The witching hour is long gone. We passed that in the lab. It matters not: For us, every hour is one of sacred alchemy.
The night is a perfect one. A full moon filters through a torn gossamer veil of misty clouds, tracing gnarled trees bared by winter's frosty claw, bathing the Persian carpets under the tall front windows in a wash of luminous silver.
A fire burns low under the broad carved mantle, leaving the various treasures arranged on top of it in near darkness. At the far end, an ancient leather-bound book sits in a glass-fronted case, most certainly locked in by more than a key. Next to it, a skull encrusted with peridot and emeralds; cursed, no doubt, untouchable for all its lure. A fragment of coiled snakeskin, the scales so large as to make even a brave pair of eyes grateful never to behold the living creature that once wore it, reposes under a light film of dust.
An ornate molded ceiling is likewise almost lost in greenish shadows, this room is so vast; and yet, it feels impossibly cosy for such a size: Imbued with magic, it is neither too stuffy nor too chilled, though it could become the latter painfully quickly.
Like him, if he so wishes it.
This was a place of Princes, but none reside here any more, and nor would I want one. How overrated are princes, and how I would rather have the king within everyman than a spoilt boy of plastic beauty. No, this is the Hall of Snape; and of everything I cast my gaze upon, Severus is now master. He is also my teacher in this, the mansion of my soul; and while I reside in this wing, he owns me.
Presently he stretches alongside me, a lazy king snake. His sensuous ease, so misleading. Only a smirk hints at the potency of sweet venom lying coiled in wait within him, a slow curl of the lip as his eyes find mine and grip them, relentless; eyes black and glittering as polished onyx set beneath the brows of a sculpted jade basilisk. How I love them, in all their dark burrowing depths, eyes from which I can hide nothing.
A beautiful darkness emanates from his whole being, in fact, a kind of implosion of magnetic light; not merely through his eyes, but from his skin, tightening it to a fine pale olive across his facial bones and lean structure, pulling any flush from his hollowed cheeks to store it somewhere private inside, until it finally oozes out the very folicles of his hair, pouring it in a shining, oily spread of inky black over the brocade pillow. He is a man distilled to his densest, most essential elements, born to Saturn's leaden vibration, then honed by the cut of life's laser. Tiny lines touch the corners of his eyes and mouth, etched there by years of sharp truth, dosed liberally with pitiless satisfaction.
But it is that smug little curl of the mouth that digs its hook into my heart and injects it full of that exquisite philtre of desire, leaving me molten for him, a thin shell barely containing a useless, swirling slop of disjointed parts and jumbled ingredients.
Lifting one leg, I drape my thigh over his hips with, oh, such luxurious pleasure! I find his hardness amid plush folds of fabric, and he is hungry: His anaconda wants some, and though I've done my damndest to keep it fed, it wants more still. And I'm not complaining. Gratefully I wrap him up in myself and let him slide in for another taste. Gods, but how good he feels!
Bringing my face to his, I meet his smirk with my own. A guy could not ask for a more slippery, scrumptuous name, on this night or any other. It slips out again and again, wanting to be tasted, and I welcome its soft glide with relish:
"Severusssssssseverus."
His only reply is a silken snarl.
I like being astride him, as though I'm treating him, letting him relax and enjoy it for once. However, he will tolerate but so much of this. He writhes suddenly, rolling us over so that his density presses me into the cushions; then an irrepressible steely rhythm surges through his body, and all I can do is strap up tightly and hang on.
Afterward, I lie in spent bliss while he tends the fireplace. Magefire can't compete with the scent of a real wood fire, but tending one is easy if you're like him. Flicking his right arm, he produces a thin ebony rod from some secret place, then uses it to wave a fresh large log onto the embers. The wand's polished length glistens as, with another casual flick, he ignites the log to greater flame.
I can't drag my eyes from Severus's figure, silhouetted against the dancing orange light. Licking tongues of golden brightness splash across those high cheeks as he turns his head, and my chest aches with swelling tides of longing and tenderness: To be near him, with him, in him, is all I want.
Another brief shimmer of light from the shadows to the left distracts my glance: What looks like eight-foot mirrors running along the end of the room, set in oversized diamond panes of darkened, rippled glass, are really windows. Those on the other side may observe the main hall, but from this room, no one can spy the proceedings behind those windows.
His laboratory is in there.
