A/N So, you get a bit from Snape in this chapter; pay attention.
You might learn something. Then again, you might not. :)
*****************************************
A Perfect Circle
Chapter Three: Never Ever Choose
*****************************************
judith
a perfect circle
you're such an inspiration for ways that i will never ever choose to be
oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you
fuck your god
he did this
took all you had and left you this way
still you pray
never stray
never taste of the fruit
never thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone
it's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side
praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed
he did it all for you
oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you
pray to your christ
to your god
never taste of the fruit
never stray
never break
never choke on a lie
even though he's the one who did this to you
thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone
it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side
talk to jesus christ as if he knows the reasons why
he did this all to you he did it all for you
It was the dead of night. Killing time. Dying time.
Appropriate.
He sat meekly behind his desk, hands trembling as though with ague. His eyes
were pressed firmly closed. Sweat beaded his temples, causing the fine tendrils
of hair to cling in tiny curls. His pulse was slow and steady as the Thames, and
visible in the spider-blue veins that mapped his porcelain skin.
He breathed in. The scent of sex still rode the air, earthy and rich; he could catch
the boy's perfume beneath the heavier musk. Scent of soap and sweat and heat.
It dove straight into his brain, surfing a curve down synapses to a nestled heart of
neurons.
His heart jumped. He had wanted this forever.
He wiped his hands on his robes, the sweat-streak invisible on the black, and looked
down at the piled papers cluttering his desk. Half were slashed in red. The other half
had yet to be read. He breathed again. The orb pulsed from its perch on his desk. It
sat in one corner, near the edge. No fear of that falling.
He blinked, very slowly and deliberately, and breathed in again. The scent stroked
the currents of his brain as he fixed his ebon eyes on the restless potion. Parsley,
cinnabar, a drop of his blood, a drop of the blood of his closest living relative, toad's
ears, a raven's wing, oak leaves(dried and ground to powder), and wolfsbane.
For flavor. Oh, skillful crafting! The brewing of this potion would please his master
for eternity . . .
His master . . .?
He blinked, sharper this time, and shook his head once, as though to clear it.
A vermilion 'F' caught his eye; languorously he turned his head, wetted his lips, and
brought up his inked hand.
The ink had dried to the crimson of spilled blood.
His heart jumped again, but this time he ignored it; he dipped the quill, and poised it
above the next roll of parchment.
"The Common Uses of Fangroot in Sleep Aides," scrawled in an unpracticed hand.
The topic was dandelion fluff and its varied uses.
He sighed.
He hated teaching. Hated reading these interminable, inevitably foolish essays night
after night after bloody night. Maybe three students in the entire *school* had a proper
understanding of potions. *Three*!
The erroneous paper was soon covered in red welts and scores. Ink beaded and
dripped on the parchment.
His eyes squeezed shut again. He took another lungful of that smell, then regretfully
banished it with a purifying charm.
After all, he couldn't have his office smelling like a whorehouse.
Not all the time, anyway.
***************************
It always begins with a dream.
It often ends with a dream, as well.
Snape was standing in the shadows of his office. They were breathing.
The shadows, that is.
He himself was not a physical presence in the dream, but seemed to be hovering
near the door. Very close to the exit.
Snape was fondling the orb. His movements were hard to make out in the shadows,
but dream-Harry knew without a doubt that it was the orb glittering restlessly in
those long, pale hands.
Strong hands.
As in a ghost of a remembered dream, he felt those fingertips pattering at his
rebellious flesh, begging entry with smoothed caresses.
He shook free.
His dream-self felt nothing.
His awareness was drifting toward Snape, who seemed curiously real for a
dream figure, and his dream-heart was speeding up, and a sweat had come
over his skin, and his vision was going blurry, and all of a sudden it didn't seem
so much like a dream, and--
"Harry!"
Mmmrmph.
Sometimes it ends the dream.
"Harry! You're going to miss breakfast. Again!"
Mmmron?
"C'mon. Harry!"
Deep in the fogged sleep, a hand touched his arm.
