Chapter Text
When the Dark Lord slithers out of his grave, Severus is prepared. He does not hesitate to face him, even if he fears him. He bows to the Dark Lord, presents him with devotion and lies that come smoothly and almost readily. He weaves together half-truths, and swears to his Lord that he serves him, and no other.
"I am loyal only to you, and what I have done in Hogwarts for the past few years is what you have ordered me to do. I have never left your side. I am yours."
It sounds almost obvious. Of course he has been devoted to the Dark Lord all along. Everything he did can be explained easily. Just as before, the Dark Lord has a soft spot for him. There is something about Severus' composed devotion that pleases him. The unwillingness to bow to each and every of the Lord's whims. The subtle but cynical disapproval of ideas (or people) that others wouldn't dare to express.
The golden glow of candlelight doesn't catch on the Lord's face. It is white and scale-like, and barely reminds of the smooth and handsome face of Tom Riddle. Whatever humanity he once possessed has been sapped out of him, in favour of this undying half-life. His Lord's touch is cold as marble, his voice rasp and hissed.
"Welcome back, Severus."
Not one hour later, Severus is bent over Albus’ desk, clutching onto anything he can get a hold of. Albus' hands are hot and possessive, his nails digging into Severus' hips. With each thrust, he can feel bruises blooming on his skin, bruises which he will admire later. He closes his eyes, relinquishing the delicious greed with which he was welcomed back here, in Albus' arms. For a few breaths, he bites his lip, and listens to the voice that moans behind him, sounding so raw and human.
Albus' hand runs through his hair and pulls him back until he can feel Albus' chest against his back. The other hand curls tightly around his erection. "You're mine," Albus whispers into his ear, and Severus leans his head back and shudders, spilling into his hand.
--
The days grit by after the Dark Lord’s return. From one day to another, Albus disappears. No goodbyes are said.
Severus is left all alone, stranded on the wrong side of the war. All he gets is a portrait. He spends long nights in front of it. It is a beautiful replica, as though Albus had one day looked into the mirror too long, and his image had burned onto the silver. This version of Albus, although it is no different from the other portraits, does not speak to him. It only watches him, very closely and calmly, as though in some other world, it is Albus who is peering at the painted face of Severus.
There are many questions he wants to ask. Where did you go, or is there any chance you are still alive, or what am I supposed to do without you? The possible answers terrify him. The Dark Lord claims he knows just what happened to Albus, and Severus repeats his words until they sound natural and obvious. Cursed, and gone to shrivel up in some dingy little hole. But now, in the wee hours of the night, and in the oil-on-canvas company of an old lover, he can't quite commit to the thought of having been left behind. He studies Albus' veiny hands, and his whitened beard, and realises for the first time that it is only natural that Albus gets to die first.
--
When he finds himself alone with the Dark Lord in the shed, he does not fear him. He falls to the ground and thinks that, maybe, finally, he will see Albus again. He chokes on his own blood, writhing as the tingling of the poison turns to a burn. We’ll win, he thinks, quietly, as everything goes black. We’ll win, Albus. It’s as simple as that. As simple as staying alive.
The boy, Potter, finds him then. Severus is numb and quiet, but not quite deaf yet, and he forces his eyes open again. He stares into two green eyes. They don’t haunt him any longer.
“We’ll win,” he says, through blood and slime and vomit.
The boy gives him a resentful look, and then turns around. He says something that sounds a lot like you deserve this, and then leaves.
It is the lesser Albus that picks him up, once more. Aberforth. Severus looks like quite the corpse, the way he is sprawled on the floor, lying very still, and bathing in his own blood. It almost fools Aberforth, who would’ve attempted the spell either way. An unconscious Rodolphus is dragged into the shed. One man for another. Aberforth has never been quite as innocent as his brother. Oh, what he wouldn’t do for the only family he has left. Albus will thank him later, in between a lecture on meddling with such dark magic.
Severus resurfaces very slowly. He feels, mostly, as though he is still in the womb. Everything is far away, and he is safe and warm. Sometimes, he forgets about the last few years, and thinks that it was the incident in Hogsmaede that had happened. Bright orange gloves and long faces underneath lantern light.
He can curl his fingers, and if he tries hard enough, he can shift his legs. His neck is stiff as a board. It’s wrapped in softness that smells of antiseptic.
“Albus?”
His voice is very thin, very frail, grating in his throat. The figure next to him moves. He hears his own name, but it sounds like it comes from within his own head.
“You know how I said,” he pauses, and swallows thickly, “How I promised I would do anything for you?”
Albus remains quiet. He knows. His thumb gently strokes Severus’ cheek.
“So I did,” Severus breaths. “I stayed alive. They could have killed me long ago. They nearly did, sometimes. Sometimes I wish they had.” His words peter out. He thinks about all the times he hurt Albus. How petty and vengeful he can be. He inhales shakily. “Did you want me to die?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
The steadiness of Albus’ voice lulls him. Severus closes his eyes and rests his face in the crook of Albus’ necks. It smells sweetly, of lemon and soap. Carefully, he reaches out for Albus’ right arm. He runs his fingers down from Albus’ shoulder, over his upper arm, which ends before it reaches the elbow. The stump is soft where it is not scarred. He imagines that, somewhere, a severed hand has been left behind, all shrivelled and blackened.
“You wanted,” he hesitates. For a moment, he fears that he has fallen back asleep already. Albus presses a chaste kiss to his forehead. He inhales shallowly, and feels his lips brushing against Albus’ neck. “You made me promise to,”
“Live for me.”
Severus sighs softly. There is a heartbeat in his chest, and a heartbeat in the chest against him. He cannot ask for more, and could not be more grateful for it.
“So I did.”
“So you did.”