Title: Derelict Buildings

A/N: I apologize for the (very) late update, life got in the way, and I wasn't able to update when I would have liked to. Also, this is not beta-ed, so all mistakes are my own. Do tell me your thoughts on the story, I'd love to know what you have to say. Thanks!

8:39 PM

Sirius ran, his paws kissing the asphalt with each footfall. Ichor matted his fur, his head bobbing loosely from side to side as he scampered limply through the empty streets, tongue panting and eyes heavy in their sockets. Everything around him was silent, but the blood rushing to his ears was screaming their sins like a lullaby. (Dead, dead, dead.) He whined, then, low and weak like the miserable creature he was, and stumbled over his own feet, letting his body fall against the tarmac.

Coward, the ground seemed to cry, pulling at his bloodied pelt with odium as bitter as a pill. (Dead, dead, dead.) His pounding temple supplied back, and Sirius floundered vehemently against the harsh pavement, his muscles protesting every twitch and turn. Strips of tattered fur clung to the back of his leg like a ribbon, hanging only by a few threads, his pink flesh exposed and rotten to the air.

Sirius could feel the sinews of time rest against his unkempt pelt, his stomach lurching something warm and delirious. It was amorous, the penchant of unsubstantial death, like the way an old crow would seek out the brigs of pernicious curiosity. Taunting him and alluring him in ways only one in the face of death would believe. (Dead, dead, dead.) He wondered, for a brief moment as time slowed, what it would be like to just slip away into the stars and never wake up.

Something inside him veered at the prospect.

Harry was still inside the house. The house with bleak, sepia curtains that hung in dusty, uneven folds, half hanging off the rail in places and only an inch longer than the window itself. They were mean curtains, barely big enough and as thin as a summer smock. (Dead, dead, dead.) A house stained with the tendrils of melancholic vintage, so bright, yet, so dull. A house plagued with the ghosts of the distant future.

A house of the dead.

Sirius snarled pitifully, baring his teeth at the bloodied asphalt. He needed to get up. There was a smoulder and tremble of pyrexia building around him like a great serpent; waiting, greedy, hungry.

Sirius couldn't let the masquerade of death tempt him, seduce him like some wanton harlot. Harry was still alive, and he needed him, but all Sirius could do was writhe pathetically and wait to succumb to demiurge.

It just wasn't fair. But, what more could a dog do?

The street was skeletal, stripped of its flesh, bare and raw. He could bark and howl until his throat bled, but no one would come — throw physics to the dog, they'd say, I'll have none of it. (Dead, dead, dead.) The measly whine he let out to the stars would do him no good, either; he just needed to get up. No one would come to him, but he could go to them.

Shadows coiled against his ebony coat like a second skin, his breath ragged as he struggled to find his footing. His leg dragged behind him as he started down the road, careful to not fall over and face the contemplations of death all over again. He didn't need a repeat of that fiasco. He had enough to last a cradle's grave, maybe even some.

His body jerked horribly as he walked, the pace maladroit and tense, but the empyrean that swallowed him whole was sweet, calm even. It did nothing to ease the blood rushing to his ears, though. He could practically taste the bitter alloy circulating through his pulsing veins, almost as much as he could hear the faint cry of a gun somewhere beyond the emblematic deluge.

Except, there was a gunshot; loud and clear for all the birds to hear.

Sirius could barely understand what he was doing before he found himself running, instincts overriding the dull pain racing through his leg as his body thwarted away any rational thought. There was a tall, tree-like man with arms so long they could touch the earth's core leaning his back against a truck, a cigarette tucked between crooked teeth.

There was a body of a corpse just a few feet away, but that didn't matter.

He was an unsightly man with cheeks as gaunt as they were garish — like the lacquer of a silver flute washed-out and accumulated across his taut flesh, painting him a grey as dreich as ash. An ugly man, but a man. Sirius disregarded the way tired eyes locked with his own, studying him. (Dead, dead, dead.) A sneer edged at the man's lips before he turned back to the corpse.

"Make of it what you will," he said, pushing himself up and making means to leave. Sirius didn't bother to play the role of caution as he stepped into the man's path, paying no mind to the way his fingers flexed over the gun attached to his hip. It was meant as a warning, but that didn't deter Sirius. He refused to let his one chance of finding hope slip through the cracks.

Harry needed him.

And so, Sirius whined, pathetic and so lost.

8:54 PM

Severus wasn't a good man, that much was clear. So, when a dog, weak and already one with death despite having eyes as bright as the moon, came to him, he wanted to do nothing more than to turn and leave. There was nothing sweet about killing just to kill — he wasn't a good man, sure, but he wasn't completely inhuman, either.

But, the dog was stubborn, stubborn enough to make him want to let that sentiment fall on death's ear. "What is it?" he snarled, but he wasn't particularly angry. Not yet, anyway. The canine just wouldn't leave.