A real hand, cold and rough.
"Shit!"
Harry snapped fully awake, startled by Ron's scream.
He appeared to be on the floor. He was shivering.
"Ron?" he asked, blinking warily up at his friend.
"Remind me never to wake you again," Ron muttered, climbing to his feet.
"You are *not* a morning person."
"Yeah," Harry agreed slowly, his dreams and the night before coming back
to him.
Could Ron tell?
Could Ron *know*?
Ron was staring at him, and though Harry blinked down Ron's eyes seared
his vulnerable flesh. Harry bit his lip, feeling his cheeks redden. "Look, I'll see
you in the Great Hall, alright?"
"Alright, Harry," Ron agreed slowly, sounding worried. He paused as though
about to speak for a moment; then his stomach growled. He sighed, shoulders
slumping comically, and he slung his worn book bag over his shoulder as he
trudged toward the stairs.
Sometimes Harry had to remind himself that he liked the Weasleys for reasons
*other* than their general obliviousness.
He climbed to his feet, gingerly, for once glad that he'd fallen asleep fully clothed.
He couldn't even remember getting back to Griffindor Tower, much less his own
bed.
The entire night was like a dream . . .
He shook off the thought, shivering lightly as he gathered his shower kit; Seamus,
Dean, and Neville were conspicuously absent. Good, though it appeared that Ron
hadn't been exaggerating. He would most likely be late to breakfast.
Somehow he couldn't bring himself to care.
He pushed aside the door to the Boy's Bathroom with his shoulder, hands full with
towel and clothes and shaving kit. Not that he shaved regularly just yet, but it had
been about three days. He was getting bristly.
Besides, a razor had more than one use.
He stepped into the shadowy room, bare feet shivering on the acoustic tiles,
goosebumps raising at the echoed roar of a showerhead in use, and the smaller,
distinct *plish* of leaking pipes. As he neared one of the low, wooden benches, the
showerhead was cut off with an ominous rumble accompanied by a loud screak.
A smaller boy, probably a first year and no one Harry knew, pattered by him at a
cautious run, towel clutched around his thin waist, hair streaming behind him.
Harry shook his head. He could almost remember worrying about nothing more than
food.
Almost.
Now that he was sure that the bathroom was empty, he set his bundled clothes on
the bench, stripped slowly, and stepped beneath a showerhead. The water always
came out glacier-cold before running boiler-hot.
Today he let it.
The shock of cold chased away his dreams. The heat felt good on his skin. He
turned under the faucet, closing his eyes as a sense of security invaded him,
virus-like, with the warmth. Water steamed down his skin, and he tilted his head
back to let it patter inquiringly against paper-thin lids and invade his parted lips.
Heat penetrated his heart with the convulsive shiver of fleeing ice. It had been so
cold in the dungeon--
He needed to get down to breakfast. The others would worry.
Okay, the others would worry more.
See, he *wasn't* thinking about it, really he wasn't.
He wasn't.
And if he was, it was the food that grounded him. It's all very well to melt in a dream,
but reality has quite a different face.
At the thought of food his stomach lurched, acid razing his throat, and he had to lean
against the shower wall, breathing carefully, until the sensation passed. He panted
there for a moment, senses reeling; the heat of the shower, so comforting a moment
before, caused a sweat to break out over his skin, and he ducked his head down.
Just breathe.
Okay, perhaps he would skip breakfast. So, straight to Potions.
His stomach lurched again.
He was *not* thinking about it.
This time he fell to his knees, splitting one open on the hard tile, nearly vomiting
into the spreading pool of blood. Oh, Merlin. He scrabbled away from the sight of
crimson, breaths going rapid and light, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold his
stomach down.
He couldn't feel his heart beat. It had been pounding a moment ago. Why couldn't
he feel his heart?
He curled in on himself, leaning into the cold wall; the tiles felt good on his flushed
skin, and his nausea slowly subsided. The scalding water was beginning to redden
his flesh with mild burns. His hands were trembling like he had palsy; he trapped
them against his chest and shivered.