His lab, where we experimented for hours, our bodies twined in sinuous heat, sampling each others' vital fluids, exploring the secrets of one another's anatomy; bringing our frail, trembling corpusi together in desperate primal impulse beneath the glow of the moon as she shone her chill beams through the lofty, looming skylights. The air was cool, yet bracing, as our passions raged hot enough to warm us from the core.
A lab table makes for quite the nicely hard surface to work on, and I threw my every effort into this, our greatest of experiments, taking his little Snape-seeds into me by the trillions in the hope that one would sprout and grow into our very union of souls, our Magnum Opus.
The first time he didn't even remove his robes, but took me as masterfully as he looked, while I writhed like a specimen beneath his focused penetrating explorations, writhing not in pain but in rapture, and relishing the feel of his hard, black-clad form between my thighs, squeezing him into me with all my strength --- blessed creature!
Afterwards I clawed frantically at the unyielding black, at the many tiny buttons that riveted his armor closed in an envelope around his body, ceaseless in my attempts to bring his bared skin against my own, until he lightly slapped my hands away. Then with a single stroke of the wand he unfastened them all in a row, peeling himself free, treating me at last to the spare, scar-lashed beauty of his earthly temple, and I traced every cruelly earned mark with reverence as we conjoined each other gratefully.
The myriad bottles and jars congregating on the shelves and in the cabinets seemed to watch us with envy, glimmering in the soft gloom like so many eyes, not daring to challenge the skill of the Master but instead awaiting his next command, silenced by awe.
Later, so much later, we sauntered from the lab, drunk upon each other's tonic brew. I am captivated by his stride, at once graceful yet angular, like syrup poured around steel joints; a purely alluring cross between a strut and a prowl.
We made our way here, to the long brocade divan in front of the roaring fire beneath its great mantle, where we promptly dissolved into each other again.
An antiquated bottle, its bulging olive contour backlit to reveal glass bubbled by its primitive manufacture and encasing a full measure of fluid, awaits us on a small round pedestal table of green marble. Next to it rest a gilt box and a pair of quartz goblets traced with filigreed silver. Oh, we've taken our sweet time, certainly. But now we repose languorously, satiated by our feast, and indulge in dessert.
Severus aims his wand at the cork and it wiggles free with much reluctance, dingy on top with dust and deeply stained as though it would rather stay put for another century or so. Having caught the errant cork in its tumble, he pours us each a gobletful, darker than blood, and I smell port, of a brand I've never tried. Nor is there a label. It is incredible from the first sip, sweet yet complex with just a hint of acrid bitterness. It soon fills my throat and chest with heat.
"Voice of Sarkos," I mutter. "This is amazing. . . . What is it? A vintage?" It must be, I think, with that cork.
"Sixteen-something," he replies, as if it were nothing, plumping the pillow upright and easing in to lounge next to me with a lithe ripple. "I forget exactly what year --"
"Sixteen --?" I gasp, and stare at him. "Severus, this is too precious, I can't drink this."
"And is not your soul precious?" There is no voice like his for scorn and criticism, though in this case constructive. "Treat yourself," he orders, brooking no argument, "to all the rewards you deserve."
Exactly as I would wish for him.
He lifts his goblet for a sip, and I watch the port flow red over his tongue, beneath flashing black eyes that haven't left mine once. I see his throat move as he swallows, then he licks his mouth with a soft lush sound.
I drink then as well, accepting the rare and sumptuous gift.
"So," he asks, in a darkly ironic tone I know I would do well to answer, "who is this Sarkos, of whom you speak so reverently?"
"A great sorcerer," I say simply.
His voice drops, amusement with perhaps a tinge of menace, and his lips squirm once. "Better than I am?"
"Maybe," I tell him, in all honesty. "He is the leader of a race of wizards, said to have drunk the blood of their enemies and developed a magic based on their use of sarcasm."
Interest burns in Severus's gaze now. His cynicism, his criticism, is still able to be outweighed by a desire I know well: The desire to learn, then to master, especially in the field of certain topics. 'Ancient magic', some call it, but we know what that means. . . .
"Go on," he says.
I add, "Some say Sarkos is dead; others, that he never lived, and he and his kind are mythical. But others say both he and the Sarkazen are alive and well among us, and simply very, very good at disguising themselves. Hiding, beneath the veneer of the ordinary."
