"Sarky"
by Ada Kensington
Author's Note: This is sort of a prequel to "Order of Draconis." But don't bother reading that, as I'm going to totally revise that story and continue with it after I've finished with this one. Hopefully, this will fulfil its purpose in giving me a sense of direction with the Order of Draconis. As you may notice, I've borrowed this from the flashback scene of the first story, but altered it quite a bit. The credits for this still apply as to the Order of Draconis – but starting afresh, and all that jazz… * sighs. * I actually own none of the characters in this chapter, now and future chapters. All you see and recognise as belonging to JK Rowling the Great, belongs to her. All the others you don't recognise – don't.
Happy Reading : ) !!!
He realised that he was glaring at them.
The cold, biting, winter wind knifed into him. It even whipped up his thick, black, winter robes - occasionally, exposing him to an unwelcome icy gust of wind. His long, thin fingers were becoming blue with the cold, yet he continued to pull mechanically at the roots of the plants, his fingers scraping through the frost-hardened dirt. He was long past caring, and he knew it was petty, but all he wanted to do, was to end the short, yet happy lives of these little plants.
"They just…grow," he thought bitterly, "they don't experience true pain. They take their nourishment from the Earth and it's products, they grow, they reproduce, they die".
It was all so wonderfully simple…
Then he smiled suddenly, a smile totally without humour that did not reach his cold, dark eyes,
"The only pain is at the end…"
He tugged sharply at another root, slicing his finger. He watched in a rather detached sort of way as the blood ran smooth, dark and rich – dribbling onto the ground, spattering softly on the dirt. It was quite a deep cut. Surprising, in a way. The little plant had managed to return the favour – well at least some of the pain. He laughed softly.
"It was a brave effort, little plant," he sighed. "But I am afraid that I am quite used to pain."
He paused, taking in the limp form held in his hands. "You could almost say that over the long years, I have built up an immunity to it".
He threw the carcass of the aconite plant into his basket, along with all of the others he had uprooted earlier, and performed a rather elementary healing charm. He watched as the wound slowly closed up, the white lips of skin at the edge of the wound closing, merging together as one.
After a while, he carried on rooting. He had run out of the plant in his storage, and was lucky enough to have a sufficient, natural supply in the Forbidden Forest itself. Earlier in the day, he had gained permission from Dumbledore to go out into the forest and Dumbledore had asked politely if he wished Hagrid and Fang to accompany him. He had declined. He didn't wish that great oaf Hagrid and his huge, hairy, slobbering, mongrel anywhere near him - especially when he was going to do such a careful job as uprooting aconite. He could just imagine Hagrid accidentally trampling on them, or Fang digging them all up, ripping them to shreds and rendering them useless. So he came out alone, as he always did.
The forest was always beautiful in winter – cold and unmerciful – but beautiful nonetheless. The snow clinging delicately to the branches of the trees, the frost making pretty little patterns on the ground and the sky a clear bright blue, with no clouds in sight. The faint trickle of water hidden under frozen brooks and burns, the forest sleepy and quiet. The life of the forest in a peaceful torpor in their burrows and dens under the frost-hardened floor of the forest. But the forest would bloom again. That was for certain. Underneath the frosty layers above, there, lying deep beneath the surface, the beauty was waiting to burst forth once more – all the flora and fauna would once again unleash their beauty that he so loved and admired. Uncorrupted and pure in all it's essence. It was there. Just waiting to burst forth once more. And in time – would do so. The thought was oddly comforting.
The beauty of nature was something that had always astounded him.
Back as early as he could remember, he was outside studying plants and animals, taking in their habits and contours and watching them with intense interest, noting their little ways, watched them foraging for food.
When he was a little older and able to read, his mother had gradually introduced him to books on the dark arts and potion making – and not without motive. As predicted, he had taken to them like a fish to water, reading and studying, taking in knowledge. Suddenly, he started to enjoy this new-found property of nature, and at this tender age, discovered that if you could control nature – you could hold the whole world in your grasp. Potions that could change the way one physically looked, potions that could improve your mental prowess. Poisons that could kill, maim and distort. Cures to heal broken bones, augment one's eyesight or hearing abilities. Curses to kill. With these powers, why couldn't one play God. With the help of these potions and powers, why, you could change, improve and surpass Mother nature's original intent. This, to him, was what it meant to be a wizard.