He couldn't go to Potions.
He'd known that since the moment Snape had wrenched out of him and flung him
away.
Snape would stare at him. Snape would sneer at him. Snape would act as though
nothing had happened.
Nothing at all.
Nothing. Nothing. Oh Merlin, Harry wanted to *agree*. Nothing . . .
But . . . if he stayed in the shower all day . . . which was hardly practical since Ron
or Hermione would eventually notice his absence, but if he stayed, if he didn't go
to his classes and act normally, then . . .
Then Snape would *know*. Snape would *know* that he'd gotten to Harry, actually
frightened Harry, traumatized Harry for life. Snape would *know*.
Snape would *win*.
And no way in hell was Harry going to let *that* happen.
***************************************************************
He skulked into the Great Hall approximately four minutes before breakfast was
scheduled to end; the Hall was hemorrhaging students through the great double
doors, and at a mere five feet four inches Harry was battered in the flood. Ron
apparently spotted him through the chaos, and at five-ten the red-haired youth had
a far better chance of flogging his way downstream.
"Alright there, Harry?" Ron bellowed, dragging Hermoine behind him by her wrist
like a goaded bull. She did not look happy.
"Where were you, Harry?" she asked as soon as she was in speaking-range.
"You completely missed breakfast, and you could have been late to class!"
Okay, so she was unhappy with him, not Ron. Typical. He misses breakfast and
gets castigated for the next three meals. Ron manhandles her and he gets treated
like such behavior is normal.
Oh, wait. Such behavior *is* normal. For Ron.
He grimaced a smile.
"Just overslept, 'Mione," he explained, shifting his bag on his aching shoulders.
Snape had held him there. Snape's broad hands had left bruises in the shape of
his long, tapering fingers.
"Harry?" Hermione asked him; they were both cutting their eyes at him nervously,
and he glared quizzically at his shoes. He must have blinked out for a moment.
"Sorry, what were you saying?" he asked, carefully not looking up.
"Nothing . . ." Hermione said slowly, worry bright in her doe-eyes.
Harry frowned to himself, suddenly feeling a shiver of paranoia. Hermione was
often far too curious for anyone's good.
"Shouldn't we get to class?" he said, forcing a cheerful smile, carving himself
back into the mask.
Ron bit his lip; Hermione just nodded.
*They suspect.*
Snape's voice. That rasping purr beating at his very soul.
Harry ignored all of it, shoving the feeling down until he was clear, clear as glass,
clear as the lake in late summer. Nothing could touch him. Nothing.
Not even Ron and Hermoine shooting eloquent glances over and around his head.
"Want me to carry your stuff, Harry?" Ron asked as the trio began walking down
the hall together; Harry glanced up at him sideways, cocking an eyebrow quizzically.
"What for?" he asked, missing Hermione's exasperated glare.
"You, umm," Ron floundered. "Look sore from Quidditch?"
"I haven't had a practice yet," Harry said without thinking.
"Then where have you been all week?" Hermione pounced on his answer like
Crookshanks on a rat. Her eyes beat at his facade. Ron cut sheepish looks at
him between staring at his clasped hands.
"I . . ." Aw, fuck.
Caught.
It's never a great idea to lie to the people who know you best.
He could feel the flush rising in his pale cheeks, a sudden overwhelming wave of
anxious heat. Fight or flight time.
"C'mon, you'll be late!" A first year shouted; her shoulder caught his as she dashed
past them, and he used the momentum to spin off into the crowd.
Saved by the bell.
How ironically . . . nonmagical.
And, like any courageous Griffindor, he ran.
*************************************************
He arrived flushed and out of breath, book bag heavy on one shoulder, and tried
to calm his panting breaths. He stopped short in the hallway, just outside the
massive wooden door. Other students, less afraid, less aware, streamered past
him as small black fish into a net.
He could almost see it closing about their writhing bodies.
A shudder pressed him close; he breathed through it, ignoring the flashes of
crimson behind his squeezed lids.
"Harry!"
Blast. They'd caught him.
