Familiar Place

The kitchen in Grimmauld Place was dark and murky. There was a strong scent of bleach and eucalyptus disinfectant, mingled with the stench of aged, rotting wood and years of mildew. Each and every surface in the kitchen looked grimy and gritty, despite the hours of scrubbing that Molly Weasley had put in to clean the place up. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was besmirched with filth and blighted with the curse of aging.

Snape, as he stood by the doorway of the kitchen, shifted his eyes about the dingy room with a look of distaste, tinted with a glimmer of recognition. His arms were crossed over his chest and his posture was rigid. He surveyed the grotty kitchen bench that ran across the opposing wall, the rusty sink with the leaking faucet that made a “plink plink” sound every time the water hit the basin and the scuffed, mouldy cupboards that lined the wall above the counter. He moved his eyes to the filthy looking window and noted how the moonlight strained to get in through the grime that was caked over the glass. Molly had cleaned and cleaned that window and only managed to scrape a few blotches of the filth off. Through those clean streaks, the light struggled to beam in thin rays on the scungy wooden floor, though it did little to add light to the eerily dim kitchen.

To Snape, the house was like a barren wasteland, a place that had been abandoned and left to decay. A bit like Sirius. In fact, Sirius, as far as Snape was concerned, was a personification of this house – forlorn, disintegrating and gloomy. Sirius’ constantly downtrodden mood suited the rank, dark surroundings of the house. Snape hated this place. He hated it because it always made him think of himself and how lonely he was. Yet, he came everyday, without fail, at the same time – seven o’clock at night. He told himself that he was only coming to the house everyday to check up on Order business, not to see Black. He didn’t care about Black, thank you very much.

Black doesn’t deserve my attention or even my pity, he always told himself every time he opened the front door to the derelict house and stepped over the threshold. I don’t care one bit about Black or the state he’s living in, he would think as the first scent of musty mothballs and mould hit his nostrils when he strode down the hall to the kitchen. I loathe Black, as much as he loathes me, he would say to himself as he entered the dark kitchen to see Sirius at the table. As much as Snape’s timing to the house every day was like clockwork, so was Sirius always at the table when Snape arrived.

They never talked – not really. A terse greeting, perhaps, and maybe an offer to make some tea. But that was it. They only ever looked at each other when Snape entered the kitchen and when he was about to leave. They never met eyes in between. Sirius was always hunched over at the ancient, deeply scratched table with a mug of tea, and often a bottle of whisky with a grimy rock glass, and he would stare at the gritty wooden surface. Snape always stood by the doorway – never really entering the kitchen and always within close proximity of an exit – and he would cast his eyes about the grimy kitchen. Occasionally, he’d glance at Sirius; sometimes he’d part his lips to say something – never anything important, just something to kill the silence – but he always decided against it.

He only ever stayed about an hour. His departure was always as silent as his arrival – he’d nod at Sirius, mutter a goodbye, Sirius would murmur something about seeing Snape tomorrow and Snape would then take his leave in a billow of black garbs. For about a month, this happened. Sirius never questioned it, nor did Snape ever mention it. It was a strange ritual that took place without any spoken reason.

Snape followed with his eyes the beams of moonlight that were streaked across the floor from the window to a knot in the floorboards and spotted a cockroach scuttling across the wooden surface. He pulled his face into a look of repugnance just as he heard Black clear his throat.

He looked up to see Sirius looking at him. He was clutching his chipped mug in his hands. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky in front of him, accompanied by the same grimy rock glass. Those grey eyes, which were bloodshot from all the drinking he’d been doing, were peering at him closely. Snape could see the emptiness in them, the sadness, caused by the years of being in a hell such as Azkaban. Snape knew he should have been gloating to see such anguish, especially after all the suffering that Black had put him through in the past. But, no. Instead, he found himself staring back into those eyes and understanding fully the emptiness and bitterness that Sirius was feeling. Snape knew the pain of living a bitter, hollow life. While he showed it in being an incredibly caustic and resentful man, underneath that brittle exterior was much anguish and turmoil. Looking at Sirius and into those tired, sad eyes, it was like looking at his own reflection.

