Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or its series. That belongs to J.K.
A/N: This fic is based on a song I am in love with. The song that inspired me to write this fic is Apologize by OneRepublic.
A/N: Because writing in first person is so much easier for me, that is exactly what I am going to write in. The story is in present tense, and it is in Snape's point of view. Partially because I've never written as Snape before. :) And because Harry is so much more mysterious than Snape. :)
A/N: This fic takes place post OotP but Pre HPB and DH.
Too Late
OoO
I wake up on this Tuesday to a sound much like that of a bird chirping. It cannot be a bird because I am in the dungeons at Hogwarts. Yet the sound is so much like a bird's chirping it is uncanny. It is starting to bother me, so I get out of bed and drag myself to the source of my uncalled for alarm clock.
What I find is not what I expected to find. A letter is sitting conveniently right inside my door. It is odd seeing as the Headmaster and I are the only ones with keys to my personal quarters. Frankly, the old coot wouldn't have keys to anything I own except that it is mandatory we give him a copy.
I pick up the letter with caution. You never know who might be trying to kill you and with what these days. The chirping stops instantly. Thank whatever deity caused the cease of noise. I open the letter carefully, noting the front is blank. I pull out the single sheet of parchment with annoyance. Who in their right mind sends me a blank letter with chirping bird sounds at six o'clock in the bloody morning? The parchment says nothing, as I suspected. However, I notice a small bottle in the bottom of the envelope that was not there a second ago. I pull out the bottle and inspect it. Upon reading the label I am completely infuriated. Degreaser?! Who would send me a bottle of hair degreaser?!
A sudden burst of laughter fills the halls. I recognize that ear-splitting shriek-like laughter. Minerva. And, if I am not mistaken (which I am sure I am not), Peeves. Curse the two of them. I shall not reply to their immaturity.
I carefully shower, making sure I get my hair wet as little as possible. After my shower, I throw on my clothes and head out of my quarters and into the hallway. It is cold down in the dungeons. Too cold. Usually it is much warmer. That is strange indeed. I shall take it up with the Headmaster. Even though the old coot is just going to tell me I am imagining things. He always belittles me, as if he were worth the effort.
The trip upstairs into the Main Hall seems much longer than usual. That is the fault of the two insolents. Well, them and the fact that I am an insomniac. However, usually Essence of Sleep helps. I am going to need several cups of coffee to keep me awake through today's plans.
Potter is coming to school early. He was kicked out by his relatives or something else completely melodramatic. Now I have to deal with him a month and a half early. I am going to need more than several cups of coffee to keep from cursing that brat. He is completely impossible to deal with. He'll probably be complaining the entire time he is here, just as all brats do.
I step into the Great Hall and take my place at the Staff Table even though it is optional during the summer months. I wait until two pitchers of steaming black coffee take their place on the table. Then I wait for the tea cups. Once they appear, I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a long swig of the stuff. The warmth penetrates the isolated coldness that I have established within my body. The cold numbness dissolves, leaving only warmth in its place. Warmth. I do not wish to be warm. Being warm causes one to be vulnerable. Being vulnerable could cause my death. I certainly do not wish to die quite yet. I am not afraid of dying; I simply am not morbid enough to wish it upon myself.
After finishing about seven and a half cups of coffee, I decide to meet Dumbledore in his office and brief him on the overall safety of the school.
I make my way toward his office and I am soon standing in front of his door. I almost knock, but I hear voices arguing heatedly. One is the Headmaster's I am sure (which surprises me by itself), but I cannot determine who the second voice is until Dumbledore says his name.
"Harry, you must stay here. Voldemort will not find you here, and you are much safer. He already murdered Petunia, the poor woman," Dumbledore tries to reason with the boy. I do not see why. He is but a mere child. And an obstinate child at that.
"But Professor," Potter protests, his dislike at the situation well-hidden. "I can't stay here. I can only stay if you wish him to come to the school. If you wish to die, then keep me. If not, I shall make my leave in the morning."
"Harry my dear boy," Dumbledore starts, sounding exhausted.
"I am not your 'dear boy', sirI am not your little puppet. You will not use me to win the war-I shall do that without your help. I do not need, nor do I want to continue this futile request for your approval. If I survive the next six weeks, I will see you on the first. If not, then I will not see you on the first," Harry says in a soft voice that leaves no room for protest.
I choose that moment to walk in. I frankly do not care if the brat lives or dies, unless I am the one preserving or killing him. I only walk in at that time because I do not need the Headmaster to take his anger out on me.
"Excuse me, Professor," Potter mumbles to me. I do not move. Actually, until he asked me to move, I did not know I was even blocking the brat's escape route. However, I have no intention of moving, thus I stand my ground.
"Am I interrupting something?" I ask, mock interest in my voice. I know I am; I simply wish to fool the old coot into believing I honestly have no idea what is going on.
"Our young Mr. Potter seems to want to leave the safety and protection of the school and go off on his own to battle Voldemort (I suppress a shudder) on his own with only a fifth year's knowledge," Dumbledore says to me, probably trying to get me to side with him.
