Chapter 38.
Two things before anything - I have a new fic, as does Hanakin! Hanakin's first Harry Potter fic, I do believe. . .go see. My new one is finally something I'm actually quite proud of, despite the numerous typos and grammatical errors that plague it. * G * Ahhh. Back to living off reviews. I am obsessed. It's not good * hangs head in shame * ^_^ Thanks to all, esp. Priestess of Avalon (^_^), Ambrosius and Blonde Ditz. My last chapter wasn't completely beta-d because I only sent my beta half the chapter by mistake, and I am too lazy to make her do the next bit too. Lazy is my life. This is short. . . Alysun.
Blood on the Wall.
Snape sat in his dark, dank cell, the filthy smell infiltrating his over large nose unpleasantly. Sparse sunlight shone half heartedly through the iron bars high up in the cell, offering no warmth, no comfort. Outside the noise of the dementors could be heard, robes brushing along the floor, the sucking breath that yearned wordlessly for happy thoughts to devour and demolish. The grey depression set against the black thoughts lead to a colourless landscape, twisting the mind. The occasional screams of a desperate inmate shattered the solitary silence of the dark world that was Azkaban. He sat on the hard narrow bench that severed as a bed, leaning against the grimy wall. His eyes were closed, his face lined with thought and pain. He saw, smelt, heard nothing of his surroundings, lost in the despair and pain of his past. . . he did not, and would not scream and beg for release as the other prisoners did so shamelessly. He knew he deserved it. . .if not for the crimes he was placed there for, but for the ruthless torturing, the heartless murders, the merciless condemning of innocent lives. His Death Eater days. The thoughts of the dead muggles, the dismembered half bloods, the mutilated muggle lovers scourged his mind, their screams of horror, their blind terror echoing in his ears now as he had not let them do then. The darkness that reclined in his mind entertained other memories too. They showed no chronological order, but was wildly spasmodic - one half hour of his misspent youth, standing in his father's study being berated and cursed, the next three hours turning over the most recent memories of the court case, the embarrassment and humiliation it had caused him.
***
"Crucio," he heard his voice snarl out, sneering at the whimpering wreck that had once been a ministry official. The fire that burned inside him, that let him do this and then sleep peacefully at night was his hate at the world. As he watched the defenceless man crumble to the floor, tears streaming down his face in torrents, he thought of his days at Hogwarts where he had been laughed at, picked on to unbelievable extremes. Within the recesses of his mind, the face of the sobbing man was replaced by Potter's, and Snape's cruel smirk grew.
*** In his father's study again. This time, he was having his endurance tested; his pain endurance. The cold eyes of Cydas Snape were mirrored by those of his son's, with one difference. "Severus, how old are you?" The question was disapproving. "Seven, sir," He hung his head shamefully. "Seven. Seven, and you still can't take the Cructius curse. Seven. You call yourself my son? YOU call yourself MY son? And at SEVEN you can't take it like a man, can't take it without these silly tears. You may as well be a girl for all the good you are to me." The voice was disgusted and sneering, making him feel smaller than the smallest house elf, and twice as stupid. Cydas took up his wand. "Now we shall try again. And you shall not utter a word, nor shed a tear. We will be here until you can do this. Crucio"
*** Sitting in front of the fire in his bedroom at Hogwarts with Lucius who, for what must have been the first time in his life, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Severus had noticed this immediately - but then, it was hard not to. His grey eyes wouldn't hold his, and he hid behind a disguise of damnable formality. Something was wrong. On this account, Severus had suggested they sat by the fire and talked for a while. . . Small talk ensued, and then Lucius finally told him what was wrong. "Severus. . .last night. I. . .I slept with Narcissa." It was possibly the biggest insult of all, Narcissa, neurotic, whining Narcissa over himself. He felt his temper rise, and made no attempt to stop it. "You What?!"
