Sev thinks about the lives of himself and others, and the similarities
between them. My first attempt at fanfic writing. Way too melodramatic
and cheesy! Maybe preslash, but it doesn't have to be. And can anyone
suggest a better title? I really hate thinking them up!
Any things, people or situations you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling, not me! :'( I wish!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It seems strange to me, when I sit here contemplating with only my wineglass for company, the way that no matter how carefully laid our plans in life they will invariably be driven astray and smashed upon the cruel rocks of fate. A bit of a melodramatic metaphor, but I ascribe that to a bit much time spent sitting in front of my cold hearth searching for the meaning behind this eternal mystery.
I have been pondering how all of our lives have been shaped by events and influences that are totally out of our control - how we are all just the innocent pawns of circumstance in a world that is uncaring of our individual troubles. I think about how my own life has been shaped by those around me since I was a child. Had I been given a choice in the matter, I would most definitely not have chosen the life I am currently resigned to; not wholly on either side - not naive enough to believe the empty promises of the dark, yet not pure enough to be a champion of the light. Always caught in the twilight between.
I was never strong enough in my youth; after a loveless childhood I was always seeking praise, and would sell my soul for someone to recognise my true worth. In the end, I did. I was blinded with the promise of greatness, deafened by insincere flattery. In my youthful impetuosity I did not consider the consequences of my actions until they were brutally shoved into my face. It was a routine raid on the home of some outspoken muggle-lover, but they were testing a new potion I had spent weeks developing. As a reward for my hard work and dedication, I was to go along and see the results. While I would have preferred to remain in my laboratory, they could be rather convincing. The sight of the wizard and his muggle wife writhing in agony as their internal organs liquefied haunts my dreams still.
After that night, I knew that I could no longer be a party to this brutal destruction, and so began my career as the pawn of the light. Dumbledore claimed to care for his beloved informant, for my health and happiness. He claimed many things - he told me what I wanted to hear, that I could atone for my sins. Instead of claiming my soul back for myself, I simply resold it, damaged goods, in my naive hope for redemption. I gave all I had to Albus' cause, yet in the end it still wasn't enough.
When I heard that the dark lord was planning an attack on the Potters, I immediately told Albus, but was reassured that they were hidden, that Black would never betray them. If only I had trusted my instincts and been more insistent, I could have been free from the responsibility that has been placed on my shoulders. The responsibility, and the guilt; for while I blame Albus for his blind faith in his beloved Gryffindors, I also blame myself for my lack of strength when it mattered.
I pour myself another drink. As I swirl my glass and stare into its blood red depths my thoughts wander to the son of my old associate Lucius, who is currently facing the same situation that I once did. He is unsure of what path he wishes to travel, but acts like a miniature copy of his father because he never knows who is watching, waiting to report any inappropriate behaviour immediately. The only times when he can relax enough to question his future are the friendly conversations which we often share here in my private study. He puts up a strong emotionless face for the world, the impeccable Malfoy always, but in his heart he is just a normal boy, wanting to live his own life without the strict rules and expectations that have been place on him by his parents, and the condemnation of society. I hope that he has more strength in facing this hostile world than I had. He could be great in so many ways; his Slytherin cunning and intelligence along with his magnetic personality will get him far in whatever field he pursues, from potions to politics, if only he can change the course that his upbringing is urging him to follow.
A quiet knocking on my door slowly penetrates my consciousness. It cannot be Albus, who would summon me to his office rather than trekking down to the cold dungeons. Nor will it be any of my Slytherins, who know better than to disturb me at this late hour. Therefore when I open the door I am not surprised to see a seemingly empty hallway shimmer, and the familiar form of the boy who lived appear. I quickly beckon him inside and securely close my door, after all, what would people think if they saw Gryffindors golden boy talking to the evil potions master.
Potter clearly feels at home in my study; he waltzes straight through and drags his favourite chair over to the fire before sinking down into it. His posture glaringly shows the difference between his upbringing and mine. No Slytherin would ever slump in a chair the way Potter does. Once I have poured myself another drink and returned to my seat, I enquire as to why he is in my room when curfew passed over an hour ago. I expect his answer to be similar to every other time he has come down here: "I couldn't sleep" or "I need to ask you about something".
I am caught off-guard when he replies, "I just wanted to talk to you".
Usually he has some specific problem to talk about, a reason for venturing down to my dark abode. Though we have often ended up discussing all manner of things, he has never before sought me out for a purely social conversation. However, I can understand his motivations; his friends try to be sympathetic but they cannot fully comprehend the situations he has faced. He feels obliged to act the hero, always strong and unwavering, when his deepest dream is simply to be normal, like his peers, with no fame and a happy family. I can't help but find that fitting; how very Gryffindor to put emotional ties before wealth and fame.
