Mizumono

Sirius carried in his skull a hornet's nest of contradictions, every word he heard transforming into a venomous stinger piercing his meninges. Why did Snape — that serpent! — slither through the shadows as a guardian of that light? How could a half-blood, raised among Salazar's vipers, protect Evans with the devotion of an acolyte? "Severus saw her as a sister," James had murmured, and the phrase now echoed in Sirius like a profaned psalm in a dead language. What heresy was this, where a child of darkness watched over a sacred icon, while he himself, a scion of the Black house, felt more and more like Judas among the apostles?

His fists clenched against his own hair, black as pitch. The cold stone of the castle against his back reminded him of the icy crests of the family manor, where portraits of ancestors whispered curses. He took a deep breath, but the air turned to tar in his lungs — he snorted like a wounded bull, sweat mingling with the salt of his own doubts. Perhaps madness, that cursed inheritance dormant in his blood since the earliest Blacks, had finally awoken. Or worse: perhaps he was seeing, for the first time, his own reflection in the waters surrounding Snape.

He watched him. Not as a hunter watches prey, but as the condemned watches the executioner — searching in his cadaverous gestures, in his opaque bat-like eyes, for some sign that they were the same beneath the scabbed skin. He would push Lucius and his golden insinuations aside, yes, but not out of nobility. It was the hunger of the executioner who wants to keep his victim alive to prolong the torment. Or was it the opposite? Sirius shuddered as he realized he could no longer distinguish the line between persecution and obsession, between hatred and... something more viscous rising in his throat.

Yes, he hated seeing him fragile. He hated that tubercular ghostly pallor that had stolen the shine from his obsidian eyes, where his attacks once reflected. Where was the pleasure in frightening him if Snape now staggered like a puppet with rotten strings? A wolf does not play with carrion — but this wolf, ah, this degenerate wolf felt a perverse compassion growing in his guts. He would care for the prey. He would feed it. He would make it run again, just to rediscover the primitive ecstasy of the hunt. This was how the Blacks loved: with teeth and nails, with poison and antidote in the same cup.

Sirius felt in his veins a sacred and profane fire, as if every molecule of his being screamed to tear apart that pale skin covering Snape. His teeth throbbed with the primal desire to sink into the marble neck, to feel beneath his gums the vital salt pulsing in the jugular, like a vampire who craves not blood but the intimate confession it carries. He wanted to bend that curved spine, not to subjugate him, but to decipher in the architecture of his bones some code that would explain why that body inspired him with such revulsion and devotion.

His fingers twitched in the air, fantasizing about tangling in the smooth strands of that hair — black as ebony — pulling hard enough to wrench groans or prayers. Perhaps both. In his deranged mind, he imagined feeling Snape's pulse and finding there not a heartbeat but a funeral chant echoing through narrow veins. He wanted to squeeze him until his ribs cracked like dry branches, until their bodies merged into a sick symbiosis — flesh and spirit, hunter and prey, saint and executioner — in a communion that would be both ecstasy and annihilation.

"Devour him," he thought, with the raw clarity of one who discovers a divine commandment written in their own entrails. Not the bestial devouring that tears limbs, but the kind that consumes souls through the skin — an inverted Eucharist where the host would be made of choked sighs and the wine, of hatred fermented into desire.

"Shit."

He spat, as if the word were a cursed exorcism against his own demons. But the thoughts persisted, vipers gnawing at his guts with teeth of lust and shame. He denied, yes, with fury that any desire for Snape could inhabit his being.

But why then, when he approached that angular body, did he feel a searing cold? An inverted, perverse attraction, like looking into the abyss and finding oneself hungry to fall. With girls, it was simple: easy laughter, restless hands, the sweet smell of perfume. Young flesh without mystery, without the poison Snape distilled in every sidelong glance. Fifteen years — an age of trembling wrists and foolish discoveries — and yet... Why did his few sexual experiences now seem like childish games compared to that desire burning his guts like fire?

His body betrayed him. His thighs tensed, his sweaty hands uselessly adjusting the clothes that suffocated him. It wasn't desire, he swore to himself.

—

"So Black is avoiding you at all costs... And that's bad? To me, it sounds like a relief, Sev. One less weight on your back."

Severus stared at him with intensity. In his eyes, ancient shadows dwelled, remnants of battles fought in the subterranean chambers of the soul. When he spoke, his voice dragged like a knife on granite:

"Your mistake. I know him better than anyone. There's calculation behind this silence — and nothing in it is benign."