***
"I received the letter about father late at night. I can't remember the time exactly, but it was late. I was upset, and wanted to be alone, so I told my friends to leave me alone for a while. After about half an hour, I decided to go to Professor Snape, as he is our head of house. . .well, I got there and went in to see that he was also upset at the news, but was very nice to me, and comforted me. He took through out of his office into his bedroom. . .and. . .and raped me. I tried to stop him, but. . ." he hung his head for the watching crowd, and forced tears. "but he wouldn't"
***
Waking up to find himself bound hand and foot once again to the strange, four poster bed, unable to move at all. Voldemort would come in son, this he knew. He didn't struggle, he knew it was pointless to try. The lighted sconce gave out minimal light that danced on the sharpened blades of the spiked instruments that adorned the walls. The door slid noiselessly open, admitting Voldemort, his mouth curved in a mockery of a smile. "Severus," the cold voice seeped out to him, affecting him like physical pain, making him flinch. His discomfort amused the pale spectre that stood at the end of the bed. It gave a low chuckle before saying anything. "Hmm. . . ". Blood red eyes scanned the rows of bondage implements that filled the room. The rested on what looked like the most innocent of the lot. A bucket of ice, enchanted never to melt, a cigar case and lighter. Voldemort picked up the case and casually lit the cigar. "As much as I dislike the blithering fools," he said "there is a certain air of ingenuity about this muggle idea. The idea is simple enough. Ice to cool the skin, the cigar to burn. . .it is something I am particularly fond of, though I save it for. . .special. . .occasions." He let out another low chuckle as Snape's eyes watched the burning cigar warily. With another cold smile, Voldemort sat down on the bed, near Snape's prostrate figure. As he made his preparations, he talked lazily, almost carelessly. "It's a very old idea; hot and cold torture." Casually, he summoned the casket of ice to him, and knocked the ash of the cigar onto the floor. "There are a few very dark potions that make use of it, I'm sure you know." He took up a single cube of ice from the casket and turned it over in his long agile fingers. Ceremoniously, he placed the cube on Snape's bare abdomen, and held it there, pressing it into his skin until the cold was more than he could bear. Carefully, Voldemort lowed the cigar until near the cube, and removed the ice. "It is highly efficient - very good for getting what you want. And I always get what I want." Leisurely, he replaced the cold with unbearable burning heat that made Severus catch his breath and look away. The pain! The fiery, domineering, hateful pain. . .his hands were balled into tight fists, though his face was carefully blank other than a furrowed brow. Seeing this, Voldemort's smile grew into a sadistic smirk, The cigar was removed, and Snape's tense figure relaxed, but only slightly. Deftly, Voldemort shed his robes and picked up another piece of ice. Setting the now extinguished cigar in the frozen casket, he replaced the ice onto the freshly made burn mark, thriving on the gasp of pain that his prisoner let out. "But then, you will know this by now, won't you. . ."
***
With the last memory the sheer hell of that night alone in the darkened room with his "master", he tightened his positioned, hugging his knees close to him, biting his bottom lip to stop the tears. From the years he had spent pointedly not thinking of it, the defences and blockades he had put up in his mind against the memories crumbled into nothing, letting wave after wave of painful, damning memories rush into his head. Each one was crystal clear, each scream, every tear, every word marked, every face with a name and a sin to follow it. Alone in his cell, Severus Snape hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, unconsciously trying to hide from the world, wishing upon himself a thousand deaths. Somewhere a winged recollection broke through, and flittered up into the present hell he was experiencing. In the dull surroundings of his bedroom, holding Mike close to him, his father entered. One the visage of Severus, his only son, in the arms of another boy, a burst of sheer, uncontrollable hate in guise of a spell was released from Cydas's wand, which was pointed at the boy held in Severus's embrace. A thundering curse accompanied it, and Mike was thrown against the far wall, knocking his head on the stone. He slid down to the floor unconscious, leaving a trail of sticky red blood on the wall. Draco had called after him! He had seen his mistake! Blindly, the thought was knocked away, sucked away by the dementors before he could realise what it meant. He stared at the fallen body in his room, not hearing the heated words that his father was throwing at him. Blood on the wall. Mike's blood on the wall, staining the wall paper. What had kept him going so long? He thought bitterly to himself. Why not just kill myself and have done with it all. . .who would have missed him, other than maybe Lucius? And even he would have forgotten him in time, he always had Narcissa to turn to. . . Blood on the wall.
