I don't own HP. The poems are "O Captain! my Captain!" by Walt Whitman and "A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—" by Emily Dickinson. I tried to use periods to maintain the usual formatting of Whitman's poem (the indentation of the final lines in each stanza).
I apologize for how only about half of the words in this "story" is actually the story itself...
Happy reading!
Masked
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
..But O heart! heart! heart!
...O the bleeding drops of red
.....Where on the deck my Captain lies,
.......Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
..Here Captain! dear father!
....This arm beneath your head!
......It is some dream that on the deck,
........You've fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
..Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
....But I with mournful tread,
......Walk the deck my Captain lies,
........Fallen cold and dead.
Briskly he strode—down flickering corridors, past fiery torch brackets
that cast long, black shadows on the unyielding floor. His face (should
anyone so unfortunate to be in the same passage be of doughty
enough heart to even glance at it) was blank and pallid beneath the
curtain of oily midnight that swung malignly back and forth with his
every step. His eyes, dark and trapping as coalmines and far more
dangerous, glared with furious indifference at any trespasser. A thick
shadowy cloak obscured the tension in his shoulders.
Descending with haste a final spiral set of stairs, he burst through his
office door, barely restraining himself from slamming it shut behind him.
He collapsed into the rough wooden chair behind his desk and allowed
the air to seep from his lungs. Slumped in the unforgiving seat, he did
not breathe again for several long moments.
Finally he glanced up at the walls entrapping him, drawing in a shaky
breath. His desk was unnaturally clean—displaying only two neat
piles of parchment, a quill, and some ink. The walls, dark dungeon
stone, were almost bare—two months were not enough to solidify his
claim to his surroundings.
He inhaled again, but this time it came as a sob. The mask of his face
fell away, betraying shock, grief, and fear.
Outside the door, several students pattered down the steps,
chattering excitedly as they returned from the Halloween feast. He
stared unseeingly at the door long after their echoes had vanished.
How peaceful, how innocent, how painless their lives were! They would
wake up tomorrow and open the post their owls would bring them at
breakfast—how they would shriek and whisper and discuss the
happenings of this night: most of them triumphantly, a few
disappointedly or angrily. Absent however, would be the terrible loss
that tore now at his heart and throat and caused every ragged breath
he took to feel as if he were inhaling not air but shattered glass.
What was he doing? What made him think that he might accomplish
some good in this world—he, slimy Slytherin Severus Snape, the ex-
Death Eater? She was dead, and it was his fault. What was
Dumbledore playing at, having him teach human beings at perhaps
their most malleable age? What was he thinking in agreeing to protect
the very child for whose parents he did precisely the opposite?
He had no answer. Azkaban could be no worse than the prison of his
own thoughts; he was his own dementor.
Still barely daring to breathe, he pulled one of the stacks of parchment
pieces closer—third-year essays yet to be graded. Loading the quill
with scarlet ink, he forced the mask over his face and commenced his
attack on grammar, spelling, poor arguments, and insufficient
explanations. Let others celebrate the Dark Lord's downfall—his grief
overcast his relief, and he had work to do.
A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
I've heard the Hunter tell—
'Tis but the Ecstasy of death—
And then the Brake is still!
The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And "you're hurt!" exclaim!
Possibly, the "his own dementor" line sounds familiar. If so, that's probably because I used a variation of the same line in Fang of a Basilisk. I actually wrote it into this story before I wrote it into Fang of a Basilisk, but I turned this in as part of a school project and wanted to wait to publish it here until after my teacher had a chance to suggest changes (I earned an A! (Or rather, an "O")).
Review?? = )