I run the pad of my finger across his arch lip. "Like you, my secretive one."
"And you believe the latter," he infers.
"I rule that anything may be possible, until otherwise proven," I tell him, touching the cleft of his chin lightly. "What about you, Severus? Is it possible you have Sarkazen blood in your veins? A drop of their magic in your tongue, with how keen its stroke can feel to an exposed mind?"
"I will do my worst," he replies quietly, after a pause, "to prove it."
And oh, that voice.
Regardless of his bloodlines, I think, there is magic enough in that voice. Yes: I believe.
Leaving me to sip and reflect, Sev turns away and consults the gilt box on the table. Inside are clove rolls, wicked little sticks wrapped in black paper. Placing one in his lips, he lights it off his wand in a flare of green flame. After a leisurely pull, he exhales away from my face, toward the mantle.
Smoking inside! The decadence of it! Rarely does he partake at all; only when he doesn't need that splendid nose of his to detect potions and poisons by scent. Be it anything other than a clove, I'd light into him for it. As it is, the stuff smells like incense and makes me warm for him. Our lovemaking must truly be a cause for celebration, for him to indulge in a vice so rare for him.
I lay my cheek on his chest and together we breathe our peace into the quiet warmth of the night, him slowly polishing off his clove. I listen to the quiet crackle of smokeleaf over the noises of the fire and the soft, intimate sounds of Severus's mouth as he takes a drag and then sighs, licking his lips with a purr.
"I've wanted this for so long," I tell him. "Did you know?"
"Oh, really. What, exactly?"
"This," I say, raising my face to look at him. "This time, this place. You."
He lifts an eyebrow. "A bloke with greasy hair, a big nose, a bad rep and a mansion?"
I choke on a giggle. "Well ---"
"A rotten old mansion," he adds in a mutter, casting his eyes in a roll around the grand old ceiling in its shadows, before taking another pull. "Still, for all the impurity of my blood, I could have been left with less. . . ."
"All right, maybe not exactly this," I concede, "but I'm off to a good start, don't you think?"
Our eyes meet, then he throws back his head and laughs, sending the tiny bumps to fly across my skin. His laugh is rarely heard, but when it is, it is glorious, the sound low and thick and redolent with triumph. His teeth flash in the firelight, uneven and ivory. I used to care about the crookedness of my own teeth, nature's idiot construction that misaligns my smile into a smirk or a sneer, and sometimes I still do; but in his presence I utterly don't give a shit.
The ringing of his wicked mirth fades into the shifting of logs in the fireplace.
"It's the mansion, isn't it." He's smirking.
"No-o." It comes out a dramatic, groaning protest. But I know he's teasing me. Irresistible bugger. "It's everything. All of it."
Reaching up, I stroke his hooked nose. The curl of his lip deepens, beautifully, and I shiver in delight against him.
"Then our feelings are mutual," he says. "Ever since I stepped into the world through you, I've felt as much. It isn't perfect, but what is? Someone to talk potions with, who shares in my fondness for insulting the general populace; someone who won't shy away in disgust from discussion of . . . dark . . . magic."
His onyx gaze flashes into mine, suggestive, then wanders. "It's all I could hope for, when it could have been so much worse . . . has been so much worse . . ."
Now his eyes see far, fathomless under their moist surficial sparkle; eyes haunted with memories. Shaking free of them, he slips out his wand again and vanishes the fag-end with a wave.
"But now I'm free, of all that rubbish. Free to be wherever I wish, with whomever I wish."
And in whomever. Including me. When did my own hair turn black, or get so greasy? When did I sprout such a passion for brewing, or had it incubated in me all along? In truth, I'm already aware it has incubated for years, for most of my life . . . but since what long-ago defining day, lost to the mists of time and my own fuzzier memories? All I know for certain is the sensation I now have of being complete.
"You are," I whisper. "As am I. And as we both know, blood has nothing on the caliber of your --- of our --- magics. Nor on the power of the soul."
I lift my hand again to comb his hair gently, fondly, my touch gliding toward the heat of his scalp. Almost immediately I feel the long molecules of warm grease begin wrapping themselves eagerly around my fingers, like cosy little serpents, and soon the pads of my fingertips are silky with his unguent.
Severus blinks at me once, lazily, then smiles. It's that smile, I think. The one that lets you know you're in rather a lot of trouble.