He knows how it goes, though. Misery was because of the man with his hand behind the trigger. He would have no one else to blame but himself if he were to put a bullet between the dog's eyes. That wouldn't stop him from trying, though.

(The dog's blood would be as supple as a mother's breast, soft, sullen, lolling between his fingers like tendrils of silk. Beautiful, tangible, within his grasp. What was tranquillity without the stillness of death, anyway?)

He doesn't let the answer cloud his judgement. "Leave," he said, softer and as lucid as rime. The bite was still there, in the back of his throat, lurching, wanting, vehement. But, the dog just wouldn't back down, eyes still as sanguine as red wine. Severus wondered if the canine even heard him at all.

(Silence was only temporary, he reminded himself. It would be gone as soon as it came.)

But, then, the dog whined, louder than before, teeth pulling at the cuffs of his jeans, and he was being pulled. "You want me to follow you," he said, but it wasn't a question. The canine wouldn't answer, anyway.

He followed.

(Severus liked to think he did it because he had nothing better to do. The world wouldn't let him have that, though. He was too bitter for a reality as sweet as that.)

9:08 PM

Lifeless, lethargic, and mournful, Harry had crawled, and stayed, in the comfort of a closet, withering, wilting — ready to give up. He had his back propped up against the door, apprehensive of the way it shuddered beneath addled fingers. He wouldn't hold for long, that much he accepted. He just didn't know if he was ready to let that happen.

(Absently, he touched the pool of cruor at his feet, scours for the pain that was no longer there, and cries. He doesn't notice the arrhythmic pitter-patter descending through the narrow hallways.)

Death was imminent, gingerly draped over the rigid line of his spine, tapping systematically against the collar of his shirt like an old, forgotten friend. Harry supposed it was always there, a phantom of sorts, intangible to everything and nothing, but there.

It made Harry sick, and fuck; he wished it didn't. Ron and Hermione were dead, gone, knitting the seams of their shattered ardour, hastily, clumsily, their lips melded together. They were imperfect, and they fought, but they were one and the same, and they were his.

Delicate, and meticulous, and as warm as a mother's caress, Harry had loved them. They were incongruous like vinegar was to oil, and they were as audacious as they were kind, but they had worked, all three of them, somehow.

(But, Harry knew how. They were all a little messed up, broken and scattered like the small, wooden blocks of a toy house, golden and as strong as twine.

Together, and only together, were they a house.)

Yet, selfish ventures and desperate endeavours had culminated, taken its toll on Harry's features, marred his youth, ruined him. Gaunt, pale as a lily, he seemed to have worn the masquerade of death, but he was still very much the same man, cheeky and stubborn. Even with corpses at his neck, he was still just that; he was still Harry.

He could come out on top. "I will survive," Harry opined, letting the words sink in, baring them to the cold, unresponsive closet. He wasn't about to let the tendrils of seduction collar him, pull him on a leash like some sick, twisted pet.

"Not anymore," Harry said, almost selfishly, maybe even a little insane. A welcome respite fell over him, then, and he set his shoulders against the door, too lost within his head to notice the lack of sound, lack of struggle. The door barely moved, it was almost too calm.

"I will survive," he croaked again, carding coarse, knobbly fingers through his damp hair. The words fell from his lips like a mantra, over and over again until his throat bled. "No matter what, I will survive."

With that, Harry bowed his head, mustered up what little strength he had to stand up, and opened the door.

And promptly screamed as Sirius bounded from across the room and tackled him right back onto the floor.

(Not that he would ever admit he screamed. No one needed to know that.)

9:21 PM

Harry stared.

In front of him, not even ten feet away, was a man leaning against the door frame; wary, dubious, observing and scrutinising his every breath beneath dark, disparaging eyes. He was holding a cigarette between his teeth, dragging out the last smoke, letting it sit at the bud of his lips, and with calloused thumb and forefinger, crushed the glowing end. He rubbed the butt to a pulp, his long upper lip pulled up into a sneer.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled dryly, barely above a whisper. Harry froze at the sound, scared that if he blinked the man would disappear and be nothing but a phantom of the mind. He hoped that this wasn't just his head playing tricks on him, that he wasn't delusional.

The man kneeled, playing methodically with the flint wheel on his lighter, and Harry followed the motion, drinking in the familiar flicker of warm, rufescent flames. Sirius was whining from his side, nudging him with his nose as something akin to hysteria ebbed over him, drowning him.

"Too proud to say thank you?" The man clicked his tongue, setting his rucksack between his knees as he pulled out a flask. He sighed as the warm water lolled across his tongue. "Typical."

Harry blanched, scrambling to his feet. "What, no!"

"I didn't —" Harry huffed, falling back to his knees as nausea kicked him upside the head. "I'm just shocked, okay?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "So, you speak."

Harry snorted none too kindly, letting his eyes roll to the back of his head. The miasma of cigarettes still lingered, and the man was just as rancid. Harry didn't like him. "I have a mouth, don't I?"

