Cloudscape of Ravens

"You're really a great guy, Ron. I just, well, you just weren't the right Weasley."

Ron looked up at the apricot sky, hearing Lee's unintentionally brutal words for the infinite time in his head. The clouds were vivid, underlit by the sun. They were a frothy sherbet and bruised raspberry realm of suspended fairy floss. Licked ribbons of blue slid between them with dusky cotton fluffs moving lower, pushed by the breeze. The fruity wash of colour as the sun set did nothing to improve his spirits. He lit a cigarette, a new habit, and one he'd already grown to love for its inherent rebellion and defiance. Taking a deep drag, he savoured the heat in his throat and the slight relaxing in his shoulders as he exhaled.

He stood, waiting for the train, cheesed off at himself for taking it so hard when he'd been dumped. The anger at Lee Jordan hadn't abated yet, though in hindsight, Ron supposed he should've seen it coming. There were the unexpected, generous gestures, and his own blind willingness to believe that Lee's absences and increasing withdrawal were due to the three of them spending so much time together and Lee's needing his own space. Bloody hell, he'd needed his own space, too. That said, he'd grown to appreciate the camaraderie and easygoing affection of spending his days working with Lee and George at Wheezes, and most nights sharing a bed with Lee. For once, for the first time since Ron had realised he couldn't deny his draw to stubbled jaws and trails of promise, he'd been singled out. He'd been chosen as the most appealing, and it had taken him ages to cotton on to the realisation that Lee wasn't just chummy and being nice— he was flirting.

In the end, however, things had played out as they often did in his life as the also-ran, the unchosen one, the King of Rare Success. Of course Lee would've ended up dropping him for George; those two had spent years as best friends. The thought that he'd been a trial run for Lee to get to his heart's true desire caused molten rage to churn in Ron's stomach. Tinny anger rang in his head and his jaw ached; he realised he was gritting his teeth. As the first glimpse of the train appeared, Ron forced himself to relax, taking another deep inhale on the fag before opening his mouth until his jaw popped.

With his fingers he smoothed the furrows at the middle of his forehead. He was getting out of London; out of England, for that matter. As he took another hit off the cigarette, he recapped the first couple of stops on his vague itinerary: Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and then he'd start on Muggle Scotland's infamous Whisky Trail, pouring himself from one distillery to the next. Ron had been saving his money, thinking he might buy himself a small place, but in his heart, he hadn't really expected to be doing so alone. Not that he'd thought Lee was his soul mate or any other romantic rubbish like that. But he'd grown really fond of Lee; his irreverence and lightening-fast wit, his respect for George while doting on Ron, and deep, wild kisses that made Ron's knees want to give out and his cock turn to iron.

"Fuck him," he muttered around the cigarette as he drew in a last burning breath, flicking it away with unnecessary force.

Once aboard the train, he waited until it had regained its presumed usual speed before heading to the gents'. He took care of needed business and then helped himself to his flask, tossing back a slug of firewhiskey before looking at himself in the mirror. His hair was long again, hanging in his eyes and getting stuck under the collar of his shirt. He'd not shaved in a few days, and the growth glinted in the unflattering greenish light. Angry eyes glared back at him and he paused, holding onto the counter as the carriage swayed and rocked.

"Who're you so mad at, mate?" he asked himself, as though he didn't know the answer. Running a hand through his unkempt hair, he shook his head derisively and unlatched the door, heading back out into the train.

* * * * *

It was over a fortnight later that he found himself taking a tiny room in Edinburgh. He'd faithfully sent owls to Hermione, Harry, and his mother at strategic points along his northern Scotland tour. Of the three, only Harry knew the true impetus behind his sudden wanderlust, and he'd been sworn to secrecy. His mum wasn't at all pleased with this turn of events, and playing the part of dutiful son, Ron had placated her with effusive notes. He thought she'd be a fool not to see through his commentary, but he now believed that people saw what they wanted to, which suited his purposes well.

The second night in his new home he went to the wild gay club Seamus had told him about. It was Muggle, but it was rare for places to be exclusively that way, hence Ron kept up his guard. A keen young man who didn't even look legally old enough to be let in ended up giving Ron a toe-curling blowjob. Ron kept his wits about him enough to remember the his curly mahogany hair and the name Angus as he stumbled his way to his flat at closing, the thudding of the music still ringing in his head. Ron soon fell into a routine: he spent his mornings sleeping, his days wandering around the city, his nights at Clan of Brothers. The reedy sapling Angus latched on to him, but Ron found that he didn't mind as much as he might've in another place, another situation. In fact, as the weeks went on, Ron realised it wasn't the club that he looked forward to— it was Angus' company. They didn't see each other outside of the club, however, and Ron decided he'd let Angus determine whether or not that actually happened.

OAfter a couple of weeks, one night Angus took Ron downstairs to a back room, Ron willingly following. Ron's rage at how he'd been treated by Lee had turned to self-indulgence, and Angus had yet to disappoint. Ron, of course, had never invited him back to his flat, but he'd come to look forward to their hand jobs and the occasional quick fuck in a bathroom stall. The fact that Angus' dark brown eyes lit up when Ron appeared also went a long way to healing Ron's savaged pride.

"You'll love this," Angus purred, the burr of his Scottish brogue dancing straight to Ron's groin.

"What is it?" Ron asked skeptically, seeing the tiny bar with a creepy-looking bartender wearing an eye patch. "You didn't tell me I needed to look like a pirate."

"You don't," Angus said, swatting Ron on the arse. "But not just anyone is up for this. It's Sublime."

"Your mouth's sublime," Ron slurred, well into his fifth scotch and feeling particularly magnanimous.

"No. It's called Sublime. Though I am talented," his companion leered, rutting his bony pelvis against Ron's thigh.

"And you know it." Ron rolled his eyes.

Angus only harrumphed and tugged him over to the bar.

"What'll it be, ginger?" the one-eyed bartender asked, his voice oddly arousing, like supple leather clinging to Ron's skin.

"He wants to feel unreal," Angus said knowingly, and the bartender raised his one good eyebrow at Ron.

"That'll cost you," he murmured.

"Most things do."

There was a flicker of affinity, a keen understanding in the bartender's expression that threw Ron off-guard for a moment, but he dismissed it as the effect of too much to drink. He'd stop after this mystery beverage of Angus', to be sure. Angus whispered the price coyly in Ron's ear, and he spluttered about extortion. Regardless, Ron placed three twenty-pound notes on the bar before being handed a miniature cauldron.

"You're bloody joking," he said in disbelief before his bearings caught up with him. He pretended as though he'd not spent years in classrooms trying to correctly brew potions, glancing perfunctorily at the shimmering, opalescent contents before tossing it back with two swallows.

Angus was giddy, draped all over him, telling Ron that he'd feel and see things he'd never experienced. "It's almost better than sex," he mouthed against Ron's neck, his nimble fingers skating over the bulge in Ron's jeans.

"Why doesn't everyone drink it, then?" Ron said roughly, more than a bit disappointed that he wasn't feeling the drink's effects instantaneously, given the cost.

"Too expensive," Angus said wistfully as he nipped along Ron's jaw before ferociously kissing him. "Let's go dance," he said as they broke apart, breathless with anticipation.

Ron had just begun to feel the drink work its languid way through his body, and with a jolt, he recognised the magical qualities to it. No wonder Muggles were so taken by it; even through his alcohol-drenched faculties he could tell there was a hint of Felix Felicis to it, as well as some herbal infusions and no small amount of something incredibly potent. The smoky tannin on his tongue from the potion made him think of Dark Magic, which amused him to no end. Euphoria seeped into every cell in his body, and Angus' face gleamed when he saw it was taking effect.

"I knew you'd love it!" he yelled joyously above the din of the crowded dance floor. It was where they'd ended up after Ron had practically bounded up the stairs, going two at a time.

"It's fucking amazing!" Ron yelled back, all at once at peace with all of humanity, not caring that he was miles from his family and friends, and willfully isolated from his Wizarding peers. The rapture he lolled in, like a child in raked leaves, didn't feel like a spell. On a fundamental level, however, he knew it must have those qualities. Drunk and buoyed by the sublime beverage, whatever it was, Ron threw himself into the sweaty, testosterone-driven melee, surrendering to his primal desires. Angus didn't seem to mind at all.

The next day Ron woke up in his small flat, still fully dressed but thankfully alone. Every nerve was on fire, clamouring for another taste of the potion he'd had the night before. It had to be a magical potion; it was absolutely impossible for Muggles to have come up with that on their own. He knew some about Muggle drugs and their ilk, but there was far more too it. Out of curiosity, he cast a series of wandless, unspoken spells, and discovered they came far easier than before. Ron wondered when that would pass, and where the creator of this haunting elixir lived. He'd ask Angus how long he'd known about it, and how it affected him. Angus was definitely a Muggle, and didn't have even a whiff of magic in him. But considering the other drugs Ron knew he took on occasion, Angus probably thought he was half-magic, depending on what chemical trash was littering his system. Still, Ron wasn't one to judge or to tell people how to live their lives. Though Angus resembled a seventh year, he was only a year younger than Ron, and he was smitten and devoted to Ron in a way that Ron couldn't bring himself to turn away.

He decided he'd find a way to bring some of the Sublime to his flat and distill it somehow, use an alembic to figure out the particular ingredients that made it so tantalysing. Really, though, he wanted that rush again, the warmth and bolt of ambric energy that had flooded through him. It had felt like zooming around on his broom, and liquid gold running through his veins, the zinging high at the crescendoed moment of orgasm, all rolled into one transcendent feeling that had lasted for about an hour. More than nearly anything else he'd ever desired in his life, he wanted to have that experience again.

Ron returned the next night, intending to pace himself. He planned to stay until closing to more easily cast needed spells to liberate a couple of cauldrons of Sublime. An Obliviate or two never hurt anyone, and he was desperate to know what was in it. And to taste it again. He downplayed whatever look was in his eyes that Angus made fun of, instead trying to turn the tables and make his companion — fuckbuddy? — feel badly.

"Why'd you even tell me about it if it's so addictive?" Ron asked from a strategic location between Angus' legs, the trousers pulled partway down and Ron's mouth mere inches from his rosy cockhead.

