Harry followed the stretcher back to the Hospital Wing. If McGonagall saw
him, she didn't say anything. It was cold. Harry was cold. He felt chilled
from the inside out, wondering who could have done this to Snape. And then
he heard footsteps behind him. Whirling around, he saw Dumbledore with a dog
tailing him. And it suddenly became clear.
"Sirius!" he screamed, grabbing the dog ferociously by the collar as
Dumbledore stepped forwards.
"You did this, you bastard! You killed him!"
Dumbledore gripped Harry's arm firmly, and Harry had to remember not to cry
out in pain.
"Professor Snape is not dead. He will be fine, once he has received proper
medical attention. Now, shall we go to my office?"
Fuming, Harry followed the headmaster and the skulking dog up to the office.
When they were there, Sirius transformed back into his human form and
reached out to Harry, who moved out of his way, eyes cold.
"Don't touch me"
Hurt, he moved back.
"Explain."
"I'm sorry, Harry. I was jealous. I didn't know what to say or do. I wanted
to be there. I wanted to help you."
"Just like you helped me in that letter you sent? Just like you helped me by
sending Lupin? I think I probably could have got by without that help."
Sirius squirmed and looked pleadingly at Albus, who was just un-sticking
sherbet lemons. Studiously ignoring Sirius. Aggravating man.
Harry was still glaring. When the hell had he grown such a backbone? This
was all Snape's fault. Sirius hadn't realised he had spoken aloud until he
felt Harry's hands around his neck.
"This is not Snape's fault! It's your fault! Why the fuck weren't you there
for me when I needed you?"
Sirius hung his head and spoke so softly that Harry almost didn't hear him.
"I was scared, Harry. You were meant to be the same as James, and I couldn't
understand why you weren't. I just didn't know how to react, or what to do.
And Snape did."
Harry nodded.
"I blew up, Sirius. I'm sorry. I don't hate you, but I am quite pissed off
at you. If you don't mind, I'm going to go and see how Snape is."
Sirius nodded, and Harry left, smiling inside.
They were so blind.
*******************************************
It was his fault. He had seen that as soon as he had realised that it had
been Sirius who had attacked Snape. Another person had nearly lost their
life to him, even after Voldemort was dead. This was so wrong; so bad. It
was all his fault.
Malfoy.
It was his fault that Malfoy was dead, and nearly Snape. They would all be
better off if Harry wasn't there. And this time it was no panicked decision.
He had been thinking about this for a long time now, even though he would
not admit it to himself sometimes. It had, truly, always been on his mind.
He slipped downstairs, through all the hidden passages that he had found
from the Marauders Map, around numerous twists and turns until he was
totally lost. Then again, that was the point. He didn't want to be found, or
to find himself. It was too late. . .too late for all of it.
There was a broom cupboard, which smelled of dust. As he pulled it open, the
latch creaked before snapping, and glaring at it Harry walked on. He had all
the time in the world. Finally, he found an old disused classroom and opened
the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him. Here, in the bowels of the
castle, he would not be heard by anyone.
He sank down into a chair, inexplicably exhausted by his trek, and
contemplated himself. Removing the concealing charm with a flick of his
wand, he admired the network of cuts and scars that adorned his wrists and
forearms, and settled down in a chair. If he was going to die, he wanted to
die beautiful.
First of all he conjured up a pair of scissors, and looked at them
wistfully. No, there would be time enough for that later. He then
transfigured a chair into a large mirror and stood in front of it, running
his hands through his messy hair. He had been neglecting the potion
recently, and it showed. He snipped away the split ends, and tried to
manhandle it into some sort of order. Mainly unsuccessfully. Finally, he
lost his temper and, using almost his magical limit, conjured the
ingredients to make his potion. After all, what was the point of looking
ugly in death? He mixed the potion, painfully aware of his fatigue, and
rubbed it through his hair, feeling the unruly curls go sleek and glossy.
Then he turned his attention to his face. A quick blemish removing charm
sorted out the spot on his cheek, and then finally he cast a sight
correcting charm on his eyes and threw his glasses to the floor, stamping on
them viciously as the epitome of every injustice had been forced to suffer
as Harry Potter. And they shattered. He smiled.
His shabby clothes would hardly do him justice when his body was all people
would see of him, so he took off his robes, which were drenched in sweat
from his exertions, and transfigured his hand-me-down T-shirt and baggy
faded jeans into a plain black shirt and black jeans. He wondered why he had
never thought to do this before. Looking in the mirror, he actually thought
he looked fairly good. He had once heard a saying, 'Live fast, die young,
leave a good looking corpse.' Well, he hadn't lived in the proper sense of
the world, but the other two parts would apply to him.
His eyes drifted back towards the scissors and he absently cut into his arm
with them, not feeling the pain so much as he once had. It had all been so
much easier before, before he had understood what the wizarding world really
wanted from him.
Perfection.