He slides over me, black eyes vivid with passion, and even without words his baritone purr holds nothing less than absolute command. The softness of his velour robe is lovely, yet cannot compare to the incredible texture of his living skin. His mouth is delicious, the cruel scalpel of his tongue sweetened with the flavors of dark, rich port wine and spicy clove smoke, mingled with the taste of pure, unfiltered lust. We drink long draughts of each other, insatiable once more. I feel the contour of his sneer curl into my lips, and tender little chills flash down my spine; I could get drunk on that sneer alone, am drunk on it, even without being subjected to the rest of him. And I want all of him. Cool hair sweeps across my cheeks, and an errant lock of it slithers into my mouth; I lick it before spitting it aside, too eager for his lips again, against which his name whispers off my tongue like a prayer of desperation.
"Severus . . ."
Warm, living silk of his skin gliding over my face in a single long, serpentine caress, the muscular bands of his supple abdomen brushing my cheek as he covers me, and I crave to pleasure this magnificent creature; curtained by dark velour, I take him whole onto my tongue and worship him. I wait until the first moan catches in his throat like a scrap of velvet on barbed wire, then push, lifting and shifting, to where I can embrace him with all my effort. Then I slurp up his hard, greased length like the confection it is, ripe with that richest of nectars, throbbing with the potential of life, its precious liquid fire teeming with a million sacred seeds, of which I want to waste none. A hasty kiss, a brief taste of his snarling mouth, then he breaks free again, in need of too much air. He doesn't stop until he delivers a double cartridge dose of his potent medicine and powers through to carry us onward into golden ecstasies, a perfect oiled machine of writhing, fluctuent steel.
"Severus!"
We sigh into one another, a languid brew of balmy flesh and loose joints. I feel so alive, full of life, slopping over the rim with life. I lay my face against his and nuzzle him, breathing his scent, musky and herbaceous, the pheromones of his desire tinged with smoke and brimstone and the spices of illicit mixtures.
He is a kind of angel, Severus is, a spirit force able to be anywhere he desires to be, everywhere at once, or nowhere at all. I sometimes feel the soft contour of downy black feathers cupping my head against his chest when I need support the most. I want to fly with him again, to make love to him on the back of the breeze, feeling his chest flexing as his mighty wings cleave the night. To make love to him then, my head fallen back and eyes ablaze with the passing stars and planets in the firmament above, is to make love with the universe itself.
For now, I'll settle for this.
"Sev?"
Quiet; a velvet grunt.
"I am hungry, Severus."
"Good." Smirking, he moves on me, his eyes glittering.
"No, I mean the fire needs fuel. We still have to decide what to eat in this mansion of ours," I said. "Might I suggest cornbread stuffing for dinner, leftover cornbread stuffing for breakfast next morn, and cornbread stuffing for lunch. Then maybe a bit more cornbread stuffing. With Waldorf salad on the side and a bird's nest underneath."
That was this Christmas: stuffing and more stuffing. Yet it was delicious. But what in Merlin's nose was that mess of moss and twigs doing on the serving table?. . .!
Him and his specimens.
Severus quivers against me, unable to separate mirth from wincing.
"Oh, god," and I love his louche British accent as he says it, "I think we can do better than that. Besides, isn't all we need merely each other?" In his tone and glance, he mocks the popular romantic slop that makes us both wretch. "If so, then I, for one, am sated for the moment. But if you must, the sideboard is loaded. I believe in being prepared."
There are small pastries, laden with honey, spice and nuts; buttery chunks of toffee and divinity; cutlets of rare flesh and assorted pickled veggies in savory sauces, ten types of chocolate. Cider and wine, black stout and thick bitter coffee of an exotic grind. We fill plates and goblets and feast, his breath painting my hand in wispy strokes and the wet heat of his lips enfolding my fingers as I place delectable morsels into his mouth; black eyes narrow into mine as he moans. Honey, suckled from my nipple; caramel licked from his throat, from the cleft of his breast and other, more intimate places that make us both hiss and growl in the throes of raptures; oil infused with herbs, stroked into skin and hair, mingling with his silky grease.
I'm folded cosily into him, one leg flung backward over his thigh like a door opened to his invitation, offering to Severus my flesh like a rich pudding into which he delves slowly and with great relish, taking his pleasure in deep silky thrusts, his fingers firm yet sybaritically sensual in their caress as he braces my thigh on his hip, when I notice them.
