Title: A Paradoxical Curse
Author: Psykiapa (with much help from ClothoLachesisAtropo)
Summary: Harry has been sent back into time, only to become a Slytherin in the seventh year of his father, Sirius, Remus, and Severus. He has fallen desperately in love with Snape, and is now, as the paradox of his life predicts, being forced into hiding in order to not further hasten the oncoming paradox. This is the story of the years apart.
Disclaimer: As usual, I'm not so brilliant as to have caught onto this idea first. However, it is in fact a continuation of the lovely ClothoLachesisAtropo, and is a continuation of her lovely, lovely fic The Return of the Prodigal, or, rather, the story of what was left out. I suggest you all read that before delving too deeply into this. Thanks!
A Paradoxical Curse: Chapter One
A Fire Long Since Kindled
Harry arrived at the pub in a windblown state. His hair was messy, and would require several minutes of untangling, his skin was grimy, and his chin was scratchy with stubble. It was a good thing he had found this place, though, the quality wasn't where he would have liked it to be.
He let his hood drop as he strode into the main hall. The carpet was of a moldy nature, and what was left of it appeared to have once been red. Where the carpet had worn off one could find hard wood floor. The walls were painted a dismal cream, the color of cigarette-tainted white. There was noise coming from the bar, as well as a horrid greasy smell. Harry's nose turned up on it's own accord. He sighed internally, knowing he'd have to get used to this.
"And what can I do for you?" A rather large man asked him. Harry looked up at him with wide eyes, feeling once again like a young child.
"I'm looking for a room." The man laughed at him. Harry tried not to get overly annoyed.
"Well, that much is obvious. Are there any particular things you need in your room?"
Harry tried to smile. "No, just a room, and I'd like a bath if possible."
"Well, our facilities are, at the moment, quite lacking. We had a plumbing blowout last week, but there is the swimming pool in town that has free showers."
While Harry didn't necessarily find that idea appealing, it was much better than the alternative.
"I'll take it." Harry said, reaching into his coin-purse. He looked up at the man with a question in his eyes.
"Seven sickles a night."
Harry nodded, drew out the seven, and the man took them in his pudgy hands.
"So, Mr. . . . ?"
"James. Harold James."
"Mr. Harold James. How long are you expecting to stay?" The man took out a large book to record the date, the room, and the name. Harry smiled, slightly bashfully, and answered him.
"I don't exactly know, sir. I'm going to try to get an apartment in town."
The man looked oddly at Harry, but nodded and turned away from Harry. When he faced him again, a key was handed to him, and the man turned around to show him the way to his room.
As Harry climbed the stairs to the second floor, he noticed several stains on the carpet, and the wood floor that showed where the carpet didn't, was chipped. There were deep ruts in the doors, and one door showed the remains of what appeared to be some form of alcohol. Harry smirked to himself as he thought of what the Dursleys would think had they known where he was to be living.
They had reached the room. The key fit in the lock, and when the door swung open, Harry had to admit to himself that he should have expected this. The bedsheets seemed to be the only clean thing in the entire room, and, likewise, was the only piece of furniture. The flowers on the sill were dieing, and Harry felt as though it would, at this point, only be a mercy to them to uproot them. Harry thumped his small bag on the bed, and turned to the man.
"Thank you, sir."
The man looked at him, surprised, and then left.
Harry turned away. He sighed. So . . . this was what he was bound for. He supposed that it was a good thing that he at least knew what was going to happen to him, and that he'd have somewhere to sleep that night.
After dumping his things off the bed and onto the floor, he strode over to it. He stroked it with tenderness, his tired body falling to the coverlet. His eyes closed of their own accord, long strands of hair fell over his face in oily rivulets. They brought out a tiredness in him, a grudging wail of an existence that could only be ignored while he slept. And sleep he did.
* * *
Severus glared gloomily at his breakfast. An onion and cheese scone. Just lovely. He glanced up only when he saw Lucius enter the Great Hall.
In the seven days of Harold's absence, the boy had been growing steadily more unbearable. Without his protector, there was to be no peace for him. Lucius sneered at him, but appeared to be in a good mood, and simply went to his usual seat. Severus let out a breath he hadn't known was held. He rubbed his shoulder absently. The mark of Harold's family crest remained a searing, throbbing pang in his shoulder.
What was he feeling? What was he doing? These questions fought for preference in his mind constantly. But the one question that always won was this: What was it about Harold that he couldn't understand until later?
Severus's eyes snapped angrily as he thought of his lover. What was so damn important? He could not understand it, as he could not understand many things in his life. He was confused, to say the least.
Confusion wasn't strong enough to describe it.
A/N – yes, I know it is, once again, short . . . but I'm working on an original novel at the moment, and so that is taking up most of my (very limited) free time. I am dedicated to this, I just . . . need more time.