The word made him laugh; after all, down here on his own, he had all the
time in the world to laugh. How did they decide what perfection was? Just
what everyone else in the world wasn't. So, again, he was freakish. . .if he
was perfect. Thinking about the philosophy of it made his head hurt, so he
gave up thinking. Then he noticed that his hands were bloody, and also that
his nails were chipped. Wiping the blood off in a basin in the corner of the
bathroom, and then transfiguring his scissors into a nail file, he worked at
his hands until they were clean, the nails short and neat. Finally, he
inspected his image in the mirror. It was a long way from the Harry Potter
of old. In fact, he was barely recognisable. Frowning at his reflection, he
re-transfigured the nail file into scissors and drew a lightning shaped cut
onto his forehead, smirking as it began to bleed.
This was Harry Potter.
*****************************************
Snape awoke feeling like he had been stamped on. Nothing grave, just the
after-pains of some nasty curse. And he was in the Hospital Wing, which
normally meant that he had been attacked. He heard voices.
". . .now, now, Sirius, I'm sure he will forgive you in time. . ."
Black. And Harry. It was all coming back to him now. he wondered if he could
summon the energy to attack Black. Probably not, with Dumbledore there. The
headmaster was inexplicably fond of the mutt and the werewolf. Even after
the way they had treated Harry. . .
Their voices became clearer as they entered the Hospital Wing, and Snape
feigned sleep.
"Why the hell is it Snape and not me?"
"Sirius, you have been repeating the same question for at least an hour now"
said Dumbledore, a hint of ice in his voice, and Snape repressed a smirk.
And then they went silent.
And Sirius said something that made Snape's eyes spring wide open.
"Where's Harry?"
"What do you mean, where's Harry?" he asked icily, taking little pleasure in
the way both men jumped. His patience quickly ran out.
"Where.Is.He?"
"He. . .he said he was coming in to see you. He was upset."
"You FOOLS!" hissed Snape, pulling himself to his feet. "You complete and
utter IMBECILES!"
Black looked confused, whereas all colour had drained out of Albus' face.
Snape snarled at them.
"Well, don't just stand there! We need to find him!"
As he hurried out, glad that Pomfrey hadn't had time to outfit him in the
vile hospital pyjamas, his mind whirled. Harry must have felt guilty,
thought this was all his fault. Harry must have gone somewhere, to be alone.
He would have hidden.
Snape cast a locating charm on his wand and keyed it to Harry Potter.
"Guide me" he whispered.
**Yes, I know it's short. I want it like this, because the next chapter will
probably be the last one. I might write alternative endings, perhaps one
where Harry dies and another where he doesn't, or a slash and non-slash.
What do you think?**
him, she didn't say anything. It was cold. Harry was cold. He felt chilled
from the inside out, wondering who could have done this to Snape. And then
he heard footsteps behind him. Whirling around, he saw Dumbledore with a dog
tailing him. And it suddenly became clear.
"Sirius!" he screamed, grabbing the dog ferociously by the collar as
Dumbledore stepped forwards.
"You did this, you bastard! You killed him!"
Dumbledore gripped Harry's arm firmly, and Harry had to remember not to cry
out in pain.
"Professor Snape is not dead. He will be fine, once he has received proper
medical attention. Now, shall we go to my office?"
Fuming, Harry followed the headmaster and the skulking dog up to the office.
When they were there, Sirius transformed back into his human form and
reached out to Harry, who moved out of his way, eyes cold.
"Don't touch me"
Hurt, he moved back.
"Explain."
"I'm sorry, Harry. I was jealous. I didn't know what to say or do. I wanted
to be there. I wanted to help you."
"Just like you helped me in that letter you sent? Just like you helped me by
sending Lupin? I think I probably could have got by without that help."
Sirius squirmed and looked pleadingly at Albus, who was just un-sticking
sherbet lemons. Studiously ignoring Sirius. Aggravating man.
Harry was still glaring. When the hell had he grown such a backbone? This
was all Snape's fault. Sirius hadn't realised he had spoken aloud until he
felt Harry's hands around his neck.
"This is not Snape's fault! It's your fault! Why the fuck weren't you there
for me when I needed you?"
Sirius hung his head and spoke so softly that Harry almost didn't hear him.
"I was scared, Harry. You were meant to be the same as James, and I couldn't
understand why you weren't. I just didn't know how to react, or what to do.
And Snape did."
Harry nodded.
"I blew up, Sirius. I'm sorry. I don't hate you, but I am quite pissed off
at you. If you don't mind, I'm going to go and see how Snape is."
Sirius nodded, and Harry left, smiling inside.
They were so blind.
*******************************************
It was his fault. He had seen that as soon as he had realised that it had
been Sirius who had attacked Snape. Another person had nearly lost their
life to him, even after Voldemort was dead. This was so wrong; so bad. It
was all his fault.
Malfoy.
It was his fault that Malfoy was dead, and nearly Snape. They would all be
better off if Harry wasn't there. And this time it was no panicked decision.
He had been thinking about this for a long time now, even though he would
not admit it to himself sometimes. It had, truly, always been on his mind.