Two things before anything - I have a new fic, as does Hanakin! Hanakin's first Harry Potter fic, I do believe. . .go see. My new one is finally something I'm actually quite proud of, despite the numerous typos and grammatical errors that plague it. * G * Ahhh. Back to living off reviews. I am obsessed. It's not good * hangs head in shame * ^_^ Thanks to all, esp. Priestess of Avalon (^_^), Ambrosius and Blonde Ditz. My last chapter wasn't completely beta-d because I only sent my beta half the chapter by mistake, and I am too lazy to make her do the next bit too. Lazy is my life. This is short. . . Alysun.
Blood on the Wall.
Snape sat in his dark, dank cell, the filthy smell infiltrating his over large nose unpleasantly. Sparse sunlight shone half heartedly through the iron bars high up in the cell, offering no warmth, no comfort. Outside the noise of the dementors could be heard, robes brushing along the floor, the sucking breath that yearned wordlessly for happy thoughts to devour and demolish. The grey depression set against the black thoughts lead to a colourless landscape, twisting the mind. The occasional screams of a desperate inmate shattered the solitary silence of the dark world that was Azkaban. He sat on the hard narrow bench that severed as a bed, leaning against the grimy wall. His eyes were closed, his face lined with thought and pain. He saw, smelt, heard nothing of his surroundings, lost in the despair and pain of his past. . . he did not, and would not scream and beg for release as the other prisoners did so shamelessly. He knew he deserved it. . .if not for the crimes he was placed there for, but for the ruthless torturing, the heartless murders, the merciless condemning of innocent lives. His Death Eater days. The thoughts of the dead muggles, the dismembered half bloods, the mutilated muggle lovers scourged his mind, their screams of horror, their blind terror echoing in his ears now as he had not let them do then. The darkness that reclined in his mind entertained other memories too. They showed no chronological order, but was wildly spasmodic - one half hour of his misspent youth, standing in his father's study being berated and cursed, the next three hours turning over the most recent memories of the court case, the embarrassment and humiliation it had caused him.
***
"Crucio," he heard his voice snarl out, sneering at the whimpering wreck that had once been a ministry official. The fire that burned inside him, that let him do this and then sleep peacefully at night was his hate at the world. As he watched the defenceless man crumble to the floor, tears streaming down his face in torrents, he thought of his days at Hogwarts where he had been laughed at, picked on to unbelievable extremes. Within the recesses of his mind, the face of the sobbing man was replaced by Potter's, and Snape's cruel smirk grew.
*** In his father's study again. This time, he was having his endurance tested; his pain endurance. The cold eyes of Cydas Snape were mirrored by those of his son's, with one difference. "Severus, how old are you?" The question was disapproving. "Seven, sir," He hung his head shamefully. "Seven. Seven, and you still can't take the Cructius curse. Seven. You call yourself my son? YOU call yourself MY son? And at SEVEN you can't take it like a man, can't take it without these silly tears. You may as well be a girl for all the good you are to me." The voice was disgusted and sneering, making him feel smaller than the smallest house elf, and twice as stupid. Cydas took up his wand. "Now we shall try again. And you shall not utter a word, nor shed a tear. We will be here until you can do this. Crucio"
*** Sitting in front of the fire in his bedroom at Hogwarts with Lucius who, for what must have been the first time in his life, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Severus had noticed this immediately - but then, it was hard not to. His grey eyes wouldn't hold his, and he hid behind a disguise of damnable formality. Something was wrong. On this account, Severus had suggested they sat by the fire and talked for a while. . . Small talk ensued, and then Lucius finally told him what was wrong. "Severus. . .last night. I. . .I slept with Narcissa." It was possibly the biggest insult of all, Narcissa, neurotic, whining Narcissa over himself. He felt his temper rise, and made no attempt to stop it. "You What?!"