Jude sighed, the echo of the gesture lost in the damp corridors of Hogwarts. His crossed arms were an improvised armor against the other's obstinacy.

"Or maybe he's just tired of chasing you. Even demons need to sleep, you know?"

"Never."

The word fell like a funeral veil. Severus walked slowly, stepping on memories like dry leaves: Sirius Black was not a man to abandon obsessions. He himself — Snape — had been sculpted by the force of mockery and hatred, turned into a statue of resentment by the persistent hammer of that rival.

Even after. Even after the abyss of Azkaban swallowed laughter and life turned to ashes, Black insinuated himself into his days like a stubborn ghost. The absence now was suspicious — a void pregnant with threats. If the dog had stopped barking, it was because he was preparing the final bite.

"Did you get what I asked for?"

Severus extended his hand discreetly, his gaze sharp and attentive, as Jude Scamander handed him two small cloth bags. The fabric was rough to the touch, but as he squeezed them lightly, he felt the slight resistance of the expansive magic contained within.

"It's in your hands," Jude replied, his lips curving into a half-satisfied smile.

Severus opened one of the bags just enough, nodding in approval.

"Thank me by going to the Yule Ball with me," he said with a theatrical sigh. "The Ravenclaw girls gave me a hard time getting this. Even with payment."

Severus raised an eyebrow, hesitating for a moment before responding, his voice casual:

"Uh, sure. No problem."

Jude widened his eyes, incredulous. "Really? I was joking... You don't have to go if you don't want to."

Severus smiled faintly, one of those rare smiles that seemed almost furtive but carried a certain genuine warmth. Scamander, noticing, scratched the back of his neck, somewhat awkwardly.

"If I'm going," Snape murmured, adjusting the bags inside his cloak, "I'd rather go with a friend."

Jude blinked a few times, as if he needed a moment to absorb the answer, before smiling slightly, relaxing his shoulders.

"Thanks, Sev."

—

Getting used to the cold, damp walls that exhaled a sepulchral breath, the smell of mold ingrained in the stones like an incurable sin, and the abandoned skeletons — silent witnesses of forgotten eras — did not demand as much from his spirit as one might suppose. After all, after countless failed attempts, the young man had finally found the entrance to Hogwarts' plumbing. And what was his astonishment to discover that the place surpassed, in horrendous majesty, even the most vivid fantasies of his restless mind. The basilisk, a creature of pale scales and cursed eyes, did not lie inert: it slithered like an infernal reptile, leaving in its wake fragments of skin, scales that shone like petrified tears, and, at times, bones of the unfortunate — macabre relics that dotted the corridors like crumbs from a sinister feast. Methodically, the boy recorded every clue on an aged parchment, drawing maps that resembled cartographies of delirium, while seeking, with almost mystical fervor, the threshold of the Chamber of Secrets.

Every night, he left the Hufflepuff common room — where he had been kindly welcomed — and plunged into the black waters of the lake, whose surface retained the gloomy glow of the stars, as if the sky itself refused to illuminate his intentions. He then entered the plumbing, a realm of shadows and aquatic whispers, certain that no one had uncovered his secret.

Ah, naive illusion!

For there was someone who knew: Black.

He was avoiding Snape with skill. Yet, in the dead hours, his eyes did not stray from the Marauder's Map, following the tiny dot that represented the young man — a dot that, time and again, vanished near the lake, as if swallowed by a veil of mystery. Black's curiosity, avid and sleepless, had transformed into something more. And he, determined to exhaust it, prepared to follow the intrepid Slytherin's steps, even if it led him to the darkest bowels of Hogwarts.

That night, when the shadows stretched like hungry fingers over the stone walls, Sirius decided to follow him. Not without first pilfering, with trembling fingers of guilt, James' invisibility cloak — an artifact as light as the conscience of a liar. He advanced, a specter of restrained steps, while Severus Snape, like a taciturn spider, slid toward the lake. Seeing him dive into the black waters, Black murmured a spell for underwater breathing, like swallowing a bitter secret, and threw himself into the abyss, where the algae danced like green specters.

