Plotting By Grand Design A Current Relationship
Prologue- Of Grace And Falling
The actual tragedies of life bear no relation to one's preconceived ideas. In the events, one is always bewildered by their simplicity, their grandeur of design, and by that element of the bizarre, which seems inherent in them- Jean Cocteau
Snape would never say that he knew the corridors of Hogwarts like the back of his hand. It would do a disservice to one of his own body parts which from time to time have been known to pleasantly surprise him, often saving him from being surprised- or worse. Years of spying had given him the sort of stealth that did not die with Voldemort. He could walk undetected to and from any part of the castle, wrapping shadows around himself by day or slicing the darkness by night. He was especially fond of walking the castle through the deep silences of the pitch black after-curfew hours, as many a wayward student learned the hard way. Though Snape would never credit what passed as student humour with the level of wit or insight required, he was not compared to a bat based on his startling resemblance to vampires, either the magical creatures or the flying mammals, as often as he was compared to the same because of his out-of-thin-air appearances among crowds of half-blind, distracted, easily spooked students who made poor witnesses but whispered, and when they did, wildly exaggerated. He had heard their whispers. He did not mind.
It was on one such night-time excursion as Snape stalked silently through black corridors of little used classrooms that he heard the unmistakable sounds of young men and sex. Though Snape tried to ignore what little he knew about the sex lives of those in his charge, it was his duty, or so he was often told, to at least make an effort to enforce curfew- as if he did not have enough to do.
He entered the classroom unnoticed by its current occupants- no surprise there- and watched the proceedings for several seconds until he gleaned the truth of the situation: Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, was servicing two other seventh years simultaneously as an exhausted and sated Justin Finch-Fletchley looked on while smoking.
"Misters Finnigan, Boot, Finch-Fletchley, and Potter- dress immediately. Twenty points from each your Houses for the breaking of curfew. Mr. Finch-Fletchley, I am confiscating those Muggle death sticks. Leave them on the desk to your right. No, your -other- right. Since you have already punished your own lungs, more than even I would deem necessary, I take no further points for your towering and self-destructive stupidity. Do not bother to thank me. Mr. Potter, you will remain. When I tell you three to go, you shall return swiftly and directly to your rooms and never in your wildest dreams believe that you have suffered the brunt of the punishment that I will exact for having to witness this- in-dis-cre-tion. Get out."
This was one of Snape's favorite techniques. Merely promised a horrible punishment they might successfully avoid Snape for months, at least those not in his seventh year Potions class. The ones in class might behave themselves for weeks before he need remind them that their offenses were not forgotten. When three frightened seventh years had fled under his glaring gaze, Snape turned back to Harry.
"Explain yourself, Potter. Why are you so intent on playing school broom?"
Potter looked sullen. His cheeks were flushed. He set his jaw and met Snape's eyes.
"That is none of your concern, sir."
"It was not, all those times you managed not to get caught past curfew. Now, it is."
"Sir, I-"
"Yes?"
"I just needed to feel something."
"Something worthwhile, I take it?"
"Yes."
"Do you feel something worthwhile now, Potter, or do you feel used, discarded, and empty?"
A single tear ran down Potter's cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and said nothing.
"Do you know why you feel nothing worthwhile, Potter?"
"Yes sir."
"Pray impress me with the depths of your self-knowledge."
"Because I am empty, sir."
"No. You are looking for meaning, Potter. You can not find that servicing your so-called friends' sexual needs. Why do you do it?"
"Because they let me, sir."
"What do you get out of it?"
"When I- when it's happening, I don't feel numb anymore."
"You feel alive?"
"Yes sir."
"Bulletin, Potter, you are alive. It is Voldemort who is dead. He was not the sole purpose of your existence."
"But, no one ever said that. Before."
"Some truths are self-evident. It would seem Miss Granger was under the mistaken impression that you were intelligent enough to arrive at such an obvious conclusion on your own."
"Right. Not like you care."
"Yet I stand here wasting my breath and my evening -talking- to you? Yes, I do see your point. Know this, Potter, your friends can not help you. They have -nothing- with which to compare your experiences. Even if they had, you are not eloquent enough to explain to them how to help you, even if you knew which you clearly do not. I do know. When you recover from this childish need for self-pity, you may come to my office during office hours. Now get out."