If Not Now

IF NOT NOW, THEN WHEN?

"You can wait 'til morning comes,

You can wait for the new day,

You can wait and lose this heart,

You can wait and soon be sorry...

'Cause if not now, then when?"

(Tracy Chapman, "If not now...")

He lies there, quiet, still, his ever-present scowl absent, his expressive eyes closed, his thin lips relaxed for once, and for the first time the idea crosses my mind that Severus Snape cannot always have been the sneaky, cowardly, disgusting Snivellius I remember from school, that possibly he's not him right now, that he might have never been him.

And if Snape isn't Snivellius, then the attachment I have grown to feel towards him is not wrong at all, is it? I can stop trying to root it from my chest, I can stop pretending to hate him even more than I hate more-deserving others, can't I? I can finally start regarding him as a human being, and try to guess what it is about him that I like so much.

I wish I could discuss with someone this innovative idea of mine, but Moony is not at hand, and no one else would understand, or listen to me with the same kind of patient tolerance... and then there is Snape himself, but he wouldn't hear me out, would he?

'Hey, Snape,' I call loudly. 'Listen to me... are you listening to me, *Snivellius*? Don't you dare pretend you're not! Open your eyes and look at me, you sorry excuse for a wizard!! Snape, you Death Eater scum, LISTEN TO ME!!!' I roar, and I don't care that Poppy Pomfrey and Minerva are in the next room, grilling details out of Remus of exactly how he found Snape hanging from the Hogwarts gates, I don't care if they can hear me as I shout every insult I can think of, knowing that Snape never fails to engage me into battle, and once I get him speaking everything will be alright, I know it will.

But this time he fails to respond to me, and Remus has to drag me away from the Hospital Wing and the comatose wizard as I scream my worst at him, tears of helpless rage slipping unbidden down my face.

The next time, mere hours later, once that Remus has fallen asleep, I sneak over to the Hospital Wing again, and I find Albus in the room. The Headmaster looks as old as I have ever seen him as he holds Snape's hand in his own wrinkled ones.

'He hasn't woken up yet, has he?' I ask, quite unnecessarily since I know perfectly well that Snape would never let anyone hold his hand if he were anywhere near consciousness.

'No.'

I'm surprised by the curt answer in the mouth of one usually so wordy.

'Poppy says that if he doesn't wake tonight, there's no hope of him doing it again at a later time,' adds that ancient wizard after a moment, still looking at Snape's face.

So that's what has brought Albus to one-word answers, I think numbly, trying very hard not to acknowledge the sharp pain flourishing in my chest, the sudden constriction in my breathing.

'Snape will love to prove Poppy wrong,' I joke weakly, trying to cling to the last straws of hope.

'Severus is the strongest wizard I know, in many ways,' answers Albus meditatively, although his voice is everything but hopeful. 'However, I fear this might be too much even for him.'

I don't notice what I'm doing, seeing nothing but a mist in front of my eyes, until Snape's bedside table smashes with a horrific noise against the wall of the little room. I have never, *never*, heard Albus Dumbledore sound so dispirited, and I don't like it.

'You don't want him to die, do you?' he asks almost distractedly, waving his wand to put the splinters and shards of glass back together.

'I've seen enough death,' I answer, still looking at the wall, and it's not exactly true, because I want to see my own hands disembowelling whoever did this to Snape, and Albus knows it.

'Have you told him?' he asks again, although he knows perfectly I haven't.

I look at him, look away, shuffle a bit, and shrug, muttering disconnected words that mean to say that it never seemed that right time, that there's so much I'm not sure of, that it's not easy.

'If not now, then when?' sighs Albus rhetorically, putting Snape's hand back on the duvet and standing up with a rustle of multicoloured fabrics.

The Headmaster passes by my side as he leaves the room, and his blue eyes are sorrowful and encouraging, and just a tiny bit hopeful, and he is leaving and putting this responsibility on my shoulders, and I want to stop him and beg him to stay, to tell him he can do this so much better than I can, but then I'm also proud that he trust me this far, and I *want* to do it.