“Why do you come here?” Sirius asked in a low, slightly slurred voice, wondering vaguely if it was simply to mock his pain. Perhaps Snape enjoyed watching him in this forced habitat, alone amongst his misery and the ruins of the once Noble House of Black. Were he not so desperate for someone, anyone to talk to, he would have thrown him out the first time Snape came and sat, and stared.

Snape frowned. Why did he keep coming to the house? Sure, he told himself it was for Order business, but underneath that shallow reasoning he knew that was a lie – there never was any Order business. He came to this horrible house, this festering place, which was blighted with its gritty past. The cracked walls covered in stained wallpaper, with pictures mounted upon them of past relatives that watched the house with bitter, suspicious eyes made this house such a fortress of isolation. The way the dusty, aged paintings whispered to each other, how the portrait of Mrs. Black would come to life and scream and shriek curses of disloyalty and disgust, and the way Kreacher stealthily crept around from place to place like a lurking shadow. He shifted awkwardly on the spot and broke the eye contact by turning his gaze back to the beams of light across the floor and the scurrying cockroach. \"I don\'t know.\"

“I hate this place,” Black continued. He looked around the ruins of the house and then peered at Snape again. He wondered if Snape had a home like this once. At school he\'d never bothered to get to know the boy, and now the man carried with him such bitterness and anger, it wasn\'t inconceivable that their childhoods were similar. Perhaps in another life Black would\'ve been sorted into Slytherin and then he and Snape would have grown up friends. But as it stood now, they were enemies on the same side. All of those petty grievances seemed, well, petty now.

Snape nodded slowly. Whether it was in agreement or recognition, he wasn’t sure. Probably both.

“Why do you keep coming there? I know why I\'m here I have no choice. You could go anywhere you want, and yet you come here of your own free will,” Sirius pointed out as he shifted forward in his chair to examine Snape more closely.

The creaking of Black\'s chair caused Snape\'s black eyes to catch at the movement towards him. Snape raised a pale hand to his lips and traced them thoughtfully. He slowly turned his eyes away to look at the window again. The way the beams of light were straining to filter in, it was if the dirt on the window was trying to choke the light out. To Severus, it was symbolic of how the house choked as much life and spirit as possible out of anyone who stayed there. Perhaps that is why he kept coming back. Summers of being stuck in the basement, his only protection from his screaming father, cooped up and alone and scared. His adolescent self dragged him back here, in spite of this being one of his tormentors and screamed for him not to leave Black alone. The sudden flash of memory overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes to speak, “Do you want me to leave?”

There was a moment of silence. Snape could here the shifting of the house settling, like old bones creaking together in their joints. “This house haunts me. I feel alone,” Black finally responded, not really answering Snape’s question.

Just as Black spoke, a noise, the creaking of floorboards, came from beyond the kitchen door and Snape quickly turned his head from Black to the peer into the darkness in the hall. Narrowing his eyes, he could make out the faint silhouette of a small, hunched over person. Kreacher. Its face appeared in the murky light and hovered amongst the darkness like a ghost. The creepy house elf was just like everything else that was so incredibly eerie and besmirched in the house. The elf was always loitering, always there, like an entity, as a reminder of how alone Black was, always uttering remarks about the late Mistress of the house, always reminding Black of his disloyalty. Black obviously knew that Snape was looking at Kreacher, for he added, “That haunts me,” in a bitter voice.

At Black’s words, the elf backed away and its face was swallowed into the sooty darkness of the hall once more. Snape slowly turned his head back to Sirius and met his eyes again. They held their gaze for an intense moment; recognition passed between them. Snape could see that Sirius didn’t want him to leave, and Sirius could see that Snape knew what he was feeling about being so alone. “I can stay for a while longer if you wish,” Snape replied in a low voice.

