Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter Universe; it all belongs to J.K Rowling okay? The lyrics embedded in this story also belong to credited artists.
Author's Note: Happy New Year, welcome to my new story. This story is only two chapters long, so bear with me.
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Don't let it fool you, Fool.
By So Yun
Chapter One
Make it how you want it.
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When
I counted up my demons,
Saw there was one for every day,
With
the good ones on my shoulders,
I drove the other ones away.
So
if you ever feel neglected,
And if you think that all is lost,
I'll be counting up my demons, yeah.
Hoping Everything's
not lost-Coldplay.
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August 1st, 1996
Silence, silence that swallowed the castle whole. The castle itself had even stopped breathing, for it was furious once again with itself.
Its occupants were riddled and drowning in despair; for all but one thing had shattered all illusions they ever had.
Furiously he upended the trunk, contents spilling out, something broken and clothes unravelled. His long fingered hands carded through the contents, making a larger mess but caring nothing at all.
His lips were tightly closed, but harsh breathing could be heard as the man knelt pitifully amongst the abundance of the teenager's things. Finally he stopped his searching and leaned back on his heels, burying his face in his hands, a wail emitting from his lips; loud and distressed.
But he suddenly stopped when through a gap in his fingers he saw a piece of stained parchment poking out from underneath a pair of maroon socks. He leaned forwards on his hands and lifted it out, pulling out a whole bundle.
A look of almost relief crossed his pallid features and a wrought smile showed his yellowed teeth. His long hair, greasy and lank curtained his face where angry tears still dripped.
Slowly he pulled the bundle of stained parchment to his chest, relishing that he had found them. He then sat back on his haunches, taking in the dilapidated trunk and the contents spilled out before him.
He put the bundle of parchment in his long robe pocket before steadily, hands shaking minimally, cleaning up the mess he had made. To clean, to clean-up the mess, he had made.
He couldn't bear to look as his hands fumbled over foreign, but such familiar things. The silvery thin material of the most annoying cloak in the world; though it held such endearment to the man in a strange way.
The leathery outside of the most precious album in the world, he daren't look through the pages as the child's parents and Godfather would stare at him in anger, for he had failed. Failed them.
The boy's favourite book was dog-eared book and torn, Quidditch through the Ages, worn and dirty but still legible.
There was shrouded paper and parchment down the bottom. Littered rubbish and torn essays having been marked and scrawled over in a large red D. His potion essays; the man closed his eyes tightly and scrunching the parchment into an even tighter ball before releasing it boneless and dropping in to the ground.
Finally when all of the boy's things were put back, he found a shattered, broken mirror. In pieces he carefully picked them up slowly, laying them out on the floor before him. Finally it retained its rectangular shape and the man waved his wand once, muttering the only spell that would do its worth, "Repairo."
He picked it up, thumbing the clean cut edges now and stared into. He stared at his sunken face, pearl like tears glistening on his cheeks, hair dishevelled and eyes, staring, haunting. Black, obsidian as they warped, warped into a bright emerald green then disappearing into nothing.
As the eyes disappeared he screamed out, agonised and distressed before hurling the mirror once again at the wall, where it shattered into a million pieces.
He looked down to his knees and noticed once again the tightly screwed up balls of parchment, he gave them a second glance before pulling out his wand, erasing all the ugly scrawls from his own hand and ironing out the crinkles.
One flick later and they were marked with a flourished E before being put carefully into summoned black frames and laid on top of the boy's trunk. He really should have given them a second glance more than often before degrading his work without a glance at all.
He then dragged himself to his feet and stumbled, almost blindly out of the room and down the stairs, out the door as it shut quietly. He couldn't, just couldn't go back.
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Pain lanced in his upper chest, he closed his eyes tightly, beckoning the truth to go away. It could not, should not and would not be real. He wouldn't let it, he wouldn't. But when he opened his eyes again to stare blankly ahead, his black eyes, almost soulless glanced across the same sight as moments before.
A black coffin, draped in the Gryffindor flag, a stupid stuffed toy dog sitting on top; almost as per say, it were guarding what lay inside. Lupin had gotten it as an afterthought and gently arranged it atop the coffin.
