Author's notes: This is a work in progress. I have another work in progress also on ff.net, and I intend to work on that as well, but I will probably finish this once first. I'm not sure how long it will be, as I intended it to be only a one-part ficlet, but I didn't finish it when I wanted to, so I decided to post what I have and add the rest later. Depending on how it progresses, I may continue it further. I may edit it later, as well.
Reviews and criticism are welcome, but no flames, please. Unless you're offering candles too.
This isn't exactly a romance, but then, nothing I write ever is, really. I don't think anyone is OUT of character…since I think this may very well be what their characters are like in these situations. In any case, read for yourself and decide. I have done.
Something Else
There are nights that he lies awake for hours, cradling the long, gaunt body in his arms, wondering when his hate turned to pity. When he sleeps, he still dreams of a dark figure towering over him, stalking imperiously through the corridors of Hogwarts with long black robes billowing out behind. Awake, things are different.
He avoids sleep when he can, despising the lies that his dreams represent. He has come to cherish what little truth he can find, having seen the consequences of Dumbledore's manipulations. He has seen the death, the pain, the loss that they resulted in. He knows all too well the stakes of such games.
The body in his arms shifts restlessly, and he brushes a finger over thin lips, strokes a sunken cheek. He tries not to remember all the power and grace that once resided in this skinny frame, the pride that once burned in those ebon eyes. His grasp tightens, almost imperceptibly, and the other man cries out.
His voice is harsh, croaking, a parody of the silk and velvet he once possessed. His voice reflects everything about him, shows what ruination can exist in the world. He does not wake on crying out, merely tenses a bit more, worsening the knots constricting every muscle of his body. The man holding him lets go, and listens to him scream.
Somewhere, dancing just out of reach, is an identity. An identity consisting of strength and pride, anger and ambition. Every scream pushes this identity further out of reach, until the two men—one sleeping, the other observing—know that it is too far gone ever to be regained.
As the last echoes fade, he walks out of the room, leaving the gasping wreckage of what was once Severus Snape still asleep on the bed. The adjoining chamber is dimly lit by a small fireplace, and he crouches before it, his face impassive. After a moment he rises, turning to face the old wizard uncomfortably ensconced in a plush armchair. Their eyes meet, and the old one looks away first.
"For pity's sake, Harry," he whispers, eyes downcast.
"For pity's sake, what, Albus?" the young man responds mildly. He paces the room slowly, hands clasped behind his back. He holds no wand, but then, he doesn't need one.
The old wizard's face crumples. "Will you never let him heal?"
He ceases pacing. Silence falls over the room, broken only by the sharp crackle of burning logs.
"Answer me this, Albus." He stares hard into the other man's eyes. "Answer my question, and then, perhaps." His voice is calm, low and steady. The old man shudders at the sound of it. "When did you first realize that only another Dark wizard would be able to defeat Voldemort?"
He stands for a moment and watches, then smiles, reassuring and somehow smug. He stays just long enough to brand the old man's expression into his memory, the shame creeping across those withered features. Then he turns, and goes back into the bedroom.
To be continued…