***

His control was much better now; there was no question of that. This time he manifested inside the cabin itself, appearing in the middle of the room just as Snape walked out of the privy, his shirt untucked and with a damp towel draped over his head, scrubbing at his hair. Harry opened his mouth, but all the words he'd prepared for this moment vanished from his mind, and suddenly his throat was too full to let anything through except the smallest, inaudible sigh. In the end he simply stood there, dumb and dry-mouthed and shaking just a little, as Snape almost walked right into him.

Snape started and then whipped the towel off his head, his eyes wide and shocked--but only for a moment. Then they narrowed balefully, and Snape frowned down at him with a glare that would probably have been far more effective if his hair hadn't looked very much like a wet rat's nest. "Bloody. Hell."

Harry nodded, and swallowed hard. He found his voice with his next breath. "I don't have much time," he said softly.

Then he reached out.

***

There were no more words between them for a long while, only low, earthy, animal noises and sudden, desperate gasps, sounds that nevertheless seemed to Harry to be more honest than any real words could ever be. He soaked up every noise he wrung from Snape, and entirely ignored the clatter of things crashing to the floor as they traversed the room, mouth to mouth and wrestling each other out of their clothes, clawing at each other with an urgency that was nearly savage.

Harry didn't speak again until they were both naked, until Snape picked him up bodily and threw him onto the bed, and by then his throat was so dry from panting that his words were no more than a husked murmur. "You have to fuck me," he said as Snape slid up his body, pinning him to the mattress little by little, an exquisite crush. "Will you fuck me?"

"Yes," Snape answered through gritted teeth, and then there were no more words at all, only hardness against his hardness and fists in his hair, slippery sweat and trembling muscles and ravenous kisses and so much need that he felt hollowed out by it, a bottomless ache in the pit of his belly that felt almost like despair. Intent and intense, there was nothing but the push and slide of the body against him, the heat around him, and whenever he caught a glimpse of Snape's eyes they looked haunted, driven, and gazing into them was like falling.

It all seemed so different from what they'd done before, and the first time Harry came it was completely unexpected, just an awareness of that difference in the way Snape touched him--no finesse and no patience, just groping him as roughly as if Snape's hands had mouths to feed and were starving for the taste of him--one fierce, demanding stroke on his cock and then groaning and then coming, shocked and undone and clutching Snape's shoulders like he might slide off the earth if he let go.

And there was no break, no respite, nothing but one wet, hungry kiss and then Snape drew back and flipped him over, manipulating his limp body with easy, terrifying strength, as if Harry were made of fluff and feathers rather than heavy, saturated, still-needful flesh. Strong hands on his hips drew him up to his knees, spread his trembling thighs and then Harry turned his face into the pillow under his cheek and bit down on it because this was all about the process of getting inside him, inside the part of him that right now felt incredibly tender and tight, a bundled knot of nerves that were firing off crazy messages to his entire body that he didn't understand, but which seemed to convey the idea that he'd better be ready for anything, everything, because he was certainly going to get it.

Hot, wicked tongue on his balls, and then the world seemed to turn inside-out for a moment when it glided liquidly up and up and around and then into his arse, and there was no question that he would have slid flat to puddle into the sheets if Snape's hands hadn't held him up, held him open, held him pressed tight with the most vulnerable part of him skewered on that flickering, demoniac tongue. The sounds that came out of him were weak, dazed, mewling things, and he was glad of the muffle of the pillow, more so when his body caught up before the rest of him did and his whimpers turned to low, urgent grunts, and he rocked as much as Snape's hold on him would allow, arching back for more until he expected to hear his spine crack. It was so very easy to get lost, to drift and feel and just let everything else go, and then he didn't need to hide his face in the pillow anymore because he was far beyond caring what kind of noise he made, he was only glad of the cool air on his moist, hot cheeks and forehead.

And still, it was different--indefinably, but absolutely different. That awareness stayed with Harry through everything. It stayed with him as his own desire rose up again and turned molten, a hot and ravenous craving loose in his blood that made him shake and sweat and kept him *right* on the edge of begging. It stayed with him when his hand slid under Snape's pillow and found cold glass and drew forth a vial--some dazed and distant part of his mind thought at first it must be whiskey, and then of course he figured out what it was and what it was for and why it was there and he almost came again, but in the end all he did was groan desperately and hand it back to Snape, who took it from him without pause. It even stayed with him when Snape finally pulled back from him, gasping, and then dragged him upright, knees spread wide, to sprawl bonelessly back over Snape's warm, heaving chest.

It wasn't until he felt the hot, blunt slipperiness of Snape's cock touching the entrance to his body that full realisation struck: first, that waiting was over and done with; second, that knowing that he didn't have to wait anymore meant that he was going to come again before Snape could even get inside him; and finally, irrevocably, seizing him with a sudden, dreadful shock, that the difference he sensed wasn't anything as simple as urgency, but the kind of desperation that was born of a terrible, unspoken finality--that they were touching this way because both of them felt, somehow, that they'd never touch again.

Harry gasped, went utterly and completely rigid with everything that rose up in him, and the cry drawn from his throat was a despairing, hopeless articulation of denial, but there was no separating any of that from helpless lust as Snape's cock nudged him and he came, and as before Snape didn't wait for him but tightened his hold on Harry's hips and drew him down, thrusting into him and Snape was *huge* inside him but not painful--not anywhere painful enough to match the horrible, cramping pain in his heart.

Then he was crying and coming at once, throbbing tight around Snape's cock and he could feel his body drawing it in deeper, taking it right in until there was no more to take, and Snape was inside him and couldn't be any closer and yet Harry's hands reached around behind to hold on, clutching fiercely and shaking and telling himself that he'd never, ever let go.

"Don't go," he gasped, pressing his head back against Snape's shoulder.

"Not... going," Snape answered, and the dark edge of hunger in his voice--hunger for *him*--fed the twin streams of Harry's desire and pain.

"Please," Harry whispered, and then bit his lip because he didn't know how he would bear it when this was over. Snape growled in his ear and lifted him and pulled him down and lifted him again and *down* and then all Harry could do was close his streaming eyes and cry out softly at the unstoppable, killing pleasure, so deep in him that he felt every twitch and throb of it in his heart, his fingertips, his tight-curled toes. He felt Snape shudder against his back, and before the next push one hand left his hip to curl around his cock, and Harry covered Snape's hand with his own and held on tight and then he thought he was falling again, but he wasn't--Snape's other arm was tight around his chest and they were moving, sliding forwards to lie flat, and Snape had him, had him wrapped up and held and utterly transfixed, perfectly captive.