"Not everybody takes to it like you have," he said plaintively. Angus stretched his scarecrow arms above his head in the dim hallway, heavy with musk and the sticky remains of sucked-off hopes. "Oh fuck, Ron," he crooned in his suggestive brogue. "I'll give you something else to take your mind off. Promise I will, after this, fuck, yes…"

Ron wasn't interested in trying anything else. His only craving was for the fiery promise in Sublime, to let it sweep him to ecstasy and then for him to figure out how to make it for himself. Ron's musings strayed back to the hot pole of flesh in his mouth, and the vague spicy taste of Angus' cock as he sucked and swirled his tongue around it. Giving head gave Ron tremendous pleasure; he rubbed his palm against the trapped mound in his own jeans as he kneeled on the floor. Even though in different circumstances he'd never consider keeping company with a Muggle, drug-using poet, Angus was kind to him and a willing sexual partner. Plus he came with no emotional strings that Ron could tell. Ron took his time giving Angus a blowjob, letting his fingers tease around Angus' furred, puckered muscle as people walked by, paying them no mind at all. At last Ron picked up his pace, encouraging Angus to fuck his mouth until he came, silently. Angus' pale, aspen hands grasped limply at Ron like the trailing ribbons behind a sinking kite, his delicate mouth open as he slowly returned from his place of bliss.

"You're amazing," Angus said reverently, carding his fingers through Ron's hair as Ron sat back on his heels.

"Yeah," Ron smirked, standing up and kissing Angus deeply on the mouth. The kink of tasting himself on Ron's tongue was one that the Scot had told Ron about after their first blowjob— just a few weeks. Ron had barely been in Edinburgh for a month, but he'd let his inhibitions loose and decided he didn't care about society's perceptions of him. His Wizarding identity he held tightly wrapped, but he'd channeled his anger and hurt over Lee Jordan into a carnal carnival, even if was only with Angus. Who had led him to try Sublime, which gave Ron the most profound feeling of clarity, unbridled power and fucking joy he'd ever experienced.

"D'you want me?" Angus asked coquettishly. His slacks were still around his knees as he posed against the wall, quite obviously offering up his bony, sweet arse.

"Later," Ron promised and Angus grinned, drawing a line down one of the visible scars on Ron's cheek. The gesture suddenly seemed far more intimate than should have been possible in a rank corridor of a queer nightclub. Angus didn't know him at all; not Ron's past, not what chaos he could achieve in seconds were he to draw out his wand, currently shrunken down and in his sock. In Angus' liquid brown eyes, fawn-eyes, Ron had called them once when very drunk, there was trust, and it was misplaced. Ron's pulverised pride and indifference to the people around him meant that he shouldn't be trusted. Not yet.

"I'm going to the toilet," Ron said, turning abruptly on his heel and heading toward the thunderous music and riotous lights.

"I'll be dancing!" Angus called out to Ron's back.

Ron's plans went as well as could be expected, and he did take Angus hard and fast in one of the loo stalls a couple of hours later. He loved the open-winged design on the small of Angus' porcelain back; its subversive permanence caused Ron to think of getting his own tattoo, but he couldn't imagine what he'd want. Afterwards Angus slyly slipped a blue pill on Ron's tongue, which he swallowed without question. Angus took one as well before they returned to the dance floor. Ron had another few gimlets, drawn to them both for the biting tang of the lime but also the colour. He hung out by the bar for a time, smoking and chatting up a couple of blokes that he turned down when sexual advances were made. It wasn't that Ron felt loyalty to Angus, but he acknowledged to himself that there seemed to be a bit of dignity about being groped and sucked off in the semi-public when Angus did it.

Eventually the endless night wound down. Ron wasn't certain of what effect the pill that Angus had given him should have had, but Ron felt pretty cocky and strangely possessive, which didn't bother his lithe and ever-horny paramour. When the club finally closed, Ron lingered with a small group until the threat of the police loomed its head. Ron felt compelled to kiss Angus into oblivion, which he did after they'd tucked away in a nearby alley. Angus grew uncomfortable, fearful of the thugs and addicts who'd beaten him in the past.

"Come over to me place, please?" he asked throatily, rocking his pelvis into Ron's thigh. His greedy hands clutched to Ron's flank, and he sowed a barrage of kisses along Ron's neck.

"Okay. Got to get some things from my place first," Ron found himself saying. He was shocked both that Angus had asked him to stay the night, but also at how persuasively the lie had skipped off his tongue.

"Twenty-three Winthrop Circle, flat six. You'll come soon?" Angus murmured into Ron's ear, the worry and anticipation in his voice twisting Ron's conscience to an uncomfortable bruise even as he nodded.

"I will. See you soon. Get on," Ron growled as convincingly as he could. He swatted Angus on the arse as he zipped up his jacket and beamed from underneath his tousled hair. He walked spryly backwards a few steps until he turned and strode off into the chilled, deceitful night.

Once Angus was out of his line of sight, Ron cast a disillusion spell on himself, got out his wand and engorged it to regular size, and Apparated inside the club. He made a quick sweep for other people and once sure he was alone, he quietly made his way to the realm of the one-eyed bartender. The Sublime stores were locked away with a fairly ingenious set of Muggle locks on them, but they were no match for someone with magical skills. There, in a small row of carefully stoppered flasks, was the drink. "Potion," Ron reminded himself, grinning madly at how easy this part was. He'd half expected to have to use a couple of spells to get the corks out, but evidently whatever wizard made this had decided once he or she had been paid, whomever had purchased it had to figure out their own way to secure the potent contents.

He'd had every intention of just taking two of the containers back to his flat, but the pull to sample it again was all consuming. With shaking fingers, he eased out the stopper in one of the flasks and swirled it around. The phosphorescence in the liquid, which seemed to flow even in the stationary containers, entranced him. Ron put the glass to his lips, pouring a small trickle onto his tongue, letting out a low hum of bone-deep contentment as it flowed down his throat. He had to commend the maker; Sublime, or tampered Felix Felicis, whatever it truly was, was an exquisitely crafted, complex, unearthly nectar. One small taste only made him dizzy with the need for more; he put the flasks on the bar and sat on a stool, drinking from one until all of the heavenly concoction was gone.

Ron was possessed; the drink caused a hypergolic rapture in all of his body. He was living ecstasy. With the last shred of his common sense, he cast a silencing spell on the room and began to laugh with burbling waves of joy. He got up and danced around, unable to sit still and hearing the most marvelous, harmonious music from out beyond himself, perhaps the stars themselves. Soon he'd finished the second container as well. He was nearly through with the third before something in him seemed to sizzle and spark. There were sparks, he realised with an expansive grin. He flung out his arms and saw tiny blazes of fireworks shooting effortlessly from his fingers.

"For Fred!" he yelled giddily, sending showers of rainbow-hued constellations up to the ceiling to watch them flutter and spin. He was fucking invincible. He was a god on earth. He was omnipotent. Power pulsed and drummed in his blood; symphonies of bliss sang under his skin, throbbed in his cock, buzzed behind his eyelids.

All at once it became too much— the swirling miasma of unfettered self-knowledge, lust, and primordial ache started to break in him, trying to escape out of what he could now tell was too fragile a form to hold it all. He wanted to fly— wait, he could fly! He just needed his broom… unsteadily, falling over his feet as his body began to convulse and shake, he crashed and stumbled, trying to get outside. The chorus in his blood turned into wailing cries of distress and pain… was that him? He'd never heard such horrible, feral sounds, wolves howling their solitude into the night. There was a sickening smack of flesh hitting brick and stone; his eyes burned with tears for the poor creature, whatever it was. Pyres, there were flames in his eye sockets, a roar, an explosion and protecting his head — what the fuck? — Harry, Harry, I'm dying. Pain unbearable, a web of agony encasing him so lovingly. Ron shook with revulsion, trying to worm away from his tormentor. Take me, not Harry, fuckinghell, dyingdying letmefucking go, you bastard! Death Eaters! In Hogwarts! Don't make me take the Mark youfuckingbastards!

The world tumbled unforgivingly away. Blind and choking, Ron grasped at clammy skin. The pain was a redviolet wall, smacking and ricocheting through him as he felt his soul being torn out, root by shredded root. He screamed until he was nothing but voice. A maw of nothingness enfolded him, and too exhausted to be fearful, Ron dissolved into it.

* * * * *

Wispy shadows flitted languorously out of direct sight, but he sensed them there, on a horizon, somewhere. Somewhen. Clouds of crows? Sweeps of black, there-not-there as he lay, eyes wide shut against the flimsy throb of greenish light. Dark smudges circled, far distant. Celadon carrion. Celadon carrion. Cel — a — don — cair — i — on.

hide me. save me.

"You can build a fort in here, little bro. I'll even help you. There are no spiders in here, promise."

Limp sheets that smelled tartly of older brother were stretched and configured into tunnels and caves. A book read aloud in the protective shelter, of moon-eating dragons and talking trees.

The world dulled without her in it. She understood; she smelled like sunlight and crisp leaves. Fiery hair, fires in his veins, his special friend. Flowery friend.

Self-as-self wondered at the red-haired woman, at feelings that were his, but weren't. One of his eyes ached. Undulating, soft currents ghosted around and through him and he felt hollow, bereft of spirit, like he'd been carved out and filled with moss. Infinitely sad, he drifted off.

* * * * *

Mocking voices jeered, their scorn and ridicule cascading on him like relentless pebbles of hail. Never good enough! Who'd want you? Scathing laughter. You're not as smart as you think you are! Not handsome, not popular. You'll never be like them— they're only taking pity on you, Lilarry… not good enough…

The last words jumbled together. Self-as-self cowered under the onslaught, whimpering. "Make it stop," a voice rattled, and a warm pulse like hot steam soothed him.

"I don't know how," The Voice said in irritation.

He moaned at the rough grit of noise, shuddering into as tiny a ball as he could manage.

"You managed to snag part of me during your wild magic pyrotechnics. Trust me, I loathe this more than you can know."

Anguish poured out of him and he waited for oblivion to kiss it away, but it remained elusive. There was only luminous grey-green, and the shadows tricking him, slithering coyly just out of sight. The accusers had been chased away by The Voice, even though he was afraid, so afraid of Him. The Voice was displeased, and angry.

"I was far angrier at the time than I am now," He acquiesced, the syllables pouring over him like fragrant oil, sandalwood and musk.

Oh, self-as-self found that part appealing, and he tried to show Him, let Him know how he was affected. He wanted The Voice to pour into him, fill him up and burn fire back into the blood where dust motes danced instead.

There was a dark chuckle, but it bore no malice. Instead, an oozing melancholy and hopelessness touched him as warm fingers made contact, shattering his hazy cocoon.

"Yes, he groaned piteously. The shards of who he was twinkled in a far-off constellation. But he could see them, sense a becoming. He needed The Voice, a guide.

"Well, it has been quite some time since anyone has offered himself to me like that," the velvet tongue admitted caustically. He writhed under it, begging for a physical touch once again. "You're too fragile. I'm not even certain where you are, exactly. I wish I did. My life was far simpler before you re-appeared in it."

Oh, he never wanted The Voice to stop. He spread himself wantonly, praying to be held and used; he knew he was undesirable, but pity, for Merlin's sake—

Merlin?

A cacophony of remembered images rained across him, raking him raw. He couldn't protect himself as he was flayed open, unable to process it all. He screamed at the onslaught until his sobs smeared the red and black into a bruising fold of peace. He slept.

