Epic Rants On Severus Snape
I.
Spurred To Pen and Page: Rants and Reasoning
Questions to the defenders of Severus Snape:
This is a response, a call to reason some might say,
To those who think he is far less of a sadistic bastard
The world would do well to be rid of, whether locked in a cage,
Imprisoned behind iron bars, or simply ceased from breathing venom upon the world.
How can you champion this story's hero and support such callousness?
For this I am spurred to place pen to page.
How can you seek an end to Voldermort and his carnage
Without wanting to take out another and his veiled,
But no less significant craters of damage?
This is a wakeup call to all those who not only seek his vindication but expect it.
How can you call him simply complex, complicated, damaged, broken?
Committer of the sins we know, never mind the ones we don't,
Offering up a child to its death, a child that yet lived,
All those he could call family gone, sentenced to years of suffering.
How can you abide his treatment of a straining heart, knowing his part in it?
How can you support such cruelty borne on the back of one so undeserving?
For this I am spurred to place pen to page.
Taking the one, greatest since Merlin, robbing his world of its human compass,
Taking with it wisdom and one of the last true points of light in blackened times,
How can you seek to excuse, brush away things of such gravity, support such malice?
For he has not changed, only grown in bitterness.
How can you look at his dubious allegiances and say it is all swept aside,
When there is no repentance only tattered grudges, haughty explanations, cold sneers?
For this I am spurred to place pen to page.
And to ponder a question: do you know ominous maliciousness
Placed in this world that is yet mirrored in ours, how true it is found?
This is a desperate, screaming plea and answer to the defenders of Severus Snape.
Open these pages and find within the things you might have forgotten.
Open these pages and understand the reasons, the need for his punishment.
Open these pages remembering his victims, not just his misunderstood lot in life.
Open these pages remembering the reasons for the anger.
Open these pages and you may find it fitting- what is within.
Open these pages… knowing that he is not the only one in need of an avenger.
For this I am spurred to place pen to page,
the other voice of fading memories, ashen bones committed to dust,
Ashen minds forced to lifelessness and all that lies between.
How can you say what has been- is enough for such things?
How can you watch the good ones die while he lives, knowing his transgressions?
It really is 999 crimes.
How can you question whether he is on the side of good or evil?
Know that it matters not; he has too many other things to atone for.
Do not give your heart too freely to languish in disappointment.
Let not the blood that marred his soul stain your hands.
For, if you condone him, if you abide it there,
You are abiding it here as well.
II
Indictments: The Unused Perspective
The biggest indictment against you is not the mark etched into your skin.
It isn't so much the insults you spew to one and all,
It isn't even the terror you so eagerly bear down on children,
It is that you think he's right; somewhere in it all you think Voldermort has a point.
The largest indictment pointing to your guilt
Isn't your hatred
Of the "insufferable" boy called the chosen one, obviously chosen for something.
It isn't your hatred for your former tormenters,
Even though their foreseeing hearts saw what you would become, and treated you accordingly.
It isn't your scorn for the one, in your mind, simply known as the werewolf,
Nor is it your contempt for the old man seen as asking too much of you.
It is that you think like the red- eyed menace, not like those who catch his kind
But those who become him, no matter how much lesser the degree of evil,
Those who admire him truly… not just fear him.
You really do think there is no good and evil, only power and those to weak to seek it,
For you are far too weak yourself.
The greatest indictment against you isn't your de-facto attempted baby killer status:
That you handed over information and a child, who had committed no sin
Other than being created by the natural attributes of this world,
A child you knew nothing of… a child that could have been your future son,
For all you heard of the seers' words.
It isn't even your monstrous, cold-blooded murder of the silver haired man,
Who shrewdly but unwaveringly put his faith in you.
It is that you think, because "you fight on the side of the order,"
Everything you do, have done, past and present is justifiable.
It is your resentment for suspicion rightly earned,
Trust you envy that you have yet to earn.
It is the misunderstood card you play far beyond the depthless limits
Of your most unlikely defender's infinite patients.
You owe the werewolf far more than you would like to think.
Your most jarring indictment isn't that you joined the death eaters,
Made a mistake- one or many;
It isn't that you took the mark, sold your soul, allied with evil.
It's the why… of it all, not to avenge yourself of a vengeful god,
Hardly to vindicate yourself against a world that treated you unfairly.
No, it's something more insidious… because it would give you a license
To be vicious, vindictive, act out your vile fantasies on the innocent.
You could not even focus your revenge on those who had wronged you;
Even the dark one sees not those outside his plans, is capable of indifference.