The next thrust was almost his undoing, strong and powerful and enough pleasure in it to devastate him, but he knew as surely as he knew anything that Snape wouldn't come until he did, and with what was possibly the last remnant of his childhood stubbornness and foolish refusal to accept the inevitable he curled his fingers tight into the sheets and bit down on the pillow again and swore that he wouldn't, wouldn't let this end, not even if it drove both of them mad.

Harry held on, teeth clenched and low, helpless groans dragged from his throat one after another as he fought everything--the tight, silky grip on his cock; the seduction of Snape's weight and strength and will all around and inside him; and his own traitorous body, which didn't give a damn about any of it but only wanted to spread wider, offer himself up for more and more and *more* of that soul-deep bliss that rippled out from his center, wanted nothing more than for Snape to hold him down and pound into him until he exploded. He held on until he was shaking, dripping with sweat and writhing against the sheets, lost to everything except the moment-by-moment resolve to Not. Let. Go.

The rhythm of Snape's body thrusting into his own was steady, forceful but steady, and at first that helped and then it didn't, and it seemed almost as if time itself slowed down, each quarter-second imprinted on him deep enough to burn in his blood and yet never time enough to be ready for *that*, the moments when Snape was all the way in him and gasping against the back of his neck and the tremor he could feel in the arms around him, in the hand stripping his cock, and making it through each one of those moments seemed dimly miraculous, incredible, something that he should perhaps acknowledge with prayers of gratitude some time later when he wasn't busy going insane.

His final undoing was brought about by such a small thing; inconsequential, really, in the larger picture of his struggle--a simple kiss, soft and almost reverently chaste, pressed to his flushed cheek when he turned his head to the side to gasp for air. Just a kiss, and yet the sweetness in it caught him irrevocably, squeezed his heart and flooded him with passion that would *not* be held back.

His gasp became a cry as his body responded with brutal, demanding need; his legs spread of their own accord and his hips lifted and bucked and the rhythm of things was utterly shattered, lost forever. He spun deliriously out of control, and there was no return, no way to regain what was lost and on the next thrust Harry *shoved* himself back into it, sobbing, and came so hard he was barely conscious of Snape's desperate groan in his ear and the hot, wet throb that was both of them pouring out together, he in Snape's hand and Snape inside him, the arms around him so tight that he heard his ribs creak and it seemed endless, it felt endless, as everlasting as it had been inevitable, but of course it wasn't.

Harry held on as hard as he could, refused to let go as long as he could, but when the very last shiver and twitch died away he was empty, empty even before Snape pulled gently out of his tender, aching arse; empty despite the arms that turned him slowly over and wrapped around him, despite the slow, wet, languorous kisses that followed, the soothing hand that brushed his damp hair back from his brow. He lay quietly in Snape's arms, accepted everything that was offered to him gratefully, and tried to push aside the emptiness because it didn't matter, didn't make the slightest bit of difference to what he had to do now.

He waited until he heard Snape's breathing calm, until he thought that Snape might have fallen asleep--but no, the hand touching his forehead still stirred, fingers carding through his hair. He took a deep breath. "What else have you found out?" He asked softly. "About Voldemort?"

Almost imperceptibly, Snape stiffened. "Not... not a great deal," he said finally; "it's not like I've been welcomed back as the prodigal son. These things take time." He sighed. "Actually, that which I did discover--what I wrote to you about--was more in the way of a lucky accident than anything else."

Harry squeezed the arm that draped over his chest. "You can't count on luck," he said, grateful that his voice was steady. "Not anymore."

Snape's hand cupped his cheek softly, although Harry did hear him snort. "That, from you, is entirely ridiculous." There was a pause, then: "If it's any consolation to you, I can assure you that I'm very good at what I do."

Harry shut his eyes for a long, silent moment, listening to the sound of their mingled breathing, then opened his eyes again and turned towards Snape, taking the man's face in his hands, gazing deep. "So am I," he said quietly, "*and I want you to go to sleep now*."

There was no blood, no spasms, no glimpse of any pain, just Snape's head growing suddenly heavy in Harry's hands, his eyes closed, his breath coming and going peacefully. Harry shakily released his own breath, kissed Snape's unmoving lips, and then laid his head gently down on the pillow.

"Just to keep you out of trouble," he said quietly, and climbed out of the bed on legs that felt too weak to hold him up. He stared at Snape for a moment with his lips pressed tight together, then headed for the loo where he cleaned himself up as quickly as he could, given his shaking hands.

When he emerged into the main room he was careful not to look at Snape again, but rather searched out his scattered clothing and got dressed, which took no time at all. It seemed like only moments passed before he was finished, standing next to the bed with his eyes firmly fixed on the floor and his hands curled into fists, his breathing laboured and high in his throat. He swallowed. "I'll be back," he said softly. "I promise."

The last words were no more than the barest whisper, but he lacked both the strength and the conviction to say it any louder.

***

During one of their talks, Dumbledore had told him gravely that the latest intelligence suggested that Voldemort's bid for alliances had met with 'moderate success'. Five minutes after his invisible arrival at Voldemort's newfound headquarters, Harry decided that Dumbledore's sources of information were extremely, profoundly flawed.

As for the new headquarters--the 'underground hideout' as Dumbledore had called it--it wasn't. It was, as far as Harry could tell, nearly an underground *city*, a twisting, connected maze of subterranean caverns and tunnels that seemed to go on forever, lit by torches here and there, but mostly a cold, dark vastness that nevertheless seemed both crowded and cacophonous, distorted noises echoing back from the unseen ceiling. And it *was* crowded--Harry spotted an occasional Death Eater in robes, but they made up only the smallest part of the milling throng, a melange of the sort of witches and wizards he'd seen on his one trip through Knockturn Alley along with a goodly selection of vampires, hags, ogres, trolls, ghosts, and dozens, perhaps hundreds of creatures he didn't know the names of. And didn't really want to.

He took an extra few minutes to enhance his concealment--like Dumbledore himself, he didn't need an Invisibility cloak any longer to remain unseen (and it was a good thing, too, as it undoubtedly would have been difficult to keep it firmly wrapped around him in the crush), but given the population, he thought it would be wise to make sure he couldn't be smelt, sensed, or heard, either. Then he ducked out of the alcove he'd hidden in, brushed by a man with six enormous spider legs growing out of his back--Ron would have gone right round the bend on that one--and started to make his way through the maze.