* * * * *

Celadon carrion. Cel — a — don — cair — i — on.

As he ascended into wakefulness he cringed instinctively, expecting more hateful words or violent light. There was only the grey-green, the colour of the hearts of glaciers that he'd seen in Harry's pictures taken during a trip to Iceland.

Harry…

Just out of his line of sight, diaphanous swirls seemed to play tricks like bats flitting in the dark.

"With us again, I see."

He wanted to weep at it, The Voice with its satin caress, a balm to his soul. "Take me," he whispered through a ruined throat, willing his body open wide, yearning to be touched even if, like before, it ground him to ash.

"Perhaps." The Voice was contemplative, but still maddeningly indifferent.

How could he make himself appealing? A tendril of memory teased its way into knowing, and Ron remembered chocolate eyes: two pair of them, and lips on his neck, one set thin, the other lush and full. He choked on it, wheezing as he sat up, universes exploding into being as he felt himself, knew self-as-self was Ronald Weasley. Like a marionette jerked on strings, he snapped his head around, trying to get his bearings.

"You'll find it easier to see if you take off the bandage. I think you're well enough now."

All at once Ron felt the tightness of a slender knot at the back of his skull and the pressure across his eyes. He ripped off the blindfold, yelping as light assaulted him. He squinched his eyes shut again, letting them adjust to what was actually a dark space. Shapes tried to form themselves in the murkiness, but he couldn't identify them, so they remained ambiguous, and he shuddered. A definitive movement caught his attention and he stared, his mind at last sliding the puzzle pieces together to comprehend a large raven sitting in a windowsill.

"You're still lost, aren't you?" The Voice asked, stroking Ron's skin like feathers. He stared at the coal-black creature with its beady eyes, its head tilted in a disconcertingly human fashion. A murmur of words, liquid nonsense, trickled through Ron's mind and he made a wounded sound. Comprehension was so close, but all he could do was let it wash through him, soak in it. And yet, understanding wheeled far away, an open dreamcatcher.

"You're a talking bird?" Ron muttered at last, scrambling to collect his dignity. In that effort, however, he was scooping sand against the incoming tide. Obviously he'd finally cracked and had been locked away.

"I'm not a bird." The Voice was haughty and clipped. It definitely came from the raven preening itself on the sill. "And no, you're not mad. Or no more so than usual. Do you know who you are?"

Ron nodded weakly, placing a hand to his chest and discovering he was naked. For reasons unknown, he didn't mind. This presence in the room had seen him in this state for some time, and Ron hadn't been harmed. The Voice hadn't told him such, but Ron knew it nonetheless. He'd not been violated, even though he could distantly remember putting himself on hopeful display.

"I'm Ron Weasley."

"Mmmm hmmm."

There was an edge to the buttery sounds, a burr scraping in the woolen softness. Ron knew The Voice. It shouldn't belong to the inky bird, which had opened its wings and flown over to perch on a chair next to the bed.

Ron was in a bed. That was a new realisation.

The Voice belonged to Snape.

Snape was dead.

Ron must be dead.

What had he done in his mortal life that was so horrible that he was now stuck in a room with a raven that talked with Snape's voice? Nobody had even suggested that the afterlife would be a nightmare like this. Harry had told him about his talk with Dumbledore when he'd died. Ron was naked, so that part checked out, unfortunately. He shivered, not ready to face his own demise, though it seemed irrefutable.

"Are you quite done with your morbid musings?" He asked snidely. "I'd really like for you to focus so I can align your ambric signature to mine, as risky as that is. Being a part of you in this state is driving me to drink."

Ron narrowed his eyes. The raven hadn't opened its beak, but it had spoken, sure enough. This was rubbish. He'd not been a bad person; he didn't deserve to spend eternity going even more insane than he already was! Tears burned under his eyelids at the injustice of it all. "Why me?" he lamented, putting his head in his hands.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!"

"What?" Ron yelled furiously. "I'm dead and I'm in a room with things I can't really see and a talking bird that sounds like Snape. I think I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself just for a few fucking seconds!"

The raven bristled indignantly, clicking its beak. To add insult to injury, it flicked up its tail and shat on the floor.

"Oh, nice," Ron sneered, pulling on his hair. "Why?" he cried out, as though anybody could hear and take pity on him. "I fought on the good side! I didn't kill anybody, though I sure could've. I know I hurt Hermione's feelings, but I was honest. I haven't done anything truly evil! Why, why, why," he moaned, rocking back and forth.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, you juvenile, pathetic ingrate," the raven said, The Voice now corrosive and much more how Ron remembered it from Potions classes, years ago. "I would have left you there to bleed to death, a waltz to my step as I walked away, if your magic hadn't trapped mine. Maybe it would have been worth the risk to cut off what I could…"

Ron could hear doubt and a profound revulsion in The Voice. He was suddenly very curious as to how he'd died. The question as to what had killed him was on his tongue when he paused. The crafty bird might tell him the truth, or it might well lie. It was obviously very clever, since it could sound so much like somebody out of Ron's past. Ron wished he'd gone to the place Harry had when he'd died. Thinking back on the conversation, Ron remembered that Harry had indicated that when he'd seen Dumbledore, it had been a temporary location. He would have moved on elsewhere, if he'd chosen not to return to his body. Maybe if Ron continued to bide his time, he'd be able to get out of here, and end up in a place that didn't have Snape-sounding crows.

"I'm not a bloody bird!"

"Yes you are! I see you right in front of me!" Ron screeched, pointing wildly at it. "You just sound like Snape! But he's dead! Harry saw him die!"

"Harry saw what he needed to see," Snape's Voice growled menacingly. "All those years as a Death Eater. All those miserable years of having to play both sides and he really thought I would be killed by Nagini? Harry was too naïve to be able to understand what had really happened right in front of him. I'd counted on that. You've been out in the world since the War was over. Have they ever found my body? HAVE THEY??!"

"No!" Ron yelled back. "Now I see why! You were an animagus, and nobody knew! Nice form! But you're still as fucking dead as I am!"

"FOR THE LAST TIME," The Voice said, the sound swelling to fill the small room, "NEITHER YOU, RONALD WEASLEY, NOR I, SEVERUS SNAPE, ARE DEAD."

"PROVE IT!!"

Ron's harsh breathing was the only sound for a few moments. He ran his hands through his wild hair, newly conscious of his nudity, as well as tenderness to his right eye socket, and a need to take a piss.

"I do not believe there is any way for me to do that."

"Oh, you can come up with something, I'm sure," Ron said, his words dripping sarcasm. "Is there a bathroom around here?"

"Yes," the raven said. "I don't suppose that would give you proof?"

"No. Definitely not."

Ron levered out of bed and found himself dizzy and swaying. It took him longer than he expected to get used to the feeling of the floor and the muscles in his legs flexing and stretching as he walked. Eventually he did what he needed to, taking long moments to evaluate himself in the mirror before returning. The bathroom did look like one used by a male, but there could be all kinds of detail in the afterlife, put there to make him believe he was still alive. As he glanced around the main room, which seemed like an ordinary, barely-furnished flat, much like his own, he wondered if he wouldn't prefer to be dead. Had anyone told his mother? Lee and George? Harry?

The raven appeared to scowl at him.

"Fine. You can read my mind, I'm not dead, you're Snape, and you're a big, ugly bird."

"I think that one of the many residual effects to your overdose has to do with your mind and perceptions. You believe that I'm dead, but some of your memories recognised my voice. To compensate for those two seemingly incongruous realities, you see me in the form of a raven."

With a sigh, Ron sat back down on the bed, fluffing a pillow and settling it behind his back to cushion against the wall. His brow furrowed.

"How do you know I overdosed? And on what? And if you're really Snape, whether an animagus or not, why did you save me? You've always hated me."

The raven looked to the left and right, preened its right wing, and then hopped down into the seat of the chair.

"Having you die in the street might well have meant the Muggles would have done an autopsy. They would have known it was the beverage you'd had. Your death would have been bad for business."

"That's your potion? Fucking hell. That makes sense," Ron mused, scratching under the hollow of his left arm. The bird seemed to take an immense interest in that, and Ron flushed, leaning down to a thin blanket at the end of the bed and draping it over his groin. "But how in Hades did you know I'd be there? What did you do?"

Ruffling its feathers, the raven adjusted its stance. "I had a Trace on the flasks and could tell they'd been tampered with. I had just Apparated outside the establishment when I saw you. Your wild magic was snapping everywhere, like whipping tentacles. You'd managed to bring down part of a wall on yourself, and had nearly succeeded in tearing out your own eye. Unfortunately, one of the side effects of taking antivenom for months on end has meant that my reflexes are not what they once were. Before I'd had a second to shield myself, a cord of your deranged energy seared itself into my ambric signature. I either had to take you with me, or vivisect a part of my own magic. I chose the former."

The explanation took its time settling around Ron as he tried to envision the scene. He remembered more, now; remembered Angus, and the club, the potion and how much he'd ingested. The potion… there must be stores of it, if Snape was making it!

"Oh, no. I have wards on my laboratory that would kill you if you tried to enter. I would think after your recent experience, you'd never want that substance again."

"It's addictive. Angus didn't bother to tell me that," Ron said in frustration, his body beginning to buzz with the anticipation of sampling the Sublime again, even just a few drops.

"I won't apologise for making it, and I know it's addictive," Snape's Voice said silkily. "I needed to earn a living, and it's been quite lucrative. But while you and I are still joined in this unfortunate union, you shan't have any."

"You're a heartless prick," Ron fumed, speaking without thinking, as he often did.

"I assure you, both my heart and prick are fully present and functional."

Heat bloomed in Ron's chest and began journeying upward. He could feel the flush on his skin creeping up his neck. There was no way he was turned on by Snape, not maybe-not-dead Snape, certainly not Death-Eater-Snape who, to all intents and purposes, looked like a large raven. Ron's tastes were quite tame in the same-sex category, and he was not even considering anything kinky involving bestiality. He didn't care how dead or how not-dead-but-crazy he was.

"You could let me go for a walk. That way I'd know I was alive, and sane," Ron said suddenly. "Where am I, anyway?"

"Edinburgh. And no, I cannot let you do that yet. I have to find a way to sever this joining, first, perhaps heal the lesion on my ambric topography. Then you will be free to go."

Ron felt suffocated in the small room, felt as though the weight of self-knowledge and his tenuous sanity was far too much to bear. And Severus Snape? Alive? Making an addictive drug to sell to Muggles? It was all too much. He needed a drink.

"That I can provide. There's a bottle of Bitter Banshee in the kitchen. Help yourself. I need to spend some time in my laboratory now that I'm reasonably certain you're not going to try and harm yourself or moan so loudly I can't concentrate."

"You've…" It should have been obvious, but it still struck Ron with the subtlety of a Bludger to the head. "You've been taking care of me."

