A Small Truce

Chapter 2

Snape woke abruptly and painfully to find Lucius Malfoy standing over him, wand upraised. He looked positively murderous, and Snape surreptitiously felt around for his own wand as he struggled to sit up.

"Lucius… what… what happened?" It was far too easy to put that note of pained vulnerability in his voice. Snape's head throbbed and his body felt as if Hagrid had sat on it. Lucius must have been particularly forceful with his Enervate spell.

"You tell me," Lucius said through clenched teeth. His face was very white, except for two mottled red blotches on his cheeks. "Where the hell is Black?"

Snape turned toward the spot where Black was supposed to be and endeavored to look shocked and appalled. "He's gone!"

"Now you notice?" Lucius' wand hand twitched; Snape got ready to duck. Luckily, Macnair chose that moment to groan and roll over, providing a handy new target. "Enervate!" The spell actually lifted Mcnair's body a couple of inches off the floor, then smacked him down again. He sat up, rubbing his head and blinking.

"Lucius… what… what happened?"

Snape had to bite his lip to keep from sniggering. Lucius looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy.

"You bloody idiots! The man was unarmed, chained and injured, and you still let him escape? How the hell did you manage it?"

"I… I don't remember." Macnair blinked rapidly, looking lost and confused. Snape did his best to duplicate the expression.

"Neither do I. The bastard must've cast a Memory Charm on us."

"Do you have any idea how you're making me look?" Lucius shrieked. "Cornelius Fudge is going to be here any moment now, with a Ministry delegation and a herd of reporters in tow, all expecting to find Sirius Black chained up in my dungeon! What the hell am I going to tell them?"

"They're not the ones you need to worry about," Snape said nastily and was gratified to see Lucius go even whiter.

"Oh, God. Lord Voldemort. I'll have to tell him something…"

"Have fun." Snape climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. "I, on the other hand, have to return to Hogwarts."

"You're not going anywhere." Lucius planted himself between Snape and the door. He was still pale, but quickly getting his voice and facial expression under control. "This is your mess, Snape - I would've killed Black on the spot if you hadn't spoken up - and if you think you're going to just slink off and leave me to-"

"Don't be an ass, Lucius. If Voldemort wishes to speak with me -- and I know you'll make sure he does -- he knows perfectly well how to summon me. In the meantime, I left Hogwarts without telling anyone, since you were so keen on speed. I can't be gone too long. People will ask questions." Snape began to edge toward the door, keeping a close eye on Malfoy's wand. His own wand was in his hand, but he made no move to raise it. This was not an advantageous moment to get into a duel with Lucius Malfoy. If push came to shove, Snape was prepared to back down. Still, given the chance, he really wanted to return to Hogwarts before Voldemort summoned him for the inevitable explanations. There were potions one could take in advance to reduce the effects of Cruciatus; extremely dangerous potions, with a staggering addiction rate and a list of side effects that would give a Dementor nightmares, but still preferable to the alternative.

Lucius apparently had no interest in dueling with Snape, either, for he made no further move to prevent Snape from walking out the door. Snape's back itched unpleasantly as he walked up the corridor toward the stairs, but no curses or hexes followed him.

Black had left a trail on his way up: drops of blood on the floor, an occasional smudged red handprint on the wall. No unattached body parts, though. Apparently, the legendary luck that protected drunkards, fools and Gryffindors had held out long enough to let Black Apparate successfully. Snape was almost tempted to collect a bit of the blood -- he could think of at least ten potions he could use it in to make the bastard's life thoroughly miserable -- but time was of the essence, so he merely contented himself with a moment's fantasizing as he Disapparated from Malfoy's front hall to reappear on an empty road just at the outside edge of Hogwarts grounds.

He was halfway to the gate when his left arm began to burn.

---

It was fortunate, Snape reflected grimly, that his hatred for Sirius Black was so well known. Not even Lucius and Voldemort, in all their combined paranoia, considered the possibility that Snape would willingly aid the man. Instead, Voldemort was all too willing to assume that Black's escape was due to incompetence rather than malice. This meant that Snape got to walk - or at least stagger and crawl - away from the meeting in one piece. It also meant Macnair got to share the punishment, which was a significant bonus. Most of the time, despite the ridiculous Muggle proverb, Snape had found that Misery did not, in fact, love Company. Misery wanted Company to bugger off and die so that Misery could sulk in peace. Screaming Agony, on the other hand, liked Company just fine, mostly because Company provided an alternate target. And Macnair, like many sadists, had no tolerance at all for his own pain. His howling and blubbering had made Snape feel positively stoic by comparison.