In the plumbing, a dampness clung to the soul. Wrapped in the cloak, he followed the faint glow of Snape's Lumos — a capricious firefly guiding him through corridors that snaked like stone intestines. Ah, but what sight awaited him... A giant snake's skin, abandoned like a filthy rag, lay there, its dead scales glistening under the flickering light. It was not merely repugnant; it was a warning, a signature of the abject. The Gryffindor's heart beat like a prisoner in a damp cell, as he wondered: What hell was Snape seeking in these catacombs?

The answer came, not as a revelation, but as an apparition. At the end of the tunnel, a chamber rose — damp, yes, but grand in its decay. Gothic arches curved like the ribs of a dead colossus, and in the center, on a moss-stained pedestal, the statue of an austere old man with empty eyes.

Salazar Slytherin.

The dampness of the place was not mere dampness but a living entity, clinging to the walls with viscous fingers and rotten breath. The air, heavy as a forgotten shroud, carried the odor of centuries rotting — earth soaked in subterranean tears and stones groaning under the weight of their own secrets. There, in that chamber, even the darkness seemed ancient, as if woven by the bony hands of a forgotten necromancer.

Sirius took a step forward, and the sole of his boot, plunging into a black puddle, produced a "plop" that reverberated through the walls like the sob of a dead man. In an instant, Severus turned on his heels, his wand raised not as a tool but as an extension of his arm — sharp, lethal, his eyes narrowing.

"Show yourself..."

His voice cut the silence, not as a plea but as a decree, a blade thrust into the throat of the invisible.

Then, a sigh — slow, almost theatrical — broke the air, followed by the rustling of fabric detaching from the bowels of nothingness. And there, Sirius Black appeared.

"What the hell are you doing here? What kind of place is this, Snape?!"

Severus advanced, not with steps but with calculated drags, as if each movement were a thread in a larger web. His lips twisted into a smile that was not a smile.

"You..." he hissed, his voice a frozen gale. "Speak softly, okay? I don't think it's here."

Black arched an eyebrow, his gray eyes glinting.

"What are you talking about?—"

"The basilisk, you flea-ridden dog!" Severus interrupted, his teeth clenched like the doors of a dungeon. "Remember the legend of Salazar Slytherin? The Chamber of Secrets? Well, welcome to it."

The silence that followed was thick, dense with unspoken suspicions and unnamed fears. Sirius opened his mouth, but Snape was already continuing, his voice as cold as the sludge dripping down the walls:

"And, before you ask, yes, there's a monster here. A basilisk. Not a fairy tale or a stupid superstition — it's real."

The Gryffindor blinked, his disbelief dripping down his face like wax from a cursed candle.

"You're kidding..."

"Ah, because, of course, this all seems like a joke to me." Snape murmured, his wand trembling not from fear but from contained rage. "It only responds to the heir of Salazar, because it's a Parselmouth. So, unless you have a sudden desire to be turned to stone or devoured, I suggest you shut that mouth and follow me."

Sirius did not retort. He merely ran a hand through his hair, now soaked with sweat, and let out a sigh that echoed like a requiem for his logic.

"Shit..."

Severus' sigh was not a mere sigh but a lament, echoing through the bowels of the chamber. There, in that cave that breathed through invisible cracks, even the air was a conspirator — clinging to the skin, whispering rotten secrets. It was not in his plans to carry the burden of Sirius Black, who clung to him like a leech. But fate, like a capricious drunk, always stumbled upon ironies.

His feet slid over the cold floor. His gaze, full of distrust, swept over the arches that twisted like the vertebrae of a petrified dragon. With a flick of his wand — brief, almost sacrilegious — the torches burst into flames. Not ordinary flames, but pale flames that danced like penitent souls, casting shadows that writhed on the walls like fingers. The light revealed the morbid grandeur of the hall: a temple to Salazar Slytherin's bloody vanity, where even the stones seemed to harbor hatred in their cracks.

"How did you know this really existed?"

Black's voice came from behind him, warm and intrusive like the breath of a hungry dog. Severus turned slowly, his profile cutting through the gloom, and stared at the Gryffindor whose face, illuminated by the trembling flames, was actually quite handsome.

"Moaning Myrtle." The answer came cold, tinged with disdain. "She told me she was killed by a creature. Said that when she looked at it, she just died."

The silence that followed was thick, pregnant with unspoken truths. Even the dripping water now sounded like the ticking of a condemning clock.

"And just because of that you really thought this place existed?"

Severus let out another sigh, this time laden with the weight of ten thousand wasted explanations.

"Put the facts together, Black... And here we are."

