Disclaimer: Nada! Macbeth quote comes from Act III, Scene IV.
Snape may strike some as a bit OOC, moreso than I would have hoped, but hey, it's fanfiction!
Hehe..please enjoy nevertheless, and review. Flames are forwarded to Voldemort- as in, A Very Potter Musical Voldemort. He would enjoy them much more than the real Voldy would.
At the end of the fic is an explanation for the symbolism of the raven pertaining to this story specifically, seeing as there are many different meanings that I drew upon for this fic.
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"Please, no.."
It's barely above a whisper, yet it is so resonating, so loud and intrusive, that here in this darkened hallway in the middle of the night it is almost impossible not to hear it. I can identify exactly who the voice belongs to, if he speaks with fear, with a light air, or dubious surprise.
It is Quirinus Quirrell, and he is in pain. I have heard him again and again at night, sobbing like an infernal, irritating child, like a crow cawing over and over again. I myself rarely sleep anymore; wandering the hallways does not bring comfort, no peace of mind, but it fills the hours before I return to my chambers.
I slide up to the door, listening. I do this often, I will admit, listening to him when he thinks no one is around. I must; he is the so-called enemy, as prescribed by Albus, by the Order.
I remember when he returned from his travels. I was shocked by the sudden change in the shy, quiet professor of Muggle Studies. We had exchanged civil words to each other before in the staff room as teachers, but he mostly kept to himself, clutching a cup of coffee in his small hands as he read books with authors like Plato and Voltaire, John Milton and Thomas Hardy. I had heard of a few of them- my father, as low as he had been for a Muggle, had rambled on the greatness of F. Scott Fitzgerald- but never did I expect to see a teacher in Hogwarts, of all places, reading them.
We had conversed, once, about Shakespeare. He'd been flipping aimlessly through Macbeth, his lip quivering as his eyes passed feverishly over the lines.
"Enjoying yourself?" I had asked snidely, shaking my wand at an ancient teapot for a bit of afternoon tea. Quirrell had startled so badly I had sneered cruelly as he fumbled to pick up the book he so carelessly dropped.
"P-Professor Snape. Y-yes, indeed." Even then he had an infernal tremble. I knew why; the damned turban he wears isn't even half of that problem.
I had snapped the book from his hands and read the first line aloud. "'I am in blood/ Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, /Returning were as tedious as go o'er.'" I glanced back up at him. "Do tell how you have the patience for such speech, Quirinus. Granted, as a professor of Muggle Studies, I should not be surprised."
He was silent, thin lips drawn together. He made no comment as I placed the book back into those small, white hands.
"No need to call me Professor Snape." I had said coolly, seating myself in the chair across from him. "Tell me, Quirinus, how do you find Henry VIII?"
So imagine my astonishment when this meek young man, not long before he left to travel the parts of forgotten Europe, was to be made professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. I had argued staunchly against Dumbledore on the decision- he was not hard enough, wouldn't be able to stand up to the students, wouldn't be able to stand up to the rigorous courses that the class demanded. He was too young- all of twenty-six, only had taught Muggle Studies for a couple of years, he was certainly not ready.
It was as if Albus knew what would happen, and he was just pulling the strings, making Quirinus a puppet even before Voldemort laid a hand on him.
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"Quirinus, tell me what you think of this essay, I'm not ready at all for tomorrow and I have to make sure I ace this, otherwise I'll fail Ancient Ruins..." The younger boy's pale blue eyes sweep quickly over the page, flying, as if the words were not written in strange symbols, but rather in native English.
"It's excellent, Lily, you have nothing to worry about. The teacher would be an absolute fool to fail you!" Even as a first year he was eloquent, intelligent, the epitome of Ravenclaw. No doubt those of even his own House sneered upon him, whispered about him.
She smiles, her eyes lighting up. Severus' heart skips a beat, just like it always does when she grins that way. "I hope so." she murmurs, tapping her finger on her lips.
Severus is so jealous of that boy with the pale blue eyes, the one who gets to sit and study with her, to reassure her.
He wishes he was that boy.
___
"I didn't mean to, Master..."
A small sob from behind the door.
For some reason, whenever I think of Quirinus, I think of Lily. They were good friends too, despite her seniority. They studied together. I watched them between the bookshelves sometimes. It's not that they are indistinguishable from one another. I don't know why I make such a connection.
Lily. I think of her, every damn time I see the boy. I thought I was ready for the day he would come to Hogwarts, but I was sorely mistaken. His eyes were the first thing I noticed, Lily's eyes.
Both so smart, they could have been so great, so well-known...yet both of them have cruelly been struck down by the same being.
Despite my devotion to Lily, it is hard to say who has the worse fate.
No, I do not hate Quirrell. How can I hate a man for being weak, when I myself have shown such weakness in the past? No, it is the man he serves that I loathe, the fact that he should turn a blind eye to those whom he murdered and still serve him so faithfully.
This does not make his attempts inexcusable. But I do not agree with Albus's beliefs on good and evil, misguided and righteous. Not in the least; Albus himself is misguided.
He dry heaves and I flinch at the sound, knowing soon he'll be crossing the distance between wherever he is within the chamber to leave, to flee into the Forest. There he will kill, drink the blood of a unicorn, and return looking at the very peak of health.
He will refuse breakfast and dinner. We will inevitably meet one another in the staff room, but he will not hold Paradise Lost in his tiny bird's hands, nor will we sit and talk civilly to one another about anything.