He himself thought it was rather stupid of Lupin to do. But again, Lupin was more sentimental than he would ever be. The man was practically comatose except for the fact he had made it down to the funeral.
Actually, a good eighty percent of the Wizarding population had. Sombre, dressed in black, hushed sobbing, loud sobbing, silent mourners. The front lawn of Hogwarts looked like a raven's nest for they had turned up for him.
To say, to say goodbye.
He suddenly felt utterly stupid. Here he was in all his glory waiting to say a pathetic, unimportant goodbye. As he looked around there were people who had actually been important in Potter's life.
Pathetic, the Granger Girl and Weasley Boy stood together, dressed in black dress robes, crying their little pathetic hearts out. Their parents not far behind them, Mrs Weasley making a spectacle of herself, almost like she wanted to throw herself on top of the coffin.
His own godson stood quiet and reserved at the back, his stoic, grey eyes staring solely on the black oak wood of the coffin. A foreign look of sadness was flickering through his eyes before he turned and left. A single piece of parchment left beside the stupid dog.
White petals from the large blossom tree rained upon the coffin and the mourners that watched on. They were dancing along in the wind, almost too beautiful to watch. They landed in the burial site as if to cushion the coffin in some morbid wave of nature.
Kingsley's wand hardly wavered as it levitated the black oak box into the ground as the man made it imperative to stay steady. But he watched the other man's face and saw tears slipping down the dark skin, dripping from his chin as he kept his eyes solely on the coffin.
As it was slowly released into the ground, Kingsley looked away and his own eyes caught the blackened gaze of the other. The other looked away quickly before throwing down the lily he held in his hands and storming off.
He couldn't bear it; he couldn't bear to know that it was his fault that the boy was dead. His. His fault.
The lily lay in the ground, clean and pure. Its petals brittle but untouched just the same. It wavered gently in the idle wind. It was fragile and beautiful, just like the boy had been.
Kingsley shortly afterwards dropped his wand and cried openly.
Down in the dungeons the man opened his glass cupboard awkwardly before pouring out a full glass of brandy and downing half as he collapsed into his chair by the fire. As he closed his eyes for a moment he rifled through his shirt and robes to find what he is looking for and finds it deftly.
His hands fumbled across the softened parchment and pull them out carefully. Only opening his eyes when he has them in his lap, then he stares. The letters and ink are stained, some with creases criss-crossing them and edges softened like they have been read again and again.
Some have smeared ink where tears have spilled or sweat has pooled in fingertips as the boy had read them. The man thumbed through them and pulled out a particular one and reading it before pulling out it's counterpart from the box underneath his chair.
It is heavily warded and only recognises his magic as he opens it almost sacredly. As the two bundles lay out before him his thin lipped mouth finally breaks open and a sob emits from them.
His eyes tightly shut, as if perhaps escaping reality. He cries until his tall shoulders are shaking, his long fingered hands trembling and his chest heaving and hitching. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Never.
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July 1st, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
Though as profound as it is I find myself replying to your somewhat short missive. I, Harry James Potter apologise for my misconduct in your own residence. I should never have been so arrogant as to look into a store of your own private memories.
I hope, Professor you will understand the depth of my apology. I don't expect you to forgive me, but if you do it will bring light to a somewhat dark swirl of thoughts that precede this letter.
You see, even if I never knew my father. I loved him, like all sons do. But when I saw that memory it shattered every single illusion I was ever told about him. I understand fully in what you imply in your truthful facts that you wish to rain on me daily.
So I hope that you will at least take it into context, I cannot apologise for my father I can only apologise for any injustice I have done to you, both as a student and a person.
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 2nd, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
I was certainly surprised to find that you had bothered to reply. The missive which was given to you was only to be taken lightly and no reply needed. But then I find myself writing such a reply back to your own.
If you wish for fickle apologies Mr Potter then that shall be on your head. But when one such person does apologise I will do nothing, so do not expect any "loving," make-ups between the two of us.
I admit that I am surprised to find your apology; I could never expect a child of one, James Potter to even get past their "Gryffindor Pride," to even bother. But if it swells any disillusions, you have certainly changed mine on you.
