Snape's Best Memory
Author's Note :: Here's a little bit of unapologetic pervyness inspired by a re-read of Book 5. I'm fairly new to the HP fanfiction community, so please forgive me if this idea has been done to death already. Also, I know this doesn't completely capture the nuance of all characters perfectly. I think Snape is one of the most complex characters to portray accurately, and my inclination is always to ascribe more inherent goodness to him than he may be due. But hey, fanfiction everybody.
He was going to poison them.
A white-hot rage spurred by shame, commandeered his mind, filtering out any sense of integrity that might have curbed his dark thoughts. He had to strike back. He would strike back. Viciously. He didn't care about the consequences. If he had learned anything today it was that his enemies cared little for the consequences of their actions, and so, it followed that he needn't care either.
His sallow, candle-wax cheeks and ears burned crimson as the memory replayed itself in a fixed loop, each time taking on a more garnish hue of horror and etching itself with razor-sharp acuity into his mind. The way the most popular boys in school had suspended him by his ankle like a rabbit in a trap. The way the onlookers had gawped and jeered. All his panic sinking from his stomach like bile into his throat. The way she had looked at him—amusement twitching at her lips before it was subsumed by pity. The feeling that if he died right there in the courtyard it would have been a mercy.
Snivellus.
He shuddered with revulsion and balled his hands into fists in the pockets of his robes. He was the Half-Blood Prince, and he would show them that he wasn't to be messed with. He would show anyone who had gotten ideas from this afternoon what would happened to them if they even thought of tormenting him again.
He didn't have the physical prowess to take them on in a fight. No—especially if it came down to four-on-one, as it so often did. He could jinx them. He knew a fair amount of curses, but top-of-his-class James Potter wasn't an easily cowed second year. Unless he caught the gang of Gryffindors extremely off-guard and unaware, any attempt at retribution was likely to play out in a similarly humiliating manner, even if he could get in a good jinx or two. Severus would play to his one strength that they always belittled and mocked. It had a certain poetic justice, he thought savagely. They would be too arrogant to even consider such a counter-attack, and finally, their vainglorious egotism would be their ends.
True, it was mostly Potter and Black, but he was in a foul enough mood to lump them all together. Lupin and Pettigrew were just as complicit in their every crime.
The rest of the Slytherins in his year would be heading to lunch now, discussing the O.W.L.s or trying to get in some last-minute studying before the evening's practical exam. Very few of them had been in the courtyard to see the altercation take place, but he was certain the news would spread like wildfire in the Great Hall. He knew he might be missed—especially once the story got around—but not enough for anyone to go looking for him. It meant the common room was almost empty, and his dormitory was deserted when he stomped in to change out of the offending undergarments that had been the source of his shame.
With a flick of his wand and a muttered 'incendio,' he watched the pair of grey underwear burn to indistinguishable cinders in the wastebasket, but the lingering feeling of nakedness remained. It itched and needled him. He was too restless. He had to act.
The midafternoon sun was spiking high overhead, gilding the tops of the many towers and turrets of Hogwarts as he skulked away from the castle. He pulled the hood of his robes up over his face and stalked deliberately through delicate beds of newly blooming daffodils in the courtyard on his way to the hem of trees in the distance. A few students still lingered on the lawn, but he was beyond anyone's notice.
His fists were clenched so tightly in his pockets that his nails cut deep crescents in his palms. Once or twice he trod on the hem of his robes and stumbled in his haste to reach the cover of the trees, but one glance back told him he needn't have worried. The hazy heat had a soporific effect, and his classmates were too absorbed in their own diversions to mark his passing.
For once, he was too angry to deliberate. He had an idea for a simple draught that would cause something like sleeping sickness—possibly death—depending on the concentration he settled upon. He'd never actually tested it on anyone, but that would make it more interesting. He had most of the necessary ingredients on hand. All he needed was a sizeable quantity of Death's Hood Mushrooms, and he knew they would grow in the forest near the lake.
