Part Three: Rescues

"And now," he said, "it is time for two of our number to recognize each other for what they are. Sirius ... if you could resume your usual form."

From THE GOBLET OF FIRE.

The man hidden under the voluminous cape ignored the scene before him to safely check that they two were truly alone, truly unwatched. He dropped the spectalocator into one of his pockets before carefully rolling back the sleeve of his robe, thereby seeing that nothing would interfere with his wand arm.

On soft-booted feet, he silently made his way around the circle of light in which the other man lay panting. As the first finally decided to approach the man, a streak of lightning-like silvery blue hit the man in the circle and his body arched, only head and heels on the ground, throat taut with distended ligaments as the sound of his scream echoed in the chamber.

There was another flash of light and another scream, cut off as a third hit.

The watcher knew that it was because the man had no more breath to yell, that his throat had closed on him and that air neither made its way out or in. Just when he was certain that this lack of air would kill him, the man's body collapsed onto the ground and his gasping sobs indicated that he was breathing once more.

The watcher waited until the man's breathing was more controlled before venturing to the edge of the light. "Happen often, does that?"

The man in the circle lay still.

The watcher said nothing, waited, examined the sweat-drenched robe that might once have been grey but was now stained with a variety of substances the watcher preferred to ignore. The man's hands were clenched tightly by his side as he, too, seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, he turned his head in the direction of the voice. "Enjoying the show?" His voice was rough, raw. Probably, thought the watcher, his throat was shredded from his screams.

"How often?" Though still soft, the voice insisted on an answer.

The man made a sort of chortling sound and coughed. Neither had been a good idea. He gasped as the pain tore at his throat and chest.

The watcher crouched, wand out as if to touch the circle.

"Don't!"

The watcher stilled.

"Set to kill any one who touches, unless..."

"Unless what?" The watcher was growing impatient. He had been here far too long already.

The man grinned ferally. "You'll love this prank," he said. "The confining spell can only be cancelled by one who loves me." Sirius Black opened his eyes and attempted to sound non- chalant about the situation. "Go away. There's nothing you can do."

And, turning his face away from the watcher, he closed his eyes once more. Exhausted, he slipped into sleep.

Severus Snape sat back on his heels and looked at the man whose death would be painful and drawn out. The Death Eaters had caught Black at an inopportune time and had enough knowledge of his history to amuse themselves – and their Lord – in this way.

But there were not so many of them, they who were gathering to fight Voldemort, that they could afford to lose someone with Black's skills and abilities.

Resigned, unsure if it would work, Snape took a calming breath and dug deep within himself, trying to find that sixteen year old boy who had...

According to Black, what he had had was a crush. On the man – also according to Black – who had been Black's friend, James Potter.

Snape ignored those thoughts and tried to work his way past the resentment, the anger, the fear, the humiliation of that time. Instead, he focused on what he had felt when he had watched Sirius Black walk into a room. When he had heard Black's voice and laughter. When passing Black in a hall had given meaning to his drab life. When his fantasies of Black had fueled his masturbatory sessions.

A crush, maybe, for those used to those feelings. But love for the sixteen year old boy who had never before experienced them.

Eyes tightly shut, lips pressed together in his determination to hold onto that feeling, Snape reached out with his wand to touch the edge of the light. What would be would be.

"Suspendo!"

And the circle of light disappeared.

Snape cautiously stretched out his hand to touch the one lying palm up on the ground.

Nothing happened. Lightning did not strike. He was not killed.

With a disdainful snort at his own fear, Snape reached over and slid his hands under the unconscious man. With a grunt, he slowly rose to his feet, gave a slight heave with his arms so that Black – who weighed far less than he should have – was more comfortably ensconced against him and, with a sneer of distaste for the situation, murmured, "Disapparate!"

At first, Sirius Black thought he was dreaming.

He could tell he was lying on a bed, with a hard but comfortable mattress under him, the scent of clean bedding all around him.

It had to be a dream. Or some new game of the Death Eaters.

He thought about it a little longer, wondering, if he dared open his eyes, would the dream totally disappear?

"Sirius. It's all right. You're safe. Now, be a good lad, open your eyes."

The voice was not a Death Eater's. Surprised, he listened and obeyed.

"Dumbledore!" His croaked whisper was barely audible to his own ears.

But Dumbledore heard and smiled down at him. "Welcome back, Sirius. You had us worried there for an hour or two." And before Sirius Black could ask, Dumbledore answered many of the questions bombarding his brain.

"You are at Hogwarts, in the dungeon area. Only Severus and Poppy know you're here. We thought it better that the least amount of people possible should know that you've escaped and are still alive. And so far, Voldemort and his Death Eaters have not been able to penetrate the spells that protect Hogwarts and its inhabitants.

"Yes, yes, I know. You have more questions but they will have to wait. Now then, Poppy has given you a potion that will help you, but frankly, what you need is time to recover your strength and for your powers to regenerate. Surviving that ‘prank' has used up most of your resources, both body and wizardry. Even before this, you still were nowhere near recovered from your stay in Azkaban.

"And though I know your throat is very painful, I do need to know what it was you discovered, if anything?"

