Warning: I have rated the story an R because of an implied Snape/Draco
slash pairing. So please avoid this fic if you do not like the idea of a
same sex romantic pairing.
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
A very loose sequel to 'Life in months of midnight' but can be read independently.
Counting the dead
My vicious boy. I see you every day, walking across the halls, your two friends by your side - familiar as your shoulders, useless in their blind devotion - as the whole school listens aghast to the sound of your crashing weight. You think you wear your face like a mask and perhaps you can fool a few, but I can see your little strangled dreams, still choking behind your eyelids. Dreaming of a black-haired boy and the Forbidden Forest.
I know, I was there every time. Watching you, watching him, waiting, duty- bound to clean up after the lovers in the bushes. And I'm the one still here. So you come to me -and at least you are not deluding yourself with foolish thoughts of affection - hoping that I can scrape all past memories from your skin, that soon it will be only my touch you'll remember, nudging your slim hips cautiously with my cold fingers, in one Slytherin dungeon or another.
So you come to me, every now and then, sometimes more often. The shuffle of footsteps outside my office, a pause as we both hold our breaths in anticipation, the door creaking open and then your voice 'Professor Snape' tinted with a mockery of respect.
And afterwards silence, a pause as we both hold our breaths in desperation, your face pressed hard against the mattress, the whole body tense to prevent your shoulders from shaking. I move back to the shadows, resisting the urge to toy with your translucent hair and steal your little ankles for a keepsake.
I do not have much sympathy for your suffering. Yours is a tamer sacrifice, suitable for these tamer times. You want to hear about the price I had to pay? No, probably not.
I'm the wizard undertaker; with a flick of my wrist, with a carefully brewed potion I can relive the living of the dead. Dead promises. Dead memories. Fresh dead. Old dead. Anxious dead with the slashes on their wrists still bleeding. Dead in denial.
Every morning I count the heads of the children in the classroom, holidaying all year long under my badly-paid nose. Bitter by noon, stoic by evening, hopeless by dusk. At night I take the sign - COMMIT NO NUISANCE - off my door and return to the self-imposed exile of my office to count my dead. Waiting for your fist to come knocking on the door.
Midnight and you are still not here. You need someone to teach you about discipline boy. I abandon my cluttered desk and stand up, wiping a hand- shaped window to myself to watch the snow falling outside. Duty-bound Potions Master. Yesterday's man.
The end
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.
A very loose sequel to 'Life in months of midnight' but can be read independently.
Counting the dead
My vicious boy. I see you every day, walking across the halls, your two friends by your side - familiar as your shoulders, useless in their blind devotion - as the whole school listens aghast to the sound of your crashing weight. You think you wear your face like a mask and perhaps you can fool a few, but I can see your little strangled dreams, still choking behind your eyelids. Dreaming of a black-haired boy and the Forbidden Forest.
I know, I was there every time. Watching you, watching him, waiting, duty- bound to clean up after the lovers in the bushes. And I'm the one still here. So you come to me -and at least you are not deluding yourself with foolish thoughts of affection - hoping that I can scrape all past memories from your skin, that soon it will be only my touch you'll remember, nudging your slim hips cautiously with my cold fingers, in one Slytherin dungeon or another.
So you come to me, every now and then, sometimes more often. The shuffle of footsteps outside my office, a pause as we both hold our breaths in anticipation, the door creaking open and then your voice 'Professor Snape' tinted with a mockery of respect.
And afterwards silence, a pause as we both hold our breaths in desperation, your face pressed hard against the mattress, the whole body tense to prevent your shoulders from shaking. I move back to the shadows, resisting the urge to toy with your translucent hair and steal your little ankles for a keepsake.
I do not have much sympathy for your suffering. Yours is a tamer sacrifice, suitable for these tamer times. You want to hear about the price I had to pay? No, probably not.
I'm the wizard undertaker; with a flick of my wrist, with a carefully brewed potion I can relive the living of the dead. Dead promises. Dead memories. Fresh dead. Old dead. Anxious dead with the slashes on their wrists still bleeding. Dead in denial.
Every morning I count the heads of the children in the classroom, holidaying all year long under my badly-paid nose. Bitter by noon, stoic by evening, hopeless by dusk. At night I take the sign - COMMIT NO NUISANCE - off my door and return to the self-imposed exile of my office to count my dead. Waiting for your fist to come knocking on the door.
Midnight and you are still not here. You need someone to teach you about discipline boy. I abandon my cluttered desk and stand up, wiping a hand- shaped window to myself to watch the snow falling outside. Duty-bound Potions Master. Yesterday's man.
The end