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Chapter Text

Remus' chest feels tight as he lingers in the threshold of the old, dark pannelled house. It isn't—rundown, persay, but rather very thoroughly lived in. An upper middleclass home buried in the middle of a thick forest, the floorboards creaking, ivy climbing the walls, the windows decorated with flimsy, delicately twisted wrought iron bars and occassional bursts of stained glass. It's the house of a rich family, but not an obscenely rich one, not like James' family home. Just... lovely enough to be breathtaking without being ostentatious. And sitting at the table in the oddly-shaped front room is none other than Severus Snape, his well-washed, thick black hair tucked fruitlessly behind his ears, biting his lip as he takes to foot-long essays with blood red ink. He's wearing a soft looking green jumper over a white shirt and pressed grey trousers, no shoes in sight, looking painfully normal. Domestic. A pale scar writhes over one of his cheeks, from his upper lip to his temple, skirting under his eye. His beige skin isn't pallid and sickly anymore, instead a flush bronze-beige, smattered with a light hint of freckles along the bridge of his beak like nose and circling the high spots on his cheeks. 

Damocles Belby, standing between Remus and Severus, nearer the doorway, is still speaking, but his deep voice falters as he sees Remus' distraction. "Mr. Lupin?" He asks, quite gently, all things considered. The man is tall and thickly, athletically built, with deeply tanned olive skin and verdant green eyes, a thick and curly but well kempt beard, and his long, dark brown hair twisted into a knot at the nape of his neck. His eyes are kind behind his glasses, with the first hint of crows feet. "Mr. Lupin?" 

"Sorry," Remus breathes, unsure of himself, wrong footed. "Really, Master Belby, I'm just, ah, really shocked to finally be here. This opportunity... thank you, sir. Truly." 

Belby smiles widely, with perfectly uniform teeth just off color enough to be natural, "Oh, it wasn't me who sought you out, I'm afraid." He pauses fleetingly, then looks over his shoulder, holding out a beckoning hand. "Severus, love, are you going to keep pretending your guest doesn't exist?" 

Severus grunts, "I got him here, didn't I?" He doesn't look up from his scratching quill. 

"Sev," Damocles admonishes good naturedly. The younger man picks his head up with a long sigh, and meets Lupin's eyes. Severus' are incredibly dark, just as Lupin had remembered, with hardly any discernable pupil to be made out, and, he notes with some vague hint of concern, circled by the makings of dark marks. 

"Lupin," he greets, sourly. "As my husband has so haplessly implied, I wrote the letter to get you here." He dabs the ink from his quill and stands, seeming to struggle for a moment with dizziness before swiftly straightening his shoulders and approaching him with a dour smile. He holds out his hand with a bittersweet smile, "After all, if you hadn't nearly mauled me in sixth year, I likely wouldn't be so happily married. Least I could do." Each word is venemous, but there's something off in Snape's face. He looks genuinely happier. More alive. 

Remus feels his face flush spectacularly, and he stammers uselessly, unsure how to follow that up. Damocles' large hand lands on Severus' shoulder, giving the younger man an exasperated look. "Must you?" 

Severus smiles roguishly, "You didn't marry me for my manners, Dame." 

"You're right," Damocles huffs, smiling despite himself. "Fine then, return to your grading while I get Mr. Lupin settled." Damocles leans down and presses a chaste his to Snape's cheek, making him flush. 

"Good luck," Severus murmurs, and returns to his seat without a backwards glance at Lupin. Belby smiles at his retreating back, and then turns to Lupin. 

"I must apologize for my husband," Damocles says as he steers Lupin through the house and into a cramped, cluttered study designed with two people in mind. One workspace is set into a rather gorgeous stained-glass bay window, the desk piled with stacks of parchment and a truly precariously balanced tower of books, littered with a mix of muggle and magical office detritus. The other is centered in the room, but facing the wall adjacent to the one that holds the door, making it so that one could stand in the only open floorspace of the room and be addressed by those behind both desks. It's an unusual setup, like that of the rest of the house. And Lupin doesn't have to ask to know whose is whose. Severus' space is almost claustrophobically cramped, not for lack of space but rather for the sheer amount of things crammed into the area. Belby could never hope to fit his bulk through the narrow space between the desk and the books and muggle file boxes stacked against the wall. And the green throughout the room is, surprisingly, less slytherin doom and gloom, and more the bright, earthy tones a space acquires when you fill it to the brim with live plants and glimmering baubles. "He's rather irritable of late, and with a rather..." Belby huffs with gentle amusement, "Prickly disposition to begin with. Start of term will do that." 

"Oh?" Remus asks mildly, trying not to think too much of the true reason he's here. He fails spectacularly. Albus' words ring in his mind: Use this opportunity. See if he's in league with Greyback, Lupin. I know this will be difficult what with the advancements Belby has made towards equality for your people...but Snape is not to be trusted, and this marriage is suspicious. Severus has done much since Hogwarts. He's taken europe by storm as the youngest potions master in an age, and is reportedly now working to add a Mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts to his reportiore. He lives and works with his husband, Damocles Belby, a twenty-three year old prodigy in his own right, famous for making leaps and bounds in lycanthropy treatment, and for several patents published before and after his mastery was acquired. The previous youngest potions master of an age, and the current one. Together. Not rivals, but partners. It's unheard of in such a competitive field. 

He cannot help but feel comparatively unaccomplished. Certainly, he and his mates have done good, have pledged themselves to Dumbledore's cause against Voldemort, have joined the Order and opposed the darkness that continues to sweep over britain, threatening to spread past her boarders into europe at large. And yet what will they have to show for it, after the fact? An order of merlin if they're lucky? Severus has in the same time secured a marriage, a name for himself, and, apparently, a teaching position. Remus sits across from Belby as he's bid, while the man takes his seat behind his desk. "Where is he teaching?" 

"Oh, he's just assisting, at the moment. It's all informal, you see; our friends at St. Mungo's have been kind enough to allow Severus to teach the children being treated for lycanthropy." Belby smiles softly, "it's difficult for our kind to find a place in Hogwarts, and other esteemed wizarding schools, either for lack of funds or the sitgma. But he enjoys it." 

Snape, teaching children?

"Why not apply to Hogwarts?" Remus asks on impulse, brows furrowing, "Try to make a change that way. Get the schools to accept students with lycanthropy on a regular basis." 

"He would, but Dumbledore..." Belby's eyes narrow slightly, lips turning down, "He's rather unkind to Severus. And what with the war on? In his condition?" Belby shakes his head, "Dumbledore has practically made that school a battleground. I talked him out of it." 

Not that Albus would hire a suspected death eater in the first place, Remus thinks to himself. And then he processes the entirety of what Belby has said, and tips jis head. Severus had smelled odd, to him, but he hadn't been able to place it. Had figured it was just part of him being claimed by Belby. He's not met many non-werewolves with a claim-marking, after all. "His condition?" 

Belby blinks, and then beams, "We're expecting a child," he says, brightly. "Oh, but enough about myself and my husband," he waves his hand to dispell the topic. "Let us discuss you, Mr. Lupin. I know you lack the funds for the ingredients that are required for most of our treatments. And while I do greatly regret how damned expensive this treatment has become due to the ministry, until we can get bills passed to reverse the price gouging...." Belby goes on, for perhaps an hour or three, about the treatment, its costs, and how he and Severus are doing everything in their power to alleviate that problem. Remus at least believes by now that Belby believes his husband is truly as good as he's making him out to be. 

But...well, Belby didn't know the Severus that Remus did. 

He's given a set of rooms that probably should not fit in the house, given its outward dimensions, and a promise that tomorrow Severus will see to it he's given all the knowledge he needs to safely treat himself, how to find and prepare ingredients, how to brew it, all of that. It's mind bogglingly generous. There has to be a catch. 

#

Remus pokes his fried egg with a fork, looking as if it might bite him. Severus shovels his own onto a piece of toast and tries not to notice the man staring as he takes a large bite. Remus keeps staring at him as if he's grown a second head, and it's become quite grating. "I didn't poison your food, Lupin," Severus sighs. "Eat or don't eat, it matters little to me." 

He doesn't eat. Instead, he just watches Severus eat. It's quite unnerving, but Severus is so damned hungry he can't be bothered to care. "Are you really..." Remus falters, eyes searching him. Severus blinks, tipping his head a little and wiping at his mouth. 

"Really...?" Severus prods, prompting him to continue. The man just continues to stare, looking a little queasy. The pieces click together when his eyes flit to Severus' midriff. He huffs, "You and your little friends made sure our entire graduating class knows I'm capable of it." 

Remus' face flushes hotly, either with anger or shame, Severus can't tell. He could, if he deigned to look the man in the eyes. He doesn't. "That isn't fair. I didn't do anything to you, Snape." 

"You certainly didn't," Severus allows, leaning back in his chair, feeling his stomach churn at the memories this is dredging up. Ugh. He really doesn't want to be sick again. This morning was enough. "That shiny prefect badge was pretty useless, wasn't it, Lupin?" 

The man's eyes flit away, and Severus feels his nausea subside, replaced by grim satisfaction. "Why are you here, anyways? Trouble in paradise?" 

"You invited me!" 

"It was mostly a formality," Severus says dryly. "Not to mention Potter could easily afford to get you the treatment. I only offered on the off chance they'd dumped you on your arse the moment you graduated. But," he pauses, eyes flickering over him keenly, "That's not the case. So?" 

"How do you know that isn't the case?" Remus asks. 

"Because you're not feeling sorry for yourself." Remus blinks at him, and he smiles slowly. "Lupin, if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that you'd be milking that sort of betrayal for all its worth. Again... why are you here?" 

Because you're an evil git and you've obviously done something to Belby to make him think otherwise, Remus' inner voice supplies venemously. Instead, he says, stiffly, "I don't like asking them for things like that. I don't need their charity." 

"Ah, because endangering everyone around you is much more palateable than admitting you have needs," Severus nods sagely, mocking him. Remus' lip curls against his will, eyes narrowing, and Severus feels a sharp thrill of triumph. There he is. "Now that that's sorted," he sighs, standing and stretching with an audible crackle-pop, "let's get you your bloody ingredients." He flicks his wand at the plates on the table, bidding them to scrape themselves off and scrub themselves, and at the same time holds out a hand. His keys snap to his palm without a word, and Remus blinks. And blinks again. Severus shrugs out of the dressing gown and folds it over the back of the chair he was occupying a moment ago. He steps to the door, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear and looking at Remus over his shoulder. "Well?" 

He blinks, "Aren't you wearing shoes?" 

"No," Severus says absently, casting his gaze about searchingly. "Messes with my sense of..." he rubs at the back of his head, and then throws his voice, "Dame, where's my kit?" A reply is muffled by the walls, then repeated when Severus says "What?"

The man pops his head out of a room Remus hasn't been through, and he says, "By the door, love. Remember?" He frowns, "Sev, wear your boots." 

"You want me getting lost, then?" Severus asks dryly. 

"I'd find you easily enough if you did," Damocles says cheerfully. "Be safe out there, will you?" 

"Of course." Severus crosses the distance between him to lean up on the balls of his feet and tug the man down by his tie for a kiss. 

