Left Behind

Albus Dumbledore is left behind whenever Severus leaves to face the Dark Lord. Tonight is the longest night of his life.

Based on the same idea as Trepidation; could be read as a sequel.

There is one thing that SS19 does very well. She hopes this this is not a disappointment.

The moment the door slams closed behind you, it begins. The waiting. I turn my head and watch Fawkes take off from his perch and soar through the window—tonight; he is determined to follow you. Tonight, you are in terrible danger. Tonight, it could all end.

I, meanwhile, can only sit. I lower myself into my favourite armchair, hoping its familiar hold will help to sooth my raging heart—yet tonight, it is uncomfortable. I shift position several times, for I cannot sit still.

I feel so helpless. Do not think I am emotionless, dear boy, for I feel terrible things when you are gone. Is it possible for a man, one man, to feel so many emotions at one time? I worry so much about you.

And tonight. Gods, tonight. You said he was going to be angry—failure after failure. Last time, it was bad. But you survived. You fought the fever and you applied your own salves to heal the terrible gashes across your skin. How can you do that? How can you rise to walk again?

What will happen tonight? Will you be able to talk your way out of the mess you find yourself in—not through your own problems, but through others betraying you? They are determined to see you fall, for they hate you. You have become what they want to be—and the funniest thought is that you don't even want it. You don't want to be his favourite, you don't want to be the one he confides in and talks to.

Yet...there you are.

Does that mean your torment will be worse? Will he show you mercy because he—in the most perverted way—cares for you? Or will he feel that you have betrayed him, and thus he shall hurt you more? What will it be? The Cruciatus? Will he wait until you beg him to stop? Will he force you to your knees before him, and take your dignity away?

Will he send you away? Will you come back to me intact?

So many questions. They cloud my mind and every active thought.

Will my worst nightmare come true? So stereotypical—you would laugh—yet I cannot shake the image from my eyelids. You.

You collapse to the ground, folding in on yourself, your body giving up its fight.

You lie still, covered in your own blood. Your body has writhed and flinched under his command—but now there is no movement. Your eyes are open but they do not see. They are glassy, empty eyes.

And I cannot reach you. In my dreams I am running. Always running, yet you are always two steps ahead of me. And when you fall, I am not there. I am not there to help you. I cannot hold you in your final moments. I do not hear your last whispered words; I do not feel the warmth disappear from your skin. I do not run my hand through your hair...comfort you that one last time.

I look down at my hands, and I see them covered in red. Blood.

Your blood—it will be on my hands if you die. I ask you to do this—and although you tell me that it is your own choice, it is not. I force you back into his tight embrace every single time that damned Mark on your arm burns. I cannot apologise enough, for I know that stupid five little word is meaningless to you. How can "sorry" account for all the torture you endure? Every day you live, knowing it could be your last. Every morning you wake, not knowing if you will see the night.

And that is my fault.

I wish I could come with you to these meetings—I wish I could be with you. I wish I could have something real to watch, rather than what my mind conjures. I wish I wasn't left behind to wonder how much you hurt. When you return—if you return—you will show me what happened. But I will not feel everything; the emotions that fuel your desperate attempts to keep his favour and stay alive.

Are you afraid? When you step into that circle, does fear penetrate your innermost heart? I would be scared. When he calls your name, how does it sound? Does he sound angry? Is he sarcastic? You told me once that he had such an effect on you when he whispered your name. You told me it was always affectionate. Has that changed? Or is that the worst thing? He calls your name like you are a son to him—does he ask to kneel or do you do that of your own accord? I cannot imagine you kneeling for anyone. You have too much dignity for that. If you kneel, you will have to look up at him.

Have you ever looked up to him? Does he have your true respect? Has he earned that? If so, why? Why should he have your respect? Do I have it? Do you respect me, even after everything I ask?

When he raises his wand, and you know what is going to happen, how do you feel? Are you angry that you cannot defend yourself? Are you frightened of the pain that he will deal? Are you simply accepting, knowing that he will hurt you whenever he asks for your presence?

Are you numb? Has this happened so often that...you no longer feel anything? How many times? How many times has he called for you? How many times have I asked you to go to him?

The pain. What is the pain like? Is it intense? Does he know how to torture just to hurt, for he does not want information from you? He wants only revenge—for he believes you have failed him. How do you react? Do you fight not to scream, knowing that it will only anger him more? Do you give in instantly, so he has not just the pleasure of your pain, but you losing your dignity too?

