Libera Me

"That meager and fragile thread . . . by which the little surface corners and edges of men's secret and solitary lives may be joined for an instant now and then before sinking back into the darkness where the spirit cried for the first time and was not heard and will cry for the last time and will not be heard then either. . . ." —William Faulkner, Absalom, Absalom!

The first thing he noticed was the heat.

Severus Snape was not comfortable in the best of circumstances and trailing through the heat of this strange, foreign city was making him decidedly uncomfortable. Heat such as this was uncommon in Britain. Heat, when it came to Britain, was dry and unrelenting. The air here was so wet you felt as if you were walking through water, requiring the properties of gillyweed just to be able to breathe, the heat stifling and unpleasant; curled around and weighing down on one's shoulders like layers of sodden clothing. The only relief came from the blast of cool air filtering out from the shops, crowded with tourists during the hottest part of the day.

Sweat inched down his face, stinging his eyes as he drew a hand across his brow, gaze averted from the tourists they passed the two men on the way to the lodgings Rosier had booked for them.

New Orleans had malevolence dripping from every wrought-iron balcony, clinging to the faded wooden plantation shutters and swirling in the hot, humid air. It was July, and it was miserable. He walked through the streets of the French Quarter, hands in his pockets, struggling not to sneer at the tourists with their cameras photographing crooked brick streets.

Why on earth would you want to take a picture of this hellhole?

Severus had never been to America. As a pureblood wizard, he'd been schooled to dismiss the savage, barbaric colonials across the sea, whose influence was a steadily growing reality even in Wizarding Britain. Much like the Mudbloods and Muggles, their culture was a poison that seeped into the veins and corroded anything it touched.

While Wizarding Britain suffered under the taint of the impure, the civilized world was battered by the uncouth Americans and their coarse behavior. At least, that is what Severus' father always said about them, and young Severus never had a reason to doubt his sire.

At least, not about that.

If it weren't for the Mudbloods and the Muggles, the Snapes would be more than just an ancient House with a precarious amount of money in the family coffers. If it weren't for the Americans…well, his father had been convinced the Americans were responsible for every sort of evil the Muggles came up with.

If the rest of the country was as miserably hot and dirty as New Orleans, he didn't want to go anywhere else there, either. The streets smelled unpleasantly like urine and vomit, the smells more pronounced as the temperatures rose, like some sadistic bakery designed to repel rather than attract. The crowd moved like a wave, pressing in on him as they took their photographs and stopped in the shops along St. Ann Street.

With every inadvertent push and muttered s'cuse me , Severus became angrier and angrier, and his flushed face was no longer just a result of the heat. Each inane apology sounded to his ears likes taunts, insults. For a moment he was back at school, and James Potter and his gang of Gryffindor bulldogs were trailing him, nipping at his heels, barking laughter at him and teasing him mercilessly.

His hand had slipped inside his gritty, second-hand robes, dusty from travel and from walking the streets of New Orleans, where filth seemed to hover in the very air that he breathed. His world narrowed to anger, heat, and the sharp acrid taste of hate. He was breathing faster, nostrils flaring, panting in ill-disguised rage. It did not stop the jostle of the crowd.

Never again. Never again shall I endure this.

“We're here.”

Rosier's voice startled him, pulled him out of the trembling wrath he was immersed in. The roaring in his ears morphed into the babble of the throng of people surrounding him. He blinked as he realized he'd been staring straight up at the sun that seared his dark eyes, making blue and yellow dots dance in his vision. With a snarl, he shook his head to clear it, and turned his attention to the house Rosier was indicating.

“1022. They say this is where Marie Laveau's house used to be.” He gave a soft laugh. “How appropriate, don't you think?”

Severus looked at Rosier, whose face was in profile, dark hair curling ever-so-slightly and clinging to his fair skin. He did not appear to be suffering under the sun, nor the heat, and he noticed the other man was not bothered by the crowds. They did not push or bump into him, merely stepped out of the other man's way as he stood there immobile, and Severus envied him that as he was elbowed aside for the umpteenth time. “I suppose.” He had no idea who Marie Laveau was and wondered why Rosier would know such a thing.

Rosier pushed the door open, and with a flourish of his hand, waved at Severus to go in before him. A cool blast of air tickled his flushed and heated skin, and Severus was eager to get out of the street and feel more of that blessedly cool air surround him. The house was comprised of straight, no-nonsense lines which were at odds with its fanciful coloring, shutters closed tightly against the blazing afternoon sun. The silence and the quiet darkness were as welcoming as the embraces he usually detested.