Insulting Malfoy owls and blubbering less than Macnair. Not much to hang his dignity on. It certainly didn't offer much consolation as he lay face down in the grass just outside school grounds, waiting for his body to stop twitching.

He had been on the receiving end of Voldemort's Cruciatus before, but that was fifteen years ago. Time had dulled the memory, or maybe he was just getting old and weak. He didn't remember it being so bad before.

He'd made four attempts to get up so far. Each time, his muscles seized up, his stomach cramped, his limbs trembled uncontrollably, and he ended up flat on his face again. At this rate, he'd still by lying there when the students arrived at the start of the term. Snape clenched his fingers around handfuls of grass and made himself breathe slowly and steadily as he gathered his strength for another try. He briefly considered casting a healing charm on himself, but quickly discarded the thought. Charms required a focused mind and a steady hand. At the moment, Snape stood a good chance of turning himself into a toad. So he closed his eyes and counted backwards from a thousand, until his heartbeat slowed back to normal and the twitches subsided. Then he had another try at getting up.

Apparently, the fifth time was the charm. He made it to his feet, though the world rocked precariously from side to side, and he had to fling his arms out to keep his balance. Eventually, the ground steadied beneath his feet, and Snape took a tentative step. Pain darted from his hip down to his ankle, but it was manageable. Just. Snape gritted his teeth and began the slow walk toward the gate.

He went to Dumbledore's office first, but the Headmaster took one look and ordered him straight to the infirmary. For once, Snape didn't feel like arguing about it. He dragged himself down to the Hospital Wing, staggering in just in time to narrowly avoid a collision with Black, who was staggering out. Black had cleaned up and changed into normal clothes, and his shoulder was back in its proper position, but he still looked pale and haggard. Snape, well aware that he looked just as bad, couldn't even find the energy to gloat. For a few moments, the two men just stood there watching each other warily. Then Black muttered something indistinct and brushed past him, one bony shoulder bumping against Snape's as he stepped through the doorway.

Poppy Pomfrey spelled some of the lingering pains from Snape's abused muscles, cast a couple of standard diagnostic charms to check for internal injuries, and measured out a dose of Ache-Away Potion. Snape thanked her brusquely and pocketed the vial without comment. They both knew perfectly well he wasn't going to use it. He had more effective potions back in his rooms; potions that Poppy, not being a licensed medi-witch, had no authority to prescribe. Snape thought about them longingly as he limped from the Hospital Wing back to the Headmaster's office.

Black was already there, consuming tea and sandwiches in front of the fire. He scowled when Snape came in, but kept his mouth shut. Snape ignored him, nodding at Dumbledore instead.

"Hello, Headmaster."

"Severus." Dumbledore smiled from behind his desk, but his eyes were grave with concern. "Have a seat." He waved his hand, and an ottoman chair waddled over, clawed mahogany feet scuffing against the carpet. Snape sat, and the ottoman promptly carried him closer to the fire, forcing Black's chair to edge aside a bit to make room. A cup materialized in the air, hovering patiently until Snape reached out to take it. His elbow twinged unpleasantly as he raised his arm, but he managed to complete the motion without wincing or spilling anything. The cup proved to contain strong black tea with exactly the right amount of sugar in it. A plate of biscuits floated over to present itself for approval, but Snape waved it aside.

For several minutes, no one said anything. Snape sipped his tea while Black inhaled roast-beef sandwiches as if he anticipated a worldwide shortage. Dumbledore occupied the time by folding a square of parchment into a tiny origami crane which fluttered around the room for a few seconds before settling itself on Fawkes' empty perch. The phoenix himself was present only as a small mound of pale gray ashes beneath the perch. It was too bad, really. Snape suspected that both he and Black could've benefited from having a phoenix slobber over them for a bit.

"I know you both need rest," Dumbledore said finally, "so I won't keep you long. Sirius has just been telling me about his misadventure in Knockturn Alley--"

"Ah, yes, that." Snape sneered in Black's general direction and got the expected glower in return. "Were you really shopping for a wand, or did you actually have a legitimate reason for being there?"

"Shopping for a wand is a legitimate reason," Black snapped. "I need to have one if I'm to be of any use--"

"It'll take more than a wand to accomplish that, I'm afraid."

Black's eyes narrowed angrily. "Listen, you greasy git," he began, but Dumbledore's placid voice overrode him in mid-insult.