Black found the energy to grin wickedly at the man sitting by his bedside. He was delighted to be able to report, though the news he had was not pleasant. Using just a few words, allowing Dumbledore to fill in the blanks, he explained how there were more Death Eaters coming forward now that Voldemort was regaining strength, who they were, how far-reaching they were. How prepared they were for their attempt at regaining power and position.

"Not ready yet," he croaked, "but maybe faster than we thought."

Dumbledore nodded sadly. Yes, probably far faster, far stronger than they had hoped.

He stood up and patted the exhausted wizard on the shoulder. "Excellent information, Sirius. I'm sorry it came at such a cost to you, but thank you for getting it to us."

Black smiled tiredly. "It's I who thank you. We've all heard how much you love your students, Albus, but I was never before so thankful it is true. Did you just happen on us or did Snape have the time to send for you?"

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. He wasn't certain but he could now guess at the spell that had held Black captive for his torture. "Sirius, I have no idea what you're talking about, lad," he lied, straight-faced. "Severus found you and Severus was the one who brought you back to us. In fact, you are in his quarters. We thought it was the safest place in which to hide you. Too much student traffic in the Infirmary, you know. Besides," Dumbledore almost laughed aloud at the stunned expression on his former student's face, "there are potions that you will need to take to help in your recovery, and Severus has them on hand. Now then, sleep well. We'll talk again when you're feeling stronger."

And with that, Dumbledore took himself off to find Severus Snape, who was working in his office.

"Ah, Severus. I thought I would find you here. I appreciate your willingness to allow Sirius to hide in your quarters."

Actually, Snape had thought that Black would be just as safe in one of the tower rooms or even in Dumbledore's quarters. The first had been rejected as too open to suspicion: Pomfrey would occasionally have to see to her patient, and her presence in that part of the school – not her normal stomping grounds – was bound to attract attention. And attention was the last thing any of them wanted to attract.

As for Dumbledore's rooms, well, there was far too much chance of Black's presence being definitely noticed due to the amount of traffic that went through there these days. Ministry officials, coalition wizards, worried parents, all going back and forth.

No, as Dumbledore had insisted only the three of them would know about Black's presence, he had indicated the only safe place left were Snape's own quarters.

Who hadn't been pleased then and still wasn't pleased now. Snape ignored the thanks with his usual scowl. "Was the information of any importance?"

Dumbledore sighed loudly. "Yes. Very. And very worrying." With a few words, he brought Snape up to date on the situation. "Well, I'm off to pass the information on to certain allies. You'd better get some sleep; you have classes in a few hours. Poppy said she'll send you the list of potions that Sirius will need. He should be all right until morning. Oh, and if he's sleeping, you shouldn't wake him. Sleep is the best potion of all for him right now."

Snape grunted, scowl not lessening.

As he left, Dumbledore removed the privacy spell he had placed on the room when he'd entered. There were ears everywhere these days, especially in Slytherin territory.

Still, in the hallway, he allowed himself a small snicker. He had been aware, as had many others in that time, that Severus Snape had been fascinated by the Marauders, as they had called themselves. He, too, had assumed – at first – that Potter had been the focus of that fascination. Until he had noticed that the eyes that followed were fixed on that of James Potter's right hand co-conspirator: Sirius Black.

Yes, he thought as he gave the password for his quarters – "Dingdongs" – the next weeks should prove very interesting.

Snape rubbed at the fatigue in his eyes. He needed sleep, even if there were only a couple of hours before he found himself in class, trying to instill the need for order and exactness in the tiny brains of the first year students. This double life he was leading, potions instructor by day, double agent by night, meant that he often went without sleep. It was a price he was usually willing to pay.

But tonight – no, this morning! – he was near his very own bed, and there really was no reason that he shouldn't be in it, not even considering who was already housed there.

After all, the bed was almost as wide as it was long. And Snape was a tall man.

He entered his bedchamber quietly, silently undressed in the dark that was broken only by the flickering shadows of the dying fire. It was easy enough to ignore the lump at the other side of his bed as he slipped between the covers at his side. With peeved determination at not letting his life be more disarranged than it already was, he pounded the pillow into his preferred shape and lay his head down, his back purposefully turned to the sleeping man.

Within minutes, his breath was coming in a soft, almost snuffling rhythm.

At the other side of the bed, Sirius Black lay listening, still stunned by Dumbledore's revelation.

Those first days, all Black had the energy to do was sleep, eat, allow Merly to help him to the bathroom, and then drop back into bed. Of Snape he saw nothing. Oh, he knew the man was still sharing the bed, which occurred only after Black had fallen soundly asleep – no doubt aided by that potion Merly added to his final evening cup of tea. In the morning, the dented pillow next to him, the thrown back covers indicated that he had indeed had a bed partner, but that was as close to Snape as he got.

After a couple of days, he found that his body no longer craved sleep and so he sat up in bed, propped on pillows, and read whatever book Merly found for him. That they all came from Snape's bookcases there was no doubt: they were all identified with his scrawled name on the cover page, along with the year in which they had joined his library. Black assumed that Merly had Snape's permission to borrow; otherwise, he knew that the elf, who held Snape in reverent awe, would never have dared do so just because Black had asked.