The path they take is padded by soft moss and loamy earth beneath it, damp with morning dew but ultimately not worrisome to walk on bare footed. And it may be an odd thing to do, but Severus has never been normal, and he does seem to know where he's going. Remus tags along behind, feeling dread crawl up his spine. Snape could dispose of him out here, and no-one would be around to hear his screams. Well, Belby would, the man is a werewolf, but whose to say he'd even care? Remus doesn't know him well enough to count on him for any sort of help. 

But... well. Remus watches Snape's back as he meanders through well-memorized paths, barefooted and wearing no more than a tucked in green button up and grey slacks, hair a mess, pausing once and a while to admire a bird or comment on a certain plant's properties. It's so...not what he expected. He doesn't try to make small talk with the man, and Snape is more than willing to fill the silence with absent, near inaudible humming as he leads him further and further into the woods. 

It sets his teeth on edge. 

Then, thankfully, Snape stops and begins digging in his satchel, pulling out some well-maintained silver tools Remus remembers from their herbology classes, as well as a few jars. He hands the jars to Lupin and kneels down in the moss, pointing at a rather unremarkable, leafy thing that doesn't to Remus stand apart from any of the other unremarkable leafy things they've come across in the woods. Except, he amends, these are rather fuzzy. "Dittany isn't as difficult to get, but you need quite a bit of it, and everyone selling it has been jacking the prices up when they heard it could be used to ease lycanthropy symptoms." 

"And this isn't a cure," Remus clarifies quietly. "So why crack down on it?" 

"Because it's the foundation for one," Severus says. "I can't tell you much about our work, you understand, but this is a much safer, much less volatile potion than what would be required to truly begin curing something like lycanthropy. Even a more effective treatment, as far as we can gather, would be...it would be a very dangerous thing to brew. As it is, Dame won't allow me near any of our experimental projects." He grimaces, "This concoction makes the wolf tame. Calm. Keeps aggression and territorial instincts at bay. It doesn't give the drinker their mind back, or allow them their faculties. Just prevents them from injuring themselves or others." He doesn't mention that he and Dame have figured out how to do the latter. It's too early, the testing incomplete, the trials barely even started. False hope is an ugly thing, and neither of them want to hand it out. 

"And why would the ministry want to stop us from having that?" Remus says, almost to himself. Severus hears him anyways. 

"Because if werewolves aren't dangerous, they can't lever propaganda against them to take away their rights. They lose control of an entire demographic." Severus finishes filling the jar with dittany and screws the lid on. Remus' eyes fall to the mans hands, and then up to his forearms, which makes him freeze. Both arms are wound in wizarding ink, black tattoos winding up and disappearing beneath his sleeves. None are the dark mark, and there's no conspicuous gap where one might be hidden by a concealment charm. No, the ink on Snape's skin is a menagerie of unrecognizable symbols, cursive writing, and patterns Lupin recognizes as having some weight as protection wards. Warmth, safety, home, love. A compass sits at the inside of his wrist, painstakingly detailed and pointing back towards the house. It stays pointed that way even as Severus turns away. In school it had seemed so blatantly obvious that Snape would get the dark mark, and until just a moment ago Remus had held onto that belief with and iron grip. So had his friends. 

#

After a week and a half with Snape and Belby, Remus feels anxiety roil in him at the thought of seeing his friends, seeing Dumbledore and having nothing to report. Less than nothing, really. It's difficult enough reconciling the calm, quiet, prickly man he'd been spying on to the spidery, slimy git they knew in school. Now he has to convince others that Snape isn't the villain they all expected him to be? What does that say about them? About their actions over the years? It hardly bears thinking. Snape and Belby had not once even hinted at a darker allegiance, had showed Remus how to keep his symptoms in check and even provided apparition spots that tended to have the ingredients he would need. Belby had been nothing but kind, though Remus had eventually come to realize that his kindness was hiding a general distrust of Remus, a combination of protective and territorial instincts that their wolves communicated far more openly than they did. Though, rather than being due to any sort of shady allegiances or cruel motives, Remus determined it was more likely due to his past with Severus. 

Severus himself was prickly and unpleasant with him, rough around his edges and eager to get him out of his home, but he wasn't cruel to him. In fact he was far kinder than he had any right to be, given Remus had arrived with the intention of catching him in some evil plot and sending him off to Azkaban. He takes his seat at the table in the Order's headquarters with trepidation, feeling Lily, James, and Sirius' eyes in him. Peter is no-where to be found, likely out on his own mission. And Dumbledore has yet to arrive. 

"What's that, then?" Lily asks stiffly, nodding towards the little wooden crate of vials Lupin had placed on the table. He shifts awkwardly. 

"I know she likely wants nothing to do with me, and that's understandable, but... well, I made plenty, far more than I need myself, and figured she could use it." 

"What is it?" Remus had asked, picking up a vial and scanning the label, which is written in Snape's cramped, spidery hand. 

"A lot of things, really. Most useful to someone expecting. Pregnancy-friendly anti-nausea potions, though if you've got hyperemesis gravidarum like I do it doesn't do much, some scrubs to prevent stretch marks, a milder dreamless sleep alternative that won't risk addiction or hurt an unborn child, that sort of thing." He had shrugged, "If she doesn't want it, send it back here. I'll find someone who can use it. If she does... well, just tell her I wish her the best, would you?" 

"Not that you miss her?" Remus had asked incredulously. 

He had smiled, a sad, wistful little smile, and said, "She knows I do. And I don't want to seem like I'm pressuring her to respond in some way." 

"I... okay," Remus had said, stunned and more than a little suspcious.

He's cast every detection spell he knows on the damned thing, and not a single one has turned back any meaningful results. As far as he can tell, they're exactly what Snape said they are. Still, he's hesitant to deliver it to her. What if he missed something? What if she gets hurt? But everything he's seen in the last week, and every instinct he has, is telling him this is safe, that there's nothing to worry about. So he tells her the truth, "It's a gift for you." 

She blinks, "He can't think I'm that stupid." 

Remus shrugs, "I checked it with every spell I know, Lily. He said he made too much to use himself, and figured you could use it. And...he wished you well." 

She blinks again, verdant eyes incredulous, and tugs the box towards her to James' loud protests. She pulls several of the vials out one by one, reading the labels, and wrinkles her nose. "Why would he be making pregnancy stuff for himse... no!" Her eyes widen almost comically, and she stares at him in disbelief. "No, he's—you can't be saying that he's..." 

Again, he shrugs, "I don't know how far along he is, but yeah." He doesn't know what else to add to that, so he doesn't, and instead hazards her another helpless shrug. 

"Snape's been knocked up?" James asks for the sake of redundancy, mouth slack. Sirius mock-gag's, looking truly unsettled by the thought. 

Lily unscrews the cap on one of the vials and sniffs the contents, frowning. "Well it certainly smells like dreamless sleep." Setting the vials down, she frowns, "I don't understand. Why... what does he want?" 

"Nothing, in as far as I can tell." Remus frowns, and says, with a heavy sigh, "I was going to wait until the Headmaster got here, but I might as well. I found nothing. They're doing what they claim to be doing, when they claim to be doing it. There's not the faintest hint of symptoms of amortentia on Belby, and Snape doesn't have the mark. Snape even teaches the werewolf kids that end up in St. Mungo's, on a volunteer basis. There's nothing odd in their mail, no prowling around in the night, not a hint of illegal activity." Remus shakes his head, "And neither of them were nasty to me. If anything Snape was a lot like what you always tried to convince us he was. Prickly, standoffish, waspishly sarcastic, and I'd never call him nice, but he was... kind. Definitely not what I'd imagined." 

Lily is looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment. She rubs the dark green glass of a vial between her fingers, scowling at the wood grain of the table. It's then that Dumbledore comes in, and bids him to repeat his assessment. The second time he says it, James butts in, "We're certain you haven't somehow been knocked over the head and replaced? This is insane. Snape, being a good person? He's a slimy snake, Moony. There's no way—"

"I believe him," Lily intercedes, brows knotted, mouth downturned. It looks like it pains her greatly to say so. "I... I believe him." 

"Well of course you would! You're compromised, Evans!" 

"It's not Evans anymore, Black! And if anything it's you lot that're compromised! You were terrible to him in school. I doubt you even consider him a person." She folds her arms, looking frustrated. With herself or her current company, Remus doesn't know.

Dumbledore has yet to comment. He's staring at Remus over his half moon glasses, hands folded on the table. The gaze is intense, and Remus shivers a little, looking away. Then, the old man smiles faintly, "Well, it's a good thing that Greyback doesn't have those two under his thumb, in any case. I believe I might follow up on this myself. It's quite a thing, to turn your life around so young." 

No-one dares contradict him. 

#

Not a week later, Remus is called to headquarters with liftle more than a warning that it's urgent, and to wear dark clothes. When he arrives, Dumbledore is sitting alone in the meeting room, and there's a tense murmur of conversation in the adjacent sitting room. Albus folds his hands on the table, looking grim, "Remus." 

"I got here as quickly as I could. What's going on?" 

"You, Sirius, and James will be staging a rescue tonight." 

"A rescue?" Remus pales, "Was someone taken? Who?" He rakes his brain for anyone he hasn't heard from recently, "Alice? Frank? One of the Prewitt's—"

Albus shakes his head, "No, I'm afraid this is a bit more personal. Before I tell you, recall that this is always a risk, with what you do." He sighs, and continues in that same somber tone as Remus' heart drops to his feet. What has he done? "Your visit to the Belby-Snape residence did not go unnoticed. According to Master Belby, his husband has been missing for six hours, and his copy ofbthe charmed coins they use to communicate has been burning-hot for three of those." 

Remus feels the color drain from his face. "I...Snape's gone missing?" 

"And the only magical signature in the place where he was last seen was Greyback's." He feels sick. Images flit behind his eyelids: Snape at the breakfast table, laughing at some inane joke of Belby's, potion journal in one hand and a mug of decaf tea in the other. Snape leading him through the forest around his home, telling him exactly how to cut certain plants to avoid hurting them and also get the most potent parts for potions. Snape with his arms slung around Belby's neck, swaying in their kitchen in late evening, music playing, unaware of being watched, laughing sweetly at something his husband says. And one he hasn't actually seen: Snape bloodied and broken at Greyback's feet, curled in on himself as his bones break with the first change, just as likely to kill him as turn him, entirely certain to end the life of his unborn child. Bile burns at his throat, and one thought supercedes any other: he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't give a damn what they've thought of Snape in the past. He doesn't deserve this. "Master Belby is in the next room, Remus. You should speak to him before you head out. He's...unstable." 

Remus can only imagine. His mate has been taken by another werewolf, a sadistic, homicidal maniac. At least they'll know if Severus is badly hurt, or dies, as grim as that thought is. Belby will know the moment it happens. 

He enters the room on leaden legs, taking in the scene within. Belby is pacing anxiously, tugging at some of the hairs of his beard. His green eyes seem to glow behind his glasses in the dim light of the room, his teeth seem sharper, and his broad shoulders are knotted with tension. He looks about ready to change here and now. And when he sees Remus enter the room, a low, menacing growl thrums in his chest, far deeper than what any human could produce. The wolf whines, tugging at the back of his mind, pacing anxiously in the confines of his skull. Remus is almost surprised; Moony doesn't even try to assert himself. But he's spent enough time around Belby to know that would be a foolish expectation. The man's wolf is... he wouldn't say powerful, persay, but he's older, and leagues more experienced than the five year age gap should make him. Remus has spent his whole life trying to cow his wolf into submission. Belby has spent his trying to understand his, and learning how to control his wolf without stifling it. A symbiotic relationship that would give the stiff necked ministry officials heart attacks if they knew.  

