sexing the pumpkin: 1

A warm welcome to the 5 people who will read this!

Sexing the Pumpkin: a love story (SS/SB, porny, long)
I've written something very….queer. Stealth!Snape* is the love child of femmenerd and myself. I really wanted Snape to get with a girl here. But he doesn't, he ends up with the next best thing, Sirius Black. I'm completely in love with this Snape and would happily write him in like a million other scenarios, but this is the one that happened. This could be considered slash, but it's not easily categorized. I would call it not-magical genderbending; I would shy away from reading this story as a representation of trans identity or as edifying in any way where such issues are concerned. Let's see…within you will find voyeurism, various explicit sexual encounters (some of the earlier of which are tinged with dubcon), character death that you already knew was coming & related angst, DH spoilers (sort of), drugs, alcohol, some very disgusting though only occasionally explicit moments involving bodily fluids of all varieties…and more! I guess this is somewhere within OotP, though I doubt I conform to anything remotely logical re timelines, etc. Sirius found his dating quiz on Cosmopolitan.com. Happy Christmas, darling femmenerd!
Disclaimer: Of course this didn't happen & they don't belong to me. Apologies all around…but…you know, I want to apologize to Jeannette Winterson waaaay more than I want to apologize to JKR & friends.

*If you don't know what stealth!Snape means, you'll find out well before anything naughty happens (at about 1500 words, to be precise). So feel free to exit the story at that point. I wouldn't want you reading something you don't want to read.

Sirius Black loved women. He loved women so much that instead of plotting new spy missions for Padfoot, he was salivating over something Hermione called "lonely hearts ads." That he could only leave Grimmauld Place in dog form, and that he hadn't left at all in over three weeks, did not deter him from imagining a pleasant evening with PINKPRINCESS1972, who enjoyed yoga, cinema, and had a secondary degree, but was unsure if she wanted children in the future. LALALAILA also sounded promising, with her slim build, love of dogs, and full time employment in the health care sector. The section called "Casual Encounters" was also good reading, with an evocative ad from LEATHRSLUT requesting a top daddy with a well-stocked toy chest. Did that mean sex toys or a big prick? Equally appealing was PRETTYFEET, who offered an evening of worshipping her exquisite feet, with the possibility of a foot job. Sirius had the impression Hermione had left this section of newspaper on purpose. She also left a pile of muggle magazines, most of which were targeted at young women interested in celebrities and fashion. Desperation must be leaking from his pores—she'd probably noticed the raw, hungry look in his eye, like he might have some kind of fit if he couldn't bury his nose in a willing woman's sweet-smelling hair. Even hair on the head, that would be fine. He was about to shove off to bed, possibly with the goal of wanking to one of the many scenarios presented by Hermione's lonely hearts ads, when the floo sputtered to life.

He stashed the newspaper behind his chair and watched with some interest as a Death Eater tumbled onto the rug in front of the fire. Had to be Snape, but he drew his wand anyway. He heard a muffled groan.

"Snivellus?" he asked, kneeling beside him and taking his mask off. "What brings you back here?" He looked to be in a world of hurt, his face twisted up like he'd been sucking on a lemon. His hands were shaking as he pointed to the sideboard, which was home to his "man purse" as Ginny called it.

"Oh, you left your bag. Here, I'll fetch it then I'll floo back to Hogwarts with you, yeah?"

Snape nodded, letting his head drop to the carpet. He was out of breath, tremors wracked his body, and he'd sweated through his clothes. Sirius knew exactly what was wrong with him—an overdose of cruciatus. His bag must contain potions that would help.

As he was sorting through the bottles, he recognized an impending Cruciatus Colonic, as he'd dubbed it in Azkaban. He backed away, wincing as every orifice in Snape's body discharged something foul and disgusting. It was bad enough to vomit, piss, and shit all at the same time, but the curse even made said discharge a putrid grey color with a stench to match.

Snape was silent as Sirius banished the muck from the carpet. "Snape, I'm keeping you the night, but I don't know my arse from my elbow with these potions, so I'm going to firecall Pomfrey, all right? Just give me a minute and I'll take you upstairs." He left his hand on Snape's quivering stomach as he leaned into the fire and started reading Pomfrey the labels. That was what had been most difficult about Azkaban, the lack of human touch. He'd been in Snape's exact situation more often than he could recall, and nobody had ever taken care of him. He'd fermented in his own shit, and six months later, he still felt residually dirty, as if it had wormed its way into every pore of his body, his eyes, his ears, everywhere.

"Right then, Sniv. I've got something to help prevent the colonic, but that already happened, so we'll leave that in the bag. And I've got something for the tremors, here you go, drink up." Sirius stroked his slender throat, surprised at how soft and smooth his skin was. Not a trace of stubble. Maybe he was one of those obsessive wizards who cast shaving charms every five minutes. His dad had been like that.