The raven blinked repeatedly at him. Even in bird form, Snape made Ron feel as clever as a tree stump.

"But only because somehow my magic did something to yours. I know I didn't intend that, by the way," Ron said stubbornly. "Wait— how long have I been here? Assuming I am alive, my mum'll be frantic. Harry, too."

"I have already seen to that. Molly Weasley knows that you are alive, but unable to communicate, and any efforts on her part or anyone else's to find you will result in a cessation of correspondence. You have been living in my home for eleven days, thus far."

"What about Angus? Oh, wait. You wouldn't know him." Ron was feeling layer upon layer of guilt now, even though he'd never in a thousand years expected to owe a life debt to Snape. Those were serious business, even if the rest of the world believed Snape to be dead.

"The druggie Muggle who's been keeping a vigil of sorts at that shirt-lifter venue? Yes, apparently he misses you and thinks your sudden absence is his fault. Before you ask, I've used Legillimency on him, and Obliviated him afterwards. I was curious; I will not be apologising for that, either. You two had an unconventional, if seemingly mutually satisfying arrangement."

"Yeah."

A puzzle piece chose at that moment to snap into place in his mind, resolving something that had seemed off ever since he'd gone to the bathroom. His eyes— the eyes that had gazed dubiously back at him in the mirror over the sink were a grey-hazel colour, not at all his own blue. He bolted up from the bed, rushing back into the bathroom, staring wide-eyed at himself, and his decidedly non-blue irises.

"I am dead! Or I've been tampered with! What have you done?" he yelled, the sounds from his throat a wailing cry. He stomped into the main living area, a hand jabbing at his face. "I have blue eyes," he insisted.

"In times of extreme stress or, in your case, a period of excruciating pressure to your magic and the alchemic force of my potion infusing with your ambric energy, people's eyes have been known to change colour. What of it?" Snape asked, appearing genuinely curious.

"I THINK YOU'RE LYING!" Ron roared. The hysteria that had been undulating just below the surface finally erupted in a torrent of rage and fear. He barked a dark laugh of despair before turning his back on the raven and walking to the wall, which he began to punch repeatedly. "I'VE LOST MY MIND!" he screamed before pressing his aching hand palm-first against the wall, and his left hand joined it. He leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the wall, ragged breaths shuddering from his lungs.

As his pulse started to slow and his right hand began to pulse with pain, he heard Snape say in a voice far more seductive than it had any right to be, "I have a suggestion."

"What?"

Ron spat the word against the plaster, remaining immobile.

"You felt me before, when your eyes were shut. You didn't feel wings, did you, but hands?"

Ron wracked his brain, which felt like a congealed mass of nut-filled fever fudge. "I think so," he said plaintively. "Why? You want to cop a feel? Think that'll prove anything?"

"You did offer yourself quite prettily to me on multiple occasions in your delirium," Snape said, his voice like the smooth trail of a whip before it cracks, igniting the skin with a strip of pain. Ron had tried that once, and had decided that being flogged wasn't at all for him.

"I did," Ron admitted, struggling with frustration, trying to grasp his snatches of memory, as elusive and impossible to hold as shadows or moonlight. "Your voice sometimes sounds like sex. I couldn't help it."

There was the sussurative chill of a banishment spell. Ron took a quick intake of breath at the presence of a warm, thin, male body behind him.

"Keep your eyes closed, for now," Snape suggested, no longer just The Voice, but most assuredly a man. The heady richness of his voice in the delicate cavern of Ron's ear caused a stirring of arousal between his legs. "I'll put your bandage back on. I can prove to you that I am indeed quite human and not avian. Perhaps then your mind will allow you to see me as I truly am."

Ron's traitorous cock now hung heavy against his thigh, gooseflesh rising on his arms and his heart rate increasing from anticipated pleasure, not anxiety. Surely this was insanity, wasn't it? Shagging Snape to prove he wasn't a raven, and that Ron was Ron, albeit now with eyes the colour of a mossy rock, and hidden away with a non-dead former Death Eater? The cold cloth was bound around his eyes, and he didn't resist. Snape pulled him upright from the wall so that Ron's back now pressed against a lean torso, much like Angus' near-skeletal frame. Hipbones jutted into Ron's arse, and a wide, semi-erect pole of flesh fit securely between his arsecheeks.

"Do you trust me?" Snape's voice was as sweet and lethal as poisonous honey.

"No."

"Good. You're not nearly as mad as you fancy yourself to be. I won't hurt you," Snape promised, guiding Ron to lie down on the bed which was now much larger than it had been earlier. "Unless you'd like that."

"I'm not very kinky," Ron said, trying to make the swirling imagery in his mind fade away. He didn't want to imagine what Snape looked like, he wanted to focus only on how he felt. Which was, to Ron's immense disbelief, intensely erotic.

"I'll give you something to concentrate on."

The smoky timbre of Snape's words seemed to curl around Ron's cock, teasing it into the hardest granite, lifting up towards his belly. Ron was eased into a seated position, leaning against a sturdy headboard. Snape was obviously using his wand to change elements of the room and bed before Ron felt the mattress dip at the sides of his thighs. He smelled musk and dry leaves, the scent of Snape's groin, as the head of Snape's cock was placed at the hollow of his throat. Spongy skin over the thickened rod was drawn up his neck and rubbed against his jaw. Since his eyes were closed and covered by a blindfold, all of the rest of Ron's senses strained to the fore. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and darted out his tongue, licking across the mostly-hidden crown of Snape's cock. He marvelled at the substantial foreskin, at the unexpected hint of lemon and parchment that hovered, halo-like, about the hot skin until Snape pushed into Ron's mouth. He moaned around the shaft, at how much he enjoyed sucking and licking the wide organ, not caring whose body it was attached to.

"Your talents are better honed than I'd expected," Snape said, the breathless, ragged words making Ron's blood pulse loudly to his own ears.

Ron's mouth was too full to answer. Besides, he preferred to demonstrate just how skilled he was rather than try to come up with a sarcastic retort. Snape didn't speak in words for a time, though low rumbles rained down on Ron. Snape sighed and groaned in pleasure with the purr of a motorbike. Due certainly to their unintentional link, Ron caught fragments of Snape's thoughts, of his need to possess and also his aversion to feeling any kind of connection. Severus wanted to fuck him; wanted to know how it would feel to take the body that had been displayed for him like a ripe pomegranate, fiery and decadent.

Ron's prick ached. His mind had finally been subdued by the assault on his tactile self, and he was free to surrender to his carnality. There was no right or wrong in this netherland, this limited otherworld in which Ron found himself. Nothing would make him less sane nor more whole than to be soundly shagged by the man kneeling around him: a man Ron had known to be dead who had regretfully saved Ron's life, whose potion had driven Ron to near insanity in the first place.

Ron pulled back from Snape's pelvis with a gasp. "Fuck me."

"Oh, I shall."

There seemed to be a practised efficiency to Snape's movements as he knee-shuffled down Ron's body, hovering briefly over Ron's cock. Snape's tongue flicked teasingly around the head and Ron instinctively reached out his hand to run his fingers through his hair. It was the briefest of indulgences Snape bestowed on Ron's shaft, sucking the top for a few moments, enough for Ron to groan at the feeling of such a foreign mouth on his sensitive flesh. This was Snape, his former professor, former enemy, and unwitting saviour. He clenched his arsecheeks, canting his hips up so Snape would take more of his prick in his mouth, but Snape had other plans.

"It's a lovely cock," Snape observed, his voice warm but ironic, a rusty velvet sound. "I trust you'll take care of it."

There was a murmur and Ron sensed more than heard something fly into the room. He hoped it was lube. As he heard the distinctive wet schlurping sound of a cock being slicked through a closed palm, Ron let his legs open. It was with some resistance that his knees splayed, as though they were creaky hinges on a seldom-used gate. Ron was no virgin to this activity; he'd been rogered far more than once, though it had been with partners he'd actually cared for. Not that that necessarily mattered, but the fact that his feelings for Snape were decidedly ambivalent only added to the surreality of their coupling.

Snape gave no preamble or warning. He cast a cleansing spell that tingled and warmed Ron's channel and then put the bulbous head of his cock at Ron's hole and pushed.

"Oh fuck," Ron moaned as the greased width pressed into him. He winced, trying not to clamp around Snape's cock, knowing that would really hurt. The burning pain would pass, and he felt Snape's smug pride as he fully sheathed himself deep in Ron's body. Like leaves blown in a gust of wind, swirling without pattern, some of Snape's thoughts fell into Ron's understanding: sex as sport; affections snubbed; lips around his cock; being brutally fucked in anger; steely grey eyes with a hint of lust; Ron's own pliant body in open invitation.

Slowly at first, Snape eased his hips back and forth as Ron began to relax and took his flagging erection in hand. Ron was disconcerted by how quiet Snape was; he'd been sure there would have been a ceaseless, filthy monologue uttered from Snape's tongue. Instead, it was Ron making needy, rolling waves of groans and uncreative "oh fuck"s, willing Snape to pick up his pace.

"Lift up your leg. The left one," Snape ordered, and Ron did, shifting his body sideways. Snape was relentless, pummeling Ron's arse with steady thrusts. He changed his angle and began sliding past a pleasure point deep in Ron's body.

"Fuck, you feel good," Ron rasped out, grabbing hold of the headboard with one hand for leverage. "Let me put both legs up."

Snape slowed his movements as Ron eased his other leg so they were both draped on Snape's shoulders. He tugged at a pillow underneath his head, loosening his blindfold as he did, and nudged the pillow under his arse.

"I want to see you," Ron said, slightly ashamed of the fear he could hear colouring his voice. The man was balls deep in him, but if Snape's face was disfigured or glamoured to look like someone else…

"I look as I always have, at least to you," Snape said, offering no real reassurance. "But I do believe this experiment has worked, and you'll see me as I truly am."

Shielding his eyes against the light, Ron pulled the fabric off. He needn't have worried about it being too bright; Snape had cast the room into a murky dark. There was enough light for Ron to be able to see the once-familiar hooked nose, thin lips, glittering black eyes, and — short hair. It made Snape's face seem different, not any more handsome, but instead, he looked less severe. The Dark Mark was present too, of course, but greatly faded, almost unnoticeable.

"Are we done, then?" Snape asked smoothly, though he'd begun sliding his cock in and out again at a more languorous pace.

"No." Ron's voice was strangled as the reality — or seeming reality — seeped into his body, starting with the primal ache low in his guts as Snape continued to fuck him, deep and slow. "We've only just started."

