Author's Note: The uncensored version of chapter four of this story is available out of general circulation, in that other section of the library. Be sure to bring a note from your professor. All other chapters are as written.

Dumbledore knocked on the weathered door of the little seaside cottage and waited for a response while inspecting the bedraggled front garden. Had he been here on any other errand, he would have smiled at the vegetal chaos that greeted the casual caller. Vines threatened to overtake the path, and throny creepers had clamped their suckers to the doorframe in an effort to pry it apart. The cottage looked like it wanted not to be noticed. Dumbledore could hear the distant sound of wave on shingle and wondered if the house's occupants were at the shore. It was a balmy summer day, after all. He had just started around back when he heard the door scrape open.

"Albus?" Remus Lupin greeted the Headmaster, the pleasure and surprise on his face erased by wariness when he saw the old wizard's expression. "Come in, come in. We're just having tea. Is everything all right?"

"No, my boy, I'm afraid everything is very far from all right. But I will have some of that tea, if you don't mind."

Remus led the way to the back of the cottage, gingerly stepping over top of the debris of bachelorhood that littered the tiny house. Yesterday's tea things were still scattered in the parlor beside piles of newpapers, books, and slippers. Today's tea had been moved to the kitchen, where Sirius Black and Harry Potter hastily rose to their feet, chairs scraping, when Remus entered with the headmaster.

"Albus! To what do we owe the pleasure!" Sirius exclaimed as he poured another cup of tea.

"Thank you, Sirius. No pleasure today, I fear." He took a sip of his tea, foregoing his customary sugar, but did not sit. He looked every inch of his one hundred thirty years today. Sirius did not press but waited for Albus to resume speaking.

"And how are you, Harry? Has the summer agreed with you?"

"Yes, wonderfully, Headmaster, thank you. I love it here."

Albus nodded, peering out the window. "Yes, it is quite lovely. Your garden could use some work, Sirius. You ought to be able to cultivate some Rugosas, at least. With Remus visiting you should have plenty of hands on deck for a gardening project."

"Albus." Sirius interrupted. "Who died?"

Dumbledore replaced his teacup on the chipped saucer but did not raise his eyes. "Severus."

Harry gasped and looked at Sirius and Remus, who dropped in the nearest chair and gripped the table, shaking his head in disbelief. Harry swallowed and made an indistinct noise.

"H-How?"

Dumbledore regarded him gravely.

"I mean- it was Voldemort, right? He found out he was spying and- and Avada Kedavra'd him. What I mean is, how do you know?"

Dumbledore extracted a small round object from inside his robes and placed it on the kitchen table. It looked something like a remembrall, except it was black and still.

"What is that?"

"It's a vivisphere, Harry," Remus explained in a hoarse voice. "It can be keyed to only one person. The combination of colour swirls tells mood and state of being, if you know how to read it. They're fascinating, really- very powerful magic, and very rare. Not many wizards can control them. They only look like that when the person they're keyed to is dead." Remus looked at Dumbledore. "How many days?"

"Two. I wanted to be sure." He looked at Sirius, who had not moved. "Sirius. There is something else." He pulled an envelope from his robes and laid it on the table carefully. Sirius Black, the slanted spidery writing on the outside of the envelope read. Harry had seen that handwriting on his Potions papers enough to know it was Snape's. No one said anything for a moment. Dumbledore arranged his robes and nodded to Remus.

"I'll show myself out, Remus. Owl me if you need anything." Sirius's voice stopped him at the door to the parlor.

"Albus."

"Yes, my boy?"

"Have you read that letter?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, I have." He offered no apology, and Sirius didn't look as though he needed one. "I have called a meeting of the Order for tomorrow night. Take every precaution until then. We have no idea how serious this security breach is, or how many of our agents are in jeopardy." With a swirl of his crimson robes, he was gone.

No one moved in the kitchen until Remus cleared his throat. "Aren't you going to open it, Sirius?"