As he read through the Journal of Novel Potions, Volume MMMCCLXVII, Issue 3 (of the four annual issues, subscription open only to members of the Potion Masters Society, 14 Galleons a year), which incidentally contained the article that revealed the development of a wolfbane potion that could be used by werewolves at the time of the full moon to retain their human intelligence, Black ignored the thought processes going on in the back of his mind. It was a trick he had learnt as a student here at Hogwarts. A troubling problem, left alone for his brain to work through without any interference on his part, usually solved itself. He'd slept with a pad of paper and a pencil on his night table for those solutions which insisted on arriving in the middle of the night. If he didn't jot them down right away, he often didn't remember them come morning.

So as he read how Potions Master "Rousay" had come across the working combination of ingredients, he allowed his brain to figure out just how and when and why one Severus Snape would have come to love one Sirius Black.

Black shook his head and tossed the Journal to one side. No wonder subscriptions were limited to Potions Masters: he had no idea how anyone other than a Potions Master could follow the intricacies and nuances of the article. Still, he would have to remember to send "Rousay" a message of thanks when this was all over. Remus had never looked better. In spite of the debacle with Snape...

How the hell could something like Snape feel love for anyone? For him?

Damn, but the man was a walking advertisement for retroactive abortion!

True, he had produced the potion Remus had needed, but then he had set about destroying the only peace the man had had in years. Dumbledore had sent Remus off to reconnoiter among his kind, but...Damn it! And damn Snape! Remus should have been here at Hogwarts, safe. He had been a good instructor. Merlin's breath! Harry had told him how Remus had been the best Defence Against the Dark Arts Instructor that they had had.

Black rubbed his face in frustration. Yet this same man had saved him, breaking a spell that only one who loved him could break.

Black stared at the canopy of the huge four-poster. With a rueful shake of his head, he allowed that maybe this was a problem that his brain might never solve.

Of course, he couldn't spend all of his time in bed. There came the day that he just couldn't stand the thought of staying in bed any longer. Merly grinned happily at him and brought him some clothing. Nothing fancy, just pants and a sweater. Neither of which could belong to Snape. He wasn't as tall as Snape so the fact that the pants fit meant that they had been provided from another source. Ditto for the sweater, as it was a soft blue colour, not Snape's preferred black.

Still confined to Snape's quarters, Black ventured into the main room, with its walls of stuffed bookshelves, its cheerful fire and the comfortable chairs by it. With a grimace, Black remembered the night he had sat in the armchair, waiting for the arrival of an Azkaban Dementor and death. There had been nothing that night in Snape's demeanour to indicate that he harboured softer feelings for his prisoner.

He was sitting in the same armchair, a plate of sandwiches at hand, re-reading Kennilworthy Whisp's "Quidditch Through the Ages", when the door suddenly opened and Snape stomped into the room. He stopped, obviously not having expected to find his "visitor" up and comfortably ensconced in his chair.

For a breath, the two men looked at each other. Snape grimaced but said nothing. Still, his anger was easy enough for Black to read. He pretended to return to his tome while watching Snape from the corner of his eye. The man stiffly marched over to the desk in the corner of the room, opened a drawer and removed some papers. Equally stiffly, he marched back to the door.

"That," he broke the tension-filled silence, "is my chair. Get Merly to find you another." The door behind him did not slam, but the ferociously controlled manner of its closing made the message clear.

Merly was delighted to find Black another chair.

Black pretended to be sleeping when Snape finally came to bed. He waited until the man lay, his back towards him, to break the heavy silence.

"We do have to speak about it."

The man stiffened. "I don't see why."

Black propped himself up on an elbow. "Please. We have to. First of all, because I need to thank you."

With a sigh that indicated he felt very put-upon, Snape turned to lie on his back. Eyes focused on the canopy, he shrugged. "I did what I had to do. We need all the help we can gather if we are to overcome Voldemort."

Black nodded. "I see. So, I am only another wand in the battle."

Snape turned his head and finally looked at the man watching him. "That's the way it is. That is all any of us are, wands gathering to battle."

Black nodded again. "I accept that."

Snape went back to contemplating the canopy.

"I also need to apologize to you."

Snape sneered, "What? Again?"

Black sighed to himself. He should have known that Snape would do nothing to make this easy. "Yes. Again. First, for not having understood. It's just... We were so used to James being the one who attracted all the attention... We just thought..."

"Well," mocked Snape, "it was probably best for me that you thought so. Imagine the pleasure you would all have had taunting me if you had realized..."

"Snape!" Black interrupted, "Don't. Please, yes, we were stupid enough in those days. Thoughtless enough. I admit it. I acknowledge it. Though I will also admit that I don't understand it."

Snape moved his head so that he could see the man next to him. "What don't you understand, Black?"

Black winced at the coldness of the tone.

"That I found you worth watching? I was not the only one. You, too, had your following. James Potter was not the only golden boy of the Marauders. Or is it that I might actually have been human enough to have feelings? Me. The potions whiz. The loner of the Slytherins. Who did not have friends even among his own kind."