Author: Psykiapa (with much help from ClothoLachesisAtropo)
Summary: Harry has been sent back into time, only to become a Slytherin in the seventh year of his father, Sirius, Remus, and Severus. He has fallen desperately in love with Snape, and is now, as the paradox of his life predicts, being forced into hiding in order to not further hasten the oncoming paradox. This is the story of the years apart.
Disclaimer: As usual, I'm not so brilliant as to have caught onto this idea first. However, it is in fact a continuation of the lovely ClothoLachesisAtropo, and is a continuation of her lovely, lovely fic The Return of the Prodigal, or, rather, the story of what was left out. I suggest you all read that before delving too deeply into this. Thanks!
A Paradoxical Curse: Chapter One
A Fire Long Since Kindled
Harry arrived at the pub in a windblown state. His hair was messy, and would require several minutes of untangling, his skin was grimy, and his chin was scratchy with stubble. It was a good thing he had found this place, though, the quality wasn't where he would have liked it to be.
He let his hood drop as he strode into the main hall. The carpet was of a moldy nature, and what was left of it appeared to have once been red. Where the carpet had worn off one could find hard wood floor. The walls were painted a dismal cream, the color of cigarette-tainted white. There was noise coming from the bar, as well as a horrid greasy smell. Harry's nose turned up on it's own accord. He sighed internally, knowing he'd have to get used to this.
"And what can I do for you?" A rather large man asked him. Harry looked up at him with wide eyes, feeling once again like a young child.
"I'm looking for a room." The man laughed at him. Harry tried not to get overly annoyed.
"Well, that much is obvious. Are there any particular things you need in your room?"
Harry tried to smile. "No, just a room, and I'd like a bath if possible."
"Well, our facilities are, at the moment, quite lacking. We had a plumbing blowout last week, but there is the swimming pool in town that has free showers."
While Harry didn't necessarily find that idea appealing, it was much better than the alternative.
"I'll take it." Harry said, reaching into his coin-purse. He looked up at the man with a question in his eyes.
"Seven sickles a night."
Harry nodded, drew out the seven, and the man took them in his pudgy hands.
"So, Mr. . . . ?"
"James. Harold James."
"Mr. Harold James. How long are you expecting to stay?" The man took out a large book to record the date, the room, and the name. Harry smiled, slightly bashfully, and answered him.
"I don't exactly know, sir. I'm going to try to get an apartment in town."
The man looked oddly at Harry, but nodded and turned away from Harry. When he faced him again, a key was handed to him, and the man turned around to show him the way to his room.
As Harry climbed the stairs to the second floor, he noticed several stains on the carpet, and the wood floor that showed where the carpet didn't, was chipped. There were deep ruts in the doors, and one door showed the remains of what appeared to be some form of alcohol. Harry smirked to himself as he thought of what the Dursleys would think had they known where he was to be living.
They had reached the room. The key fit in the lock, and when the door swung open, Harry had to admit to himself that he should have expected this. The bedsheets seemed to be the only clean thing in the entire room, and, likewise, was the only piece of furniture. The flowers on the sill were dieing, and Harry felt as though it would, at this point, only be a mercy to them to uproot them. Harry thumped his small bag on the bed, and turned to the man.
"Thank you, sir."
The man looked at him, surprised, and then left.
Harry turned away. He sighed. So . . . this was what he was bound for. He supposed that it was a good thing that he at least knew what was going to happen to him, and that he'd have somewhere to sleep that night.
After dumping his things off the bed and onto the floor, he strode over to it. He stroked it with tenderness, his tired body falling to the coverlet. His eyes closed of their own accord, long strands of hair fell over his face in oily rivulets. They brought out a tiredness in him, a grudging wail of an existence that could only be ignored while he slept. And sleep he did.
* * *
Severus glared gloomily at his breakfast. An onion and cheese scone. Just lovely. He glanced up only when he saw Lucius enter the Great Hall.
In the seven days of Harold's absence, the boy had been growing steadily more unbearable. Without his protector, there was to be no peace for him. Lucius sneered at him, but appeared to be in a good mood, and simply went to his usual seat. Severus let out a breath he hadn't known was held. He rubbed his shoulder absently. The mark of Harold's family crest remained a searing, throbbing pang in his shoulder.
What was he feeling? What was he doing? These questions fought for preference in his mind constantly. But the one question that always won was this: What was it about Harold that he couldn't understand until later?
Severus's eyes snapped angrily as he thought of his lover. What was so damn important? He could not understand it, as he could not understand many things in his life. He was confused, to say the least.
Confusion wasn't strong enough to describe it.
A/N – yes, I know it is, once again, short . . . but I'm working on an original novel at the moment, and so that is taking up most of my (very limited) free time. I am dedicated to this, I just . . . need more time.