"Harry, why'd you run off like that, mate?" Ron asked, standing a bit too close
to him with his hands hovering in midair as though he'd like nothing more than
to beat some sanity into his friend. Harry blinked his eyes opened, and grinned
shakily.
"Didn't want to be late," he said, lying with all he was worth. "But then I thought I
should wait for you."
"Well, of course you should have!" Ron exclaimed, grinning easily. He'd gotten
so much bigger over the summer, Harry thought. So much bigger . . .
He shrank back a bit.
"I'm worried about you, Harry," Hermione said finally, staring at him as though
attempting to read his very soul.
"It's nothing," he lied, wishing he could just dart through the open door. Another
student dashed through, and he cast a longing look after the back of her robe.
"I'll be fine."
"Look," Hermione said, apparently noticing his distraction. Her eyes narrowed.
"We'll talk about this after class." He nodded shortly, more to get her off his back
than in agreement. She nodded firmly in return, tossed her hair, and strode through
the door.
"Whew!" Ron breathed as soon as she was out of hearing range. "What's got into
her today?"
The door was beginning to close, and the red head gave it a nervous glance.
"Same as usual, Ron," Harry said, eyeing the door over Ron's shoulder. It was
almost ominous, and yet so perfectly mundane that he couldn't understand his
response at all.
And still, the closing door looked like a gaping maw, ready to swallow him whole.
"You'll have to talk to her, mate," Ron said, breaking into his thoughts. "You know
what she can be like."
"Yes," Harry whispered, staring as the door moved another few centimeters, then
a bit more. If only it creaked, or squealed with rusty hinges, or in any way sounded
*natural*. "I'll talk to her."
"Alright, then," Ron said, looking relieved. He made an abortive move for the door,
stopping abruptly when Harry made no move to follow. "You coming, Harry?"
"In a minute," he said, his voice nearer a whisper. The door was closing. The door
was closing. What kind of teacher placed such a spell on a door? "I'll be along
in a moment."
"O . . . kay," Ron said, no doubt remembering the results of Harry's last such
promise. Perhaps he should have gone to breakfast, if only to maintain credibility.
"I'll see you in there, then?" He said brightly, taking a step toward the door.
It would swallow him!
"Yeah," Harry said, shoving down his screaming fear. "In a minute, Ron."
The last came out more harshly than he'd intended. Ron stepped back again, his
brows drawing together in a martyred expression of hurt.
"Yeah," Ron said one last time, swallowing. Then he disappeared through the
closing door.
Into Snape's domain.
Once that door closed, Harry would be trapped outside, and fated for a detention
should he enter through the closed door. And after a few moments, during which
the class was supposed to be preparing, Snape would burst through his spell, robes
flaring wing-like behind him.
He shuddered, and leaned against the wall, eyes closing.
Fish in a net.
"Potter," a familiar voice sneered. "Weasel and the mudblood finally desert you to
your betters?"
"Malfoy," Harry breathed wearily. He did *not* want to deal with this right now. He
opened his eyes reluctantly. "Sod off, will you?"
Malfoy was smirking at him, standing before a closing door. A student slipped in
behind him, and Draco caught the door's edge on his heel.
"Coming, Potter?" he asked, arching one ice-blond brow. "Or did you fancy another
detention?"
Was that . . . kindness? Was Malfoy actually looking out for him?
Nah. Impossible.
Malfoy blinked at him, waited a moment more, and then slipped in through the narrow
crack between door and jamb. The door settled into place without a sound.
He just had to wrench aside the knob, fling open the door, billow his way inside like
Snape on a snit.
No problem.
The man hadn't even arrived yet. He could still make it to his seat.
Harry's heart was clenched in his chest, and his incipient panic attack went unnoticed.
All he knew was that he simply couldn't go in there. All his Griffindor courage, all his
resolution, all his determination. Gone.
He simply couldn't face the man.
That was all.