Black reached out with his free hand. Snape pulled away, almost falling out of the bed in his haste to avoid Black's touch. Catching himself, he settled on the edge of his bed, back once more to Black. "All I did, Black, was remind myself of the fool I had once been. Whoever had set the spell had not done a great job of it. That was enough to allow me to get you out. Now, leave me alone. I, for one, have things to do tomorrow."

And with that, Snape forced himself into sleep.

Sirius Black remained as he was, watching the man who was proving to be more and more of an enigma.

Yes, to be honest – and here he had to be honest, if only with himself – back then, he had known that he had his own following. He had no trouble finding partners to snog behind the curtains or in some dark alcove. Partners of either sex. As he had explained to Snape, it had been a time of experimentation.

That he and Remus had ended up going further had more to do with finding a willing partner than in any deeper feelings. In those days, it seemed that they had been perpetually horny, and a chance to explore that horniness to satisfaction had been a delicious thrill.

Oh, he had cared for Remus. He still did. The event at the Shrieking Shack... Merlin! Looking back, he wondered how he could have been so bloody stupid! Thank all the deities that James had understood in time. Had stopped Remus from killing Snape. Dumbledore had been right to swear them all to secrecy. His thoughtless cruelty of that night...

Damn! It had nothing to do with being sixteen! No matter what he had said to Snape. No matter what he had said to defend himself to James and then Remus, what he had done had been cruel.

Black sat up and propped his pillows so that he could rest comfortably against the headboard. One thing he had finally learnt to do in Azkaban – of all places! – was to accept responsibility for his actions.

He had known that Voldemort was after James and Lily. In his arrogance, he had thought to outwit the Dark Wizard. He, the great Sirius Black, would set up the perfect safety net that no one would be able to penetrate. Yes, indeed! After all, who would ever think that someone as ineffectual as Peter Pettigrew would be entrusted...

And he had paid for his arrogance. Was still paying for it.

James and Lily dead. Harry left alone with Muggles who rejected him constantly. Remus wandering around, trying to find acceptance. He and twelve lost years in Azkaban.

All because he had trusted Peter, who had betrayed them all.

And he was probably responsible for that as well. It had been his idea to allow Peter to join the Marauders. His "good" – he scoffed to himself – deed.

Damn! The boy had been so needy. Such an easy target for their stronger classmates. So ready to carry out their slightest requests. "Get me a cup of tea, Peter, there's a good lad." "Find me that book for Charms in the Library, Peter." "Why don't you sneak down into the kitchens and find us a feast, Peter. There's a good lad."

And Peter, so hungry to belong, for affection, had done whatever they had asked of him. Had laughed at their jokes, even when they had been on him.

Looking back during his time in prison, he had come to realize that Remus of all of them had been the first to realize that what they were doing was cruel. He had begun siding with Peter, trying to talk the others out of using him as the butt of their jokes.

James, too, had finally grown up enough to see the damage it was doing. Maybe he had accepted Sirius's plan out of a feeling that something was owed to Peter for all the abuse he had endured at their hands.

Maybe Peter's betrayal had been his way of getting revenge on him, Sirius, for never seeing Peter as more than an appendage to the group.

Merlin! What an arsehole he had been!

He had thought a lot about that also while in prison. It hadn't provided the Dementors with much nourishment!

He didn't purposely set out to be cruel. He had just never seen the cruel side to his games.

The Blacks had never been a very prolific family. And his parents had been cousins. His birth, which had come late in his parents' lives, had been a no-longer-expected blessing. He had been spoiled by his delighted parents and by his doting grandparents. He was the miracle child who could do no wrong. In their eyes, he was more intelligent than anyone else, more handsome.

Thank Merlin that the House Elves had merely seen him as another child. Due to his mother's age, he had been mostly left in the care of Lilbeth, who had been very good at reminding him he was no different than other children. He had chafed against her rules, but now he had to admit that without her and the other House Elves, he would have become a monster.

Still, it had taken Azkaban to really teach him humanity.

He looked over at the man sleeping on the edge of his bed, a bed that he had been forced to share against his will.

The shoulders were hunched, thought Black, as though for protection.

Against what?

Maybe, said a little voice in his mind which sounded very much like Lilbeth, against further pain.

Black slid down until he was lying on his side, facing Snape's back.

The spellcaster of the circle had not been incompetent. Lucius Malfoy was many things, but he was not incompetent. Not when his Master was watching him. That spell had been well and truly cast. Only true feelings of love could break that spell, and Malfoy had been certain that anyone who had loved Black was long dead. As Malfoy had gleefully pointed out to his Lord, his parents as well as Potter had died before Azkaban. Who else was there to release him?

Who indeed?

Who would have thought that the man who had been ready to turn him over to the Dementors and death would find the love in himself to save Sirius Black?

Dumbledore, in consultation with Pomfrey and Merly, decided that Black should not go anywhere quite yet.

"Yes, I know that you are chafing at the bit, Sirius. That after all those years of confinement, you can barely accept more. But you are still not up to strength and, if we are to vanquish Voldemort once and for all, we need everyone to be at their best."

"All right," muttered Black, "but surely you can find me other rooms. Merly can see to my needs without attracting any attention."

But Dumbledore waved that thought away. "No, no. It's better not to chance any discovery. I've cleared it with Severus. You'll stay here for the meanwhile."