Sirius appeared not to have heard him, but moved to the sink and began washing the breakfast things. "Hand me those plates, will you?" he murmured. Harry glanced at Remus, who shook his head and began helping Sirius to clear up. An hour later the cottage was fearsomely neat, as Sirius moved from room to room tidying and cleaning in between preparing dinner. Nothing more was said about the letter lying coiled like a snake on the table. By common consent no one touched it or offered to move it. Dinner was a quiet affair in the dining room, which they had not used once this summer. But the kitchen table was occupied by the letter.

Remus and Harry made half-hearted attempts at conversation, even discussing the possibility of getting some gardening done. Harry resolutely talked about his upcoming classes, with gentle conversational nudges from Remus. Sirius was oblivious.

"How's the stew?" was the only thing he said at dinner.

"It's good- really excellent," Harry said enthusiastically.

"First-rate, Sirius," seconded Remus. Sirius rolled his eyes and said nothing.

Harry cornered Remus in the kitchen after dinner. "What's the matter with Sirius?" he whispered. "Is he feeling guilty about hating Snape or something? He looks awful. And don't give me some line like 'adults are really complicated' or some shit like that. I'm not twelve."

Remus sighed. "I don't know, Harry. The truth is, since Azkaban, sometimes there's no telling how he's going to take things. He's not always- predictable."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I know. I mean, obviously I didn't know him before, but still- I know he's not quite like other people sometimes. But I don't have too high an opinion of normalcy anyway."

Remus cocked an eye at him and smiled. "I forget you're a man, sometimes, Harry."

"Do you now." The younger man crossed his arms and met his professor's eyes.

Lupin gave him a cuff on the side of the head. "Stop your shameless flirting. Honestly, you're as bad as James sometimes."

By common consent both Remus and Harry turned in early, as much to relieve themselves of Sirius's company as to give him time alone with the letter. Harry flipped through Quidditch magazines for a while before dozing off around midnight. Remus did not sleep, curled in the armchair in the corner of his room in a puddle of lamplight, waiting and listening. Sirius would know he was here, but could ignore him if he chose.

When he was finally alone (despite the irritating light from under Remus's door that meant he was There For Him), Sirius sat at the kitchen table and stared at the letter. He ran a finger over his name and considered. It would be nice, but a cheat, to pour himself a big tumbler of whiskey before opening the thing. No, whatever it was Snape had wanted to say to him deserved to be endured without benefit of anesthetic. His death had doubtless been, as well.

With slow fingers he opened the envelope and flattened the carefully folded letter on the table. Just one closely written page. His eyes scanned it and saw the signature at the bottom, bold and formal. Shit. Shit. Shit. He closed his eyes and put his head in his hands for a minute. Seeing that signature made him seem very dead, somehow. I can't do this, he thought. I'll just ask Albus what it said. I'll throw it in the fireplace and never look at it again.

No.

He smoothed the letter again and began.

The date in the corner was just three months ago. Snape must have known things were likely to go wrong shortly. What had Dumbledore known? Had there been a letter for him, too?

Congratulations, Black. I honestly did not think you would have the courage to open this letter, so if you have got this far, you have already exceeded my expectations.

Arrogant fucker.

I am assuming that I am well and truly dead, if you are reading this, my epistula ultima et prima. My last and first letter, to you at any rate.

Yes, I can read Latin, you twit.

With any luck Voldemort has killed me, and I have not suffered the indignity of being run over by a lorry or some such thing. But there is no telling. It would be nice if my death, unlike my life, could have served some purpose. I have a great deal riding on my death, you see. I am counting on it to atone for many things. So my death is not unwelcome, and I would have no one think I was sorry to meet it.

But in order to make a good job of my atonement, I must go to it with a clean breast. Forgive me if I stray into the maudlin here. Contemplating one's own death brings out the worst in one's prose style, I have discovered.

Where are you as you read this, I wonder? Not hiding out in some cave, gnawing on rat carcasses, I hope. I hope you are safe, and even happy. I truly wish you only the best. Does that surprise you? It shouldn't, for the purpose of this letter is to tell you that I have always loved you. Incredible, isn't it? Quite laughable, really, and I'm sure you're having a good one at my expense now, wherever you are.