"Yet you have yet to thank me," he sneered — something Harry was willing to bet was the only expression he could make. Poor man.

"Can't thank you properly if I don't know your name," Harry quipped, balancing himself between the idea of being an asshole or just tolerating the man. He really didn't like him.

"Of course," the man said, a false smile on his thin, ugly lips. "How rude of me. I am Severus Snape."

"Cool. I guess this is where I say thank you," Harry conceded, tilting his chin to look up at him defiantly. "But your name isn't worth my breath."

"Ungrateful brat!" Severus hissed, rather like a panther would. Sirius barked at the sound, bemused, but it went unnoticed. "It will do you good to not insult me again, boy."

"So, the kitty has claws, then? The name's Harry Potter, by the way." Harry smirked at him, giving him a jaunty salute as he threw his own words back at him. "It will do you good to remember that, sir."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "Don't get cheeky with me, Potter."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry jested, rolling back on his heels, something akin to amusement in his tone. The banter was intoxicating. He hadn't felt this alive in months, hadn't understood why he even bothered. Death was just as sultry.

"I'm sure," Severus deadpanned, pulling himself to his feet. His rucksack hung off one shoulder, hanging precariously as his pale fingers clung to the silver flask in his hand, pressing harshly into the metal. "I assume you'll be fine on your own?"

He was outside the doorway, now, coal eyes as dark as a black cat looming over his kneeled figure. "What do you take me for?" Harry inquired, trying to glare, but only managing a squint. "A damsel in distress?"

"Yes."

"That makes you my knight in shining armour, doesn't it?"

Severus was already halfway down the hall, the flicker of smouldering red following him. "I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon, than be your anything."

"Now you hold on a second," Harry sputtered, trying to gather himself as he stumbled around the corner. His katana had found itself connected to his hip, bobbing lightly with each step he took. "Isn't that a bit harsh? I mean, I'm not that bad."

"You have yet to prove otherwise."

Harry shrugged, leaning into Sirius as the dog curled around his ankles. "Touché," he said, staring pointedly at the unmoving corpses leaning against the walls. "Where are you going?"

"Somewhere."

Harry huffed. "Okay, I get it; you're a snarky asshole. No need to rub it in my face."

"You'd like that wouldn't you, Potter?" Harry caught a hint of a smirk as the scarlet flame flashed over the man's face, illuminating pale features.

"Kiss my ass, Snape."

Severus ignored him. "If you're going to follow me, I would incline you to leave the mutt behind."

"The mutt has a name, thank you." Harry scowled, running a hand through his matted hair as beads of sweat accumulated across his forehead. "But, that's not the point. Why the hell do I have to leave Sirius behind?"

"So, you are following me."

Harry heaved a sigh. "Would you just answer the question, please?"

"Reduced to begging already, Potter? I thought better of you."

"You thought nothing, now answer the question."

"My…" Severus trailed off, lips pressed in a thin, seamless frown as he searched for the right word, "acquaintance of sorts wouldn't appreciate having that thing around."

"They keep you around," Harry muttered, albeit a little childishly. "It would be basically the same thing if I bring Sirius. He's just, you know, covered in fur."

Severus stared at him with the same aloofness a stranger would, the tendrils of unfamiliarity flush against his shrouded skin, ensnaring him within its maw. "I am capable of controlling myself, Potter. The mutt, on the other hand, is not. He is a mere puppet, driven purely by instinct."

"Aren't we all?" Harry quipped, something akin to acid on his silver tongue. "The world has gone to shit, mate. We aren't any more human than a pack of hungry wolves."

There was no sound, but it seemed like everything was moving, the brief stutter of damask flames illuminating the dainty hallway, exposing the bloodied, magnolia walls, clumps of paint torn and left to hang like ribbons. They didn't talk as they stalked out of the house, the atmosphere slick with the eyes of solemn words; begging to be heard, begging to be understood.

Darkness wrapped gingerly around their shoulders, hanging off them like a guilty weight as the bite of wind nipped at their exposed flesh. Harry gnawed at the skin on his thumb, a shudder running along the edge of his spine as the metallic tang of blood coated his tongue. There was something tantalizing about the taste, about the way it slid, like molasses, down his throat.

It reminded him that he was still human.

Human enough to bleed and feel pain.

"He's a good dog, sir!" Harry said suddenly, shattering the illusion of still silence. "Sure, I can't promise he won't get out of line, but you can't promise we'll survive past midnight, can you?"

Severus pursed his lips, shifting his attention to the canine. The dog's head was bowed awkwardly, and his tail was low to the ground like a kicked puppy, painting the sidewalk in a veil of black fur.

Severus sighed all too soon. "Don't come crying to me when the mutt decides to ring the dinner bell."

Harry sniggered, turning to face the cold, vacant street. "Eh, no worries. I won't be on the menu."