Black looked up from his book to watch Snape, who was working at his desk. In the days that he had been here, he had learnt that Snape liked to keep the different aspects of his life separate. So, all school-related work was dealt with in his office; here, in his quarters, he was concerned only with personal things. Writing letters to correspondents, reviewing articles sent to him by potions journals, doing research on whatever it was he was researching, all that was done evenings and weekends at the desk in his quarters.

Snape, Black was not really surprised to discover, may have been the thorn in the side of many a Hogwarts student, but he was a highly respected authority in his chosen field.

With eyes that were more open than they had been, Black surreptitiously watched Snape whenever he could. And, now that Snape thought that the issue of his rescue of Black had been dealt with, he was spending more time working in his quarters.

Not that there was any conversation. Snape barely acknowledged Black's presence.

Once, Black would have used the opportunity of this enforced sharing – he had no illusion that his continued presence in these rooms was due to Dumbledore, and only Dumbledore – to make Snape's life miserable. He would have challenged the silence. He would have used the time to go through Snape's private things, knowing how this would have irritated the private man to blistering anger.

But he had grown up. Now he read silently while Snape worked.

He had politely requested and waited for permission to browse among Snape's bookshelves. He saw to it that when Snape arrived after evening detention, there was a cup of hot tea waiting for him at his desk. He went to bed first, determining the time to do so by the tension and lines on Snape's face. A bad day, and Black found his side of the bed early so that Snape, who would only enter the bedchamber once he thought Black was asleep, could also find his side early.

But all the while, Black watched Snape and tried to understand what made the man as he was.

They were into their second week of co-habitation when Black awoke to hear Snape cursing away in anger from the main room. He leaned against the doorjamb, yawning, watching as Snape made a mess of his desk.

"Where the bloody hell is..."

Black shook his head. "What are you looking for?"

Snape made a sound that reminded Black of Buckbeak when displeased.

"I haven't touched anything on your desk," Black said.

Snape looked up. "I don't remember accusing you of doing so," he snarled.

Black said nothing, just scratched his stomach through the linen of his nightshirt.

"Damn it! I know I have it. I was working on it the other night." Snape shoved a pile of books that was on his desk and sent it crashing to the floor. "BLOODY HELL!"

Black slowly advanced into the room. "Look, why don't you tell me what you're looking for and maybe I can help."

Frustrated, hands in hair, ready to pull it out, Snape tried to get himself under control.

Well, thought Black, not the coldly controlled persona that Snape so liked to present in public. He smiled to himself, hiding it under a yawn.

"It's a list. Of ingredients that make up a potion that just might help us in dealing with the Dementors. I don't have the time to test it out, and one of my colleagues has offered to do so, but there is a time restriction on when his owl can get back to him and I have a class to teach. Now!"

Black kept his voice as neutral as possible. "Well, if you feel you can trust me with the papers on and in your desk, you can go teach your class and I can look for the list. Just tell me what I should recognize, and I'll go through everything until I find it. If you trust me."

Snape didn't answer immediately but, after a moment's thought, gave a sharp nod. "It lists agrimony and crowfoot at the top," and made for the door. "The owl is waiting in Dumbledore's office. Send Merly with the list if you should find it."

Actually, thought Black as he cleaned up the mess that Snape had made, his first surprise of the day was that Snape did trust him to find the list. Which he did, folded and slipped into one of the volumes that Snape had sent to the floor. Merly cheerfully dashed up to send it on its way.

The second came while Black continued to set Snape's papers to right. Not only had the man cleared off his desk top in his hunt for the list, he had pulled papers out of his drawers and strewn them about the area. Black was putting them back together, reading some of them enough to know what went with which pile, when he came across what was definitely a rough copy of something that he had recently read.

He sat back on his heels and read the sheet, looking around for more of the same, an article on the development of the wolfbane potion. Which he now remembered having read in that Journal of Novel Potions, an article written by someone who was not Snape. It took him a few minutes but he found the Journal and the article. Written by Potions Master "Rousay".

Black stared at the papers in his hands and at the article in the Journal. Dumbledore, during one of his visits, had indicated that it had been at his behest that Snape had produced the potion Remus needed every month. "I knew his pride would insist that he do so, difficult though it is," had chuckled the old wizard.

Fuck pride, thought Black. He hadn't just produced the damn potion. He had invented it!

Why?

Why go to the bother of creating a potion that would allow Remus – and others like him – to take his place in society and then set about to destroy that place?

"Snape?"

There came a grumbling sound that Black took to be a "yes".

"Are you really as curmudgeonny as you pretend to be?"

They were playing Wizard Chess. Black had suggested the game one evening when Snape had been restless, and now it was part of their daily routine. Black liked the intellectual challenge the game gave him, forcing him to remember old strategies, having to counter Snape's, who, for someone who seemed to live his life by the rules, played in a most creative manner.

The nightly games had resulted in a less tense environment in Snape's quarters. Snape, Black noticed, slept far better when he had been successful against Black, not necessarily beating him but astonishing him with some unexpected move.

Snape slowly looked up from his tented fingers upon which he had rested his chin. "Pretend?" he drawled in his driest tone.