"You feel like walking or shall I levitate you?" he looked at Snape's slack, unconscious face and decided he didn't feel like walking. "So that's my parents' room over there. And this one is mine. I'll let you sleep here, since I haven't checked up on the sheets in the other one. Let's get your shoes off. And your trousers, there you go. Not sure if the banishment worked on your clothes. Looks like it didn't." Sirius wrinkled his nose, holding the offending trousers at arm's length. He tried a couple cleaning charms, but they still smelled bad. Best leave those for Kreacher. He wrestled Snape out of that ridiculous waistcoat with hundreds of buttons, adding it to the pile. "Never thought we'd get this far in our relationship, Sniv, but it's time to take your pants off." Sirius yanked them down, shutting his eyes. Snape's bits were really the last thing he wanted to see. Snape immediately curled up in a ball and hugged his knees, letting out a little sobbing moan as Sirius covered him up with quilts after casting a few sanitizing spells in the general vicinity of his bum.

Snape had gorgeous legs. Sirius froze. What? No, it was true. He peeled back the covers for a second look. Yes, gorgeous, long, thin, but not scrawny or knobby kneed, hardly any hair, just a smattering around his calves, and his bum wasn't so bad to look at either. Right, that's enough of perving over Snape's bum, Sirius thought, firmly tucking him in and tilting his head up so he could tip a dose of Dreamless Sleep down his throat. "Goodnight, Snaples," he whispered, patting his shoulder and shuffling off to the master bedroom. The cobwebs and gloom in that room depressed him, but Molly might have improved its general demeanor when she stayed there last week. He found that she had—it was sparkling clean, and he could tell that the reading lamp had been somehow enhanced—it gave out a warm friendly glow.

Sirius didn't think twice about having a nice long wank. Snape couldn't possibly hear, and this had been on the agenda before he interrupted his lonely hearts adventure. He tried to recapture the best bits from LEATHRSLUT and PRETTYFEET, but those long pale legs kept intruding on his wank fodder until he gave in and imagined fondling that pert little bum. He could still feel the soft skin of Snape's throat against his fingertips; in his mind, Snape's features softened a bit, and he acquired curves he didn't have, lustrous black tresses, and pouty lips.

Sirius was very good at ignoring issues that made him uncomfortable, so his Snape-as-a-girl fantasy didn't stop him from immediately rolling over and falling asleep, as free of dreams as his unconscious guest.



Severus awoke to a strange smell, which he eventually recognized as Not Dank. He was used to the dungeons and the damp, smelly things that grew on the walls, the moisture than seeped into everything, and the soft breath of decay that pervaded the place. He sniffed again, and detected both Not Dank and Coffee and possibly Bacon. His mouth watered, and he opened his eyes, looking around and determining in short order that he was bare from the waist down, and he was in Sirius Black's bed in Grimmauld place. He sat up, his heart pounding, and peered under the blankets to confirm that he was wearing his sweat-soaked shirt, now dry, stiff, and rank, and absolutely nothing else.

He could remember leaving the Death Eater gathering, which should have been subtitled Your Chance to Cast Unforgivables at Your Incompetent Spy, and he remembered Sirius drawing his wand before taking his mask off. He could also vaguely recall that feeling one gets before one sicks up, only loads worse, because he knew he'd done much more than sick up. Black had apparently taken him in, given him the potion for tremors, and probably Dreamless Sleep. And undressed him.

Severus buried his face in his hands, fear coiling in his belly like a cold, heavy snake making itself still before striking. He should have known he couldn't get away with this for so long. He should have disappeared years ago, taken off, moved to Paris or San Francisco or whatever loony place would tolerate someone as deviant and utterly wrong as he was. Dumbledore knew. He wandered into Hogwarts dressed in a boy's trousers and robes, and the old wizard corrected the list of names when he presented himself for sorting, saying, "I must have read that incorrectly, Severus." Snape didn't answer to Serena after that, even forcing his parents to use his new name. They'd long ceased forcing him to plait his hair and wear skirts—his mother said he would rage and howl and throw fits when faced with a dress. His father, after beating him within an inch of his life several times, at last wised up to the benefits of having a son instead of a daughter, and had mostly left him alone.

Now, in one uncharacteristic bout of helpfulness, Sirius Black had shot his whole plan to hell. He'd carried it off to levels he couldn't have imagined as a genderfucked first year, and had succeeded, he thought, even managing sexual intimacy on several nerve-wracking occasions. He tried to sleep with girls at first, but found them too generous, unwilling to let him please them without pleasing him as well. Men, especially Death Eater closet queers, were happy to receive without reciprocating. He'd suck them off, or let them fuck his arse, batting their hands away when they fumbled around searching for his cock. He hadn't even had to obliviate anyone. He collapsed face first into the bedding: he couldn't obliviate Black. It had been too long. Black might have formed memories he ought to retain.