"So," I say, "talk".
He begins by going over things he has already told me in the past - his resentment toward the people who judge him by his accidental fame, which he never asked for at all. He also shares my bitterness towards Albus because of his interference in our lives - the meddling headmaster has crafted his life since his birth, controlling his knowledge and power, and leaving him to grow up in a home which had already had doubt placed on its suitability. The man's habit of revealing only what he deems necessary is infuriating; he treats us like we are children, unable to handle the full truth. Neither myself nor Potter have ever really been children, but he obviously does not regard us highly enough to inform us of what we are facing.
I drift back to the present when I notice that Potter has stopped talking. He is fidgeting, flicking his fingers in the same manner that he does during his potions exams. I take it to mean that he is nervous. What could he want to talk about that he would be afraid of saying? I try to look into his brilliant green eyes, but they are half curtained by his thick eyelashes. He knows that his eyes always tell clearly what is on his mind, so his natural defence mechanism is to hide them. Thus, it is usually a clear indicator that he is anxious about something.
He starts talking again, in a halting way that reminds me of Longbottom when he has just caused yet another spectacular explosion.
"Well. you see Professor. we've been well. *talking* lately, and it seems that well, you're not such a bad person after all, and it's like. you're actually kinda *nice* and I. well. what I'm wondering is. are we *friends?*. Or do we just talk sometimes? Because well, I'd like to be friends if you don't mind and. umm.."
I feel rather shocked. Friends? I'm not used to the concept being used in connection with me. I suppose that Draco and I are friends, but other that him I don't think that anyone had ever wanted to be friends with me. There was Lucius, who pretended to care for me to gain my support to his lord's cause. There is Lupin, who relies on me for his potion and as such remains civil. There is the headmaster who doesn't really care for my wellbeing at all, and the other staff who spare me little more than a glance and a polite "hello". But *friends*?. I have very little experience in that area.
I realise that the boy is still nervously waiting for me to say something. This boy who knows more about me than probably anyone else in the world. When I see those emerald eyes sparkling with hope I know that I can't refuse him. Just as he knows me, I am the only one who can understand him, who he can confide his hopes and dreams in.
So, pulling my facial muscles into what I hope resembles a friendly smile, I answer, "I think we could try that. Harry".
His eyes light up like candles when he smiles brightly back at me, the anxiety gone from his face. Beautiful. "Thanks. Severus".
Any things, people or situations you recognize belong to J.K. Rowling, not me! :'( I wish!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It seems strange to me, when I sit here contemplating with only my wineglass for company, the way that no matter how carefully laid our plans in life they will invariably be driven astray and smashed upon the cruel rocks of fate. A bit of a melodramatic metaphor, but I ascribe that to a bit much time spent sitting in front of my cold hearth searching for the meaning behind this eternal mystery.
I have been pondering how all of our lives have been shaped by events and influences that are totally out of our control - how we are all just the innocent pawns of circumstance in a world that is uncaring of our individual troubles. I think about how my own life has been shaped by those around me since I was a child. Had I been given a choice in the matter, I would most definitely not have chosen the life I am currently resigned to; not wholly on either side - not naive enough to believe the empty promises of the dark, yet not pure enough to be a champion of the light. Always caught in the twilight between.
I was never strong enough in my youth; after a loveless childhood I was always seeking praise, and would sell my soul for someone to recognise my true worth. In the end, I did. I was blinded with the promise of greatness, deafened by insincere flattery. In my youthful impetuosity I did not consider the consequences of my actions until they were brutally shoved into my face. It was a routine raid on the home of some outspoken muggle-lover, but they were testing a new potion I had spent weeks developing. As a reward for my hard work and dedication, I was to go along and see the results. While I would have preferred to remain in my laboratory, they could be rather convincing. The sight of the wizard and his muggle wife writhing in agony as their internal organs liquefied haunts my dreams still.
After that night, I knew that I could no longer be a party to this brutal destruction, and so began my career as the pawn of the light. Dumbledore claimed to care for his beloved informant, for my health and happiness. He claimed many things - he told me what I wanted to hear, that I could atone for my sins. Instead of claiming my soul back for myself, I simply resold it, damaged goods, in my naive hope for redemption. I gave all I had to Albus' cause, yet in the end it still wasn't enough.
When I heard that the dark lord was planning an attack on the Potters, I immediately told Albus, but was reassured that they were hidden, that Black would never betray them. If only I had trusted my instincts and been more insistent, I could have been free from the responsibility that has been placed on my shoulders. The responsibility, and the guilt; for while I blame Albus for his blind faith in his beloved Gryffindors, I also blame myself for my lack of strength when it mattered.