In the mirror leaning outward above the mantle, dark ones are gathering outside. Beyond the high front windows, shadows lurk, teeming and plotting.
"Severus . . ." I indicate the mirror shakily. "What are they?"
"My foes are many," he says, "and they would have you as well. Anyone who dares to control their own destiny."
I grasp his fingers tightly. "Whatever will we do. If we can see them, they can see us."
The idea of being watched, caught like this, so shameless, so vulnerable in our intimacy! It terrifies me!
Severus has frozen, turned to cold iron in his calculated observance. He is an obsidian-tipped shaft upon a fully-drawn bow.
"That, they cannot," he murmurs, wriggling his fingers from my grip. "The glass is one way, in our favor. And yet, ignoring the shadows will not make them go away."
His ebony wand is in his hand, how, I know not; still, he watches, he waits. He knows the finest warriors do not rush in, but time their attack with utmost precision.
I am a lump on the sofa, a pointless obstacle. No matter: Severus oozes around and over me, eyes never leaving the glass, his speed that of a stalking viper, progress measured in millimetres. His lips brush my ear, along with cool oily licks of black hair: "Keep low. I want you safe."
Heart pounding, I feel the tiny, tight quivering of his muscles as he readies his action. It builds to a crescendo, then snaps, thrusting me aside as, in a whirl of green dressing gown, he strikes!
With an ease that seems impossible, he clears the back of the sofa in a vaulting arc, unleashing a blazing flurry of curses; the great room is lit with electric fire, pouring off the end of his ebony wand. The first fussilade goes right through the windows, shattering them in a rain of small deadly shards. Now the glass cannot hold the shadows at bay, but nor can they hide; and even as they engage with dark fire of their own, Sev's hexes spell the doom of three of them.
I cower behind the sofa. He told me to hide, but what use am I then? Who am I, to let him fight alone and perhaps be killed?
Against the mantle sidewall leans a staff. I know what kind, too: It's a magestaff, an unwieldy relic, more antique showpiece than practical tool, the sort of thing a crotchety old warlock with a wooden leg would hobble about with to both look impressive and forego the need of a wand. And, it's all I've got.
I execute a floppy scuttle off the sofa and, keeping low, glom onto the heavy staff at its base so that it topples in a jangle of charms, talismans and knotted twine. Then I wriggle forward, dragging the staff, until I can poke my head around the corner of the sofa.
Severus's dressing gown is untied. The soft robe hangs loosely upon him, but the hard, tightly coiled body within is that of a serpent, sinews bunching as he hisses through bared teeth. Piton, they called him in Italy, whether Signore or Profesore --- the Python! But now he resembles less the constrictor and more the cobra, or perhaps the English adder, as he strikes and blocks and parries and strikes again, heedless of his unsheathed, naked form. He ducks a sizzling ray in a blur, then spits a greasy lock from his mouth, followed by a curse, all in the matter of a second. I watch, transfixed by his skill. I forget at times the great mage he is: a sorcerer of cutting edge technique, even as a youth; a fighting warlock who has survived innumerable battles . . . a spy!
No robe for me. I left mine in the lab. Now I've stumbled, been all but shoved, from the closeted confines of Severus's embrace to end up on the floor, woolen rugs scorching my knees. Buck naked and bare-assed, with naught but a big stick.
I'm a mage, but I'm no wizard of Severus's ilk. I know the power of intent in magic, but I never mastered Latin. All that comes to my frantic mind is a single spell, not in Latin but Greek, that I heard a Sarkazen sorcerer cry years ago. I wrestle with the staff on the floor as awkwardly as though it were a living, resisting being, trying to bring its tip into alignment with the window. Now, if only I could get this big stick to ---
It finally bursts forth from me in a hoarse bellow:
"APOKOSMOS!!!"
A blinding sheet of illumination humbles the moon's glow like starfire out of a cannon, flooding every corner of the room. It passes through the windows, vaporizing two of the shadow-foes where they stand, then hums onward into infinity.
Having assessed the surprise in a split second, Severus falters not once in his moves, but takes advantage of the distraction to liquidate a sixth shadow hiding behind a stone pillar. I wait in the event I need to employ the stick again, hesitant, my fingers in a whitened grip on its knotted length.
Curses cease flying. A taut quietude settles over the hall.