What about the others? Do they watch? Do they laugh? Do they try to join in? Does he let them? Does it become you, in the centre, on your knees, and the rest of them ganging up on you, ravaging you like a pack of hyenas?

When does it end? What do you have to do to make it end? Offer your apologies? Scream for mercy? Or does he just stop when he feels your penance is served?

How can you look at him? How can you pretend to revere and adore him? How can you lie to him? How do your emotions remain so deep that even you cannot understand them? Do you raise your head in defiance? Do you show him that he cannot break you? Does that make him angry?

Or does he understand that you are too far gone to be hurt?

When does he give you your reprieve? When will you stagger home to me? When will you collapse into my arms, and I am left with the pieces to rebuild?

The broken pieces of Severus Snape—broken not by Lord Voldemort, not by his own decisions, but by me.

The moment the door slams closed behind me, it begins. I walk down the spiral staircases, away from you, away from the only security I have known. For when I stand in your office, I know I am safe. For a moment, the dark forces that threaten me cannot find me.

And then there is the burn, the burn of this damned Mark on my arm, and I have to leave you. I hurry from the castle, knowing that every step I take leads me toward the threat of death and torment.

I look back before I reach the boundary, and I think of you. Do you think of me at all? Do you wonder what will happen to me? Do you wonder what will happen when I return to his circle?

Tonight. Tonight will be hard. Tonight is dangerous. He is angry. I can feel it; I feel it in the way he has touched his Mark. I feel it in the burn that runs up my arm. Is he just angry at me? I have done nothing wrong, yet the others manipulate it so he believes it is his favourite who has betrayed him. And I have not. But when I am called to the centre of the circle, it will not do to fight. I do not beg him not to hurt me, for he does not respect that.

He respects me for I accept my punishment without whining and without crying.

Respect does not equal relief. He sees me as a challenge—when he makes me scream, he will be victorious. Yet I cannot give him that satisfaction, for that means he has won. And he cannot win—I fight for his defeat. So I will place myself at his feet, ready and willing, and when he casts his spell, I will not cry. I will not moan. I will not scream. I will hardly flinch.

What will it be tonight? His favourite, the Cruciatus? Every second that drags by, I wonder if he will let me return to you. I wonder if he will send me away—so I can go back to your safety.

In my dreams, in my nightmares, I am dying. He has pushed me too far, and there is only red. I see the blood, everywhere. It covers every inch of my skin. I collapse forward, unable to hold myself upright, and I am beaten. My breathing is harsh; I can hardly feel for the pain.

And I am shouting for you—and I can see you. I see you running, trying to reach me, and yet, you are always two steps behind.

And the light is draining from my vision, and I cannot fight, and I will not feel you beside me for the last time. I will not see your eyes, the eyes that keep me fighting, as the world begins to disappear. I will not feel your fingers entwine in mine, to comfort me before I die.

And then there is nothing.

Why do you ask me to do this?

I am stepping into the circle now, and I am scared. I hate fear, yet it grabs my heart—it is a natural reaction to what is happening around me. Could you understand what it is like to stand here? Would you be frightened?

And he calls my name. The syllables are touched with his own affections, as he knows it makes the others jealous, and he likes the backstabbing and the betrayal within his ranks. He uses my name to torment me more; for he calls it like I am his son, and yet I know, and he knows, that he intends to hurt me. Does he hurt me more for being so close to him? Yes.

He invites me to the centre of the circle, and he asks me to kneel. The worst order, for it puts me in the most vulnerable position. It takes my dignity from me—and he knows that. He smiles at me, a hideous expression that is colourless next to the memory I have of your genuine smile. Whereas you hold affection for me, he is anticipating my fall.

And I raise my head. I look to his eyes—and I am filled with hatred and revulsion—but how can I respect him too? How can I respect someone so evil? I do not admire him—I admire only you—yet I respect him. I respect what he might do to me. I respect the effect he will have on me.

But he does not have my affection. Before, yes. Now...it is you that I wish to please.

He raises his wand—can he see my inner thoughts? Perhaps—do I care? I know exactly what will follow, in seconds perhaps, and I cannot understand the emotions in my chest. I was afraid, but now that has vanished. I am accepting, for I know that there is no escape. And at times, I feel numb, for this is all so familiar.

But when the curse falls, I know that the pain is not familiar. It rips through me, straight to my heart and my soul, and yet I will not scream. I will not give him that pleasure, for he cannot be allowed to win in such a way. I fight my own body—mind over matter—and he knows it. Yet I continue to stare at him.