I pour myself another drink. As I swirl my glass and stare into its blood red depths my thoughts wander to the son of my old associate Lucius, who is currently facing the same situation that I once did. He is unsure of what path he wishes to travel, but acts like a miniature copy of his father because he never knows who is watching, waiting to report any inappropriate behaviour immediately. The only times when he can relax enough to question his future are the friendly conversations which we often share here in my private study. He puts up a strong emotionless face for the world, the impeccable Malfoy always, but in his heart he is just a normal boy, wanting to live his own life without the strict rules and expectations that have been place on him by his parents, and the condemnation of society. I hope that he has more strength in facing this hostile world than I had. He could be great in so many ways; his Slytherin cunning and intelligence along with his magnetic personality will get him far in whatever field he pursues, from potions to politics, if only he can change the course that his upbringing is urging him to follow.
A quiet knocking on my door slowly penetrates my consciousness. It cannot be Albus, who would summon me to his office rather than trekking down to the cold dungeons. Nor will it be any of my Slytherins, who know better than to disturb me at this late hour. Therefore when I open the door I am not surprised to see a seemingly empty hallway shimmer, and the familiar form of the boy who lived appear. I quickly beckon him inside and securely close my door, after all, what would people think if they saw Gryffindors golden boy talking to the evil potions master.
Potter clearly feels at home in my study; he waltzes straight through and drags his favourite chair over to the fire before sinking down into it. His posture glaringly shows the difference between his upbringing and mine. No Slytherin would ever slump in a chair the way Potter does. Once I have poured myself another drink and returned to my seat, I enquire as to why he is in my room when curfew passed over an hour ago. I expect his answer to be similar to every other time he has come down here: "I couldn't sleep" or "I need to ask you about something".
I am caught off-guard when he replies, "I just wanted to talk to you".
Usually he has some specific problem to talk about, a reason for venturing down to my dark abode. Though we have often ended up discussing all manner of things, he has never before sought me out for a purely social conversation. However, I can understand his motivations; his friends try to be sympathetic but they cannot fully comprehend the situations he has faced. He feels obliged to act the hero, always strong and unwavering, when his deepest dream is simply to be normal, like his peers, with no fame and a happy family. I can't help but find that fitting; how very Gryffindor to put emotional ties before wealth and fame.
"So," I say, "talk".
He begins by going over things he has already told me in the past - his resentment toward the people who judge him by his accidental fame, which he never asked for at all. He also shares my bitterness towards Albus because of his interference in our lives - the meddling headmaster has crafted his life since his birth, controlling his knowledge and power, and leaving him to grow up in a home which had already had doubt placed on its suitability. The man's habit of revealing only what he deems necessary is infuriating; he treats us like we are children, unable to handle the full truth. Neither myself nor Potter have ever really been children, but he obviously does not regard us highly enough to inform us of what we are facing.
I drift back to the present when I notice that Potter has stopped talking. He is fidgeting, flicking his fingers in the same manner that he does during his potions exams. I take it to mean that he is nervous. What could he want to talk about that he would be afraid of saying? I try to look into his brilliant green eyes, but they are half curtained by his thick eyelashes. He knows that his eyes always tell clearly what is on his mind, so his natural defence mechanism is to hide them. Thus, it is usually a clear indicator that he is anxious about something.
He starts talking again, in a halting way that reminds me of Longbottom when he has just caused yet another spectacular explosion.
"Well. you see Professor. we've been well. *talking* lately, and it seems that well, you're not such a bad person after all, and it's like. you're actually kinda *nice* and I. well. what I'm wondering is. are we *friends?*. Or do we just talk sometimes? Because well, I'd like to be friends if you don't mind and. umm.."
I feel rather shocked. Friends? I'm not used to the concept being used in connection with me. I suppose that Draco and I are friends, but other that him I don't think that anyone had ever wanted to be friends with me. There was Lucius, who pretended to care for me to gain my support to his lord's cause. There is Lupin, who relies on me for his potion and as such remains civil. There is the headmaster who doesn't really care for my wellbeing at all, and the other staff who spare me little more than a glance and a polite "hello". But *friends*?. I have very little experience in that area.
I realise that the boy is still nervously waiting for me to say something. This boy who knows more about me than probably anyone else in the world. When I see those emerald eyes sparkling with hope I know that I can't refuse him. Just as he knows me, I am the only one who can understand him, who he can confide his hopes and dreams in.
So, pulling my facial muscles into what I hope resembles a friendly smile, I answer, "I think we could try that. Harry".
His eyes light up like candles when he smiles brightly back at me, the anxiety gone from his face. Beautiful. "Thanks. Severus".