And now that frighteningly balanced werewolf looks ready to rend him to tiny pieces. He swallows thickly. "Belby, I'm sorry," he says, before the man can make good on the promise his eyes are making. "I never meant to put your mate in danger," he reasons, hands up in a futile placating gesture. 

Mate? He sees Padfoot mouth, aimed at Prongs, who shrugs cluelessly. 

"You did it anyways," Belby rumbles, and Remus swears he hears that voice in his feet as much as in his ears, deep as it is. "You came into our home, invaded our privacy, took our hospitality, and now—" his breath chokes, and Remus takes the chance to interrupt. 

"We'll get him back safe," he says, trying to make his voice soothing. "He'll be okay, Belby." 

"Honestly I'm more worried about Greyback," Sirius quips, and doesn't flinch under the full force of Belby's scowl. "Poor bastard attacked Snape. As much as I hate the slimy little git he's not one to go down easily." 

"Crudely put, but Sirius is right about one thing," Lily says, unable to look Belby in the eye, "Severus always gives as good as he gets." 

"You're Lily Evans, then?" Damocles says, sounding only a little less pissed off. 

"I am." 

Damocles hesitates, "You really think he'll—" he rubs at his neck, "I've never seen him fight." 

"Blimey, mate. You have no idea what you've married," James chuckles. Then he sobers slightly, and nods, "If we're doing this we'd better do it." 

"I'm coming with you." 

"No way," Sirius and Remus say at the same time. 

"You're too attached. It'd put you both in danger. And they'll be expecting you." 

Damocles grins a sharp, feral grin, "They won't be expecting my wolf." 

#

Damocles' wolf is, for a lack of a better word, fucking terrifying. Unlike Remus', lanky and long-limbed and frightening in that uncanny, wrong way that many young, stifled wolves tend to be, Damocles is a towering, snarling mass of muscle and thick black-brown fur. He's still wrongly proportioned compared to a real wolf, legs too long, torso stretched, but he looks more like what muggles would imagine a werewolf on all fours to look like. Remus still can't change on command, not without aid of a potion, but Belby? Belby can, and he seems to have kept hold of his mind in the process. It's unbelievable, utterly impossible, but Remus can't deny the proof of his own eyes and ears. Especially as Marchosias—the name of Damocles wolf, as Moony is to Remus—nudges him in the back with his nose. His low growl shakes Remus from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, and enormous green eyes scan their surroundings warily. 

"What is it?" He whispers when Marchosias freezes. He lowers his head to the ground and sniffs at it, a large paw gouging into the dirt. "What—" Remus' words stick in his chest as the dirt parts to reveal a heavy anti-apparition wardstone. He has to cover his ears when Marchosias digs into the stone with his claws, scoring into the runes until the wardstone is inert. Then he turns and trudges abruptly left. Remus staggers out of his way, baffled. In a hushed voicez he says, "If the ward stone is there, and facing ahead, then shouldn't we just go in?" 

The wolf shakes head to toe, as if repulsed by the very idea, and nearly knocks Remus over as he continues left. "Ow, alright. Let me signal the others." He hefts his wand and casts a patronus, as silently as he can, which lopes off into the undergrowth with his message. 

Two stones later, Remus understands perfectly. The anti-apparition wards would've been weakened with one destroyed, or even two, but three? That will make it almost certainly possible to disapparate with an injured side along. Hopefully such a precaution won't be—

Remus nearly trips over his own feet as screaming errupts from inside the now flimsy wards. Both he and Marchosias twist to see what the hell is happening, and both of their eyes widen as smoke and green flames erupt a fair distance away. "Oh, no. Snape, what've you done?" Remus mumbles. "Wait—!" but Marchosias has already taken off in that direction. 

He hurries to follow after he regathers his wits. When he finds them, he finds that Padfoot and Prongs have beat him to the punch, but also that neither arrived before Marchosias, because the great black wolf is standing off against a ragged, scarred grey one, not as large but just as menacing. Snape is there, blood down one side of his face, green-blue flames dripping from the fingers of one hand like liquid, the other hand gripping Marchosias' fur to hold himself up. 

James and Sirius are standing there as if they're trying to land their mouths steady jobs as fly catchers. To be fair, it does make a rather impressive sight. 

"Bleeding hell," Sirius mutters as Snape conjures a long, dripping cord of flame into his free hand and lashes it towards Greyback, who yowls and shakes, trying to rid his fur of the clinging, burning magic. 

"Since when is sniv a pyromancer?" James asks faintly. 

"He's a prince, isn't he? They've always been wildcards." Black murmurs, "Have to wonder what else he has under his belt." 

"We need to help them," Remus insists.

"And get chewed on by two mightily pissed off werewolves? I think not! Look, they've got it well in hand." Sirius gestures, and Remus grimaces at the way Marchosias has closed in on Greyback, snarling and rumbling like thunder. His fur even seems to be picking up static, isn't that curious? And Snape is going a good job of not getting himself killed, covering Damocles as werewolves who can't change on command use curses rather than sharp teeth and raised hackles.

"Snape's pregnant, you dolt. And if anything happens to him Damocles is going to go down like a sack of rocks." They all wince as a particularly unlucky bastard catches Snape's cord of fire around the throat and goes down gurgling blood. Fortunately Sirius listens to him despite the impressive display. 

"Ah. Right. The bonding thing. Damnit," Sirius sighs, and readies his wand. "This is insane." 

"You're the authority, being a Black and all." 

"Sod off!" None of them have much more time to quip, because Damocles has launched himself at Greyback, breaking their standoff and going straight for the throat. The snap of electricity that bites into the older wolf is uncanny. What the actual hell? Remus closes in on Severus as James and Sirius do their best to help Damocles. 

Snape is waning. He has good stamina for someone who likely hasn't dueled over a year, but he's pregnant, injured, and Merlin knows what else, plus he has no wand, so he's relying entirely on his pyromancy. Remus puts his back to Snape's and tries his damndest to be heard over the din of spell fire and the cracking of trees under the weight of two snarling werewolves. "Is Damocles immune to that electricity he's putting off?" 

"Wh—Yes?" Severus pants, "Yes, I think so." 

"I'll ask how the hell he's doing it when we aren't fighting for our lives," Remus jokes. "I've got an idea, though." 

Their eyes meet, and Snape seems to have the exact same thought that Remus has had. "Tell them. I can hold a little longer against these idiots." 

Remus hesitates only for a moment before doing as he's told. Putting Severus closer to the two behemoths fighting in the dirt and taking out whatever unlucky trees manage to stand in their way doesn't seem particularly smart, even when the other option is leaving him to duel several death eaters without a wand. 

"Prongs! Padfoot!" He yells, jogging closer to them. They've been giving Marchosias support fire for sometime, but Greyback is a stubborn bastard, and Damocles may have size and sheer strength on him but he's not nearly as accustomed to fighting. "Use augmenti!" 

"What? Are you daft? What's getting him wet going to...oh, Moony, you genius! I could kiss you!" 

"Just do it, you git!" 

Soaking Greyback with water works better than any of their hexes. Werewolves are notoriously immune to most spellfire, which is part of what makes them so bloody dangerous, but augmenti isn't spellfire, by the time it hirs Greyback it's just plain old water. It quickly becomes clear that whatever the hell Damocles is doing isn't considered spellfire either, because after several more minutes of wrestling with the larger wolf Greyback yowls and throws him off, limping upright and backing off, smoking and bleeding. He snarls throatily before taking off into the trees. 

And when Damocles, a little banged up and bloody but ultimately no worse for wear, prowls over to Severus and lays down, curled around him and snarling, baring bloody teeth, the rest of the werewolves quickly disperse as well. Remus bends double, trying to catch his breath. "That was far too close." 

"I'll say," Sirius mutters. 

"Come on," James grunts, brushing himself off. "Lets get Damocles out of his wolf form and into some clothes." 

Approaching them is a little tricky. Damocles bares his teeth at them too, growling low in his throat. It's Severus' hand on his muzzle that calms him. The younger man is sitting down now, leaning heavily against Damocles' great bulk. His wrists are bruised and bleeding, he's got blood all down his face and staining his shirt from a gash at his hairline, and the grey of the left pantleg of his slacks has been turned a muddy maroon from the knee down. In short, he looks like hell. So when he rubs a hand along the soft fur of Damocles' snout, with a murmur too quiet for any of them to hear from this distance, the wolfs snarling cedes immediately, and his huge head turns, nudging Severus' shoulder gently with his snout and whining. 

Remus blinks and he's human, naked as the day he was born and cupping Snape's bruised, bloodied face in his hands. "Hello," the man murmurs. 

"Hello," Severus returns, with a pained but relieved smile. 

"Trousers! Someone give him trousers!" James groans, turning his eyes skyward. 

"Blimey," Sirius mutters, and unlike James his eyes are unabashedly fixed on Damocles' junk. Which, well. Even Remus has to admit it is a bit impressive. Though he'd never say it aloud. He very pointedly doesn't stare at aforementioned bits as he steps up and offers the man his clothing. 

Chapter Text

"You need a hand up, Sniv—Severus?" 

Damocles has slid his glasses onto his face just in time to see Severus heave himself to his feet and sock him across the face. "Bleeding hell!" Potter exclaims, jaw slack as Lupin staggers back, clutching at his jaw. 

"You could stand to be grateful for once in your life, Snape!" Remus snaps, the first time Belby has actually seen him snap. He hurriedly finishes fastening his trousers, leaving his shirt half buttoned and his waistcoat entirely undone as he approaches the group. Severus' breath is heaving out acommpanied by more green-blue sparks, expression as furious as he's ever seen him. He leaves singed footprints in the grass as he stalks forward. 

"GRATEFUL?" The shrill note to his deep, deep voice is unflattering, cracked and strange and he fists his small, scarred hands into Lupin's lapels and shakes him. "You're the reason I needed your help in the first place!" 

Black's hand comes down on Severus' shoulder before he's in range to do it himself, and he finds himself unconsciously put back on one foot as Black is thrown to the ground by a hand wreathed in blue-green light that shimmers in the tell-tale manner of kinetic spellwork. Severus did no more than shove him im the shoulder with an open palm, and there he is, sprawled in the rough grass and dirt of the now abandonned campsite, legs akimbo, looking quite startled and undignified. 

"Severus, love—" the rage he feels through their connection is downright unsettling, a deeply rooted, seething hatred coming the bear. He's never personally felt so strongly about anything, not really, not like this, even the hate he gets for being a werewolf only brings forth about half the strength of emotion he's getting from Severus. He has a fleeting thought that no one should feel anger so thoroughly. 

Severus punches Lupin again, and this time the skin breaks, though he can't tell if it's Lupin's face or Severus' hand that does the bleeding. This time it sends him sprawling right to the ground, Severus' now bloodied hand wreathed in the same light used on Sirius a moment before. "I should fucking kill you, you ungrateful, delusional, sick son of a bitch!" The lower class accent has come to the forefront of Severus' speech, which is usually so deliberate and carefully thought out. "Grateful! The gall of you fucking ingrates, to expect me to be grateful! Just like last time you nearly got me killed, isn't it? People never bloody change! I had you in my home! You—I tried to help you!" He kicks Remus back into the dirt as he tries to rise. "I should—I should—" Severus' shoulders are shaking by the time Damocles finally, finally reaches him, wrapping a strong arm around his waist while the other hand grips his shoulder. 

