Title:The Shining Trapezohedron (2/?)
Author Name: Aeon
E-mail:Amorphousaeon@aol.com
Category:Angst/Darkfic
Keywords:Severus Snape, Voldemort, Harry/Snape
Rating:R
Spoilers:All four books to be safe. Though I have no clue really since I haven't finished writing the story.
Summary:Voldemort demands of Severus an impossible task to prove his loyalty, and he must return empty handed. Dark and macabre happenings ensue as a sacrifice is made, homes are broken, and the Dark Lord trifles with ancient relics better left lost.
The preceding story to a much longer tale which will include such things as, angsty dominating Harry/Snape slash, Life, Death, mental deterioration, enlightenment, and love.
Disclaimer:This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, 'The Shining Trapezohedron', it's purpose, and general description are borrowed in nothing but in honor of from the master of otherworldly horror H.P. Lovecraft. Some of the extra effects and details I created however. On top of that there are Radiohead song lyrics incorporated as some of Severus' thoughts in italics, also used in honor of. Also some Coldplay and Smashing Pumpkins. I'll probably list them all individually at the end.
Authors Note:So, let's see, there will be no Harry/Snape slash in this particular part. As said in the summary this leads into the next story, which unfortunately cannot be posted here because it will be NC-17. It will be posted on Fanfiction.net. This chapter pretty much picks up directly where the last left off. And that's really all I have to say.
Oh, and please review so I know if this is going good. Even if you simple write 'Keep writing!' or 'Screw you, I'm going home'.
"Are you a spy for Dumbledore?"
"Yes."
"For how long?"
A growl. "Eighteen years."
At the time he'd written them, pages that concluded almost three decades worth of diaries, he'd felt suprisingly alive, dare he admitgiddy. It had been around 3:00 a.m., and while the common world was enveloped in slumber--dreamful, dreamless, or otherwise--he'd remained obliviously wide awake. Perhaps, more awake than he had ever been in his entire forty-three years. And with the powerful contrast of death looming just over the horizon, so unfathomable in its concreteness and its inevitability, he'd felt Life. He'd breathed, tasted, and reveled in it. A small word for such and amazing and profound part of reality. It buzzed and tingled in his body, so tangible.
Finally he'd understood the gift, and might have laughed at the simplicity of it had he thought of it under any other circumstance. One didn't have to be happy about their situation to be grateful for being born, and he didn't have to love his life to love living. So uncharacteristically optimistic a revelation for someone intrinsically pessimistic. So ironic that it surfaced just hours before an alloted time in which he would surely be wiped clean from this plane of existence. He'd made his decision, he would die for the boy. He'd only hoped, at the very least, for that to be acknowledged. Harry needed more time, to train, to prepare, and to mature. He'd go to Voldemort empty handed and deal with the consequences. There was nothing else left to do.
And with that, being the last time he'd ever have the luxury, he'd sat hunched over his antique writing desk and expressed his self the only way he'd ever known how--by writing. He wrote down every thought, not caring to censor a single one no matter how nonsensical or random.
It had been humid that night in his sitting room and he was sweating profusely--though whether it could be attributed to that or the fear he hadn't been sure. His raven black hair had hung limply around his face, strands of it sticking to his perspiration soaked forehead. For once he'd resisted the urge to swipe it away, instead taking comfort in the certainty of it. The same comfort he'd taken in the tiny droplets that slipped down his temples, or glided down his back, tickling fine hairs and soaking into layers of thick wrinkled fabric. He loved his sweat, and he'd written it down.
Time had ticked away, his quill always moving at a steady pace, pausing only now and then to refill on ink. As he'd worked his heart had beat steadily quicker, his breath trickling out from between chapped lips in ragged, unsteady gasps. How odd that now that he had a finite number of them left, each one felt so important and meaningful. He loved oxygen.
He'd come to many of those inane conclusions that evening, and he'd included them all. Like how desperately he enjoyed the scratching of his quill across blank paper and how much he'd miss it. Like how staring into the hypnotic flicker of shadows produced by dancing candlelight invoked mystical feelings in him, and sometimes inspired poetry. And how peaceful he'd felt when gazing at the ripples in the lake on breezy autumn afternoons. He would miss them all.
Words had laid themselves onto the paper in swiftly forming sentences and paragraphs. The nearer to morning it became the more things he'd found he had left to say. Regrets and sorrows, loves and appeals for forgiveness, he had novels of them and still there was more. So much more.