***
The first thing he did was bathe in the antique claw-foot tub, careful not to knock the glass bottles of scented soaps on the floor and shatter them. The bath he took was hurried and frantic, as if he feared dirtying the clean porcelain of the tub with his mere presence. He soaped up the soft washcloth and bathed in a perfunctory fashion, paying little attention to his actions, not wanting to dwell on his body overmuch. His body felt awkwardly arranged in the tub, hard angles and lanky limbs askew in the water. Afterwards he'd dressed in fresh robes that remained wrinkled despite his best efforts to shake them out, and his attempt at a pressing spell succeeded only in inexplicably turning the hem of his robe a bright yellow. At potions he was adept, but wand magic continued to evade him. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he gave up and went to join Rosier on the porch. The other man was drinking something that looked like it had a mint sprig in it, something that should have looked foppish but looked elegant and refreshing instead.

There was one on the low table between the dark green wrought-iron furniture, presumably for him, but Severus ignored it. The glass looked too delicate, like fairy spun foolishness and he felt out of place and clumsy—he, who usually flourished in an environment of glass vials.

The sun had set a bit, and while it was certainly not cool, the shade and the breeze from the outdoor ceiling fan made the temperature a bit more tolerable. Still, the humidity was thick in air, he could taste the dense steam of it, and he was sweating again in moments. Why did I even bother to take a bath?

Rosier looked fresh and untouched by any of it, as if he'd commanded the night to settle around him like some elegant adornment. His dark hair was swept back from his face, throwing his aristocratic features into sharp relief. Severus suffered in silence, sitting in the uncomfortable iron chair and wondering why he'd never look as elegant in it as his companion did. Evan Rosier was not rich; his family was an old pureblood line who'd fallen into financial disrepute just as the Snapes had. Yet Rosier carried himself with an air of almost regal imperiousness, as if he could impose his will with a mere look from those curious golden eyes.

Severus was not much younger than Rosier, just a few years at most, but he felt…awkward, unsure. This place was so different from England, so…lush, pulsing with unfamiliar sights and smells. The garden reeked unpleasantly of flowers - the heady, opiate scent of the magnolia blossoms doused the humid air, as they clung coyly to the dark-green, waxy leaves. The intensely flourishing magnolia tree that hung over the porch seemed to taunt him with the utter perfection it managed to easily attain by merely existing.

The houses in New Orleans all faced away from the street and opened into private gardens, filled with lavish foliage and adorned with statues of young naked boys with pouty lips and cocked hips partially hidden in alcoves of bright green plants. The tourists saw the back of the houses and the front of the shops, but the real face of New Orleans was hidden from them, only teasing glimpses given of the courtyards through the alleys that separated the buildings, blocked by heavy wrought-iron bars.

Severus felt like that, as if he was grasping the hot iron bars and peering in at a courtyard he could see but not touch, not enter. He could only see but a quarter of the delights offered, only glimpse at a world that would be his…

If only…

He looked over at Rosier. Twilight cast the other man's face into shadows as he sipped at his drink. Severus looked at the glass resting on the table, noting the mint leaf had wilted. He sighed.

“Do you like your rooms?” Rosier spoke in a voice that reminded Severus of the magnolia tree—opulent and dark and effortless.

“They're fine.” He sat there as still as possible, trying not to move. Moving only made him sweat more, made him more uncomfortable.

“This place is fascinating. Don't you think? I can almost hear the drums from some voodoo sacrifice at Congo Park.” Rosier grinned at him, laugh lines fanned the edges of his strange golden eyes, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles so that that Severus could see the perfect shine of his black boots. He looked utterly relaxed, head cocked to one side, swirling his drink absently with a motion of his finger.

Severus scowled. “It's too hot to hear anything,” he said in a petulant tone. He sat bathed in sweat, greasy hair hanging lank in his face, aquiline nose wrinkling at the sickening scents of the Southern summer night, and he stared at Rosier with a mixture of loathing and utter longing clearly written on his face.

“All I hear is laughter,” he muttered, grasping at the drink in front of him. The ice had long melted, and the sweet liquid burned in his throat so that he coughed, spilling some on the front of his robes. “What is this swill? I've had medicinal potions that taste infinitely better,” he said testily.