"Severus, Severus, it's okay. You're okay. You're safe," he rumbles, hauling him back when he struggles against his hold, trying to get at Lupin for another punch or kick. He swears the smaller mans feet even leave the ground for a moment. Blunt nails dig into the meat of his forearm, scrabble for purchase at the hand on his shoulder, and a long, wordless cry of frustration rushes out of him when he can't get his way free. He could, probably. Based on what he'd just seen. But he doesn't because he doesn't want to hurt him. "That's it, darling, that's it," he says as Severus draws long, shaking breaths, the fight ebbing out of him. As if Damocles has everything in hand, and isn't going to have an entire bloody fit the moment he manages to get himself alone. This is his Severus? This man, with this unchecked, boiling-over temper? With wandless magic so strong that he can put two grown men flat on their backs without breaking a sweat, and pyromancy to boot? Certainly, he knew Severus had a few issues with his temper, and he may have seen Severus light a burner or a candle without a wand, but this is entirely out of the scope of what he expected from him. 

Decking a werewolf so hard that you draw blood is a damn impressive feat, in any case. 

Remus drags himself back to his feet, wiping at his bloodied cheek and mouth, and manages to at the very least look sufficiently chastised as he does so. A hard, warning look from Damocles probably helps. 

Severus turns in his arms and clings to him, nails digging crescent moons into his back, face digging into his collarbone, shaking like a leaf. Damocles presses a kiss to the top of his head, holding him tighter when he feels wetness through his half-buttoned up shirt. This is more what he'd expected. This, he can handle. 

"You should come back with us," surprisingly, it's Black who says it, mouth set into a grim line, one hand on Lupin's shoulder. "We've got a healer he can see. It'd be best if he didn't go to a place like St Mungo's right now. The death eaters won't be pleased about this. Safer to lay low for the moment, given that you two're targets, now." Damocles notes incredulously that it isn't him the three of them are watching warily. No, it's Severus, who has pulled away from him just enough to wipe stubbornly at his eyes. He's so used to being seen as the dangerous one between the two of them, but if the looks Severus is getting are any indication, the scene he'd made a minute ago was not only unsurprising, but expected to repeat itself.  

And, if Severus' own expression is anything to go by, that might be more possible than he initially considered. "And whose fault is that?" Severus murmurs bitterly, his deep voice gravelly from crying and shouting both. 

#

By the time they've moved from the apparition point to the sitting room Damocles had been ushered to when this whole thing started, Severus has worked himself up into a froth again, though fortunately he refrains from violence this time. It's clear enough in the way he moves, and the expression on his face. That expression falters, though, when he sees who their healer is. Lily Potter has her hands folded in front of her, shoulders tense, face schooled into nonchalance. To everyones surpirse, Damocles included, Severus actually staggers backwards at the sight of her. "No," he says, stiffly. 

"What?" Lily and James say incredulously. 

Slightly behind him instead of in front of him now, Severus' hand fists into the back of his robes. "I'm fine." 

"You're bleeding all over the floor!" Lily points out heatedly. "Stop being an idiot, Sev." He won't look at her. His gaze bounces from the floor, to the ceiling, and then finally to the door behind them. Damocles wraps an arm around him to prevent him leaving through said door when he sees the intention settle into his face, and spins him back around towards the others. 

"No, no, no. Don't you dare!" Damocles says, low and warning. Severus' black eyes bore defiantly into his, and he frowns, "Sev," he says, warningly.

"Dame," he growls back, hands gripping at the arm around his waist. 

"Let her get those wounds sorted before you faint." 

"Absolutely not." 

Damocles pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand, silently counting to ten. "And why not?" Severus inhales sharply and looks away. Either he doesn't know and he's just being unressonably stubborn, or he doesn't trust her. The second option is unlikely, given who they're talking about. He swaps tactics, and pulls the card Severus has never been able to resist, "For me, darling?" And perhaps he lets his accent come forward a little bit more than usual, pitches his voice a little lower, a little more pleading, with what he knows is a very hard to resist expression. The tone of voice cracks the mans resolve, and he risks a glance up at him. That does it. He can't help the smugness that creeps into his expression at Severus' defeated sigh. 

"A grown man should not be able to do that so well," Severus mutters beneath his breath, referring to the puppy dog eyes he'd just made. 

"Needs must," Damocles replies with a smug smile. Severus huffs, slapping him weakly on the arm for his cheek. Lily is allowed to guide Severus to the nearby couch under his watchful gaze, and Severus makes the short journey as stiff and uncomfortsble as possible for both of them, which makes Lily mutter beneath her breath, and that makes Severus mutter under his breath, and then they're both shamelessly bickering with each other at full volume. 

"Must you be so difficult?" 

"Absolutely." 

"What, you think I'm going to hurt you? You?" She shakes her head.

"Why wouldn't you?" 

"We were friends once, you know." 

"Best of friends. Yes. I wasn't the one who ended that." 

"You were, really." 

"I certainly wasn't." 

"You were."

"One nasty word I didn't bloody well mean after being outed to the whole school. And I apologized. Several times." 

"How was I supposed to know you didn't mean it? With those boys you hung out with!" 

Both of their faces have flushed a ruddy red with the heatedness of their words. 

"So they didn't throw me in the lake in my sleep! And it isn't like you didn't say anything awful back. At least I'm a halfblood, and I know what its like to be called that awful word, not that that makes it acceptable but you, you said—ow, damnit!" He hisses through his teeth as she seals the nasty gash just below his knee with a murmured encantation and a precise movement of her wand, his pantleg rolled up to show it. The skin is raw and angry looking when she's done, a concave red line scoring into his flesh, but the gash is sealed. Lily shoves a vial of blood replenisher into his hands, scowling, and easily preventing him from repeating the word she'd said all those years ago. A nasty name for trans people in exchange for a nasty name for muggleborns. Severus had told him that particular tale with reluctance. Her face says she still regrets it, as Damocles knows Severus regrets what he said. 

"We both said nasty things we shouldn't have," Lily says, stiff and awkward and biting, just as uncomfortable with admitting she's wrong as Severus is. "And..." she makes a face, "I'm glad you didn't join up with them." She peers at the less severe cut in his shoulder, where the seam of the sleeve of his robe has been split open. 

Severus sniffs at the vial he's been given, frowns, and then knocks the whole thing back in one go. He flinches away from her when she sets to healing the cut she was prodding. A strong grip on his arm keeps him relatively still despite his squirming, and Lily's face says she'd anticipated that, as well as his near inaudible bitching. Then Severus sighs, casting his eyes skyward for a moment before deigning to look her in the face. "I understand why you cut me off. I was in a bad place." His words are just as curt and unweildy as hers had been.

"That why you've been such a prat these last few minutes?" 

He cocks a brow and smirks, "Blame the hormones?" 

She snorts, "Guess we both get a pass, huh?" 

"I suppose so." 

At some point Black, Potter, and Lupin left the room to convene with Dumbledore, and the little common room is empty save for Damocles, Severus, and Lily. Severus who swallows several times and then brings a hand to his mouth. Lily is quick to transfigure something for him to sick up into, grimacing. "You're lucky I started on those potions you gave me, or we'd have a right mess on our hands." 

The only thing Severus manages to bring up is the potion he'd downed, and he manages to give her a rude gesture when he isn't clinging to the bin he'd given her, dry heaving. Damocles sighs and moves to sit beside him, running a hand down his back. "You should've known better than to take it all at once." 

He gives Damocles a rude gesture as well. 

 Lily looks deep in thought. "Maybe if I pair it with an anti-nausea draught?" She muses to herself, reaching for her kit.

"No," Damocles sighs, "It wouldn't work. Just—give him another, and he'll take it slowly this time. Won't you, love?" 

Severus, who seems to have finished retching and is trying to catch his breath, shivers, rasping, "Fuck you. Yes." Lily brings him something minty and muggle to rinse his mouth with and another potion, banishing the mess in the bin with a flick of her wand. 

"The potions you sent along with Remus have kicked my morning sickness entirely. Why don't they work for yours?" 

"I'm glad someone got some use out of them," he deadpans, taking a slow, cautious sip from the second vial. He grimaces and sets it aside for the moment to let himself settle. "Severe morning sickness, or hyperemesis gravidarum if you want to be technical. It's mostly a muggle thing, but occassionally magical folk will end up dealing with it." 

"My Mum had that with me," Lily says, with a sympathetic frown. She opens her mouth to say more, but the door opens behind her, and whatever thought she was about to communicate is lost as Severus shoves himself to his feet, unsteady and likely being kept up by little more than spite. He shoulders past her. 

"Mr. Snape—" 

"It's Master Snape, actually, and I've almost two fold the degrees to warrant such respect," several worn down bits of furniture and knicknacks rattle around them as he speaks. 

"M.* Snape, then," Dumbledore amends flatly. "I am glad to see you mostly unharmed. It would have been a tragedy for someone so young to—" 

"Don't. Lie. To me," Severus grinds out, somehow managing to look quite intimidating despite his stunted height and bloodied, ragged appearance. "You and your lackies are once again the reason I almost died," he seethes, "I've done nothing to you or your little golden boys. I've minded my damned business, crawled my way out of an abusive home and the dredges of muggle poverty without any help from anyone, disentangled myself from your war, and you still had the bollocks to assume I was a Death Eater." Damocles would feel a sting at the notion that Severus was alone in all he listed if he wasn't certain it was true. Damocles didn't sweep in and save him, Severus came to him, with his second and third hand things, three knuts to his name after the knightbus fare, and a nasty black eye and busted lip. He'd set his trunk down on Belby's porch and rattled off high level theorum and the value he'd have as an apprentice, proposed several ways to improve his current patents, and wouldn't stop stubbornly asserting his worth until Belby had dragged him into the house by the elbow and sat him down with a mug of tea and reasurances that he believed him. It was a surreal moment, and one he won't ever forget. Severus did claw his way out of the gutters with nothing but his bare hands and a wealth of spiteful determination. He wouldn't dream of taking that from him. 

"How did you find out?" Albus asks, rather than returning the vitriol he's recieving. The blue of his eyes has grown hard and cold. 

Damocles steps up behind Severus, a gentle, steadying hand on the small of his back. "Greyback," Severus snarls. "He told me that one of Dumbledore's pets was sniffing around his people, trying to convince them to leave his pack. He only knew the wolf form but I recognized the description easily enough. What was it he said? 'Rangy, brown-furred whelp with golden eyes and a scarred muzzle' was it? Said he'd scared him off the last time, and now packs Voldemort—" several people flinch, and Severus plows on without acknowledging them, "—is trying to recruit are going dark. It wasn't difficult to piece together from there. Lupin's spying is painfully obvious when you realize what you're looking for." 

"We had the best of intentions, M. Snape. After your conduct at Hogwarts—"

"My conduct?" The sparks are back, hitting the air with each exhale, snapping along his knuckles. He screws his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. Counting, probably. Or reciting the steps to make felix felicis. The flames fade. "What would you have suggested I do?" 

"Not consort with agents of Voldemort," Dumbeldore replies serenely, with the faintest edge of disappointment. Severus' shoulders bunch, and then, surprising them all, he laughs. A bitter, incredulous laugh. 