Black tried one of the innocent smiles that had worked so well in the old days, days when he had barrelled uncaringly through life. He'd been here almost three weeks. He had caught up on his sleep, had added some flesh to his bones, had read up on the many changes in wizardry he had missed while in Azkaban. Though he enjoyed their games – from which he had learnt a few new things about his host – he missed conversation, the discussion of everyday things that, before Azkaban, had seemed unimportant, even mundane but which had assumed more and more importance as the years had gone by.

"Well," Black ordered a rook out of the way and sat back in his chair, "it seems to me that if you really disliked people as much as you indicate in your behaviour, there is no way that you would be here at Hogwarts. No way that you would be wasting your time and excellent skills on dunderheaded students. I think," Black smiled at Merly who was pouring out their before-bed teas, "that this is a ‘methinks thou protesteth too much' scenario."

"Do you indeed?" The drawl was drawn out, a sure sign that biting sarcasm was not far behind. But Black had noticed that along with the sarcasm there was wit. And often a weird...humour, for want of a better word, that Black was beginning to find appealed to him.

Snape accepted his cup from Merly and nodded his appreciation. That was another thing Black had noticed. In most places, House Elves were taken for granted. Oh, one remembered to thank them now and then if one had been brought up to notice them: they really didn't seem to need much approval. And there were the annual gifts of sweets, if the household deigned to do so. But Snape never accepted anything from Merly without some recognition. Which Merly repaid with reverent dedication.

And not just Merly.

Since he couldn't leave these rooms, Black was around when the House Elves arrived to clean the rooms, to pick up or deliver laundry, to bring his meals and those of Snape, should he have decided to eat in his quarters. And there were always sweets left in places that only the House Elves would find. If he were present, Snape always indicated that he saw them and the service they were providing.

Black's mother had not been all that well after his birth. She had become very dependent on the House Elves who had accompanied her to the house after her marriage. She recognized them and called them by name, smiled at them and, in general, taught her son that House Elves, dedicated though they were, were also part of the family. Lilbeth had, after all, been his nursemaid of sorts.

So he was pleased to see that Snape, for all his reputation (snarky, anti-social, terrifier of students), was good to the House Elves assigned to him.

"There has to be a reason that you're still here. You could easily have left years ago, Snape. You have the talent and ability to demand and get whatever you wanted. Any Ministry would consider having you working for them a coup."

Snape sat back in his chair and took a sip of chai. "Compliments, Black? How interesting? I wonder what it is you want from me?"

Black shrugged and took a sip of his own tea.

"Possibly,' continued Snape as he stared at the contents of his cup, ‘but then I would have had to practice civility, and we both know the impossibility of that occurring."

Black smiled openly. "Being polite and unctuous to Minister Fudge."

The image took Snape so completely by surprise that he groaned loudly.

"Agreeing with everything the Minister for Foreign Ideas has to say."

Snape's eyes lightened over the rim of his cup.

"Allowing your ideas to be accredited to the Sub-Minister of Ministerial Magical Procedures."

Black was willing to swear that he saw a glimmer of laughter in Snape's eyes.

"Having some neophyte correct you on your potions."

Snape's eyebrow rose. "Only if he desired a slow death! No, here at Hogwarts, I can be my true self. I can browbeat any student that I wish," his voice rippled with dramatic satisfaction. "All of them, should the urge come upon me. I can be dictatorial. I can pick favourites and be unfair. I can hound the ineffectual."

He took another sip, suddenly serious. "Besides, this is where Dumbledore is and, if you remember, that was my deal with the Dark Lord, to spy on Dumbledore for him in exchange for my life."

Black nodded, knowing the story from having pestered Dumbledore enough on his rare visits to the dungeon to have finally gotten him to divulge more information about his working with Snape. But he didn't like where this conversation had taken them. He had been trying for a different tone.

Snape must have picked up his unease for he changed back to his dramatic tone. "No, all things considered, this is the right environment for me. Not some stuffy ministerial office where politics is the rule of the day."

Snape placed his cup down. "Why this sudden interest in my curmudgeonity, Black?"

Black grinned. "No real reason. I was just looking for a safe topic of conversation. It's something I've missed, conversation."

Snape rose and slipped his hands into his robe's pockets. "Safe? You feel safe baiting the beast?"

Black stood so that he could look into Snape's eyes. "I don't see a beast." Before Snape could react, he nodded his head. "Well, I'm for bed. All this scintillating conversation has worn me out. ‘Night, Snape."

But Snape had understood the message, and he slowly introduced what he thought both of them would see as safe topics of conversation. Some of the events of the day, the disasters that followed Neville Longbottom, the gossip repeated in teachers' lounge, news items in the Daily Prophet, though they conspicuously avoided any that dealt with Sirius Black's still being at large.

And then one day, Sirius Black realized that he really enjoyed Severus Snape's company. And from the way Snape was spending more time in his quarters, even taken to tossing out the occasional comment on what he was reading or researching, Black thought that maybe Snape was enjoying his company as well.

"I have a request to make."

Black looked up from his book. Snape was standing by the door, looking more severe than Black had seen him for some time.