"Why on Earth would he want to do that when everyone here loves him so darn much?" I ask, trying to cover my sarcasm with mock concern.
Only then do I look at Potter. He has grown at least two inches, still making me about a foot taller than he is. However, his skin has completely faded. In this crappy lighting, he looks dead. His skin looks grey, his eyes dull and emotionless, his bones jutting out in ways they should not be jutting out, and his hair is a complete mess. Then again, his hair is always a complete mess. Except now it covers half of his face. That is strange. However, his expression has completely changed. Instead of life emitting from those emerald eyes, a mask covers any and all emotion the boy may be feeling.
"His home situation has been compromised, to say the least. He seems to believe he can do much better without our protection. I think he is clinically depressed," Dumbledore says, resigning.
"I doubt the boy is depressed, sir. It seems to me he is just being self-righteous. That battle at the Ministry blew up his head. It filled his brain with thoughts of glory and victory," I say, unconcerned.
Of course the boy is depressed. He saw his Aunt murdered by the most evil man (or shred of a man) in the world, he's been around death, violence, and every other terrible thing in this world his entire life. A child should never have to experience such wretched things. He did, though. Depression follows those who are unfit to handle the crappy and unfair situation they have been placed in.
"If you two are finished talking about me as if I am not here when I am clearly standing right in front of you, I would like to leave," Potter tells us tonelessly.
I fight the urge to smile at that. He sounds like me. Always hiding behind a mask. Never showing how he is truly feeling. It is a rather strange thing to see in a mere child however. And it is quite unnerving at that.
"Potter should not be going anywhere until his health has reached its optimum. Physically and mentally," I say to the Headmaster, pretending I did not even hear Potter's question.
"That is true, Severus," Dumbledore says to me, considering the truth I have shoved in his blind face. "Harry, will you please see Madame Pomfrey before you depart and make sure you are in good health?" Dumbledore asks the brat nicely. I do not see the reasoning behind his niceness, but I do not really care.
"Yes, sir," Potter mumbles to Dumbledore. He turns to me and that blank mask falls into place as he threatens me. "You've just doomed this place to Hell, you moronic bastard."
I know he speaks the truth. The Dark Lord himself is not after Potter in the battle that is to come. He is too weak for battle so early after the Ministry incident. However, his minions (including Bellatrix, who I would not want to cross even on a good day when she wasn't completely pissed off at Potter for weakening her Master) are in top form, and are ready for revenge on Harry. They are bloodthirsty and will kill anyone who stands in their way at killing Potter (as brutally as possible mind you). Half of the Death Eaters have killed their own families (including Bellatrix, who killed her brother at the Ministry battle) or have no problem in doing so. They will go wherever Potter is. In a way, I suppose it is my fault if anyone gets killed in the battle that is to come.
Oh well. It's too late to change things now.
OoOoO
Three weeks later, I awake to screaming. I get out of bed to fast and have to steady myself before going forward. Maybe that party with Flitwick and Hagrid last night was not that great of an idea. Somebody else was there. Who was that? I must have had too much Vodka.
The screaming continues, so I get out of bed and drag myself to the door. Upon opening it, I remember I am in only my underwear and curse my hangover. I glance around the hall, looking for students to yell at and give detention to. Then the memory that it is summer, thus meaning there are no students on campus to yell at. Except Potter. But even he would not be stupid enough to wake me. Sighing, I turn back to my sanctuary. I throw my clothes on, grab my wand, and leave. I prowl the hallway long enough to realize the screaming is coming from the Great Hall. I quickly make my way up the stairs and am stunned silent by the appalling sight in front of me.
Death Eaters are fighting each other. That makes no sense. I look around the should-be empty hall and my eyes land on Potter. Of course he is the source of my waking up early. And he does it the one night I actually am asleep. (I should drink Vodka more often). He looks like he slept little more than a minute with the circles darker than night under his eyes.
"Potter," I call to him, gliding toward him. I avoid the Death Eater simulations (Which is seventh year magic, thus he should not know how to perform it), lest a curse should miss and hit me. "What are you doing awake so early?" I ask him in a toneless voice. I cannot be mad at the brat for having insomnia. However, I refuse to be nice to him either.
"I am studying," is his simple, also toneless answer. His face reveals nothing, which in itself shocks me. He should not be able to hide his emotions so well. Then again, he should not be able to conjure up simulation fighting Death Eaters either, but that didn't seem to stop him from doing so.
"Studying?" I am genuinely confused; however I ask the question evenly. What could a child learn by simply watching two simulated Death Eaters try to kill each other? I am truly afraid to know the answer. I asked the question though, and I do expect some sort of answer.
"Yes, studying," he repeats, still no emotion in his voice. I am shocked at his pitiful answer. Usually Potter spits some garbage about doing what Dumbledore told him to in my face when I inquire about the useless things he does. However, I am determined to know what is going on in this boy's head, no matter how disturbing.