**************
A/N Next time, detention! Heh. And good news, I already have about half of the next
chapter written. Yay! So, review, and I could post much sooner. ;)
You might learn something. Then again, you might not. :)
*****************************************
A Perfect Circle
Chapter Three: Never Ever Choose
*****************************************
judith
a perfect circle
you're such an inspiration for ways that i will never ever choose to be
oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you
fuck your god
he did this
took all you had and left you this way
still you pray
never stray
never taste of the fruit
never thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone
it's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side
praise the one who left you broken down and paralyzed
he did it all for you
oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you
pray to your christ
to your god
never taste of the fruit
never stray
never break
never choke on a lie
even though he's the one who did this to you
thought to question why
it's not like you killed someone
it's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side
talk to jesus christ as if he knows the reasons why
he did this all to you he did it all for you
It was the dead of night. Killing time. Dying time.
Appropriate.
He sat meekly behind his desk, hands trembling as though with ague. His eyes
were pressed firmly closed. Sweat beaded his temples, causing the fine tendrils
of hair to cling in tiny curls. His pulse was slow and steady as the Thames, and
visible in the spider-blue veins that mapped his porcelain skin.
He breathed in. The scent of sex still rode the air, earthy and rich; he could catch
the boy's perfume beneath the heavier musk. Scent of soap and sweat and heat.
It dove straight into his brain, surfing a curve down synapses to a nestled heart of
neurons.
His heart jumped. He had wanted this forever.
He wiped his hands on his robes, the sweat-streak invisible on the black, and looked
down at the piled papers cluttering his desk. Half were slashed in red. The other half
had yet to be read. He breathed again. The orb pulsed from its perch on his desk. It
sat in one corner, near the edge. No fear of that falling.
He blinked, very slowly and deliberately, and breathed in again. The scent stroked
the currents of his brain as he fixed his ebon eyes on the restless potion. Parsley,
cinnabar, a drop of his blood, a drop of the blood of his closest living relative, toad's
ears, a raven's wing, oak leaves(dried and ground to powder), and wolfsbane.
For flavor. Oh, skillful crafting! The brewing of this potion would please his master
for eternity . . .
His master . . .?
He blinked, sharper this time, and shook his head once, as though to clear it.
A vermilion 'F' caught his eye; languorously he turned his head, wetted his lips, and
brought up his inked hand.
The ink had dried to the crimson of spilled blood.
His heart jumped again, but this time he ignored it; he dipped the quill, and poised it
above the next roll of parchment.
"The Common Uses of Fangroot in Sleep Aides," scrawled in an unpracticed hand.
The topic was dandelion fluff and its varied uses.
He sighed.
He hated teaching. Hated reading these interminable, inevitably foolish essays night
after night after bloody night. Maybe three students in the entire *school* had a proper
understanding of potions. *Three*!
The erroneous paper was soon covered in red welts and scores. Ink beaded and
dripped on the parchment.
His eyes squeezed shut again. He took another lungful of that smell, then regretfully
banished it with a purifying charm.
After all, he couldn't have his office smelling like a whorehouse.
Not all the time, anyway.
***************************
It always begins with a dream.
It often ends with a dream, as well.
Snape was standing in the shadows of his office. They were breathing.
The shadows, that is.
He himself was not a physical presence in the dream, but seemed to be hovering
near the door. Very close to the exit.
Snape was fondling the orb. His movements were hard to make out in the shadows,
but dream-Harry knew without a doubt that it was the orb glittering restlessly in
those long, pale hands.
Strong hands.
As in a ghost of a remembered dream, he felt those fingertips pattering at his
rebellious flesh, begging entry with smoothed caresses.
He shook free.
His dream-self felt nothing.
His awareness was drifting toward Snape, who seemed curiously real for a
dream figure, and his dream-heart was speeding up, and a sweat had come
over his skin, and his vision was going blurry, and all of a sudden it didn't seem
so much like a dream, and--
"Harry!"
Mmmrmph.
Sometimes it ends the dream.
"Harry! You're going to miss breakfast. Again!"
Mmmron?
"C'mon. Harry!"
Deep in the fogged sleep, a hand touched his arm.