I will glare at him, accuse him of sneaking around. He will stammer and flatten himself against the wall until Minerva or someone else strolls in; he will slide out, down the hallway, fleeing me, fleeing confrontation.
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It is written across The Daily Prophet on the front page, though it is not the main focus. A court case, involving Hogwarts. Frowning, Severus holds it an arm's width away from him before shrugging and carrying it into the house with him. What could have possibly happened there, it is the Christmas holidays after al....
Taking his time, he sets his tea in front of him and stares out the hazy window at the new snow. He unfurls the paper, eyes scanning the greatest headlines, before coming back to what had first caught his eye. "Hogwarts Student Scandal!" with an image of four burly young men- Slytherins, Severus realizes immediately, Slytherins he knew vaguely-being led into court.
"Four sixteen-year old Hogwarts students are being prosecuted before the Wizengamot for attacking a fellow colleague later this week. The boy, who shall rename anonymous by request of the family, was found on the third floor of the school.
'It was obvious by his injuries that he had been hit with the Cruciatus Curse and other sever hexes,' Professor Minerva McGonagall told The Daily Prophet. However it has been hinted that the student suffered further physical or emotional damage, but teachers we interviewed refused to speak on the matter of any other injuries the young man may have sustained."
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Over the years I have watched too many people die. Listening to Quirrell on the other side of that door, I realize that, in protecting Potter-Potter, of all students!- and the Stone, I am essentially giving him a death sentence. Barely even thirty; older than Lily when she was murdered, yet certainly too young to be given such a burden.
I sink against a wall as the heavy door opens, hidden by the forgiving darkness as he stumbles out of the room, clutching his stomach. He glances around about, dark rings under his eyes, cheeks sunken, before hurrying away, muttering to himself- or to the turban, I scarcely know.
I think back to all those years ago. How old was he then- fourteen? Fifteen?
I was the Potions Masters' apprentice then, only beginning my job for Albus. After the events of that Christmas I remember watching him in class, hands shaking so badly he would drop vials. In the hallways he was silent, avoiding anyone wearing silver and green with the sort of animosity one might regard the Devil Himself with. He turned more and more to the interest in the Dark Arts, and I was hardly surprised....
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There is a small boy sitting outside. He cannot be more than five or six, much younger than Severus. He has big blue eyes and tiny, effeminate hands. He sits on the stoop outside his home on Spinner's End, eating a small bowl of soup.
"What are you doing?" Severus asks, stopping in the middle of the raining street. The little boy jumps and looks up at him.
"Eating soup." he says smartly, swinging his legs. "Waiting for my papa to get home. Why are you out in the rain?" it's such an innocent question, but Severus' face burns.
"Getting my dad home from the bar," he mumbles. The boy regards him quietly before setting the chipped bowl on the stoop and standing up, marching barefoot through the puddles to join Severus.
"Can I come with?"
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Is it fate that he should become such a pawn in this cruel game? Does he even know what side he plays for, where his loyalties reside? He never answers that question when I interrogate him, holding him by the wrists roughly, shaking him, trying to get that damn "yes" or "no". Albus is pulling strings while the weakening spirit of Voldemort tries to control him with his own pieces of rope until they all become a tangled mess, indistinguishable from one another.
Another person I cannot save. Why is it that those I try and help always end up dead? Am I that much of a curse, a burden? Perhaps this is the answer to that hidden line between Lily and Quirinus- both were doomed from the beginning.
Yet Lily had a choice. She did not have to die, did she? Quirinus must. It is all part of the plan for Potter. There is no other way. Without his death, Albus' years of careful calculating of both the past and the future will be shot to nothing.
I never question my new place, aiding Albus and even the Potter boy. I could not hang on to Lily, and I cannot save this boy from death, from an eternity in the same Hell he has read about.
I watch him go silently, his hands fluttering to his chest. I do not stop him, do not confront him. I won't try to help him, it is not my place to do so. There will be a day where he does not come back; he will find the Stone, but he shall never return. Those white hands will turn black from his insolence; he'll never again see the light of day, never read from his beloved books.
And I am very sorry that there is nothing I can do to change such a fate.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE:
"The raven is symbolic of mind, thought and wisdom according to Norse legend.." -Seeing as Quirrell, presumably a Ravenclaw as hinted by Hagrid when he was explaining to Harry how Quirrell had been just fine studying out of books in The Philosopher's Stone. Explanation from
"In Aborigine mythology, Raven tried to steal fire from seven sisters (the Pleides), and was charred black in the unsuccessful attempt."
"They are sometimes associated with deities of evil and of death" -Which certainly isn't far fetched, particularly when you have Voldemort glued to the back of your head. That said, however, ravens have always been somewhat persecuted against for being seen as the bearer of bad omen. Quirrell too bore a bad omen, Voldemort, and for that has been shunned (at least I believe) as a stereotypical misguided/evil character, when there is much more to him as a person- just as there is more to the raven than evil.
"In the Hebrew/Christian tradition ravens were considered unclean, representing impurity, mortification, destruction, deceit, and desolation.' -Particularly deceit, destruction, and desolation- ruin more in the self as opposed to the desolation of, say, a city. In taking on Voldemort to share his body, Quirrell essentially destroyed himself and potentially helped bring about the rise of Voldemort once more- hence the destruction and, perhaps, desolation. However I associate desolation much more with the self- joyless, sorrowful, essentially Quirrell is devoid of any human feeling.
The above are from .