In a way, I'm glad that ff.net went into cardiac arrest for a while, or I probably would have posted this way before it was ready. This was insanely difficult to write, and I'm still not sure if I quite got it.
Chapter 10, Eve of Destruction
The start of the next term at Hogwarts brought a nasty shock for Viola. The disappointment she had felt when Randy stopped returning her letters was intensified, when on the first day back at school, he refused to even look at her.
She couldn't understand what had made him so suddenly withdrawn. It was like a knife through her soul, to see her best friend turn so cold in her direction. To add to the hurt, Brianna and Gwendolen stuck with Randy, as if he needed to be consoled. Soon, Viola stopped trying, and by the time her eighteenth birthday came around, the only person she really talked to was Brandon.
Somehow, what made it all worse was the fact that Snape hadn't so much as glanced in her direction since he had kissed her in the hallway. For some reason, she thought that she could have handled her best friends shunning her, but the idea of someone like Severus Snape was rejecting her completely was what made it unbearable.
Sitting in Potions class had become some terrible torment she had to endure three times a week. He didn't ridicule her at all anymore, but he didn't do anything else, either. She became invisible in his class, and it bothered her deeply. She couldn't believe that he could have kissed her with so much enthusiasm and then continue to ignore her afterwards. She wasn't angry that he had kissed her, in a way she had been happy. It was like she had seen something about him that no one else even suspected. Like the night in the potions classroom, where he had whispered her name so seductively into her ear. That night in the hallway, she felt his soul. She felt a little privileged at the time, but now she suspected the entire school was trying to fuck with her mind.
The nightmare of her lonely birthday wasn't nearly as bad as Randy's birthday, which came only two days later. The Hufflepuff table was a riot of noise and celebration on the fifteenth, and there was a gigantic cake with yellow icing, embellished with sparklers and glittering letters spelling out her friends name.
No one in Slytherin had though to get her a cake. Not even Brandon, though he did get her a present. The morning of her birthday, he had appeared at her bedroom door with a large stuffed bear and a bunch of roses. It would have been a sweet gesture from anyone else, but it had given her a tangible feeling of trepidation. His smile, so beautiful and perfect, was fake. His eyes were cold.
Severus Snape was on his last nerve. The start of term meant a lot more work for him, plus there was also the constant anxiety he could not shake. He kept expecting Dumbledore to end every conversation the two of them had with, "Oh yes, Severus, what's this about you violating a student?"
It soon became clear, though, as the weeks went by, that it wasn't going to happen. Either the Headmaster had no idea, or he just wasn't going to do anything. In the meantime, Snape had chosen the same approach with Viola.
Snubbing the girl did not seem to keep his mind off her, but he didn't know what else to do. He still felt a wrench in his heart, and in his groin, when he looked at her, remembering the feeling of her body pressed against him. Ignoring her completely, however, seemed to be the only solution. It wasn't as if they were lovers now, or even friends. They were still teacher and student above all. If there was going to be no repercussions, nothing had to change.
The mark on his arm had been tingling lately, not quite hurting yet, but enough to be annoying. Once or twice he wondered if the feeling was all in his head, but he knew it couldn't be. Voldemort was going to call him soon. He was hardly prepared.
Now, though, he was relaxed. He was in his private rooms, stretched out on his couch with a muggle novel in his hands. It was a Saturday afternoon, and he didn't have to worry about classes, detentions or meals in the Great Hall. The school was strangely empty, most of the students cavorting around Hogsmeade, and quiet. He was just starting to fall asleep like that, when his arm was set suddenly on fire with pain.
He was too surprised to hold back his scream, and it tore out of his throat, echoing ominously around the dungeon hallways. He tried to lift himself up into a sitting position, but his arm wouldn't support any of his weight. He rolled off the couch and fell onto the floor.
Another agonized cry ripped out of him, despite his desperate attempts to keep quiet. His rooms weren't that far from the common room, and the younger students there could probably hear everything. They were most likely listening, guessing, speculating . . .
He had to leave.