Black put down his book. "You have only to ask."

"I need time alone this evening in this room. I have a student coming and the matter to be dealt with is personal. I know that it will seem like even more confinement to you, but it is necessary for the situation that you remain in the bedchamber. Not just because it is imperative that you not be seen."

"Of course." Black rose. "Is it something I can help with?"

"No." Snape shook his head slightly. "No," his voice softened, "it may be something no one can help with."

So, of course, once he took his book into the bedchamber, Black spelled the lights and fire out so that he could keep the door open just a sliver.

It bothered him that Snape looked so worried. Had something happened to his family? Not that Black knew if he still had one, but it was possible. Had his presence been detected by some student who was going to use it to blackmail Snape into doing something?

And besides, the old Black was not all subdued by his experiences at Azkaban: he was still insatiably curious. He was just far more discreet about it.

He watched as Snape set the chairs in front of the fire so that Black's was facing the hearth, while Snape's was more in the shadows. Merly brought a tray with a teapot and two large, saucerless cups, a small bowl heaped with sugar cubes, a milk jug, and placed the whole on a small table that had been pulled behind Snape's chair.

"You calls me, Master. I be waiting." Even Merly's tone was deadly serious.

"If I have need of you. Thank you, Merly."

So the scene was set, thought Black as he watched Snape examine some scrolls over by his desk, only the other actor was missing.

There was a knock on the door. Hesitant, soft.

Snape set down the scrolls and went over to the door. Before opening it, he took a deep breath, straightened his spine and put on his most expressionless face.

"Ah, on time, Jeffries. Do come in."

The student was not a first year, thought Black, though he certainly looked nervous enough for one. He was tall, thin to the point of emaciation – his robes hung on him as though on a skeleton. His eyes were large in a pale, drawn face made more skeletal by the close-cropped blondish hair. And, even from his sliver, Black could see him trembling.

"I see that Promfrey did her usual excellent job on your wrist. Does it hurt?"

The boy jerked. He raised his left hand and Black could see as his robe's sleeve slipped back that there was a large bandage that began at the palm only to disappear in the folds of the sleeve.

"No, Professor. It doesn't hurt."

His voice was soft, almost a mere thread of a whisper. And dead. With no feeling, no personality. Black felt a shiver of something unknown.

"I'm glad it doesn't." Black was stunned by the gentleness in Snape's voice. "Please, sit down...in that chair, the one closer to the fire...you look a little chilled. Tea, I think."

Black suddenly realized from the setting that Snape had probably known that he would be watching. From his viewpoint, he could see part of the boy, could see that Snape was pouring something from a vial into one of the cups then adding tea, lots of sugar and then a touch of milk to it before pouring tea into the other cup.

Snape handed the potioned cup to the boy who stared at it as though he had no idea what to do with it. "Jeffries," again that gentle voice, "tea. I've sweetened it according to Pomfrey's orders. She seems to think that overly sweet tea is good for blood loss."

The boy finally seemed to realized that he was supposed to take the cup. He did and nearly spilt it. Only Snape's hand taking control of it once more kept it from splattering over both of them.

"Sorry," whispered the boy.

"It's shock. Pomfrey warned me that you might feel it for some time yet. Have you got a good grasp on it now? Yes, that's right. A sip would probably help. I may have filled it a bit full."

Snape stood by, ready to go to the rescue of the cup should it look as though it would need it. The boy, both hands around the cup, managed to bring it up to his mouth. He sipped. Even from his place, Black could see the effect of the potion on the boy. His hands stopped trembling and he managed an even bigger mouthful of the tea.

Snape waited until the boy had swallowed at least half the contents before finding his chair.

"You're new with us this year, aren't you, Jeffries?"

The cup wobbled but didn't need rescuing. "Yes, Professor."

"I see from your records that you were taught at home."

The cup rattled against the boy's teeth. He swallowed audibly. "We...we travelled, sir."

"And you did spend time at Beauxbatons and Durmstrang."

The cup landed on the floor. "S-s-sorry, sir."

"Not a problem, Jeffries, accidents happen."

Now Black was certain that whatever was wrong, it was seriously wrong. He had never imagined that Snape's voice could sound both so understanding and so sympathetic.

Snape picked up the cup from the floor, took it and his back to the small table. Black could no longer see Jeffries, but he watched as Snape seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

When he moved, Black could see that the potion had taken full effect. The boy was sitting still, barely breathing, eyes focused on the flames on the hearth.

Snape sat quietly in his chair. "Thomas. Listen to me. You are safe here. Here no one will hurt you. No one will yell at you. No one will strike you. You are safe. You will always be safe with me. Do you understand?"

Astonished by Snape's words, Black held his breath waiting for the boy's answer. When it came, Black felt inexplicably chilled.

"No one can keep me safe."

"I can." Snape leaned forward, careful not to touch the boy. "I swear to you, Thomas, that I can. And that I will. I swear it on my oath as a Potions Master. Here you can tell me anything and everything. There will be no repercussions. There will be no punishments. Here you are safe."

The boy said nothing but Black thought he somewhat relaxed. He stared into the fire all the time Snape questioned him.

Thomas, you are the son of Sylvester Jeffries, are you not?