"Sirius' reasons for being in Knockturn Alley are not the issue here. I'm more concerned with what he may have said during his interrogation." Black instantly looked affronted, and Dumbledore held up one hand to forestall his objections. "I'm not questioning your loyalty, Sirius, or your courage. I know you wouldn't give anything away. But I need to know if anything you said while supposedly under the influence of Veritaserum could be later exposed as a lie. If it can, then we must take steps to provide corroborative details, or Severus will be in danger."

"I see." Black frowned into his teacup. "I'm afraid I wasn't thinking that far ahead at the time." Snape gave a derisive snort. Black spared him a brief, poisonous glare before turning to Dumbledore again. "I think everything I said was either unverifiable or already common knowledge. But I don't remember all of it."

Snape snorted again. Black swore and banged his cup down on the table, splashing the dregs of his tea into the saucer. "What the hell's your problem, Snape?"

"Nothing." Snape folded his arms across his chest and stared at the wall above Black's head. "I didn't say a word."

Black continued to glare. "If you wanted me to do something other than what I did, then you might've dropped a hint, instead of showing up out of the blue, pouring a mystery potion down my throat, and leaving me to improvise."

"Why, yes, of course. How silly of me." Snape rolled his eyes. This was exactly what he'd expected. It was just like Black, having created the mess in the first place, to try and blame the consequences on Snape. The bastard had been doing it since they were both eleven years old. "I should've said, 'Excuse me, Lucius, but could you please let me have a private word with the prisoner before you question him? I need to coach him on how to lie convincingly.' I'm sure that would've gone over swimmingly."

"So you left me to bluff my way through in the dark," Black growled, "which I did, and quite successfully, too, or neither one of us would be standing here now--"

"Oh, so now you're claiming the credit for our--"

"It's not a question of credit, you stupid idio--"

"That's enough, both of you." Dumbledore's voice was only a little sharper than usual, but it was enough to make both Snape and Black snap to attention. "You're obviously both still unwell. Perhaps we should attempt this conversation again in the morning." Dumbledore's expression was more sympathetic than reproachful; nevertheless, Snape found himself feeling quite thoroughly reproached.

"Headmaster," he began, "I assure you I'm--"

"In the morning," Dumbledore repeated in a tone that allowed no possibility for further argument. "Go get some rest, both of you."

"Yes, Sir." Black sighed, looking nearly as chastened as Snape felt, and heaved himself out of his chair. Snape followed suit, only to find his legs cramping again. He hissed in pain, and put the perfect capper on a perfect day by toppling over sideways into Sirius Black's arms.

"Whoa." Black caught Snape roughly by the elbows and set him upright with a grunt. "You all right, Snape?"

"I'm fine." He tried to pull away, but Black was still holding on. Dumbledore was coming around the desk toward them, eyes wide with concern, and Snape knew he had to get out of there immediately, or he'd be fussed right back into the infirmary again. With a desperate effort, he twisted one arm free and shoved Black in the chest, hard. "Get your paws off me."

"Hey, you're the one who fell on me!" Black protested, but he finally let go. Just in time, too, as Dumbledore was beginning to mutter suggestions in which the words "Madam Pomfrey" and "infirmary" played a significant part. Snape was not about to stay long enough to make out the details.

"I'll see you in the morning, Headmaster," he called over his shoulder, and made his escape.

---

Back in his rooms, Snape stuck Pomfrey's vial of Ache-Away in a desk drawer and chugged a double dose of Numbing Draught instead. Then he drew a bath and soaked for an hour, reheating the water with a tap of his wand when it grew too cold. By the end of the hour he looked and felt like a stewed prune, but that was still closer to human than he'd felt before. The Numbing Draught made him light-headed and leeched all sensation from his fingers and toes, but at least nothing hurt. Snape pulled on a clean nightshirt, sat in front of the fire, and contemplated taking a Dreamless Sleep potion before bed.

He knew exactly what Poppy would say to that. "On top of a Numbing Draught? Are you insane? You'll turn your brain to pumpkin juice!" Which, now that he thought about it, didn't seem like such a bad idea...

Someone knocked on his door. It was a measure of Snape's exhaustion that he muttered "Enter" without first demanding to know who was there. He had immediate cause to regret his carelessness when Sirius Black walked into the room.

"Snape." Black stood in front of the fireplace and braced one hand on the mantelpiece, coming within an inch of knocking over an antique brass apothecary's scale that Snape was particularly fond of. His other hand clutched the neck of a bottle full of amber liquid. "Still awake, I see."

"Maybe," Snape said coldly. "Or maybe I'm asleep and having a nightmare about my private rooms being invaded by an annoying idiot. What are you doing here?" He looked down pointedly at the bottle in Black's hand. "Lose your way in a drunken stupor, did you?"

