De mortuis nil nisi bonum

If it had been left to Sirius, he would have remained on that mattress for the rest of his days. It may not have been brave. It may not have been honourable. It may not have been Gryffindor or even Black, but that had its own charm. It was what Sirius wanted right then more than anything in the world--a moment's peace.

Unfortunately, that moment's peace was not to be.

His spine stiffened with the creaking opening of the door, but he didn't move. When all a man had left to him was his own will, he tended to exercise it even in the trivial everyday things.

"You didn't eat your bread."

Snape.

He supposed he should be glad that it wasn't Voldemort.

"Or touch the water. Haven't we discussed this, Black?"

Sirius's tongue felt dry and swollen, heavy in his mouth. His salivary glands made a pitiful attempt at watering with the mention of drink.

Snape snorted. "Never did think you were as bright as they said. How did you manage the grades? Buy them?" Behind him, Sirius heard Snape moving around the room, handing the breakfast tray to someone in the corridor with a low murmur, and once again carrying the narrow-backed chair across the room, sitting almost close enough to Sirius to touch. So it was to be another observed meal. Sirius's lips curved in a sneer. How like Snape to let him starve just enough to be miserable but not enough to render him useless. "Or did you copy Potter's work like that pathetic little rat you befriended?"

"They all copied my work."

"Really? Fancy. A small miracle then that James came first in our year. Perhaps he was holding out on you too. It does seem to be the pattern of your life." Snape spoke casually, the words without any special venom to them, for all that they stung. "Being used, then passed over. Tell me, as I've always wondered, did you lose out to Lily as well, finishing a distant second in Potter's affections? There was a rumour in our year to that effect."

That was going too far--even Remus knew he wasn't to open that particular wound. "Fuck off, Snape."

"Better a jester to the golden boy than nothing. It's remarkable, in hindsight, how like Pettigrew you were. Do you know I see your face every year in my new students? Your face, Lupin's, Potter's, Pettigrew's. It's been enlightening to say the very least. I suppose you knew no better at the time, feeding off of Potter's adventuresome spirit. Tell me, Black, is it true pure blood thins with the generations? I wouldn't imagine there was much left in the Black line by the time you came along. Perhaps it's best for the wizarding world at large that you failed to breed before conveniently dying on us."

That one pierced like a bolt through his heart, and Sirius struggled against the blankets until he was sitting up, glaring back at Snape. "Is there a point to feeding me twenty five years worth of insults while I'm too ill to properly grind a few inches off your nose against the nearest wall?"

"Yes," Snape said calmly, sliding the table closer to Sirius. "And I seem to have accomplished it. Do eat. The sauce has an unpleasant tendency to congeal when left too long at room temperature." Sirius stared at the sudden shift from goading to reasonable in Snape's tone. The sudden cold slide of suspicion must have shown on his face, for Snape continued. "You have known me for 27 years. You know that I do what is necessary when it becomes necessary."

"No more threatening to chew for me?" Mechanically, Sirius wrapped his fingers around the fork and stabbed it into the closest cut of meat.

"Don't be disgusting," Snape said.

Sirius shrugged. "You brought it up, not me."

"Desperate times. You should know that they often require us to do what we would rather not."

Sirius chewed, trying to ignore that the food was, really, actually quite good, enough so that his stomach cramped for more as each taste burst on his tongue as if for the first time. He forced himself to eat slowly. Death, like Azkaban, had its way of dulling the memories, and he was still finding reality too sharp to stomach for long at a time. He kept his eyes on the plate.

"Have you given further consideration to our lord's offer?"

He had. Enough that there was no energy left in him to reject the presumption. "Tell him he's got the wrong man and the one he's thinking of died in Azkaban. A life bond is a matter of honour, Snape. You should have enough evidence by now to convince him I'm not an honourable man."

"And then what?"

Sirius looked up at the quiet tone with which Snape spoke to find the Potions Master watching him with a neutral gaze. "What do you mean?"

"Do think, Black. What would you have him do then? You're useful or you're dead."

"I've been dead."

"And now you're not. Are you simply going to throw this away out of petulance?"

"Petulance? Excuse me for thinking that binding myself to a man who's elevated Muggle slaughtering to a holiday sport is a fate worse than death!"

"Don't be so dramatic." Snape sniffed, the depth of disgust conveyed with that simple sound was impressive. Must have to do with the size of the nose, Sirius decided vindictively. "This is war. There will be casualties whether you've raised a wand or not. However, should you accept that you are not in the best position to refuse our Lord's offer entirely, you may be in a position to bargain for that which you find the most important."

"And that would be?"

"Potter."

The meat felt like lead in Sirius's stomach, and he felt his lip curl, baring teeth--the action felt the same whether he was dog or man. "You know the prophecy as well as I do."

"I know it better."

Sirius snorted.

"I also know that prophecy is a matter of interpretation. There is no time limit on who must die, and when." Snape's voice quieted again, almost gentle. "The battle between Light and Dark has been likened to a chess game, and like a chess game, may be played to a stalemate by a skilled strategian."