He was soon brewing potions that were extremely advanced for his age group. As he later found out when he went to Hogwarts, most of the other children didn't even know how to brew a simple memory-loss potion, never mind some of the more complicated potions he had been brewing at home. He also – thanks to his mother - arrived at Hogwarts knowing more curses and hexes than half of the third years, and could certainly hold his own in a duel - thanks to the abusive training his older brother had subjected him to at home.
He had suffered and suffered at home with his family. Beaten and abused by his older brother. Screamed, sneered and smirked at by his Death Eater mother, later managing to fight back a little, and gaining ever more skill in cutting retorts – usually repaid by a heavy-handed curse, or a similarly heavy-handed physical retort. But he never mentioned this. Never. Alone in the dormitory, or in his draughty bedroom at the Manor, he would bottle up all the pain and agony like he bottled up all his wonderful potions.
He had suffered more still in all his years at Hogwarts, starting his gradual descent on the slippery slopes to damnation; taunted by James Potter and his sidekicks, losing the only friend he truly loved to hold dear, Lilly, and his Slytherin gang - overcome with hatred and ambition - were no shoulder to cry on. He had hexed, brewed and studied his way through Hogwarts, gained twelve OWL's, was made a prefect, received special honours and mentions in Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, was the representative of Slytherin house…
"..and all for what," he whispered, unconsciously tearing apart the little aconite growth he had just so fastidiously uprooted, the syrupy liquid bleeding from the now torn and bruised leaves, running, squeezing through the gaps in his tightly clenched fists. Suffocating and consuming – through all the trauma and torment, all the energy and life was extracted. And it would never be able to bloom again.
His body was shaking, shaking with the force of the silent, tearless sobbing – his mind filled with a hatred, the slow burning hatred that had been festering inside since he could remember, a hatred for his whole, ruined life and everything that he had ever stood for – everything he had ever believed in. His fists clenched tighter still, his nails ripping into the tender flesh of the palms of his hands, drawing yet more blood, but going unnoticed – the plant now limp in his unrelenting grip.
His body was now shaking violently, his robes sodden and bedraggled, on his knees in the snow. He was breathing heavily, the coldness of the air turning his breath into a visible, misty vapour. The hate rose in a surging wave, coming up rapidly - and all alone in the forest, he was powerless to stop it. He raised his head and screamed to the sky, a lament wracked with raw emotion, the cry filled with agony and wrought with despair, echoing through the trees - but lost.
He turned his face to the sky and could feel the tears welling up behind his dark eyes – the tears he had held in for god only knew how long. Slowly, silently - they began to trickle down his frostbitten cheeks in a slow smooth stream, tears as futile as his miserable existence. The anger slowly burned itself out again, his senses returning gradually – but his dignity shattered once again.
"Forgive me…"
For a long time – he didn't know how long – he stayed slumped on the frosty earth, his previous task all but forgotten, feeling his silent tears freezing on his cheeks in the icy winter wind, the snow penetrating his robes, soaking him to the skin – the cold making him shake uncontrollably…
He lay down in the frosty layer of snow, numb to all sense or reason and softly closed his eyes, feeling the tears begin dry and his consciousness slowly drifting. For after death, there is no pain.
"Maybe freezing out here wouldn't be such a bad thing…" he thought faintly before his tiredness overcame him, and he surrendered to the dark.
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He was awoken by an unwelcoming icy blast of wind, whipping up stinging flakes of snow into his face. He opened his eyes blearily, his face numb with cold and his head pounding in agony. His robes were wet through and sodden with melted snow, were chilling to the bone. The sky had turned from a clear, pale blue to a lucid electric blue, with streaks of vibrant pink and orange, and patches of deep, soothing red dazzling across the horizon and contrasting beautifully with the silhouettes of the distant trees.
"Must be near dark," he thought muzzily. "For the love of Merlin, I can't even die properly."
He attempted to rise from his rather vulnerable position in the snow, but his limbs didn't seem to be operating.