There was relief in Sirius’ haggard face. It was strange to see Black so welcoming of Snape’s presence. It was an obvious sign of how desperate he was to have someone around. Anyone was better company than Kreacher, even Snape. Though, Sirius had to admit to himself that he found Snape intriguing; whatever his reason for coming to the house, the fact that he came every day and stayed made Sirius have some form of quiet, secret appreciation for him. He had put Snape through so much in their younger years, yet he chose to be there.

Severus gave a curt nod and uttered, “Very well.” He dropped his arms to his side, as though he was letting his guard down instead of seeming so defensive, and he added, “This place must seem no different to…” He didn’t want to say the word ‘Azkaban’. That name was too much of an analogy for where both men were in their lives; imprisoned and isolated. Much the same as how this house was a metaphor for the very same thing. Just like Sirius had gone from one prison – a penitentiary for the crime he was assumed to have committed – to another prison – his own home where he’d be forever reminded of the burden of being deserted and outcast – so was Severus forever caught in his own incarceration, his own emotional and psychological confinement. Snape was considerably empathic to Black’s situation. Instead, he added, “I shall make you some tea,” in a low murmur and he walked quietly to the table and reached for Black’s mug.

Black watched the man’s pale hand stretch forward to clasp the mug and he said slightly sluggishly, “It’s exactly the same. Though, in many ways, it is worse.” He looked up and met Snape’s dark beady eyes. “This is my home. Anyone else would be glad to be home.” He leaned forward and added, “Wouldn’t you be glad to be home?”

Snape stiffened. Home was something that Snape never talked about. Home had been a prison, a fortress, not at all unlike the Noble House of Black. He avoided the question by asking pointlessly, “How do you like your tea?” It was pointless because Snape had made the man many cups of tea over the past month and he knew how Sirius liked the tea – strong, black and very sweet.

“Did you hate your home as much as I hate mine?” Sirius pressed. His grey eyes peered at Snape intently, searching Severus’ face for an answer. “I hate this place, and I know I can never escape it,” he continued in a faintly slurred voice. He gestured to the bottle of whisky and the grotty rock glass. “That’s the only escape I have.”

Snape shifted awkwardly under Sirius’ scrutiny. His finger traced around the rim of the mug while he quickly thought about Sirius’ question. He had dreaded every waking moment of his time at home. He was always on edge, always peering over his shoulder, scared that his father’s fist would come out of nowhere and strike him. He quickly eyed the bottle of dram that Sirius gestured to. Drink had been his father’s weakness, and the result of it had led to many unwarranted and fierce bouts of abuse and violence. “My home was… difficult,” he offered in a low drawl.

“Was it like a prison?” Home was definitely a prison for Sirius. He had, from a young age, sought ways to escape the repressive home. In his young teenaged years, he had come across the alcohol cabinet in the Parlour room and the contents within quickly became the source for Sirius’ temporary escape from reality. He often drank himself into a stupor, until he was able to cloud everything out of his mind. It became his only way of coping. His parents paid little mind to this – they were much more focused on his brother, Regulus, to be taking heed towards Sirius’ habits. And, by the time he had hit 16, he was out of the house, away from their partial scrutiny.

Snape frowned. He was not comfortable about talking of his home or his past. It was something that was very painful and bleak to him. “Need we talk about this?”

Sirius watched Severus’ face closely. He could see from the way that Snape’s face was composed, how perturbed he looked, that it was a topic that brought about much hurt and anguish. It was an unspoken confirmation to Sirius. It stirred Sirius. After all those years of being bitter enemies, there was a strong connection between them both. “This place reminds you of home, doesn’t it?” he asked gently.