Snape's stamina was phenomenal. They changed positions a few times as the shagging went on and on. A cushioning and warming charm was cast against the floorboards and Ron found himself with his legs over his head, feet bouncing on the floor. Snape pounded into him again and again, Ron's arse high in the air, a willing portal for Snape's unflagging cock. At last Ron was on his hands and knees on the bed, one hand twisting the coverlet into a wrinkled clump, the other hand slicked with Snape's lubricant and wanking himself furiously. His mind had gone blissfully blank, as untroubled and inert as a blackboard. Every nerve and all of the blood in his body seemed to throb between his legs. His moans and chants of "fuck, yeah" grew louder. He could tell by the rising pitch in Snape's voice that his release was inevitable.

"Come on me, fuck, oh fuck, on my back," Ron babbled, his hand flying up and down on his own shaft, ramming himself back on Snape's cock until it was yanked out of Ron's body with a preoccupied, grunting noise.

Snape continued to rub against Ron's arsecheeks and seconds later, Ron felt the warm fluid fall in spatters on his back. It pushed him over the edge, that and the fathomless, erotic sighs punctuating the room as Snape's orgasm overtook him. Ron cried out as he came, the waves of built-up tension careening out of him. He was left gasping and panting, his head lolling toward the ruined coverlet and pillows. Eventually he raised his head and turned to look over his shoulder. Snape seemed to be in his own world, staring at the mess on Ron's spine and breathing shallowly through his mouth.

"D'you mind cleaning us up?" Ron asked, suddenly feeling exposed and fighting off panic, like a fish flopping hopelessly on the deck of a boat.

"Yes. Of course."

Once the physical evidence of their coupling was gone, Snape immediately got dressed with efficient ease and soon was sitting on the chair across from the bed. Ron was too well used to do anything quickly. He was sore, albeit in a good way, and sluggish, and still in a state of shock at the very male and very real presence of Severus Snape. With whom he'd just had athletic, bone-melting, quite memorable sex. Quite obviously the world really had gone absolutely batshite, though this particular turn of events seemed to have its perks of a disturbing nature.

"Why couldn't I see you properly before?" he asked, pulling the sheet and bedspread up from where they'd been half-torn from the mattress.

Snape shrugged, looking keenly at him with an expression strangely absent of emotion or judgment.

"As I told you before, I think your mind was still too overwrought, too weak and damaged to see things as they truly are. Now that your basest desires have been satisfied, your brain feels it's acceptable to trust what it perceives. Drink?" Snape's long fingers had already gestured toward the kitchen.

"Yes, please."

Nothing sounded better. Well, getting out of there, alive and unspoiled and taking whatever vow he had to so Snape would let him go, that sounded pretty fantastic. Bitter Banshee would have to make do in the meantime. Snape poured them both healthy servings of the vivid green drink, a Wizarding concoction Ron had sampled a few times with Seamus. Out of habit, Ron's arm raised partway to a toast before Snape's arched eyebrow and potent disapproval caused him to put the glass to his lips instead. Foregoing niceties, he tossed back two burning swallows, belching a diaphanous lime-coloured haze and pardoning himself.

"Of all people to have bound to me," Snape muttered, downing a goodly amount himself.

"I'm not that bad!" Ron insisted, sifting through his shredded pride and resurfacing anger at being trapped. "You've even said Angus has been hanging around Clan of Brothers, waiting for me."

Snape peered disparagingly down his nose. "Your companion before him left you to pair up with your brother."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Ron snarled, any hint of comradeship to the man he'd just shagged vanishing faster than the Snitch at a Quidditch match. "You h ad no right to go rummaging around in my memories!"

"I didn't want them! How many times do I have to tell you before you actually listen to what I'm saying?" Snape said, the hostility in his voice sparking a frisson of fear down Ron's spine. He was definitely the one at risk here; Ron doubted he was at full strength of any kind, his scrambled and dubiously sane mind least of all. He'd have an advantage on Snape with brute force, but instinctively he knew his reflexes were beyond the pale in being pathetic. Ron wasn't even sure that his wand hadn't been broken, or that Snape hadn't locked it up somewhere.

"Clever of you to think of that now," Snape said ominously.

Ron took another swallow, glaring back at him. He'd survived all sorts of near-death experiences during the War; now was not the time to let his fear get the best of him. Besides, if Snape had wanted to kill him, it would have been easy enough for him to have done so during the not-quite-fortnight when, instead, Snape had been nursing him back to some kind of health.

"I do have your wand— it's unharmed. But you can't have it until this excruciatingly invasive link has been broken." Snape sat back, crossing his legs in a fluid motion.

"You seem to be able to hear loads more thoughts in my head than I can in yours," Ron said sullenly. He was fatigued to the marrow, and the liquid caress of the Bitter Banshee threatened to lull him into complacency. Still, the one-sidedness to this bond he couldn't perceive seemed awfully suspicious.

"Doubtless because I am an accomplished Legillimens." Snape's crisp words hung in the air. "Unwittingly, your thoughts are amplified and I sense them clearly. The inverse also holds true; I am able to block you when necessary. Neither you nor I want you to be wandering around in my musings."

"I know that I had some thoughts that weren't mine," Ron said, doggedly pressing on. "I don't really remember them, though. Everything was in such a fog, but some of your memories, I think— there was a mess of yours and mine."

Snape cleaned under his pinkie fingernail with the nail on his thumb. "To be candid, I've not experienced anything quite like this, and I do not have many answers. When I sense your thoughts creeping curiously in, I use Occlumency to keep them at bay."

He raised his head, tilting it slightly, and gazed at Ron with open appraisal. There wasn't a hint of malice, only an unblemished curiosity that, combined with his short hair, made him appear, just for a moment, like an ordinary man. "The sex was good, wasn't it?"

Ron couldn't help it, but he flushed scarlet at his ears and down his neck. This was fucking ridiculous.

"Yeah, Snape, actually it was. Trust me— I don't want to know how you learned to do what you did. Really."

He finished his drink, adjusting the covers so that they were pulled partway up his abdomen. The wall felt cold and clammy behind his back, but he was tired and couldn't force himself to sit up straight.

"Another?" Snape picked up the bottle with its lurid viridian contents.

"A little bit. Then I'm going to have a lie-down. Sorry," he said, holding out his glass as Snape poured a few fingers' worth. "Sorry that this happened. It's my fault for drinking so much of your potion, but its Angus' fault for telling me about it." He twisted his mouth to the side, wondering if Angus would even care about him by the time he got out of Snape's flat. Chagrinned, Ron realised he really missed him. He hoped he hadn't gone straight off to someone else, though given how clingy he'd been around Ron, chances were he'd started hanging about some other bloke after a couple of days. Or just fucking him.

"He did, but he was worried about you," Snape said matter-of-factly, unfurling from the chair and taking his glass and the bottle into the kitchen. "I didn't think he was much to look at, but he does seem disturbingly loyal to you, especially since you apparently haven't bothered to share with him that you're not a Muggle."

"You're not possibly analysing my relationship. It's not even a relationship," Ron said slowly, thinking that Snape doling out commentary on his experiences with Angus would be the final straw that meant he'd totally cracked. St. Mungo's for life would be his sentence after Snape let him free. Angus wouldn't even know where to find him…

"You've thought about him a great deal." Snape's voice carried from the kitchen whence a delicious scent of tomato soup suddenly appeared. "Maybe he is just somebody to fuck on a regular basis. It's not my business, nor any concern of mine. What I do care about you being healed enough so that I can perform the necessary spell to sever your ambric pattern from mine."

Snape walked toward the bed, holding a steaming bowl of soup placed on a saucer. "Here. Doubtless you're hungry. Eat something before you go dozing off again."

Ron accepted the soup gratefully, as well as a small plate of crackers that came gliding over and landed next to him on the bed. "Aren't you going to eat?"

"Later. I really do need to spend some time in my laboratory and then I'll fend for myself." He sat down again and reached into a pocket of his robes, pulling out an irregularly shaped bit of golden something Ron didn't recognise.

"What's that?" he asked. "The soup's excellent, by the way. Thanks."

Snape nodded his acknowledgement. "Crystalised ginger. Would you like one?"

"I'll take one and have it for afters," Ron said, stifling a yawn rather unsuccessfully. "Sorry. I'm just really tired."

"You should be."

Ron's lip quirked; he immediately thought Snape was referencing their pretty tremendous shag. Snape looked smug enough, but also as though he knew something secretive that Ron didn't. Ron glanced down at his empty bowl. He'd not even used a spoon, he'd just wolfed it down, drinking it as quickly as he could without scalding his tongue. Snape was a master of potions, for Merlin's sake, and Ron hadn't even for a second contemplated that it might have been tampered with. Panicked, he looked wildly at Snape's amused black eyes.

"It's amazing that you survived the war, Ronald," Snape drawled, the dark mahogany of his voice somehow soothing Ron's racing heart, now thudding in his chest. Ron was a fucking idiot.

"I can't trust you," he croaked, the cottony tendrils of a sleeping draught making their inexorable claim on him.

"No. But I've not harmed you yet, have I?"

Ron wilted against the bed as Snape took the plate and bowl from him and strode to the kitchen. Moments later he sat on the side of the bed. Ron had burrowed underneath the sheet and coverlet, and unfolded a blanket to add more warmth. He didn't want to fall asleep, but between the exhaustion of all of the awareness that had burst around him, the frenetic sex, and doubtless a highly potent sleeping potion, there was not resistance he could try and put up. Pliant, strong fingers carded through Ron's shaggy hair with a tenderness that seemed out of place, and yet Ron couldn't help but shift his head in the hopes that Snape would do it for a short while longer.

"Sleep well."

* * * * *

Weak sunlight doggedly stirred Ron from sleep. He stretched, joints cracking, noting the scent of chamomile tea. His eyes flew open and he bolted upright; he was still in Snape's small flat. Ron was pelted by truths and recent memories, including exhaustive sex and noting that the raven he'd been seeing as Snape seemed to be gone. Now the former Potions Master and man whose Sectumsempra had ripped off George's ear sat at a breakfast table, drinking tea and reading the London Times.

"I've got to get out of here," Ron said, panic rising in his gorge with the acrid tang of nausea.

Snape lowered his newspaper and arched an eyebrow at him, but said absolutely nothing. That infuriated Ron. He wasn't a hostage or a fucking sex slave, and life debt be damned, he was leaving. After he went to the bathroom. Mere moments later he stood at the door to the flat, in the same clothes and coat he'd worn that fateful night at Clan of Brothers, still half-expecting the large raven to appear.

"You won't get far," Snape said, the words leaden and sardonic. "Merlin knows I tried."

"I don't know what you're on about," Ron snapped, yanking the door open. "Thanks for taking care of me. But I really hope I never see you again."

"You won't last fifteen minutes," Snape said dryly, munching on a piece of toast. "But don't take my word for it. Not that you would."

"Bye."