For the lesser part I cannot hold your father's crimes against you, only your own. Is this understood Mr Potter, or shall I have to sent numerous replies to get it into your thick skull?
I hope not.
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 3rd, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
I understand the injury of insult in ones, "Thick Skull," and shall take it 'lightly' as you put it. No such thing is needed, it is purely crystal clear. So I shall heed to make next year more entertaining for ones self.
You have changed any disillusions on your behalf when you replied; I cannot say that I did expect it. Perhaps this is a mere high brow of the beginning of pen pals, how I laugh when I think of that.
As for "Gryffindor Pride," as you call it, it is nothing. The pride anyone feels cannot be housed as such, only as our own. Our own morals uphold what we feel pride in, not such groups of people grouped in what other stronger morals that exist in every person.
These can either be said, perfections or flaws. As such a flaw is Pride or dignity, whatever is most upheld in the morals of a person. Perfection of these is yet harder to grasp, don't you think?
We all feel bravery and loyalty but some rank it higher than others I guess is what I'm trying to say. Everyone's pride is their own, not merely "Gryffindor Pride," or "Slytherin Pride," it is just a misconception of one magical hats choice.
I for one think everyone has a little of each house in them. Even you Professor Snape.
Reply back if you wish.
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 4th, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
If I wish upon it I shall do it. Though I am only upholding these such, minimal quantities of small bonds for such amusement. Such fine language you use coming from an average grade student as yourself.
I do not intent to hurt your "pride," or "dignity," only merely to improve upon a perfection that you somewhat lack. Why the pretence Potter? Why may I ask? If it heals you so, take it as a compliment, egg along your ego.
Even such, if you wish to elicit such a response on the topic of "Pride," you shall get none. I will not be baited by your small after thoughts or sentiments on the flaws or perfections of people.
You for one have many flaws and little perfections. But may you be blessed so, as you grow they may grow with you. But surely you know this already?
No one is perfect Potter, not even you or me for that matter. And what on earth is one such calling, a "Pen pal?"
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 5th, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
I hold no pretence but perhaps only the crimes of not acting so indulgent in class. As a cultured man I expect as many do, you have a love of literature as I do. Did you not learn so many words to fill as more your vocabulary?
Perhaps I did and just didn't bother to appease anyone with it. Is that a crime Professor? Maybe it's just you finding that I can be intelligent, are you laughing now Sir?
As for my "Inflated Ego," as you regularly call it, it is none such. Or perhaps would you recoil if I called your's such a thing? Anyone who derives from insulting other human beings, if I may be so brave has such a said, ego.
If you may find it, not such a person can be a person without flaws. If such a person had a said perfection then where would that leave everyone else? That said person with such perfections would literally be an outcast, don't you agree?
For we all have something in common Professor, we all have flaws.
"Pen Pal
N: A person you come to know by frequent friendly
Correspondence [syn: pen-friend"
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 6th, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
Dare you be so ignorant as to add insult to injury. Not that I am in any way effected as you have boldly derived from such discussions. But I will take it in that perhaps you were merely warranting some sort of advice.
I accept and will not further my "Inflated ego," but still uphold such said pride or dignity.
I did not realize that you as such would take the time to see and hold within beauty and grace. You now may say that you are a cultured man, most prestigious of no doubt. But do not let it become you as it will not fulfil any life long dreams to be called as such.
Just perhaps make you smile in correspondence to be able to think yourself as such. Perhaps I have added more to your ego, but in compliments of a lighter kind.
I am not laughing or am I? Upon stumbling upon such a revelation that you have chosen so dually to show me, I am most humble that you have done so. Alleviating my thoughts of such a student are you now Mr Potter?
In a teasing manner are we both worthy, for we are wrought to show ourselves so rarely in this way. And such a muggle aptitude is the word "Pen Pal," though I solely admit we are hence said. I scowl though, better than to laugh.
True to your word, those of perfect origins would be outcast but even those who are not perfect and remain the same as the rest of the population with their flaws, still outcast, are they not?