It was difficult, at first, to get any sense of what all these people--things--whatever--were doing; there were pockets of organization here and there (these always had at least one Death Eater in charge, he noticed), but for the most part everything seemed chaotic, people and creatures shoving each other every which-way as they tried to get from one place to the other. He was kept busy enough trying not to run into anyone that he didn't even really have any time to be frightened, although of course he knew he was. But just then he was swept away from the wall by a jostling crowd that suddenly seemed to collectively decide to all teem along in one direction--and when the tunnel finally opened out to another enormous cavern, and the jabbering of the assembly dropped to a low murmur in comparison to a series of wretched, full-throated screams that seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead, Harry abruptly found out that he had *plenty* of time to be frightened.

***

Some forty minutes later, Harry huddled in a small alcove that was set almost directly opposite the entrance to a heavily guarded tunnel, his arms wrapped around his stomach, shivering and waiting for his breathing to slow. It took a long time. He watched the tunnel closely, hoping it was the right one, and tried not to think about what he would do if it wasn't.

He'd originally had a purpose in coming here, he knew that. He remembered quite clearly the lucidity and decisiveness that had made this the best, the only choice. But all of that now seemed impossibly distant, impossibly naive; scattered and useless in the face of everything he'd seen. It wasn't enough. Not anymore.

Harry looked down, but his hands were invisible--he could feel but not see the way they were curled into fists, the tiny bites of his nails digging into his palms. He had a decision to make; one that seemed weighted with too much significance for him to make it while hiding in a tunnel in an elaborate underground abattoir, caught between the ungovernable extremes of fear and rage. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he knew he'd made his choice--he knew it from the way his heart sank within him, the way his breathing and heartbeat slowed while his vision sharpened. He had a purpose once again, and the only hope he had left was that it would prove to be worth what it cost him.

Harry moved silently across to the other side of the tunnel, then slipped easily past the guards and followed several twists and turns downwards, ever downwards. There were other, smaller tunnels that branched off from the one he was in, but he stayed on the main path until he came to a wooden door set into the stone. It was a heavy, massive door, banded with cold black iron and overset with an iron sigil; an emblem he knew. At the sight of it, Harry's scar flashed white-hot for a moment, but he ignored it, staring at the sigil. The skull was gape-jawed enough so that it almost seemed to be laughing at him, but he ignored that too. He'd found the right tunnel after all.

He paused, wondering if he should dematerialize--he didn't know if he could rematerialize on the other side of the door and still remain invisible. The other option seemed to be to render himself insubstantial and try to walk right *through* the door, but he wasn't entirely sure whether or not he could do that.

As it turned out, he could.

***

"You don't understand--it's like some kind of holiday for... for *freaks* out there. Complete and utter chaos."

Lucius Malfoy's voice. Harry was sure he'd never mistake it, even if the man was invisible behind the deep cowl of his robes. Harry backed up against the wall--and nearly into it, until he reminded himself that he could be solid again--and remained invisible and silent, his hands spread out across cold stone while he glanced quickly round the cavern he found himself in. It was enormous, much larger than he'd expected it to be, and empty except for a few torches, one heavy, throne-like chair in which Voldemort sat, and a small cluster of Death Eaters who were grouped around him.

"Lucius," Voldemort said softly, and Harry bit his lips and pressed his hands tight to the wall, "I see I was remiss in thinking that you had learned never to doubt my understanding of these matters--"

"My Lord," Lucius said, his voice low and chastened, almost fearful. It might have been enjoyable, if Harry hadn't had other things very much on his mind. "Of course I don't doubt you--please forgive my rash words. I only thought you might wish to... exert your authority..."

Voldemort steepled his fingers together and stared at Lucius with his flat, red eyes. "Another time, perhaps, we shall continue this conversation, at which point you can enlighten me as to whether you are accusing me of being lazy, weak, or negligent--"

Lucius dropped to one knee. "My Lord--no, I would never--"

"Be silent!" Voldemort snapped. "Get up, and get out. All of you. Leave me."

Lucius got to his feet, but he and the other robed Death Eaters only looked at each other. "But--but my Lord," Lucius said, almost too softly for Harry to hear, "our council--there have been some developments. The old fool has, that is, we've received some information--"

"Which I will require from you in due course," Voldemort said coldly. "Now--do you really need to be told twice?"

Apparently they didn't. They filed out silently, through another door which stood opposite the one Harry had walked through. When they were gone, Voldemort sighed. "And so--our brave new world begins in chaos." He shifted in his chair, and seemed to be peering into the depths of the ceiling, where the light from the torches didn't reach. "But creation is, at its heart, an intrinsically chaotic and ungovernable thing. Wouldn't you agree, boy?" And with that, he looked right at Harry.

Harry couldn't say he was surprised. Terrified, yes, but not surprised. He stepped away from the wall, one small step, and dropped his concealment spells. "A brave new world," he repeated quietly, amazed at how steady his voice sounded. "Is that what you think you're creating? Is that why you've got hundreds of Muggles locked up here? To get a head start on wiping them all out?"

Voldemort's horrible eyes crinkled at the corners. "You've been listening to those who are poorly informed, boy. I'm afraid the public relations branch of my empire has only recently come up to snuff." He shifted in his chair, and drew his wand from his sleeve almost casually. Harry tensed. "I assure you, I'm not interested in exterminating Muggles. In fact, I want nothing at all to do with them."

Harry just stared at him. He could still feel, low in his belly, the vibrations left behind from the sound of the screams he'd heard. The ones he hadn't been able to do anything about. Yet.

"No," Voldemort continued, wand tip circling lazily, "the Muggles I've collected here are simply a good faith gesture on my part--more public relations, I'm afraid. Personally, I'd much rather leave them out of it altogether, but it seems the non-human magical community is terribly fond of them; for food, or sport, or... pets, I suppose would be the word for it. But as for me, all I want is for magical peoples to resume their rightful place in the scheme of things. There is... there has been, for a long time, an imbalance. I want to rectify it."

"You want the world to know about us?" Harry asked, shifting a bit on his feet and never taking his eyes off the wand, which was now shooting off slow, random sparks.

"I want us--all of us--to walk free; not hide and skulk in a few dark corners, afraid of what we are. You heard Lucius complain of the chaos out there, but that's only because we haven't got everything sorted out in its proper place yet. But we will. I will. And then we'll be free."