And however damaged you may be, however broken you may be found,
You have not, and are not predisposed, to cross the line over to Voldermort's insanity.
He has reached the point in his psychosis that he sees no clear right and wrong,
Only an illness stemmed mission, mandate, paranoia and vision.
But you knew, you know you're wrong and in that knowledge lies your condemnation.
But perhaps the most pointed indictment of all is that you feel;
You feel and yet you ally yourself with one who does not.
It has been said time and time again Voldermort does not understand love
"Feels" only hate, vengeance and wrath, yet you followed after,
Still do… with your heart.
You have felt the pain of injustice and indignities, humiliations and horror;
You have known fear that would weaken knees of stone,
helplessness that buckles the soul.
You have felt.
And yet these are the scars you place upon the world,
Knowing their consequences, internally if not externally, for they still tear at you.
Not because you cannot help it, not because you cannot rise above it,
It is that you will not… You want this; you like it.
You have found sanctuary in love somewhere in your life and felt it for another.
You feel regrets, remorse, perhaps repentance, but only for a moment.
You feel but you burry it to the disastrous detriment of those around you and yourself.
Only the hatred and fury come through; only the venom finds its voice.
It is that you find some sick and twisted satisfaction in the suffering of others.
You are a mirror of his evil;
You are Voldermort without the eyes…
III
Indictments: More Than Fragments & Figments of Damnation
The mark on your arm should speak for itself,
Legacy of murder, torture, torment and death.
Murders we know of torments we don't,
Intimidations we know of, tortures we don't.
How many people did you kill for that magical tattoo; how many did you make scream?
How many times did you stand aside while decent, innocents suffered and died?
How many did you strike fear into just fun,
Pleasure you got out of quaking knees, sobbing men and wailing women?
Or was it the spunky ones who wouldn't give up the fight, where they the prize?
Again this is not the greatest indictment against you.
Everyone is entitled to one mistake, even a tragic, massive one; after all you left.
It's what you did with the second chance you were given.
It isn't just that you gave information to an egomaniacal maniac,
It isn't just that the information lead to the murder of two people you used to know,
As if that weren't enough.
It's the infant child, pure in its own right, you sentenced to death.
It isn't just how you treated him, whose famous lightning scar tells more than one tale;
t isn't just the cold sneers, bating, bullying or trying to get him expelled
Every chance you could find, as if that weren't enough.
It isn't just the veritaseurm you threatened to slip into his pumpkin juice,
It isn't just the accusations of stealing unfounded,
As if it weren't enough.
It is that after all those years of turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to his truth,
It came back 10 fold on others and not you.
You nearly took young lives, when he was sure his message didn't get through.
It isn't just that you were so ready to condemn Sirius Black
To the dementor's kiss, to a fate worse than death,
As if that weren't enough.
It is that you did so knowing exactly how close you came to that damned fate yourself.
It is that you did so knowing how long he had spent in Azkaban,
A place you avoided only by the skin of your teeth.
It isn't just that you call Potter rash and foolish,
It is that, on the night in question, you the possible objective adult in the room,
Listened to nothing but your own need for vengeance, seemed beyond reasoning.
Whatever can be said of him, he listened when you would not.
And there is the fact that, by still drawing breath,
Pettigrew proved Black's innocence, something you would learn… eventually.
It isn't just that you out-ed Lupin as a werewolf
To the tune of terrified children in your wake, forcing him to feel he must resign,
As if that weren't enough.
It is that you did it knowing the hardships of a life of poverty,
Having lived in the dilapidation of Spinners End.
It is that you did it knowing what it's like to be shunned and ostracized
For being who you are, for looks you were born with, a life you could not control.
It isn't just that you killed Albus Dumbledore,
Took away the last stable pillar of the wizarding community,
As if that weren't enough.
It isn't just that you came groveling at the feet of a man
Whose boots were not fit to lick, looking for his mercy,
It is that for all the regret he says you felt over the events of years before,
Here we come back around again to murder.
It isn't just that you called Harry's mother a mudblood,
No not years ago, but on that fateful night.
It is that you said it considering what you had just done,
Years and moments before to Harry's only protectors.
It isn't just that you did what you did or all the fathomable possibilities of why,
It is that when Dumbledore needed you to say no,
When he needed you to find another way,
You failed him; you failed the one who had never failed you.
It isn't just the stack of crimes laid against you,
It isn't just the havoc left behind you,
It isn't just the pain that's to your credit,
It is that you think only yourself deserving of mercy, forgiveness.