Well, nothing to be done. Might as well face the music. He found his clothes and a clean shirt folded at the foot of the bed. And a pair of pants that had to be Black's, being patterned with red and yellow checkers. They were silky, the sort of pants he never wore: loose, soft, luxurious. They settled between his skin and his trousers like tiny soothing fingers, caressing him, making him involuntarily lapse into that unwelcome manifestation of his desire: moisture, warmth, swelling, a longing to be touched, filled, completed. Nobody had ever touched him there; he didn't even touch himself, although he had pushed against convenient surfaces while dragon-breathed Death Eaters fucked him from behind. He stood by the door, arranging his lanky hair to better conceal his delicate neck and ears, then opened it, letting his robes billow around him with as much menace as he could muster. Yes, he did smell Bacon. And Coffee. And that sweet, lovely Not Dank.

"Black," he growled, helping himself to coffee. Sirius blinked at him, his eyes sleepy and slow.

"Snape. There's bacon. And muffins in just a minute."

"I trust that I can rely on your discretion."

Sirius looked blank.

"Your discretion, Black, it means that you won't tell everyone who crosses your path what you now…know about me."

"I know what it means. I did have to firecall Pomfrey, because I didn't know what potions to give you, but she's the only one who knows you were here. And that you sicked up. If that's what you're referring to."

Snape sighed, shutting his eyes. "I don't care if Pomfrey knows I—" he stopped, looking at Sirius and suddenly realizing that he had no idea. Perhaps he'd been undressed with a spell, or in the dark, or by the house elf.

"Thank you, Black."

"Paranoid git," Sirius muttered, dishing out bacon and shoving it across the table.

They ate in silence, Snape basking in a deep, embodied sense of relief.

"Listen, Sniv," Black took his plate, still talking as he dumped it in the sink. "I know what you're going through. I used to call it the Cruciatus Colonic. Happened to me all the time." There was no need for him to still be standing at the sink, his back to Snape, but he remained there, fussing with the spice rack. "What I mean to say is, you can come back here, if you need to. Just explain the potions or write a note or something." Sirius turned around, crossing his arms and looking at his feet, which were wrapped in fuzzy purple slippers, his skeletal ankles bare below the hem of his tatty bathrobe.

"Thank you."

"I mean, I'm probably the only person in the Order who knows what it's like," Sirius continued, as if Snape hadn't already accepted his offer.

"Thank you," Snape said again, and meant it. And thank you for not discovering the aberration between my legs, he added silently.

"Right then. Suppose you have to get back to Hogwarts."

"I'll return your shirt next week at the meeting."

"Nah, no worries, it's my dad's." Sirius shrugged, trailing behind Snape as he found his way back to the parlor. "And you can keep the pants. I never wear them."

"You're too kind." Snape gave a stiff little bow, smirked, and stepped into the fireplace.



Sirius continued puttering around the kitchen, fixing a cup of tea after he drank the last of the coffee. Why had he said that last bit about not wearing pants? Snape surely didn't need to know that. But more importantly, what had the greasy git been so nervous about? And why did he look so grateful? What had Sirius done, really? What any human being would do. Admittedly, he wouldn't have done it when they were fifteen, but he'd matured a bit, lost a third of his life to a sadistic prison environment, and considered himself both mellower and more compassionate for it. He fingered the oregano jar in the spice rack; his need to keep his hands busy while extending himself to Snivellus had reminded him of the delicious lump of marijuana the twins had left behind. Everyone was entirely too kind to him, leaving him pot and lonely-hearts ads. Harry, bless him, had hooked up a muggle telly in the library, so he spent most mornings catching up on soaps, wondering who would return from the dead or become pregnant that day. All the same, he was itching to get out. Anywhere but number twelve.

He came up with one or two reconnaissance missions for Padfoot while savoring a joint and Hollyoaks. His first idea was to sniff around the Malfoy place, which Severus knew was being used as an ad hoc prison facility. Or more precisely, the stables were being used as such. And maybe he could spy on the spy, figure out exactly who dished out the unforgivables and what Snape did to provoke it. He'd have to either get into the meeting place or watch through a window. Or maybe he could use some of those extendable ears. He sighed, feeling that heavy pull against planning and rational thought that always asserted itself while stoned. He stared at the ceiling during a mouthwash commercial, wondering if he should bother getting dressed.



To his immense shock, Snape started coming around on what Sirius could only call social visits. First he returned his father's shirt, sparkling white and freshly pressed, with the pants tucked tastefully inside. They sat around drinking, mostly in silence, but for some reason Snape seemed very relaxed in his company, and would occasionally ask him something about his own experiences with the Cruciatus Colonic or about his errands as Padfoot.

The second time he saw Snape, it was after an Order meeting. He hung about, twiddling his thumbs and looking at dusty paintings until Sirius noticed he was still there and asked him if he wanted a drink.

The third time, he was a bit worse for wear after a Death Eater soiree, but it was nothing like before. He arrived, drank, and left under his own power, but he didn't reject Sirius' strange impulse to give him a hug. He'd been stiff as a rail, but softened up just a bit when Sirius rubbed his back.

"What's this, you're injured?"