Harry tilted his head a bit. "Everything sorted... and I suppose, once everything's in its proper place, the magical humans will be freer than everyone else?"

Voldemort's eyes gleamed. "I didn't realize you were possessed of a philosophical streak. But this is perhaps not the best time to debate the hierarchies of natural law, not when there still remains so much to be done. Freedom first--and please bear in mind that I mean your own as much as mine."

Harry's gaze shifted to the huge, red eyes. "It sounds like you almost believe that."

The wand dipped, swung, and although Harry heard no muttered spell, all at once the entire cavern was crawling with green light, all along the walls and floor, all over Harry; everywhere except for a small circle which remained clear, where Voldemort sat in his chair. "My faith is considerable," Voldemort said dryly, "the inspiration of many. And now that things are a bit more settled, perhaps we can discuss it."

It was an extremely complex spell, Harry could feel that. There were elements of both containment and suppression--his feet were rooted to the floor, and everything seemed muffled, as if any magic he might try to do would go no further than his fingertips before it collapsed. But there was also a subtle, insidious *draining* feeling, as if the spell were slowly leeching something vital out of him. "You knew I was coming," he said quietly, when his efforts to move were unsuccessful.

Voldemort's smile was understated, nearly indulgent. "The moment your mind closed to me, yes, I knew you'd be along, and I prepared accordingly." He sat up straight in his chair, his eyes scanning Harry avidly. "And I'll have to find some way to thank Severus for his generosity--it's a new leaf for him altogether; he doesn't usually care to share his toys."

Harry bowed his head, staring at the crawling green light moving over his body. He wasn't about to respond to that. "And you say... you say you want nothing to do with Muggles? That you'd leave them out of it, if you could?"

There was silence for a few moments. When Harry looked up, he saw Voldemort gazing at him suspiciously, green sparks dancing off narrowed crimson eyes. "You're ready to listen, then?"

Harry raised his head, tried again to take a step forwards, and failed. His hands began to shake. "It's important," he said softly. "It's important to me."

Voldemort shook his head slowly. "You're young yet; very young. There is a certain perspective afforded by experience, you know--there's so much passion in the young, but it's untempered, thoughtless, and often can't reach beyond the boundaries of a narrow vision." One skeletal finger waved in Harry's direction. "Which is, of course, why you have teachers. Why you need them. To give you that perspective."

"And you're offering me yours," Harry said, blinking through a green haze.

Voldemort's face relaxed into another one of those tolerant half-smiles. "I am. And I assure you that yes, I would much rather leave the Muggles out of it--they have no place in our world. They belong in their own. They are truly inferior, a lesser order of being."

Harry took a deep breath, felt green light slip into his nostrils and spread through him. "You're sure?"

Voldemort nodded, eyes never leaving his own. "Entirely sure."

"Oh." Harry lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment. "All right," he said softly, then opened his eyes and brought his head up, his hands up, and *willed* himself to move forwards, which he did, easily, striding towards the throne where Voldemort had suddenly gone wide-eyed and rigid.

"I'm glad you feel that way," Harry said as he batted aside a curse that hurtled towards his head, then another, and another, fast and thick and arrowing dead at him until he reached the throne and caught that shrieking, slippery-skinned skull between his hands, the wand a hot point of contact against his chest. He pulled Voldemort's hideous face up to his own, so close their noses almost touched, and gazed deep into maddened, snakelike eyes. "Especially now that *you have no magic*."

He didn't know what he expected--an explosion, maybe, a flash of light and a dull rumble, but there was nothing--only the head between his hands, still shrieking, but the sound was weak and hoarse now that it came from an ancient, and very non-magical throat. Harry let go and backed off, blinking away the red colour that had flooded in everywhere once the green had disappeared.

Voldemort stopped screaming and sagged in his chair--but it was hard to think of him as 'Voldemort' now, now that he was just an old man, dwindled and shrunken in too-large robes, gnarled hands and a lined, wrinkled face, a few grey hairs straggling down from his bald scalp. Harry stared at him in silence, watching carefully as the horror sank in, watched him stare at his knobby hands in disbelief, turning them back and forth while his old, cracked mouth panted for air.

When the man finally looked up at him, Harry smiled. An indulgent smile.

And when he bolted, Harry let him go.

***

Apparently the cavern wasn't soundproof--mere moments after Voldemort had fled from the room, Harry heard a babble of voices coming from both directions, and not too long after that he was entirely surrounded, standing in the center of a lethal circle with Death Eaters all around, an army of wands pointed right at him. He stood up as tall as he could, and turned slowly about, gazing up into each dark cowl.

"Your Lord is no more," he said calmly, and ignored the mutter that went through the assembly. "If you want him, look for an old man who ran out of here a few minutes ago--a Muggle." He heard someone behind him growl, and he whirled in that direction. "I'm giving you a chance," he said, letting his sincerity come through in his voice, scanning one unseen face after another. "Don't you understand? You can go--you can all go. You're done here. I don't--" he broke off, swallowing. "I don't want to kill you--even now, I don't. But..." he took a breath, and felt a tremor run through him, and then he couldn't stop shaking. "But I will if I have to."

The first thing he heard sounded like sobbing, and for a split second he thought it was over, but then he recognized it for what it was: low, dark laughter, incredulous and full of contempt. Then everything happened very, very fast.

Harry blocked the first curse that came at him, but when that was followed up by nine or ten that came from all around him he had to deflect them instead, and then there were people falling, staggering, and screaming everywhere, and still there were more clambering over those who had fallen, more curses and yet more, and it flashed through his mind that he should simply combust every wand in the place--but that would take concentration, more than he had to spare at the moment.

Some of the curses got through despite his defenses, and they didn't really hurt but at some point he realised that he was bleeding from his nose and mouth, and the rage in him felt like it might bring the whole place down on their heads. For a moment he thought that was what was happening, but when the far wall crashed in it proved to be because of a mountain troll who had smashed it to rubble, clearing the way for the squealing, howling army that then rushed towards him in an endless and unstoppable wave.

Harry had his hands in the earth again--it felt like that, that powerful and that *huge*, but now it was death pouring through him instead of life, and in his mind he saw the hollow his hands left filling with blood, welling with it, a trickle, a stream, a river, an ocean.

Harry went under without a murmur, moving with the pull of the tide.

***

Hands on him. Hands all over him, and panic--a wild zoo smell, nauseating in the too-hot, coppery darkness. Harry tried to breathe, and wondered where all the air had gone.

