De mortuis nil nisi bonum

A breath rattled in Sirius's chest, his first in too long. The air burned through his veins, making him cough as though from strong drink. The second breath was exhaled in a whispered croak. "Fuck you."

The reply was no louder, but far more smooth, high and sibilant. "After all I've done for you?"

....Killed my friends? Tried to kill my godson? Which are you talking about?

"You're alive because of me, you know. Did you like it behind the veil then? Because I could put you back. Tell me, was being left alone with nothing but your mind more bearable than Azkaban? Was it better when you couldn't feel the pain to prove that you were alive?"

Sirius didn't answer.

"Really, Black, I don't understand your reasoning." Voldemort leaned his chin on one hand, such a casual, deceptively human gesture. "They didn't come to rescue you."

At this, Sirius's head snapped up, eyes narrowed. "I was dead," he spat.

"Are you now?" Voldemort continued. "If I could bring you back, surely you realize that Dumbledore has that power himself. Perhaps even your godson could have done so with his clever little friends, though I doubt he'd be permitted by the old fool. Can you imagine what torture it must have been for him wondering if he could bring you back from beyond the veil only to be stopped at every turn?" The red eyes watched Sirius, raking over the new robe draped over his shivering body, hair still short but dull, lifeless. "They didn't come for you in Azkaban either, did they? And I've been told that you were quite alive there."

They thought I'd betrayed James and Lily to you. The words didn't bear speaking. If Voldemort wanted an answer, he could bloody well rip it out like all the others.

"They found it so easy to believe that you were the one to betray, didn't they? Did anyone question it Sirius?"

"Black."

"No, I think if we're going to play at this intimacy, I may as well call you Sirius." The thin lips curved in a smile, but only a small one. "Did anyone question the Ministry for you? Fight for a trial under veritaserum perhaps?"

Slowly, reluctantly, Sirius shook his head. They hadn't. For fifteen years, they hadn't.

"I'm certain it would have cleared you," he said. "Likely, it still would if it weren't for the problem of you being, legally speaking, dead. Your house has been turned over according to your will, as has your Gringotts vault. I would imagine that the Order found you to be more useful as a martyr than a living madman."

Sirius didn't look at him, but behind his eyes, something small and uncertain withered and died.

Voldemort smiled and stood. "I'll have a meal brought to you--it's astonishing how years in incorporeal form can whet the appetite." At the door, the Dark Lord paused, and looked back at the man still crumpled on the floor. "In case you're wondering," he added casually, "Potter did try. You would have been proud how deeply your death affected him. It's a pity Dumbledore held him back and let me get to you first. Again." The door closed behind him, locking under a simple charm--simple, that is, for a man with a wand.

It took five minutes for Sirius to find his voice.

And another five to find his words.

"Actually, I'm not hungry," he rasped out, focusing on his palms against the cold floor, fingertips against the rough stone, tendons flexing against bone with the pull of muscle. Push.

The world spun, and Sirius righted himself against the cot, deciding that the world was a much more pleasant place with his eyes closed. It was worse than coming out of Azkaban. After being deprived of his senses, having them back all at once -- hurt.

One at a time then.

Touch. That was the easiest, and the most difficult. Impossible to avoid. The bed was soft-hard against his back, the board digging into his shoulder blades while the mattress tempted with softness at his neck. He let his head fall back against it with a sigh and felt the air stir against his lips, warmer than the cool of the room. He supposed he should be thankful that the room had a noticeable temperature rather than that -- nothing -- behind the veil.

He felt the hair on his arms stand on end with his shiver.

Voldemort had been right. Azkaban was better--at least there, he'd been able to claw at himself and remember he was alive. Voldemort was right. The thought left him queasy, and he decided to demote thinking to a sense--one that would come last.

He slowed his breath, focusing on the quiet sound and the way it melded together with the fiery pull of air through his lungs. It rattled, near the end, and wheezed faintly when he let it out. Fluid perhaps? A result of not breathing for -- how long had Voldemort said? Sirius pushed the thoughts down firmly--he had other senses to reclaim first. Beyond the rasping of his breath, he could hear the faint dripping of water, and nothing else. A dungeon then.

Smell. He couldn't smell anything. No. That was a lie. He could smell the stone. Smell the water he knew was dripping. He turned his head towards the mattress, and smelled clean linen. He was to be well kept then. There was no stench of human filth. He wasn't certain yet if that surprised him or not, its lack.