Gasping, he heaved himself up and threw a pinch of floo powder into the fire, then pushed through, groaning, "The Riddle House!" as he did so.
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Viola hadn't felt much like visiting the village. Brandon had wanted to, though, so she was left alone in the common room, uncomfortably enduring a very tense sort of muteness with Alison Nott.
The strange girl was not much for conversation, apparently. Viola tried vainly to talk to her, but all she could get out of her was strange, stuttered monosyllables. Finally, she gave up and just sat miserably in the oppressive silence.
After a few minutes of sitting under the gaze of Alison's intelligent, unblinking eyes Viola wanted to scream. Thankfully the door to the common room swung open, allowing someone inside.
She didn't care who it was, as long as she would not have to be alone with the painfully weird girl beside her. The person who entered, however was not much better. It was Brandon, and he had been looking for her.
"Hey," she said, her voice slightly hollow. She didn't really want to talk to him either.
"Hey babe, let's go." thankfully, she rose from her seat and followed him out of the common room, on the way to the dormitories. They left Alison Nott sitting by the fire, her face hidden by her dank, stringy hair.
Viola shuddered, but kept her thoughts carefully on other things. Slytherin house was becoming impossible to live in, she supposed. While her mind was swirling around depressing little sentiments, she had stopped paying attention to her surroundings. Brandon had led her by the hand all the way to his dormitory, and was pushing open the door and gesturing for her to go inside.
She entered the room with a bit of apprehension, she had never seen the boy's dorm before. The room was larger than hers, with six four-poster beds, a large bookshelf and two chairs by the fireplace. On the wall, a painting was hung of a rough looking centaur, swinging a club menacingly. The room was otherwise empty, all the seventh year boys were still in Hogsmeade.
Without a word, Brandon moved away from her and sat down on a bed, presumably his. He looked at her pointedly, then when she didn't move, he gestured her over to him.
She slowly approached the bed, taking a seat by his pillow. She hated how quiet the dungeons were, with no windows to hear the birds or weather. It made for a lot of awkward silences.
He slanted towards her and kissed her, so softly she could hardly feel it. He leaned forward, pressing harder against her lips, causing her to lean back from him slightly. Their arms wrapped about each other, he pushed her back until her head came to rest on his pillow.
A knot twisted briefly in her stomach, and she had a distinct impression that something was desperately wrong, and she couldn't do a thing about it.
He leaned more of his weight onto her, kissing her neck and rubbing her hips. It was only when his hands moved under her shirt to tease the lace of her bra that she realized just what was going on. They were on a bed together, and Brandon definitely had more on his mind than just kissing.
She squirmed underneath him. "Brandon, stop."
He sat up immediately, straddling her legs. "What?"
She thought quickly. "Don't you think this is a little bit . . . sudden?" she asked, and when he raised a sceptical eyebrow, she added, "I'm not sure if I'm ready for this sort of thing." it sounded corny and halfhearted, more like the excuse it was than the explanation she had meant it to be.
His eyes narrowed. He looked angry.
Before she could say anything to calm him down, he pulled his wand out of his sleeve and pointed it at her. She shut her eyes tight, expecting a curse, but instead thin cords snaked out of the tip of the wand, coiling around her wrists.
The expression on Brandon's face didn't change once as he magically bound her to his bed and drew the curtains shut around them. Viola's, however, went from fear, to blinding anger, to grim, reluctant acceptance.
He wanted to wipe that look off her face.
Instead, he kissed her. Because he loved her. He didn't notice how much she trembled at his touch, and even if he had, he wouldn't have cared.
He kissed her neck. The ropes strained as she tried to break free.
He touched her hair and face. A sob escaped from her throat.
He pulled her shirt up slightly to kiss her abdomen, the muscles there were quivering. Viola was beginning to tense up, to panic. His gentle caresses felt like scourging lashes from a whip.
His mouth moved past her navel, to the button of her jeans. Her breath caught in her throat while he eased the button undone and lowered the zipper, revealing a glimpse of her panties. He tried to remove the jeans entirely, but she had firmly crossed her legs underneath him. She looked strait at his face and shook her head.