"Are we out? Can we get out yet?" the girl, the little one, the first one he'd freed after the apocalypse, had attached herself to his leg and had refused to let go. He put his hand down and touched the tight, braided rows on her scalp, then remembered what his hands had done and pulled back.

"Soon, I hope," he said, and his voice sounded cracked and crazed and desperate, and it seemed a wonder that any of them had followed him anywhere, but so they had--they followed him, and they all wanted to touch him, seemed to need to touch him, and it was going to drive him mad. Madder.

He blinked, and in the moment his eyes were closed he realised he'd seen a flash--a spark, from somewhere up ahead, so dim he hadn't known he'd seen it until he blinked. "I see something," he said, and all around him there was a chorus of panicked voices, and the crowd pushed in against him until he gasped. "It's all right--you're safe. You're all safe. Stay here."

Moaning. Crying. Some growling--some of them had gone insane, he knew, and he really couldn't blame them. He took a step forward, and the crowd let him go, all but the little hands that clutched what was left of his robes at his hip. "I'm going too," she said.

Rae, he remembered; he'd asked 'Ray?' and she'd spelled it for him: R-A-E. She wasn't insane. Her beautiful little face had been scared and dirty, but entirely sane, when he'd found her. It was the first thing he remembered seeing after the tide vomited him up, and it was the one thing that got through to him--he wasn't done yet, there was still more to do. "Rae," he said quietly, and then realised he didn't have the words to fight her. "All right," he said, "but just in case, I want you to be ready to run."

He could feel her trembling as they moved ahead, stepping slowly through the dark with rubble sliding away underfoot. When it got steep he picked her up, and when she rested her head on his shoulder he had to struggle not to put her down again, not to push her as far away from him as possible. He reminded himself that she was a child, that she didn't really know what a monstrosity was, and kept moving towards the spark.

The spark got broader and more diffuse as he moved towards it, and before too long he could see that it was light, what looked like it might be actual daylight falling through a chink from above. He took a deep breath, and turned to the side so Rae could see it. "It's light," he said, and heard the greed in his own voice but he couldn't help it, "I think it might be the way out. Now put your head down--I've got to move some rocks."

She put her head down, and Harry cast a quick protection ward over her and the crowd he'd left further back in the tunnel before he started picking at the spot, widening it, crumbling it open a bit at a time and as the light flooded in he was blinded, utterly blinded after so long in the dark, and he let his eyes water and stream gladly, and he kept widening the hole until he heard something from up above, a panicked murmur of voices that stopped him cold.

"For goodness' sake, man--don't get any closer to it! The whole bloody floor's caving in--"

"I'm telling you, I *heard* something down there. I heard somebody--"

"Well it can't be anybody we want to see, crawling up out of the earth like that, can it? Now draw your wand and get back--"

"Hullo," Harry called, his heart skipping crazily. "Hullo, up there!"

Silence from above. Then, whispers he couldn't make out. Then what sounded like a whispered argument. And finally, a stern, uncompromising voice called down to him: "Whomever you are, you should know that you are trespassing on... er, underneath the property of the Ministry of Magic, and that you will be neutralized immediately if you don't identify yourself at once."

Before Harry could even open his mouth, the other voice from above cut in. "Oh, brilliant--that was brilliant, Merriweather. Very frightening. If it's bloody You-Know-Who, I'm sure he'll be shaking in his boots by now--"

"I'm not!" Harry cried, his arms so tight around Rae that she squeaked a bit, and he loosened his hold. "It's--I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"He says he's Harry Potter--"

"Did he say *Harry Potter*?"

"Yes!" Harry called, and staggered a little. "And I've got some people with me--some of them are hurt, we need help--"

A round, neat face peered over the edge of the hole. "Merlin's beard," the man said, and the face disappeared. "I think it *is* Harry Potter--but he's all over blood. And he's got a little girl."

The little girl pressed her cheek against his, and Harry sank to his knees, his eyes closed, breathing in great, snuffling gasps. He stayed like that for a long while, ignoring the noise and the dust, ignoring the crowd around him as the others came forward and moved towards the light, their hands brushing against him as they passed.

***

"Harry Potter," Rae whispered in his ear as her arms slowly unwound from his neck. "Can I come back and see you, after?"

Harry touched her soft brown cheek with one finger. "Of course," he said, and handed her over to the tall, slender Witch from the Memory Modification unit. Then he turned away, and walked until somebody stopped him.

***

They let him shower before they interrogated him, and he supposed he should be grateful for that. They offered him food as well, but he refused; at the point of exhaustion he'd reached, eating anything would undoubtedly put him to sleep, and he had a sinking feeling that he might very well need all his wits about him. He sat, clean and wearing borrowed robes and trying very hard not to shake, in a chair that was almost too comfortable for his own good, in a well-lit room full of people he didn't know.

"So what you're telling us is that You-Know-Who has... an army of Death Eaters."

Harry looked up into the solid, florid face above him--Roger Perkins, Ministry Security Chief, Third Watch (that was how the man had introduced himself, and it was certainly the way he conducted himself)--and sighed. "Not all Death Eaters, no. There were... a lot of Death Eaters; a lot more than there used to be, but there were others besides. Vampires. Trolls. Ogres. And some other... things."

Perkins gazed down at him disapprovingly, hands folded neatly behind his back. "And you maintain that this army is housed in an underground city, which happens to be located directly beneath the Ministry of Magic?"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't know what it was under until we came up."

Perkins stepped away for a moment to confer with the small cadre of official-looking men who sat in chairs at the other side of the room, whose main purpose seemed to be to stare at Harry, and to wave Perkins over every time they had a question. When the Security Chief turned back to him, Harry caught a glint in his eye that hadn't been there before. "And you would like us to believe that you, personally, by yourself, killed them all?"

Harry cringed--it wasn't a good time for cringing, but he couldn't seem to help it. "I don't... I don't know if they're all dead. I just fought them until there was nobody left to fight. I wasn't trying to, to exterminate them." His nails dug into his palms as he spoke.

"How about You-Know-Who?" Perkins asked him, almost softly. "Did you fight him too?"

"I didn't have to fight him," Harry said dully. "I just took his magic away. He wasn't much of a threat after that."

Roger Perkins took a very small step backwards, and stared at him as if he'd just sprouted another head. "You... did *what*?"