And through it all he'd marveled a bit about what a closet sap he'd turned out to be. It seemed that when he'd been in his final hours, that he could stand outside himself and look in at what and who he really was. He was Severus Snape, the thinker, the observer, the fucking romantic at heart. And he'd laughed at himself. Always a drama when Snape was around. He was the undisputed master of the grand entrance. His absence would undoubtedly have a noticeable impact on the schools atmosphere, though most likely a positive one, but one nonetheless. Christ he'd miss his billowing robes, his glorified sneer, taking points from Gryffindor. Why he'd even miss that son of a prat Harry Potter. Having been forced to spend a full two school years training the boy on how to better protect himself, and preparing him for a battle he'd undoubtedly be a part of--whether he liked it or not--they'd gotten to know one another. A mutual respect formed of its own accord as both realized how alike they were when stripped down to the core. Of course they'd still run into problems, one especially great one toward the end of sixth year, which had effectively blotted out the forming friendship. And as Severus had reminded himself, on a near daily basis, it had been inevitable. Though he couldn't help wondering what would have happened if he'd allowed the brief and unexpected tryst to continue. For a boy he'd been quite the adept kisser. At that his quill had admittedly scraped to a halt. He couldn't write that. He'd wondered if he was losing his mind, then decided with a huff it didn't matter either way when one was dead. Death. Dying. There was that pang again, he hated it, but he'd miss it.
As he'd come to the last page his words, previously indirected and meant for any fool who may be reading them, experienced polar reversal. He'd begun writing them like he would have spoken to Albus. Expressing gratitiude for an instance of compassion in a time he'd most needed it, one for which he'd would have surely perished without, one that had ultimately changed his life.
He'd intended to convey more to the man who'd held unwavering faith in him throughout the years, but realized that he neither had enough space or the appropriate words to do it. Albus wouldn't have had it anyway, so he finished it up with a list of the students he'd assigned lengthy detentions to that day, ensuring that they serve up even in his absence. And finally concluded it with the fragment of a poem his great uncle had composed in his youth. One that had always held meaning with him, and would certainly convey that meaning to Albus.
'I stand amid the roar
of a surf-tormented shore,
and I hold within my hand
grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
through my fingers to the deep,
while I weep--while I weep.
O God! can I not grasp
them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
one from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?'
Here's to saving one.
Lucius jumped forward angrily. "So it was you who revealed all of our names to the ministry?"
He swallowed, "All, but yours."
Only hours ago he'd strode the twisting corridors to Dumbledore's office in spirits utterly disjointed. At one moment his step shed an air of righteous poise, his expression one of confidence; the next it faltered and slowed, his eyes darting about in a paranoid fashion, the hand gripping the plain brown-paper wrapped package--which held his dire solution--sweating, and his free one fisted at his side to cease its shaking.
In front of the statue, he'd taken a deep breath and muttered in trembling whispers a self-composed prayer for comfort, 'May mind and body coalesce, divine me strength from bleak unrest', then followed it clearly with the current password. He'd exhaled and entered in surge of robes before he could change his mind. And only when he was safely back in his dungeon quarters, did he allow his thoughts to interpret the encounter and the intensity of the emotions he had felt.
After being bade to enter, he'd purposely left the door open, signifying his intended desire for the briefness of the meeting. A clipped 'Good Afternoon' and four paces to the desk later he'd stood, denied the offer of a seat, and handed over his burden without a word.
Dumbledore had merely grasped it in both hands, his arms resting atop the desk, and gazed at him with questioning eyes. He'd returned the look with one he knew had been understood, and had contained the intensity of a thousand meanings and emotions. Willing him to not ask questions, to let him go, before he broke down. When the headmaster's pupils dilated, swelling with comprehension and what he'd hoped was love, he'd bowed lightly in a gesture of appreciation and respect. Then murmuring a final farewell to his greatest friend, he'd turned on his heel and left, the door closing with a click behind him. No turning back.
As he'd made the trek back to his small sanctuary at a pace nearer to a run than a walk he'd thought only of Albus; behind his desk reading over the packages contents and having no choice but to align his signature next to Severus' own, approving his cause of resignation from his staffing postions and responsibilities at the school. Moving on to flip morbidly through the pages of his Last Will and Testament, and finding attached a page he'd ripped out of his dairy--the last page.
Lucius smiled sardonically. "How sweet of you Severus, how pathetically sweet."
Severus said nothing, why argue the truth. He'd been pathetic since birth.
"Did you cry when I left you Sevy? Did you hmm?"
He found his voice, but what it said only furthered his despair. "I thought you loved me."
Lucius moved in close, bending to eye level. "Oh, I did Severus. I loved you just as much as I loved any of my toys," he smiled again.
An embittered rage erupted in Severus' gut. He curled his lip, clenching his jaw. If he'd been free he might have killed the fucker, but he wasn't, so he settled with spiting in his accursed face.