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 7th, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
Are you tempting to incline something Professor? Of those who have flaws they are outcast and it is merely on account of their flaws, whether indirect or direct. Swollen to comparisons of others they are outcast, not at their own fault.
I am touched that you would go out of your usual way in an attempt to be…nice? Perhaps in a wary way of describing what you have taken my such…advice upon. That will be a refreshing change Professor; I look forward to the result.
I did not wish to add insult, merely be quite open with you, as therefore "Pen Pals," are usually such. I do believe you shall scowl then maybe even laugh, though I shall venture no further as I do not wish to see that reaction.
If I were to shine light upon my somewhat complicated truths, it would and must have been you Sir. Who would have been more rash and honest to me than yourself? You must understand truly Professor that indeed I was quite apparent to show you; if it had been anyone else I would not even endure to think the reaction.
Thus having shown you, you have reacted just as I thought, humble and honest, thankyou.
I hope this addresses any crimes of demeaning nature to you, therefore you must realize a many things at once.
Do you not think that your "Saviour," as my inflated ego counterpart likes to be called, would be as deviously moronic as you dually call me so? Or does your "mean," counterpart think it as well?
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 8th, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
I myself must address my own crimes of such I have committed against you. Of dubious nature they were, as you say, they have shone such a light upon the complex mind of you, Harry Potter.
I rarely like to apologise as I used to find it too such a point, demeaning in many ways. But as you show me I understand that this is easily classified as a flaw, a bad flaw in my mind.
So I wish to apologise for eagerly categorizing you as a stupid child. For you Harry Potter, are not. I wish to some extent that I could fix the nature of these crimes at one flick of the hand.
But all I can do is apologise, you do not have to forgive me if that is your wish. I somewhat find after only four letters that you are more behind that scar and childish face.
Do not take it harsh if I refer to you as a child, because in essence you are. It is of many people that wish never to grow up fully, never to grow old. As we may and have to grow up in some contexts but in others we wish to remain the same.
For these childish flaws that we have somewhat grown out of usually made us who we were.
Who we were…as an after thought it saddens me. So Mr Potter, always retain what you can hold onto, for if not, then you may lose yourself to the world.
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 9th, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
I can hardly imagine what torments you went through at the hands of my father and godfather. Namely I cannot say anymore for fear or arising hurtful memories for us both. But if I may ask, was it them who made you lose what you wished to retain?
Was it them who stole your child soul away from you as they tormented you so helplessly. Was it them who hurt you so bad that when you withdrew into yourself you lost anything familiar and from inside you arose a different person, not a child but a man?
Was it them that chose to bully you to pitifully to make the transformation easier for them to bear? Was it?
It hurts Professor, I know it does. You may not believe me but I understand every single such thing as partially as growing up. It is painful, I know. Not just physically but emotionally.
How you can hope then lose everything so carelessly just to become what many will say a better man or person. Does life haunt us so just to take away our innocence, dirty us beyond degree just so we may witness the harshness of life and have no qualms but to go on with life?
Sometimes I hate life, everyone does sometimes I know. But these times I really do, perhaps it's a subtle phase of nothingness that only holds reign over me to put me in misery. Or perhaps an imbalance of small perfections and just bad flaws everywhere?
Maybe I should change the subject; I think we debate to regularly on flaws and perfections. I will not even ask if you shall agree with such a statement for I do not wish to draw forth more opinions.
Or else we will have a never ending discussion upon our hands. Our dirtied hands I lead you to believe. If only the world could do everyone justice and let them stay clean.
But no, at some point or other in our lives, whether we are young or old; we must dirty them. Maybe it's the self sacrifice to the world to change us, make us fit into everyone else.
That I do not know, but I am sure I will find out. I bet you have already come across this already, have you not?"
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 10th, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
You push with such a timid, though revellent patience for answers and beliefs. It hurts, it does but Mr Potter you know as well as I do that it is merely our human emotions.
Human emotions are such malleable things. We force and rant out ways into or out of them yet they push their way through. Make us weak, make us strong, make us rash, and make us who we are.
I was starting to think you would never touch on your godfather again. Will you forget him until he is a mere speck of dust in our world? Entirely withdraw into yourself and not over mere bullies but over grief?