'I'll be back in the morning,' says Albus from the doorway, and I nod clumsily as I take his side by the bed and reach for Snape's hand, and I understand all that Dumbledore is saying with those words, and all he isn't.

I have five hours until Albus returns, and I have to time them very well, because there is so much I want to tell Snape, and so many things that can happen before the night is over.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"There's no words to say,

No words to convey

This feeling inside I have for you,

Deep in my heart,

Safe from the guards of intellect and reason,

Leaving me at a loss

For words to express my feelings

Deep in my heart."

(Tracy Chapman, "For you")

The first thing I notice is that I'm not dead. This surprising piece of information takes up most of my mind for several moments, immersing it in the debate between the part of me that's babbling in relief with the part of me that wants to know why the Dark Lord hasn't killed me, yet.

Once I manage to bring my brain into a semblance of order, I try to ascertain how I am, apart from alive, and, if possible, where I am and how I got here. The first discovery I make when my awakening senses begin to bring in their reports is that I am surprisingly comfortable, although unable to move or speak; the second discovery I make is that I'm surrounded by an atmosphere of overwhelming grief.

Grief, and not pain or anger or fear. I wonder for a moment if I'm deceiving myself, but being able to read the emotions around me has saved my life on more occasions than I care to count, and there's no reason for me to be mistaken now. It's grief in its most personal sense, mind-robbing grief, so intense and so *pure* that even a dumb mutt like Black would be able to notice it.

But why am I thinking of Black of all people as I lay petrified in a possibly life-threatening situation? Not that he doesn't cross my mind often, but still you'd think that the situation would allow me to come up with something more... appropriate. Of course, that is before I notice what my sense of smell has been trying to tell me before: that the scent of none other that Sirius Black is all around me.

Grief. Sirius Black. The conclusion is obvious: he has been captured and thrown into the same confinement as me; possibly we have both been condemned to death, and he is mourning the loss of his life. Then why do I feel so comfortable, and so safe? My internal radar doesn't detect any threat around me, on the contrary, it insists to tell me I'm safe even though I can't possibly be. I wish I could I could open my eyes, but wishful thinking will get me nowhere, so I rally my other senses urgently.

Touch deceives me with a false feeling of comfort, taste is clean and with nothing to report, smell brings me Black's familiar smell, and the faintest whiff of medicinal potions, and hearing...

Hearing brings me the unexpected. It is vague, at least, but I can hear a low murmur close to my ear, though I can't make out the words. The voice is male, that much I can tell, and concerned, and even (dare I say it?) affectionate. Either there is someone else with us (and that would account for the smell of medicines, for I highly doubt the Dark Lord has begun to equip cells with a first-aid kit), or Black has finally lots his mind and is talking to his own ghosts; he certainly has never spoken to me so considerately.

The steady murmur, the false feeling of comfort, then even falser sense of safety, all are conspiring to lead me back into oblivion when I hear my name spoken out loud. Snape, it says urgently, in Black's voice and accompanied by the faint but insistent feeling of someone holding my hand. Snape, it says again and again, until I'm ready to sell my soul to the devil (wait, I already did that) to be able to answer in some way.

Snape, you can't go, the voice (Black's voice) is saying now, and it is so commanding that I'm torn between wanting to stay (but then again, I can't go anywhere) and wanting to leave him for presuming he can order me around. And still the murmur goes on.

Snape, you can't leave me here, not before I can tell you all that you mean to me, how your memory haunted me in Azkaban until I began to welcome it, how seeing you in the flesh after all those years felt, how much I've grown to depend on you to keep me sane, not before you can tell me you would never stoop as low as to consort with a mutt like me, come on, come on and say it, isn't it good, to have me here begging at your feet, I'm sure you're loving it, please, come on and say so, say anything goddammit, say it! Albus is going to miss you, and Poppy, and the Slytherins, and I bet even Remus and Harry, and me, yes, me, I'm going to miss you, Snape, please don't go...