Taste. Would have to wait. Even in his state, Sirius didn't relish licking the rocks. There would be dinner, Voldemort had said and he didn't see a reason to expect poisons, not if the Dark Lord was to be believed that he'd gone to the trouble of bringing Sirius back. He doubted it was only to kill him again.

Sirius found himself oddly reluctant to open his eyes--vision would leave him one sense closer to thinking and he wasn't ready for that. Instead, he groped behind himself, pulling his body onto the mattress and curling there, arms around his legs, willing the change to happen.

It didn't, and for the first time, threads of fear began to overwhelm the chill of hopelessness.

He must have whimpered when the door opened, and the smell of food altered the cool clean dungeon scent, because he was answered. "There are anti-transfiguration charms on this room, Black. Don't concern yourself with the mutt."

Sirius's eyes shot open, and narrowed, focusing with the pinpoint intensity of a twenty year grudge. "Snape." The word came out as a low growl.

"I see you haven't lost your memories along with your mind. How convenient." Snape stood before him, looking as at home in this dungeon as in any. Sirius felt his lips pull back in an approximation of Padfoot's snarl.

"I see you're still a bottom feeder, Snape. Couldn't stay away from the dank and dark anymore?"

"Eat your meal. It's not poisoned." A lean smile pulled at thin lips, and Snape added with a touch of smugness. "I'd know."

"I don't want to eat."

Snape didn't move, but a curl of disgust wound through his voice. "Don't be more of an idiot than utterly necessary. A hunger strike will serve no purpose but angering the Dark Lord."

"And you care about that?" Sirius didn't bother to keep the sneer from his voice, almost absurdly grateful for something so familiar as hating Snape.

"Seeing as I am living in his manor and have no wish to suffer Cruciatus for my failure to take proper care of you, yes, I do." Severus sat in the room's sole chair, arms folded across his chest. "Eat."

"Are you going to sit there and make sure I do?"

"Yes."

Sirius snorted, rolling over and curling up around the emptiness in his belly. Hunger, he'd found, was something a man could get used to easily. "Sorry to disappoint you Snivellus. You've spoilt my appetite."

Even facing the wall, Sirius could hear the sharply indrawn breath, and controlled exhalation. "You are eating, Black, whether I must chew for you and spit the food down your throat under petrificus totalus or not. Do not mistake me--I've done far worse."

"Why not use the Imperius and make it easier on both of us?" Sirius muttered, reaching for the plate and pulling it into his lap, ignoring the ravenous growl from his midsection and shoved a piece of meat into his mouth.

"I would not sully my mind with the touch of yours." Snape's eyes followed each movement, and he remained in his chair, silent save for the impatient tapping of one finger against his sleeve. "Slow down, you mangy mutt. You'll give yourself a stomach ache."

"My stomach," Sirius said, and shoved in another mutinous mouthful, chewing viciously. "Mind telling me why I'm here?" he asked around the mouthful, obscenely pleased when Snape looked away in disgust.

"Our Lord thought that your potential was going to waste."

"Can't get more wasted than dead." Sirius paused. "And that's your Lord. Not mine. Yours. So when'd you switch teams again? What is this--third time? Fourth? Does it get old, Snivellus?" Sirius paused only to take a long drink from the flagon of water, watching the colour rise in Snape's cheeks with an artist's eye. One more push should do.

He didn't get the chance as Snape interjected smoothly, and with a great deal more calm than Sirius was expecting.

"Our Lord," he began. "You may as well get used to it, Black. You owe him your life, I'm afraid." The sneer that accompanied this declaration was worn smugly. "As you should recall, life debts know no personal favouritism."

"You upholding yours by serving the Dark Lord then?"

"My life debt with Potter is finished."

"So now you're going to go and get him killed?"

"You're not eating, Black," Snape answered, resuming the earlier topic without reply. "I've been working for Lord Voldemort all along. This is still round one." The thin smile returned, and Snape watched with obvious pleasure as Sirius choked on his mouthful of food. "I did warn you to take smaller bites."

"You bastard! You've been betraying the Order the whole time you've-"

"The Order hardly mattered for the 12 years you were in Azkaban. For that length of time, I'd say you did quite enough betraying for all of us."

"I never followed him, Snape."

"Of course not. You betrayed him too."

Shoving away his food, Sirius rolled over again in bed. "I never owed him anything."

"Your blood owes him."

"Oh, piss off, Snape," Sirius said tiredly, no longer having to feign exhaustion. His brain was still too fogged from the sudden rediscovery of life to deal with riddles. Or Riddle.

