. "Well, if he has killed our Regulus, we'll find out soon enough. The killer always leaves his victims in a place where they can be found."

"I have wondered about that. Most common murderers try to hide their crimes. Do you think the killer might be making a statement? Perhaps he's taunting the Aurors?"

"No," the Dark Lord said dismissively, already growing bored with this conversation. "I don't think the killer finds it worth his time. He leaves his victims beside waste bins and piles of refuse. To him, they're merely trash to be discarded." He took a sip of his wine and said, "I have a mission for you. Two, actually."

Lucius leaned forward. "Yes, my Lord?"

"You've been very loyal, Lucius. I wish to reward that loyalty." He withdrew from his robes an old, worn book and placed it upon the table. "This is very important to me. I want you to keep it safe."

Lucius summoned the book to him. He took a moment to flick through the pages, his brow furrowing in confusion, which brought a wry smirk to the Dark Lord's face. "It's just an empty diary."

"Yes," the Dark Lord agreed with growing amusem*nt. "And you will guard it with yout life."

Lucius closed the diary. "And the other thing?"

"I need a new consort. Severus is… surprisingly useful. He has a first-rate mind and plenty of talent. It would be a shame to let that go to waste, especially since an opportunity has recently presented itself that he would be particularly suited for."

"What would that be?"

"Slughorn is retiring. Dumbledore will need a new Potions professor, and Severus will be completing his mastery soon. He would make the perfect spy."

Lucius nodded. "What about using Bellatrix, my Lord? She is already primed." Crazy as Bellatrix was, Narcissa would still be heartbroken over the death of her sister, but needs must…

"Next to Evan, she is one of my best duelists. We won’t be able to operate in the shadows for much longer. Soon, it will be an open battle and we will need her for that. And she still has to provide Rodolphus an heir. There is little need for our war without the next generation to carry on our work."

Lucius sincerely doubted Bellatrix would ever give birth to her husband's child. They would have to consummate their marriage first. Not that Lestrange was in any rush to attempt it, not after their disastrous wedding night.

"I will search for a substitute," Lucius said as he stood up and bowed. There were plenty from the lower classes who would jump at the chance at being one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, no matter how brief. The Dark Lord never told Lucius why he needed the cores of so many wizards and witches. He was far more powerful than any other wizard he knew, save for Dumbledore. But it wasn't Lucius's place to question him, and, anyway, he was in no danger. He didn't suit the Dark Lord's taste.

But first…

Lucius apparated to Grimmauld Place as soon as his meeting with the Dark Lord was over. Once again the door was opened not by Kreacher, but another house-elf, a cowardly, quaking little thing that nearly tripped over its own feet as it bowed. Lucius rushed past it without a second glance.

"Lucius, is that you?" Walburga called out from the parlour. "Have you brought any word from Regulus? Lucius–?"

Lucius didn't wait for permission. He raced up the stairs to Narcissa’s room and threw open the door, startling her out of her reverie. She sat at her desk, an open book on her lap that tumbled to the floor as she stood open, her blue eyes wide with fear as she took in his abrupt appearance. “Lucius, is everything–?”

“Have you taken the potion yet?” He asked. He did not need to elaborate on which potion.

She glanced behind him, at the soft thump of Walburga’s footsteps coming to stand behind him, and shook her head. He took a step forward, wanting to touch her, when a spindly claw grasped his upper arm, pulling him back.

“Mr Malfoy, I do hope you have an explanation for this intrusion,” Walburga said, her grey eyes jumping between him and Narcissa.

Lucius swallowed, taking a moment to try and form the words. “I–” he started, stopped, and started again. “I regret to inform you, Mrs Black, that your son, Regulus, has died.”

She let go of his arm and staggered back. “He hasn’t,” she first insisted, her voice raspy, and then, with an air of defiance, “Have you any proof?”

“The Dark Lord can no longer feel him through the Mark.”

Walburga blinked rapidly and mutely shook her head. Leaning against the door frame, she glanced all about the room, taking in the small details– the lace-covered bed, the vase of purple irises, the halo of light streaming from the window, until her eyes finally landed on Narcissa. All at once, whatever soft and tender emotions that had been stirring in her breast were quickly smothered. She threw herself back into the role of the Black Family Matriarch, the Old Battle-Axe seizing control before her grief could overwhelm her, and she said, her voice clipped, “If it’s true… we have much to do. We must go to Gringotts so that you may be named heir. We’ll need to find a suitable match… Rabastan, maybe…”

“If I am to marry anyone, it will be Lucius,” Narcissa said simply, folding her hands in front of her like a young girl taken to the Headmaster’s office.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Walburga snapped. “He must carry on the Malfoy name, just as you must carry on the Black name. His family will not agree to a matrilineal marriage. Rabastan is a second son. There will be no objections there.”