A doe grazing in a thicket of brambles raised her head at his approach. Her liquid sable eyes rested on him, and her ears swiveled to take in the sounds of his approach. He charged on ahead, and she took flight, gliding soundlessly away into the forest.
He tramped through the forest until he was well out of sight of the castle, skirting the edge of the lake, until he found an inlet with a small, stream-fed pond connected to the lake by a narrow channel. The pond was clear and inviting in the summer heat—not nearly as black and foreboding as the lake, and Severus was distantly aware that he would have thought it was quite pretty if his mind wasn't entirely focused on other matters.
Here were the mushrooms, easily recognizable because they were riotously, poisonously orange.
They grew in conspicuous bunches next to glossy patches of mud in the densest, wettest shade. He set to work, squatting on the forest floor, tucking his lank hair behind his ears, and dragging the hem of his robes through the muck. He had the brief thought that he should have brought his dragonhide gloves for this task, but in his reckless haste to leave the caste, nothing had seemed important. If he handled the mushrooms too much, he wasn't sure what the result would be, but he was still hot with shame and anger, and he found it hard to care about precautions. It was immensely satisfying to dig his fingers into the squelchy dirt and rip the mushrooms out by the root.
Then—he drew back his hand with a hiss. He had scraped against something sharp in the soil. A bright bead of blood bloomed through the dirt on his finger. Without thinking, he put his finger to his tongue to salve the sting with a groan of annoyance that his task had been interrupted. Satisfied that the lesion was small, he began to dig again. He had almost harvested enough to make a decent reduction.
But he was feeling rather tired. It might not be so bad to take a break. He sat back on his haunches and looked around. There was a nice tree stump nearby. It was colossal. He could easily fit into a large gap in its roots that looked as if it might have once led down into an animal burrow. He leaned his back against the moldering bark and settled on the ground, blinking around at the forest.
The pool of water was sparkling in the sunlight. There was a gentle trickling sound from the spring that fed from the pool into the lake. A songbird started trilling merrily and another answered it from the other side of the glen. He felt heavy and somber.
He picked dirt from under his fingernails and meditated on thoughts of revenge.
Noises behind him made him startle and look around. Someone was approaching from the way he had come. He had no desire to be found alone, crouched in a patch of mushrooms and covered in dirt, so he slid into the crevice between the stump roots as soundlessly as possible. He wondered if he should chance a glance out to see who had disturbed his murderous reverie. The sounds of footfalls were definitely getting closer.
But then he slumped back against his hiding place with a sharp intake of breath. He didn't have to see to know it was her. He couldn't explain the knowing of her presence, but it always struck him unawares with an intense feeling he couldn't name. It was like falling through cool water—sounds became dimmer and more echoing, and his body felt like it was composed mainly of syrup, floating viscously through time and space.
He heard her stop. Very near.
Unbidden, the desire to call out to her formed on his lips. His tongue was already on his teeth, shaping the beginning of her name—
-and he remembered what he had called her before. The thing that was not her name.
-the way her face had turned dark on him.
He had been so consumed with his hatred for his tormenters that this detail had completely escaped him, but now it fell heavily and sobering upon him. She was standing just beyond him in the light, and he was covered in dirt and poison. He became aware of the wetness from the mud on his robes and the itch of his greasy hair on his neck.
She wasn't moving anymore. He knew she was there, but he couldn't see what she was doing. Very cautiously, very slowly, he craned his neck around the stump to look at her.
She was standing a few yards away from his hiding place at the edge of the pool with her back to him. All he could see of her was a cascade of brilliant red hair and black school robes that rippled as she shifted from foot to foot. She stood for a very long time. Had she followed him, or was this her destination by happenstance? He thought it was very unlikely she had followed him after what had taken place earlier, but there was always the tiny modicum of hope . . .
