He puffs around the cigarette between his teeth. They lower his mother into the ground –she's been dead months, but the earth has only just defrosted. The gray sky and dilapidated cemetary increase the feel of death in the air. That stupid bastard should have been there for her, shouldn't have left them. The warmth from the nicotine fills his chest and he finally finds the strength to look at Tobias. Tobias looks far older than he is… and so did Mother toward the end. It's the way it is in Cokeworth. Their fathers go to work in the mines and factories and come home drunk; their mothers keep the house, barely sober enough to know where they are and who they're with; they grow up with cigarettes in their mouths and alcohol in their blood, freezing in ill-fitting clothing, dirty to the bone. The cycle continues with each new generation trapped in the same industrial wasteland.

Severus might have escaped Cokeworth, but he's hardly escaped the early death. At 36, he's already lived longer than half the people he knew in primary. Mother and Tobias shouldn't have lived so long, but the bitter ones always last past their expiration dates.

There are only a few others –the Crowley boys Mother would watch for extra change: both look as old as he does despite being younger; Mrs. Kraus from next door; Loren James from the bar. They all respectfully wear black, though their outfits have clearly seen only funerals, given the state of them.

Severus places his rose on the headstone and pulls his coat tight around his chest. It fits him okay, but the lining is long gone. The money he should have left after covering the rent for Mother and Tobias always seems to go to replacing his potions stocks. Between his experiments and the destruction at the hands of the students, there is never enough.

A hand squeezes his shoulder and he stiffens –the after-smell of tobacco and garlic tells him it's Tobias. "Always tho yer goo-fer-not pop 'oul come when she die," Tobias growls.

Severus snorts. "He was never coming, not for her and certainly not for me." He shrugs his shoulder to knock off the hand and faces his step-father head on. This man was his first tormenter. At the hands of Tobias, he became a man. "I'll keep the house paid up," Severus says quietly. He swallows the knot of saliva in his throat, feeling like a child again. The voice in his head rebukes his fear, reminds him that Tobias hasn't had a drink in over 10 years.

"Yer were always a goo boy," Tobias says as he reaches out and gently cups his hand on Severus' cheek. "I did yer wrong." He nods and lightly slaps Severus' cheek before wandering off.

Severus slams down on his occlumency shields and breathes like he's meditating. It took years to learn to do this without activating his core, but he could always do it when it came to Tobias. There was no choice but to let the man…. He growls and runs a hand through his hair. For all the shit and abuse, that man was the one always there and he wants to forgive. Instead, he sticks his hands in his pockets and shuffles off to the apparition point.

The wards of Hogwarts make his skin itch and he can't withhold his growl. He enters through the front doors and suddenly there are children bustling about. "Potter!" he snaps as he passes the boy huddled with the rest of his little trio. Potter purses his lips as he steps away from them and faces Severus head on. "Detention, 7 o'clock."

Potter sputters as he looks for someone to defend him. "I didn't do anything!" he yells.

Severus knows full well what his face looks like –his lips are pulled back to bare his teeth, yellow from the decades of smoking, and his nostrils are flared, making his ugly face harsher than usual. "You exist," he snarls. And it really is that simple. There is a spring in his step as he stalks down to the dungeons. Harry Potter, the boy he is sworn to protect, the man destined to one day abandon him.

He will never have the opportunity to confront the grown man, he's certain he'll be dead then, but he's determined to take the hits he can against the boy. His office door slams shut behind him and he kicks the stool closest to him. "That's right father!" he yells as he kicks it again. "You never did anything."

-:-:-

7 o'clock arrives faster than expected and he's still grading the 5th year papers. Potter's is on his private desk in his quarters –he can't grade it if he's going to have to see the boy afterward, or at all, while sober. A knock finally comes and he snaps his fingers to open it. Potter shuffles in, already scowling. Severus keeps his chin down but raises his gaze and points his quill to the far side of the classroom. "Cauldrons," he says slowly.

Potter growls as he looks at them and mutters under his breath. "Bastard."