Ron closed the door firmly behind him and breathed deeply of freedom and mundane, Muggle, low-class housing. He had no idea what Snape had been talking about, but he vowed to put the whole incident behind him and get back to London. As he clomped down the stairs to the street, he did feel a tenderness and irritability building in his chest. It was as though an old wound had flared back, and in his confusion and increasing exasperation, Ron rubbed at the scars on his bicep, wondering if somehow Snape had infected or reanimated their power. It was nothing, he decided, once out on the footpath, trying to get his bearings. The scars were dormant, but his whole body felt on the cusp of desperate flight back upstairs to the flat where Snape was drinking his herbal tea.

"What's going on?" he muttered under his breath, forcing his heavy, impossible steps away from the block of flats. With every once of energy he dragged himself to the newsagent's he saw on the corner two streets up the way on the kerb.

Each stride was more painful than the last; it was as though he were a tree in a giant's grasp, his roots being pulled up out of the earth with excruciating agony, but not in a physical way. He endured the acute discomfort and made it to the newsagent's. The blood roared in his ears; he could barely hear what the man said as Ron produced some Muggle currency with shaking fingers. He paid for the chocolate sweets before turning back to the direction of the flat. Ron managed not to run, but he covered the two blocks walking as fast as his feet could carry him, bursting through the door with a near-sob of relief. He caught his breath, rubbing vexedly at the damp at his eyes. Snape used his wand to close and lock the door before casting a silencing spell.

"What the fuck have you done?" Ron roared, the fury in him propelling him to the table, his arms out to choke Snape with his very hands.

"I've done nothing, you catastrophic excuse for a wizard," Snape said through gritted teeth. He'd stood up and the energy radiating from him as he glowered was so malevolent that it stopped Ron in his tracks. "It's your bloody magic that's seared to mine. Do you think it's been a picnic for me not being able to go out? I'm behind on my production of Woebegone because I can't Apparate. I had just freed my owl from its terms of service—"

Ron silenced him with a desperate, livid kiss. He was shocked at how wet Snape's mouth was; why he'd imagined it to be as dry and smooth as parchment or snakeskin, he didn't know. He jabbed his tongue into Snape's mouth and Snape's own tongue duelled against it. He pulled Ron to him with talon-like fingers.

"I hate this. I hate you and whatever you've done," Ron snarled, huffing as they fought, grappling each other in a confusing wrestle of loathing and relief from the bruising pain of separation.

"Your. Bloody. Wild. Magic," Snape ground out as he shoved Ron against a wall, his wiry arms possessing astonishing strength. "I should have severed the link, but I knew I couldn't cauterize it properly with Muggles coming."

Ron was grinding into Snape's thigh, his hands tenaciously latched to Snape's slender arse like a dog to a bone. "You only saved me so your magic didn't get any more damaged," he stated with contempt before sucking hard on the side of Snape's neck.

The time apart just going down the street had been terrible. This was madness, and it had to change, but Ron was overwhelmed by the weight that had been lifted once he'd returned. He was undone by fondness and appreciation for Snape, though at the same time he wanted nothing more than to hex him back to the Founder's Age.

"I'm a survivor, you cretin," Snape spat, his spindly fingers making short work of the button and zip on Ron's jeans. "I don't need any more perceived deaths in front of Gryffindors. Once was quite enough."

Ron wrenched his jeans down his thighs before pressing bodily against Snape's torso, his hands snaking under the woolen jumper to deal with the buttoned fly on Snape's trousers. Once unfastened, Ron peeled them down his legs with his boxers, taking a moment to admire the pale cock starting to waken from its thick nest of black curls. "Only the little deaths for you from now on?" Ron said smugly before licking a swath up the stubbled side of Snape's jaw. One of his hands was wrapped around Snape's cock, pulling up and down while the other hand grasped the back of Snape's scalp.

"So it seems."

The self-satisfied smirk in Snape's expression smudged and softened a bit as Ron pressed his erection into Snape's, wanking them both. He breathed heavily into Snape's ear, surprised to note that he was a couple of inches taller than his former professor. The hefty weight of their shafts felt comforting in Ron's hand; he moved his other hand to brace himself against the wall, rutting his groin into Snape's as he rolled the white skin of Snape's earlobe in his teeth. It was totally fucked up, all of it, but the passion was scorching.

Like fog rolling down from a mountain, Snape's silken groans grew louder until Ron was enveloped in them. He sighed loudly himself, the scalding friction of their cocks an exquisite pleasure that he both wanted to last forever and to be over quickly with a shattering orgasm. Then they could have a civilised conversation, wands pointed directly at each other if necessary, maybe have a last shag, and Ron would be on his way. Snape arched into Ron's wide palm and with one hand, held Ron's chin in a viselike grip. He pushed two fingers into Ron's mouth, which he lapped at eagerly. Ron wasn't surprised when the fingers found their way down the crack of his arse and then into his channel. He'd never really been fond of that, but Snape managed to do something that sent fireworks up his spine and made his knees quiver.

"Holy fuck," Ron moaned, taking precious seconds to lick at his palm before resuming their mutual masturbation.

"Unholy, perhaps," Snape muttered, even the derision in his voice as warm and decadent as melted chocolate.

Ron had no words to reply to that. There was only hot skin in his hand, the tension building in his sacs, and rutting up against Snape, claiming his mouth with kisses that somehow felt like doing battle. He felt his orgasm rushing up and pulled away from Snape, breathing heavily and groaning as the release shuddered out of him, making milky trails over his fingers. Snape eased his fingers out of Ron and took himself in hand until he came, eyes shut and mouth open in a grimace of pleasure. Ron let his hand that hadn't been around his cock move so it was at the base of Snape's spine, providing himself with an anchoring point as their breathing slowed. He didn't know what to think, having never been driven to have sex when so angry, but it had been intense and neither of them seemed harmed for it.

"Tergeo," Snape muttered, placing a dry kiss on Ron's jaw before Ron stepped back, putting himself back together and zipping up. Snape did the same, running his hands through his short hair seemingly absent-mindedly, and then went into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asked. "Or something stronger?"

"Something stronger."

Ron had no qualms about the fact that he liked to drink, and he didn't care what time of day it was.

"What would you like?"

"You have any firewhiskey?"

"I do."

Not knowing what else to do, Ron pulled one of the two chairs from the table and sat down. He rubbed at the hair on his jaw, all at once realising that he had the goings for a decent beard at this point. Intrigued, he stood up and went into the bathroom to look at it, to regard himself, with his non-blue eyes and auburn growth on his face. Aside from the very unsettling colour to his eyes, the rest still looked very familiar, which was reassuring.

"Ronald. Come here, please."

He had no choice but to obey. Back in the living room, Snape stood, the glass of firewhiskey on the table and a cup of tea in his hands.

"Did you put anything in it?"

Ron felt he had to ask, though he didn't believe that he could trust Snape's response, regardless of what he said.

"I didn't. And no, you needn't believe me, but I want to do the spell that will, at long last, unbind us. If nothing else, you can trust me in that I want that to happen sooner rather than later."

"Oh, I believe you," Ron said, taking the drink and swallowing it in its entirety. He leaned back, feeling the warm trail as it slid down, the chemicals in it giving him the readiness to tell Snape he was ready for whatever it was they needed to do. Sitting upright, he placed the glass on the table with a thunk. "Where should I be? What do I need to do?"

"Why don't you lie down on the bed? I'll be doing most of the work, so if you can try to quiet your mind, that would be most appreciated."

Ron couldn't help but roll his eyes. "I'll try. Just don't go prodding in there, all right? You've already found out all of the juicy parts."

"Merlin knows I regret it."

"You would."

His jibes used up, Ron lay down on the bed. He closed his eyes, and slowly found himself drawn into the monophonic, soothing syllables that Snape incanted. He could almost see the net woven around him, feel the traceries and strokery as Snape caressed him with dark words, draping him in a foreign, but comforting cocoon. Ron felt the tugging on him, sensed the resistance his body put up, but he willed it to let go, hearing Snape's encouragement as he did so. He didn't need to have this other, gypsy-like interloper on him; much better to give it back. Yes.

Yesssssssss.

The sibilants on Snape's tongue dripped of sex and succulence. Ron felt a release and abandonment he hadn't counted on, but he tried to stay as quiet and as still as possible.

"So. Are we done?" he asked at last.

"Not quite."

The threat in Snape's tone torched through Ron, and he sat up, his fingers itching to grasp at his wand. It resided in Snape's left hand. He held it reverently, which gave Ron a bit of a thrill until he realised that it was pointed straight at him. Snape's own wand was aimed directly at Ron's heart, which began racing.

"What are you doing? I did what I could! We're separated. I can tell, and you know it," Ron said, every word an entreaty.

"We are separated. Thank Merlin." Snape's thumbs and pointer fingers slid decadently on the wands in his two hands. "But I can't just let you go. I need a repayment, of sorts. I surrendered a good many memories as a part of my 'death,' and I suspect you have a few that I might find interesting. I will Obliviate you, of course. No doubt you'll swear up and down that you won't tell a soul about me, but I know eventually you will slip up. Excuse me. I must get a bowl for you to put your memories in."

Snape rose from his chair and went to a room down the corridor. Ron sat, flabbergasted and absolutely horrified. It wasn't as though he was going to do anything with the memories, but to have the entirety of two weeks of his life, taken, and he'd never, ever know what had happened… And what was Snape going on about, Ron giving up some other memories? He began beating on the wall, anger overtaking him

"For the love of Merlin! Stop that!" Snape's voice carried through the flat, but Ron didn't care. Even the traumatic memories, they were his, and now Snape was going to take them.

"It's not fair!" Ron yelled.

"Shut up."

The voice was icy, and there was no bargaining in it. "I'm giving you your wand. You will take three memories that are of worth to you, and you will do so now. Put them in this container."

A cerulean glass bowl was put on the bed. Ron stared at it. Snape was serious. Ron treasured all of his memories, he couldn't just pick three on a whim and give them up! And if — when — he was Obliviated, he wouldn't know why they were gone. This was a rape of his own past.

"NO. They're mine. Snape— they're mine! You can't just have them!"

"Yes, actually, I can. According to the rest of the world, I'm dead. I plan to remain that way. Giving up a few memories for me to savour over time is the least you can do as thanks for my saving your life."

"You're perverse."

"You have no idea. Pick three, and make them relatively interesting. I'll glance at them, once they're in the bowl. If you choose ones that are obviously of little value to you, I'll cast the killing curse faster than you can say Weasley."

"Fuck you," Ron growled, holding his wand to his temple.

"That's a good boy."

Ron ignored the churning, twisting knots in his stomach as he ruthlessly, but with increasing despair went through his memories. How in Hades could he pick three that not only he'd be forever parted from, but that Snape would deem worthy, somehow?

"What you're making me do is unspeakable!" Ron yelled.

A melancholy smirk settled on Snape's lips. "I've done so very much worse than this. Just give them to me and you'll go out into the world, relatively unharmed. Maybe your Angus will be there to take you back."