“Don't like the mint julep? Well, some people despise them. No matter, there are other offerings in the house.” At this comment, Rosier turned and regarded him with gleaming eyes, his mouth curved in amusement. “There are many offerings for you, now.” He stood up, unfolding himself with languid grace from the chair, and walked over to where Severus sat. He put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and leaned down to speak quietly in his ear. Severus could smell the mint and alcohol on his breath as Rosier exhaled softly against his neck, stirring the fine hairs there. Rosier smelled like some combination of sandalwood and something spicy and indistinguishable, that might be the night or merely Rosier's own scent. He did not smell like sweat or anything unpleasant, and Severus hated him for that, but there was a growing knowledge that he could turn his head and bump his nose with Rosier's own, and his face was flushed with something more than heat as he sat, motionless, unable to move.

Rosier's voice was a shade more humid than the night, just as thick with malicious promise and dangerous temptation. “You just have to learn how to take what you want.” His hand was on Severus' shoulder, and when he stood to his full height, he pulled his hand away with such excruciating slowness that Severus felt every moment of Rosier's fingers slow passage across his shoulder, the touch singing his flesh beneath the fabric of his dark pedestrian robes. The touch was almost teasing, and a brief image of Lily Evans flashed in his mind, and Severus hated himself again but did not pull away from Rosier's hand.

Rosier gave him a smile, the very picture of jaded amusement, before disappearing into the house. Severus stared with keen dissatisfaction at the garden that seemed to mock him as the sun set, feeling restless and dissatisfied.

***

Later that night, they moved silently through the boisterous crowds on Bourbon Street towards the St. Louis Cemetery.

Severus did not like the city any more when the sun went down, since it brought out a host of drunken idiots shoving into him, singing and talking loudly, a thousand times worse than it had been that afternoon.

Loud music assailed his ears and his hands were wrapped so tightly around the fabric of his clothing he thought it would tear under his rage. He wanted to leave, go back to the house, lie under the fan and silence the house for one blessed moment of quiet and dark…why was it so much to ask these horrid people stop running into him, treating him as if he was nothing more than flotsam to be shoved aside?

Rosier did not seem to mind. He melted into the crowd as if he were one of them, as if he were nothing more than a smiling, sober man amidst of sea of intoxicated Muggles as if beneath his charming countenance did not live the soul of a killer. How they missed the cutting menace of his smile or the arrogance of his sneer Severus did not know. He tried to mimic that self-assured look only to have a man shout at him and almost throw a drink after him for “giving him a nasty look.”

Rosier had laughed his warm laugh at Severus' attempt, but it was not inherently cruel. He put a hand lightly on his back to steer him in the right direction, applying the slightest of pressure to urge Severus to cross the street when the light changed. Severus knew that Rosier was merely looking after him—the traffic was coming from the opposite way, after all—but he found he moved slightly closer to the other man as Rosier threw a casual arm around his shoulder. “Come along, Severus. I think you'll be more comfortable where we're going.” Again he slid through the crowds with ease, a snake in the grass where Severus felt a bit like a great annoyed weasel that no one was particularly worried about.

Just like school.

The cemetery was closed, but they entered easily without even needing charms. A few of the city's less fortunate denizens glared at them as they perched, wrinkled packages of cheap cigarettes and glass bottles of cheaper wine clutched in their hands as they eyed the two men with ill-disguised weariness. They murmured to each other and slunk away, into the shadows, leaving behind refuse and empty bottles littering the ground.

The tombstones in the cemetery followed the peculiar fashion of being buried above ground, so the entire place looked like little bread ovens decorated with the same panache and detail as were the houses. The wrought-iron rose up in elegant swirling rosettes, or curled around in whimsical patterns adorned with greenery or flowers. Candles rested in colorful glass jars, some lit, some banked and dark and waiting patiently for the strike of a match. With a careless wave of his hand, Rosier lit the candles, throwing their surroundings in a muted gilt of light.

It seemed cooler in here, quieter. Severus felt himself relaxing, felt his tense muscles slowly loosening as he ran his hands over the rough stone of the crypts. “Why do they do this?” he asked curiously, following Rosier through the apparent maze of the necropolis. “Why not bury them properly in the ground?”

Rosier shrugged, pausing to play with a few flowers that adorned one of the tombs, pulling at the leaves and tracing the petals with the pads of his fingers. He deftly plucked a half-bloomed rose from the vase affixed to the tomb and presented to it to Severus with a mock bow, eyes heavy-lidded and unfathomable. Severus held the rose in his hand, and then tucked it into the pockets of his robes and out of sight. “I heard it was because that is the way the Spanish did it, and something about the city sinking and the bodies never staying buried since it's so low below sea level and there's so much water beneath the ground.”

