Acceptable Losses

Acceptable losses by Lisa Miskovsky

"Main street's empty in the evening chill
From courthouse tower to griffin mill
Small signs of winter comes creeping down the hills

I saw your shadow on Jackson Street
where the zombie-eyed kids and the speed-queens meet
It's been a long time running through my veins this long lost dream

And I tear it apart and I burn it all down 'cause I have to
God gave me permission to do what it takes to find you

All the friends I betrayed all the enemies made in the process
We've all done the same we're just carrying different crosses
I'm feeling no pain baby - it's acceptable losses

This place got dark in the years that passed
The store-fronts blown I guess nothing lasts
The fighting at the bars still draw wired vengeful crowds

I followed our trail down to Rosewood Park
As the shadows grow tall and the stars come out
Were the backseat lovers used to park their daddy's cars

And I tear it apart and burn it all down 'cause I have to
Made a deal with a man at the crossroads who knew where to find you

All the friends I betrayed all the enemies made in the process
Our pain feels the same we're just carrying different crosses
It's all in the game baby - it's acceptable losses

They found your car own at Suicide Bridge
Where the Johnson twins became newsflash kids
But I know you so much better don't believe you'd call it quits

Now I got an old address and I'm waiting there
In the first light of morning at the fire stairs
I can hear someone's coming and suddenly I'm scared

'Cause you ripped me apart and I ran for my life 'cause I had to
My heart won't stop bleeding and I'm no longer sure if I want it to

All the friends I betrayed all the enemies made in the process
They're all going down in a accounts of acceptable losses
It's all in the game baby - it's acceptable losses"

***

Chapter One

In the years that passed

The ministry searched through Severus Snape's house at Spinners End after the murder of Albus Dumbledore. However, they soon found there was nothing there that could give a clue of where he now was hiding, or what his plans were, or any proof of the assumed murder he had committed. Anyone with even the slightest acquaintance to Severus would've known that he would never be so sloppy, but apparently it was quite fashionable among Ministry officials to underestimate the enemy nowadays. So they looked for orders from the Dark Lord, and letters from other Death Eaters, but none where found (which is not to say that there weren't any...). And so they were just as disappointed as Severus' friends and enemies alike would've guessed. Only faint hints of the personality of the man could be scavenged from the home, at least for the untrained eye. Severus Snape had known discipline of his own self that few could even ever begin to understand, because he knew exactly how vulnerable you could become by letting just one single person close.

Frustrated, the Ministry people confiscated the books and potion samples they could find, along with whatever objects with magical properties they could lay their hands on. Poor pickings, but at least they could pretend that they had managed something constructive. And back at the Ministry, they looked through all the Potions and Dark Arts books to find something - anything - that could give them any clues. Once again, they were empty-handed.

And so was Harry Potter at first, as he looked through the archived artefacts at the end of the war. Among all the things that had been considered important and dangerous, nothing contained any trace of the man he had learned to care about and respect only when he was already dead. It wasn't until he opened the few books that the Ministry officials hadn't deigned to look through, deeming them to be nothing but pleasure reading, that he actually found anything of real importance.

On the last, blank page in a battered copy of Candide he found a sketch of his mother's face. In Anna Karenina he found some old and rather ill-spelled letters from Lily; writing had obviously not been her strong side. But when he tried to open the oldest book in the collection, with a cover so worn that it was impossible to make out the title, his finger was cut open and started to bleed.

"Ouch!" He pulled his hands away and stared at the blood. The book glowed red for a moment - a warning - and then once again looked like any old and much loved book. Okay, so that didn't work. Harry tapped it experimentally with his wand, and almost jumped through the wall when the book suddenly spoke.

"Where does it all begin and end?" The voice of Severus Snape sounded hard and forbidding.

"Lily Evans." Harry made a wild guess, but it was a good one. This time, the book glowed green, and swung open before him.

"TRAITOR."