Harry was spared from having to answer by a soft rap at the door. Perkins turned and went to it, admitting a much younger Wizard with tousled, dusty hair, who spoke quickly but too softly for Harry to hear, his hands moving rapidly through the air. Perkins and the others asked several questions which were also too quiet for Harry to hear, and finally dismissed him--but before the young man ducked out of the room he peered over Perkins' shoulder at Harry, and gave him a wink and a grin. It was just a gesture, and he didn't understand it, but Harry found that it lifted his spirits just a bit anyway.

"Well now," Perkins said as he turned to him again, "it seems our boys down there found it quite a sight--absolutely monstrous, really; right under the Ministry itself--" that last was a shocked murmur, but Harry managed to catch it. "But I should tell you, if you thought you'd gotten all of them, it looks like you were wrong--our lads found some alive; some Death Eaters and some... some others, and unfortunately they gave us the slip before we could take them in properly."

Harry honestly didn't know whether or not he was relieved. He said nothing.

Perkins appeared to be thinking things over. "I'll tell you what troubles me," he said finally, as if Harry had asked. "We've gotten some very strange reports about you, and nobody seems to really know anything about it except Albus Dumbledore, and we all know that he's a cagey one at the best of times--he tells us only what he wants us to know." He looked to Harry as if for confirmation, but Harry said nothing. Maybe they'd put him down as a 'cagey one' too.

"So," Perkins continued, striding up and down in front of Harry as he spoke, "here we have the Dark Lord setting himself up with an army, and nobody seems to know a thing about it but you, and you come up through the floor of the Ministry with a group of tortured Muggles and expect us to believe that you saved them all and killed nine-tenths of everybody else and turned You-Know-Who into a Muggle to boot--it's preposterous. Simply preposterous. And what I want to know is--" here Perkins turned towards him and leaned in, his face flushed and angry. "What aren't you telling us?"

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Perkins said softly, squatting down so that he and Harry were at a level, "we need to know all about it--how long it's been going on, why you never told anyone, and what finally happened that made you... do what you did. I mean," he repeated, and his brows drew together forbiddingly, "what about you and You-Know-Who? Very convenient, isn't it, that there's no trace of him--of course, your story covers that quite nicely--"

"You think..." Harry could barely form words through the shock and dismay that was roiling in his stomach. "You think *I* did this? That Voldemort and I were in it *together*? You think that I would, that I..." He was babbling, and he made himself stop, but whatever showed in his eyes, it made Perkins take a hasty step back.

"Mr. Perkins," one of the men from the other end of the room said quietly, and Perkins turned and went. There was another whispered conference, and Perkins seemed to get more and more agitated as it went on. Finally he threw up his hands and broke from the circle, then left the room with one last angry glare in Harry's direction.

An older Wizard, short and rather stout, with a long, grey beard that reached nearly down to the belt of his robes, stepped forward. "Mr. Potter," he said in a voice that was dignified yet soft, "please; you'll have to forgive Mr. Perkins--he's a rather hot-headed young man, at times." He smiled at Harry as if they had shared a secret, and then drew his wand and levitated his chair across the room so that it sat opposite Harry's. When he sat down, Harry could see that his brown eyes were kind, although they were set so deep in his face that little more than a twinkle showed.

"I had nothing to do with it," Harry blurted before he could stop himself, and then pressed his lips together hard.

The man leaned forward and patted his hand. "I believe you," he said earnestly, "have no fear on that score. My name is Thribble, Fitzwilliam Thribble, and I am the Minister of Internal Magical Relations--not that that means anything to you, I'm sure; it's basically a lot of words to fancy up the fact that I try to make sure people get on together." The man offered him another one of those sharing-a-secret smiles.

"Pleased to meet you," Harry said numbly, feeling vaguely ridiculous and still quite sick to his stomach.

"As I am you, Mr. Potter. It is indeed a privilege to make your acquaintance. You seem to be quite an exceptional young man."

Harry pressed his lips together again, and said nothing.

"What I hope you can understand," Thribble said gently, "is that while Mr. Perkins was perhaps overzealous in his approach, there are certain matters which are of concern; to me, to the Ministry, and to the public which we serve."

"What matters?" Harry asked, squeezing the arms of his chair until he made himself stop.

Thribble cleared his throat. "Well, to begin with, it's quite true that since the public revelation of your... abilities, no-one except Albus Dumbledore has been able to see you, speak with you--we've only had his word to go on as to where your... sympathies might lie."

Harry swallowed. "And that's a problem?"

Thribble smiled kindly. "Well, if it was one, it is no longer. You're here now. You see, Mr. Potter, it's only natural that people--in the Ministry or out of it--will fear something, *someone*, who is as powerful as you are reputed to be, if we can't talk to you, if we have no real idea of what you're up to. The Wizarding world at large turns to us, the Ministry; they turn to us and trust us to keep things as safe as possible for the public--it's one of our many responsibilities. It is *not* one of Albus Dumbledore's responsibilities, which are concerned directly with the operation of Hogwarts School."

Harry shifted in his chair, and waited.

"There is also," Thribble said gravely, "the matter of your known history with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. It is understood that you are adversaries, yes; that you have been since practically the moment of your birth, but not much is *known* about it--it's mostly speculation, and speculation can be a wild and dangerous thing, especially when combined with the very real danger posed by your immense power--your respective powers, I should say." He leaned back in his chair, and regarded Harry solemnly. "If you were to somehow form an... an alliance, together you would be utterly unstoppable, and our doom inevitable."

Harry buried his head in his hands. "I *haven't*," he said, and it was almost a moan. "If you only knew how completely ridiculous that is--"

"I told you before, Mr. Potter--I believe you. Please don't distress yourself. All I am trying to convey to you is the uncertainty that we, and the general public, have been living under--and that's all over now. You have nothing to fear."

Harry lifted his head slowly. That last statement almost made him laugh, although he thought if he did he might start crying before he was done. "Nothing to fear," he said quietly, shaking his head.

"Not from us," Thribble assured him with another pat on the hand. "And not from the public once everything is made clear--all these fears and misunderstandings, why; there's nothing in the world that can be easier to put to rest. We'll make it perfectly clear that you are *not* on the side of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and that you're entirely with us."

"With you," Harry said softly.

Thribble smiled at him. "Yes, with us--that your interests, and the interests of the Ministry, perfectly coincide. That we are working together for the good of the Wizarding world."

Harry sat back in his chair, and gazed tiredly at the man across from him, who was practically beaming goodwill at him from every pore. He glanced over to the other side of the room, and saw that the men there seemed much less stern than they had before, and that they now looked collectively rather judicious, and tentatively approving. Then he closed his eyes.