“Really? Seems to me all the water's in the air,” Severus muttered, running his palm over his brow for the thousandth time. Surely there must be some potion the local wizards drank to endure this, some spell they'd come up with?

Rosier laughed again at Severus' naiveté, but not unkindly. “It does, doesn't it?” He found a tomb with a faux-staircase, climbed it, and perched upon the roof, tossing an amused look down at Severus. “You hate it here, don't you?”

Severus stared up at him warily, not sure of what to say. Would a yes get him in trouble? Would it get him a session beneath Rosier's wand, screaming under the heat and red-sharp pain of his Cruciatus? “It's too hot, and loud, and noisy. Too… common ,” he said with a sneer.

Rosier stared at him, the smile slipping from his face until he appeared as impassive as the tomb upon which he sat. “Can't you feel it, though, Severus?”

There was something in Evan Rosier's voice that Severus had never heard before. A dark, pulsating something that threatened and yet…he moved closer, unable to help himself.

“Feel what?” He didn't want to ask, didn't think he should, but he couldn't seem to stop himself…

Was that drums he was hearing? The pulsing sound, slamming into the night with vicious, staccato mal intent?

“If ever a city was alive with dark magic, this is it.” Rosier tipped his head up to look at the sky, dusted with stars. Severus stared at the smooth pale column of his throat, and the drums seemed to be louder, and he could not stop moving up to where Rosier perched like some demented raven from a gothic novel.

“They say voodoo is all about helping the self, you know. That you do these things for personal gain, to achieve power and status and wealth.” He did not look at Severus, merely continued to stare up into the velvety darkness of the night. Severus noticed that Rosier's face was as faultless as the statuary interspersed throughout the cemetery—pale perfection tilted towards night sky. “Is that what we do, with dark magic, do you think? Those of us who follow Lord Voldemort?”

“I thought we were supposed to be cleansing the world of Mudbloods and the impure,” Severus answered childishly, unsure why he was goading Rosier so. Perhaps it was because the drums were making his head ache, and his mouth dry, and the smell of the flowers adorning the graves were carried on the wind and making him sick with their saccharine sweetness.

“Oh, Severus.” Rosier looked down at him, head tilted just so , and for a moment Severus thought he looked like some weeping angel statue sobbing over some long-dead ancestor. “Is that really why you want to join him?”

It wasn't. “No,” Severus whispered, head lowered in shame. “No, it isn't.”

“You don't want them to jostle you anymore, do you? You hate that they mock you, laugh at you. Every Muggle in this city does to you what everyone at school did. They either push you aside or make sport of you, or they just ignore you. You want to walk through the crowds with them moving aside and out of your way, and you want to make them respect you, and if they dare laugh you want to make them pay .” As he continued speaking, Rosier's voice softened, became quieter and more intense, and he finished his sentence on a serpentine hiss that sounded out of place coming from that full mouth, that perfect face. He listed off every secret desire Severus had ever felt, correctly nailing every reason why he'd been so willing to sell his soul to Voldemort for a cause he cared almost nothing for.

He'd not done it yet, he did not bear the Dark Mark on his flesh. Something had been stopping him from falling at the Dark Lord's feet and grasping at his robes, something that shrieked within him that no amount of respect and power was worth what he would be forced to become…or worse, what he would want to become.

That noise was become quieter now, in this strange foreign city, chased away by the pounding drums and the coaxing words of one Evan Rosier. The desire grew within him until it was a monster of a thing, pulsing inside of him, clawing to break free.

Rosier hopped off the tomb stone, his every movement light and airy, graceful. His cape swung around their bodies before fluttering around their ankles. His hands came to rest on Severus' shoulders. The drums , Severus thought wildly, Rosier's touch burning straight through his soaking white linen shirt, branding the skin beneath with their heat. Does Rosier hear them too?

“We can give you that, Severus. We can make them all respect you.” Rosier pushed him lightly back, and Severus moved beneath the subtle pressure of his hands, as if they were waltzing through the elegant city of New Orleans' most honored dead.

Thump, thump, thump.

“We can make them fear you.” Rosier's voice throbbed with intensity, beating down around him like rain. Severus' back hit one of the tombs and the coarse rock scratched through his shirt. The pain from the abrupt contact blossomed over his skin, making him shiver.

