atonement
[3]
You've made your point, Mister Clarke. You can put the newspaper down. What do you wish to talk about?
Quite simply I am bored. You have come to my house twice now and not said a single word, which would not usually be unwelcome; however, I am out of brewing ingredients and I am unable to obtain them with this proximity collar around my neck. I have nothing left to read, and not a soul has visited me in a week's time—my brain is deprived of utterly necessary stimuli. You are my only source of entertainment, something to distract me from this choking collar around my neck.
Oh, aren't you a clever little devil? You should have been in Slytherin. What were you, a Hufflepuff? I saw the yellow pinstripes on your socks the first time you visited.
Fine then, let's discuss James.
I detest him in the present tense. Whether he's dead or alive makes no mark upon my hatred for the cocky, swaggering, over-confident, testosterone-fueled cinder-block which was James Potter. He made my life at Hogwarts a living hell, allowing no moment of rest from their torment until my seventh year, when I finally mastered enough curses to keep him at bay. The amount of total degradation and humiliation I suffered at his hands—and the hands of his overbearing, thuggish cohorts—is monumental.
Make no mistake about my ethics, Mister Clarke. I was quite happy to see him dead. Being murdered by the Dark Lord was no doubt a terrifying death; I would have much preferred to see him struck by a lorry or fallen off a ladder. Even bloody mushroom poisoning and I would have been satisfied.
But no. The Dark Lord killed him, as well as his family, and made them all martyrs. With the exception of the son, who is a carbon-copy of his father in nearly every way.
Lily was…
She was…misguided, I believe. Even when we were children she was obsessed with restoring lost souls, giving friendship to those without companions. James Potter was another one of her little conquests, and if he followed her around like a besotted puppy, then that was simply a bonus. And how can I discredit this generous spirit of hers? Without it, she would have dismissed me like her sister. Merlin knows how things might have turned out if we hadn't become friends.
Hmph.
No, nothing. I only just realized I have been cursed by overly kind women. Why is it, Mister Clarke, that those with the gentlest spirits seem to be crushed? Either the world wicks away their compassion or they overestimate people's good spirits, and end up becoming destroyed because of it. Meanwhile, men like myself cheat and stab towards the top, and once we are there, we do not enjoy a minute of it—we spend our lives glancing over our shoulders, sleeping with one eye open, waiting for the backs we stepped on to seize retribution.
Merlin no, I don't regret my decisions in life. But does my mother? Or Lily? Would they have wished to be less kind? These are the kind of things that keep me up at night, Mister Clarke.
Not all of us stay up with these thoughts, Mister Clarke. Now I am curious. What keeps you up, Mister Clarke? Losing your family? Your professional career? What?
You're such a wretched idealist, Mister Clarke.
So, essentially, you fear helplessness? Being trapped, unable to save someone? What a martyr. I should have known my therapist had a hero complex. That's why you like this job, isn't it? You like being the rock in everyone's midst. The sane one. It would just break you to see a therapist, wouldn't it? To be trapped at home, collared by the Ministry—no wonder you try so hard during these sessions. You pity me, for my situation.
Don't try to backpedal. I'm right, aren't I?
Hmm. That's an interesting interpretation of your career. So you see yourself as more of a conduit for other people's catharsis; an empty void which they can fill with their secrets and burdens, transferring the weight onto your own back.
Do your other patients realize the power you have over them? Holding their secrets, with the promise that you will let them slip through your fingers—but in reality, you could do whatever you wanted with this information.
Well, I am a special case, I assume. The Ministry's protective shields must keep you from spilling too many of my thoughts. Still. I hardly think it's your fault people wish to deposit their secrets into your stronghold, but how much is too much? Do you ever think that one day, under other people's burdens, you will simply crack? And then our positions will be reversed—I will be on the outside, and you shall be the jaded madman held behind glass
It's an interesting thought, isn't it?
So pensive, Mister Clarke. Have I given you too much food for thought?
Ah! Such a quick rebuttal. Yes, by all means, let us choose a different discussion. Who shall we discuss from my past, this time? Lucius Malfoy? Sirius Black? The Dark Lord himself? We have a nearly endless supply of acquaintances from my school years.
Someone from my future?
I have no future. There is no one in my future, save more bungling brats who shall explode cauldrons and hex pimples off their own faces. Deprived of that, there is independent study and articles to write. Perhaps a book, so something of intelligence can be sitting on shelves.
Do I wonder about my legacy? Yes, of course. We all do, don't we? Don't you worry that years from now, no one will remember your name? That the people you helped promptly forgot about you, and they achieved greatness while letting you wallow with their pawned-off misery?
You say you don't care about it now. But ten years from now? Fifteen?
I am not a young man. You, however, are—how old is your child, Mister Clarke?
