Chapter Text
“Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”
- Haruki Murakami
He wasn’t expecting it to be so intimate.
The journals and articles spoke of animalistic thirst and unwavering hunger. Of grotesque violence and immense power. Of an irresistible pull.
Nothing could have prepared him for gentle, slow kisses—a swipe of tongue against his neck, gentle fingers on his jaw. The sharp slide of teeth puncturing his jugular was a minuscule feeling when his thoughts were distracted by hands in his hair and hands on his neck and hands on his waist and hands going lower, lower, lower.
The fog in his mind clears just a bit when he realizes their mouth hasn’t moved, teeth still firmly attached to his neck. He feel his blood drain out of him at an alarming speed, feels the unnatural pull in his veins and the shriveling of his skin. The previously sensual touches were now like burning iron, his body held tight against a firm, unmovable chest. His vision begins to blur, his arms flailing as he attempts to break free of the vice-like grip. He feels more than he hears the deep chuckle of the man behind him.
His body slumps, the moment of intense panic gone just as fast as it began, his energy depleted in a manner of seconds. He feels himself being lowered onto something soft, and then hears a voice no louder than a whisper.
“Remember, Severus. You wished this upon yourself.”
***
The idea came to him during a Death Eater meeting, ironically enough.
He hears what sounded like an entire wall burst into rubble, along with some ancient picture frames. He distantly thought that Lady Black would not be pleased if she knew what was happening in her esteemed manor.
The Dark Lord was choleric, the smallest of inconveniences causing explosive reactions. An infuriated Dark Lord meant that someone was likely to die. They could do nothing but hope as they stood there waiting to see what direction their Lord’s mood went in today.
The faint, fetid odor of ammoniacum wafted up at him as he added a precise 1 ounce into his cauldron. Being a skilled potioneer meant Severus was often excused from seeing the Dark Lord in his all-encompassing rage, a fact he was becoming more and more thankful for as the days went by.
He hears Jugson’s screams as he stirs the potion once counterclockwise, followed by an abrupt silence that can only mean the obvious. His mark begins to burn just the slightest bit, letting him know he is being summoned to the main room. A quick stasis charm, and then he silently ascended the stairs into the large hall where general meetings are held to kneel in front of the Dark Lord. He notices Jugson twitch in the corner of his eyes, his face etched in a silent scream.
“You always seem to miss out on all the fun, Severus.” A long, pale finger slides across his cheek, a poor imitation of a loving touch. “I will give you the honor of finishing him off.”
Severus keeps his head bowed, and watches through the corner of his eyes as the Dark Lord retreats into the throne-like chair he has stationed at the far end of the room.
He stands. He reminds himself of his anger at the Dark Lord, imagining that it is his body he is about to kill instead of Jugson’s in front of him. He determinedly does not think of how he and Jugson had shared pints in the pub just days ago. Does not think of Jugson’s mouth against his own, of heat and passion shared in the corner of the back alley behind the pub. He mutters the fated words as he thinks of how fucking tired he is of doing this.
The Dark Lord lets out a pleased hum. Severus keeps his head bowed, eyes focused on Jugson’s unseeing eyes. He needs a bloody drink. He tunes out the current speech the Dark Lord is giving, something about betrayal and consequences he couldn’t give two fucks about, and instead opts to take in all that he could of his past lover. Their relationship was nothing serious, just two people in a world of terror finding solace in each other every couple of nights. He regrets not having one more night with him.
Caught up in old memories, he almost misses something of incredible importance.
Jugson’s Dark Mark had begun to fade.
***
The basement air was stuffy and frigid, the concrete under him colder still. The scales of Nagini slithering against the smooth floor could be heard as if amplified, the sickening crunch of bones revealing she had found her prey. His eyes were closed, head bowed, knees pressed against the harsh concrete; he wasn’t sure if it had been mere minutes or if it had been hours. Regardless of whether the curse would leave permanent marks or not, he was sure he would have bruises tomorrow from the mere time he has spent kneeling.
The Dark Lord hummed. They were the only two in the room; the basement served as Severus’s primary workplace and most Death Eaters were not allowed inside the room. A volatile incident where one fool had cost them a month's worth of potions ensured that Severus was to be left alone for the most part. The Dark Lord only ever entered the room himself when he had a specific request for Severus. It was futile, but he hoped for a merciful assignment. The thought of blood on his hands, of fearful innocent eyes, of still bodies, of the ever-so-slight stench of rot… he would take anything over that.
“You are to spy on Dumbledore.”
It was barely louder than a whisper but Severus felt his heart stop. He focused on raising his shields, not letting his thoughts betray him. Spying on the headmaster meant going back There, meant memories unwanted resurfacing to the surface. He focused on the schoolboy hatred and resentment he had entertained back then—back when he was woefully ignorant of the ways of the world, when survival wasn’t a constant present thought threatening to be lost at a moment’s notice—bringing them to the forefront of his mind as he breathed evenly in and out, willing his body to relax.
It was perhaps the riskiest task he had ever received. And the most important.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Severus only stood after the Dark Lord had exited the room and he could hear his footsteps no longer. The Dark Lord did not waste words, he spoke deliberately and concisely. If it were anyone else, Severus may have appreciated the subtle power he exuded with his words. At one point, though it had been quite a while, he had. Now the clipped sentences and short demands annoyed him to no end.
What was he do now that he was tasked with the impossible? The Dark Lord spoke commands and expected his Death Eaters to comply and make them all come true. Severus still had potions brewing and others he had yet to start. Spying would be a full-time job. How was he to brew his potions and spy on the world’s greatest wizard at the same time? He pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and set to work.
***
It was a belated thought, and perhaps a foolish one, but Severus realized the pretense of spying on Dumbledore may allow him to dedicate more time to researching. It had been two months since his discovery, two months of pouring over old textbooks and new research books, two months of deciphering theory and trying to wrap his mind around what seemed like a fluke.
He had been unable to witness the death of another Death Eater since that day, as the Dark Lord had realized his strength was most definitely not in numbers and he needed all the manpower he could get. His research had led him to more dead ends than to anything remotely helpful. The only reason he was sure the discovery hadn't been a trick of his eyes was because of the memory of the event swirling in his pensieve. It was driving him mad.
The Dark Lord had introduced the Dark Mark earlier in the year, revealing his new, more secure way of keeping tabs on his loyal followers. His eyes had been alight with mania, only getting worse with each wave of his wand as he bound person upon person to himself. He had created the spell himself, that much was obvious.
Despite his clear insanity, it was clear that the Dark Lord was intelligent. It had been one of the things that had drawn Severus to him in the first place. Memories of conversations about complex potion theories, promises of rare ingredients, and aid for his potion mastery in exchange for a few potions come to mind before Severus waves them away. He had been foolish to believe it would be so simple.
Severus at 19 was no match for the Dark Lord’s intellect. As the dark half-circle under his eyes became more pronounced and lethargy threatened to consume him, Severus found himself desperate to find the answer to his question. He didn’t allow himself more than a couple of seconds to dwell on why he yearned, the traitorous thoughts could be a matter of life or death if the Dark Lord were to catch wind.
Oh but how he ached. In the sanctuary of his childhood home with only a dimly lit candle and stolen books to keep him company, he allowed himself to wonder. An arm unblemished, a life unbound, free to do what he pleased without the constant thought that this could be his last moment on earth. And oh, there was so much he wanted to do. So much that life had to offer that he felt slip from between his fingers with each passing day.
Unbidden, his thoughts turned to something preposterous. Yet, he couldn’t help but entertain the thought in his deprived, sleepless haze. What would life be like without the persistent threat of expiry?