Lucius said nothing. It was true enough, what she had said. His family would not allow him to marry Narcissa if it meant he must change his name to Black.

“I will marry Lucius and I will take his name,” Narcissa answered simply. “There’s no use arguing, Auntie, I am already with child.”

Walburga’s mouth snapped shut with a clang of her teeth. She looked like a wild bull, her breath ragged, nostrils wide as she struggled to take in a breath, her eyes crazed. “Traitor!” She shrieked. “whor*! You dare betray my son in this way!? You f*cking slu*t–” That claw-like hand for hers made a wild grab for Narcissa, and Narcissa pulled out her wand, taking aim. Lucius ducked between the two women, his hands raised.

“I am sure we can come to some sort of agreement–” He started.

“The only thing I’ll agree to is having your spawn ripped from her womb! You’ll not be leaving here with him, girl! You are staying right here with me! I am owed grandchildren and I will get them, even if I have to chain you to that bed!”

“You’re insane!” Narcissa screeched back. “I’m glad Regulus is dead! At least he doesn’t have to spend another day in this prison with you!”

Walburga looked as if she had been slapped.

Lucius let his hands gently drape across Narcissa’s shoulders and he guided her out of the room. Walburga did nothing to stop them. “Let’s go, darling,” he murmured.

At the threshold, Narcissa swiveled her head around and stared coldly at her aunt. “You’re going to die alone,” she said. “With no one but the house-elfs to mourn you.” And with that they left Grimmauld Place.

Narcissa, half-lying on the sofa, clutched at Severus’s robes and sobbed wretchedly. Severus, trapped underneath Narcissa’s clenching hands, awkwardly rubbed her shoulder. He turned pleading eyes onto Lucius as the man exited Severus’s laboratory, holding out a calming draught. Ha, there was no use looking at him like that. Lucius doubted he would be able to save him from Narcissa's crying. “I found it! Here, you are, my dear. Just what Doctor Snape ordered. Drink this for me, it will make you feel better.”

“I don’t want any stupid potions!” She shrieked, lifting her red and tear-stained face to glare at him. “I don’t want to feel better! I want my family back!” She let her face drop back down. “Oh Merlin, oh Merlin,” she sobbed. “I killed him. I killed Regulus. I wished for this to happen, so that we could be together, and now he’s dead.”

Lucius knelt beside her and pushed back her hair. “You didn’t kill anyone, love. Wishing for something doesn’t make it happen.”

She sniffled. “Then how? How did he die?”

“We’re not sure exactly, but we think he was murdered. Either in a duel, or–”

“Or the Knockturn Killer,” Severus whispered, his dark eyes wide and unseeing as he stared into a corner of the room.

Lucius shot him a glare. The last thing he wanted was to send Narcissa into hysterics thinking her cousin had been murdered by a serial killer, no matter his own thoughts on the subject. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“But you think it might be him?” Narcissa sat up and rubbed at her nose. There was a dangerous glint in her eye. “Are there any suspects? Anyone taken into questioning?” Anyone I can confront, anyone I can avenge my cousin on, the unsaid words fell over them like a pall.

Severus’s eyes drifted back to her. “The papers all suspect it is a Death Eater…” He hesitantly answered.

“I know that isn’t true. What do you think, Sev?”

He bit at his lip. “I think… What if it’s an Auror?”

“An Auror?” Lucius asked. “There’s hardly enough of them to go around anymore.”

“I… A few days ago, when I went to Knockturn to buy ingredients for… for that potion you asked me… Something happened. It was… It reminded me of something that happened at school, and–” Severus closed his eyes and shook his head. “Never mind, you’ll just think I’m crazy.” He opened them again and took hold of Narcissa’s hand. “I’ll do some research. Perhaps there is something we can use, a spell or ritual, that will at least help us find his… his body.”

The tears started welling up in Narcissa’s eyes again and she nodded pitifully, tilting forward until her head was once again braced against Severus. She reached out and took hold of Lucius’s hand, interlocking their fingers together. As Lucius stroked her knuckles, he was suddenly glad that the Dark Lord had decided not to harvest Severus’s core.

