A/N: My (admittedly late) second entry into the Potter Project Competition. Enjoy. Or, um, not.
Oh, and by the way, this is most likely the only Marauder Era fic (excluding Sticks & Stones) that I shall ever write. For some reason I can't bring myself to like the characters from this time.
Disclaimer: Jo can have these characters. I'm not too fussed, honestly – much as I love turning darling James Potter into a psychopath. -evil grin-
Thanks so much to my wonderful, brilliant, hardworking beta Dragons.
Warning: OOC, obviously. Definitely implied gore; maybe even graphic. Read at your own risk.
)O(
Pretty.
It's that one word you hear, day in and day out, until you feel the urge to scratch and claw at flawless white skin and splinter delicate bones and watch as that clean red blood seeps out, drop by drop.
You'd make a beautiful corpse, you know.
)O(
You wonder if Merlin ever wished to have been born without magic.
You're willing to bet that he did.
)O(
Pureblood, they whisper, and their voices are laced with subtle threads of awe and respect. They fear you – admire you – and that thought makes the laughter bubble up until it can no longer be contained. When it comes out it's hearty and full and heads turn throughout the class.
"Mr Potter, do you have something to say?"
"No, Professor McGonagall."
She's young still and her hair is dark and lush. You wonder how it would feel to run your fingers through it, so slick and soft and –
"No, I've got nothing to say." The way her glare transforms the angles of her face is enough to make a throbbing sensation begin, deep within your gut. She's pretty and you hate it so much.
Beauty is for you and you alone.
)O(
Class ends before it should and in the midst of the rustling of papers and bags you stride up to the front of the room, ignoring the stares of all those sweet little girls.
Whores. Fucking little whores who fancy you for your looks and nothing more. They don't deserve to have those full lips, those long-lashed eyes, that baby-soft skin and silk-spun hair –
You ignore them because your vision is, as always, narrowed down to a focal point of which he is the center.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't little Snivellus."
He's the perfect target, after all.
"Fuck off, Potter," he mutters, one hand nearly to his wand, and you hate the way your name sounds, twisted and spat, coming from those lips. They're so – so unappealing, with chapped skin flaking off from the sides. You wonder why he doesn't make an effort to pretty himself up at all.
"I will," you say calmly, "once you stop showing your mug around here. This place isn't for losers and foul little bastards like yourself."
Ugly ugly he's so goddamn ugly with his big nose and slimy hair and eyes that –
)O(
That night you dream in the colors of his face, and you wake to the smell of burning flesh.
)O(
When a girl swoons at the mere sight of you, you're not sure what to feel.
There's that boost to your ego, of course, and the rush of pride that comes when one more notch can be added to your bedpost. Then there's amusement at her stupid face and mild disgust at the thought of her thick lips wrapped around you, touching you, because oh god ohgod she's prettyprettypretty and that's not allowed, bad boy, bad James, havetobethebest–
It's five past two in the morning and you're shrouded in your father's cloak, dragging a heavy burden down the hall. You think it might be leaving a trail of blood and you know the stench of death clings to your every footprint and your hands are cold and red.
Nothing new.
)O(
Angelica Jarving's death is announced four days later and you feel nothing but scorn at how long it took for them to realize that somebody, somewhere, had died.
)O(
Sixth year and you brush the hair from your eyes as you meet his angry gaze. You hate him and you love to hate him. He's ugly, no competition, and you're pretty. So pretty.
Perfect match.
)O(
The wind isn't whipping through your hair. The sky is dull and grey as you stumble down the hall.
Slam.
"James," Sirius calls, one hand frantic as he scrabbles for the latch, "Prongs, c'mon. It's just one game –Gryffindor's still in the lead – you're still the best, mate, you'll see! Fancy some drinks or – "
Nonononono he's not speaking because he can't, he doesn't matter, you failed and everyone saw and the other team won and you're not perfect anymore, perfect, perfect perfectyou'renotfuckfuckfuck –
Hands like great ugly spiders in the dust below your bed. Something sharp.
Click.
"Keep out, Black," you hiss, because he can't see you when you're like this – out of control and a failure and everything imperfect. You thank the gods above that he listens, seeing the glint in your eyes that means it's no time for games.
Two footsteps.
Three.
Four.
Run.
There's violent, angry hate inside of you and you have got to let it out.
You won't cut yourself because that would be marring your own perfect skin, but you have no such scruples when it comes to somebody else, somebody ugly.
)O(
Wench the sweeper turns up as a ragged pile of bones with stripes of red and white – candy-cane for Christmastime – and investigations last all of a night and a day.
)O(
During the hols Father asks why, exactly, his cloak is stained with rusted streaks. You shrug and say nothing.
)O(
Funny, but when you're finally caught there's no great celestial boom and the earth does not implode. The world goes on turning, round and round and round.
Maybe nothing really matters, in the end.
Six days before school's end you're in the bathroom off the fifth floor when the door slams open and you're exposed, covered in blood and gore and reeking guilt.
It's Severus Snape – who else? –and the way he barely glances at the corpse to your right proves that he's done a bit more than dabble in the dark. Ha, you think triumphantly, feeling an odd sort of pleasure that your bullying caused a classmate to give up his soul.
He's ugly. He deserves it. And it's not like the light side is all it's cut out to be.
"Well, well, well," he sneers – that ugly, ugly mouth twisting like a worm on sallow skin, "James Potter, as I live and breathe. Turning to murder now, pretty boy? Dumbledore's pet not enough for you? What would darling Daddy say about this?"
It should frighten you that there's no fear at his words. You can't muster up the strength to care. "Don't know," you say, running a hand down your robes. You watch as his eyes flicker black to grey in shock and something else.
"Well… shall I tell him, then, what his Golden Boy's been up to? Ready for the world to find out your dark secret, Potter?"
Those dark eyes flash again and suddenly you realize what he's been thinking all this time. "I'm ready," you say easily, "but you're not."
"I – "
"You aren't." Your voice is infused with all the cool confidence of a man who knows he's won. "You're not ready, Severus – " his mouth twitches at the sound of his name on your lips " – not ready to give me up just yet. You want me all to yourself, Sev, isn't that right?"
Years of hate and tense glances and dark eyes fill your brain to its very brim, allowing no room for thought. He seems afraid and his mouth moves but you can't hear the words.
It's all in the way he looks at you.
"Don't worry." One hand strays dangerously close to the hem of your shirt, dipping lower, and his face contorts in shock. "I know you can't help feeling this way."
The words seem to break the Slytherin's trance and his eyes widen and his breath comes in gasps. "I don't – you're bloody insane, Potter! Killing people – and, and, you're fucking bent, aren't you?"
No. Not you.
You reach for him but the thinner boy is already gone, darting out of the bathroom. You snicker at his game – how he insists on denying his lust.
It's you who'll win in the end, of course, with your pretty face and hair and eyes. You go so well with the other boy, after all.
Perfect match.
)O(
…I should definitely be worried that I can bring myself to like this James, but not the canon one. Anyway.
Disturbed? Lovely; my work here is done.
Review, please, or James might just come after you next…
… just kidding …
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(maybe)