"Of course you would say that. I don't know why I expected different. Thank you for healing me, Mrs. Potter. I think I'll see myself out. Good luck with the war effort." He turns and heads towards the door, tugging Damocles along. He allows himself to be pulled along, sparing one last withering glance at Dumbledore. 

"M. Snape, M. Belby, I meant no—" 

"Good evening," Damocles says, stern tone brooking no arguement. 

"Sev, just hear him out—" Lily Potter's voice is drowned out by the sharp crack of apparition once they leave they building and the wards. 

#

Severus toys with the letter, picking at the edge of the wax seal, contemplating the slanted, looping hand that addresses it to him. Rich blue ink on white parchment, with a distinct curl around the i that he'd recognize anywhere, a quirk that Lily's new life hasn't stamped out. The seal is powder blue rather than the typical orange indicative of the Potter family, pressed with the Potter family crest—a chimera with a wand gripped between its teeth—and the paper is soft and expensive beneath his fingers. He and Lily have both come a long way. He wonders what their past selves would think, if they saw them now. Likely neither would believe their eyes, he muses. Belby is a halfblood like he is, the wizarding side of the family upper-middle class, merchants and academics and innovators. Entangled in both worlds, not worth a second glance from more traditional families, and yet it allowed them the freedom and open-mindedness to raise someone like Dame. Potter, of course, is a pureblood, old wealth and power and half a dozen mansions across europe. Far richer than either Severus or Damocles, but Severus doesn't envy it. He has a roof over his head, warm meals, the means to conduct his research, the connections to be recognized for his talents, and above all he has a husband who loves him dearly. What else does he need?

What little he saw of Lily and James last week makes him wonder if she can say the same. At one time he'd resented her for marrying Potter of all people, had balked at the thought that she could find someone so cruel good enough to marry. Seeing their announcement in the paper had made him seethe. It felt like a second betrayal, a second knife to the chest. But he'd gotten over it. Moved past it. He's certain he wouldn't have been able to, if he'd been surrounded by people so intent on keeping him angry, keeping him cruel. Damocles has softened him, and while his younger self would've balked at the idea, he... he doesn't mind it. 

Still, he misses her. Remus was on the money about that, at least. Though he truly didn't anticipate her reaching out to him, especially after how he'd left their headquarters. Apparently his words had stuck with her to some extent, allowed her to see past what she thought he was and really see him again. And now he has a letter from her, the first in years.

He feels Dame's approach before he hears it. A werewolves claim-mark is more than a physical bite (without venom, if done correctly) and the daily routine of Dame affectionately rubbing his wrists and nuzzling his face against the hollow of Severus' throat to make sure he smells like him to other wolves. It's a magical link, a humming presence at the back of his mind that lets him sense Dame's mood and well-being, and puts a pleasant buzz beneath his skin when they're near. "Still haven't opened it, then?" He asks, propping his hip against the handsome dark brown wood of Severus' desk as he speaks. A broad, scarred hand reaches out and pushes an errant lock of hair out of his face. Instead of answering, Severus cracks the seal, unfolding the letter with sharp, mechanical motions. 

Severus,

I never managed to thank you for the potions and things, they're quite nice. Nothing but the best for you, huh? I must admit, I didn't expect to see you again, let alone tend to your wounds. I hope you're doing well, in any case. My parents still ask after you. I never told them what happened. I'm not sure why. Maybe I always hoped we'd get back in touch. Maybe I was just being stupid, hiding another thing about our world from them to try and keep them 'safe,' as if ignorance is safety. I was surprised to hear that you understood why I cut things off with you. I didn't expect you to get it. Maybe you understand more things than I give you credit for. 

I do wish you'd give us a chance, though. I know that what Remus did, coming into your home, spying on you like that, it must make your skin crawl. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that. You aren't what we thought you were. I'm not even certain I recognize you anymore. Sure, I can see the dour little boy I grew up with, to a point, but you... The ink is blotted and messy here, where she'd paused to think. You seem happy. Truly happy. I realized I've never seen you like that before. Well, happy aside from how spitting mad you were back there. I don't know, maybe I'm delusional and you really are the same miserable prat I grew up with. 

Either way, I'd like to see you again. I can bury the past if you can. We can be friends again. Maybe even best of friends, eventually. I'd like to try. And as much as I've come to love James he's as dumb as a sack of bricks when it comes to the academic side of life, he thinks its too dull to talk about. I'd like a chat with someone who can keep up, if you know what I mean.

 Meet me at the little sandwich shop on Horizont Alley later tonight? You know the one. Say, half past five?

Cheers, 

Lily

He tries and fails to stifle a smile as he sees how badly Damocles is hiding his curiousity, studiously examining his blunted fingernails, hip still leant against Severus' desk. He huffs and thrusts the letter at him, "Go on then, have a look." 

Damocles flushes a little but takes the offered letter. "If you don't want me reading your—" 

"I wouldn't have offered if I minded, Dame." Severus stands, checking his watch. "I need to get ready, in any case. She's always had a bad sense of time." 

"Oh?" He skims the letter thoroughly as Severus half-heartedly tidies his workspace, nodding when he reaches the end. "You're going, then?" Severus notices his hesitance through their link. 

"Problem?" 

"No, no. I just..." Damocles shifts his weight, the old floorboards creaking beneath his bulk, and sighs softly, folding the letter up and setting it carefully on his husbands desk. "Can you blame me for worrying?" 

Severus searches his face, looking for pity, or condescension, or doubt, and all he finds is earnest concern and love. He smiles faintly, leaning forward to straighten Damocles tie out of habit as he leans up on his toes to kiss his cheek. Dame leans down obligingly for him. "I'll be fine." He huffs softly, "Severus Snape and Lily Evans? The death eaters will run screaming if they know what's good for them." The hard edge to his grin makes Damocles blink. He recalls the sight of his husband, face illuminated by liquid fire dripping from slender fingers, bottomless black eyes ablaze with fury, every exhale carrying sparks and embers like a dragon about to breath flame. He swallows thickly. "I can handle myself," Severus' bright smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, carves dimples around his mouth, and it makes his words a promise as much as a reassurance. 

"I believe you," Damocles says, and means it. Severus nods, stepping away from him and slipping his wand into the front pocket of his jeans. He's put all sorts of expansion charms and secret, magical pockets and things into his muggle clothing, and he doesn't have the time (nor the energy, honestly) to change. 

Damocles stops him before he can step out of the house to apparate, and clasps a necklace around his neck. It's a worn leather cord and a simple wooden pendant, a cube no bigger than the last knuckle of his pinkie finger. He rolls his eyes. "Really?" 

"Having a portkey never hurts." 

"You worry too much." 

Damocles bumps their foreheads together in answer, and then shoves him gently towards the door. "You're going to be late." 

"Oh so now you care about me being late!" Severus chuckles and steps outside, turning sharply on heel to apparate. Diagon Alley is as a-buzz as it usually is on a bustling saturday afternoon. The crowds make his skin feel too tight, but no-one gives him trouble for looking too muggle. 

And when he turns from Diagon Alley onto Horizont Alley, sidestepping a red-faced merchant persuing a young man heatedly through the cobble streets, as well as a couple of middle aged women toting stacks of crates almost too tall to see over to their shops, he finds relief in the fact that Lily is similarly dressed. Her hair is a wild mess of orange curls, sticking up everywhich way and ridiculously fluffy around her face, and the blouse she's wearing is white and dotted liberally with blue polka-dots. She's sitting at one of the metal tables in front of Lioch's Cafe. 

He slips through the crowd and slides into the seat across from her, cocking a brow. "You're going to start catching flies." 

"I—You're wearing bell bottoms!" She splutters. 

Severus rolls his shoulders back, frowning, "Yes, and?" 

"I dunno, I just..." she laughs, "When you got to Hogwarts you acted like you never wanted to see another pair of jeans, let alone wear them. And those are fashionable! Since when is Severus Snape fashionable?" 

"Since when does Lily Evans have any idea what muggles think is fashionable?" He grins a sharks grin, "Last I remember you were besides yourself trying to keep up with the latest wizarding trends."

She flushes blotchily, "That's—I was just—" she folds her arms across her chest. 

"You were just...?" 

"Never mind! You're such a prat!" She laughs, though the bright sound quickly fades. They stare at each other, just sort of...absorbing the fact that they're both here. Sitting at the table they'd always sit at to get sandwiches when they went school shopping, Lily sneaking the money he'd use to pay for their lunch back into his pocket because she could actually afford it, and him pretending not to notice. They'd make a game of guessing what their schedules would be, how their marks would look, who'd done better than the other in what subject last year. They'd commisserate over how clueless most wizarding folk were about muggles and muggle life, and guess the occupation of strangers walking down the street via their clothes and how many pockets they could see. 

It all seems so far away now. 

"So!" Lily says, disguising her awkwardness with brashness, "How've you been?" As if they haven't been estranged for three years. As if they aren't entirely different people. Maybe they aren't, Severus muses, watching Lily chew on a strand of her hair, the very sight making his teeth itch.

"Good," he says, stiffly, because small talk is the bane of his existence. "Good...You?"

"Good," she returns, equally as stiff. 

Severus casts about desperately in his mind for anything that might break this next lull of awkward silence, and latches on to the first thing that pops into his head. "How'd you like Slughorn's newest treatise on the standards for potions masteries?" 

Her verdant eyes spark with loathing, "Ugh! It was a load of crap, obviously. He saw you and Belby embarrassing him and half the masters in the field and got all uppity about it. Clear to anyone with eyes, in my opinion. The gall, he really said that his fellow masters must be 'lowering the standards for the younger generation at the detriment of all' and 'diluting a previously well-renowned and skilled community of genuises'! He might as well have spat in both your faces! And mine as well, given I'm well on the way to getting mine! I'd like to do something about it, but I don't know what. I don't have the pull to show him up in front of the other masters and prove he's full of it." 

"You did end up doing a dual mastery, didn't you?" Severus asks, propping his chin on his fist. "That's what you were talking about last I recall. Charms and potions."

A girl flitting about taking orders comes up to their table, with mousy brown hair and thick glasses, "Can I get you anything?" 

"Oh, I didn't..." Lily blinks. The last time they were here, you had to go in and order your food. "Uh, sure." She rattles off her usual order without thinking, a club sandwich and chips, a lemonade. 

"I'll have what she's having," Severus says when the girl turns to him. She nods, jotting it all down on a little notepad.  

Lily picks up the thread of their conversation as the girl leaves. "Yeah," she sighs, "But the or—my other occupation is putting a strain on things. I have half the time to do twice the work." She props her face on both of her fists, squishing her freckles cheeks up in the process. 

"Yes," Severus grimaces, "I can imagine that would be limiting. It's why I spread mine out. I've got about a month left for my second one." 

"Yeah, I probably should've. We'll both end up with two masteries in the same amount of time at this rate." She blows a breath and purses her red-stained lips. "How is it, anyways? You always wanted to do research. Must be a dream come true. Especially being married to someone in the same field." 

Severus grins teasingly, "Oh, is Potter not turning out to be all you thought he was?" 

"Oh, get off it! I knew he wasn't like that to begin with. I'm not delusional. And he's..." she sighs, "He's grown up a fair bit, you know." 

"Has he now?" 

"Yes, he has. But you already know about James, even if you think he's a right bastard...and with good reason," she ammends when his expression sours. "So what about Belby, then? I know he's a smokeshow but not much else." 