Rosier's mouth lowered to speak directly into his ear, and the pain was chased quickly by a surge of something dark and exciting that sent his blood rushing and his breathing escalating, and his hands pushed against the granite tomb in quick, furious pushes.

“What do you want, most of all, Severus Snape? What can our Lord give you to make you his? Because he will, oh, he will…” Rosier pressed his mouth just below Severus' ear, his breath moist and the chills intensified, and for the first time since he'd arrived Severus felt a cool rush on his skin and he leaned closer ever so slightly, wanting more.

“What can we give you to make you ours?”

Thump, thump, thump.

Severus could not answer, for Rosier's hands had slid from his shoulders down the sweat-slicked front of his chest, which was rapidly convulsing as if his heart would burst forth and plummet to the ground, a red pulsing mess of a thing, on the gravel between them.

Thump, thump, thump.

Rosier's hands moved up to trail over Severus' arms, over the smooth unblemished skin of his left forearm. He pressed against him, not in a threatening manner, but it scared Severus and beguiled him as nothing had ever done before.

“What can I tell you that will you bring you to your knees….” Rosier's words were honey soaked syllables, his handsome face so close to Severus' own that he might lean down and…

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump…they're faster, now…

Severus had never heard a man's voice like this—had never had anyone talk to him like this, as if he was worthy, as if he was wanted….The drums got louder, and louder, and Severus finally realized it was his heart he was hearing. Rosier's words came back to him, from before, you just have to learn to take what you want.

His hands left the tombstone behind him, and hung indecisively in the air, for a fraction of a second - fluttering like the wings of a tiny, small bat, and then grasped Rosier's shoulders with desperation. He pulled the other man closer, and his mouth sought his with anxious, unskilled ardor. Rosier's fingers pressed oh-so-softly against Severus' cheek, echoing all the light, friendly, casual touches he'd bestowed throughout the day, and Severus wanted more… wanted to feel the ghost of his husky voice against his cheekbone. Lust was hot and instant, and he was pushing against him, shaking in fear and want . Rosier gave willingly what Severus so frantically desired, allowing the younger man his inexpert fumbling and sweaty, grasping caresses.

He was not an aggressor, not really, for all his pent-up agitation and anger. He could taste, however, on Rosier's lips all that could be his, the power, the glory, recognition… respect . The other man's body was firm and solid, and hard where Severus was hard, and that made him dizzy and clutch at him for support as he tentatively rubbed himself against Rosier's body, his knees almost giving out at the surge of liquid heat that exploded from his groin, the rasp of stubble on Rosier's cheek the flint setting his need aflame. Rosier's lips were bruised with the force of Severus' sloppy kisses, and for the moment, he was everything.

“I want it,” Severus said in a voice made strong by long-suppressed desires, for this and for everything Rosier's burning smile and seductive words promised.

Rosier gave him a long, hot look, triumph at war with lust on his patrician features. Noble. His name means noble. And his last name—Rosier was a demon, wasn't he, of seduction?

Severus no longer cared. He wanted nobility, he wanted seduction, he wanted to walk through the crowds of New Orleans and not be pushed aside, to sip mint juleps as the day slid into twilight without spilling them on his tattered, second-hand robes. He wanted everything Rosier was, everything the other man had, and he wanted….Rosier, and he would have him.

And then everything that was promised would be his.

“Rosier,” he gasped, pressing closer, fingers twining in Rosier's hair. He pressed his mouth against his, this time with more surety, lips firmer and fingers grasping with the slightest hint of cruelty. It brought a small moan from his would-be seducer, and it made Severus smile against his mouth to hear it. Perhaps his smile was as cutting, as arrogant, as he wanted it to be. Just like Rosier's was, could be, had been earlier.

“I want everything.”

Rosier's reply, when it came, was husky with leashed triumph. “Then you shall have it.” At this he framed Severus' face in his palms, his eyes alight with mischief. Time and light slowed down for a bit, before Rosier leaned over and kissed him.

There are many ways the darkness can creep in, like ivy, and wrap around a man's soul in an instant. For some, it is a slow process born in anger and pain, a cauldron of rage that shimmers and tips over finally, scalding whatever lies in its path. Others descend through horrors untold into dark, icy depths from which they never ascend content to freeze with a glance and kill with the barest of expressions.

For Severus Snape, the darkness took him as he took Rosier, surrounded by dust and bones, embraced by the heat of a New Orleans's summer night and teased with the scent of dying flowers.

~Finis