He could not see her face, so there was no way of reading what was taking place in her mind. She just stood, and time stretched on. He felt his feet and shins beginning to prickle with pins and needles from holding still for so long.
Just when he was beginning to decide he would perhaps try coughing and make his presence known so he wouldn't be trapped in a crouched position anymore, she shrugged out of her robes, which she had apparently been unfastening as she stood there. She turned her head and moved to set them down on a mossy embankment, and he saw her face. She seemed serene, focused, but her thoughts—usually so transparent and genuinely displayed on her face—were shuttered away. She was closed in a way he had never encountered before. It was as disturbing as it was fascinating, and it galvanized his customary inclination to watch and learn more before engaging a situation.
She slipped out of her shoes and perched on one foot to remove each of her socks in turn. She looked up again, reminding him absurdly of the nervous doe that had startled at his approach. He watched her eyelashes flicker as she took a furtive glance all around her, apparently not seeing him where he sat.
Then, she started to do something that made the ground seem to slide beneath him even though he was sitting perfectly still. She was loosening her gold and scarlet Gryffindor tie and unbuttoning her blouse. He watched avidly, now almost positive, that he must have dozed off against the stump. He had to have dozed off—because—because—he was aware of his jaw slackening, but he held his mouth closed—she was quite actually removing her shirt and she quite actually had just a simple white bra beneath it and he could quite actually see the shape of her breasts and he had to be dreaming—except usually in his dreams he wasn't so aware of his body. Or the stale, musty smell of the stump that sheltered him. Or the feeling of the blood rushing to his face in a hot tide.
He should say something. He had to say something before she did anything else. But the embarrassment of having to confront the situation kept him silent. He wasn't entirely sure he still had mastery of speech at this point anyway, and there was an aching within him that was stronger than any instinct of decency or reason. She always made him ache, just by existing near him. He usually tried not to defile his sacrosanct image of her by allowing himself to think about the particulars of this aching. Even though he knew there were particulars.
Many. Many particulars.
She was shedding her skirt before he had properly gotten over the first shock of her taking off her shirt. It pooled at her feet in one fluid motion, and she stepped daintily out of it. She was wearing white cotton panties, and it struck him as funny that he was now seeing her as she had seen him earlier that day. Except, she didn't seem at all abashed. Then again, he had been exposed before audience, and she believed she was alone.
His mouth was very wet. Was his mouth always so wet? He wanted to swallow, but for some terrifying reason he felt that she would hear him gulping and the spell of his apparent invisibility would be broken.
It was bliss. It was agony. It was reducing him to peculiar thoughts and compulsions that made him feel distinctly hot and sweaty.
Severus didn't know much about girls. Ever since the onset of puberty, he had eschewed the prospect of spending more time with them than was strictly necessary, and he didn't talk to them if he could help it. Other boys in his year were always bragging about their exploits, so he knew all of the things one could do with a girl and the general picture of how it was all supposed to work. But he had never even kissed one, and it didn't seem likely that he would any time soon, so he didn't think about them very much.
But she was a creature apart from other girls. He was quite sure he wanted to do all of the things to Lily Evans, and at the current moment, he was powerless to stop himself from thinking about these things. He wanted to look at her. He wanted to drink in the sublime architecture of her body and commit it accurately to memory so he could pour over every detail in his analytic mind. He wanted to touch the porcelain skin at the curve of her back where he could see the shape of her spine. He wanted to run her hair through his fingers. He always liked touching her hair, but he hadn't in a while. Not since they were young. He wondered what it would feel like if she touched his hair. If she turned those fathomless green eyes upon him and pressed her body against his. He wanted to put his hands inside those white cotton panties and feel her. There. The blood was rushing from his face to other parts of him. He was glad he didn't have to shift position anymore to see her.
She tossed one last look over her shoulder and waded into the pool. Then, in one fluid motion, she shrank down into it until all he could see was her head and the tops of her shoulders.