The voice is gone now, replaced by a raspy sound that I hesitate to call a sob, but the hold on my hand is still there, anchoring me to the strange outside reality where Black says he is going to miss me, and where a warm waft of breath is all the warning I have before I feel dry lips brushing against my own, and then drawing away. With a supreme effort I can crack an eyelid open a tiny fraction, and I get the blurred vision of Black's face drawing away from my own, and soon the effort is too much and I close my eyes again, and keep listening.

You must be really far gone if the thought of me kissing you isn't enough to bring you out of your funk, he says, and then breaks down crying in the most heart-rending fashion, not like a lost child, which would be frightening in its own right, but like a grown man who has lived through some of the worst life has to offer, and somehow this is much worse.

And I can't do anything about it. I can't move, I can't speak, I can't open my eyes (although I'm starting to be grateful for *that*, otherwise I would have to see Black crying as well as listening to him, and it could be more than I can bear), and my frustration over my incapacity is boiling over. I wish I could stand up and throw something to smash against the wall, and then turn to Black and tell him... tell him what?

Snape?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"If not now, then when?

If not today, then,

Why make your promises?

A love declared for days to come

Is as good as none...

Now love's the only thing that's free,

We must take it where it's found,

Pretty soon it may be costly..."

(Tracy Chapman, "If not now...")

'Snape?' I ask, my voice rough from crying over his hand. It might have been my imagination, but I swear I felt the slightest of pressures of his fingers as they lay in mine a second ago. 'Snape?' I ask urgently, peering into his face.

He lies there, quiet, still, as if my desperation and my grief don't mean anything to him, as if all the feelings I'm pouring out at his feet are nothing that concern him. I feel the sudden urge to throttle him, to see if *that* meets with the same unwavering indifference, but I regain my senses at the last moment and drop back on my chair.

Maybe it's time I learnt to accept defeat.

It's less than an hour before sunrise, and soon Albus will come in and his blue eyes will look with deadened disappointment at me, just like the night of the Shrieking Shack, and I will know that he is thinking whether perhaps he would have done better staying here himself...

'Snape?'

Again, I feel an almost infinitesimal twitch between my fingers as they encase his. My throat is dry, and I hardly dare to hold any hope, but I could have sworn the movement was there a moment ago, weak and almost invisible, but there...

'Snape, if you are there... I know this is asking a lot of you and all, but would you mind showing me you give a damn? Squeeze my fingers, open your eyes, say something, change your breathing pattern or just sprout another head, but do something...!'

This time, I cannot possibly be mistaken: Snape's breath hitches slightly, and my own breath catches.

'You are here," I whisper in awe, holding his hand so hard that it must hurt him if he can still feel anything. "You *are* here, thank Merlin!'

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Look at me losing control,

Thinking I had a hold,

But with feelings this strong,

I'm no longer the master of my emotions..."

(Tracy Chapman, "For you")

You are here, thank Merlin, says the voice, and I've never been more glad in my life of being somewhere. I still don't know where that somewhere is, but if Black is sounding that relieved, that happy, it can't be bad, can it?

I knew you'd make it, he continues. If only to see me make a fool of myself at your feet. I bet you fantasised with the day you'd have Sirius Black begging at your feet, didn't you? I never thought I'd say this, but anything to see you smile again, Snape. Or at least smirk, or sneer, or whatever it is you call that movement you make with those luscious lips of yours when you're amused.

I don't know if I'm slowly recovering my ability to feel and move, or if Black has strengthened his hold on my hand, but the touch feels warmer, firmer, *right*. I'm grateful for his touch, for his words, for the sincerity of his words as he admits to feeling what I have long before suspected (hoped) he did. The intensity of his proclaimed hatred towards me, the animosity he displayed when my name was mentioned were the clues that tipped me off on what his true feelings were.

I could have done something about it, but I could never make up my mind on what it was exactly what I wanted to do. How could I deny that it was immensely flattering to have the famed Sirius Black wanting me, having to mask a helpless attraction under a pretence of loathing? And how could I deny that the sight of his intense grey eyes unsettled me too?