Severus smirks as he returns to grading. These cauldrons have had Potter's name on them all week. His eyes itch and he pinches his nose. Even Albus is oblivious to his contacts and moisturizing spells. All his life he's tried to make himself look like Tobias. Potter would be horrified if he knew how alike they look when Severus is in his glasses. Absolutely horrified.

His arm burns and he glares at Potter. The Dark Lord knows him better than his own father… has more of his love than his father will ever have. Yet he fights for his father and the family that never wanted him. He isn't being called, but his Lord is angry, yet again. The man is always angry now-a-days and there are so few of them to take the brunt of it with most of their old number dead. Albus has saved him from more than he ever expected. Yet another man he loves like a father. Here at Hogwarts, he's safe… mostly… but that is borrowed time. He frequently betrays the confidence Albus, the only man who's ever cared for him despite knowing him at his worst, much less his best; He genuinely plans the death of the first man to ever consider him as anything other than a waste of space and talent, and has no doubt he could do it.

And then there's Potter, sitting there hating him openly.

The journal on his desk glows gold. He flips it open to read whatever it is Albus has written and holds his breath. Headquarters, now! "Potter," he yells as he flips it shut and stands. "Get out." Potter opens his mouth like he's going to ask, then snaps it shut and scurries out. Coward.

He goes through the hidden door to his rooms and then the floo to Headquarters. Moody, Shacklebolt, and the Order members who are Aurors are there along with Lupin and Black –it's a strategy meeting. Lupin is staring at Black with a look the mutt never notices. Albus finally arrives, 5 minutes later than Severus would have liked, and takes his seat at the head. "Boris Antipov," is all he has to say. The color drains from Lupin's face and Severus can hear Moody's peg-leg thumping against the floor. "Exactly. Severus?"

He's worked with Antipov before. The man was both a bloody genius and a fucking lunatic –even by the Dark Lord's standards –but the man's been off the radar for 16 years. He'd disappeared a year before the Dark Lord fell and been silent since. Severus had been working on a project with him up until that point, a project he's never told Albus about. "Haven't the foggiest," he says to deflect. If they're going to continue their work….

"I imagined you wouldn't," Albus says with a huff. "You are rather busy and he probably won't risk your life or position as spy with whatever he's got planned."

Moody grunts and leans forward. "We can look for 'im."

Albus slowly shakes his head. "Should he be seen in public, do what you can. If any of his old work goes missing, begin an investigation. For now, however, I believe it should be left to Severus."

They are all silent, as if waiting for Black to start in on how untrustworthy he is. His thanks go to whoever managed to muzzle the thing. Eventually, Lupin speaks. "Antipov is a world-renowned potions master –one of the most brilliant innovators in existence."

Severus snorts. "Is he really? Tell me, Lupin, how many patents does he have and how many of his innovative potions are found in the writings of Salazar Slytherin?" Lupin frowns and Albus raises a single eyebrow. "I thought as much."

-:-:-

The wards of Malfoy Manor greet him like an old friend. He storms into the throne room absolutely furious and finds his Lord waiting for him. "Antipov?"

The Dark Lord smirks and slouches down in his chair, his legs spread far apart. It isn't a position he would ever take in the company of proper pure-bloods. "Jealous, Severus?" He cackles. "Boris is upstairs."

Severus bows at the waist before storming out. He takes the stairs two at a time and slams open the door of the lab… his lab! Boris Antipov sits on a stool, bent over a chopping board. "I wondered when you would grace me," he says. His voice is just as raspy as it was all those years ago. He comes toward Severus slowly due to the limp in his left leg. His hair is short and silver and his yellow teeth are chipped at the ends. "Couldn't stay away."

"Indeed," Severus says. He clicks his tongue as he considers the far wall. "I am in no position to help you, Boris."

Antipov growls and hobbles back to his stool. "Pathetic child, always at Father's feet begging his approval."

Severus shrugs and walks over to the old man. A quick glance into the cauldron tells him that Antipov is not exploring the path that would make this potion possible. Severus discovered it years ago while on a bender –heroin over the summer holiday of '84. He smirks, pleased beyond belief to know he is vastly more intelligent than this ass.