Snape looked confused.

"You've got a bandage round you."

Snape pulled away, but naturally, not letting his panic fluster him. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Well, you should have Pomfrey look you over. Unless you want me to, I'm pants at Potions but I can cast a mean healing spell—"

"No, thank you. Goodnight, Black." And then he was gone, stepping into the fire without looking back.

I cocked that right up, Sirius thought, yawning and propelling himself upstairs. He checked both front windows to make sure that extremely hot young muggle girl was not disrobing and/or diddling herself. If only she could see number twelve! He'd have waved at her ages ago. He imagined she would wave back, maybe blow him a kiss, and they could progress to mutual exhibitionist displays before visiting in person, getting married, and having children. But she wasn't there.

Why had Snape left in such a snit? He bloody well did have a serious bandage under there. Sirius wouldn't have felt it through his usual layers of black wool, but he'd gotten down to his shirtsleeves thanks to the fire and his tendency to sweat buckets when playing double agent in front of the most powerful and sadistic wizard ever. Sirius shook his head, perching on the edge of the front room credenza in the off chance that the muggle girl would turn up. He sighed, confused by his life, by Snape, by the girl, by the fact that he'd smoked all his weed and wouldn't see the Weasley twins for possibly weeks.



Snape appeared again the next week, asking if Sirius would care to visit him at Hogwarts. He'd even secured Harry's word that he'd call on him in Snape's dungeons. Sirius couldn't believe how thoughtful this was, downright caring, like Snape really gave a damn. He nearly hugged him again, but didn't. As they were walking toward the fireplace at the end of the evening, Sirius caught a flash of light in the window and grabbed Snape's elbow.

"You can't go yet," he said, urgently redirecting him into the dark front room. "You have to see this. You like girls, right?" Snape didn't respond, but Sirius continued. "There's this brilliant girl, muggle girl, and she diddles herself in her window all the fucking time. You have to see her. It's incredible. I usually toss off, but I won't, since you're here, unless you do, which is fine, but if you're uncomfortable—"

"Shut up, Black." He stood beside Sirius and peered out the window. Yes, there was definitely a girl over there, tugging at her panties. She was tall and thin, with long brown hair. She had small breasts, just barely enough to hold in one hand. As he watched, she produced something plastic and shiny and pink and started rubbing it around down there. Hers was nothing like his, Snape thought. Not that he'd looked at it lately, but he recalled it being hairy and dark. Hers was shaved, and smooth, and almost as pink as the thing in her hand.

"Can you believe this? I was happy when she just took her clothes off and put her nightie on. Then one day, this happens, and she's kept doing it, once a week or so. You lucked out, there's no predicting it."

"What…is she doing?"

"Well, it's called mast—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Black, I know what she's doing. I meant, what is that thing?"

"I read about this the other day. I'd go get the magazine but I can't look away just now. It's called a vibrator. Apparently it jiggles at a high speed and they're quite popular among muggles. They also use it for back massages and stuff, but that one looks like it was made to be a sex toy. They run on batteries, mostly—"

"Thank you, Black."

Severus felt peculiar. Black was aroused; he could smell it, and so was he, just a warm tingly feeling, but enough to unsettle him. And the girl was clearly approaching climax, fucking herself with her fingers, the pink plastic thing rubbing halting circles into that strange fleshy place above her hole. Although he'd never experienced such pleasure himself, that spot seemed to undo every woman Snape had ever been with. She moved as if she couldn't bear to touch the pink thing to her skin, twitching and convulsing on her tidy little bed, covered with a flowery purple bedspread. Something about her room made Snape a bit melancholy. Everything was just so, but it was cramped and small, the walls looked yellowed and dirty, and she was, after all, alone.

Out of the blue, Sirius asked him when he'd last "gotten laid." Snape assumed he meant sex. "With a woman?" he asked, turning to see Sirius make a wide-eyed face while simultaneously choking a little bit. Snape slapped him on the back.

"Yes, with a woman!"

"Long time. Maybe ten years."

"And…with…something other than a woman?"

"You're referring to a man, or perhaps a barnyard animal?"

"Well, either or, I guess, whatever does it for you, Snape—"

"With a man, maybe six months ago. Never had the pleasure of bestiality, but I'm sure you're intimately acquainted with the practice."

"Dogs do get a lot of action," Sirius mused. "So you go with men, then? What put you off women?"

Snape didn't answer. They were both silent for some time. The girl was finished. She put on a boxy cotton nightie that didn't do her any favors, and then she left the room, returning with a cup of tea. Snape's heart reached out to her as she donned a pair of thick glasses and curled up in bed with an even thicker book. A cat wandered in through the open door and settled on her feet.

"Well then?"

Snape looked over at Sirius, confused.

"What put you off women? Someone break your heart?"

"In a way," he said, turning away from the window and sitting on a dusty sofa in the little-used front room. Sirius sat beside him, as all the other chairs had sheets covering them. He must have uncovered this one for the express purpose of watching his distant sweetheart. Or possibly for wanking.