Severus knows his face is probably doing something embarrassing, along the lines of a very besotted smile, but he can't quite convince himself to stifle it. "He's...he's brilliant, Lily. Our kind of brilliant. And kind, patient, sweet, but he doesn't let people walk all over him. And he appreciates me, flaws and all. Loves me. I couldn't ask for a better man, honest. We get into rows, occassionally, but only the healthy kind. I was...worried. That I'd end up like one of my parents." His gaze darts away, and he feels his face heat, "He's wonderful."

When he bucks up the courage to look at her she's smiling at him. "I'm so happy for you, Sev. I'd love to get to know him. I got the feeling he'd heard about me though, when he first came to us about you being missing." Her eyes narrow, but there's a teasing air to her expression, "Would you happen to know anything about that?" 

"Oh, I may have...said a thing or two. Maybe." He coughs. "Or everything." 

"Everything? Sev!"

"Oh, you know what I mean! He knows about—" he gestures vaguely, "My history, my parents. The thing at the lake. That you were my only friend." 

She frowns at that, "You had your housemates. I was hardly your only friend." 

Severus shakes his head lightly, "I did their homework so they wouldn't hex me into next year, and played along with their idiocy to keep my head down. I wouldn't call that friendship. Especially since they only ever brought out the worst in me." He leans back in his seat with a sigh, "This is depressing. Your turn." 

"Well, there isn't much to tell, really," the in such a public space bit is unspoken but heard nonetheless. Severus tips his head in understanding. "We have a house of our own, now. It's gorgeous, of course, but...not what I'm used to. Tuney'd have an absolute fit if she knew how much we were living it up, you know!"

"How is Tuney? Is she still..." an absolute bitch, he would say, if he wanted to get hexed. 

Lily's expression sours, "Yes. She is. Though I keep trying. She's having a kid now. Seems like we all are, actually. But she's a lot farther along than either of us. With that awful Dursely man. They're married, now." 

Severus grimaces, "Even Tuney could do better than that. I almost feel sorry for her." 

"Yeah, me too." Lily shakes her head a little. "Speaking of, how far along are you? Remus said he didn't know." 

"Oh, almost nine weeks now. You?" 

She blinks, and says flatly, "You're kidding."

"No?" Severus frowns at her. "I'll be nine weeks along in two days." 

"You're kidding!" She exclaims. "So am I!" 

"You're fucking with me," Severus says, incredulously. "That—what?" He laughs. "That's almost a little creepy, actually." 

"Really, yeah. Christ. But it's not a bad thing. I wonder if our due dates are the same? Oh, and our kids will definitely be friends!"

"So long as they aren't like your husband was," he says. 

"I doubt it, especially if you're around to keep them in line."

Severus eyes her contemplatively, "You really want that, Lily?" 

"Of course I do! I... I really missed you, Sev. And I know you missed me too. You know you can't lie to me." 

"Here you are!" The girl from earlier returns with their orders, and Severus feels relief rush through him when the sight and smell doesn't immediately turn his stomach. Fried eggs, toast, and olives are about the only things he's been able to stomach for weeks now. It'll be nice to actually eat something approaching a real meal. 

"Thank you," Lily says, smiling at her. Severus murmurs an approximate of the same, with far less cheerfulness but no malice. 

Lily picks up her glass of lemonade and holds it out, "To friendship."

"You're such a sap," Severus chuckles. "Fine," he sighs when she glares at him, "To friendship." The glasses clink together satisfyingly, a little sloshing out onto the table. "And...to new beginnings." 

Her eyes soften, "I'm starting to think you didn't need a new beginning. You just needed someone who let you be." 

Chapter Text

The letters continue from that day on. Innocuous chatter, mostly, but each one includes two things without fail: a subtle plea to hear her out and join the Order, and a line concerned for their well-being now that they're on Voldemort's radar. Severus thinks the latter is nonsense. He's been on Voldemort's radar for years. He's wondered why they let him go, why they haven't come back, but he always put it down to him being a half-blood. A half-blood begging to be included in their ranks is one thing. A half-blood who decided that wasn't the path he wanted to walk, on the other hand? He became yet another piece of collateral damage in a march towards an inevitable and bloody war. He was inconsequential enough to them to be forgotten. 

The cogs that turned to put him into harms way were numerous and coincidental. Lupin came to sniff around him for Dumbledore after he recieved Severus' invite—his human identity was already a known enemy of Voldemort—and he was tailed, making Severus and Damocles of interest to them. Severus found out because Greyback had suspicions that Lupin was the werewolf that had been sniffing around his pack, and Severus put the peices together with basic deduction skills. It was no act of theirs that put them in danger, and he fails to see what makes him so valuable to the order. 

And yet, he can't say that in a letter. And you don't want to say it at all, a pesky little voice murmurs at the back of his skull. Every new letter picks at his resolve with the intent to unravel it, forces him to consider the possible ramifications of sitting out when he could do so much to help, even in this condition. And if the war marches on after the child is born? What he could do to those bastards. What you and Lily could do together, the voice reminds him. He stifles a smile, wondering if Potter knows what happens when you put two pyromancers together on a battlefield. The man would piss himself. But he can't just swan off to join the war effort, can he? He has a mastery to finish, a child to have, a husband to worry about. So does she, the voice rebukes. So Lily continues to subtly pester him, and he continues to subtly rebuff her, and they go about their lives for a good few days. Days with more disappearances. More "strange" muggle deaths. More "gas main leaks." It itches when he sees them. How can he just sit idly like this?

Damocles jostles him from his thoughts by throwing himself onto the sofa next to him, the furniture dipping enough to make Severus slip down against him. He huffs a laugh, shoving himself into a more comfortable position. "Must you?" 

"Absolutely," Dame rumbles. Then, "Penny for your thoughts?" 

He sighs, "Lily wants me to help with the war." 

Damocles groans in annoyance, thunking his head back against the couch, "I don't know why. We hardly did anything." 

"Probably because its notoriously difficult to obliviate an occlumens," Severus muses dourly. "It is a secret order, and we know where their headquarters is." 

"Have you told her no?" 

Severus hesitates. 

"Sev, have you told her no?" 

He folds his hands in his lap, and slowly says, "Not in so many words." 

"Not in—Severus. We've talked about this." 

To be be completely honest, though, they haven't. Well, they did, surely, but that was... that was when Damocles viewed Severus as an academics man with no appetite for violence. Severus has always seemed so deliberate, steady-handed and cool headed (okay, maybe not all the time). He has no qualms destroying someone utterly with words, or pacing about in a frothing rage, that he'd seen. And of course, he knew that Severus was keen-minded and carried around a terrifying wealth of knowledge on spell-theory and offensive and defensive magic, hence his work on his second mastery. But Damocles had not even been capable of imagining Severus in a real fight until that night at the campsite, and so much was a blur, hazy from Marchosias' rage and his own, driven by pure instinct. 

And that was Severus without a wand. 

There was no conversation about the posibility of Severus aiding the war effort in a non-academic capacity, and he still finds such a thing out of the question, but for very different reasons. "Severus, think about our child." 

"That is precisely my point," Severus insists. He jumps to his feet, rubbing his hands against the back of his neck, "You can't say the world will be safe for them if this war is not won. Both of us are halfbloods, our child will be as well, and the world is growing more hostile to us by the day. And that does not even consider all of the other innocents swept up in this mess! It is the only logical course of action, Dame. What if our abstinance is the difference between loss and victory?" 

Damocles inhales sharply at the ferocity in the black eyes turned on him, and swallows thickly before replying, "You can't, Severus. What has gotten into you? We are not soldiers, or aurors, or any number of useful things in this war! We are a civillian couple with a child on the way. We will not be a deciding force here." 

"You don't know that! And since when are you my keeper? Since when do you decide what I can and cannot do? You don't know what will happen!" 

"I know that losing you would destroy me," Damocles says, with as much feeling as he can muster. "You can't possibly ask me to condone this, this—madness!" You're so young, too young, he thinks, but is he really that much older? What gives him the right to decide what his husband does, when he is old enough to do something? And it would do no good in any case, Severus has been of a singular mind regarding his competence since he was old enough to feel the bite of his father's belt, and implying he's not capable of making a good faith decision about his future will only push him away. 

Unfortunately, he had not considered that he was looking into Severus' eyes when thinking such a thing, and he gets to witness those eyes widen in surprise before swiftly narrowing. 

"That is not fair," Damocles growls. "You know that isn't fair. I won't let you throw your life away on some foolish whim!" 

All of the emotion floods from Severus' expression, and he feels something jarr inside of him at the sight. Severus has never had to use occlumency because of him. Cold, disconcertingly empty eyes watch him with the barest hint of caution. "You know I can't help it," is the whispered reasoning for such an invasion of privacy. Yes, he knows. He knows. It does not make him feel any better. The apology is there, twisted beneath the surface of his words, and yet it does not help. Severus sees this as well, either in his expression or in his thoughts, because he turns on heel and leaves the room, with the parting words, "And you do not have the right to let me do anything. You do not own me." 

He follows. What else is he to do? He cannot in good conscience leave Severus to his devices after such a row, swift and short as it may have been, with such dangerous thoughts in his head! He will stop this flight of fancy, this madness, and life will go back to normal. They will be safe, and happy, and the war will be won by those capable of fighting it. His surety shatters when he comes into the hall and just manages to catch the barest glimpse of Severus as he slams the front door. The following crack of apparition is gutting. 

He has no idea where his husband has gone, or what he plans to do, and therefore no way to follow him. Maybe the Order headquarters? But no, that wouldn't—there's as much a chance Severus would find enemies there as allies. So where? Where would his spouse go after a row? Most people's, normal people's spouses would go to their family. Severus has none that he would wish to return to. 

Except, Damocles thinks, his eyes catching on a letter with a powder blue seal, except maybe he does.

#

Severus is bent double the moment his feet hit the ground in front of the Evans' house. Lily had said she was visiting family this week, had said he was welcome to visit, and damned if he's going to sick up in her parents' bushes. Instead he clamps a hand over his mouth, trying to force it to pass by sheer will. What he would do for a bloody anti-nausea potion that works! Damned apparition, damned war, damned Damocles trying to keep him safe and locked away like some bloody china doll. 

It takes more time than he'd like to gather himself, and he cautiously takes his hand back and breathes deeply. The air of Cokeworth isn't nearly so fresh and bracing as the stuff of their home in the cloaked, wizarding-dominant part of italy, and yet it feels almost like coming home. Light pollution has blotted out the stars, the old mill towers above the town, and the glinting lights of the city that Cokeworth orbits light up the horizon. 

Back after so many years, everything feels...smaller. Less grand. As a child Severus had thought the Evans' house unbelievably beautiful and large; a mansion, a lovely place like his lovely friend. Now, having the experiences he has, it's nothing more than another middle-class brick house across the tracks, a nice, respectable house for nice, respectable people, but no mansion. The garden in the front is well maintained, and he notes that there's a shiny new car in the drive. But despite having lost the charm of his childhood perspective, it sends an aching thrum of nostalgia through him to see it again. He approaches the door with reluctance, suddenly unsure of himself. The lights are on, and he knows that the Evans' have always taken dinner late due to Mr. Evans' shifts at work, and that Lily likely wasn't lying about him being welcome, but he's no doubt pushing the bounds of that offer. 