"As you wish, Boris," he says as he flicks a pumpkin seed into the concoction outside of Boris' view. He takes the stairs leisurely, as if it is his home. Were he so inclined toward Narcissa, it would be only too easy to take his old friend's wife. "He won't succeed, My Lord," he says as he enters the sitting room.

His Lord stands facing the fire with his hands behind his back. "Do not be petty, pet." He turns his chin into his shoulder so that he is facing Severus' general direction. "He will fail?"

"Yes."

"And would you fail in his place?"

Severus crosses his arms across his chest as he takes his space next to the Dark Lord. "I have not known this potion to create the effect you desire."

The Dark Lord hisses as he glares into the fire. "How long ago did you solve it?"

"1984."

"Do not believe the pride in my bosom to be what it is not." He turns so he directly faces Severus. "I allow you your sanctuary at Hogwarts because I trust you, pet. It is a privilege to be lost."

Severus ducks his chin like a scolded child. "You are kind. Give me a task and I shall please you." There is pressure under his chin and he looks up. "The potion will be in your hand when you next call."

The Dark Lord releases his chin and wordlessly retreats. Severus does not calm enough to move until some time later.

-:-:-

When he arrives home, he strips, throws his clothes in every-which direction. He hates wearing robes. They're heavy and itchy and he wasn't raised in them. The clothes he wore as a child were often loose and thin and, over the years, he adjusted to the constant cold. He's down to his shorts by the time he hits his bedroom. A story of violence decorates his body like the tattoos do. Some of them overlap, creating chapters of denial and despair. The scar from the time his uncle drunkenly slashed him and the series of small ones on his lower abdomen from the years of knife fights (yet another effect of living in the East side of Cokeworth) are covered by a large tattoo of a swallow. Between its extended wings, the word hope is written.

True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings.

It appeals to the poet and scholar in him. Richard III, Tobias' favorite lesson for young Severus. Even now, as an adult, supposedly free of Tobias' influence, he can hear the man's voice in his head. By the holy rood, thou knows't it well: thou cames't on earth to make the earth my hell. To be ugly is to be evil, and he was born both.

On his left bicep, far above his Dark Mark, is a black spider stepping foot out of the jar it resides in. More Richard; Another reminder of his villainy. The images return him to the comforting words of his childhood, Shakespeare's verses. It was the first common-ground he and Tobias found, despite the man having raised him.

He steps into jeans and pulls on a sleeveless shirt. The dungeons are cold the way he likes. Though it's bound to be an early morning, he summons a can of Red Bull from the kitchen and lights a fag as he walks to his lab. Both are addictions created at the hands of Tobias. The Red Bull first made its appearance at their Christmas chess game, an annual tradition, 2 years ago. Or perhaps it was at one of the football games they attended that year. Shakespeare, chess, football –the only topics of discussion that don't involve them beating on each other.

The hatch above his desk holds all his old potions journals. He takes down the one labeled 1984 and flips to the correct entry. The potion takes a week to brew and each ingredient must be added to the base at exactly a 24-hour interval in the darkness of night. Starting the base now will put the first ingredient at 2am –an hour that isn't likely to be interrupted during the process.

He sets the base at a simmer and watches the color change, exactly as his journal says it should. For only a moment, he's worried about it –he hasn't bothered to brew it since getting it right all those years ago. His definition of opaque probably hasn't changed, but he's nervous. He needs this potion to be right the first time.

With the timer set so he can return to add the first ingredient, he ambles through the back of his lab to his private room. It's small for a grown man, but it's everything he wanted as a child. The bookshelves are filled with his comics –mostly X-Men, Superman, and Batman –and Muggle literature –mostly poetry and plays. On the wall above the bed is an old poster for the Sheffield Wednesday. Cokeworth lies almost half-way between Sheffield and Derbyshire. He grew up in the north end, closer to Sheffield in the same squalor, whereas the Evans' lived south, closer to the booming Derbyshire.

He lights the candle on the desk and takes down his well-worn copy of Hamlet. The story of the young man grieving the father he's lost while hating the father he has was always a source of comfort in his darkest hours. All those times he'd thought about killing Tobias and needed something to back him out of his insanity, Hamlet had been there to outdo him.

