Dark and damp and musty. Or was it moldy? Rotting even. The scent made the emaciated wizard want to retch. Of course there was nothing in his stomach to rid himself of. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been.

He rubbed at his wrists. The shackles had been removed as he’d become too weak to fight. He leaned his head back against the stone wall, wondering how much longer he could survive this.

He’d long given up on the hope of wresting away one of his captor’s wands. He’d long given up hope of just about anything. He’d have let go a while ago, let death’s embrace release him from this hell, save for one thing. Harry Potter.

Harry wouldn’t want that. Potter would want him to fight. Even that didn’t drive his will to survive. What did was the thought that Harry had survived everything he had-- every awful, horrible, trying thing that had been thrown at him.

And because of that, Harry was fragile. Not in body so much as in mind. Severus had come to realize that over the months they’d spent training together--Potter, Draco, and himself--preparing to defeat the Dark Lord.

Training had been rigorous and difficult, fraught with injuries and setbacks. Draco had whinged on many occasions, ready to throw up his hands in defeat and walk away, but Potter pushed on, single-mindedly focused and determined. Potter never complained.

Thinking back, that should have been a sign. Harry held to his purpose as if his life depended on it, when in reality, it was his sanity that had depended on it. But no one knew that then, least of all him.

Harry had power, yes, more than any wizard he knew, save for Dumbledore perhaps. But it was wild, untamed, undisciplined power. It wasn’t grounded, not in the least. And try as Severus might, he found it impossible to ground it, due to the wasteland that had become the young man’s mind.

Some people were able to bounce back, repeatedly, from life’s bumps and bruises. And Potter had, in body, but his spirit, his soul, had suffered. If Severus knew anything, he knew that Harry would never rest until Severus was found, dead or alive.

And in the meantime? The boy, nay man now, would punish himself for his perceived failure of letting Severus be kidnapped, even though Harry had had nothing to do with it. Harry would have willingly taken his place, he knew: stupid, selfless idiot that he was. Loath to admit it to himself, if the roles were reversed--if Harry had been the one taken--Severus imagined that he’d act no differently. And the desolation that swept through him at the thought of it left him barely able to breathe.

One of the reasons he’d been able to hang on as long as he had was because he knew Harry was safe and surrounded by friends. His captors had seen to mocking him with that knowledge, constantly taunting him with pictures and news stories, telling him that Potter was happy now, happy to have the traitor removed from his life.

In his darkest moments, Severus sometimes wondered if that was true but, upon further reflection, he knew Harry didn’t have it in him to hate, much less abandon a friend.

And so he held on. Hoping, scheming--however fruitless it was--to find a way back to the man who, he knew more surely than he knew anything, would never stop looking for him, and would never live his life until Severus was found.

Love was an ironic thing, Harry thought, drenched in sweat and tangled in his sheets. He’d never thought much about it before the war and, during it, he was too consumed with trying to defeat Voldemort to give it much heed.

But after, in those quiet moments, as he contemplated his future, it had a sort of appeal, a shelter-from-the-storm kind of quality as the Wizarding world clamored for their savior to remain in the limelight, to stick around for their gratification.

Only his closest friends and Sev had known how much that bothered him. Draco seemed to glory in all the attention, and Harry didn’t begrudge him that, but it was not what he wanted. He preferred to retire in anonymity, to enjoy a normal, unfettered life, or as much of one as he could.

Everyone expected him to join the Ministry, to become an Auror and work his way up the ranks to Minister of Magic. But Harry wanted nothing more to do with stress and worry and wars.

He didn’t know what his future held but, at least for a while, he wanted a break. He wanted to hold his friends close. He wanted to sleep without nightmares. And, as it turned out, Sev had wanted the same things.

How many nights had they sat by the fire, drinking a glass of wine, each lost in their own thoughts or reading a book? Not even speaking, for they didn’t need words.

There was comfort in knowing that someone else cared that you existed, knew all your secrets, tolerated your idiosyncrasies. Someone who wouldn’t flinch if you cried over a fallen comrade, or scold you for laughing in the midst of despair. Someone who appreciated your sense of humor. Someone whom you could just be yourself with. Sev had been all those things to him and more.

Sev, Professor Snape to him then, had started tutoring him in secret in Harry’s seventh year, after Dumbledore had died. That first meeting wasn’t easy; there was a lot of shouting, threats, curses even, before both men came to an understanding of both the love and betrayal that was Albus Dumbledore.

The words “for the greater good” took on a new meaning. Yet, somehow, they’d persevered. After Hogwarts, after Sev had escaped the Dark Lord’s clutches for being the traitor that he was and had a price tag on his head nearly as high as Harry’s, they’d gone into hiding together and had been nearly inseparable.

For the next three years they trained, day and night. It started out as a mentorship but, as Harry’s skills and knowledge grew, as well as his self-confidence and maturity, it became a match of equals. Draco joined them shortly afterward, and two became three.

The threesome worked tirelessly together, Draco now the spy, until the time was right. And when that time came, the threesome and The Order of the Phoenix came together, attacked, won.

Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort. The Death Eaters scattered. Awards were given. The reconstruction phase of post-war living began. And Harry and Sev, once again, went into hiding. Not so much for their own safety as for their own sanity. Severus Snape was 42 years old at the time, and Harry was 24, although he felt much older.

In all that time, Harry had come to trust Sev with his life. He’d come to rely on him too, for more than just his skills and knowledge, but as a confidant. A friend. Never more. Certainly not a lover as some had suggested.

Instead, there’s was a relationship built on mutual trust and understanding. And although they were more like equals, Harry still thought of Sev a bit like a father figure; fierce, caring, and protective. Sev always looked out for Harry’s interests before his own, and always took the time to make sure that Harry was faring well. To be sure, the man could be grouchy, especially when working on a particularly taxing potion. But the wizard always made time for him.

Sev’s reserved nature had grown on Harry as well. As an adult, Harry could see that the wizard disdained idle chatter. He preferred to save his words for subjects and people he found important and relevant. He had no time for the mundane. Harry imagined that a life filled with subterfuge, as Severus’s had been, was safer lived with fewer inanities to remember, fewer traps to get caught in. Or perhaps, given the gravity of Sev’s existence, such banalities were too trivial to waste time on.

And Sev had been there for him after the war when others had not. He didn’t begrudge Hermione or Ron in the least. Hermione had gone to Australia to reunite with her parents, and Ron had spent time with his family, mourning the loss of Fred. Harry had been set adrift, lost in a sea of death, destruction, and a loss of purpose in life. He thought he should have been happy with Voldemort’s demise, and indeed he was. And yet, somehow, his life felt empty, directionless.

It was Sev who had come round to check on him, who had taken the time to talk to him, to set him to rights. It was Sev who spent his evenings in the library with Potter, drinking wine, reading poetry, playing chess if Harry was so inclined. It was Sev who had helped him with the purchase of the estate and taught him how to care for the animals, the manor, and the land. And it was Sev who was there for him when he awoke from nightmares or was possessed by insomnia. Sev didn’t leave him: not like the others adult figures in his life had, not like his dad or Sirius or Remus or Dumbledore. Sev had been the one constant in his adult life--until he, too, had been taken away. It was too many losses for one person to bear.

Severus jerked awake, crying out in a combination of pleasure and pain. His ankle was broken, hence the pain. But the dream he had was a consolation prize, if there was one to be had. It featured Harry, of course, but it wasn’t the frowning, scolding, judging dreams he sometimes had. Not the “how could you leave me” dreams, but something else. Something more pleasant, if only for the lack of such feelings in such a long time.

Harry had found him and wrapped him in strong, protective arms. He had traced a finger down the new scar on Severus’s face, gained while in captivity: acceptance and pride all wrapped together. And like a man moments from death, Severus had clung to him. Clung to him like a lifeline, a beacon in the storm.

Was Severus so far gone that any gentle human touch could be craved? Theirs had not been a relationship filled with soft touches, except perhaps after particularly bad nightmares. Theirs was a companionship born of long academic discussions as they cooled down their horses after a hard ride, of time spent dining together discussing the news of the day, of friendly banter after a few drinks in the evening, of sleepless nights spent in front of the fire, silent but consoling for their mutual presence.

Tears of longing pricked at the back of Severus’s eyes, but he forced them away. Alone in his dank, putrid cell, he wrapped his arms around himself and willed himself back into the dream, into Harry’s welcoming arms, wishing he could give the man and himself that easy companionship once more.

Brush in hand, Harry ran the bristles along Penny‘s flanks. She loved to be brushed. And scratched. And hosed down. And pretty much anything Harry did to her.

“Attention whore,” Sev had called her.

“Look who’s talking,” Harry had replied. It was no secret, after all, that Sev was gay, and that, on certain occasions, he would disappear for the day, returning looking sated and settled and disinclined to discuss his absence.

Sev had only raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know what you’re missing, Potter.”

Harry had laughed. Sev called him ‘Potter’ whenever they were around others, or when they bantered. But when they were alone, or the subject was serious, he called him ‘Harry’.

Harry missed the sound of his name in the man’s rich, baritone voice. The way he swirled the word in his mouth like a fine wine before releasing it, as if reluctant to let such a precious word go. If only he could hear his name on the man’s lips one more time, Harry thought. But he knew that once would never be enough.

He shook his head and sighed.

“Ya gonna ride today?” Ron asked, finding Harry in the stables.

This was as familiar a routine as feeding the animals and milking Bessie twice a day.

“Maybe,” Harry replied, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“Nice day for it,” Ron said.

Harry nodded.

“Why do they call brown horses ‘bay’?” Ron asked, kicking at some loose hay on the floor.

“No idea,” Harry said, knowing that Sev would have known the reason. Usually, the stable was the one place people didn’t bother him too much. He came here to be alone. To tend the animals and let nature soothe him as best it could.

“We were thinking about going out tonight,” Ron began.