It earned him a well placed punch in the mouth, but on the whole it was worth the pain, but made him too dizzy to feel the tip of the wand pressing into his chest, or hear the whispered curse. The scream that ripped from his throat sounded worlds away. Cruciatus again, this time his tortured muscles had no slack to writhe. It was like being electrocuted, without the relief of cardiac arrest. And then it was over. Voldemort's impatience had put a stop to Lucius' play time. He hovered before Severus once more, looking gravely up at the stars.
"The hour grows near, and time grows short," he paused, focusing back on his captive. "No need to worry Severus, your 'failure' to secure Harry Potter was the predicted outcome, so you have done nothing to stall my plans. I have a very special death in store for you, and shortly after my Death Eaters will have arrived bearing the gift I desire. You see, I already know where Potter is and as we speak he is being kidnapped."
Severus had not the will left to hide his horror. He gaped.
"Don't look so surprised Severus, have you not wondered where the others are?"
"I...no. I-"
"How very disappointing. You've gotten careless in your old age, Severus," he shook his head. "Too quick to rush to your death and be martyred. That is what you'd envisioned, is it not? Martyrdom. A fame in death who's opposite you could only achieve in life. The infamous made famous with one act of selflessness."
Fresh tears oozed from his bloodshot eyes, Goddamn them. And Goddamn him for his infallible weaknesses. Somebody save him, please.
"Oh, stop your sniveling," the Dark Lord snapped. " The time has come for it to end. The time for me to rise above all in power." He reached into his robe, and Severus squeezed his eyes shut. Oh, thank God.
He waited and the moment passed. Cautiously opening his eyes, he noticed that rather than the wand Severus had expected him to pull out of his robes, in his hands lay a small satchel. It was a very curious little bag, so dark and black even compared to the surrounding night. Blacker than the Dark Lords robes, as it sat in his hands it blotted them out like a hole into space, a tear in this dimension into one of absolute darkness.
He feared the thing, he felt its pull. What kind of object did the otherworldly fabric hold within its bindings? What manner of horror could he feel willing its releasal from the velvety confines of the bag?
He spoke, his voice cracking. "What-what is...," but faded off when the Dark Lord met his eyes.
Voldemort clutched the satchel in out-stretched hands and whispered. "This....this is the key...to everything." In his words lay a quiet intensity, madness filled the air. "The stone within will relinquish its prisoner through the eyes of a mortal and the Haunter will betray its secrets upon the summoner with a sacrifice. Answers to questions, Severus. Answers to every question. Enlightenment. Illumination. I shall be a God. And your death will secure me that power. You will be the first."
Severus opened his mouth to shout, to protest, to, to anything, but the sound vanished before it could even leave his throat, sucked into nothingness by some atmospheric vacuum. The bag had been opened.
Lucius stood tense and wary in the background as the Dark Lord slipped a claw-like hand into the satchel; while Severus watched in grim fascination, his own fear momentarily forgotten, as Voldemort's eyes swelled with perverse desire, they waited for the stone to be revealed. Slowly the hand drew out of the bag, the stone clenched tightly within, as Voldemort's body quivered and shuddered at the touch of the thing. Severus fought to keep his eyes from closing and to stay focused, fought to ignore the sensation of ghastly tendrils raking through his mind. A glance at Lucius told him that he too could sense the molestation. Absolute tension permeated the place, the grass seemed to shiver in expectation, the very stones seemed to vibrate and sing.
And then something happened.
Something shocking and grand and terrible all at once. Voldemort was knocked clear off his feet. He made a garbled screech, the stone slipping from his grasp. There wasn't even time enough for Severus to rejoice at the possibility of a miracle, or to think at all for that matter. Lucius dove to the Dark Lords assistance after a moments shock. And only he saw it, witnessed almighty Chaos in the act of fate alteration, or perhaps fate creation, saw the stone bounce and roll to an awkward stop at a pair of shoes. Shoes that only seconds previous were not there at all, shoes that presumably contained feet which belonged to the body of a boy who's name was none other than Harry Potter.
That's it for now, will update once more in a week or less. Oh, and this is taking place the around the first week of Harry's summer vaca. before seventh year. I neglected to mention that earlier, sorry.
The poem is the second half of 'A Dream Within a Dream' by Edgar Allen Poe, who will have a tye-in with Severus. That's all for now. Hope it was satisfactory and your interests are still piqued. Please leave a review if you could so I know if it's coming along okay and thanks to everyone who already has.
Note to Silene Acaulis: yes, at some point there will be stuff from Amnesiac. And I listened and listen to Radiohead for writing this, also some Coldplay(their good too). Have you seen Radiohead in concert? If not, make every effort to, their incredible, it was f-ing spiritual. And not queer spiritual like those people you see on those Christian music commercials at concerts all weeping and passing out. I'm talking trippy, I'm bombed from all the second-hand pot-smoke(or perhaps some of your own), and may this moment never end spiritual.