"Must be the cold…"
Crack.
A sharp noise snapped him out of his reverie, and still true to his basic instincts, he whipped his head round suddenly, roughly near the origin of the noise. He stayed still, frozen to the spot, his heart thumping loudly in his chest, not daring to move or breathe in case he alerted the creature to his position. After years of working at Hogwarts, he had been unfortunate enough to have heard Dumbledore's speech about the dangers of the Forbidden Forest far too many times for his liking. However, not once had Dumbledore spoken any untruth in that speech.
"Can't be a Centaur," he reasoned, "can't climb trees. Werewolf ? No. Not until next week…"
He looked a little closer and saw that the branches of a large pine tree about a foot away from him were swaying… a little more than the slight breeze should have caused them to…
Crack.
Breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling quickly, he reached carefully for his wand inside his robes. He grasped it with his numb fingers and started to sidle towards the pine tree with all the stealth he could muster - all the while keeping his eyes on the branches of the tree, checking for any further signs of movement.
Crack.
Just before he reached the trunk of the frost covered evergreen, he stopped and crouched down onto the ground, tilting his head sideways in case he could get a glance of the intruder…
Crack. Crack, crack…
His heart leapt into his mouth as he realised that the intruder was tumbling down the branches of the tree. Extremely quickly. He tried to raise his wand, but there was a swiftly growing shadow bearing down on him at a great speed, and there would only be half a second before it…
"Oh for the love of Merlin…"
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He woke up a few minutes later - feeling nauseous, his eyes bleary and his limbs numb with cold. These weren't new, he decided. Also, the thumping, splitting headache had returned in full force. Again, he made a valiant attempt to move his legs…but they didn't seem to be co-operating at the moment. His arms were aching, his head was spinning, he was on the verge of throwing up and…something, or someone had fallen on top of him from the branches of that tree. And there were voices, seeming to come from far away. In his state, he strained his ears to make out what exactly it was they were saying…
"YOSHI ! Oh my God, you've killed him !!!" one whispered in a plummy drawl.
"Quick, I'll run back and get a shovel," said another, in a low, rumbling bass. "No-one needs to know."
"Hmph, well that sounds promising," he thought scathingly.
"Will you all be quiet !!!," hissed another. "Of course I haven't killed him."
"Yeah, look, John. He is breathing," said the owner of the first voice.
"Ahhh… Well in that case, scratch the shovel," said the other man.
"Although…he does look pretty bad," intoned a female voice.
"Yes," drawled the first. "Let's put him out of his misery."
"Here's a stick. Go on, Yoshi…" rumbled the other man.
"Hmph…how apt," he thought bitterly. "How fitting. Put him out of his misery. Yes, let's…"
Then suddenly and unwittingly, his body squirmed, uncomfortable with the freezing chill and he immediately sat up, his head reeling with sudden change of position. His eyes opened and he took in four horror-stricken faces, staring wide-eyed with their jaws to the floor. A young man, pale, with sandy brown hair and icy blue eyes, gaped in astonishment. Standing next to him was a huge, broad-shouldered man, with skin the colour of deep mahogany, with a scrubby short, black beard and shoulder length dreadlocks to match – unashamedly gawked at him. A young woman looking concernedly at him with watery-blue eyes and smooth, brown hair scraped back into a pony tail, and…a face leered down at him, fiery, glowing red eyes burning in the porcelain-white face, large fangs protruding from its upper lip. He could feel it's hot breath from close range against his frozen skin and its hands outstretched -
"Get away from me!" he screamed hoarsely, shielding his head with his hands.
The creature made no visible attempt to move, or to finish him off. Instead it took a step back, aligning itself with the other strangers, startled.
"Oh! God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you," the ember-eyed demon said softly. "Here…"
The apparition raised his hands to his face, removing…removing its mask with a slight sucking noise as it came free from its face. He suddenly realised (with waves of embarrassment accompanying it,) what he had been trying to run from. Before him stood not the fiery-eyed demon – but a handsome young man, much the same age as himself. He was dressed in a heavy cloak and strange clothes not native of the country, but rather Eastern…Oriental, even. His long, raven black hair fluttered in the bitter breeze, his eyes a sharp, vivid green and flecked with brown were filled with quiet concern. A sheepish smile settled on his pale visage – almost as white, he noted – as his porcelain mask…
"I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid I fell on your head…" he pointed over to the pine tree, where there were considerably fewer branches and the snow had now been shaken off. The stranger spoke with a slight accent, sometimes muddling his syllables slightly. He was now convinced that the stranger was foreign.