Chapter 17: A Portrait of the Artist as He Really Is

Chapter Text

James entered the bedroom and found Lily scrawling out a letter to her sister. I'm so happy, I'm the happiest I've ever been, it said. Her face was set in its permanent frown. James hadn't seen Lily smile in months.

He looked at the looping letters. The note from Snape weighed almost nothing, but it was as heavy as a stone resting in his pocket. "Do you want me to take that to the post for you?" He asked, as if suddenly remembering Petunia detested anything magical, including owls.

"That would be great, thank you."

They kissed. Two pieces of dry flesh pressing hurriedly against each other before pulling away.

James took the letter. He didn't mail it. He instead copied the words over and over until his handwriting looked almost indistinguishable from Lily's.

Of course, I'll come. Sev, you're my best friend. I've had some suspicions… I don't want to write anything here, but I'm scared. Do you think you can get a room at the inn? For privacy? I don't want this getting back to James.

And then, a few days later, a reply–

I'm staying in Room 2. I've booked it for a single night. Meet at three? Just knock when you get here.

I sling my box of paints across my shoulder and tuck my easel, canvas, and sketchbook underneath my arm. I step out of Hog's Head Inn, stamping my feet against the bitter, windy January morning. It's still early, and hardly anyone else is out at this hour. I spot a few witches with their heads bowed, the hoods of their cloaks blown back and flapping like wings, the wind whirling in their skirts, which they can hardly hold down.

I blow out a breath, watch it crystallize, and walk along the wide, cobblestone lane that leads out of Hogsmeade. The village sits below the craggy outcrop upon which Hogwarts has been built. That is my true goal. I've come across a lovely little spot not far from the village that gives me an almost entirely unobstructed view of the castle.

To reach it, I must climb up a zig-zag path above a precipice, scraping my hands against hard granite stone, until I come upon an outcropping where there are no fir trees, no beeches, no pastures, no torrents, nothing– nothing but total solitude and unbroken silence.

I place my easel on the grounce and set up my canvas, stealing glances at Hogwarts all the while. Seeing the castle like this – distant, towering, nearly blending into the jagged oyster rocks it grew upon like a lichin – brought a sense of terror to the school. It's hard to imagine children laughing in a place like this. It's hideous, I think. I start sketch out its towers. The castle looked lonely against that vast, empty grey sky, beseeching pardon for the callous treatment for those suffering within its walls.

I pull out my paints and start to dab at the canvas in varying shades of grey and blue and green. I paint until what little light there is disappears behind heavy, snow-swollen clouds. Only then do I pack up my things and head back to the inn, suddenly conscious of my empty stomach. A quick glance at my watch tells me it's almost five o’clock. I've missed lunch.

It takes me at least another thirty minutes to make it back to the inn. People are already trickling in, looking for an early dinner and a drink. I give a quick wave to the barman, and seeing him occupied I start to turn towards the stairs when I stop and take another look.

It’s Severus. He’s arguing with the owner. “I told you before, if anyone comes asking for you I'll send them on up," the old man says, very clearly at the end of his patience.

Severus sneers, but I can see he's nervous. Tense. There's an uneasiness clinging to him, spelled out in his stiff, unyielding posture. "See that you do," he snaps, and sweeps upstairs, his black robes trailing behind him.

I follow after him and watch him duck into one of the rooms available for rent, just a few doors down from where I'm staying. I linger outside his door for a few seconds, my heart beating loudly, before deciding to knock. I shuffle my stuff awkwardly, thinking perhaps I should head back to my own room and drop it all off but already knowing I'd never be able to work up the courage again if I did.

My knuckles barely touch the wood when the door swings open. There is a wide, open smile on Severus's face. He's almost glowing. "Lil–" He starts, and then stops, his face dropping. The glow is snuffed out like a candle. "Oh, it's you," he says, repeating those same words he first said to me.

"Hi," I smile nervously. "Can I come in?"

He frowns, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and glances at the clock. It's almost six. He sighs and steps aside. I enter.

"Is there something you want?" He asks as he shuts the door.

I wonder if he ever thinks about that night. I think about it all the time. "Dinner?" I suggest.

"Dinner," he repeats flatly. "Why would you want that?"

