Disclaimer: Funnily enough, I don't own Harry Potter. Or Sparks (Who inspired this). But sometimes, I wish I could own Ron Mael. Russell wouldn't be bad either. I don't own The Beatles, or The Rolling Stones either. I have a sad, sad life.
Author's Note: This is what happens when you listen to Sparks 'A Woofer in Tweeter's Clothing' album too many times, whilst thinking about Harry Potter.
Full Moon
By Half-drowned Dracula
November 1st , 1981
The full moon. Somewhere across the country, Remus Lupin would be transforming from a pale, unassuming man into a terrifying, slavering beast, all claws and fur and bite. And tonight, it would be the first time he was doing so alone since he was fifteen years old. Severus Snape tried to force a smirk at this, but he couldn't. His face was crowded with a grief that refused to subside.
She really was dead. After all he'd given up, given in, given away, she had died anyway. The Dark Lord had lied to him. He felt tears prickling in his eyes, but didn't let them fall. Taking a deep breath, he apparated back to a secluded spot near Spinner's End.
He had known, of course, last night. Dumbledore had told him as soon as they had found out, but this morning, as he addressed the whole school, was when it had hit, if it was possible, harder. Overjoyed with the disappearance of the Dark Lord, the headmaster had given students the whole week off. Go home, see your families, rejoice.
He began walking down the dirty street, head hung, shining in the brilliant moonlight. A woman was coming towards him, jogging. She wore fairly repulsive lycra leggings, reflective and blue, which clung to her unshapely thighs as she jiggled in a most unattractive fashion. Her face was flat, seemingly featureless, and wide, but there was something about her, something in her red hair which just reminded him of -
'Lily.'
He gasped like a drowning man coming up for air. No, this woman wasn't Lily. Too old to be Lily. Older than Lily was, would ever be. The woman, startled, turned and crossed the road to be on the opposite side to him, for she (a Muggle) did not see a young wizard, guilt-stricken, cold, afraid and so, so alone; she saw a dark, dangerous young man dressed in odd fashions (She would have said Goth or New Romantic, but there was no makeup, and his hair was so unclean), probably a drug addict, out to rape and steal and scare.
Severus imagined the children, the children he taught, welcomed into their warm homes, bright lights, with people who loved them. There was no-one waiting home for Severus Snape. His father had died the previous summer, and while it had been so good to see the back of the bastard, Spinner's End seemed so empty without him, grumbling and shouting and breaking things. The putrid, bitter smell of beer had gone, and was replaced by damp, creeping mould and the whiff of decade-old dust, creaky decaying pages of ancient books. And love? Love? There hadn't been love returned to Severus in many, many years.
The Beatles had once sung 'All you need is love', so why wasn't he dead yet? Then again, The Beatles also sang about semolina pilchards climbing up the Eiffel Tower, and wanting to hold his hand. No-one wanted to hold Severus Snape's hand. The Beatles were obviously high, not that it mattered, because Severus hated them. Or, he pretended to.
Love. It hurt so much. He could take years, years of abuse from someone he didn't like, and it would never pain as much as one comment from someone he loved. Lily had called him Snivellus, once (although she was provoked). His mother had called him 'A worthless, horrible child' through tears when he was nine, and Dumbledore, well, he disgusted Dumbledore. And yet, he forgave them, he loved them still.
Still, when he wronged them, they never forgave. He bottled up his anger, his frustration and embarrassment and released it on the people he cared for most, who least deserved it. Maybe he thought they were forgiving as he, that they would understand. Maybe he was just a fool.
When he was fourteen, his mother had been 'You stupid, ugly bitch!'. At sixteen, Lily had been a 'Filthy little Mudblood!'. At nineteen, with the Death Eaters, Dumbledore had been 'the old fool'. How he wished he could take those words back, reverse time. He didn't mean it, no, never.
By now he was in his road. It truly was a vile place, syringes on street corners and used condoms in drains. You were bound to grow up bitter if you had anything resembling intelligence. His front door was, appropriately, painted black. His father used to sing a song about painting things black when he was drunk. His father used to sing about a lot of things, come to think of it. Say what you like about Muggles, but they knew a thing or two about music (Not that he would ever admit that).
He fumbled with the cool key in his cold hand. The night was crisp and oh so clear, and his breath created great billowing clouds of steam, as if he were some kind of bony ice dragon. He stared upwards, not a single cloud. There should have been. The heavens should be crying for the loss of beautiful Lily Evans, but they didn't.
Severus watched the constellations - Orion, The Plough, he couldn't remember the others. There had been a time when he could name every star, knew when the next full moon was, but he had taken on more dangerous hobbies now. He always looked for the full moon. He imagined unhooking it from it's earthly tether, grabbing the rope and being pulled off into space with it, far away.
He smiled at the moon, his tormentor, and his only friend, unnaturally, so hard his dry lips split and his gaunt face buckled and erupted into wrinkles. His eyes stung, his magic buzzed so loudly his name hurt and he whispered.
'I am so sorry.'
Who he was sorry to, he was not sure. Perhaps it was Lily, her painless death last night to save the spawn of Potter. It may have been to his mother, for the words her said that surely pushed her to suicide in his youth. It could have even been to Dumbledore, for even thinking of going to the wrong side in the first place. It might have been for every innocent killed in the dreadful war.
But somehow, he knew it was not completely to those people, because a huge part of it was to himself, his younger self, the foolish, lovesick, idiotic child who needed love more than anything else, but let himself push it all away.
He breathed out another white cloud that glittered crystalline in the night, and hoped that it would rain.
Author's Note: Rahh, The full moon of November 1981 was actually on the 11th, but in 1982 it was on the 1st. Allow me that mistake, creative licence and all.
I actually have very important essays to write for my GCSEs, but fanfic is a lot more fun.
Now, if you really want to hear where I got my inspiration for this, I suggest you listen to 'Moon Over Kentucky' by Sparks, one of the most hauntingly beautiful songs I have ever heard.
Anyways, tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what you found confusing, what you thought was stupid, what you thought was annoying. Too much feeling? Not enough feeling? Description? I know there wasn't really enough plot.
Any and every review is appreciated, I always reply, and just want to keep improving my work, so you're doing everyone a favour.
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