He can't go home though, not right now. He can't face Dame right now, not after—he shakes himself as he feels his shields bowing beneath the weight of that thought, and knocks with three precise raps of his knuckles. If he thinks too hard about what has just transpired he will cry, and he doesn't fancy the idea of crying on the Evans' porch. 

The door swings open sharply, and a man who fills rhe entirety of the doorway and perhaps a little more is standing there, with a thick, unflattering mustache and beady eyes. "No solicitors," the man sneers with evident disgust. 

Severus blinks, "Who the hell are you?"

The man sputters indignantly, "Me? Who am I?" He snarls, going spectacularly red in the face. Muggle, upper middle class, narcisistic, rude, he catalogues, raking his memory for who on gaia's green earth this might be. "You should bloody well know who I am, runt. And who are you to speak to—" done with the mans incessant, pompous blathering, Severus shoves past him into the house, ducking his grasping hands. Lily is chatting heatedly with a woman who resembles the man blundering after him quite uncannily, with an ugly dog at her heels, and she looks just as displeased with this womans presence as the woman does at hers. Her head just happens to turn at the right moment, and they meet eyes. She blinks once, twice, and then notices the man fuming behind him. 

"This—This vagrant forced his way past me," the man growls. 

"Sev?" Lily says, ignoring him entirely. "Sev, what's happened?" 

Severus feels his shields buckle again, and takes a sharp, shaking breath, "Damocles and I had a fight. I didn't—I didn't know where else to go. I....probably shouldn't have presumed—"

"Shut up and come here," Lily demands, drawing him into a crushing hug. "I'm so glad you came," she whispers into his shoulder. "You're family here, you know that. I was an idiot to make you ever think otherwise." 

"I—thank you," Severus croaks. 

"Come on, Mum'll make you a cuppa, just the way you like, and you can tell me all about it. Dinner's in half an hour." Lily gently guides him into their sitting room, and they sit on the couch together. 

"You know this man?" The man who had answered the door says, incensed. 

"He's my best friend, you dolt!" Lily snaps, scowling at him over the couch. He seems to have no response to that. 

"Who is he?" Severus asks, only taking a moment to absorb the new decor, Lily's and Petunia's wedding pictures on the mantle, their graduation photos. There are even some pictures of he and Lily there, old ones, framed polaroids, mostly. 

"Oh my lord, is that Severus I hear?" A voice with a distinct scottish brogue exclaims. "It's been an age!" Mrs. Evans bustles into the room and sweeps him up into her arms despite his stammered protests, cooing and cupping his face, "Let me get a good look at you dear! You've grown up so handsomely! And is that a wedding ring?" She takes his hand and admires the wide golden band and the glimmering, square-cut emerald set flat against it. He smiles faintly despite himself. The question is rhetorical, and he hardly has time to answer because she forges on without waiting for one, "And don't you mind Vernon there, he's an alright sort once you get to know him." 

Ah. So that's who he is. Severus only manages to stifle his grimace because his shields are still up. He's heard a great deal about Vernon Dursely, none of it good. "It's good to see you, Mrs. Evans," he demures. "Thank you for having me on such short notice." 

"Ah, it's no trouble, love!" She leans in conspiratorally, "And maybe you can help Lily's skittish young man get comfortable, yes? He's quite...something." 

Severus blinks, mouthing the words Lily's skittish young man, and stares at her in astonishment when he connects that description to Potter. Skittish? Really? Well, Mrs. Evans does think the world of him of all people—damn, he really needs to stop thinking like that. Of course he's here, though that isn't a possibility he'd considered so much as it had faintly floated at the edge of his awareness. 

"Speak of the devil!" Lily's mother jokes as Potter and Mr. Evans come in from the back yard. Potter does look a bit....off kilter. Skittish isn't a word Severus would ever use for the man, but he certainly doesn't seem as arrogant or confident as usual. He looks exhausted, as well, which is downright unnerving. She pats Severus' hand, "You just make yourself comfortable while we get dinner going, now, will you?" 

"Yes, Mrs. Evans," he says reflexively. His voice draws the attentions of both of the men who'd just stepped inside. Potter's face immediately sours, watching Mrs. Evans leave he and Lily together on the couch, happy as can be with his presence. At least this has distracted me from—well, the row, he thinks, unable to even put to words what had just transpired. He prides himself on ironclad control of his legilimency, even though he can't help but hear the buzz all around him, he doesn't—he doesn't just pluck the thoughts from peoples heads at a whim! It's a terrible thing to do, it's a violation, and half the time ones surface thoughts hardly reflect on their character, they're just as likely to be rebuffed the moment they surface, and—and—

"Sev? Hey," Lily's hand rubs his arm, jolting him out of his quickly spiralling thoughts. "Hey, it'll be alright. From what you've said Damocles really loves you. One row isn't going to do much. You'll see. Fights can be healthy," she reassures, eyes gentle and understanding. 

Ah, well, Severus thinks, having not considered that his parents might have something to do with his current state. "I suppose I could be overreacting," he demures, smoothing his hands over his trousers. "I don't—fighting isn't something we do. We argue, or...bicker. We don't fight. And this one was different."

"A perfectly understandable thing, given your...well, you know," she replies. 

"Yes," Severus says, looking down at his hands. He doesn't want to be his father or his mother. He'll die first. 

She hesitates, rolling her lips togerher for a moment before gently asking, "Sev, he didn't hurt you, did he?" 

"No!" The vehemence of his reply startles even himself, and is loud enough that Potter—who has returned to conversing with Mr. Evans, but with one eye on the couch—jumps visibly. "No," he repeats, at a more acceptable volume, "He wouldn't—Lily, I doubt he'd hurt me even if I asked him to. No...we had a disagreement. I did something I shouldn't have. Nothing violent happened. I would—" I would be a sobbing mess if it had, he thinks bitterly, unable to imagine a scenario in which he was not brought to his knees by such a thing. No matter how strong, how in control he fancies himself, the thought of that, paired with his past? No. No. It would destroy him. 

Damocles words ring vividly in his head, I know that losing you would destroy me. Guilt weighs heavily on his heart.

"Okay, okay. I believe you," she sighs. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

"No," he replies firmly, "No..." his eyes find hers briefly, and he chokes down his embarrassment, "Distract me? Like we used to?" 

She hadn't expected that, but it doesn't seem an unwelcome suggestion. Her mouth curls and her eyes glimmer. Now this is a game she knows the rules of, familiar territory, well-walked paths. They've been doing this since they were small. Petunia would say something cruel, or her father would forget an important date, and Severus would spend the entire day making sure she didn't think of it one bit. And, when his father went too hard with the belt, or his mother forgot to feed him for three days before remembering he existed, Lily would do the same. Their situations were so different, so alien, they were never good at talking about them. Severus couldn't fathom how a mean word could strike Lily as hard as a heavy-handed slap would strike him, and Lily couldn't understand how anything could be worse than mean words. They were too young to realize what the disconnect was, but they were old enough to avoid it. 

Now, they know better, but he also knows that if talks about it his shields will break down and then he will break down, and he'd rather not deal with that here, thank you. It's unhealthy, using this sort of magic in this way. He'll live. 

#

Severus stands from the dinner table abruptly and paces to the window. He flicks the curtain aside, peering into the darkness of the street. The familiar feeling building beneath his skin makes his pulse pick up. Like a storm building in the air, tension ready to snap. He only ever feels this way when something dire is about to come to pass. "What're you—" Potter's suspcious voice cuts off in a sharp inhale as the cutlery begins to rattle. The wail of car alarms ripple down the street, followed by more rumbling. 

"Lily," Severus says in a calm, tempered voice, "Go get your wand." He's pulled a penknife from his pocket, flicked it open. It hovers over his open palm. Lily's gaze darts from his hand to his face, all the color draining from her as she stands, wavering only for a heartbeat before she abruptly flies out of the room, feet pounding against creaking wooden floors as she darts up the stairs. More car alarms. A shrill, piercing noise that burrows painfully into his temples. A streetlight pops in a shower of glass and sparks a few roads down. Then the next, and the next, and the next, marching ever closer. Severus turns his body fully towards the window and digs the blade into the cradle of his palm, dabbing blood onto his fingers and swiftly dragging wet-warm-red against the Evans' window. He feels Potter's gaze on his back, burning into his shoulder blades. Time stands still. The magic tugs at him, twists inside, sharp and sickly, but it's effective. It will be. 

"What the blazes is going on? Is it those damned criminals? The ones from the telly?" Mr. Evans muses worriedly, standing from his seat as well. It's unfortunate timing, unfortunate placement, Mr. Evans was sat at the head of the table, direclty facing the window, and Severus can see a flare of green in the corner of his eye. His breath chokes, and he slams his bleeding hand onto the sigil he'd drawn even as the vision of what might've happened had he not been here flies through his minds eye. 

A heart attack. It would have looked like a heart attack. A swift death. The man who stepped up to be his father when no one else would be crumpled on his back like a broken doll, dead in a blink, in a heartbeat. Green eyes cast heavenward, unseeing and empty. 

Mr. Evans is too young to die, too kind, and Lily's child deserves a grandfather as much as she deserves to keep her father. 

The glass bursts in a cascade of brilliant burning-white shards, the green flare of light screeching on impact like a muggle bomb coming to ground, fighting for every inch even as the ward warps it in on itself until it snaps the spell clean in half. Severus' hand burns with it, bright agony arcing up his arm, but he curls his fingers into his bleeding palm and ignores the pain in favor of meeting Potter's eye. "I have a portkey," he says over the din of shouts and shrill yelling that has taken over the Evans' house. Panic is understandable. They don't know. Lily hasn't told them. Not truly. Petunia has rocked to her feet and is shouting, demanding answers in her shrillest voice. Mrs. Evans is trembling and wide eyed, too stunned to move. Dursley and his sister have stood as well and are blathering heatedly about criminals and nonsense and impossibilities. Mr. Evans is frozen, gaze bouncing from Severus to the window with knowing and shaky gratitude. 

Severus grabs the little wooden cube at his throat and yanks on it until the leather cord gives. He shoves it into Potter's hand. "I'll buy you time. Get them out of here." 

"But—You—You're—" Potter's brown eyes are blown wide and his expression unfathoming, uncomprehending. He expects the worst, as always. He had not expected selflessness of him. And beyond that, the same worries Damocles had so recently driven him away with linger behind his gaze. 

Severus cuts through his stammering with cold hard logic, fisting his shirt in a hand and shaking him roughly, "Which of us is capable of halting a killing curse, Potter? Which of us knows how to use blood wards? It took four of you to take me down when we were children," he sneers, "Get. Them. Out!" He flings him back a step and moves for the wall with the now shattered window, not yet turning his back on him.

Potter's jaw tenses, and he nods curtly, with the expression of a man following a good order, rather than begrudgingly doing as a bitter rival says. Severus only sees the briefest glimpse of Potter ushering Lily's family into the next room, grappling Mrs. Evans when she refuses, protests spilling from her like a broken dam spills water, "We can't just leave him here! What are you doing?! Get off me! Severus!" 

"It can only transport three at a time," Severus calls after him, with the flat calm of occlumency falling over his shoulders like a gout of icy water.

Severus runs his fingers through the blood still pooling in his palm and sets to work with a haze of singular purpose and surety that must be the effect of adrenaline. His entire second mastery is based on this sort of thing, the application of potent forbidden magickes to only the best of ends, the twisting of the dark to the light, taking the most vile dredges of magic and using it for anything but its intended purpose. Blood wards are used to curse families for generations, to instill poverty, infertility, infidelity—there's evidence of these wards bringing entire royal houses to their knees, dragging kingdoms into the depths of oblivion and irrelevancy via the desolation of famine, plague, and drought. 