"You know. You must know." My voice cracks. Merlin, I must sound desperate. "I'm in love with you. I wanted to talk to you, all the time I was painting your portrait, but Malfoy was always there, or the Black cousins, and I– You always acted so distant–"

Severus must grow tired of my rambling, because he scoffs and snakes his hand underneath my arm to steal my sketchbook. "Love," he sneers as he flips through it, stopping when he sees his own figure scratched across the paper in charcoal. They're the preliminary sketches I made when I painted the nude. His dark eyes linger over his own naked body, his expression growing angrier the longer he looks.

"You repulse me," he spits violently. "You say you love me? You love nothing. You love dust, some colour spread over a canvas! Look at him, look! See what a monster you've made of me? Does any man legs like that, bodies like that? Open your damn eyes!"

He shoved the sketchbook back at me with enough force that I almost drop my easel. I obey his imperious command and look. The Severus that stares up at me from the paper looks strangely flat. My stomach flops as I look back at my old work, noticing the imperfections along the way. The limbs are a little too long, the expression too soft to belong to the real Severus.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," he hisses and stalks towards the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm meeting someone," Severus says, throwing it open. "She'll be here any minute now."

I can feel my face burning. I flee, tail tucked between my legs, and dart into my own room. I spend the next hour flipping through all my old stuff. The things that I had worked so hard on, that had made me proud, are now grotesque. The proportions are wrong, the colours are off, everything is flat and dull and lifeless even as the pictures move and laugh and smile.

I don't know how long I stayed like that. An hour maybe, when a commotion outside my door spurs me into taking a peek outside. I crack open the door and see the barman dragging Severus down the stairs. "I just came up the wrong way," he protests, and even I can tell it is a lie. There is another open door a little further down and I give a start when I see Headmaster Dumbledore and a young woman with large glasses and curly hair tied up in a scarf watching the scene unfold. The woman stares with unabashed interest. Dumbledore… the expression on his face is cold. Unfeeling. Nothing at all like the kindly headmaster from my childhood.

"I paid for a room!" Severus shouts. "It's mine until tomorrow!"

"Not any more it's not!" The barman snaps back. He has Severus by the back of his cloak and pauses just long enough to point at one of the patrons sitting at a table in the corner. "You!" He says to the young man with dark brown hair and wide eyes. "You're a lucky one! You were asking for a room, yes? Well, it looks like we've just got a vacancy."

Severus curses. "I have an interview with Headmaster Dumbledore–"

"Reschedule it. Somewhere not at my tavern. Now, out! Out!"

He pushes Severus out the front door and I watch as Severus smooths out his cloak and draws it around himself like a shield. With one last look, he disappears and I go back into my room and close the door.

I wake with a jolt, my breath coming out in pants. I'm confused. I don't know what woke me up, but my skin is clammy and I'm shaking. I fumble around the bedside table for my wand, lighting it up just enough to peer at my discarded watch. It reads 2:36 am.

A muffled thump echoes through his door. Night sounds, nothing to worry about, I think, but my breath is coming faster. I get up from the bed and creep to the door. I look out into the hall.

One of the doors slowly opens, the un-oiled hinges letting out a long, drawn-out groan. That's the room Severus had rented. I catch a glimpse of a face – is that James Potter? – and hold my breath as it disappears completely, as if an invisible veil had fallen over him, and although I can see nothing I can still hear the faint sounds of footsteps. Minutes pass, the footsteps grow fainter and fainter until they're gone. Slowly, I step out from the safety of my room and inch towards the open door.

Oh, he's sleeping, I think. The young, brown-haired man – the lucky one, as the barman called him – lays on the bed with his head buried on the pillow like a weight. Sickly moonlight pours in from the dirty window. No breath comes from his mouth, which is pulled wide and taught, the skin discoloured, and his glassy eyes are wide open. Dark stains seep into the mattress.

For a second, I stand there, completely thunderstruck. The glassy eyes seem to exercise a spell over me the longer I stare into them. At first, I resist the idea that takes shape within in me, but I can't shake it off. I creep quietly back to my room, light a candle, and pull out my sketchbook. The passion for art has fully overtaken me. The melancholy I felt before, the disgust at my own work has vanished. In seconds the icy corpse has become just another model, a subject. The Lucky One… that's what I'll call it… I think, darkening the man's hair until it is black, adding a hook to his nose, even though I know I'll never be able to show it to anyone.

Chapter 18: Epilogue

Chapter Text

"What do you mean you failed?" Malfoy demanded.

Snape could only lift his hands helplessly. "I was thrown out of the inn before my interview. Dumbledore is refusing to reschedule. Lucius… what do I tell him?"