And I think of you. What are you doing, now? Do your thoughts return to me, or are you too busy? Do you sit, wondering about my night, wondering if I will come back to you? Do you miss me? Do you feel something, knowing that I am being tortured? Am I too bold to wonder if the thought upsets you? Do you want to be here, with me?

For I want you to be here. If you were here, I could have something to fight for. I would know that there was someone, waiting to catch me when I fall.

The others enjoy this, for they are sick. Their indecent pleasure comes from my pain—and I can hear them laughing and jeering and mocking. Do they not know that one day I will be their downfall? I wonder if he will let them partake, or if I am simply his, for the night? He is probing against my mind, and I wonder what he searches for?

I have to pretend that I love him—that I see him as my one true master—and that no matter what he does to me, I will always revere him. Lying is becoming harder, for it is hard to disguise such terrible hatred. He narrows his eyes at me—and I look away.

This is hard. This needs to stop.

I will shatter into pieces at his feet—and you will not be here to pick me up. Will you find me? Will you rebuild me? Can you fix me?

Will he let me go? Will he offer me the chance to leave? Will he let me go? Will I be allowed to go back to you?

But no. The curse only deepens, and my breath catches in my chest.

I need you here, Headmaster, please!

The time is dragging. I can't do anything. Come back to me, please, Severus.

He won't let me go! I can't make him stop! Somebody help me, please!

A red dawn signals that something terrible has happened. Someone is hurt. His blood stains the sky as the sun begins to rise. The figure, a silhouette against the ruby, staggers and limps and falls. Above him, there is a streak of fire and flames, soaring home, bringing news of his arrival...

I am sat on the sofa, limbs deadened by tiredness, yet eyes wide open and awake. I turn my head, and Fawkes swoops back to his perch. Instantly his black eyes fix on mine.

He caws—a sad note that pierces my heart. And I understand.

I jump to my feet—I have to reach you.

I am dying. He has pushed me too far, and now I can see only red. I see the blood, everywhere, on the grass, on every inch of my skin, in the sky. I collapse forward, unable to hold myself upright, and I am beaten. My breathing is failing, and every sense is drowning in pain.

And I am shouting for you—shouting, calling, crying for you—I need you.

And I can see you.

I see you running,

Trying to reach me.

Yet I am two steps ahead—and I have left you behind...

Reach me, please...

And my worst nightmare is there, before me. You.

You collapse to the ground, folding in on yourself. Your body is giving up its fight.

You lie still, covered in your own blood—and I can see that you have writhed and flinched under his command for your muscles still tremble slightly with the pain.

Your eyes are open. Can you see me?

And I am trying to reach you. I am running, yet you are too far away.

I have to be there when you fall, I have to help you, I have to hold you, I have to hear you, I have to feel you, and I have to comfort you.

Stay with me, please, let me reach you, please...

He collapses to his knees beside him, picking him up, into his arms. He holds him close and whispers his name into his ear, whispering the syllables touched with affection, saying his name like he is his son. He runs a hand through the black hair, touches the cooling skin, begs him to wake.

And the other looks at him through eyes that are slowly darkening. His breathing is harsh, yet the pain is numbing him. He murmurs something in a voice that is hardly a sound. There is true meaning and respect and love in those three words.

Their fingers entwine, a sign of comfort and support and reassurance.

Blue eyes swimming with tears that leave their prison and run down his cheeks.

And he will not let go. He will not let him fade away. The void will not consume him.

And he raises a finger to sweep the tears away, and he coughs, and he gasps for breath.

He is so cold.

"Don't leave me. Don't let me go, I don't want to die, I'm afraid. So terribly frightened. Fix me, put me back together, rebuild me, please, don't send me back to him, keep me safe. I cannot lose you. Please, don't make the nightmare come true, don't let me go ahead."

"I need you. Don't do this. Stay with me. Stay alive. I will put you back together, I will rebuild you. You need never return to him. You will be safe with me. I cannot lose you. Don't make the nightmare come true, please...don't leave me behind."

Fight for me, Severus. You are fading away before my eyes.

I have so much I need to tell you. I have to apologise, I have to tell you I am so proud, I have to tell you I love you more than any other student I have ever had. Don't die.

I will never tell you that I am sorry for letting you down...I want to tell you that you meant more to me than anyone else, and I want to tell you that I would fight for you until the end of time.

I am fading; my time in this world is almost finished.

Hold me, don't let me be alone.

He blinks, vision blurred.

"I love you."

Black eyes return the gaze.

Black eyes which are glassy and empty.

And he is left behind.

Fin.