The ones he paints onto the Evans' gaush floral wallpaper are not so grand. He takes the magic and wrenches it inside-out, warps the contract, ravage becomes protect and enthrall becomes hold the line. A ward meant to turn inward turns outward, unleashing devestation on those beyond its bounds, protecting those within. He hears a howl of laughter and the repeated crack of apparition, feels the way the wards drag at his core, digging slick, skinless fingers into his soul, bleeding him magically as much as physically. 

It's more than generous. He'll recover in time, after all. Saving the family that had shown him such kindness in exchange for a few weeks of ill-health is a trade he will always make. 

He hears the tell-tale sound of Potter activating the port-key, Mr. and Mrs. Evans in tow. Mrs. Evans is crying. He can't spare the space in his head to feel sorry about her emotional state, because he feels the bright burst of someone trying to pass into the house, hears the blood curdling scream as the wards repel them. Feels it in his bones, the magic writhing and hissing and sparking, this is not our purpose, this is NOT OUR PURPOSE—release us—RELEASE US—

"You—you're keeping them out," the voice is familiar, faint. "Oh god, you—that's so much blood." 

"It looks like more than it is," Severus replies, not bothering to look up as he swiftly and neatly pulls the requisite patterns into being. He's always had uncannily steady hands. Even a cruciatus couldn't make Snape muck up, I bet, his roommates had joked at Hogwarts. This is as close to testing that theory as he's willing to go.

The tell tale thundering steps of Lily coming down from her room meets both their ears. She's panting, trembling, wand firmly in hand. "Oh god," Lily gasps, mirroring her sisters words. "What have you done?! That magic—" 

"Is not what it seems," Severus smoothly interjects, taking three casual steps out into the hall with the stairwell, looking out the warped, busted remains of the front door. Not getting close, no, but he doesn't have to to see a huddle of masked figures seething and spouting frustrated vitriol, some collapsed in death throes as white flame eats at their writhing forms, others staggering back from the house when it lashes out at them. Lily and Petunia join him in watching as they hear Potter return and wrangle the Dursley's into cooperation. 

Severus feels something wrench in him, tastes copper on his tongue, feels warm wetness bridge his nose to his lip and down to his chin. Hands grip him—Lily's voice, but he can't recognize what she says. He digs his hand into her shoulder to keep himself upright, deafened by a sudden onset of tinnitus. 

He thinks she asks him what's happening, is half-certain he responds, "All magic has a cost," but he could be wrong, everything is so far away.

Potters voice catches his awareness after what might be seconds or hours. "If I take him first, you both die!" He thunders. "He can hold. Can't you, Snape?" Hands grip his shoulders, the back of his neck, bracing, shaking him just the barest amount. Potter's brown eyes bore into his black, his face ashen and concerned. He sounds like he's begging, "Can't you?"

Severus manages a toothy grin, bloodstained and ugly, a rictus more than a smile, "I can." 

"No, don't you dare—!" he doesn't know if that was Lily or Petunia. Perhaps both. The ringing comes back as the hands leave him, and Severus feels the press of the wall of the stairs against his back. His wavering vision finds cloaked, masked figures out the front door and out the back. The wards buckle and groan. The fire hurts them less, the magic dimming. And...He can't help it. He laughs. There's not a shred of mirth to it. An entirely different agony from that of the buckling wards grips his heart. 

Losing you would destroy me,

Losing you would destroy me,

Losing you would destroy me,

He screws his eyes shut and feels his occlumency snap beneath the strain. His fingers are slick with blood and clumsy with shock as he fumbles to turn his wedding band on his finger. He dredges up memories, clings to the vision of his home, of his husband, of his life. A good, happy life, devoid of struggle or danger, a life built on the bones of his past, above the abuse and the neglect and the bone-deep ache of being discarded by everyone who was supposed to care for him. He was never meant for it. He was meant to join a vile cause and commit terrible, unforgivable crimes, to prove them all right, to die discarded and alone and without anyone to miss him. But he slipped the noose one too many times, and now the fate has probably been passed to someone else. Is this the price of such a thing? Is this the cost of cheating fate?

If so, he does not regret it. Not for a second. 

The wards buckle, and dig their sickly dead digits into him, meat hooks in his flesh, tugging in all directions. He doesn't hear Potter. He doesn't hear anything. His vision is growing spotty. 

He lets it go. 

The wards burst around him, the blood burning into nothingness against the wall, dissolving in fitful fragments of brilliance. Crowing laughter and cheers claw through the ringing in his ears. 

The wood floor groans beneath heavy boots. Severus won't flinch, won't cower. He refuses. He forces his blurry gaze to move in the direction of his executioner, and instead his eyes widen as Damocles' broad hand wraps around the back of his neck, and the sick swooping sensation of portkey use drags him into the depths of unconsciousness. 

#

The soft thrum of the hospitals healing charms is what wakes him. At first he forgets—thinks he's accidentally fallen alseep between tutoring sessions, and jolts a little in alarm, fearing he'll be late. The movement jostles his memories back into proper order, the low level, bone-deep ache of a stripped magical core pulling everything into clarity. Not drained, not permanently damaged, but frayed and raw. He breathes deeply, flexes his fingers, assesses the damage; not bad at all, maybe a week for it to completely heal. He should be able to walk out of here today. 

There's a warm presence beside him, a familiar humming at the base of his skull. When he manages to open his eyes, he finds his husband with his head down on folded arms on the hospital bed. Snoring like a buzzsaw, as usual. He hesitantly lifts his hand, gaze flickering over the bandages wrapped around his palm, blood magic resists magical healing, feels the muggle stitches in his skin, and cards his fingers through the werewolfs long brown hair. It's out of its tie, which betrays a certain level of exhaustion and frazzledness that makes guilt spike through him. 

At least I got them out, he muses. And if he hadn't been there, if no one had noticed—and they wouldn't have, Severus only noticed because he can sense magical danger as keenly as Lily can sense direction, (a skill Lily taught him, but one he can only perform without shoes on) or Damocles the onset of a thunderstorm (a skill Damocles taught him, but one he can only use in the summer)—then Lily's family might have died. Lily might've died. Mr. Evans certainly would have. He can't bring himself to regret it. And he also can't help but wonder at fates sense of timing, because this—this has driven it home. He can't sit idle. It simply isn't an option. 

He casts his gaze about the room as his hand idly cards through Damocles' hair, looking for indications of what wing they've put him in. The room is indistinct and small, soft whites and greys and a touch of navy blue, a single bed and the chair Dame's occupying, a complex apparatus of glass and runes in the corner that he vaguely recognizes. He's unsurprised to be in a private room. He isn't a werewolf, so he's ineligible to be put in the lycanthropy wards, but his unborn child and husband are, making him a "risk" to other patients in wards for "normal" patients, according to the Ministry's laws regarding healthcare and lycanthropy. It's all nonsense, really. A nurse briskly jogging down the hall tips him off: he knows her, she works in the east wing of the spell damage floor, and volunteers with the same children he does on her off time. She comes back past his room onky a few moments later, much less hurriedly. 

He goes to say something, to ask her what his status is, or when he'll be relessed, how long he's been here, but fatigue is dragging at him again. His vision blurs, and he feels something wrench inside. The shrill bleating of an apparatus follows him into unconsciousness. 

The next time he claws his way to wakefulness is not so peaceful: the link in the back of his mind tugs him back, taut and straining, not as if it might snap but rather like he's being pulled painfully close, held onto too tightly. And if that were not enough to tell him somethings amiss, the low thrum of Damocles' growling reaching his ears is. There's a familiar hand on his shoulder, gentle but possessive in it's grip. A strand of his hair has snagged against Dame's wedding band. "He will not be going anywhere until he's well." 

"M. Belby, you must see reason. St. Mungo's is not as well protected as they like to think. You would be safer with us. We can offer you protection." Dumbledore. Why is Dumbledore here? Damocles' anger flares, and the psychic reverb is so great that the machine against the wall begins bleating again. Severus opens his eyes with nuch difficulty and takes in the scene. Dumbledore is stood at the foot of his hospital bed, eyes curiously flat and calculating. Damocles is standing at the head of the bed, half bent over him as if to shield him from the elderly wizard, broad hand clasped right where Severus' bondmark is. His eyes glow behind his glasses, his hair is a wild mess, and his beard has gotten unruly, and his lip is curled in a snarl that shows too-sharp teeth. 

"Have you forgotten that he's here because you cannot protect your own people? Because an entire squad of death eaters descended on Mrs. Potter's childhood home?" His chest heaves with barely contained rage, and Severus can here the snarling and snapping of Marchosias at the back of his skull, a wordless cacophany of maim-kill-bite.

Dumbledore's face is grave, "You won't join us, then?" 

"Go to hell!" 

"Very well," the old man sighs long windedly, gaze flitting about the room. When he finds Severus' eyes meeting his his shoulders twitch in surprise. He sets his jaw, and turns his eyes to Belby, "Then, and I do regret this, M. Belby, but I must report M. Snape to the proper authorities." 

Severus feels his breath catch painfully in his chest just as Belby chokes on a bitter laugh. "Report him for what? What could you possibly have on him?" 

Dumbledore's voice is entirely flat and solemn as he says, "Evidence that the magic performed on the Evans' house was extremely forbidden blood magic, banned in every european country as well as most of china and north africa." He waves an ancient, wrinkled hand, "M. Snape himself is compelling evidence in such a case; the kind of spell damage he's sustained is—"

"He's been sanctioned to study those magicks by the order of Unspeakables themselves!" Belby argues heatedly, "The ministry itself signed off on his research, and his grants—" 

"Research, M. Belby. Not self defense, and not in a muggle area!" 

Belby shakes his head, "You—corrupt son of a bitch! So what, he either—" Damocles' voice cracks precariously, "He either goes to Azkaban or goes to you, then? Is that it?" 

Dumbledore actually manages to look horrified and chastised by the thought. "No, not at all—"

Severus feels his own indignation rising. After all, he'd been planning to join of his own volition, and now for Dumbledore to try and blackmail them into service? It's enraging. And he says so, his voice only a little rough from disuse, and utterly smooth, "I planned to accept Lily's offer on my own, actually," Severus says, soft and deadly. Dumbledore's shoulders tense, and a flash of surprise flickers across his face. "But if this is any indication of the treatment we'll be receiving" 

Belby's hand tightens vice-like on his shoulder, his other hand coming up to smooth up his shoulder and neck to cradle his face in one large hand, and suddenly he can't see Dumbledore. Only Damocles, green eyes marred by dark marks, wide and shiny with on coming tears. "You're awake," he says, faintly, as if he doesn't believe himself. "You—" he cuts himself off, pressing their foreheads together, "Don't you ever do that again! You hear me? Never again." 

Severus huffs an amused sound and returns the embrace gladly. Then, his humor fades, and he murmurs, "About before—I'm...sorry." 

"I know," Damicles says on a sigh, "I know, love. I'm just glad you're alright. And I'm sorry too: you were right, in a way. I'm not your keeper."

"Then we're...?" 

"We're fine," Damocles confirms, carding his fingers through Severus' hair with a relieved smile. 

Dumbledore lightly clearing his throat behind Damocles makes them both tense.