"What the fuck will I be able to tell him? People don't just disappear for two weeks and not remember anything. You're a bastard," he snarled.

"I should have looked out for my own safety, first and foremost. Instead, I saved you. And we've spent some memorable time together," he said, arching an eyebrow to let Ron know exactly which parts he was speaking of. "This is a very, very small price, I assure you."

"But…"

"Choose."

Ron was frantic, and blazing with anger. At last he pulled one, an evening of playing a winning chess match against Sirius Black the summer before his 5^th year. He selected the memory of smashing the locket horcrux, figuring that Harry had been there, too, and if he really did get out and knew who he was, he could ask Harry to share it with him. Finally, he chose a longer memory of one evening featuring intense but hasty sex with Lee, and how Lee had dumped him the next day. Snape hadn't said they had to be happy and bright memories, after all.

"Bastard," Ron ground out as the last silvery wisp went into the bowl.

Easing up from his aggressive pose, Snape peered down into the container, seeing the flashes of colour and a relative density that Ron hoped meant Snape could tell he'd not selected short moments to recollect.

"Those will suffice." Snape looked at him, faint warmth in his dark eyes. "After you're Obliviated, you may end up remembering that you were cared for, at least."

"Pretty cold comfort, Snape."

A long, chilly finger traced down Ron's jaw.

"It's a far sight better than dead. I should know."

* * * * *

The world seemed fuzzy around the edges, and there was a gnawing discomfort and dis-ease churning in Ron's head. It didn't bode well, whatever had happened; on a primal level he knew something had happened to him. He'd been spelled or manipulated, or somebody had done something to his head. It was very troubling to him that his brain seemed mossy, that a pulse of vagueness thumped in his veins. He looked up at the block of flats in front of him, his eyebrows furrowing at the address. It seemed familiar, but he'd not been here before— or had he? Angus came barreling out of the front door and Ron realised he knew exactly where he was.

"Ron! Oh my god, you're back! You're alive! Where the fuck have you been?" Angus flung himself onto Ron, who became very self-conscious, being groped and fawned over out in the street, though he was glad to see Angus, too.

"What do you mean, where have I been?" Ron asked, fudging for clues as he followed Angus into the dingy block. Angus held him by the wrist and led him protectively into the poorly lit corridor. They walked into what was evidently Angus' little flat. It had a bit more character than Ron's, but Ron hadn't exactly been putting a lot of time or personality into his own.

"Don't be coy, you awful, heartless bastard," Angus said, and as he glared at him, Ron realised his companion was really upset. When Angus' expression shuttered closed, and he stepped back, Ron felt shards of anxiety pierce his chest.

"What is it?"

"I don't think you're Ron. You're his twin, or something. The beard I guess I can understand, but my Ron has beautiful sky-blue eyes. Yours aren't ugly, but you can't be him. But you even smell like him," Angus said, his hopes obviously dashed.

"I do have blue eyes."

"No, you don't. Unless you're wearing coloured contacts…"

Disbelief hung in Angus' gaze as he slowly shook his head. He snuck out a hand to stroke his fingers along Ron's jaw. Only then did Ron realise, with a jolt, that he had well over a week's worth of beard on his face. That was what Angus had mentioned.

"Coloured what? Where's your bathroom?"

Angus pointed a wiry arm to a door that stood ajar. Ron walked heavily toward it, hearing Angus follow behind him. Ron flipped on the light switch, shocked into a frozen posture as he stared at what he saw. It was him, but he looked rough in ways that he hadn't since the War. And while they were definitely his eyes staring back from the mirror, the colour had indeed changed. No long the bright blue he'd had his whole life, now a grey-green shade circled his pupils. He gaped. He didn't know what to say.

"How long did you say I was missing?" he asked raggedly.

"You've been gone for two weeks," Angus said, hurt and relief battling for supremacy in his expression. "It is really you, isn't it?"

Ron nodded, turning to look at Angus with growing panic. He'd not been pestered by owls, so he didn't even know whether or not his family and Harry knew anything had gone wrong. Fear that he was losing his mind welled up in him, and he found himself looking to Angus as an anchor. He seemed to want to stand by Ron, despite his unfathomable and inexplicable absence.

"I'll admit it, I didn't get to know you as well as I could have. But I'll make it up to you, I swear it. Let me prove I'm not someone else, that I've not gone totally stark raving mad. You're a poet," he said, planting his wide hands on Angus' shoulders. He didn't cringe, and he seemed to be warming up to Ron again, but Ron could tell he was being rightfully cautious.

"When I got really cabbaged and sappy, I called you fawn-eyes," Ron said in a low voice, relief washing through him when a smile pricked at the corner of Angus' lips. "I let you give me pills, even when I didn't know what they did. But I'd not asked you to stay the night at my flat. I've not known you but for a couple of weeksabout a month, and yet I seemed to trust you. I don't know why on Circe's tits you wanted to spend your time with me, but you did. You told me about that—" Ron almost said potion, but caught himself in time. "That really expensive drink."

"I did. Ron, I believe you. You've scared the piss out of me," Angus said, shaking his head and encouraging Ron to go back into the living room. "I didn't know where you'd gone. Why did you up and leave? It wasn't due to the Sublime, was it?"

Ron's head was spinning, anger and confusion rising up in him with the force of a tsunami. "Somebody Obliviated me, the fucking bastard," he muttered, heedless of the fact that Angus was standing there.

"Somebody what?" Angus had pulled Ron over to a ratty but still comfortable loveseat, taking Ron's hands in his and running his thumbs over the chapped skin.

"My memories. My mind's been tampered with. Wiped bloody clean," Ron said through gritted teeth, a sour taste of deceit and loss filling his mouth.

"You're not just trying to make me feel better?"

Angus was doing all but crawl into Ron's lap, his hands now draped on Ron's shoulders, his lips hovering near Ron's. His appreciation for Angus, at his worry and obvious gratitude that Ron had come back from — somewhere — soothed a minute amount of the burn roiling in Ron's chest.

"No, I'm not," Ron promised, leaning back to let his head loll on the back cushion. "Angus, I don't know where in Hades I've been. All of my memories have been taken. Somebody must have Obliviated me, but I don't know why! Dammit! Two fucking weeks and I don't have a fucking clue what happened to me! AUGH!!" Ron pulled at his hair in a parody of an attempt to pull knowledge from his skull. "Anything could have happened," he said bitterly, the words tasting of pepper and ash. "Anything, Angus. You just don't know. Who the— it's not fair! Not right!"

He'd tried to keep his voice down, to smother the fires of unbounded fury at being taken advantage of, and the results were disastrous. A small rubbish bin across the room burst into flame while at the same moment, a pathetic-looking potted plant shattered. Angus yelped at the chaos erupting seemingly without case in his flat, and Ron could only watch as Angus tried to stamp on the burning pieces of paper and cartons. Ron had never experienced so-called wild magic before, but he sensed innately that the unexpected outburst came from him.

Feeling as though he was damned anyway, Ron growled at himself before pulling out his wand from its usual location in his inside jacket pocket. His heart stuttered for a split second once his hand closed reassuringly around the gnarled wooden handle. All at once he realised it could have been taken, or tampered with. Instead, it felt warm and unmolested.

" Aguamenti," he said, a thin jet of water coursing from the tip toward the tiny blaze he'd caused. He was going to have to Obliviate Angus now, a thought that made his stomach cramp up in disgust.

Angus stared at the puddle at his feet, and his soaked trainers, over at the exploded ceramic and then again at Ron, who put his wand away. "What the fuck was that?" he breathed, tentatively gathering his wits about him. He pointed at Ron, his head tilted as though he were about to take aim. "People can't just— can't just do what you just did," he spluttered, stomping over and feeling Ron on his chest. "What are you?"

"I'm a—"

Ron faltered at the intensity in Angus' eyes. He couldn't do it; better to lie and leave Angus behind than to tell the truth and be as manipulative as whomever had been to him.

"You'll tell me, and you'll tell me straight," Angus demanded. "And you won't fucking change my thoughts, since I can just tell you were thinking about doing it. If you do, you'll be as bad as the person who abducted you, if that's what you say happened. Worse, maybe. Do you promise me?"

Ron was floored; he felt pinned open and trapped like a stuffed creature on display in a Muggle museum. He wasn't anything like the person who'd Obliviated him, even if he or she had left him otherwise undamaged. Ron would never be so callous. Angus couldn't do that much harm… He looked at the young man, only a year younger than himself, all sinew and righteous indignation, every pretense dropped. Somehow Ron knew that it wouldn't break Angus to tell him the truth, all of it.

"I won't Obliviate you. I promise. Obliviation removes memories, forever, and that's what was done to me," Ron explained, taking the wand out of his jacket and rolling it comfortingly in his hands until he saw Angus' slight flinching. "Here." Ron held it out to him, handle first. "I'm a wizard. I do magic. It's not like how most Muggles, um, non-magical people, envision magic. We do use wands, though."

Angus stared for a few moments before shuffling over to the couch. His fingers unfurled and he grasped the wand as though it were made of porcelain, delicate and precious. A remembrance seemed to ebb at him and he said, "I had a cousin, or second cousin, somebody deemed not quite right. He was sent off to some special school, but nobody ever wanted to talk about it. I wonder if he was like you."

His espresso-coloured eyes flickered up, full of questions and intrigue. "Have you always been like this? Does trauma bring it on? Why do you stay out of regular society? Well, not all the time, obviously…" His warm baritone trailed off as he grew absorbed in examining Ron's wand.

"It's just easier to stay off to ourselves. Fewer questions that way, I guess."

Ron watched Angus hold the wand, half-expecting to see sparks shoot out of the end of it. Why he was relieved when that didn't happen, he wasn't sure, but he breathed out a deep sigh nonetheless. Angus looked over at him, his head tilted.

"I don't have any magic, do I?"

"Don't think so. That's all right, though. Magic's magic; there are kids born of magical parents who don't have magic. They're called Squibs. Pretty awful term, actually."

"Sounds it."

Angus handed Ron his wand back. "This may sound like an utter crap idea, but I want to go back to your world with you. You said there are non-magical people… Do you think that's insane? I've been wanting to get out of here for ages. And we just seem like a good pair, y'know?"

Ron felt the smile creep up onto his lips. "Yeah. We do make rather an odd set, but I'm quite fond of you. You sure you want to do this? I don't really know that you can back out once you're in the Wizarding world. It's not all bad, though."

The smile on Angus' mouth made Ron's toes curl. Merlin, but Angus really did care tremendously for him, and the thought of bringing Angus into his own world filled Ron with a sense of anchoring. He wasn't at all sure how his family and friends would take to him, but Ron had the sense that Angus would fit in well enough. He was obviously devoted, and that would go far in regard to his parents and Harry. And maybe he could help Ron in figuring out what all had transpired over the past fortnight.

