Delusions: Chapter Two
I do not own Harry Potter.
A/n: I was honestly not expecting any positive feedback at all, so the reviews I received were a pleasant surprise. I have decided to continue this, but I might not work on it a lot. It may end up being after the fifth book, so I'm going to try and not mention any time period in this chapter. And I'd like to keep it faithful to the book, which means I may not be too detailed until after I read Order of the Phoenix (which is ten days away, so it's not that bad).
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It's on top of me, now, snapping its teeth, its yellow, decaying teeth, breathing its foul breath into my face, breath that smells like rotting, maggot-filled meat. Meat that may soon be me. Still don't know what It is, just know that it's not going to leave me unscathed. Oddly, I'm not terrified anymore. This feeling—the only way I can describe it is acceptance. I accept this thought, and leave myself. And it becomes apparent what It is after all. I'm It.
And it does not bother me in the slightest.
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Snape groaned as he tried to sit up, feeling as though the Hogwarts Express had just plowed him over. His thoughts were muddled, and he couldn't truthfully say that he remembered exactly what happened—until it hit. Potter. A slight chill of foreboding crawled up Snape's spine as he recalled those malicious scarlet eyes, narrowed in anger. The power that Potter had so quickly called upon, the startling changes in appearance, and the hissing, snake-like voice—every clue pointed in the Dark Lord's direction. Preventive measures had to be taken, obviously, but Snape could not think of a plan that could possibly help in such a situation. As his surroundings focused, Snape glanced around, noticing one startling thing. Potter was no longer there. Panic began to pulse in Snape's stomach. The ratty coverings to the small bed were tattered on the floor, and the door to the bedroom had been shattered into splinters of wood.
Instinctively, Snape reached inside for the soothing smoothness of his ebony wand. One problem—it was missing. Having just hauled himself to his feet, fear finally began to permeate his mind. He was without protection in an unfamiliar world, faced with a looming problem. Digging into his pockets insistently, though he knew they were empty, he staggered to the decimated door. His head throbbed harder as he entered the hall, and he paused long enough to take a small vial out of a zippered pocket, a clarity potion for minor health emergencies. After drinking the bitter liquid in one forced gulp he felt his headache ebb into a slight pain behind his eyes. His senses sharpened, and his nose, trained from years of working with potent potions, picked up the overwhelming stench of blood, wafting from a room down the hall.
Continuing down the hall, the coppery smell strengthening, he noticed shards of something on the ground. He leaned over and examined the pieces. The covering to a framed picture of a rotund, blond boy had been shattered. The tiniest drop of blood was evident on one sliver. He rose again; now noticing that the door he was standing in front of was missing its doorknob. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, and a scrawny woman inside started. She whirled around and her tear-filled eyes narrowed in fury. She seized a handful of objects from a bedside table. "Get out!" she shrieked in a piercing voice, "Get out, get out, GET OUT!" An alarm clock whizzed past Snape's ear and hit the wall with a dull thunk. She kept throwing things while still screaming, but fortunately her aim was poor.
"SHUT UP!" Snape roared, his headache augmenting again. She recoiled in fear, and Snape's annoyance dissipated into nothing. He then found out why the Muggle woman had reacted so strongly. Lying on the bed, breathing raggedly, was the man who had escorted him inside. The comforter was soaked in blood, two scarlet stains by his arms. Something had sliced the man's arms open, exposing the inside meat. Blood was steadily streaming from the wounds. The woman was still staring at Snape, the flesh on her palms ripped into ribbons. The boy behind her was on the floor, his hands sprawled behind him, his face twisted into a mask of agony. A long piece of glass had punctured his foot and by the looks of it, had entered the carpet.
"Have you come to finish us off?" the woman asked in a cross between anguish and vehemence, her hands shaking.
"Bloody hell," Snape swore, before leaving in a rush. He had no healing potions—it would be best to contact Dumbledore. He descended the stairs in a rush, swearing again when he saw that the door had disappeared. An owl was sitting on the floor, looking perturbed, a letter in its mouth. He ignored it, seeing the Ministry emblem inscribed on the envelope. His mind was racing as he pulled out his two way mirror. "Albus Dumbledore," he said clearly into the mirror, his heart beating in a mixture of fear and adrenaline.
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Though he had been staring at the mirror on his desk, lost in worried thought, he had not expected to see Severus's face to appear. He picked it up, knowing immediately that something was wrong by the look on Severus's face. "What is it?" he asked in a low voice.
"You need to get a Healer over here immediately," Snape snarled, "Potter isn't sane, and he's injured his relatives and escaped outside. Something is wrong with him; he is talking oddly and has red eyes.
"What? No—this isn't…" Dumbledore didn't explain his weird exclamation.
"I'm going to go look for him. He's dangerous to anyone around him." Dumbledore made to say something, but Snape had already ended the conversation by shrinking the mirror and stuffing it back into an inner pocket.
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End of chapter
A/N: Nothing to say.