Last Resort
Nat Carter
It's a perfect arrangement, really--for him, at least. Nobody suspects anything. They're used to me being a bit of a snide bastard. It throws nobody off balance, makes nobody stop and think. Not at the beginning.
But as time passes, and Voldemort gains more complete control over my actions, I think they can't help but notice. Someone, someone should have the presence of mind to see that this isn't me. Not me who has taken a sudden interest in Harry Potter's every movement. Not me, who has suddenly started being rude and obnoxious even to Draco Malfoy. Not me, who has slowly, systematically started destroying the one relationship I have worked so very hard to build.
In the beginning, I am able to resist a little. I'm able to hold back some of the more hurtful things Voldemort wants me to say. What I say to Albus Dumbledore isn't that bad, just the usual things lovers say to each other when they fight, and the part of me that my mind still controls is able to patch things up. But soon, even that tiny shred of control is gone, shattered, obliterated, and the Dark Lord has full control over my words and actions.
It's not going to take him long, though--I can feel it. He knows what he wants, knows exactly how to get it. I wish I could make this harder for him. I wish I could stop it.
He takes advantage of my position. The Potions teacher has access to all sorts of poisons. A tiny bit of something poisonous I/Voldemort had pulled from the back of my cabinet slipped into Potter's drink at dinner, pretending to talk to someone at the Gryffendor table about the upcoming Quidditch match takes care of one problem nicely. I feel horrible about this . . . this isn't me! I'll be the first to admit I'm not a great fan of Potter's, but I wouldn't kill him . . . I wouldn't. Why can't they see? Why don't they realize?
The poison won't work for a few hours, at least, and I have time to escape. Albus follows me out of the Great Hall into the corridor. "Severus, are you skipping dinner?"
I whirl on him, the part that is Voldemort enraged at him for foiling my escape, the part that is Severus wanting to scream at him to leave, escape, get away because I don't know what Voldemort will do, don't know, don't know . . . Oh, Albus . . .
"Yes, I am. It makes no difference to you, does it?" Snide, uncaring, icy-cold hatred in my (Voldemort's?) voice. Dumbledore feels it, reels.
"Severus, what--"
"Shut up," I snap, turning and storming away. "I've had just about enough of your hovering. Just leave me alone, why don't you." God, I can't stand this! Why, why me, why Albus . . . why?
"Severus-" he puts a hand on my shoulder. Voldemort (not me, none of this sudden lunge at my poor Albus is me) lashes out at him violently. There is a knife in my hand suddenly, tiny, beautifully deadly. Albus staggers, looks at me in shock; a patch of red is spreading from his stomach across his light lavendar robes. "Severus, what . . . what . . ." He staggers, leaning on the wall for support, holding himself up with one hand, the other clasped to the wound in his belly. I flee, keeping hold on the knife, out of the castle toward the forest.
It's raining, a thunderstorm--how very appropriate. The cold, the rain seems to shock Voldemort, and he relinquishes his hold on me the smallest bit--I can feel it. I sink to my knees in the middle of the field between Hogwarts and the forest. Cold rain soaks through my robes as I fumble with the knife.
He can't take this away from me. He can take my mind, my body. He can control my actions, my words.
But he can't take my thoughts.
He can't take my life.
That right is reserved for me and me alone.
Nat Carter
It's a perfect arrangement, really--for him, at least. Nobody suspects anything. They're used to me being a bit of a snide bastard. It throws nobody off balance, makes nobody stop and think. Not at the beginning.
But as time passes, and Voldemort gains more complete control over my actions, I think they can't help but notice. Someone, someone should have the presence of mind to see that this isn't me. Not me who has taken a sudden interest in Harry Potter's every movement. Not me, who has suddenly started being rude and obnoxious even to Draco Malfoy. Not me, who has slowly, systematically started destroying the one relationship I have worked so very hard to build.
In the beginning, I am able to resist a little. I'm able to hold back some of the more hurtful things Voldemort wants me to say. What I say to Albus Dumbledore isn't that bad, just the usual things lovers say to each other when they fight, and the part of me that my mind still controls is able to patch things up. But soon, even that tiny shred of control is gone, shattered, obliterated, and the Dark Lord has full control over my words and actions.
It's not going to take him long, though--I can feel it. He knows what he wants, knows exactly how to get it. I wish I could make this harder for him. I wish I could stop it.
He takes advantage of my position. The Potions teacher has access to all sorts of poisons. A tiny bit of something poisonous I/Voldemort had pulled from the back of my cabinet slipped into Potter's drink at dinner, pretending to talk to someone at the Gryffendor table about the upcoming Quidditch match takes care of one problem nicely. I feel horrible about this . . . this isn't me! I'll be the first to admit I'm not a great fan of Potter's, but I wouldn't kill him . . . I wouldn't. Why can't they see? Why don't they realize?
The poison won't work for a few hours, at least, and I have time to escape. Albus follows me out of the Great Hall into the corridor. "Severus, are you skipping dinner?"
I whirl on him, the part that is Voldemort enraged at him for foiling my escape, the part that is Severus wanting to scream at him to leave, escape, get away because I don't know what Voldemort will do, don't know, don't know . . . Oh, Albus . . .
"Yes, I am. It makes no difference to you, does it?" Snide, uncaring, icy-cold hatred in my (Voldemort's?) voice. Dumbledore feels it, reels.
"Severus, what--"
"Shut up," I snap, turning and storming away. "I've had just about enough of your hovering. Just leave me alone, why don't you." God, I can't stand this! Why, why me, why Albus . . . why?
"Severus-" he puts a hand on my shoulder. Voldemort (not me, none of this sudden lunge at my poor Albus is me) lashes out at him violently. There is a knife in my hand suddenly, tiny, beautifully deadly. Albus staggers, looks at me in shock; a patch of red is spreading from his stomach across his light lavendar robes. "Severus, what . . . what . . ." He staggers, leaning on the wall for support, holding himself up with one hand, the other clasped to the wound in his belly. I flee, keeping hold on the knife, out of the castle toward the forest.
It's raining, a thunderstorm--how very appropriate. The cold, the rain seems to shock Voldemort, and he relinquishes his hold on me the smallest bit--I can feel it. I sink to my knees in the middle of the field between Hogwarts and the forest. Cold rain soaks through my robes as I fumble with the knife.
He can't take this away from me. He can take my mind, my body. He can control my actions, my words.
But he can't take my thoughts.
He can't take my life.
That right is reserved for me and me alone.