"The last one has fled." Severus keeps raking the night with his glare, ready to act, but his voice comes out flat and hollow.
Fear stabs into me. "It got away."
"One invariably gets away," he says thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the darkness beyond the windows. "How else would life challenge us?"
I am uneasy. There is unfinished business. The last shadow will return.
I'm also alarmed, disturbed by the power I've unleashed, by the notion of destroying something, especially something sentient. I lean the magestaff back into its place next to the mantle, not wishing to hold it anymore. I feel the urge to retreat into myself, so as to process what has happened.
But Severus is excited. Aroused, by my actions; by my agreeing to hide on his orders yet refusing to abandon him to the battle. His black eyes burn as he looks at me, then turns and approaches slowly with the silent, oiled prowl of his stride.
I am embarrassed. I merely brandished a big stick clumsily, while he fought with great skill; as he threw himself to the fray, I cowered. Behind a damn couch, no less. I shy from Severus's hungering gaze, from his touch.
But he won't hear a word of self depreciation out of me. There is an art, says he, to pushing one's limits. Enough to leave the comfort zone of our fears, so as to take an action. Not enough to end up dead.
"A snake that strikes and slips away, lives to strike another day. There is no shame in caution, my foolish yet wise love." His velvety voice tightens with the whip of discipline: "And there will be no shame allowed in this house."
For those words alone if nothing else, I love him.
"Come!" he cries, bolting toward the table. "The Green Faery will liven you up!"
I've had absinthe but once, and never via the full and exquisite preparation. No doubt the intricate setup --- the dispensing vitrielle, with its small silver spigot, the miniature goblets and slotted spoon, and dainty yet deadly sugar cubes --- are like ridiculous child's play to a Master Potist of Severus's calibre, yet he seems to enjoy the process no less than the liveliest and most cheerful of mundane men.
"What? This late? . . .!"
"Just a bit, a wee tipple! Trust me."
I go wet at those last words, crafted as they are by that voice. Trusting it is optional. To disobey? Never.
I eagerly learn the new craft, dripping sugered water in refined measure into the moss-green liqueur until it goes murky, then savoring the sweet aniseed concoction. It goes straight to my head, ensnaring my mind in toxic tentacles, and straight to other parts of me as well, flooding them with heat. A tipple of this is truly all one needs. Even spacing the doses of absinthe with cups of cool herbal tea cannot nullify its potent effect.
"Sev -- hic -- verus! There's an unidentified root floating in my -- hic -- teacup!"
"Sweet!" He cackles, tossing back another gobletful. "Make a wish!"
Soon we are done for, wasted, plastered, loaded, on each other as much as the absinthe, rolling about on the couch, rapidly degenerating into debauchery and cackling like the warlocks we are.
I recall my regret as, when last winter ended, I took my final run of the slopes. One more chance to fall off the mountain in style, to risk uncertain damage and doom by riding a waxed plank at full tilt over groove and lump; to carve the white serpent in the snow before leaving another season behind. I exhorted myself to hold nothing back, try some stunts, taste the fullest . . . and left myself laughing my eyes to tears at the words of my personal pep talk. Now, as I bring that moment forth again, I holler those same words with gusto, about to burst from mirth:
"I wanna see some fat cobra!!!"
To which Sev roars with a diabolical laugh of undiluted triumph bordering on ecstasy.
I end up not only seeing but sucking fat cobra, giggling and moaning around a throbbing throatful. Bathed in his heady scent of pheromones and spice, woodsmoke and herbs, dark passion and potions, I let my precious Master dominate me, yet am also keenly aware of how I in return am able to engineer his pleasure or pain.
And I want only to pleasure him. This time I take him all the way in, swallow his salty elixir, and by doing so I become him; I am Severus, in all his sublime and secret power. We are all muddled up together, two souls stirred in the same flask until they are inseparable. These material bodies of ours, merely an illusion in the greater plenum of our sensory experience.
"Severus. . . . Oh Severus, Master. . . ."
Again and again we unite and combine, pouring ourselves into one another, until my flesh is his, until his sweet unguent exudes from my pores, until our spirits slither together in a single sensuous rhythm. As a unit we worship each other in delirious trance and so too as a unit do we finally collapse.
He waves a haphazard wand, so that a small bottle appears out of thin air. It bounces off his head, but his hand reaches up to snatch it with a deftness that belies his drunken state.