"Neither can live while the other survives, Snape." Chess. Figured Snape would have to pull the intellectualism on him while his brain was still too fogged to process higher concepts. His head was beginning to ache.

"Funny words, 'live' and 'survive' Black."

"They seem pretty clear to me."

"Take you, for example. Would you say then that you are strictly alive?"

"I seem to be breathing, eating, sleeping. And unless this is an incredibly bad dream, I'm talking to you. No--this can't be a dream," Sirius sneered. "If it was a dream, you'd either have shut your nose in the door or turned into a proper dream man by now." Snape arched an eyebrow, and said nothing. "Blonde, for starters. Maybe a little grey. I could handle brown hair-"

"Spare me your werewolf fantasies. I have no intention of turning into Lupin to make you feel more at ease." Having interrupted Sirius's train of thought, Snape continued smoothly. "Would you, now, say, that you have survived?"

Sirius opened his mouth to answer in a similarly sarcastic vein and then stopped.

"Yes, you understand. You were, in the most literal sense, dead. You did not survive."

"What are you suggesting?"

Snape's lips curved and he steepled his fingers together, elbows resting on the arms of his rigid chair. "Merely that terms of prophecy are more flexible, and perhaps more misleading than they may appear at first reading." He watched Sirius in silence a moment longer before speaking. "You are intelligent, Black, or at least you once were. Put your mind to use, and perhaps you'll win freedom both for yourself and your godson." He looked as if he wanted to say more, but then closed his mouth with a decisive click.

Freedom for him and Harry--funny way of putting it. Not victory. Not safety for the wizarding world--none of the heroic language of the Order, just freedom. He considered Snape more closely. "What do you care about Harry? Or me?"

Snape's lips thinned. "I care about myself. Or have you forgotten that I was sorted into the house of self-preservation?"

"Why should I believe you?" *Because you want freedom yourself, don't you?

"Because I'm all you've got. And at the moment, my own future is tied intimately with your decision to accept your Lord's offer with a minimum of fuss."

Sirius let out a sudden barking laugh--he was right. "Your life's tied to getting *me to follow Voldemort? What'd you do to piss him off that much, Snape?" His stomach tightened, hoping Snape hadn't ranked complete disclosure from his Lord.

Snape's eyes hardened, the fine lines of age around their corners deepening with the tension of muscle beneath. "Rather, Black, ask how much faith he has in my abilities that he would assign me to so critical a task despite our history together. Don't fool yourself into believing that it was a simple matter to bring you back through the veil, you brainless mutt. Nothing in Necromancy is accomplished without an even exchange." His lips stretched, curved, in an expression that was only a little too evil to be a smile. "Now, your cousin Bellatrix--she pissed him off."

"Bella-?" Confusion washed over Sirius's face. "I'd think she'd have become his favourite follower."

"A madman only has so much patience for the mad." Snape shrugged elegantly. "They make terribly unreliable henchmen."

"What happened to her?"

Snape chuckled. "Which part of her?"

"You're joking."

"Oh no," Snape said with some satisfaction. "No. I don't need to joke."

"Why Bella? Why not some muggle?"

"Blood that calls to your blood," Snape said simply. "And the Malfoys are more valuable to him intact." He shifted then, leaning his chin against one hand, the other arm folded elegantly across his lap, fingers loosely toying with the hem of his coat. "He must see something in you that Dumbledore missed to find you so valuable. I'm certain I can't imagine what."

Sirius could imagine what Voldemort saw in him--with vivid clarity.

Sirius was staring past Snape, at the blank wall behind, the memory of Bellatrix's face as she cast Stupefy at him still as vivid as if it had only just happened. He would have killed her. He wanted to kill her.

Voldemort had- what? Done it for him? Or taken it away from him?

And if Voldemort saw the same thing in him now that he'd seen twenty years before, he might well be sorely disappointed, and some part of Sirius still didn't want to experience Voldemort's disappointment that personally.

"Is there something you've been keeping from us all this time, Black?" Snape's voice curled around the edges of Sirius's hearing. "Was your insistence that I've been a traitor smoke and mirrors for your own treachery?"

"No."

"You realize it doesn't matter now if it was," Snape said, and Sirius could see him shifting his legs, settling his robes to get more comfortable. "We're both on the same side." He chuckled, the sound dry as if disused. "Perhaps we have been all along--traitors to everyone, spies for everyone, loyal to ourselves." For once, Snape's voice was not mocking, and he stood. "I don't believe there's dishonour in wanting to survive a war, Black. Or in wanting your godson to survive--whether you believe it of me or not, I'm not fond of fatalities, and I don't want to see Potter dead, but a great deal of his safety is now completely out of my control."

Sirius didn't answer--couldn't. He didn't have an argument for it other than "it's the coward's way out" but was it really brave to keep dying?

He was still lost in his thoughts as Snape silently gathered the empty tray and cup once more and left the room.