I have the ugly suspicion you already knew about this, even better than I did, says Black, and I'm once again surprised by the sudden change in his voice; first, from desperate to exultant, and now back to despondent. And you never did anything about it... I guess that's my answer, isn't it? Well, at least you kindly refrained from rubbing it in my face. The hand that holds mine squeezes and then lets go. I'll call Albus, he's someone you'll be glad to see when you can finally open your eyes. I hope you'll have the decency to... to pretend you never heard anything tonight, alright?

I don't think I want him to go, but though I'm conscious, I still haven't regained control over my limbs, or my voice.

I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, he says then, and once again I feel his proximity, and the smell of aniseed of his breath, and the feel of his parched lips over mine, and his two warm hands that cup my face, and his soft hair on my face for just a moment before he draws away.

Oh, no, now I'm not going to let him leave. Not when his kiss has inflamed me so much, when his proximity is almost enough to get me back on my feet again, not when the mere thought of his leaving lends me back my voice.

"Stay," I croak. "Sirius..."

But he's already gone.

I berate myself, but my body was tortured for more hours than I care to count, and its responses leave much to be desired. And even as I think this, there is a small, vindictive part of myself that congratulates itself on the thought of Sirius Black leaving my bedside, broken-hearted, and smirks when I hear the deep sigh behind the closed door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"If not now, then what?

We all must live our lives

Always feeling, always thinking,

The moment has arrived..."

(Tracy Chapman, "If not know...")

Sirius comes to see me shortly before dawn. He looks curiously dispirited, and for a moment I fear the worst.

"Snape's back," he announces, voice hoarse, not looking at me. "He's conscious, and responding *slightly* to... outside influences." He paused, swallows, forces himself to continue, "I left Poppy with him, and I think he'd like to see you."

"Sirius," I start, not too elated by the news to not notice his despondency.

He raises his hand, silencing me with that simple gesture.

"I'd like to get drunk now, Albus," he enounces clearly. "Very drunk, if you don't mind. And even is you do." He turns to leave and I do not stop him. With one hand on the doorknob, he adds, without looking at me, "And I think you owe him an apology."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, but is gone, trotting on Padfoot's silent paws.

I spend well over a week in the Hospital Wing, nursing Severus back to full health. He is able to open his eyes on the second day, and to speak, the third, and Fawkes flows in as many as three times a day to serenade the convalescent wizard.

I do apologise, a long-delayed apology for all the dangers I've put my dear Severus in, an apology he receives with obvious surprise and gratification.

Severus says nothing of importance during his convalescence, and I don't force him into conversation either. In fact, we spend most time in silence, me reading something and he petting Fawkes (and for once I don't fear my familiar ending up as a pile of potions ingredients) or looking out of the window.

Remus comes to visit, as does Harry. Sirius doesn't.

Ten days after his appearance, hung from the gates of the school, Severus is well enough to leave the Hospital Wing and return to his beloved dungeons. Before I let him ensconce back there, though, I take him for a cup of tea in my office.

He sips at his cup stiffly and doesn't meet my eyes. He knows what I want to talk about.

"I know what you want to say to me," he says surly.

I smile, though I don't think he can see the smile through my beard. It's so easy to have a conversation with Severus. I say nothing.

"It's no business of mine if he's pining away in his doggy-house," he continues stubbornly, with a confrontational tone of voice.

"Hmmm," I answer at last.

"You shouldn't be allowed to do that," he mutters resentfully.

"Drink tea?" I ask, quite surprised.

"Meddle in other people's business!"

"Mmmmm."

"I know you think I'm responsible for his sorry state."

"And are you?" I inquire, genuinely interested in his answer.

"I don't know," he says very quietly, after a pause.

I'm still in the internal debate on whether to 'hmmmmm' him again or keep silent, when he speaks again.

"I should go and talk to him, shouldn't I?"

I know my eyes are twinkling when I answer.

"If not now, then when?"