Snape swiftly turned on his heel and strode across the dusty floor to the stove and picked up the kettle. He refused to talk about this anymore. He was not here to discuss him. He was not really here to discuss Sirius, either. He was here because… He didn’t know why he was here. Snape was just drawn to this place, to the loneliness, the isolation, the grit and the grime. The foundations of the house spoke such visual truths about his life and how he saw himself and he was attracted to the familiarity of it all. It was all he knew. And, he could see, it was all Black knew, too. But Snape was not going to talk about it.

As he quickly walked to the tap and reached for it, Sirius pushed the chair back and rose from it a little unsteadily. He watched Snape as the man grasped the tap and tugged hard on it to turn it. Quietly, he stepped away from the chair and began to make his way towards Severus. His loud and staggering footsteps over the old floor were drowned out by the loud creaking of the tap and the noisy shudder and clanking sound that came from the ancient pipes as water was pushed through them. Out spewed brown murky water from the faucet, which quickly turned clear, and, as Snape flipped the kettle lid open and held it under the running tap, Sirius quietly walked up behind Severus and placed his hands on his shoulders.

Sirius was surprised at Severus’ reaction. He had expected Snape to lash out and yell at him, to snarl that he was not to be touched. But instead he was cowering, hunched over. It was the same reaction Snape gave his father as a boy whenever he heard the man raise his voice and swing his fist at him. “Snape,” Black said softly. “Severus.” His fingers curled in and gripped Severus’ shoulders reassuringly.

The familiar scent of liquor on Sirius’ breath, strong and pungent, brought to the surface memories Snape would rather have repressed. He knew Sirius was not in his right mind, and the fact that he had been drinking made Severus feel that bit more nervous. “Don’t,” Severus replied in an uncertain voice, a tone that Sirius was so unused to hearing from Snape.

“It’s okay,” Sirius said.

“I should leave,” Snape abruptly spoke. He shakily put the kettle down next to the sink and went to push away from the counter to shrug out of Sirius’ grasp.

“Please don’t,” Sirius replied as he gripped Severus’ shoulders harder. “Stay. Just a little longer. I…I value your company. Believe it or not. I know you understand.” Had Sirius been in his right frame of mind, he wouldn’t have dared said such a thing, much less stood behind Severus and held his shoulders. But none of that mattered at that very moment. He was lonely, he was drunk and he was desperate for someone to talk to, even if it was Snape.

“Black, I—“

“Please. Stay.” Sirius stepped in closer and pressed his body to Severus. His hands gave one more squeeze to Severus’ shoulders before they began to slowly slide down his arms.

Severus stood perfectly still. He held his breath as the man’s hands moved down from his shoulders and he closed his eyes. As awkward as it felt having Sirius pressed up against him like this, drunk and unaware of what he was really doing, there was something comforting in the way the heat from his body radiated against Severus. He remembered times when his father would hug him, at times when he was not drunk, and he had always felt loved at those times, even though he knew that it would change in a matter of a few drinks. He had, from that very fact, taught himself to shy away from human touch, to be cut off from all forms of contact, which ultimately made him a hostile and very bitter man. He hadn’t been touched in so many years, not so tenderly. He had forgotten how soothing being touched was. There was something so incredibly calming in the way Sirius’ hands traced the shape of his arms and before he could stop himself, Severus leaned back against Sirius.

“I’m so lonely here,” Sirius continued in a whisper. He leaned his face in towards Snape and pressed his forehead against the side of Severus’ head, by his ear. His hands slowly trekked back up over Severus’ arms, back to his shoulders and he gripped them firmly.

“I know,” Severus muttered.

He nudged his face up to press his lips against Severus’ ear. “I look forward to you coming everyday,” Sirius whispered. Snape turned his face to press his ear more firmly to the man’s lips and he took in a shaky breath. Sirius pulled gently on Severus’ shoulders and took a small step back. As Severus yielded to the gentle tug, Sirius urged Severus to turn around to face him.