“No.”

“Harry, you can’t stay locked up here forever.” When Harry didn’t respond, he continued. “You’re a wizard, Harry. If any news arrives, they’ll find you, wherever you are.”

Harry glanced up to see the pity in Ron’s expression and turned away. “You go, have fun. I’ll be fine.”

Sighing in defeat, Ron turned to leave. “If you change your mind…”

“I’ll know where to find you,” Harry said and returned his attention to Penny. The mare had resumed munching on her pile of hay.

“I know they mean well,” Harry muttered to his horse. “I know they worry. It’s just… I wouldn’t even have you, or any of this,” Harry said, gesturing around him, “if it weren’t for Sev. And now,” Harry said, a lump in his throat, “it’s all I have. This, and the memory of his company.” And, dammit, it wasn’t enough.

He had looked for Sev after he’d been kidnapped, looked high and low. He wasn’t an Auror but, due to his name, he went along on some of the missions. Yet they’d never found anything--not even a trace. Nor was there a note sent to the Ministry or the Daily Prophet, bragging of their deed, or making demands. There had been a struggle, and he had vanished, and that was all anyone knew.

He finished brushing Penny and checking her hooves, then walked her to the pasture to graze. He passed her leather saddle and all the tack but didn’t even glance at it. He couldn’t imagine riding without Sev.

“Sit up straight in the saddle, Potter.”

“I am,” Harry had said.

Sev had given him that look, the one that said ‘Are you daft or just trying to annoy me?’

Harry had shifted, trying his best to hold his seat properly.

“Loosen up on the reins, boy.

“Relax and let yourself feel her beneath you. Feel how she moves. That’s it.

“Guide with your thighs, there you go. See how easy that was?”

Slowly, Harry had learned. It had taken weeks, months, but he had learned. He would never be the master horseman that Sev was. But he could stay in the saddle without falling off, and he was pretty proud of that.

To see Sev on his steed was a sight to behold. He looked regal and ribald all at the same time. Harry had smiled to think the man could grace the cover of the Muggle romances his aunt read and not be out of place. He’d never told Sev that, of course. But the man was beautiful to watch, his stallion carving up the ground beneath them as they galloped, Sev in complete control of the animal. Harry had never dared to ride Snape’s stallion. The beast was finicky and tricky, and Harry had no desire to be thrown off. Penny was sweet and easy to please, and Harry was long past the days where he felt he needed to prove himself.

“You look like I feel when I ride a broom,” Harry had told him one day.

“Meaning?” Sev had drawled.

“Wild and free and in your element. Like you have complete control and could do anything. And like nothing in the world could make you happier.”

Sev had given Harry a rare smile. “You could say that,” he admitted. “Horses have always been a secret pleasure of mine.”

Harry hadn’t known that and was glad that, although he wasn’t nearly as proficient a rider as Sev, they could at least enjoy this together. Riding through the hills, the sunlight on their faces. They didn’t need to talk, to explain, to justify anything. That was one of the things Harry enjoyed most about the man. He didn’t require constant chitchat to fill up the silent spaces.

Harry had thought, on occasion, about selling the estate. As much as he loved it, it was a constant reminder of the wizard that had gone missing. And yet, as much as he couldn’t ride his horse, he couldn’t part with the manor or the lands. They held as many memories as they did hope, for in his heart Harry knew that selling this place would be admitting that Sev was never coming back. And Harry just couldn’t do that. That was one of the reasons he still paid the boarding fees each month for Severus’s stallion. So that if, when, Sev came back, his beloved horse would be waiting for him.

One of his jailers arrived in the early morning. The only woman: the girlfriend of one of the men. There were three people in all, and they rotated in and out. The boyfriend was the cruelest, though the others weren’t pleasant by any means. But this morning, the woman had brought him a large breakfast, and that was odd. The smell of food was both delicious and nauseating and he wondered if it was a trick.

She looked at him, frowned, and backed out of the cell. She used to torment him, but in recent weeks she’d been quiet, reserved. He could hear her fighting with the other two more and more, and on occasion, she’d have bruises on her face. He had no trouble guessing who those were from.

He ate what he could, pushed aside the rest, and drifted into a light slumber. It was never safe to sleep too deeply, for he didn’t want to get caught off guard.

When the cell opened again in the late afternoon, he knew something was amiss. He was never given more than one meal a day, and there usually only was the one meal a day. If that. Sometimes it was one meal every three days. Or four. Sometimes he lost count.

The expression on the man’s face was livid, and he smelled strongly of alcohol. The man started shouting incoherent things about corrupting his girlfriend, accusing Severus of sleeping with her, and more things he’d been unable to understand as the man’s speech slurred.

But Severus had no trouble remembering the beating, the pain, the sickening crack of his back breaking, the loss of feeling in his legs, and dark puddle pooling on the ground between his legs that he hadn’t felt being released. By the time his tormentor was done with him, Severus knew it was over. He wouldn’t live through this, couldn’t live through this.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

And then his world faded to black.