He slipped downstairs, through all the hidden passages that he had found
from the Marauders Map, around numerous twists and turns until he was
totally lost. Then again, that was the point. He didn't want to be found, or
to find himself. It was too late. . .too late for all of it.
There was a broom cupboard, which smelled of dust. As he pulled it open, the
latch creaked before snapping, and glaring at it Harry walked on. He had all
the time in the world. Finally, he found an old disused classroom and opened
the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him. Here, in the bowels of the
castle, he would not be heard by anyone.
He sank down into a chair, inexplicably exhausted by his trek, and
contemplated himself. Removing the concealing charm with a flick of his
wand, he admired the network of cuts and scars that adorned his wrists and
forearms, and settled down in a chair. If he was going to die, he wanted to
die beautiful.
First of all he conjured up a pair of scissors, and looked at them
wistfully. No, there would be time enough for that later. He then
transfigured a chair into a large mirror and stood in front of it, running
his hands through his messy hair. He had been neglecting the potion
recently, and it showed. He snipped away the split ends, and tried to
manhandle it into some sort of order. Mainly unsuccessfully. Finally, he
lost his temper and, using almost his magical limit, conjured the
ingredients to make his potion. After all, what was the point of looking
ugly in death? He mixed the potion, painfully aware of his fatigue, and
rubbed it through his hair, feeling the unruly curls go sleek and glossy.
Then he turned his attention to his face. A quick blemish removing charm
sorted out the spot on his cheek, and then finally he cast a sight
correcting charm on his eyes and threw his glasses to the floor, stamping on
them viciously as the epitome of every injustice had been forced to suffer
as Harry Potter. And they shattered. He smiled.
His shabby clothes would hardly do him justice when his body was all people
would see of him, so he took off his robes, which were drenched in sweat
from his exertions, and transfigured his hand-me-down T-shirt and baggy
faded jeans into a plain black shirt and black jeans. He wondered why he had
never thought to do this before. Looking in the mirror, he actually thought
he looked fairly good. He had once heard a saying, 'Live fast, die young,
leave a good looking corpse.' Well, he hadn't lived in the proper sense of
the world, but the other two parts would apply to him.
His eyes drifted back towards the scissors and he absently cut into his arm
with them, not feeling the pain so much as he once had. It had all been so
much easier before, before he had understood what the wizarding world really
wanted from him.
Perfection.
The word made him laugh; after all, down here on his own, he had all the
time in the world to laugh. How did they decide what perfection was? Just
what everyone else in the world wasn't. So, again, he was freakish. . .if he
was perfect. Thinking about the philosophy of it made his head hurt, so he
gave up thinking. Then he noticed that his hands were bloody, and also that
his nails were chipped. Wiping the blood off in a basin in the corner of the
bathroom, and then transfiguring his scissors into a nail file, he worked at
his hands until they were clean, the nails short and neat. Finally, he
inspected his image in the mirror. It was a long way from the Harry Potter
of old. In fact, he was barely recognisable. Frowning at his reflection, he
re-transfigured the nail file into scissors and drew a lightning shaped cut
onto his forehead, smirking as it began to bleed.
This was Harry Potter.
*****************************************
Snape awoke feeling like he had been stamped on. Nothing grave, just the
after-pains of some nasty curse. And he was in the Hospital Wing, which
normally meant that he had been attacked. He heard voices.
". . .now, now, Sirius, I'm sure he will forgive you in time. . ."
Black. And Harry. It was all coming back to him now. he wondered if he could
summon the energy to attack Black. Probably not, with Dumbledore there. The
headmaster was inexplicably fond of the mutt and the werewolf. Even after
the way they had treated Harry. . .
Their voices became clearer as they entered the Hospital Wing, and Snape
feigned sleep.
"Why the hell is it Snape and not me?"
"Sirius, you have been repeating the same question for at least an hour now"
said Dumbledore, a hint of ice in his voice, and Snape repressed a smirk.
And then they went silent.
And Sirius said something that made Snape's eyes spring wide open.
"Where's Harry?"
"What do you mean, where's Harry?" he asked icily, taking little pleasure in
the way both men jumped. His patience quickly ran out.
"Where.Is.He?"
"He. . .he said he was coming in to see you. He was upset."
"You FOOLS!" hissed Snape, pulling himself to his feet. "You complete and
utter IMBECILES!"
Black looked confused, whereas all colour had drained out of Albus' face.
Snape snarled at them.
"Well, don't just stand there! We need to find him!"
As he hurried out, glad that Pomfrey hadn't had time to outfit him in the
vile hospital pyjamas, his mind whirled. Harry must have felt guilty,
thought this was all his fault. Harry must have gone somewhere, to be alone.
He would have hidden.
Snape cast a locating charm on his wand and keyed it to Harry Potter.
"Guide me" he whispered.
**Yes, I know it's short. I want it like this, because the next chapter will
probably be the last one. I might write alternative endings, perhaps one
where Harry dies and another where he doesn't, or a slash and non-slash.
What do you think?**