A real hand, cold and rough.
"Shit!"
Harry snapped fully awake, startled by Ron's scream.
He appeared to be on the floor. He was shivering.
"Ron?" he asked, blinking warily up at his friend.
"Remind me never to wake you again," Ron muttered, climbing to his feet.
"You are *not* a morning person."
"Yeah," Harry agreed slowly, his dreams and the night before coming back
to him.
Could Ron tell?
Could Ron *know*?
Ron was staring at him, and though Harry blinked down Ron's eyes seared
his vulnerable flesh. Harry bit his lip, feeling his cheeks redden. "Look, I'll see
you in the Great Hall, alright?"
"Alright, Harry," Ron agreed slowly, sounding worried. He paused as though
about to speak for a moment; then his stomach growled. He sighed, shoulders
slumping comically, and he slung his worn book bag over his shoulder as he
trudged toward the stairs.
Sometimes Harry had to remind himself that he liked the Weasleys for reasons
*other* than their general obliviousness.
He climbed to his feet, gingerly, for once glad that he'd fallen asleep fully clothed.
He couldn't even remember getting back to Griffindor Tower, much less his own
bed.
The entire night was like a dream . . .
He shook off the thought, shivering lightly as he gathered his shower kit; Seamus,
Dean, and Neville were conspicuously absent. Good, though it appeared that Ron
hadn't been exaggerating. He would most likely be late to breakfast.
Somehow he couldn't bring himself to care.
He pushed aside the door to the Boy's Bathroom with his shoulder, hands full with
towel and clothes and shaving kit. Not that he shaved regularly just yet, but it had
been about three days. He was getting bristly.
Besides, a razor had more than one use.
He stepped into the shadowy room, bare feet shivering on the acoustic tiles,
goosebumps raising at the echoed roar of a showerhead in use, and the smaller,
distinct *plish* of leaking pipes. As he neared one of the low, wooden benches, the
showerhead was cut off with an ominous rumble accompanied by a loud screak.
A smaller boy, probably a first year and no one Harry knew, pattered by him at a
cautious run, towel clutched around his thin waist, hair streaming behind him.
Harry shook his head. He could almost remember worrying about nothing more than
food.
Almost.
Now that he was sure that the bathroom was empty, he set his bundled clothes on
the bench, stripped slowly, and stepped beneath a showerhead. The water always
came out glacier-cold before running boiler-hot.
Today he let it.
The shock of cold chased away his dreams. The heat felt good on his skin. He
turned under the faucet, closing his eyes as a sense of security invaded him,
virus-like, with the warmth. Water steamed down his skin, and he tilted his head
back to let it patter inquiringly against paper-thin lids and invade his parted lips.
Heat penetrated his heart with the convulsive shiver of fleeing ice. It had been so
cold in the dungeon--
He needed to get down to breakfast. The others would worry.
Okay, the others would worry more.
See, he *wasn't* thinking about it, really he wasn't.
He wasn't.
And if he was, it was the food that grounded him. It's all very well to melt in a dream,
but reality has quite a different face.
At the thought of food his stomach lurched, acid razing his throat, and he had to lean
against the shower wall, breathing carefully, until the sensation passed. He panted
there for a moment, senses reeling; the heat of the shower, so comforting a moment
before, caused a sweat to break out over his skin, and he ducked his head down.
Just breathe.
Okay, perhaps he would skip breakfast. So, straight to Potions.
His stomach lurched again.
He was *not* thinking about it.
This time he fell to his knees, splitting one open on the hard tile, nearly vomiting
into the spreading pool of blood. Oh, Merlin. He scrabbled away from the sight of
crimson, breaths going rapid and light, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to hold his
stomach down.
He couldn't feel his heart beat. It had been pounding a moment ago. Why couldn't
he feel his heart?
He curled in on himself, leaning into the cold wall; the tiles felt good on his flushed
skin, and his nausea slowly subsided. The scalding water was beginning to redden
his flesh with mild burns. His hands were trembling like he had palsy; he trapped
them against his chest and shivered.
