Chapter Text
“I couldn’t imagine anything more utterly nauseating,” Severus Snape tells Harry Potter at Harry’s fifth insistence that he join him with the others at Black Manor. They meet, apparently, monthly, to talk and catch up. It helps, Harry says, which seems unlikely.
It had been four years since the end of the war (three since he’d been allowed back at work, and two since the pain had ceased to keep him up at night). And 6 is it? 6 years then since he’s been obligated to sit in a room with those do-gooding morons. Besides, of course, Potter, who had ingratiated himself into Snape’s life with such unwanted ease that he often wondered if Harry wouldn’t have made a far better spy than himself. Yet, when at the sixth invitation Snape tells Harry to go fuck himself just to see what would happen, and it only makes him more insistent, Snape finally decides to give in. He was right of course – it’s almost unbearable. Almost.
Of course him. Always him. He of the infuriatingly long denimed legs, condescending smile, crooked in a way that makes your heart clench. Not entirely due to chance this is the first time he’s seen Black since his widely publicised and much speculated upon return from the veil. If he was someone else he may even have felt sorry for him that, for the level of personal intrusion he had been subjected to, he had gone through all that himself but nowhere near to the same degree. Actually, he had even been thankful at the time that all the press coverage about Black had somewhat taken the spotlight off of himself. There’s no denying it wasn’t fascinating, he had read every article, every “in-depth” speculative hack piece with as much relish as anyone else.
He had seen him immediately when he entered the drawing room, and the electric jolt of recognition that followed unsettled him even more than he already was. Beforehand he’d convinced himself that Black would look terrible and anyway it’d been too long for him to care and it had helped somewhat. But he actually looks good, really good, and it does annoy him. He tries to pretend he doesn’t see him, and by the look of it Black is doing the same. For a while it’s easy because the room is full and he’s never left alone for more than a few seconds anyway.
Of course, Black still has all the self-control of a three month old puppy and eventually this evidently becomes too much for him. “Jeesus, look who the cat dragged in, you’re not still alive are you?” He says to him finally just as Snape had finally managed to shake off Molly and Arthur Weasley.
“Hello Black. I could say the same about you. I was so enjoying those years we all thought you were dead. Shame.”
And though he’s not lying (the years sans Sirius Black have indeed been pleasant) the lack of pretence he finds is a welcome relief. He had quickly tired of answering mundane but well-meaning questions and of Harry and Ginny hovering like anxious flies; his feet ached and he wished desperately to be back in his rooms with a book and a cup of tea. Black didn’t give a shit how he was and that was okay with him.
“So,” says Black, “which of these shit bags did you have to piss off to get roped in to this?”
“Well, indeed, I would rather be home inserting forks in to my eye, but Potter was most…insistent.”
“Incessant little prick more like, I bet. It’s not exactly my choice to spend Friday nights hosting these group circle jerks I can tell you. But it’s good for me apparently.”
“Oh I don’t know Black I wouldn’t complain, that’s about the only jerk you’ll be getting from anyone these days I’d guess.”
“That’s rich coming from you Snape, have you actually managed to go and get your self even uglier? Holy hell I wouldn’t have believed that was possible.” Black laughs out loud. “Goddamn. I think I’ve missed this! All I get these days is “Are you ok Sirius?” ”Can I do that for you Sirius?” “Haven’t killed yourself yet have you, Sirius?”
Snape is surprised into laughter at the last bit; he’s amazed he’s still capable of it.
“We all live in hope Black.” He says but he’s unable to keep the smile from his face and the insult lacks its old bite.
Black smiles at him, yeah I guess so, he says. Snape keeps eye contact longer than necessary, he suddenly finds he needs to assure himself that the man is whole and intact.
“Jesus.” Black shakes his head.
He knows what he means.
Black catches him as he tries to leave unnoticed at around 9, most of the guests are several drinks in and it’s easy enough for a man who knows how not to be seen.
“Catch you around Snape.”
“Not if I can help it Black. I’m as likely to come back to one of these things as you are to… engage in gainful employment.”
Black puts out his cigarette on the concrete stoop where he’s sitting and squints up at him through a mane of dark hair. “Shame.” He says.
Weird, Snape thinks as he leaves. What a strange evening.
Next month Potter only has to ask once.
After awhile Snape’s the only one who is still hanging around, the rest have lives to get on with and the ridiculous evenings peter off, then dry up all together. They’re not friends exactly, no he couldn’t bear it, but everyone else Black knows has partnered up, and moved on, and Snape, well he never had anyone to begin with. Besides the cocktail of whiskey and pain potions that now keep him such close company. Ironic that Black and he would come to share such similar interests. The thing is, is that it feels calmer when he’s there with him, with this man as broken as him, who too courted death, and then was rejected by it. They still can barely hold a cordial conversation, but they do sit and they do drink, and it’s good in a way that doing this by yourself never is and when he can’t go there it feels noisier. With this man who has broken his skin many times, with his fist, with his wand, who’s blood, in turn, has been on him. Years of bickering, constant attention paid have brought them an ease in each other’s presence.
And when he doesn’t make it during their usual times, Black owls him. He hasn’t stopped yet to consider what this means. They talk about us, Black confides in him one day, they think we’ve gone mad. He shrugs back, its not new information.
Sometimes Black owls him and it’s the middle of the night, bored where are you. He comes anyway. The short leash Blacks got him on doesn’t worry him, he has no expectations, no hopes, he’s perfectly clear.
Still. Fucking Lupin. Two months ago. Lupin’s there when he arrives, Black looks up expectantly, holds out his hands while Snape lobs him the pack of cigarettes he’s picked up on the way. Black pours firewhiskey into a glass and slides it over to his left while Snape sits down, catching it just in time. They do all this without speaking. Snape looks up just in time to see that Lupin’s face is pinched. Good, he thinks, he’s mine, get your own. He quickly checks himself. Thoughts like that could get him in trouble.
But usually he can ignore that part, he’s gotten really good at ignoring that part.