"Lily Potter?"

Snape looked at him sharply. How could he have known about that? He'd had one chance with Lily. When James was being particularly boorish and she wasn't speaking to him over winter hols, she had come round his house and talked about James, as was her practice, then he had touched her cheek, turned her head toward him, and kissed her, softly, just one long kiss, his fingers threading through her hair. She had kissed him back, taking his hand and cupping it around her breast. He remembered his hands had been cold, and hers warm, and she'd gotten goose flesh all over her neck at his touch. Then he'd slowly and carefully maneuvered his hand down there, sliding his fingers against her through her skirt, until she shuddered and bit his lip and stared into his eyes for a good solid five minutes. Then she started unbuckling his belt, ferociously, as if she'd made a decision and wasn't turning back, and he stopped her, shaking his head and holding her wrists so hard they bruised. And she wasn't pleased with that turn of events. He could hardly acknowledge that this had happened, but she had said, "I know, I know, Severus, let me, I know." She had to have known; she'd seen him dressed in the strange ambiguous clothes he compromised on with his mother, and she'd probably even seen him with his hair plaited in a fancy braid, red-faced and humiliated by the ribbons his mum would thread through it.

Sirius elbowed him in the ribs and he shook his head, stuffing Lily and the ribbons and braids back in the corner of his brain where he kept the parts of his body that didn't belong to him, and the many times women had reached for him and he'd pushed them away. Lily was the only one who had said "I know."

"Yes, Lily I suppose. But she wasn't the last woman I was with."

"You shagged Lil—"

"Not precisely." But had he ever really shagged anyone? Because wasn't shagging supposed to be mutual? "What put me off women is that they're too kind."

"I know what you mean. Like that girl over there, with her book and her cat. Breaks my heart a bit every time I see her shabby little room and her cup of tea."

Snape caught his eye in the dim room and Sirius felt that they were in some sort of deep accord about something, like they'd managed to strip away their less than spectacular personal history and unite unreservedly around this one small thing: that girl was there, vulnerable, alone with her cat and tea, and this made them both sad.

"I'll expect you on Friday then," Severus said abruptly, shattering whatever had passed between them. Sirius nodded, walking him to the fireplace while absently pulling at his moustache. As he stepped into the flame, Sirius reached out to touch him, but Snape had already disappeared.



Sirius wandered about in a daze after Snape left. He realized, with the overwhelming jolt that accompanies long submerged yet painfully obvious understandings, that Snape was his friend, possibly his best friend. Remus was all right, but when the going got tough, Remus threw chocolate at the problem. He'd never known Remus to share anything like that moment of melancholy over his exhibitionist neighbor. He wasn't sure Remus would even understand why her dingy flat and her cup of tea were worth getting worked up over. But Snape understood. That he would start batting for the other team because women were "too kind" made a deep sort of sense to Sirius. It pained him to imagine Snape letting all and sundry fuck his lovely arse because he was pining for Lily Potter and banishing kindness. Sirius wondered if he could ever be one of these biannual man shags Snape seemed prone to.

He had two goals for his visit to the dungeons: to poke around Snape's rooms and figure him out a bit, and to ask Harry to ask the twins to send him more pot. He prepared a small purse of galleons to show his gratitude. Because really, what else was there for him to do over here at number twelve? The girl with the vibrator was less and less interesting in a sexual way. Now he tended to watch her window when she was reading or sleeping or fixing her hair, only occasionally looking in on the diddling. He figured he had to, being without women, except for Molly and Tonks. Molly didn't count, being married and jolly and nurturing, like James' mum had been. And Remus was sweet on Tonks, so he sexualized her just enough to rejoice in his friend's attraction, but not enough to lust over her. Tea girl, as he called his neighbor, was his only real connection to the soft trembling pleasures of female flesh. He'd hoped that Remus would have the sense to procure a prostitute for him, but he didn't quite know how to ask. Snape would have done, and not said anything either, but now that Sirius harbored the rather unlikely fantasy of getting in his pants, he couldn't bring himself to mention it.

Sirius was ready for his trip to Hogwarts two hours early. He shaved, properly, with a razor, for the first time in ages, he washed his hair twice, cleaned his clothes—well, Kreacher had—and even shined his boots up. He never wore shoes and they felt strange on his feet. Deciding against arriving early, he lit a cigarette and flipped through the tattered lonely-hearts ads. He knew them all backwards and forwards. He'd even read the queer ones. So far his favorite of those was the most self-deprecating: SLACKASSTROLL was sixty years old, positive (about what Sirius had no idea), pudgy, mean-spirited, and was looking for a younger man interested in cleaning his house naked. Sirius imagined a nice naked cleaning session, and was disturbed to realize that he would prefer to tidy a stranger's house starkers than spend one more day staring at his parents' awful interior decorating. He nearly threw the lonely hearts ads in the fire, but stopped himself.