"…and William here, he dressed your wounds for you," he said, pointing to the sandy haired man. "Your hands were ripped to shreds."
Severus, again aware that he had a pair of hands, brought them up swiftly to his face, staring at them. The stranger had, indeed, dressed his wounds. And quite well too. There were neatly wrapped, white linen, bandages covering the lacerations on the palms of his hands. He turned his gaze back to the stranger, dumbfounded.
"You're welcome," William drawled, smiling widely.
He tried to rise from the ground, but failed miserably. His legs buckled underneath him, and his head reeled once again – still dizzy from the cold.
"It's okay, you just sit there and rest," whispered the green-eyed man. "We're going to take you back to the den to get you fixed up."
His mind, still unable to take in the day's events, was screaming at him. This was not real. Hallucinations, or some sort of delusion, perhaps. But Snape forced himself to speak, the words coming from his mouth in a croaking whisper.
"W-who are you?"
The strangers smiled warmly and the green-eyed man knelt down in the snow next to him, removing the cloak from his shoulders and wrapping it tightly around his frozen body. He hadn't realised how cold he was until he felt the soothing warmth of the cloak shielding him from the icy breath of the wind. He felt the stranger's arms scoop him up out of the snow, lifting him as if he weighed no more than a feather and he stood up upright on the ground. He rose shakily to his feet, steadily regaining his balance, the stranger supporting him with his arm wrapped around his shoulders.
"Are you okay? Can you walk?"
Severus mumbled in acknowledgement. The stranger stretched out his hand and smiled.
"I'm Yoshimitsu - but please spare the formalities, and just call me Yoshi".
"Hmmm…Yoshi…the one who nearly killed me…" he thought faintly.
He shook the stranger's hand numbly. Then, the sandy-haired man stepped forward offering his pale hand.
"Well, I'm William, as you already know," he stated matter-of-factly, "but call me Will. I like that a lot better," he smiled.
"Sandy-haired…dressed my wounds…Will…" he recalled.
Then the large…no…huge man strode forward and thrust out a large hand, wearing an equally large grin wrinkling his mahogany brow, showing rows of gleaming white teeth.
"'M name's John. John Andrews," he rumbled gleefully. "Nice to meet you."
"…low voice…oh yes…get a shovel…" he sneered inwardly…"John…"
And finally, the pretty,young woman stepped forward, holding out her hand firmly, her bright eyes shinning.
"I'm Claire," she said, smiling slightly, although obviously still worried.
"Oh well…my turn…" he thought.
"'m Snape. Severus Snape," he managed to croak out.
The strangers smiled more broadly still and they started on their way to… "the den".
"Pleased to meet you Severus. Now you just concentrate on keeping walking, and we'll be there in no time," the Yoshi soothed.
He managed to mouth a weak reply, noticing that he was becoming increasingly weaker every minute he remained in the cold, and allowed himself to be whisked away, helpless, to "the den".
They carried on the rest of the journey in silence, Yoshimitsu's nimble feet crunching lightly over the snow - and his own, more sluggish footsteps trudging irregularly beside him. The journey was a blur. His surroundings slipped slowly past his eyes as he concentrated on keeping upright. He felt rather inclined to throw up, but done his best to relieve Yoshi of the obligation.
He was beginning to feel light headed again, very light headed, in fact. His line of vision became increasingly hazy. The nausea had not worn off, and he was starting to feel…sleepy.
He took a few more steps, and had just enough seconds of consciousness to see the other three figures rushing towards him, and for the second time that day – surrendered to the darkness.
Did you like? If you did, please, please, please review. If you didn't , review all the same. Although I don't really care either way for flames, constructive criticism would be better appreciated.
Thanks.
Ada Kensington.