"You seem awfully thoughtful," Angus said.

"You've given me a lot to consider. I also really hate that I can't remember what happened to me," Ron said, tugging Angus down into his lap. "Did you think I'd died? Or just run off? Surely you didn't pine for me at Clan of Brothers, alone."

Angus regarded him, admittance exposed in his eyes, and scratched at his nose. "I wasn't celibate, if that's what you mean. I did sort of pine, though. I missed you, and worried, and then got all despondent. I thought you'd left town, but I also thought you might've gone crazy and been the person behind the break in."

"Break in?"

"Yeah. Someone was at the club after we left, drank or stole three containers of Sublime, and there'd been an explosion outside of the building. Don't you even care who I went down on?"

Ron was confused momentarily at the non sequitur. "Oh. Actually, no."

Surprisingly, or not, considering Ron had considered Angus a comforting and willing fuck but not much else until quite recently, he wasn't jealous. Really, it was gratifying he'd thought about Ron at all. "There aren't nearly as many people like us in the Wizarding world, either. You might have to content yourself with just my sorry arse and cock."

Angus pretended to pout before a solemn pall graced his features. "I've done a lot of dicking about. It's fun, for a while," he said, shrugging. "We could give things a go, just us. Do you have any need there for poets, though? Not that I'm making any money doing that here."

"What do you do for money?" Ron hadn't thought to ask.

"Work the till at Boots. So glamorous. And fulfilling," Angus said, rolling his eyes.

"Nothing to be ashamed of. I worked in my brother's joke shop, before."

The thin upper bow to Angus' lip beckoned, and Ron leaned up to kiss him, slow and warm. It was so different than their times at the club, all crashing sloppiness and thumping adrenaline of fast shags and blowjobs. Angus kissed thoroughly but with enough intent that trickling heat seeped down between Ron's legs. Blood began to pool in his groin as Angus shifted, straddling Ron's lap and rocking without hurry into Ron's pelvis. He pulled back after a time, his breath quickened from their rising passion.

"A joke shop?" he asked, scratching his fingers on Ron's fuzzy jaw and then his own less scruffy one. "You may have to shave."

Ron gave a low chuckle. "Maybe so. Yeah, I worked in the shop. Listen, if you're really on for this, we'll have to tell our landlords and whatnot; you seem to have a job to quit. But I'm game if you are."

"I'm game. Fancy a quick shag before taking care of details?"

Angus' irrepressible libido made Ron's cock twitch in his denims.

"Fancy something not quite so quick, for once?" Ron asked honestly.

Delight shone in Angus' dark eyes. Something in their depths tugged at Ron's mind, but he didn't want to think about the missing two weeks in his life, at least for a while. It suddenly occurred to him that he should owl Harry and his mum soon, so that they knew he was okay. Angus darted out his tongue to tap his upper lip and Ron banished the weighing practicalities away until after he'd had sex.

"I'd love that. I do have a bed," Angus said, grinding his own thickening arousal against Ron's mound. He moaned softly as Ron reached around to knead at his arse.

"I suggest we go use it," Ron said, his voice slightly rough before he claimed Angus' mouth. He slid his tongue possessively into the welcoming warmth.

"Just let me go to the loo."

Ron nodded, wiping at the corner of his lip and glancing at the window as Angus sauntered down the corridor. A large raven sat, perched on the windowsill, starting with glittering black eyes. It was disconcerting, the way the bird looked at him, almost as though there was a keen intelligence in his head, small though its brain must be. Ron frowned at it. He'd never been fond of ravens; a voice in his mind said that they were harbingers of back luck, or bad news— bad something, that was for sure.

"Gerroff," he muttered at it, shooing from where he sat, as though it would pay him any mind from outside of the window.

It stayed poised even as Ron heard the toilet flush and then the tap run. The black bird continued to fixate on Ron, making him angry.

"I said, get off!" he said in a raised voice, standing up and walking toward it a bit awkwardly, giving the pressure in his jeans.

"What are you yelling at?" Angus asked, walking up to stand next to him, draping his arm around the back of Ron's waist. "Oh. He's huge." He rapped on the window, making a clucking sound.

At last the bird cocked its head, preened at a wing, looked back at them, and flew off.

"C'mon Ron," Angus said, laying his head on Ron's shoulder and easing his hand down Ron's hip. "I'm ready for this nice slow shag you promised."

Ron still felt there had been an inexplicable malice in the bird's glance, but he managed to let Angus' entreaty soothe him like a cup of cinnamon tea.

"One slow, deep, grinding shag, coming right up," Ron promised, turning Angus against the wall and rutting into him.

Angus' smile flamed the fire deep in Ron's groin.

"Let's go."

* * * * *

.:~ epilogue ~:.

Ron gave Angus a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder before stepping away. Harry still stood at Angus' side, his fingers holding tightly for grounding before the two of them ventured into Harry's Pensieve.

"You've watched me do this before," Ron reminded Angus, who still appeared dubious.

"I'm not used to a lot of this, yet," Angus countered, intertwining his fingers with Harry's.

The trusting gesture made Ron feel a swell of happiness at his incredibly good fortune. When he'd come back to Wizarding London, bringing Angus — surprisingly unflappable, articulate, amazed and militantly-devoted Angus — with him, Ron never could have imagined that their staying with Harry would have meant they'd all find solace with each other. And yet, despite the improbability of the two of them discovering a shared affection for Harry which went far beyond roommate and best mate, the three of them now formed a relationship stronger than any Ron had known since the Horcrux hunt during the War.

"It is pretty disconcerting at first," Harry said, his own Muggle background having put Angus at ease from the first day of Ron's much-anticipated return. "It'll be good for you to see this, though. It's a pretty key event for Ron; really a shame that he doesn't have his own memory of it, of course. I'm sure his take on this is very different, even though we were both there."

"Don't you think you'll be able to get his memories back?" Angus asked, his gaze ensnared by the pearly pool in the Pensieve. "You all can do practically everything else with magic."

"They're taken. For good," Ron said ruefully, reaching into his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "You were with me that night until you went home, and I showed up at your flat two weeks later. All the auralics have shown I wasn't injured, and my magic's fine. It's still bloody creepy, though. No trace of anyone else's ambric signature on me, nothing."

"C'mon, Angus," Harry nudged gently. "You can watch Ron save me from drowning in a freezing lake and then destroy a Horcrux. You'll love him even more than you do now."

Ron rolled his eyes and felt the flush at the base of his throat at the flattery. "Wanker. Just show him. I'm going outside for a smoke. Flawed man, and all that." He shook his head as Harry snorted.

Angus nodded vigorously. "Part of why I'm so fond of you," he said resolutely before turning his attentions back to Harry. "Might as well get this unnatural event over with." His reluctance tugged at Ron's conscience, but he knew that Angus had voiced similar sentiments before. After fourteen months in the Wizarding world, he'd adapted with a minimum of mishap and an uncanny intuition which had endeared him to Harry instantly.

Ron left the room, closing the door behind him. He made his way outside, tugging up the zip on his coat and flipping the collar to shield his neck.

"'s bloody freezing," he complained to the indifferent winter air. He cast an Incendio and took a deep inhale of the cigarette, hearing both Angus and Harry's admonishments in his head that he quit smoking. It was on his list of things to do, just not right this minute. It would be a good thing to do in the new year, now that he knew about taking on resolutions thanks to Angus' influence. Shoving his right hand into his pocket, he looked out at the steely grey clouds, hanging low and heavy with the promise of rain. A sudden memory of a dream from the night before scampered into his awareness, and his brows furrowed.

"Snape," he mumbled darkly around the fag in his mouth before breathing in, the hot tang filling his lungs. The strange nuance of something remembered and yet not actual memory flitted uncomfortably in him; he'd dreamed of Snape before, several times, though not with regularity. Still, the former Potions Master appeared in his subconscious far too often for his taste since his time in Edinburgh. He'd brought it up to Harry a couple of times, wondering if it could have something to do with his two weeks he couldn't remember, but Harry assured him every time that the man was undeniably dead. Angus provided his own dream interpretations, saying that Snape was symbolic, not representing the real man. Ron had clung to that suggestion even though he couldn't help but wonder at the timing of him showing up and his two missing weeks of time, apparently forever lost to him. He tried not to dwell on it, hoping with every fibre of his being that the unaccounted-for time had nothing to do with his run-in with the brains at the Department of Mysteries. He'd compelled the Healers at St. Mungo's to test the scars again and again, but they proved to be inert to the best of their knowledge. It was a comfort, but only that, not a reassurance.

A motion out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention and he turned, but it was just a bird alighting on a nearby tree. He let out a long exhale of smoke toward it, disgruntled that the raven seemed determined to take up temporary residence that close by. He'd been plagued by ravens. Well, plagued was a bit dramatic of a word, as Angus had pointed out. It wasn't as though he were followed by them all the time, but Ron had noticed that there seemed to be no shortage of ravens, or one raven, appearing with unsettling frequency. Harry again tried to be matter-of-fact about it, saying that ravens weren't really bearers of bad news or any rot like that. No matter what Ron's imagination came up with, they were just birds.

"If one starts talking to you, then you can begin to worry," Harry had joked once when Ron had indignantly pointed one out. It had been a large, healthy-looking and eerily attentive bird that had perched on a park bench one afternoon a couple of months after Ron had returned.

Now he stared at the raven in the tree, hoping that if he sent enough negative energy toward it, it would fly off. The bird tilted its black head, then preened both wings before fixating its gaze on Ron again.

"What?!" Ron exclaimed peevishly. "Get on, wouldya? Stay out of my bloody life and leave me bloody well alone."

When the bird opened its mouth and held it open, Ron's heart stuttered in his chest. He really did expect it to speak, and that thought caused a shiver of fear to crawl down his skin. It only cawed, which wasn't much of an improvement over actual speech, but it was enough to break Ron out of his preoccupation.

"Piss off!" he yelled, waving at it, but it merely flew to a higher branch and continued to watch him. "Bloody hell," he muttered, turning his back to it and trying to guide his thoughts down a more positive path.

His morning's activities were a good starting point: he'd awoken sluggishly, his hand being gently brought to Harry's morning erection as Harry moved both of their hands over the stiffened shaft. Angus had come in from the bathroom, chastising them for starting without him, before curling behind Ron and rubbing himself to hardness between Ron's thighs. Warmth borne of affection pooled in Ron's chest. He really was incredibly fortunate, despite all that had happened to him. With that thought, he took a last drag off of the cigarette, vowing to cut down to five a day and then to stop. Harry and Angus were probably still in the Pensiever, but he wanted to be there when they re-emerged; he was quite curious as to how Angus would react to being able to see someone else's memory.

He jammed his cold hand into his pocket and headed back into the house, eagerly awaiting the return of his lovers, the ravens of the world be damned.

---

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