Yes.

A Master Wizard with the Diplomatic Service, I believe.

Yes.

You were taught at home. By your father.

He tried to teach me.

Tried?

But it didn't work. Doesn't work. Not really.

What doesn't work, Thomas?

The magic. He tried to teach me the magic but I don't have any in me.

Is that why he beats you, Thomas?

He says I'm not trying. He says that if I tried, I wouldn't be such a disgrace. That there has never been a Squib in the Jeffries family and that no son of his will be the first.

That's why he kept you at home instead of sending you to a Wizard school.

He said that he would find enough magic in me to send me to a proper school. So I wouldn't make him the laughing stock of his Ministry.

You went to Beauxbatons.

Yes. But they sent me back. They said that I should go to a different school.

Then you went to Durmstrang.

With a cousin who was supposed to help me with my work.

And did he?

Yes. But then came the practical demonstrations and he couldn't cover for me there.

And you were sent back to your father.

Yes.

How did your father react?

I thought he was going to kill me.

And now you're here, at Hogwarts.

Yes.

And if you are sent back, how do you think your father will react?

I think he will kill me.

Thomas, you have a wand.

Yes.

Is it yours?

Yes. This one is.

This one? Ah, you needed a wand for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Was the wand you had then not yours?

My father gave it to me.

I see. And what happened?

I couldn't get it to work. Or if it did, I couldn't control it. That's what happened at Durmstrang. I had to transfigure a toad into a turtle and the wand went crazy and...

And?

They had to call in an expert to retransfigure the students back into students.

What did the wand transfigure them to?

Slugs.

What happened to the wand?

The Headmaster took it from me and broke it. Father was very angry. He...

This wand that you have now, where did you get it?

In Diagon Alley.

At Ollivander's?

Yes.

Who took you there?

My cousin. He said if there was any chance of me...

Being a wizard...

Yes, that I would know for certain there.

Did he explain why?

No. He just left me there.

So Ollivander found you a wand?

Yes.

Did your father know of this?

Yes. He said it was not a wand but a twig. He threw it away, but I found it.

You went looking for it. Why, Thomas?

Because Mr. Ollivander said that the magician did not choose the wand, but the wand the magician.

So you like the wand, Thomas. Why?

It's the only thing that's ever chosen to be with me.

Yes, it has. Thomas, may I see your wand?

(Nothing)

I promise that I shall not throw it away. I just want to see it. I won't touch it if you don't allow. I know that it brings you comfort and I would not take that away from you. Thank you, Thomas. Yes, I see, it is a good wand. And there is magic in it.

There is?

Yes. I will be honest with you, Thomas, there is not a lot of magic in it, but there is magic. Here, take it back. It will serve you well. Thomas. The records your father sent to Professor Dumbledore indicate that you successfully completed first and second year. I take it this is a...

Lie. It's a lie. I've never completed any course at any school.

But you do have magic in you, Thomas. Were there no studies that you did well in? That you liked?

(Mumbled)

I'm sorry, Thomas, you'll have to speak louder.

I liked Potions. I could even do some of them. But Father said...

Let me guess. Your father told you that any idiot could put ingredients together. That it took no skill to do so. That you were no better than a chef. A kitchen helper.

(A nod)

Yes. So many do not see the complexity in a potion. Tell me, Thomas, what is it that you like about Potions?

It doesn't require magic to cut up the ingredients. To weigh them. You just need to know what goes into the cauldron in what quantity, in what order, before you even get to the magic. No guessing. An exact science. If the recipe says the potion needs one rat spleen, then that's what is needed. Not an incantation. Not a wave of one's wand. Just one rat spleen.

But one does need to know the incantations, Thomas. And when to wave one's wand.

Yes. I could handle the incantations. I did in the first classes we had with you. And when I waved my wand, those times it did work.

Yes, it did. You did excellent work in those classes. But what's happened?

The other classes. The students all know that I can't do the work.

Yes, I understand. They can be cruel with that knowledge.

(Nothing)

Thomas, today, in Potions class, what happened?

Happened?

With the knife, Thomas.

It slipped.

It slipped?

My hand was shaking and it...slipped.

So you didn't cut yourself on purpose.

No.

No. Not this time. Tell me, Thomas, did it hurt when you cut yourself?

No.

You sound surprised.

It bled so much that I thought it should.

It bled so much because you caught the artery. If we hadn't put pressure on the wound, it might have continued bleeding.

Would it?

Does that idea frighten you, Thomas?

(Nothing)

No. I suppose all things considered, it wouldn't. Thomas, do you like it here?

It's different from the other places.

Is it? How?

Well, the Hat. They don't have Hats. And it spoke to me. Just to me.

Yes, it does that sometimes.

It said that I would be safe with Slytherin.

And that Slytherin would teach you the skills you needed to survive.

Yes.

Thomas, we are not going to send you home.

You're not?

No. But you cannot continue to attend classes that you are not qualified to attend. It is far too dangerous for you and for those around you. Now then, I promised you that I would keep you safe and I will keep that promise.

Father...

Your father will not be told that you are not attending classes. You are safe here, Thomas. He will never touch you again. Not as long as I have breath.

Part Four

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