***
"I received the letter about father late at night. I can't remember the time exactly, but it was late. I was upset, and wanted to be alone, so I told my friends to leave me alone for a while. After about half an hour, I decided to go to Professor Snape, as he is our head of house. . .well, I got there and went in to see that he was also upset at the news, but was very nice to me, and comforted me. He took through out of his office into his bedroom. . .and. . .and raped me. I tried to stop him, but. . ." he hung his head for the watching crowd, and forced tears. "but he wouldn't"
***
Waking up to find himself bound hand and foot once again to the strange, four poster bed, unable to move at all. Voldemort would come in son, this he knew. He didn't struggle, he knew it was pointless to try. The lighted sconce gave out minimal light that danced on the sharpened blades of the spiked instruments that adorned the walls. The door slid noiselessly open, admitting Voldemort, his mouth curved in a mockery of a smile. "Severus," the cold voice seeped out to him, affecting him like physical pain, making him flinch. His discomfort amused the pale spectre that stood at the end of the bed. It gave a low chuckle before saying anything. "Hmm. . . ". Blood red eyes scanned the rows of bondage implements that filled the room. The rested on what looked like the most innocent of the lot. A bucket of ice, enchanted never to melt, a cigar case and lighter. Voldemort picked up the case and casually lit the cigar. "As much as I dislike the blithering fools," he said "there is a certain air of ingenuity about this muggle idea. The idea is simple enough. Ice to cool the skin, the cigar to burn. . .it is something I am particularly fond of, though I save it for. . .special. . .occasions." He let out another low chuckle as Snape's eyes watched the burning cigar warily. With another cold smile, Voldemort sat down on the bed, near Snape's prostrate figure. As he made his preparations, he talked lazily, almost carelessly. "It's a very old idea; hot and cold torture." Casually, he summoned the casket of ice to him, and knocked the ash of the cigar onto the floor. "There are a few very dark potions that make use of it, I'm sure you know." He took up a single cube of ice from the casket and turned it over in his long agile fingers. Ceremoniously, he placed the cube on Snape's bare abdomen, and held it there, pressing it into his skin until the cold was more than he could bear. Carefully, Voldemort lowed the cigar until near the cube, and removed the ice. "It is highly efficient - very good for getting what you want. And I always get what I want." Leisurely, he replaced the cold with unbearable burning heat that made Severus catch his breath and look away. The pain! The fiery, domineering, hateful pain. . .his hands were balled into tight fists, though his face was carefully blank other than a furrowed brow. Seeing this, Voldemort's smile grew into a sadistic smirk, The cigar was removed, and Snape's tense figure relaxed, but only slightly. Deftly, Voldemort shed his robes and picked up another piece of ice. Setting the now extinguished cigar in the frozen casket, he replaced the ice onto the freshly made burn mark, thriving on the gasp of pain that his prisoner let out. "But then, you will know this by now, won't you. . ."
***
With the last memory the sheer hell of that night alone in the darkened room with his "master", he tightened his positioned, hugging his knees close to him, biting his bottom lip to stop the tears. From the years he had spent pointedly not thinking of it, the defences and blockades he had put up in his mind against the memories crumbled into nothing, letting wave after wave of painful, damning memories rush into his head. Each one was crystal clear, each scream, every tear, every word marked, every face with a name and a sin to follow it. Alone in his cell, Severus Snape hunched his shoulders and lowered his head, unconsciously trying to hide from the world, wishing upon himself a thousand deaths. Somewhere a winged recollection broke through, and flittered up into the present hell he was experiencing. In the dull surroundings of his bedroom, holding Mike close to him, his father entered. One the visage of Severus, his only son, in the arms of another boy, a burst of sheer, uncontrollable hate in guise of a spell was released from Cydas's wand, which was pointed at the boy held in Severus's embrace. A thundering curse accompanied it, and Mike was thrown against the far wall, knocking his head on the stone. He slid down to the floor unconscious, leaving a trail of sticky red blood on the wall. Draco had called after him! He had seen his mistake! Blindly, the thought was knocked away, sucked away by the dementors before he could realise what it meant. He stared at the fallen body in his room, not hearing the heated words that his father was throwing at him. Blood on the wall. Mike's blood on the wall, staining the wall paper. What had kept him going so long? He thought bitterly to himself. Why not just kill myself and have done with it all. . .who would have missed him, other than maybe Lucius? And even he would have forgotten him in time, he always had Narcissa to turn to. . . Blood on the wall.