He couldn't go to Potions.
He'd known that since the moment Snape had wrenched out of him and flung him
away.
Snape would stare at him. Snape would sneer at him. Snape would act as though
nothing had happened.
Nothing at all.
Nothing. Nothing. Oh Merlin, Harry wanted to *agree*. Nothing . . .
But . . . if he stayed in the shower all day . . . which was hardly practical since Ron
or Hermione would eventually notice his absence, but if he stayed, if he didn't go
to his classes and act normally, then . . .
Then Snape would *know*. Snape would *know* that he'd gotten to Harry, actually
frightened Harry, traumatized Harry for life. Snape would *know*.
Snape would *win*.
And no way in hell was Harry going to let *that* happen.
***************************************************************
He skulked into the Great Hall approximately four minutes before breakfast was
scheduled to end; the Hall was hemorrhaging students through the great double
doors, and at a mere five feet four inches Harry was battered in the flood. Ron
apparently spotted him through the chaos, and at five-ten the red-haired youth had
a far better chance of flogging his way downstream.
"Alright there, Harry?" Ron bellowed, dragging Hermoine behind him by her wrist
like a goaded bull. She did not look happy.
"Where were you, Harry?" she asked as soon as she was in speaking-range.
"You completely missed breakfast, and you could have been late to class!"
Okay, so she was unhappy with him, not Ron. Typical. He misses breakfast and
gets castigated for the next three meals. Ron manhandles her and he gets treated
like such behavior is normal.
Oh, wait. Such behavior *is* normal. For Ron.
He grimaced a smile.
"Just overslept, 'Mione," he explained, shifting his bag on his aching shoulders.
Snape had held him there. Snape's broad hands had left bruises in the shape of
his long, tapering fingers.
"Harry?" Hermione asked him; they were both cutting their eyes at him nervously,
and he glared quizzically at his shoes. He must have blinked out for a moment.
"Sorry, what were you saying?" he asked, carefully not looking up.
"Nothing . . ." Hermione said slowly, worry bright in her doe-eyes.
Harry frowned to himself, suddenly feeling a shiver of paranoia. Hermione was
often far too curious for anyone's good.
"Shouldn't we get to class?" he said, forcing a cheerful smile, carving himself
back into the mask.
Ron bit his lip; Hermione just nodded.
*They suspect.*
Snape's voice. That rasping purr beating at his very soul.
Harry ignored all of it, shoving the feeling down until he was clear, clear as glass,
clear as the lake in late summer. Nothing could touch him. Nothing.
Not even Ron and Hermoine shooting eloquent glances over and around his head.
"Want me to carry your stuff, Harry?" Ron asked as the trio began walking down
the hall together; Harry glanced up at him sideways, cocking an eyebrow quizzically.
"What for?" he asked, missing Hermione's exasperated glare.
"You, umm," Ron floundered. "Look sore from Quidditch?"
"I haven't had a practice yet," Harry said without thinking.
"Then where have you been all week?" Hermione pounced on his answer like
Crookshanks on a rat. Her eyes beat at his facade. Ron cut sheepish looks at
him between staring at his clasped hands.
"I . . ." Aw, fuck.
Caught.
It's never a great idea to lie to the people who know you best.
He could feel the flush rising in his pale cheeks, a sudden overwhelming wave of
anxious heat. Fight or flight time.
"C'mon, you'll be late!" A first year shouted; her shoulder caught his as she dashed
past them, and he used the momentum to spin off into the crowd.
Saved by the bell.
How ironically . . . nonmagical.
And, like any courageous Griffindor, he ran.
*************************************************
He arrived flushed and out of breath, book bag heavy on one shoulder, and tried
to calm his panting breaths. He stopped short in the hallway, just outside the
massive wooden door. Other students, less afraid, less aware, streamered past
him as small black fish into a net.
He could almost see it closing about their writhing bodies.
A shudder pressed him close; he breathed through it, ignoring the flashes of
crimson behind his squeezed lids.
"Harry!"
Blast. They'd caught him.