You berate others for needing what you have received.
And now that you have received it, you think yourself higher than all others,
Not only the ones you once gave allegiance to,
But those who have made nothing like your mistakes… and never will.
You are indeed Voldemort in perhaps something more akin to human flesh,
Yet ever lacking the human heart.
VI.
Comparisons of Evil
Even Voldemort's creation of Horcuxes is but a quest for immortality,
Which only equates a fear of death, a fear common to many.
You cannot say the same.
Even though his methods are most twisted, his actions most vile,
It can be said he only sought to change the world.
You cannot say the same.
Even his thirst for domination is but striving for power, control over one's destiny,
Something he never had.
You cannot say the same; you had a power of your own.
For all the devastation and death that follows in his wake,
He can end a life without torture and only those who've wronged him find his torment.
You cannot say the same.
Seething irritation greets all who dare to cross your path.
Malevolence is received by those who do not even know you,
And neither do you know them.
He walks boldly in his inhumanity, makes no apologies for his rampage.
You cannot say the same.
Walking in the mists between right and wrong, between the sides that must be taken,
Ever you leave people in doubt of your allegiances,
Leave hope for your goodness, false hope.
Secretly you seek their acceptance, expect it, resent it when it doesn't come,
While you play upon your "return" to the light
As a means to perpetuate deeper pain much more ominously.
It is what makes you so dangerous;
Only a few see your mind and heart still lie in darkness,
No matter who you openly support.
With him there is no pretence, no question of his evil.
You cannot say the same.
Always comes the pretence- as if no guilt should cling to you,
As if you have done no wrong, as if the mistrust is visited upon you unjustly.
Yet you know that isn't true; you possess the conscience he does not.
He succumbed to he own insanity.
You cannot say the same.
He is broken where you are not.
Great is the divide between the chance he never really had and what might have been.
You cannot say the same.
You have abused the second chance you were given.
You are Voldemort without the excuses
V.
Cold Fury and Fates
If I didn't know lycanthopy was forever, I'd want you to taste it,
The pain, the loathing, for self not others, the blood boiling, the body contorting.
No, not from the worlds one pure werewolf, no not from the one you hated,
No, not from the one who will always be a better man than you in spite of his condition,
But there is another who would gladly fulfill the task and enjoy it.
If I didn't know what would happen- but… I do
If I didn't know the devastation of the Dementor's kiss,
If it didn't seem too quick and too much, to inflict upon the world,
The rotted, vacant space of a soulless you wandering
With nothing to stop the venom lasting into the beyond, because it's you,
If I didn't know there was no turning back, but… I do.
If I didn't know that death was permanent, I would gladly send you there;
Except it is a level few would sink to.
Torture is too fleeting, ceasing existence too undeserving.
Whatever lies beyond the veil in death reeking of too peaceful,
If only in its difference, all too much like escape.
Avada Kedavra is too simple- and… I do.
If I didn't know hell was forever, I'd say there was a special place for you there.
If I didn't know the ravages of fire, I would set you ablaze
With the victims of your taunts, your torments, your poisons and your wand
All there to hear your screams, music to abused ears, tortured psyches, raw nerves.
Oh to see spectators there, taking their place, watching your skin sear,
Curl and blister, ooze with puss and coat with blood.
We would put you out only to light you again and again once for every piece…
Of psychological, tearing pain, forced vindictiveness, laid upon children, the innocent,
Slowly over thousands of years and you left with no tongue to scream.
If… only if.
If I didn't know the agony of the Crucicatus curse,
I would say you should be left to feel it for the rest of your days.
Continuous the agony should be, no peace, no solace, no moments of respite
From the blood boiling, nerve blazing, bone fire,
That leave all reaching to the depths of their vocal cords
And only touching the tip of feeling, like a solitary raindrop placed a searing tongue.
But… I do.
If I didn't know the consequences of the Sectumsempra,
I would point my wand and say let 'er rip, watch magic shred your flesh,
Spill your life along with your blood,
Leave you with the tangible scars of your own dark spell
And echoes of the words "magician heal thyself," ringing in your ears.
This time someone else's voice would be
Dripping with the sneers you were so infamous for,
Knowing after all you have endured you are far too weak.
If I didn't know it meant sinking with you, but… I do
If I didn't know it would mean my own damnation,
I would send you not so quietly from this world.
If I didn't know it would be my own commission of evil,
If I didn't know the blood that would be placed on my hands,
If I didn't know it would lead to darkness,
If I didn't know it would make me just like you,
But… I do