This time he isn't thinking about offing Tobias. That ship sailed long ago. Potter, on the other hand, he wouldn't mind poisoning. Bernado: Who's there? And suddenly he is calm.

-:-:-

He doesn't give a single thought to dusting when he enters his home and lights the candle-lit lamp hanging in the sitting room. The sofa is thread-bare and there is a hole in the armchair; the walls are fully covered in books, most nicely bound. None of them are books that will catch attention—potions, dark arts, all subjects that he's expected to be interested in.

A little rat scurries past him and he itches to hex Pettigrew out of his Animagus form. Officially, he has the rat-man for the summer due to Black's untimely death. With Black gone, and the Ministry's sudden desire to pardon him, Pettigrew is an obvious target. Unofficially, Severus is all too aware that his fellow Death Eaters would like him dead. He pushes the fear that his master is no longer pleased down to make room for the venomous words crawling up his throat.

Pettigrew returns to normal size with his buck-teeth still over his lip and cowers. "Sev…erus," he whines.

"Quiet, you revolting vermin!" Severus pays no mind to the spittle coming from his lips. "You will keep your infested carcass in the attic, a marvelous 7 by 7 hole at the top of the stairs." He snaps his fingers and the hidden door in the bookcase opens. "Go!"

Pettigrew runs past with a squeal and the door slams shut behind him. Severus instinctively pulls his lips back around his teeth and clenches his fists to prevent any random bursts of magic from erupting.

Severus squeezes his eyes shut and focus on the words he used to know so well. "I grew up bent over a chessboard," he says slowly. "I loved the word endgame. All my cousins looked worried." After a deep breath, he rubs absent-mindedly at his left arm. "It was a small house near a Roman graveyard. Planes and tanks shook its windowpanes."

Not the house's windowpanes, he knows. The planes came in the form of Grindelwald and his maternal grandparents pushing his mother to return to pure-blooded society and leading her into seclusion. The tanks came with Tobias' periodic unemployment and his inability to keep food on the table. He felt war-ravaged before reaching an age where he understood war.

"A retired professor of astronomy taught me how to play. That must have been in 1944. In the set we were using, the paint had almost chipped off the black pieces. The white King was missing and had to be substituted for."

Though depressing, fully true about his childhood chess set. He'd carried the white King in his fist for weeks after getting the set for his fifth birthday. It was used, and he knew that Tobias had pulled it from a rubbish bin, but it was his. After only a month of carrying it, Tobias had destroyed it as punishment.

"I'm told but do not believe that that summer I witnessed men hung from telephone poles."

In his case, it wasn't men hanging from telephone poles—it was his father's friend from the mill hanging from a tree in the park with his children and wife sobbing around his swinging body.

"I remember my mother blindfolding me a lot. She had a way of tucking my head suddenly under her overcoat. In chess, too, the professor told me, the masters play blindfolded, the great ones on several boards at the same time."

He finally releases his fists and gulps back his fury. The poem appealed to him as a youth, but only now does he understand it. His life is but a game of chess that he must play for both sides blindfolded. He is the singular pawn, creeping its way around the board, noticed but not worthy of concern: If close enough, capable of taking down either king; If careful, capable of outliving the entire game.

The floorboards creak under his heavy step as he wanders through the kitchen and to his room. For a master, it is small. The whole house is, but it's affordable and close to mother… it was close to mother. Now, his only known neighbor in the area is Tobias. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he ventures into the loo and hurries to get the damn contacts out of his eyes.

They serve their purpose, but with all the dust in the house they aren't comfortable. With practiced grace, he pinches each and has them removed with no fuss. His reflection in the mirror is obscured and he takes the opportunity to pull his hair back. Unable to see clearly, his reflection almost reminds him of Potter.

As he carefully places his glasses, ugly and round, on his nose, the image completes itself. His face is too skinny, like his mother's; his jaw is too firm; his cheekbones are too high; his hair is too greasy. Despite the flaws, underneath it all is the face of Harry Potter. He growls as he releases his hair from its hold.

Black is dead. Potter hates him more than ever. Everything is as it should be, but he can't help feeling slightly queasy.