Malfoy had his hands on his hips and he started to pace. He looked worried. "We must give him something, Severus. If you don't…"

"What? What will happen if I don't?"

"Nevermind. We'll think of something. Give me a moment."

Snape hesitated, and then said, "There is something… Something I overheard."

Harry hadn't touched the pensieve since Snape's posthumous trial. It was almost sacrilegious, rifling through the memories of a man long dead. But this was important. He had to know… He lingered on the memories that he had let pass too quickly that first time, during the battle, examining each one for some sort of clue about his father.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at first. He wanted it to be some sick joke, an artistic flight of fancy, but he couldn't shake off that gut instinct. He'd done a little digging in old Auror records during the time of the first war, and was immediately struck by a series of murders that had been labeled Death Eater attacks despite their peculiarity and the lack of the Dark Mark. There had been at least six victims, all young men. Most had dark hair, were tall and thin, and lived in and around Knockturn Alley where they had been killed and their bodies dumped. The last victim alone had been something of an anomaly: lighter in colour than the others, middle class, from Edinborough. He had been killed at the Hog's Head Inn and Harry might have discarded him if not for the fact that he had been sexually assaulted and his throat cut. It fit the killer's modus operandi.

Your parents would have gone into hiding not long after this last victim was killed. It would have been difficult for your father to sneak away long enough to– some dark, errant thought whispered through Harry's brain that he ruthlessly crushed before it could be completed.

"Such sloppy detective work," Harry murmured as he had flipped through the files. Anyone with eyes could see this wasn't the work of the Death Eaters. There was nothing to be gained politically from these deaths, some of the victims were even labeled Dark themselves. Whoever did this wanted to satisfy some sick, sado-sexual urge.

Harry tried to tell himself that there was a war on, the Aurors were stretched thin, many had lost their lives… and then Harry saw the name of the lead Auror on almost every case: James Potter, James Potter, James Potter.

The memories Snape had left behind were numerous, but brief. Almost as if he wasn't sure what Harry would find most useful and wanted to include as much information as he could. His father didn't appear in as many memories as Harry thought he might have, considering the lasting damage he had left on Snape. Maybe Snape figured Harry didn't need to know all of that, his first priority stopping Voldemort after all, maybe it was too painful to dwell on, or maybe… maybe his father had done things that not even Snape had wanted to burden the son with.

The memories floated by, and Harry found himself in Dumbledore's office.

Snape looked tired and worn, and he slumped a little in the chair across from Dumbledore, not long after Voldemort's return.

"He asked me to come upstairs. Alone," Snape said.

"What did he want?"

Snape shot Dumbledore a sharp look. "You know what he wanted."

Some time passed, maybe a year later (Fifth year? Harry thought), still in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster behind his desk, but this time Snape was standing some feet away.

"It's happening again," Snape said. His voice was a strange mixture of both terror and awe. "Look."

He pulled up his robes just high enough to show his boots, and then… he started to float. He hovered there, about a foot off the ground. It wasn't quite the feat of flight Snape had managed to pull off before the Battle of Hogwarts, but it was a start.

"I've never been able to do that before," Snape said and let out a short, hysterical laugh.

Harry pulled himself from the pensieve with a frustrated growl. He wasn't going to find any answers here. For the first time in his life, he wanted to hear what Snape had to say about his father. He wanted him to say he was a bully, that he was arrogant and cruel and selfish, but please let that be the worst of it. Don't let him be a killer.

Harry returned the pensieve to the Ministry archives, his thoughts still turning the problem over and over in his head. Maybe he was focusing on the wrong thing. Getting answers from Snape had always been like pulling teeth, no reason why that should change now that he was dead. Maybe Harry should focus on the painting itself.

He contacted Florette Lantier, the artist's niece who had provided the paintings for the exhibition. She took him to her uncle's studio, a little, rundown place in Knockturn Alley. "He could have gotten a better place, he had the money," Florette said as she showed him inside the garret apartment. "But Uncle Claude was always very particular. He said he liked the light."

The apartment was rather sparse. A few chairs, a bed and table and kitchenette. Harry thought he recognized the sofa from one of the man's paintings. Most of the space was dedicated to his studio. "I bought a book on important Wizarding artists of the modern era," Harry said as he made a slow circle of the room. "Your uncle was in it. So were most of his paintings. Except the one he did of a murderer and his victim."