"What, Potter, are you studying?" I ask him, trying to be nice to the brat that made my life Hell for the past five years. I do not know why I care so much about what he is doing. I simply do. The person standing in front of me is not the Harry Potter I know. The Harry Potter I know is exactly like the James Potter I used to know. He is not morbid enough to stand by and watch with genuine interest as two simulated Death Eaters slaughter each other. Which is why his response to my question appalled me even farther.
"I am studying battle, Snape," he says to me, keeping his voice even. "I am studying wizard interaction during a conflict. Believe it or not, this full-fledged killing started over a pencil. I chose Death Eaters because they are the vilest creatures ever put on this Earth." He never once lost the evenness in his voice. He never once looked up at me. His detachment amazed even me.
"How do you know how to perform seventh year magic?" I demand, getting tired of this charade. I am not about to be pushed around by some useless fifth year Gryffindor brat. I am the adult, and I deserve respect. I demand it. Potter is no exception. Even though he is slowly turning into me, he is no exception.
"Because Snape," he hisses, turning to face me, "I am not the fucking moron you believe me to be. I am not the fucking self-righteous Gryffindor you believe me to be. And I am not the fucking pussy Dumbledore is and wants me to be. I am not going to sit back and watch while Voldemort (I am too shocked at the brat's excessive use of profanities to shudder) fucking kills everything I know and possibly care about. There is no way I am going to do whatever the fuck you and your Holier-Than-Now Dumbledore want me to do. I am not a fucking puppet."
His bluntness leaves me so utterly speechless that I cannot even voice an insult, yet alone a punishment. He uses this time to continue ranting. He uses way too many profanities for such a small boy. He probably got it from Weasley or Granger.
"What Snape?" he snarls at me, his emerald eyes ablaze. "You expect me to be the Boy Who Fucking Lived my whole life? I stopped being a child the moment I had to witness my Aunt get slaughtered in front of me after having to watch her get raped by three of your Master's fucking pets. I stopped giving a fuck after my Uncle beat me for days with an iron because your fucking Master killed his wife. I stopped listening to everyone else's fucking problems shortly after I was forced to witness my cousin murder his own Goddamn father with a fucking rock. Dumbledore and his self-righteous self can shove this Golden Boy shit where the sun doesn't shine." I would have laughed at that last sentence, had I not been completely consumed with shock at Potter's sudden outburst of utter profanity.
"And you are exactly like him," he tells me softly. However, it is not anger I detect in his voice. There is disappointment. It is strange. Potter gets a backbone and is disappointed that I despise him. Very strange indeed. I am not exactly offended at the statement; I just do not wish to be compared to a baboon's arse.
Later that night, after contemplating Potter's confessions to me (Though very vulgar), I decide to keep the Headmaster in the dark about that particular conversation. I will however, speak to Potter on my own time.
I take a vile of Essence of Sleep and have a decent night's sleep.
In the morning, I awake to a soft knocking on my door. It is strange only because most people care so little about me that they simply pound on the door. Apparently, I fell asleep in my clothes from the day before, so dressing is simple enough. I do, however, use the bathroom before I answer the door.
The person standing in front of me is definitely not who I expect to see. Potter is my early morning visitor. Joy. I let him in only because I am too tired for standing. And the look on his face does not suggest he will be leaving anytime soon.
"Yes Potter?" I ask, taking a seat on my bed. He remains standing, strangely enough. He looks as if he has something dreadfully important on that mind of his. He still amazes me. He greatly insults me the previous night, then has the nerve to wake me at this hour. Wait, what hour is it? I glance at my clock and realize just how early it is. Three fifty-three AM. The brat truly has a death wish.
"Professor, about yesterday morning," the boy begins, taking a breath too deep for his anorexic frame. (I'm not saying he's anorexic-just that he looks, acts, and sounds anorexic). "I am sorry." He says that statement evenly, probably so I won't know what exactly is going through his head. "I was wrong," He adds.
"And why could this apology not wait until seven-thirty, when I am supposed to wake up?" I ask him, expecting a similarly smart (But much less vulgar) remark like those he distributed yesterday morning. His blank mask slides into place, probably so I do not see how truly worried our, how did he put it? Oh yes, our Boy Who Fucking Lived is.
"They are attacking at five," is his simple response. They? Who are They? Death Eaters? The Dark Lord? Something even worse? Why is he informing me? Why isn't he informing Dumbledore or Minerva? Why me? Why does every bad thing get informed to me first?
As if reading my mind (which I do not doubt completely), the brat answers me. "There are going to be thirty-seven Death Eaters arriving by air, twenty-four by land, and seventeen by water."
Thirty-seven, twenty-four, and seventeen. Seventy-eight Death Eaters versus twenty-three staff members. Add Potter in, and there are twenty-four. We are…
"Screwed," Potter finishes my thought verbally. I swear that boy can read minds.
"No," I tell him forcefully. "We aren't screwed. We are royally fucked."