Eighteen months. So for eighteen months you have been a father, and for eighteen months you can be assured of your legacy. Your child, hopefully, will not forget you. But myself? I am nearly forty. There is very little of life I have not seen, and nothing left I desire to experience.
Again, you speak of companionship! How many times must I tell you, Mister Clarke, I wish to be left alone? Must I throw everyone out of this flat? Merlin's wand. If I wanted companionship I'd get a dog, although they lack intelligent thought—however I could probably get a better conversation out of it than most people.
Such polite redirection. You seem to be on the defensive this evening, have I startled you?
Interrogation, what an excellent word. You didn't expect me to be this argumentative, did you? You thought I was a poor broken soul, a caged bird, with a tortured past that would cry on your shoulder. How…sweet.
Hah! I feel particularly horrible tonight. Let me ask you a question, Mister Clarke: what skill would you learn, if given the chance? How to read people more thoroughly? Occlumency? A new language?
A Patronus?
You're a grown man, how on earth have you not cast a successful Patronus charm? Did you pass your N.E.W.T.S, or simply close your eyes and muddle through them? Granted the charm is not an easy one to master, but a wizard of your age should have cast one by now.
Don't blame your blood status—I am also a half-blood. Take pride in what you are, and recognize what you aren't.
Consider yourself fortunate, I have been casting Patronus charms for decades. Stand up. I am bored and you are no doubt frustrated with my inability to answer a direct question—take out your wand, we're going to have a little lesson. Don't be afraid, you're not a twelve year old boy. I will treat you like an adult, not one of my abysmal students.
Now. I want you to concentrate on a memory. Not even a happy memory, just a strong one. Your Patronus is a defender, it will keep you safe and allow you to channel a bit of yourself into open air. What a Patronus is, essentially, is your purity. Your strength. A Patronus is what a Dementor wishes to devour, but they can only destroy your soul, which is a pathetic shade of a thing compared with your fierceness.
Breathe deeply. Good.
When you try to think of your happiest memory, don't imagine Christmas morning or your first affection or some other some rot. Think of the love you give to your wife. Imagine your wedding day, the vows you took which magically bound two souls together—remember your lifespan, Mister Clarke. Feel it through your skin and breathe until you remember every detail about it.
Now.
Expecto Patronum!
Thank you. Yes, a doe. Half-grown.
I saw a shape within the midst you were fluffing around. Try again, don't imagine something silly, and remember what you love dearly, what you would give up to protect it, defend it. Pick a strong memory, one that is linked to who you are, what you want from life, what you've seen. Your Patronus is the essence of that.
Again!
What are you thinking of? Freshly baked biscuits?
What is your wife's name?
Well, then, imagine Helen is out with your little girl, playing by the side of the street. There's an automobile coming around the corner, too quickly to see them, and your wife steps out into the road—you have a choice, to either push them out of the way and sacrifice yourself, or keep your own skin.
Are you a coward, Mister Clarke? What would you do for your wife, your child, your son?
Make your choice, Mister Clarke! Again!
Well done.
An albatross, I might have guessed. You have unexpected qualities, Mister Clarke.
What memory did you think of, might I ask? Sit down while you tell me.
Did I not say to think of something powerful? Although I am surprised. Under normal circumstances, when a wizard thinks of something superficial, like your example of seeing your wife for the first time, the Patronus doesn't come to fruition. Truly it must have been quite a meeting.
Save me your romantic sensibilities, Mister Clark. I am surprised that you were able to produce a Patronus when reflecting back on the memory of attraction. There are people who see one another and their brains, as well as the magic in their veins, react positively; it is merely a signal that you are compatible with one another on a biological level. Nothing more, nothing less.
Oh, so defensive. I make no judgments on your wife, I am sure she is a lovely creature. She certainly seems capable of giving sound advice. What was it she said? 'He hides behind his unpleasantness to avoid further damage'? That stayed with me—I wrote it down on a piece of parchment. It's what I've done my whole life, to minimize scarring. I find it curious that a woman with no prior knowledge of me was able to make that assumption.
And it makes me wonder what you tell your wife about me. Do you say I'm 'difficult'? 'Jaded' perhaps, or your favorite word, 'emotionless'? Do you reflect on these sessions throughout the rest of the week?
…How flattering. Thank you for not divulging my information to your wife, although I am certain the Ministry's charms keeps you from telling much of anything to anyone.
Well then, my albatross friend, fly back to your nest and your wife. Practice your Patronus spell, happy memories wax and wane with the tide. You'll cherish them, when the time comes.
Happy New Year, Mister Clarke.
No Hermione in this chapter. Ah well. I'm adoring this story, by the way. Hopefully Mr. Clarke has more of a character now—this is definitely not a second person sort of story, where YOU are the character, it's just oddly formatted. Sorry to anyone who was confused. Mr. Clarke is his own person/character, and he's got thoughts and whatnot too, but they're just not that important to Snape right now. -nylex