Sirius fell silent, but his eyes — gray as mist — betrayed the agitation of his mind. Meanwhile, Severus felt it: something moved in the darkness beyond the torches.

His eyes, black as spilled pitch, scanned the damp walls where time had carved hieroglyphs of decay. Before him, the statue of Salazar Slytherin. It was behind it that he found them: the eggs, resting on their bed of cold stone, as gleaming as the devil's tears.

A perverse fascination lit his gaze, like the flame of a candle. From his cloak, he drew a cloth bag — a mundane object that, under a whisper, grew in size. With fingers trembling not from fear but from anxiety, he placed the eggs inside, one by one, until the bag was small again and he stored it in his cloak.

It was then that the air changed — an ancient weight, as if the chamber had swallowed a sigh and decided to hold it forever. Severus turned slowly and saw first Sirius' eyes, wide as full moons on a hunting night. The Gryffindor's wand pointed at the ceiling, trembling like the antenna of an insect sensing a storm.

"Don't look at its eyes!"

Severus' shout tore through the silence like a funeral bell. Sirius, in a reflex of a cornered beast, roared:

"Protego!"

The magical barrier exploded in pale light, and the basilisk — ah, the basilisk! — collided with it like a fallen meteor. Its roar was not a roar but the lament of a thousand souls crushed between serpent teeth. The creature recoiled, its colossal head spinning like a torture mill.

Severus quickly reacted:

"Bombarda Maxima!"

The explosion was not a mere blast but the world's sob cracking in half. The chamber's walls groaned, ancient stones loosening. The basilisk was thrown against the wall but rose — immune, glorious in its monstrosity, its scaly skin intact like the armor of a fallen god laughing at the insignificance of mortals.

"Severus, behind me!"

The order did not come as a shout but as a roar of a dog abandoned at the gates of hell. Sirius Black planted himself between the Slytherin and the beast, his larger body transformed into a human shield — a gesture that, in another context, would be admirable if it weren't completely stupid.

"Shut up, I can fight too!"

Severus' retort came sharp, but Sirius was no longer listening. His eyes, fixed on the basilisk, avoided the yellow globes that shone like dirty coins in a sewer.

"It doesn't see us completely..." Severus murmured. "It's just heat vision..."

He raised his wand, and the fire from the torches — once mere servants of light — transformed into something different. The flames, once orange and tamed, twisted into profane blue, then into absolute black, as if sucking the very soul from the chamber. The air filled with a sweet and rotten smell, of honey mixed with decomposing flesh.

"Protego Diabolica!"

The circle of fire that emerged was not just protection but something alive. The flames danced like demons in a ritual, their black tongues licking the air with a thirst for heresy. The basilisk recoiled, a hiss a groan, while its forked tongue sniffed the distorted heat.

Severus turned to Black, his face illuminated by the sinister glow. The Slytherin's eyes glinted with courage and something more.

"That will keep it at bay for now... Listen, no spell will harm that beast from the outside. We need to hit it from within..."

Sirius widened his eyes, his face a mask of incredulity painted in grotesque colors.

"Have you gone mad?! You could die, we could die!"

The basilisk, however, was already writhing like a caged lightning bolt as it tried to attack them, its colossal body slamming against the black flames that repelled it. The Chamber of Secrets trembled entirely.

Severus remained motionless, the chaos roaring around him, but his mind had suddenly become a silent desert. The crackling of black flames, the basilisk's threatening hisses, everything seemed to dissolve when firm hands grabbed his face, warm fingers pressing against his pale skin. His eyes widened in surprise as they met Sirius', so close he could see every silver detail in that stormy gray.

"Fuck it, we're going to die anyway..."

"What are you—"

But the sentence died in his mouth the moment Black's lips collided with his. It was a shock, a brutal impact, teeth clashing in a desperate gesture. He tried to pull away, his immediate instinct screaming to push him away, to protest, but Black held him firm, his hand sliding to his neck, pulling him closer, while the other descended slowly and decisively down his waist.

A shiver ran up his spine, not like a simple chill, but like a venomous centipede climbing his bones. In a brief instant, Severus closed his eyelids. And there, in the voluntary darkness, he found himself caught in a chaotic dance: bodies colliding, wills entwined in a duel of spasms, and a kiss — that was not a kiss, but an act of soul cannibalism, driven by desire; by panic.

It was grotesque. It was ridiculous. It was human.