"I'm young," he said quietly, after an endless silence, "but that doesn't mean I'm stupid."

He opened his eyes. Thribble looked astonished. "Mr. Potter, what on earth are you--"

"I have to go," he interrupted, and all at once the men on the other side of the room got to their feet. So did he. So did Thribble, and Harry felt a soft touch on his arm.

"Mr. Potter, please; there's no need for this--"

"I'm sorry," Harry said, and took his arm back. "I'm sorry that you've all been afraid, but I need to go now--"

"Mr. Potter!" Thribble said sternly, his voice deep and authoritative. "You cannot go--not just yet." He blinked, and then his voice softened a little. "I apologise if we've... gotten off on the wrong foot with you, but there are many things we need to discuss. Let us start again, shall we?" Harry took a step to the side, and Thribble frowned at him. "There are anti-appparition wards set on this room, Mr. Potter. Don't waste your energy."

"I don't actually know how to Apparate," Harry said quietly. He looked around long enough to see the relief on their faces. "I just vanish."

And he did.

***

His first thought was that he'd made a mistake.

It was dark, he was exhausted, it seemed understandable that he could make a mistake--that he might send himself back down the hole when he'd meant to go to the cabin.

Harry blinked, and slowly the cabin interior filled in around him, leaking slowly into the corners of his vision. He hadn't made a mistake.

It was just the blood that made him think that.

It hit him all at once, an entire thunderous shock to his system that sent him to his knees, unable to breathe, uncertain as to whether he ever would again. Snape lay where Harry had left him, in the center of the bed. The crumpled, tangled sheets were dark maroon now with the blood that had soaked into them, because Snape's throat had been cut from ear to ear. Harry's hands crawled towards him of their own accord, and touched him, and he was cold, and sticky, and stiff, and very, very dead.

Harry jerked his hands away, and as he pulled back something crackled, a slip of parchment in his hand. It was smeared with blood, nearly invisible against the sheets. He spread it out carefully, as delicately as if it were living tissue, and stared at it for a very long time before the words made any sense at all.

_It seems that dear Severus forgot the cardinal rule about what happens when you gaze into the abyss. It's really not like him to be so sloppy, but perhaps this carelessness can be put down as a direct result of being brain-addled from fucking you--I understand that these mid-life crises can be very difficult, and so I'm happy to give him the benefit of the doubt in this instance.

As for my own difficulties, they are entirely temporary, I assure you--but I think you'll find that Severus' are quite permanent. Even given his surprising lack of circumspection in recent days, due to my present limitations I had little hope in coming here. Imagine my delight when I found how easy you'd made it for me!

Not that you should blame yourself, young Potter; you were only trying to keep him safe. I'm sure that thought will be a great consolation to you in all the days that follow.

Until we meet again--

V._

Even as he read the last word the parchment burst into flame, and Harry didn't realise that he'd done it himself until the earth shook under his feet, and then there was dust and splinters and great chunks of wood raining down as the shaking grew, deeper and louder. Harry tossed the flaming parchment aside and crawled up onto the bed hand over hand, uttering choked, horrified cries as he wrapped himself tight around Snape's cold, rigid body. He curled up into the bloody nest of sheets and waited for the earth to swallow up everything.

***

He had moments of awareness; only a few, but each one cut through the fog like a knife:

~~~~~

When the shaking stopped, when the earth didn't take him back, Harry sat up, dust and rubble sliding off him, and stared down at Snape's clouded eyes and blood-smeared teeth as if he were searching for something--but there was nothing there.

His mind had outstripped him once again, and his heart gave a great lurch in his chest before it went speeding away, and maybe the earth wasn't shaking any more, but *he* was. Oh yes.

~~~~~

Snape, heavy in his arms. Terribly heavy. A huge, twisted knot of pain in his back that he ignored, gasping, cradling Snape's body closer to him as he took one step, then another, making his way through the littered ruin that had been the cabin they shared.

~~~~~

Snape's face, now clear of dust and blood where Harry had wiped it clean with a dew-moistened corner of his borrowed robes, peaceful and at rest against the grass of the clearing. His brow, fair and translucent under the slowly lightening sky, cold under Harry's lips.

~~~~~

There were no more tears in him. He wanted--needed--to cry, everything in him demanded it; but it was like hitting a dead circuit, tapping a dry well. He sat down, took Snape's stiff, icy hand in his own, kept his dry, burning eyes fixed on Snape's very lovely and very dead face, and waited.

~~~~~

Harry, shaking again, staring into eyes like holes punched through the fabric of things, a dizzy, vacant blackness that mirrored his own inner landscape.

"I warned you. I told you. You didn't listen to me."

"I'm listening now. Do it."

"Very well. One for one, and bargain's done. Good day, Mr. Potter."

~~~~~

The first light of dawn shone over the edge of the trees, the cold fingers clutched in his hand twitched--and Harry found that he had more tears to shed, after all.

***

Snape was not grateful. He seemed, rather, to be most emphatically vexed. Outraged, really. It was that, more than anything else, that persuaded Harry of the essential reality of the man sitting on the grass in front of him.

"Potter," Snape gtrowled, shaking visibly, his eyes dark and hot with anger but no longer haunted, not haunted anymore, thank God. "Of all the stupid, foolish, ignorant, rash, reckless, *idiotic* things you have ever done--no; don't attempt to kiss me! I'm not done scolding you--"

"I imagine you can do both at once," Harry said in a soft voice, and climbed into Snape's lap.

***

They were face-to-face this time, and there was a dreamy slowness to everything that made Harry keep touching everything he could, just to make sure it wouldn't vanish. Harry clung to the grass beneath him, to the man over and around and inside him--anything he could reach--and everything he touched was alive. Warm. Soft. Alive. He breathed Snape's breath, and held Snape's face in his hands, and traced the scar with his thumb. "You're alive," he moaned, not knowing that he'd meant to do so.

"This would be... very disturbing... if I wasn't." Snape growled, and twisted his hips in a way that made Harry gasp.

Every time he tried to touch himself, Snape drew his hands away, finally lacing their fingers together and pulling Harry's arms up high, so high that he could feel the stretch of it in his back, his legs, his toes. Then there was nothing but the delirious, raw, slow thrusting of Snape inside him to keep him anchored, pure and terrifying, nothing to do but turn himself over to it, surrender to it. So he did. Sort of.

"Harder," Harry said at last, breathlessly; two drawn-out syllables that throbbed in time with the rest of him.

"No," Snape answered curtly, and fucked him just a little bit harder. Harry's toes curled.