Sirius was disappointed his evening chez Snape. He thought he and Snape would have some time to drink and prattle on about nothing, the foundation of all their social encounters, but instead, Harry showed up five minutes after he did, and Snape left entirely, disappearing to his office. Sirius heard some papers rustling around, but beyond that, Snape did not show himself. He probably figured he would appreciate the time with Harry, which he did, but he wished Snape would have stayed in the room. He was stuck drinking pumpkin juice so as not to set a bad example, and Harry, while certainly of interest, being his godson, lacked the conversational sparkle he'd become accustomed to after weeks of listening to Snape's witty snark.

After a lag in conversation, Sirius decided to ask about the twins, subtly opening with "Do you get high, Harry?" Harry looked confused. Sirius pressed on, presenting the purse and enclosing a note since Harry seemed so inept. As Harry was stashing the purse in his pocket, they heard a crash from the office, and Snape staggered out the door clutching his arm. He looked surprised to see them and immediately stood up straighter, trying to look less pained.

"I—have to leave. Stay as long as you like, both of you." And then he left the room through a different door, reappearing moments later wearing a more menacing cloak than usual, slipping his Death Eater mask in place with shaking hands.

"I'll wait for you," Sirius said, moving toward him and touching his shoulder.

"That won't be necessary."

"I will."

"Suit yourself," he snapped, walking purposefully into the bathroom and disapparating.

"Bloody hell!" Harry whispered, standing beside Sirius and peering into the white porcelain room. "Snape's loo is an apparition point! In Hogwarts! An apparition point in Hogwarts!"

"He looks a fright in that get up."

Harry thought Sirius wasn't sufficiently excited about the apparition point.

Sirius stared at Harry for a long moment; Snape's departure had cast a pall over their conviviality.

"I guess I'll go," Harry said awkwardly.

"You don't have to—"

"I think I should. Unless you want company waiting up for him."

"I…I'd rather you not see him like that. I mean, I've seen him before, after these things, and it's not something you want to witness, trust me."

"You hang about with him, then?"

Sirius nodded. "I'm the only one in the Order who knows what he's going through. It addles you a bit, torture."

"What do you mean, torture?"

"What do you think happens to Snape at Voldie's barmy meet ups? He has to appear completely incompetent and useless half the time, just to keep your skinny arse alive. You don't think Voldemort rewards that kind of thing, do you?"

"No wonder he's always in such a snit." Harry looked at his godfather with new eyes. Were Snape and Sirius close? What if Snape started turning up at Boxing Day dinner?

Sirius snorted. "Snit is somewhat of an understatement. Anyway, off with you—did Snape write you a pass? Of course not. Here, I'll do it. Extra Potions tutoring? Does that sound good?"

Harry let Sirius give him a hug before leaving, wondering how he got off calling Harry skinny when he could clearly distinguish each of his godfather's ribs.

Watching Harry leave, Sirius marveled at the unusual sensation of being away from number twelve in human form. Left to his own devices, he began methodically examining every inch of Snape's quarters. Tidy wasn't a word that sprang to mind, but the place was clean. First he inspected his office, packed with horrible jars full of pickled babies and dragon testicles. Then there was the sitting room, then the loo, leaving only one more door. Sirius peered into his bedroom and smiled when the fire lit in response. Snape had a small bed, barely big enough for two people, and stacks of books on the floor. He found a picture of Lily turned face down on the nightstand, the contents of which he inventoried while she waved at him, blowing kisses. He opened Snape's wardrobe, running his fingers over five waistcoats with the common theme of endless tiny buttons. He had a spare pair of boots, high ones, must go most of the way up his calf. Sirius tried them on, wondering if their feet were the same size. No, Snape's were ridiculously small, he quickly determined. And he wore lifts in his shoes!

Strange man, Sirius thought, replacing the boots and experimentally stretching out on the bed. Just to see if it was comfortable, mind, but he fell asleep anyway. He slept half the day away at number twelve; it was one of his main pastimes.

He awoke to a scream of absolute agony.

He sprinted to the loo and immediately let go of his initial panic, nearly laughing at the sight that met him there. Snape was crouched on the tiles, his mask pushed up over his forehead, and he held a dart in one hand, the kind you find at pubs. His other hand pushed into his hip, and there was blood everywhere.

"Moonlighting as pub entertainment, Snape?" Sirius knelt in front of him and took the dart, pulling his mask off and undoing his cloak.

"Bloody muggle threw a fucking dart at me!"

"Yes, I gathered that. Decent aim, too."

"Was a raid on a squib pub, don't ask why—I thought we'd wrapped it up, then this blighter trundles out and starts throwing darts!"

"Did you yank it out yourself? Move your hand." Snape obliged, fighting his way out of his waistcoat and fumbling for his wand.