I shall only answer your such questions with questions of my own. It is only dually fair, but warranted I think you will find.
Somehow, everyone withholds their innocence and it never leaves but rarely rears its timely head. The power of innocence is extraordinary, it changes self completion immensely.
Look at yourself Mr Potter. What do you see? A man with an ugly scar that he had not wanted in the first place, or a child, a child with a burden larger than said child itself having to uplift it by itself?
You are not alone, you are not. I refuse to let you think as such, no matter how dirty you think your hands are. I shall dirty my hands with yours if I have to and even if you do not think you retain your innocence, you do.
To me, your hands are not dirty. Your hands are pure and clean, as but a child they should be. No matter what perhaps you may think, it is never true.
You must always go on with life, nothing, not even a barrier of death shall stop you. Grief can and will destroy you if you let it, Mr Potter.
Your hands are clean.
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 11th, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
How dare you!? Can you even fathom how much I dearly wish to stay away from, from this topic!? Don't you even understand that I didn't bring it up for a reason!? Well not intentionally so, please Professor, I enjoy these missives and at times I am content just to write to you and eagerly await the reply…
But please, don't destroy my haven with that. Anything but that, I don't know whether I would be able to even think of such, writing back if you brought it up again.
I do not believe I will be able to write properly, forgive me. I shall return with a proper reply when I am more composed.
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 12th, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
I understand entirely but I am not with you in these grief stricken sentiments. Potter do you really believe that if someone dies and you just ignore that fact they'll go away? Or come back for that matter?
Are you really as naive to think this? And if you are you have merely thrown away every illusion you have created about yourself. You are but a child but you think you are so deemed and grown up. You think you know everything about death because you saw Diggory die, and your godfather.
Well Potter, here's a fact. You don't, you do not know anything about death. No matter how many thousand times you witness it, how many million times it is etched into your soul; you know nothing.
Death is a semblance of grief. Grief is a hurdle in life thrown at you viciously to see if you can overcome it, get past it, and live on. You cannot just ignore such a said thing; you must face it like you must face your darkest fear.
Grief sets out to destroy you, perhaps to the extent to shatter you into a million pieces, reiterating a way to put you back together and break you, again and again.
But once you get past it, you get past it forever. Be a man Potter, but still stay the child you are. If you try, you will achieve.
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 13h, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
I must address your such sentiments. Is it an art that you would be one and create artfully, each insult in order to prevail upon me? Are these carefully made to hurt my feelings, my human emotions as your call them such?
You will not get past my barrier Professor. Call it a creative license if one must but I would hardly think you could be one to permit it.
As such I will address what you brought up in your earlier letter:
When I look in the mirror, I see just that, a man with an ugly scar, not a child like visage hiding behind the man or whatever you'd like to think. Alone as you think I am not, I am. Ever heard that prophecy have you?
I am alone and do not even tempt to rearrange the facts of my life, it doesn't work. I've already tried such a fickle idiocy.
What a fool I was.
My hands are and will always be dirty. I would not be here as if such a thing was that they had managed to stay clean. It is impossible for such a feat, so please do me the courtesy of not planting fickle fables into my head. Admit it; your hands are just as dirty as mine.
Yes, I openly admit I am not proxy on death, only on my own. Yes, having seen it so many times I cannot say it has made but a huge difference on my perspectives. Life isn't fair, we all know that and if you don't, you're a fool.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It is carefully balanced upon some gracious man's hand up high in the clouds. Not directly known as God or Jesus or whatever. Not even Merlin could hold the balance of the world in his hands.
He is unnamed; it may not even be a he. But for all we know we are teetering upon, perhaps an unbalanced scale that changes here and there.
Would it be a given fact that the magical and muggle world have separate scales? Or maybe that these such scales sometimes tip into each other, upsetting the other's balance? Well of course, but then there is a possibility of them being one scale and only one.
Interloping are these worlds always, nothing will change this fact. Only if one is sought out to destroy the other and succeeds.
Things as trivial as past and present interlope, those whence mistakes from the past will always continue on into the future. They rely upon one another, much like death.