Rather than leaving, Snape leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees and eyeing Sirius intently. "You could make use of this you know, Black." Waiting until he had the man's attention, Snape continued. "You owe a life debt to Lord Voldemort--and he's accepted it. You. What he offers hasn't changed. Power. Safety." Snape's lips quirked with the irony of the offer. "The Order is all defensive strikes as you well know. Do you think they'd come looking for you here? There'd be no false trial in Lord Voldemort's new order, Black. No accusations." He leaned back, watching Sirius more narrowly. "If you please him, he may allow you to kill Wormtail as a gift."

Sirius's eyes narrowed as the offer struck an unexpected chord. "I don't want him dead. I want him in Azkaban with Dementors sucking on his head."

"I'm certain our Lord could arrange that as well. Perhaps with anti-transfiguration wards on his cell?" Snape's eyes shifted, taking in the room around them with significant intent. "Do you like them?"

Involuntarily, a shudder ran down Sirius's spine, and he refused to answer, instead choking down a mouthful of water.

"They seem effective."

"Better hope they are," Sirius muttered. "If they weren't, I'd have ripped your throat out by now."

"I'll be certain to carry this news to our Lord."

"I already told you, Snape-"

"Yes, and it's become tiresome. Do listen, Black. You're not only pureblood, you're of the elite. You could challenge Malfoy for sheer purity of lineage if it came to that."

Sirius grunted assent, unconscious inborn arrogance, and cut off another hunk of meat. "Why'd I want to? Malfoy can have it. You're all going to lose anyway."

"Actually," Snape said, quietly. "We're winning."

They stared at each other in silence.

"You must be joking."

"No," Snape said.

"You're exaggerating!"

"I am not."

An oily chill slid down Sirius's spine, and he found himself asking the one question he didn't want an answer for. "How long have I been gone?"

"One year, last night," Snape answered promptly. "The spells Lord Voldemort chose required that they be cast on the anniversary of your death."

Sirius didn't hear the last of Snape's words over the sudden numbness that filled his mind, vibrating gently around the edges. He felt ill. "Harry?"

"Survived his ill-conceived adventure into the Ministry, pitched seven kinds of fits over your apparent demise and the utter failure of Dumbledore to allow him any chance at having you back."

Sirius's breath hitched. "He went to Dumbledore?"

"And accused the man of all that he should have accused him of years ago."

"Was he expelled?" Sirius closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly.

"Don't be daft, Black. He's needed. He was distraught at the time. Of course he hasn't been expelled." Snape sneered, a deep loathing infusing his tones. "You should know by now that Dumbledore never throws away anyone who might prove useful."

Unlike you, the unspoken thought added. You outlived your usefulness.

"How is he now?"

"Withdrawn," Snape answered. "Understandably so, I should think."

Sirius looked up, surprised at the unexpected show of brief sympathy from the Potions Master.

"Don't look surprised, Black. He went to everyone he could think of after you died; each turned him down. I believe he was told from several quarters what a singularly bad idea it would be to attempt your resurrection--even Lupin could give him no more than cold assurances that Dumbledore acted for the best. He lost more than a godfather then. He lost his faith."

"It wasn't his fault!"

Snape's sneer thinned, and his eyebrow arched elegantly upwards. "Of course it was. Though I'm sure you share in some blame, the way you went running off after him."

"He could have died!"

"Indeed, he could have. You did."

Sirius deflated, sitting back hard, and watching Snape with wide eyes, feeling ill. "Are you still teaching?"

"I retain my position."

"Let me guess. You're supposed to be spying for Dumbledore right now, aren't you?"

Snape chuckled, standing and returning his chair to its corner, his boots clicking softly on the stone. "Can't put a thing past you, can I, Black?"

But rather than rise to the retort, Sirius slumped against the wall behind his bed, eyes bruised and dark in their hollows. "What's he like in class now?"

Snape hesitated before answering, black eyes assessing as he chose his words. "Studious," he replied at last. "Intent. Focused. Utterly unlike a Potter should be."

Sirius buried his face in his hands, and Snape quietly gathered the tray and glass, straightening.

"Consider the Dark Lord's offer, Black." The Potions Master sounded almost sympathetic. "There are worse fates than taking the dark mark. And he does offer more for you, at this moment, than the ministry ever has. Perhaps he would return your godson to you as a reward for services rendered."

"Just go, Snape."

"I realize it may be asking too much, but do try to think."

The click of the door as it shut behind Snape sounded ominously final.