"I'm stone cold sober!" Black said indignantly "It's not even opened, see?" He thrust the bottle at Snape with a sudden, jerky movement. Snape, brain still operating half a step behind his body, automatically took it. Sure enough, the seal was still in place over the cork.

"All right, you're sober. That leaves the question of what you're doing in my sitting room with a bottle of--" Snape peered at the label with narrowed eyes. "Thirty-year-old Laphroaig?"

Black removed his hand from the mantelpiece, much to Snape's relief, and combed his fingers through his hair. He looked as if he really wanted to be somewhere else, which only emphasized the puzzle of why he wasn't.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper earlier," he said, carefully not meeting Snape's eyes. "Not that you were behaving much better, but… what I said about you not giving me warning -- that was uncalled for."

"Yes," Snape said coldly. "It was. And this, I take it, is your apology?" He held up the bottle.

"No." Black shifted his feet awkwardly. "The part where I said 'I'm sorry I lost my temper' -- that was my apology."

"Then you still haven't answered my question."

Black took a deep breath, held it for a count of three, and slowly let it out again. "I was sitting in my room earlier," he said quietly, "and I was thinking how nice it would be to get completely plastered. So I went over to Hagrid's, planning to cadge some of that paint stripper he usually swills, and he gave me this."

"You got this from Hagrid?" Snape was incredulous. Hagrid's taste in alcohol was generally on par with his taste in pets. The idea of him drinking a thirty-year-old Islay single malt was... was...

"Mind-boggling, isn't it?" Black smirked. "He's got about twenty cases of the stuff, stacked in a storage shed behind his hut. Left over from the Triwizard Tournament, he says. Apparently, the Beauxbatons delegation had horses that would only drink--"

"Single malt whisky. I remember. And Hagrid hasn't finished it all off yet? Astounding."

"Oh, he doesn't like it. Too watery for his taste. But he thought I might like it. And I thought…" Black trailed off into silence and raked at his hair again. Snape peered at him suspiciously.

"And you thought what?"

"That you might like it. And that you, too, might be thinking how nice it would be to get completely plastered."

"How wonderfully empathetic of you," Snape drawled in his most sarcastic voice. "But if I did decide to get drunk, I certainly wouldn't want to do it in your company. I think we've both been tortured enough for one day."

Black tilted his head slightly and gazed at Snape for what seemed a very long time. His expression was cool and guarded, his mouth compressed into a thin, pale line. "I never said anything about us drinking it together," he said finally. I've got my own bottle stashed away. This one's all yours. Think of it as a thank you gift."

"Ah." Snape nodded. "Of course. I save you from torture and death, and you give me a bottle of liquor you scrounged from the Groundskeeper's storage shed. It all balances out."

"Come off it, Snape." Black sounded tired. "I never said it balances out. I just wanted to make a gesture, that's all."

"Why?"

"Because. I refuse to sulk and be bitter just because somebody I hate saved my life. You're a mean, ugly bastard, Snape, and you saved my sorry ass when you didn't have to. I'm damned if I know why you did it, but I do know what it cost you. So thanks. I owe you one. You ever need anything from me, you got it."

"I need you to get your sorry ass out of my sitting room."

"You got it." Black was shutting the door behind him before he even finished speaking.

The room became very quiet, with nothing but the crackling of the fire to break the silence. Snape slumped in his chair, motionless, the Laphroaig cradled in his hands. After a while he peeled the seal off, pulled out the cork, held the bottle under his nose to inhale the scent of peat and brine and heather.

"You do know, don't you," he said to the wall above the fireplace, "that resorting to alcohol after a painful experience is dangerous and unhealthy, and not at all an appropriate coping mechanism?" The wall had nothing to say in response. Snape ran his thumb along the neck of the bottle and mentally ticked off all the things one wasn't supposed to take after a Numbing Draught. Dreamless Sleep potion. Veritaserum. Darjeeling tea. But not, oddly enough, alcohol.

I refuse to sulk and be bitter just because somebody I hate saved my life.

"Fuck you, Black." Snape growled, still addressing the unresponsive wall, and took a swig.

It tasted as fine as it smelled. A warm glow spread from Snape's throat into his chest and down to his stomach. He hadn't even been aware of the muscle knot in the back of his neck until it relaxed. Snape sighed, sank down a little lower in his seat, took another swig. A cozy sense of well being was beginning to creep over him. He knew it was illusory, knew he'd have nothing to show for it in the morning except a raging hangover. But he was going to enjoy it while it lasted, dammit.

"You're welcome," he muttered, and raised the bottle again.

The wall didn't have a word to say all night.

The End