Snape shuffled his feet as he about-faced. He met Sirius’ tired, bloodshot eyes and saw how close their lips were. “I know,” Severus finally replied. He studied Sirius’ eyes, his nose, his pallid lips, took in the entirety of Black’s haggard face. There were wrinkles that crossed over his skin in deep grooves, each one a telltale sign of the stresses he had had to face and endure over his pitiful life. They were as deep set as the grit was in the house.

Sirius’ hands met Severus’ chest and he slowly traveled them downward. Just as they came to Snape’s hips, Severus moved his hands forward and lightly touched Sirius’ sides. “I haven’t touched another person in so long,” Sirius said quietly as he leaned in towards Severus. Severus watched Sirius’ lips part and his own lips did the same as he moved in towards Sirius. Their lips met softly and Severus closed his eyes as Sirius tilted his head and began to kiss him deeply. Severus could taste the bitterness of Sirius\' mouth, the fumes from the alcohol filtering into his mouth and down his throat. He felt Black’s hands slide around him and he was pulled close as Sirius’ tongue passed his teeth and met his. Snape traveled his hands up Sirius’ back and he likewise pulled Sirius against him. Their bodies pressed together as their lips kneaded and their tongues entwined.

Sirius pressed his hips against Severus’ and his erection met Severus’ waking one. A couple of soft groans came from Black’s mouth as his kisses became more desperate. His hands clawed at Severus’ back and he pushed the man against the counter. Their lips moved in time with the resonating drip of water from the tap into the sink and their shoes scuffed as they shifted over the wooden floor. Sirius raked his nails across Severus’ back and then slid his hands to his middle and traveled them up to his collar. His calloused fingers plucked the first few buttons from their holes, while Severus gripped Sirius to him tightly.

Severus’ heart thumped furiously and his fast breathing met the rhythm of Sirius’ as more buttons were slid from buttonholes until his garbs fell open. Sirius’ warm hands slipped into the partings and pressed against Severus’ heaving chest. It was Severus’ turn to groan and he pushed himself firmly to the flat palms against him as Sirius’ mouth left his and began to trail down his chin.

He nudged Severus’ chin up and pressed more hot kisses down his neck. A faint “Severus,” was murmured into it, which vibrated against Severus’ throat. Severus curled his fingers and scratched them across Sirius’ back. He furrowed his black brows and parted his lips to let out a whimper as Sirius kissed and sucked at his neck.

The hands on Severus’ chest swarmed over it. The callouses on the tips of Sirius’ fingers caught against the material of the shirt and he slowly began to rock his hips against Snape’s rhythmically. Each time Severus’ clothed prick was nudged against Sirius’ it twitched and pulsed with an aching throb that made him moan softly. God, he hadn’t felt this sort of touch in so, so long. He had no idea how much he had missed it until this very moment. “Sirius,” Severus uttered breathily. It was the first time that he had ever used the man’s first name and he felt Sirius press harder against him in response.

“Severus,” Sirius breathed against his neck and his hands began to slide down his chest towards his pants. Severus’ breath hitched and he arched his back slightly as Sirius’ fingers curled into his waistband. Sirius’ fingers fumbled as he tugged jerkily at Severus’ belt and Severus tilted his hips away from him to give him more access to it.

Sirius flicked the button open, slid the zipper down and then slid his thick hand into Severus’ pants and grasped his prick. Severus let out a loud gasp. He instantly bucked up against the touch and dug his nails into Sirius’ back. Sirius’ hand began to move up and down and the roughness of his palm felt so arousing against the velvety skin on Severus’ prick. He continued to press hot, wet kisses against Severus’ neck, which slowly began to travel up to his chin, over it and then on to Severus’ mouth. They met lips again in a fury of rapid breaths and a lash of slick tongues as Severus rocked his hips and Sirius slid his hand up and down.