"Harry, why'd you run off like that, mate?" Ron asked, standing a bit too close
to him with his hands hovering in midair as though he'd like nothing more than
to beat some sanity into his friend. Harry blinked his eyes opened, and grinned
shakily.
"Didn't want to be late," he said, lying with all he was worth. "But then I thought I
should wait for you."
"Well, of course you should have!" Ron exclaimed, grinning easily. He'd gotten
so much bigger over the summer, Harry thought. So much bigger . . .
He shrank back a bit.
"I'm worried about you, Harry," Hermione said finally, staring at him as though
attempting to read his very soul.
"It's nothing," he lied, wishing he could just dart through the open door. Another
student dashed through, and he cast a longing look after the back of her robe.
"I'll be fine."
"Look," Hermione said, apparently noticing his distraction. Her eyes narrowed.
"We'll talk about this after class." He nodded shortly, more to get her off his back
than in agreement. She nodded firmly in return, tossed her hair, and strode through
the door.
"Whew!" Ron breathed as soon as she was out of hearing range. "What's got into
her today?"
The door was beginning to close, and the red head gave it a nervous glance.
"Same as usual, Ron," Harry said, eyeing the door over Ron's shoulder. It was
almost ominous, and yet so perfectly mundane that he couldn't understand his
response at all.
And still, the closing door looked like a gaping maw, ready to swallow him whole.
"You'll have to talk to her, mate," Ron said, breaking into his thoughts. "You know
what she can be like."
"Yes," Harry whispered, staring as the door moved another few centimeters, then
a bit more. If only it creaked, or squealed with rusty hinges, or in any way sounded
*natural*. "I'll talk to her."
"Alright, then," Ron said, looking relieved. He made an abortive move for the door,
stopping abruptly when Harry made no move to follow. "You coming, Harry?"
"In a minute," he said, his voice nearer a whisper. The door was closing. The door
was closing. What kind of teacher placed such a spell on a door? "I'll be along
in a moment."
"O . . . kay," Ron said, no doubt remembering the results of Harry's last such
promise. Perhaps he should have gone to breakfast, if only to maintain credibility.
"I'll see you in there, then?" He said brightly, taking a step toward the door.
It would swallow him!
"Yeah," Harry said, shoving down his screaming fear. "In a minute, Ron."
The last came out more harshly than he'd intended. Ron stepped back again, his
brows drawing together in a martyred expression of hurt.
"Yeah," Ron said one last time, swallowing. Then he disappeared through the
closing door.
Into Snape's domain.
Once that door closed, Harry would be trapped outside, and fated for a detention
should he enter through the closed door. And after a few moments, during which
the class was supposed to be preparing, Snape would burst through his spell, robes
flaring wing-like behind him.
He shuddered, and leaned against the wall, eyes closing.
Fish in a net.
"Potter," a familiar voice sneered. "Weasel and the mudblood finally desert you to
your betters?"
"Malfoy," Harry breathed wearily. He did *not* want to deal with this right now. He
opened his eyes reluctantly. "Sod off, will you?"
Malfoy was smirking at him, standing before a closing door. A student slipped in
behind him, and Draco caught the door's edge on his heel.
"Coming, Potter?" he asked, arching one ice-blond brow. "Or did you fancy another
detention?"
Was that . . . kindness? Was Malfoy actually looking out for him?
Nah. Impossible.
Malfoy blinked at him, waited a moment more, and then slipped in through the narrow
crack between door and jamb. The door settled into place without a sound.
He just had to wrench aside the knob, fling open the door, billow his way inside like
Snape on a snit.
No problem.
The man hadn't even arrived yet. He could still make it to his seat.
Harry's heart was clenched in his chest, and his incipient panic attack went unnoticed.
All he knew was that he simply couldn't go in there. All his Griffindor courage, all his
resolution, all his determination. Gone.
He simply couldn't face the man.
That was all.
**************
A/N Next time, detention! Heh. And good news, I already have about half of the next
chapter written. Yay! So, review, and I could post much sooner. ;)