"Hic -- whuuf! Gods of Asgard . . . Here, drink two tablespoons of this potion or you'll -- hic -- be sorry in the morning!"
"Antispiritus Vitae Rec- -- hic -- Rectimens," I read, the label blurring, "What is this . . .?"
"It's a hangover potion," Sev snaps, much like his old self and less the lusty, delirious celebrant I've just entertained. "And you would do well to take my advice, lest you fancy waking up the -- hic -- hard way!"
"I'll -- hic -- wake up the hard way any -- hic -- day, provided it's the right sort of hard," I murmur happily, pressing my fingers to the recently fat 'cobra' and giving them a light squeeze. He doesn't remain irritable for long.
As the fire simmers down to cherry-red embers, our exhuberant frolic mellows to a gentle, happy melange of sinewy limbs, licking mouths, nuzzles and contented cuddling. The room is warm, but the moon slips behind the west wall, angling her beams beyond the windows, leaving us in near darkness, distilling our contact down to the senses of touch, sound, smell and taste. In this moment, we know each other only by a language of hot satin skin, of wet lips murmuring steamy entreaties and cool greased locks of hair.
The night grows old. Kronos the planet of fate hovers low on the horizon, heralding the first stars of the aurora.
But we live in a place of souls, Severus and I, an eternal place beyond our frail forms and the mechanical clicking of the years.
Now he, my beautiful Animus, folds me into coils of muscle like silken-wound steel, so that our bodies melt together even as our spirits fuse as one, and murmurs against my lips that we, in all our power, are
Invictus.
Author's note:
What is it like to engage in spiritual lovemaking? To fantasize about an imaginary figure or idol, yet be wise enough to realize that said figure is really just an extension of yourself --- the current spiritual archetype that represents both your hidden Shadow self, and the apex of your soul's achievement for that stage of growth? To experience soul completion via sacred internal union?
It's a little like this little fic.
Even before I knew what to call it, I have known a rich animus relationship in my life. The list of names is long, each iconic figure of that particular growth stage like an old friend, a teacher to whom I can always return for advice: Lenny, Issa, Vise, Juice, Aftershock, Salazar. As Salazar invited in Snape, so others have followed on Severus's heels, inspired by his power: Isaac, Sarkos, NXS, the entire race of the Sarkazen with whom I still work. Generational animi also point to sequential, or concurrent, aspects of inner exploration: Aftershock is Juice's son; Sarkos is Isaac's uncle, and NXS is Isaac's own soul-brother, each with his own specialty. I'm mainly a straight female, so female animus icons are rare --- yet when they appear, as in the case of Avo Rayo the primal electromagnetic mother and "Mother Road" Slick 66, they wield fully goddesslike power.
And now, Severus once again, eight years later, poking his hooked nose into my psyche to remind me of the personal power I came all too close to losing, and which he tells me never to relinquish again; Severus, one of only two animi figures not invented by myself to ever qualify for that coveted role of soul-mentor, and certainly the most influential of those two. Severus as animus bears all those defining merits: the Apex of Fulfilment, as Potions Master; the Shadow self, as the dark and dangerous, yet good, warlock; and the Inner Lover, again of a darker sensual variety viewed as shameful or dirty ("bad boy") by current repressed society. Yet I feel a healthy aspect to this animus (and thus my own relationship to sexuality): While avid and passionate, my inner love/lust with Severus is almost if not entirely devoid of outright rape, abuse, or shame. Fantasies can tell us a lot about our view of ourselves, and the health of our internal state; I outgrew regular vampires years ago, for example, when I realized they were inherently stagnant, unable to change or grow from their earthly state, parasitic and, worst of all, devoid of an actual soul. My own powerful mage's soul demanded an animus more profound than a reanimated corpse, however physically attractive one might be; yet the mention of Sarkos and his race, who do employ the use of blood for both their magick and to liberate souls, as well as the dark nature of Severus himself, shows I'm not adverse to exploring shadows. If only we all knew how to use fantasies actively as a tool of growth!
In such continual animus transformations lies the mutable yet immortal, indestructible power of the soul, gifted with infinite rebirths in its quest for Supreme Unity. As Voldemort stands to warn us, trade this soul for any lasting earthly perks, physical immortality, wealth, for anything at all . . . and you are nothing.
Sanctus Severus docerenos.