"I can heal this, Black—"

"I don't think so, you barmy git. You've lost a lot of blood. Must have hit a vein." Sirius could make out the tear in Snape's trousers, between his hipbone and his bits, in that tender part of the belly that should never ever be impaled with a dart. "Now hand over that wand." Sirius snatched it when he didn't. "I told you, I cast a mean healing spell, and if I can't sort you out, I'll take you up to the Infirmary."

"Please, Sirius—"

Had Snape ever called him Sirius before? He glanced up and saw a truly desperate look on that pale, harsh face. "What is it?" he asked, pushing his fingers into the wound to slow the bleeding while he sorted out Snape's reluctance. Snape swayed a bit and Sirius caught his waist, moving closer to him. He could smell his sweat and panic. "I'm going to heal this stupid dart wound, Snape, and you're going to let me."

"I—you can't—I have to do it myself—"

Sirius rolled his eyes, undoing his trousers and feeling around for his pants, figuring if he pulled them both at the same time it'd be half the agonizing pain.

"Don't tell anyone, please, you can't tell anyone—"

Suddenly Sirius remembered when he'd last seen this panicked, inarticulate Snape. When he'd kept him overnight at number twelve, he'd also been paranoid and jittery, asking if he could count on his discretion.

"You can trust me," Sirius whispered, pulling him into an awkward one-handed embrace, his other hand still trying to staunch the wound. "Severus, you can trust me. You have to." Snape nodded, going limp and letting Sirius lay him out flat. He covered his face with his hands as Sirius bared his hip, his bloody trousers puddled around his thighs. He cast a few diagnostic spells, murmuring soothing things, then poked around with his fingers, trying to determine how extensive the damage was. So intent was he on the blood and the problem before him, it took him a minute to notice that Snape's bits were…missing. He looked again. Snape was crossing his legs and clenching his thighs, shaking with tension. Sirius realized this wasn't only because he was in pain, but because he was exposed like this. Or more precisely, his snatch was exposed. Because that was definitely what it was. Sirius Black knew cunt when he saw it.

He wrenched his eyes from Snape's surprising unmentionables and finished healing him, rubbing his hip with the flat of his palm. "You're all right now," he whispered, pulling his boots off and extracting him from his bloody trousers. "You can trust me, Snape." Sirius sighed as he curled his legs up in a ball, like he'd done before at number twelve. He felt a flash of sympathy for Snape, keeping this huge and potentially damaging secret. No wonder he'd been such a difficult person in school, and no wonder he cried all the time, earning him his nickname. Sirius would cry too if he spent every day worried someone would, for example, string him up in a tree and pull his pants down. "Come on, let me clean you up." Snape shook his head, his hands still covering his eyes, white-knuckled and trembling.

He summoned Snape's pajamas, smirking at the black bottoms with "Slytherin" stitched in green across the arse. Must have been a house pride effort. He couldn't imagine presenting something like that to McGonagall. Snape's students must be pretty chummy with him. While Snape rustled about in the loo, Sirius loitered in the hallway, admiring his collection of paintings of snakes. He suddenly understood what that bandage had been for. Couldn't Snape, being an extremely powerful wizard, or witch, or whatever, figure out some way to do that magically?

Snape emerged from the bathroom looking very pale and delicate, and also quite short, with his bare feet. "I should obliviate you," he said quietly, his fingers pulling at the thin fabric of his black t-shirt. Sirius noticed a subdued Chudley Cannons logo on the sleeve. Quidditch fan, who knew?

"You'd better not, I had a lovely evening with Harry and I want to treasure it always. And I'm going to remember you and that dart for the rest of my days."

Snape looked skeptical.

"I told you, you can trust me."

"I—" and then Sirius swooped him into a suffocating hug, swaying back and forth and waiting for Snape to relax. He didn't.

"I won't tell anyone. You're my best mate, why would I muck that up?"

Severus fought his way free and held Sirius at arm's length. "I am?"

"What?"

"Your best mate."

"Well, yeah. I know it isn't saying a lot, my social circle being what it is, but yeah, you're the only one who knows about…you know. The Cruciatus Colonic, the Tea Girl…you know, stuff." Sirius shrugged. Snape walked him toward the fireplace.

"Thank you, Black," he said quietly, looking down at his toenails. Sirius suddenly didn't want to leave. He couldn't imagine knocking about number twelve while Snape was here, wearing his Slytherin sweatpants, recovering from the dart, walking around with a brilliant snatch the likes of which he hadn't seen in years, up close like that anyway. This could be the best thing ever. A best mate with girl parts. The mind boggled.

"Snape, listen, I don't want to cock this up, but I have to say, I mean, even before I knew about—that—I would have—oh, fuck."

"Sirius Black, you think because you get a whiff of cunt for the first time in thirteen years, you can somehow convince me to hop in bed with you? You'd do better buggering a pumpkin, and you're a right git for being so presumptuous."

"No, I didn't mean it like that!"

"And you expect me to believe you'd have gone queer for me, assuming I was hung like a hippograff?"

"Well, yes."

Snape shook his head. "I need a drink," he muttered, shuffling over to a little table overflowing with alcohol. He looked up and raised an eyebrow at Black. "Who said you were staying?"