Sweat pooled and dripped, and the morning sun behind Snape's head created a halo of brilliance, made a rather unconventional angel of him--and Harry might have laughed at that, but he groaned instead because all of a sudden despite the slow pace everything was just *too* good, too hot and wet and deep and sweet and he was going to--

Snape stopped altogether, buried inside hm and rocking--just a little; not enough. Harry made an incoherent sound that didn't quite keep itself from being a whine, but it was snuffed out by a wicked, bruising kiss that made him tremble.

"Not yet," Snape murmured when their mouths broke apart.

"Wh--when?" Harry gasped, arching up.

"Not yet," Snape repeated, and released Harry's hands to push his thighs wider, holding him open and stroking into him, faster now and steady, as if he would never stop. Harry dug his hands into the grass, his fingers threading through the tussocks and into the earth beneath, and it didn't join with him anymore but it held him up as it always had--as it always would. He held on until desperation crept in to destroy what was left of his resolve, until Snape was pounding into him and kissing him deeply and drawing back only to bite the hollow of his neck and growl, and then he *had* to free his muddy, grass-stained fingers to claw at Snape's smooth, slippery back, his arse, as much of him as he could reach--

"Ohh... bloody sadist--you're so--ohh..."

"Come. Now."

"--bloody wonderful... I... oh *God*--"

Snape's arms slid underneath him to grip his shoulders, squeezing hard and dragging him fiercely downwards, then there was a shockingly loud groan in his mouth and he could *feel* Snape coming, a deep and throbbing heat inside that he echoed immediately, spurting out over Snape's warm stomach while the rest of him shuddered with pleasure so overwhelming that he thumped his head hard into the ground over and over until one of Snape's hands left his shoulder and cupped the back of his head, cradling him, lifting him into a kiss that felt like it would go on forever.

And for some part of him, it did.

***

Autumn at last, and from the front steps of Hogwarts he could see that the Forbidden Forest was a riot of dark green, orange and gold. Harry promised silently that he would walk there someday soon, to see for himself the myriad changes wrought by the seasons--regardless of whether or not Dumbledore thought it was safe. He might not be all-powerful any longer, but he'd certainly learned a thing or two about power and what it could (and couldn't) do. He'd be safe enough.

He heard a quiet sound from behind him, and turned to see Snape, sweeping grandly down the steps and frowning off into the distance; most likely a reaction to the impending arrival of the students, who were due at any moment. Of course, it was entirely possible that Snape always frowned thunderously throughout the entire first day of school. Harry wouldn't be surprised.

"Regretting the loss of your curse already?" Harry asked, then hunched into himself a little when Snape reached out a hand and idly shook the back of his neck.

"Idiot," Snape said mildly, and let him go. Harry's neck felt cold when Snape's hand fell away.

They stood side by side, gazing out into the distance. Harry had a momentary wish that he could have Snape's arm around him, and he sighed. He anticipated having lots of moments like that from now on. "So," he said quietly as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, glad that his blush would be hidden in the fading light, "when can I see you?"

"If you turn your head a few degrees to the left," Snape replied dryly, "more or less immediately."

"Git," Harry mumbled. "You know what I mean." He shuffled his feet a little on the gritty steps. "I don't suppose that Dumbledore will turn a blind eye to... anything."

A soft snort. "Actually, Albus seems to be rather preoccupied these days. Between his elation at what you did before sacrificing your Gift, and his utter despondency that you chose to sacrifice it at all, it seems likely that right now he wouldn't notice if you had the entire Quidditch team on the floor of the Great Hall."

Harry raised one eyebrow. He wasn't very good at it yet, but he was determined. "D'you think I should? It may be my one chance."

Snape's fingers grazed his spine through his robes, the lightest, most fleeting touch, there and then gone. Harry shivered. "You may come to my room tonight," Snape said, his voice barely more than a low murmur. "After lights out. If you are caught in the halls, please draw upon your considerable history of misconduct for a suitable excuse. Not that anyone will believe you."

A low rumble brought both their heads up, and over the hill came the first of the carriages, drawn by creatures which would never be invisible to either of them again. "I must go," Snape said grimly, looking very much like someone had squeezed a lemon into his glass of whiskey, and without another word he turned and strode purposefully back to the castle, leaving Harry standing alone on the steps with his stomach in knots and his spine still tingling.

Harry watched the carriages approach, rocking a bit on his toes and wondering how it would be. He'd never felt farther away from the boy he'd been at the end of last term, and he really didn't know how in the world he was supposed to bridge that distance now, after everything he'd been through. A chill wind plucked at his robes and tossed his hair back from his brow, and there was a low, mournful sound to it that made him shiver, his hands fisted tight in his pockets and his shoulders hunched in.

Each of the approaching carriages was aglow with lanterns, and with the spectral creatures that drew them they looked unearthly, almost ghostly in the near-darkness. But the ethereal quality was entirely banished when they pulled up to the castle and began pouring out students, and there was a sudden, swelling din of crashing luggage, excited voices and laughter. Harry spotted Hermione and Ron tumbling out of the third carriage, waving madly at him and smiling, and making their way towards him as quickly as possible given the truly spectacular amount of luggage they were burdened with. Even in the dim light cast by the lanterns Harry could see that they were both brown as berries, that they looked very happy, and that they had both grown a great deal taller. Much taller than him. Especially Ron.

He went to meet them, walking forward on feet that had gone somewhat numb. He hadn't taken more than three steps before the flutter in his stomach settled, and he realised that he was, quite eagerly and earnestly, smiling back.

~The End~

III. Experiments

1. Choriambics-I

Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring

Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring;

Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons, and good friends call,

Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the best of all,

Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give!...

Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine,

I that have yet to live?

Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you,

Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue;

I'll forget and be glad!

Only at length, dear, when the great day ends,

When love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung, and friends

All are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven: then, as alone I lie,

'Mid Death's gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I

Feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow; then may

I hear the peace

Of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease

In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and know, a space,

Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old, your face.

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915). Collected Poems. 1916.

***

Author's Endnote: the divine Bone took pity on me in my quest for a title for this monster (which was, at that point, simply known as 'the monster'), and sent me the poem above, which not only resolved my difficulties as to the title, but also helped me with my little oh-my-god-I'm-writing-plot-I'm-so-screwed-what-the-hell-do-I-do-now problem. I am, as always, deeply indebted to her for her loan of sanity.

Please Send Feedback

Return To Fic Index