I can remember the first moment I saw you, and I have no doubt your face will be the last I see as I die. Your face as I knew it when we were seventeen, laughing, beautiful, like a pagan god. I was not the only one who admired you, I know, nor do I deceive myself that I was the only one who enjoyed your favours. But the rest of your paramours, male and female, you took pleasure in flaunting in front of the rest of the school. I was the only one you came to in secret, in the dark, when we were safe. When no one would discover the two bitter rivals rutting wildly behind drawn bed curtains.

On rare occasions, I allow myself to savour those images. I will pour them out like a fine cognac on certain lonely nights in my dungeon and roll them around my mind. Only very rarely, mind you. I am a disciplined man.

Make no mistake, Black. I hate you almost as much as I love you. I hate you for what you did to me, for your betrayal and for your pettiness. I suppose there was a part of me that knew, all during that year, that it was doomed, that I did not deserve such happiness. When Pettigrew came to me and told me (with what relish, you can imagine) that I was the object of your common room jokes, part of me was unsurprised. You had been laughing at me all the time, naturally. Severus Snape begging for it. Pettigrew did a most convincing impersonation of my pre-orgasmic mutterings, by the way. The boy had a rare gift. You three Gryffindor gods chose an admirable court jester.

It has been a great mystery in my life that my hatred for you has not managed to kill my love. How could that be? My question is ingenuous. I have had other lovers, though doubtless I cannot rival your tally. Why should it be that all other faces are but a distortion of yours? If you have any thoughts on the matter, send them along. After all, it is possible we may meet again. Until then, rest assured that I remain

Yours sincerely,

in every possible way,

Severus Snape

Remus heard a small cry like a wounded animal from the kitchen and rushed in to find Sirius huddled, head bowed on arms, against the table.

"Sirius?" he said softly.

"FUCK!!" With one smooth motion Sirius hurled the porcelain fruit bowl across the room to shatter on the opposite wall. "GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!" The dinner plates were next, then the tea cups. "JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!"

Remus was afraid to move. He wasn't sure Sirius had registered his presence and didn't feel like catching a plate on the side of his head. He sensed Harry in the doorway behind him and motioned him back with his hand. Sirius's eyes were wild. There was none of the Sirius he had known in them. They were the eyes of a man crazed by twelve years of Azkaban. Remus flinched when those eyes rounded on him.

"I'm going to kill him, Remus," he said in a quiet voice.

"S-Snape?" he asked, puzzled.

"PETER FUCKING PETTIGREW!!!!" He grabbed the chair and smashed it against the edge of the table. Splinters of wood went flying, and Remus shielded his eyes. "HE DESTROYED MY LIFE, AND I'M GOING TO DESTROY HIM! I'M GOING TO STUFF HIS BALLS DOWN HIS THROAT AND EAT HIS HEART ON A PLATE!" The chair was kindling now. Sirius paused to clutch the table and breathe. When he looked up his eyes were calm again, but somehow more frightening.

"Believe me when I tell you, Remus, that I just ceased to care about anything in my life other than finding and torturing that slime-sucking bastard. He killed my best friend, he stole twelve years of my life, and he - he-" He buried his face in his hands.

"What about Harry?" asked Remus softly.

"You can look after Harry better than I can. You're what he needs anyway, not some psychotic wreck like me. Take care of him for me. Just try to wait till he's eighteen, okay? I've got enough ghosts to deal with, I don't need James after me as well."

"May I read the letter, Sirius?"

Sirius nodded. "Sure, Remus. Why the hell not? Harry too, I don't care. Make copies for McGonagall if you want. Make it assigned reading for your students. Wait, I've got it. Make them figure out the joke. What can be better than finding out the love of your life loves you back? Naturally, finding it out two days after his death. It's too fucking good." He pushed his hair out of his face. "I just need one favour. Don't owl Dumbledore until tomorrow. I need twenty-four hours head start."

"Sirius, you can't be. . .You're talking about going to your death."

"Of course I am. Haven't you been listening? There's nothing I care about but killing him. Right now that's the only plan I can come up with, so I'm going with it." He stalked out the door, brushing past Harry as though he wasn't there.

Remus sat down and quickly scanned the letter. "Oh my God," he said when he had finished. "Oh, Sirius."