She floated there for a long time, saying nothing. He found himself wondering about her thoughts almost as much as the alluring glimpses her body. Was she thinking about the things he had said to her? He was burning to know what she thought of him now. Avery was always telling him that muggle-borns were beneath them. They weren't truly even to be considered witches or wizards. It always sounded so convincing and so right when Avery was saying it, but parroted from his own mouth it fell flat and hollow and didn't sound at all superior or grand.
Did she think of him at all? Maybe her thoughts were all on the O.W.L.s. Or handsome Sirius Black. Or Potter with his foppish dandy hair. She was much too smart to ever be taken in by Potter's fake charms. Severus was confident about that. But still . . . he didn't care for the way James sometimes looked at her—like she was a treacle tart he was trying to decide where best to take a bite from—or for the way he was always hounding her to go out with him. It made something very possessive and angry stir within him, and he generally tried to avoid such feelings. He hoped very much that she paid Potter no mind.
How long would he have to wait here paralyzed? He had stopped feeling pain in his limbs, but he was beginning to wonder how long he would have to wait for her. If she stayed here for a long time, he would have to stay too. There was simply no way they could confront each other now. Could he miss an O.W.L. for this? Tests were one of the few things he was extremely good at. It was important to succeed academically.
He remembered the light dusting of freckles across her chest.
Yes.
Yes, that would be fine.
He was just starting to wonder if perhaps he could shift his weight so he wasn't crouched on the balls of his feet while she was still in the water, when she got out. And then the whiteness of her undergarments became very pronounced. The lance of desire that went through him again was exquisitely torturous, and all the more profound because he had never experienced such a feeling before. It was amazing how it eclipsed his sense of time and place and shuffled every other thought into the background. He, who had always prized his surgical wit and rigorous attention to logic and higher pursuits. He, who was beginning to fashion himself a noble epithet for his grand ideals. He was unable to think about anything beyond the discernable outline of her nipples through the damp fabric, and he didn't care.
She was heavenly, still damp and drippling in the cool spring air. He had long since discarded his moral quandary about whether it was right to stare at her. It was impossible not to. He might as well have decided it was immoral not to breathe. With that compunction now firmly tucked away where it couldn't pester him, he looked at her and surrendered to the more ravenous parts of him that wanted to wonder about the feel of her lips and the taste of her skin. And he would think about her, as a man would think about a woman. Later that night, he was sure, when he was in his bed with the curtains drawn around him, he would think about her. He was allowed to have his thoughts and memories. Nobody could take those.
She dressed herself quicker than he would have liked, no doubt due to the slight chill of wet skin. As she was stepping into her shoes, he could have sworn she looked right in his direction and the ghost of a smile twitched at her lips, but it was gone as soon as he had seen it. He must have imagined it. He didn't know if he could bare it if she discovered him now.
She strode away, shaking the water out of her hair and humming to herself. He listened to her humming growing fainter, until only the sounds of the birds remained in the glen.
It was awhile before Severus Snape trusted his legs to stand. The shadows were starting to lengthen across the pond, and his joints were stiff from holding his position. He brushed off his dirty hands on his robes, and looked around at the uprooted mushrooms strewn around him. What were the mushrooms about again? Everything that had happened earlier in the day seemed very distantly related to him now.
Revenge. He had come here to seek revenge.
Perhaps not. It didn't feel quite as important to him anymore, and he didn't have much inclination to dwell upon Sirius Black or James Potter when there were far more pleasant things he could be thinking about.
It was turning into a lovely evening. The surface of the Black Lake glittered like a blanket of diamonds as he made his way back up to the castle. He smiled to himself as he skipped up the stairs to the entrance two-at-a-time. He had seen something that was his alone to keep. Not even James Potter, with his renowned crush on Lily, had ever been so lucky. He didn't know about the freckles on her chest.
For once, he felt an acceptance of all things and a peace with the world that not even the worst bullying Gryffindor could tarnish. And, he reflected to himself, cotton underwear wasn't all that bad either.