"I need a bloody drink too! I'm the one with too much information!"

Snape shoved a few fingers of scotch in his general direction, then sat heavily on the large armchair closest to the fire. He tucked his feet up on the cushion and balanced his glass on his knee, looking glumly into the flames.

Snape's silence was not unusual. They could go hours without talking, but this time was different. Sirius waited it out, deciding Snape ought to be the one to speak first. After several long moments, he couldn't bear it any longer and blurted out, "So you support the Cannons then?"

Snape glared at him, but he was grateful for the eye contact. "Former student was signed as Seeker last year. This arrived by owl."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I don't follow Quidditch."

More silence. Sirius had planned a series of insightful remarks about the Cannons, their prospects for the following year, and other fascinating tidbits, but he kept it to himself.

"Has that girl been back in her window?" Snape asked quietly, still staring into the fire.

"A bit. Now and then. I mostly watch her just going about her life lately. Less interested in the adult entertainment."

"What do you think she does for a living?"

"Dresses very professionally when she goes out. Probably a secretary or something. Not a student."

"Hm."

"You know, that was when I realized you're my best mate, when we felt sad about her together."

"I'm honestly a bit shocked to have a friend in you, Black."

"You can call me Sirius."

Snape collected his glass and refilled it, curling up in the chair again. Sirius could make out the curve where his upper thigh met his bum.

"Only four other people know about me, and most of them are dead," Snape said suddenly. "Lily, my parents, and Dumbledore."

"Well, I'd never have found out if it weren't for that dart. You do a good job."

Snape nodded. "One must."

"Yeah. I suppose. Did you know muggles have a word for it? I read an article in a magazine. Transgender."

Snape's lip curled in distaste.

"Well, wizards don't even have a word for it. Just saying."

"Simone de Beauvoir wrote that one is not born a woman, one becomes one. I never became one."

"So how'd you manage shagging whoever you shagged?" Sirius bit his lip as soon as he realized what he'd asked; hearing Snape's voice had lulled him into a false sense of normalcy.

"Black, you're importunate." When Sirius looked over at him, wondering what "importunate" meant, he saw that Snape was almost smiling.

"Well then?"

"Remember I said women were too kind? I would try to…please them, but they would want to return the favor. Men don't care about returning favors. And most of the men I've been with have been Death Eaters. I use Legilimency on them. Works like a charm. Part of the job."

"So you'd rather sleep with women, but they're too nice to you?"

"Something like that. And I can't give them what they want. From a man."

"The article said—"

"Bugger the article, Black."

Sirius knew he secretly wanted to read it and vowed to owl it over at the soonest possible opportunity. "So with these men, did you let them fuck your arse or just give them blow jobs?"

"Both, either." Snape raised his eyebrow. "So can I ask you about your sex life now?"

Sirius snorted. "Such as it is."

"Do you…when you're a dog, do you do—things—"

"Like fucking? Dog sex is really all I've got at this point. Tell me this, Snape, if you were Remus—" Snape shuddered. "I know, but if you were him, like, you've been my friend for my whole bloody life, and I turn up fresh out of fucking prison, and you know perfectly well I'm alone all day long in my horrid family home, what would you do?"

Snape looked blank. "Buy you a pumpkin?"

"You're on the right track. Why hasn't Remus sorted out a whore for me, Snape? Wouldn't this be your absolute first thought? To get me a prostitute?"

"No, honestly, it wouldn't, but I take your point. So what's it like? As a dog?"

"I could show you," Sirius said, leering at him. Snape choked, spilling his drink, and Sirius rushed over and slapped his back. "I was joking." Snape gave him a look that said "I hope so," and then made space for him on the armchair, since Sirius seemed determined to wriggle his way onto the cushion beside him. "It's different than how people do it. For one thing, when you're a dog, your cock gets all puffed out, it sort of swells, and plugs up the bitch, like a plug in a bathtub. And you let it stopper her up, and it feels good, mind, but not like a human prick. Much less sensitive, I guess because dogs don't wear clothes so it gets knocked about more."

Snape tried to scoot over so less of him was pressed up against Black and his strangely arousing dog fucking stories. "Shall I move to the sofa then?" he asked.

"No, sit with me."

"Black, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm very tired. And I'll see you at the Order meeting."

"Do you trust me?"

"I do," he replied, not sure yet if he was telling the truth. "You're my best mate," he added, the words awkward on his tongue, as if he'd never said them before. Perhaps he hadn't.

"Right then. I'll see you Monday. You can come over to number twelve any time. As before, all right? Don't think this changes anything."

"Of course it changes everything."

Sirius wanted to say something, but he couldn't come up with anything appropriate, and besides, Snape was holding out the floo powder in a no-nonsense sort of way.

Number twelve had never looked as lackluster and lonely as it did that night. Sirius wondered if he'd truly had enough to drink. He decided he hadn't, and set about remedying the situation.

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