If one such a person were to let grief destroy them, wouldn't they be clinically dead? Perhaps in a grief stricken rage that they are they kill themselves or others around them. You are right, grief can and will destroy you if you let it.
It is not possible for one to stay a child but become a man. The muggle saying, "Child at heart," is so dismally untrue that I will not even abate to attempt it.
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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July 14h, 1996
Dear Mr Potter,
I do not waste piteous time to think of nonsensical insults, they blatantly come to mind on their own. Do not take it lightly if I am within reason, harsh with you. Though, do take it lightly if I tempt to insult you.
You must know by now that nothing I say in the way of such insults means anything. I say them beyond contempt, just a bout of perhaps; rage.
Only self pity and such wallowing would even tempt you to call yourself ugly. Mr Potter not all of us have the wit, charm and looks of beautiful people but we almost certainly have one of those qualities.
Your scar happens to be one of your qualities that then relay upon your self image. Do not let it, you only per say think it is ugly for it is in the way you look at yourself.
Fine, Mr Potter. I admit it; everyone's hands are dirtied at some point in their lives. Whether they can help it or not is another matter, but whether it was their fault or not is the matter.
You talk about such discussions of balance with sort of contempt do you not? For I know you would look up into the skies and curse the unnamed who is at fault for your such pathetic life story? If not then who do you burden the blame of that one? Yourself?
That is what I think and do not try to deny it, I am not "fickle," nor do I plant, "fables," in such young people's minds. I tell nothing but the cold hard truth, some live with it and some cannot.
When you dabble on grief, then here is a fact. Shouldn't YOU be clinically dead? Shouldn't you? Again, Mr Potter I shall only answer those questions in need, any other idiotic ones will be answered with a question.
"Child at heart," Mr Potter you say? Then look upon yourself, what else do you see? You think you see perhaps, an ugly, weary, old man with a scar engraved upon the skin of his forehead and nothing more?
Well look deeper Potter, I assure you. There in your emerald eyes, you are nothing but a child.
A child Mr Potter, a mere child.
Sincerely,
Severus T Snape.
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July 15h, 1996
Dear Professor Snape,
I'm looking out the window as I write this Professor. My window is hardly open but lets in little breeze, warm yet avidly humid. You see, in Little Whinging the grass is all but dead and yellowed, though those sheltered under large tree are saved.
They stay green for awhile, as the tree protects them from the heat and lack of water; its roots share what it can with the grass.
But you see Professor Snape, sometimes, the trees die; shrivel away into nothing but a hallowed trunk after it is cut down by muggles because it has become so ugly in its death.
After awhile, the grass will mourn by wilting as its shadow; its protector has died. Then you know what happens Sir? It dies; it wilts away into yellow grass, like a blue corpse in the ground before turning into dust and floating away in the wind.
It is gone.
You are blunt Professor, very. But that is what I like about you, what I can stand about you. Other people I know are not so and I hate being left in the dark.
Funnily, I snort as I say that last sentence how literally it is true. Mock me for admitting two weaknesses, I dare you.
When YOU look in the mirror, what do YOU see Professor? Self reflection and image is always more negative in the mind's of the casters. And when it is not it is mere jealously from other whose own self image is negative; full circle Professor, full circle.
Clinically dead. As walking around, trying to learn how not to breathe, to stop breathing, willing myself to stop those lungs that continue to work, even when I'm asleep.
Asleep, if I were to sleep forever would that mean I was dead too? Would it? Though my body still works, I do not move, I do not talk, and I do not live.
Then maybe I am as you say Professor, maybe I am. Maybe I am dead.
A dead child.
Sincerely,
Harry J Potter.
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To Be Continued…
Next Chapter will reveal all, what really happened and how did these letter's lead to such despair and agony?
Author's Note: I hope you can bear with me till the next and last chapter. If you do I will greatly appreciate it.
This story, I promise does have a plotline, even if it is a watery one at that.
The main focus in this story is the relationship between Harry and Snape. If you read you will see.
So what do you think so far? Love it? Hate? Made you cry? Made you smile?
Tell me, press "Go".
Yun