"Oh, you mean The Lucky One," Florette answered brightly. "Uncle Claude never exhibited that one. I didn't even know it existed until I found it hidden in a closet."

"And he named it The Lucky One? The guy didn't look that lucky to me."

"I think the title is supposed to be ironic," Florette laughed.

"And you don't know anything more about it? It's history?"

"No, I'm sorry. Were you looking to purchase it?"

The idea of that painting hanging in his house turned his stomach. Harry's slow circle came to a stop in front of the window. He looked out at Knockturn Alley, at the garbage left lying in the gutter, the impoverished people shuffling through the muck and grime. The Ministry was never going to do anything about this place. These people would never receive any help. They had been violated and murdered and the Aurors had swept it under the rug.

Harry's eyes fell upon a little cemetery across the street and his heart stopped. He had a perfect view of it. He could see every headstone and broken light. It was where the first victim had been discovered, Marius Sweet. Claude Lantier lived here when it happened. Had he watched everything from this window? Had he seen the killer murder that poor man and done nothing but paint a picture of it?

"What do you think you're doing?" Harry snapped when he caught his eldest pulling out the invisibility cloak from its hiding spot in the back of his wardrobe.

James pouted. "I want to take it to Hogwarts with me."

"That's not going to happen. Hand it over, James."

It was an accessory to a crime. The half-painted figure of his father looming over Snape, the silvery lines pooling at his feet… What else could it mean? And as Harry watched James fling the cloak to the ground in a fit of childish anger, he was determined it would never again be used for such evil acts. James was a boy, an impatient, reckless boy who would probably abuse the cloak's power.

"You said you would give it to me one day," James said.

"Yes. One day. That doesn't mean today. It's your first year, I'm not letting you run around Hogwarts with an invisibility cloak."

"Why not? You did."

"I was also being hunted by an immortal, Dark wizard. If a dark wizard ever decides to make you his arch-nemesis, then I'll give you the cloak."

James stomped out of the room. Harry sighed and shook his head. He placed the invisibility cloak back in its hiding spot, grabbed a coat, and yelled downstairs, "I'm meeting Draco for lunch, see you in a bit."

"Alright, have fun," Ginny called back in a sing-song voice that told Harry just how little fun she expected him to have with Draco Malfoy of all people.

Harry apparated to an upscale restaurant. The host raked his eyes over his jeans and worn Muggle coat, but said nothing to the Saviour of the Wizarding World, merely led Harry to a table where Draco was already waiting.

Draco rolled his eyes at the sight of him and sneered, "Honestly, Potter, you couldn't bother to dress up a little?"

"Draco, after all I've been through, you're lucky I'm even bothering with trousers." Harry picked up the menu, saw that everything was in French, and dropped it back down on the table with a huff. "Do you have to work at being this pretentious or does it come natural?"

"Natural. You've met my parents."

"Order for me. Nothing ridiculous, just a normal meal."

"It wouldn't hurt to broaden your horizons, you know."

"Maybe I would have experienced more as a child, if I didn't have to, oh you know, defeat Voldemort as a teenager."

Harry was very proud of Draco when the other man didn't even flinch at the sound of his name. "When are you going to stop using that as an excuse?"

"Never."

The waiter came and Draco gave him their orders. Harry waited until their food had arrived, and then, he kind of blurted out, "I think my father was a serial killer."

Draco paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. "Alright. Why tell me?" He asked as he set the fork back down on his plate.

"Well, your father also killed a bunch of people–"

"f*ck you, Potter."

"–and you were close to Snape."

Draco peered at him. "Is this about that painting?"

"Yeah. I've… found out a few things. I think it might be based on a real incident. The evidence is all circ*mstantial, however. I was hoping you might be able to help me. There might be more evidence, a clue maybe, locked up in Malfoy Manor or in the Slytherin dungeons. Something."

"And what then?" Draco asked. "What if it's true? What if saintly James Potter really was a serial killer?"

Harry swallowed. "Then I expose him. Give closure to the victims' families."

"Your father was martyred. He's practically been canonized. No one will thank you for ruining their image of a war hero."

Harry shrugged. "Nobody thanked me when I forced the Ministry to exonerate Snape. I don't do the things I do for thanks."

Draco tipped his glass at Harry. "True enough. Alright, I'll help if I can."

Harry gave him a tight smile. He dreaded the truth, but he knew he wouldn't stop until he found out what had really happened all those years ago.