Severus gasped loudly into Sirius’ mouth and quickly let go of Sirius’ back to dash his hands to either side of him on the counter. He curled his fingers into the edge and used it for leverage as he arched his back more and rolled his hips harder. He was trembling; he was so tense from all the arousal and the heat of the moment. Sirius leaned in closer and pumped his hand up and down faster. Precome oozed from the tip of Severus’ cock and he broke the kiss to throw his head back and let out a deep moan. Sirius closed in on Severus’ exposed neck once more and kissed and suckled at it desperately as he felt Severus’ cock thicken in his hand.

“Oh, god!” Severus gasped. He could feel his balls rising up as his release neared and his breath grew shallow, his throat parched from his panting. Desperately, he scooted his hands back against the counter and his arm hit the kettle, which tumbled into the sink with a deafening crash. Severus let out a loud shriek of surprise just at the same time that Sirius suddenly pulled away in fright. A loud screech came from within the house – the sound of the kettle crashing had stirred the portrait of Mrs. Black and suddenly the house was filled with “You filthy rotten traitor! Scum! Traitor!”

Sirius looked at Severus wide-eyed, though rather unfocused. Severus’ stomach seemed to suddenly feel like it was filled with lead and his head swam as it dawned on him what he had just been doing. The screams from the portrait that echoed around the house brought him back to reality and he frantically shoved Sirius back as hard as he could. Sirius staggered, lost his footing and sprawled backwards against the floor with a loud thump.

“Traitors! Lovers of Mudbloods! Half-breeds!”

Frantically, with shaking hands, Severus tucked his still engorged prick into his pants, fumbled with his fly and his button, jerkily fought with his belt and then snatched the opened garbs over his chest. He was sweating as he grunted in panic and desperation while he fiddled with the buttons.

“Bastards! Filthy bloody scum of the Wizarding race!”

He managed to slide a couple through their holes before he gave up and quickly turned towards the door and stalked as fast as he could from the kitchen.

“Dirty blooded traitors! Disgrace to the Purebloods! Scum!”

His shoes slapped over the wooden floor until he came to the threadbare carpet in the hall and darkness closed in on him. The sound of Mrs. Black grew steadily louder and louder as he got nearer to the front door. Her screeching awoke other paintings and soon there was a chaotic din of voices screaming and wailing. Snape moved his hands to his head and covered his ears and he hurried his pace. What the fuck had he been doing? What the fuck came over him? He felt his stomach lurching and his throat seize up in panic.

“You blood traitor! Scum! Filth!”

He almost fell over as he collided into something about waist height. Kreacher. Severus dashed one hand out in front of him and blindly shoved the house elf out of the way to continue out of the house. His heart hammered in his chest and his head felt like it was going to explode under the pressure of the sound and the intensity of his panic. He knocked into a few pieces of furniture and felt his way around the inky blackness of the hall.

“Traitor! Filth! Burn, all of you! You will suffer for your treachery!”

He crashed into the troll leg umbrella stand and met the front door. His shaking hand fumbled around for the door handle, found it and he tugged hard. The sweat on his palms made it near impossible for him to grasp it and his hand continued to slide and slip from the knob.

“Out! Be gone from my house! How dare you besmirch the house of my fathers, you scum!”

The panic grew ever more steadily as the resonating screams of Mrs. Black grew ever more raucous and he cursed out in frustration at trying to open the door.

“You utter disgrace to the name of wizardry! You traitor! You filth! You bastard scum! Filthy Mudbloods! Dirty Half-breeds!”

At last, he managed to grip the handle and he threw the door open as hard as he could. A cold gush of wind met him and blew his garbs around his legs in a loud flutter. He hurriedly stepped over the threshold, slammed the door shut behind him, closing off the horrendous screeching. The coldness of the wind made the sweat that bathed his face feel like it was turning to frost and his rapid breath billowed from his mouth in white puffs of steam as he walked as fast as he could down the street and away from the house. He strode away from the screaming voices, away from the familiarity, far away from Sirius. He would never make the mistake of coming to this house alone ever again. He never should have in the first place. He should have stayed away.