Harry once more jumped, terrified. That had not been Snape's voice, had it? It had happened so fast that he didn't know whose voice it was, but he was quite sure it hadn't been Snape's. Besides, why 'traitor'? He supposed that he could've meant that Lily was a traitor. But the voice was directed at the person that opened the book. Had Snape seen himself as a traitor? Okay, so it was possible, but if that was the case then he wouldn't have needed a book to remind him. Maybe one of the Death Eaters had known about Snape's feelings for Harry's mother? But why hadn't they spilled the beans for Voldemort? No, it didn't make sense.

He looked down on the title page. In faded ink, the words 'For Severus Snape on his eleventh birthday. Congratulations. Lily' were painstakingly spelled out. It was a copy of Alice in Wonderland, and the page was adorned with a picture of the white rabbit, poring over his pocket watch and looking nervous. The drawing was a good one; you could almost see the rabbit tapping his big, white foot; you could almost make yourself believe that the floppy ears had twitched the moment you looked away.

The pages were yellowed with age and frayed from frequent use. Harry imagined his stern Professor Snape sitting down with a cup of cocoa and this book, curling up in a big armchair with a thick blanket around his knees. The image made him smile, and it was with this smile still on his lips that he turned the page.

It was with a somewhat faltering smile that he watched a thick stack of letters dropping into his lap. They could never have fitted between the pages of the rather small volume, but somehow the space where they had been tucked looked bigger than it possibly could be. Harry suspected that it was a version of the Extension Charm that Hermione had put on her bag.

Carefully putting the book aside, he picked up the letters. They were wrapped with a simple linen thread, tied in a neat little bow, and there must've been at least twenty fat envelopes. On the topmost letter someone had scribbled 'Severus', apparently in a hurry. More letters from his mother? But no. Whoever wrote this had a gently flowing hand - really quite pleasant - and not the zigzag scrawl of Lily Evans.

So who, then, had sat down to write Severus Snape all these letters? Carefully making a clean cut in the first envelope with his wand, Harry pulled out the first sheet of paper, and started to read.

Severus

I don't think you think much about our time together, not even now, when we cannot avoid each other. I think you've almost forgotten, that you only can remember how much you hate me, how much you wish that you could've changed what happened. I think you lie awake at night, wishing you had stopped me. You probably blame yourself; you probably really believe that you could've made a difference.

But while you should blame yourself, blame yourself mercilessly, rest assured that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, you could've done. As with everyone else, it was your underestimating me that finally made it impossible for you to see the danger. And not until it was by far too late did you understand.

But what I really want to have said is that I think about it, all the time, that short time when I actually allowed myself to dream. While you dreamed of her, I dreamed of you, and we made each other's dreams impossible.

I wonder if you ever asked yourself why; if you knew me well enough back then to know that to say that I wanted to be friends with the nastiest bully on the playground is a far too simple explanation. Then again, I already know you underestimated me. So maybe the thought never crossed your mind that there was something far uglier, far deeper and more unpleasant, behind it all.

There was. There is. And the thought won't leave me any peace, as I live here like an illness that's slowly infecting your already pale and bloodless life; just as wanted, just as greedy in my wish to devour everything that's you. I think that we both can agree that there is nothing left for me to live for. Your emptiness left in you a purpose; mine left in me dark lethargy and a terrible fear of death, of emptiness even deeper and hungrier.

What these words are trying to form is a wish for you to know my part of the story, a wish I can no longer repress, nor do I even particularly want to. You will probably want to kill me when you've read it, for my story makes it far too easy to place all the blame on me. But maybe I will kill you first, for when I've told you this story I might not love you anymore. If I still do, I will run away, and this time nobody will ever find me again. And I suppose that will make me as good as dead. Or as bad.

If you died today, you would not think of me, not even for a moment. That is why I have to write this.

Peter

Harry stared at the letter in his hands, his mind blank and his body quite numb from shock and incomprehension. Slowly, he put the piece of parchment away, leaning his head in his hands as his thoughts starting to churn with terrible momentum, faster and faster and faster.

He had found a part of Severus' life that he hadn't known of, a part of it that probably would make him understand the man better. That was what he had been looking for. That was what he had been craving since he had seen the last, vulnerable thoughts of Severus Snape played in front of his eyes. But this wasn't what he had been hoping to find! With disgust he watched the writing that crawled black and spindly across the whiteness of parchment. It didn't look so appealing anymore, as he imagined Pettigrew's stubby fingers holding the quill, dipping it in the ink, slowly tracing the letters and forming these damning sentences.

