Author's notes are posted under the story.
Potter's
Worst Memory
Wizard
Sedridor
A sly smile slid across the Seeker's expression as he slipped out from behind the familiar painting, the bright appetizing fruit made it entirely clear to all except the dullest of Hufflepuffs what the secret passage might contain. His hand fell on the pear as he took care to close the framed canvas behind him and continue his journey onwards. Both a tin tucked under his arm and now, courtesy of the House Elves, a glass of milk in hand.
The sharp tap of his light footsteps echoed through the hall. As he neared his destination, he heard the the sound repeated, but not by his own feet. James froze and pressed himself against the wall. Despite that trouble was near, his hazel eyes flickered with amusement as he waited to discover whose footsteps he had heard over his own.
James almost laughed. Snivellus sulking about was nothing to fear unless you were stranding too near. If so, it was possible his greasy hair would irreparably stain clothing or, perhaps, something considerably worse. Was social inadequacy contagious? He sneered as the clearly distraught boy stormed past, entirely unaware that he was observed. After seven years of sneaking around the school, Potter would never forget his Invisibility Cloak. To leave it behind on a midnight jaunt such as this would be insanity with his record. The clicking sound of shoes against stone faded as Snape turned down a winding corridor. From the way he stalked down it, something seemedto have gone array. The Seeker merely shrugged. It was not possible for him to care less than he already did about the daily drama in the life of Severus Snape.
Once alone, Potter continued down the hallway and back, his destination the only thought on his mind. An abrupt stop splattered milk across the floor, but he wasn't bothered by something that trivial as his pleased face looked toward the door that now stood before him. He switched the slightly-less-full glass of milk to his left hand; the tin of biscuits was yet tucked securely under his left arm. Now, with one hand free, he pulled the door open and was easily pleased to find the room before him.
Sinking into a luxuriously soft chair, he set both tin and glass on the elegant table before him. His eyes slipped closed faintly, wondering why he was up this late before his NEWTs, but it was certainly not his style to spend the night hunched over books to study, as it was also not in his nature to accept an early bedtime despite whatever NEWTs or curfews were inflicted upon him.
Out of habit alone, and no longer arrogance (not as much, anyway), his fingers ran through his hair before pushing himself into something as close to resembling a sitting position as he could manage in the warm, squishy chair. His nimble fingers opened the tin gazing at the gift from his parents and reflecting faintly that this would be much more fun if he were not alone, but it seemed he was doomed to be.
Remus, ever diligent in his studies, was confident he was prepared for his tests. He had retired to his bed over an hour before. Peter, who was obviously the exact opposite of the former, was yet hoping to jam seven year's worth of learning into his flustered mind overnight. Sirius… who knew what Sirius was up to except for Sirius, himself.
James shook his head from the mental inventory of his friends and their current refusal to entertain him. From Lily, regrettably, he had received a flat "No." before he could even ask. It was a refusal that was very much to his chagrin, and one that was very much to his dorm-mates' amusement. She, much like Remus, was not interested in wandering all night when she had tests in the morning.
A biscuit was drawn from the tin, mainly due to its precise Snitch shape, and the beautiful frosting. James couldn't easily pick the best tasting one as they all seemed to be the image of perfection. His fingers traced across the seemingly spelled golden frosting as it reflected his now amused gaze. He briefly wondered why if received the gift before his NEWTs in place of afterwards as incentive not to disrupt the tests with any Marauder-ly activities. The musing drew a laugh from his throat as he dipped the biscuit into the milk.
His scream and the sharp clatter of tin sounded through the small room as James lunged back from the table.
A sharp metallic scent, spiced with the bitter sting of potion-herbs, filled his nose. James's heart pounded against his ribs as his gaze would not be torn from the dark cruelty intended for him. The glass that had once been filled to the brim with milk now flowed with the thick crimson of blood, his stained cookie floating as its intricate frosting melted away to reveal a new shape. The shape of a figure twisting against the rope twined tightly around its throat. The Seeker hissed in pain and swiftly wiped the blood-like substance from his hand onto the chair. Blood did not eat flesh like acid.
With horrid fascination, his gaze once again flicked up to the glass as it proved exactly how excruciating his death would have been if he had consumed the treat. The magic languidly ate away at the crystal just as it made raw and bloody his fingertips. A charred black gnawed and clouded the previously well cleaned surface until the contents were only visible where they surrounded the crimson biscuit. It was twisted, and warped, and consumed until the no-longer-milk lazily slinked across the tabletop. It blacked a path as it drifted over the table's edge to the rich carpet as it washed over the remaining biscuits. Their true shapes were slowly revealed through the intricate façade he had first beheld.
It was a tin of deaths. Figures clawing their throats as they choked, writhing on the ground as they burned, screaming their loudest as limbs were torn from them… There were so many, but he could not draw himself from the horror he witnessed as each one suffered in their personal agony.
James fists clenched as a vengeful glint entered his eyes. It was Snape who was walking down the hall, who, suspiciously enough, seemed guilty from such an event, who was capable of such black arts, who was cruel enough to plot such a thing.
It was Snape who would pay for his crimes. He would, even if James could not prove it. The Gryffindor turned from the table and exited the room as very un-Gryffindor thoughts tumbled through his mind. His glasses-clad eyes sharpened with loathing as he headed towards his House to wake Remus and have the talented werewolf aid in healing his hand. Tomorrow, Snivellus would rue the day he ever dreamed of murder.
This sentence informs you that I do not own the subject of my writing, nor do I make any profit from such literature. However, this sentence does not inform you of anything of importance.
So… yes, that was a bit dark. I don't think that if I write here everything will become this, but I cannot deny that this was fun. I'm warning you now, I can babble quite a bit. I like explaining my thinking. It seemed best not to flood you with it at the beginning of the story.
This was inspired by a nightmare of my own this very morning. I received the death-cookies! In fact, I am yet in my pajamas as I had immediately rolled from bed to put this into words. I have been waiting for some idea to come forth for a fanfiction so when I laid hands on this, I lunged.
On the topic of Snape, I do not see him, as being the cliché antagonist here. If he did this (here is where I laugh evilly), he did it as a human being. He has feelings and motives for his actions. That was seen in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and I do believe it would be the same in this.
Please, please, please inform me if you realize any spelling, grammatical, Americanism, or Potter-verse errors. Even when uncertain that a suggestion is correct, it is greatly appreciated. I dislike it when silly things take away from the story, as it is so easily repaired! I do thank you in advance!