He didn't want to have his memory of another hero tarnished, yet the episode with Dumbledore had taught him not to judge by what the first impression seemed to indicate. And he had already read too much to resist finding out what kind of story these letters would tell.

Picking up the second piece of paper, he gritted his teeth and allowed the last tale to be told about the time of Heroes.

***

Peter hung back, more from habit than anything else. Oh, well, that wasn't really true. The real reason was that he was pathetically shy and didn't dare to sit by the bar, and even more impossible was the thought of dancing. No, not him, not Peter. That wasn't how things worked. So he took his drink - which was far too strong for him anyway and he probably wouldn't dare to drink it - and found himself a table in a shadowed part of the pub. He didn't even know why he was there, all alone, when he knew that he would rather chew of his left arm than face the indignity of trying fruitlessly to chat up one of the strangers in here, none of whom would ever dream of being interested in someone that was fat, unattractive and socially incompetent.

He just knew that for one evening, he had fancied feeling just a bit brave. Wearing one of the pink badges was brave. It was admitting what he was to people he didn't know or trust, something he had never done before. As a matter of fact, he had never let anyone at all know before.

The system with the badges had been invented on this very club when the clever owner noticed the embarrassing situations that sometimes occurred when someone tried to chat up a boy or a girl with the wrong kind of sexuality, and it had pretty soon spread to quite a lot of wizarding pubs. Girls interested in boys wore red badges; girls interested in girls wore blue. Boys interested in girls wore green badges and boys interested in boys wore pink. Those open to suggestion wore purple.

Remus preferred being home with a book to going out drinking. Sirius and James were in Austria skiing with James' parents. Peter ran no risk of being found out. Nobody else from school would recognise him; it wasn't as if anyone ever noticed him. Or so he thought, until he heard an unfriendly chuckle behind his back and someone drawled, "Pettigrew? Oh, this is too wonderful..."

He spun around, his cheeks already colouring and his heart beating madly, only to be pinned by a pair of black eyes; a trapped butterfly against the back of his chair, fluttering wildly but getting nowhere.

"S-snape! What... you... I..."

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. And with a pink badge, too. Really, what would your friends say if they knew?"

"W-what's it to you?" Peter answered, not quite managing to keep the desperation out of his voice, scrambling franticly for words. "I... You are... Well, it's not like you're much better, is it?" He only just now noticed the purple badge that was pinned to Severus' chest, glowing faintly in the semi-darkness.

Snape didn't appear to have heard him. He leaned forward, his hands gripping tightly around the backrest of the chair, his eyes narrowing in malicious glee. "They don't know, do they? You're too much of a coward to tell. You're afraid they won't want to be friends with you anymore. You're afraid they'll think that you're disgusting, aren't you? They probably would. You probably are."

It was horrible, much more horrible because it was true. Peter shrank back, but he couldn't escape with Snape blocking the way. Closing his eyes, he hoped to shut out that venomous stare, but it burned straight through his eyelids and into his brain, making a dark hole that quickly filled up with shame and humiliation and numb, thoughtless frustration. Why did it have to be him? Of all the people in the world that he could be hopelessly in love with - for there was no hope for him, not with anyone - it had to be Severus Snape, a person who loathed everything that he was, and who took pleasure in tormenting him. Righteous pleasure too.

But sometime in his fourth or fifth year, Peter had more crashed than fallen in love with Severus Snape. Maybe it was the awkward way Snape moved, or the graceful dance of his fingers when he was making potions. Maybe it was the way his forehead wrinkled when he concentrated, or the way he would hum softly to himself when he though no one could hear him. Maybe it was the prideful way his eyes would burn and his mouth would twist when he was angry; maybe the sardonic and warm smile he sometimes bestowed on his friends. Peter didn't know, for he had tried very hard not to analyse the feeling, hoping it would go away if he ignored it. Hoping in vain, of course.

He opened his eyes when he both heard and felt how Snape's body slid into the chair next to his. The other boy was leaning his sharp chin in his hands and watching Peter with eyes that shone like the blackest of pearls. Those thin lips - they must be so warm, they must be so soft - were still curled to form a sharp little crescent moon of derisiveness.

"Please, just let me be," he pleaded feebly, hating himself for the way his voice hitched, giving away the tears that he was trying so hard to choke back.

"No. I don't think I will." He had a voice like silk, smooth and cold, and he wrapped it around Peter's throat, gently tightening the noose. It was impossible to talk, very hard to breathe, and when he tried to busy himself by taking a deep gulp of his drink he almost choked on it.

"This is too much fun," Snape purred.

And Peter didn't know why he reacted like he did, if it was because he was angry and humiliated and hurt, or if it was the sudden rush of alcohol to his head, or just the noise of the pub and Snape's voice and the sudden deepening darkness around him making him panic. When he tried to recall it, it was all like a dream; there was some logical step missing, some part of reasoning that was obscured. All he could remember for sure was how a small, angry tear had freed itself and slunk shamefully down his cheek, and as Snape laughed with almost childish delight his boneless anger became white-hot and steel-encased fury. He lashed out with his hand, catching Snape under the chin with a backhand blow and then, when Snape staggered backwards out of his chair, he shot after him with the energy of an avenging angel. And before he could stop himself, before he could even understand what this sudden madness was doing to him, his arms had shot up Severus' back, trailing the snaking, dangerous spine, pulling himself closer to that cage of bone where he knew that the heart of the other boy banged itself sore in hopes of freedom...

He kissed him. He was angry and he was in tears, he was full of violence and blood and the screams of animals, he was insane, he was out of his mind, he was kissing Severus Snape and Snape was...

...Snape was kissing him back. As if his life depended on it.

He tasted of alcohol, quite strongly so. Peter had only drunk that one gulp of the drink that was now a quickly spreading, sticky red puddle amidst a thousand shards of broken glass, but he had a feeling that Snape was more than a bit drunk right now. And this was probably a very bad idea, surely it was just alcohol and shock that had saved him from Severus' wrath, surely that was all there was to this kiss. Alcohol and shock and surprise and fury and sorrow and disappointment and a longing so sweet, so perfect...

They backed away from each other for a moment, stood panting and sweating, staring dumbly and trying to read each other's minds. Peter was so nervous that a taste of bitter gall snuck its way into his mouth.

And then Snape looked away, grabbing Peter's arm and squeezing it roughly with steely white fingers. "I know a place we can go," he said.

***

...That was the first time, for me and for you alike. Two terrified virgins clutching each other for dear life, yet barely daring to touch, to come close, fearing rejection as we had scarcely feared anything before. We didn't know what to do; we had to learn as we went along, anxiously trying to read each other's reactions in the dark. It was really very bad, as sex goes, but it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Yes, that was what I thought. Or no, it was what I believed, so intensely that it actually hurt me to think of it. I was very foolish back then, I admit.

And even if I came much too quickly, and you had problems coming at all, I was in bliss as I fell asleep, my body awkwardly angled in that small, small bed. I had never dared to hope for anything like that, and never even dared to dream about you in that way; the closest I had ever gotten was shameful little half-dreams, crippled fantasies alone in my bed as I twisted futilely against the sheets and pitied myself.

Now, I allowed myself for the first time to confess aloud - to the empty darkness and the soft sound of your breathing - that yes, I loved you. Only in a whisper, but it was still put to words. And that was all that mattered.

Harry put away the parchment on the table, shuddering with revulsion. Reading it had been like watching a movie being played inside his head, and he really wished he hadn't. He couldn't imagine what had made Snape do that with someone that all logic suggested that he should loath. Harry was sure as hell that if Malfoy had done that to him, he would've punched his lights out. The thought of anyone having sex with Peter Pettigrew was revolting; the thought of Snape having it was upsetting and wrong.

He stood up and closed Alice in Wonderland, putting all the books back where he had found them with a quick wave of his wand. But as he walked out of the Ministry building, the weight of the letters in his pocket throbbed like an ache.