Before she could even blink, he was swinging his fist in a wide arc, the blow connecting with a dull thud on the side of her face. Viola was unconscious.
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Snape was the last one to arrive at the house, and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he was going to pay for it. The others were already in their masks, and the Potions Master had to make a rather undignified scramble to get his vestments on correctly.
Thankfully, now it was over. It was late, and he had made it back to the school in one piece. Bruised and lacerated, but still in one pitiful piece.
Locked in his office, he allowed himself to relax for a minute, letting the tension roll off his shoulders like waves of boiling lava. After a moment of silent repose he was preparing to make a healing potion, but before he could do anything he had fallen asleep at his desk, his head in his arms like a student sleeping in class.
The slumber was not pleasant for Severus, he was having nightmares from the second he closed his eyes. He was too exhausted to wake, though, and had to endure the horror until his body would allow him to stop.
The meeting had been rough, to say the least. Voldemort's moods were notoriously erratic, but that evening had been something far different from usual. As predicted before, the Dementors were controlled by the Death Eaters, and were guarding the entrance to the large Hall in the Riddle Manor where the supporters were gathered.
Their presence drowned the room with a substantial feeling of cold despair, and Severus found himself recounting some old events in his life that he thought he had forgotten.
The Dark Lord had made strange demands of them, like lists of the graduating Hogwarts students and their parentage, and he had even asked Snape for the blue prints for the school, a demand which could absolutely never be met.
"It's impossible, Lord." He had explained. Obviously fateful words, because they had almost caused his death.
"Crucio." The cold, high pitched voice was the sound of fatality.
He was writhing on the ground, bathed in vile red light from Voldemort's wand and in absolute, killing agony. Severus almost died at that moment, screaming like a banshee at the Demon's feet.
He was no stranger to physical pain, of course. Contrary to that, he knew it quite well. He could have handled it if the Dementors hadn't been there, but they had closed in on him, inhaling the emotions that poured out of him, all the anguish, desperation and hatred. He was like a feast set before them, overflowing with fervent sentiments for them to greedily devour.
By the time they had finished, and Voldemort had moved on to other things, finally allowing the pain to end, Severus was spent. His limbs were numb and he couldn't move. His cheek rested against the cool stone of the floor, and terrified sobs racked his narrow frame. The Dementors, though, never left him. They closed into a tight circle, their rotten looking hands reached out to caress him. He shuddered at their touch, fighting the urge to be violently sick.
He couldn't take their presences any longer, and with a final agonized moan he lay down on the floor and allowed himself to be swept up in merciful unconsciousness. The images they were conjuring in his mind were frightening, detailed and real.
They shattered him, twisted his soul until he was broken and pathetic. They took every pleasant thought and memory from his mind, rare as they were, and destroyed them in front of his eyes.
He could hear screams, ghostly and transparent, hidden behind the folds of his thoughts. They were the screams of his victims, those people he had watched die. Throughout his entire adult life, he had kept sane knowing only that he had never taken a life, but gods, he had watched.
The guilt was suddenly staggering. They were crying at him, begging him to save them like they did while he stood in the shadows, observing others do the killing he couldn't stomach.
When they finally left him, he was shaking like a beaten child in his unconsciousness.
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The nightmares came and went in an uncertain haze. Images appeared, enticing and confusing her at the same time. She saw Randy, driving away from her on his father's Harley Davidson, the one he had never learned to ride. She was standing in her bedroom, facing the blue walls with a paintbrush in one hand and a bucket of paint in the other. She dipped the brush and coloured a wide swath of red on the wall, before the whole scene crumbled aside in a distorted jumble of emotions and sensations. Severus Snape was holding her, kissing her like he wanted nothing else in the world, and she could see the dense sadness in his eyes, the despair that she often saw in her own. He was wearing a mask, empty and faceless. Tears streaked his concealed cheeks, but they were red like blood and so hot they burned. He turned suddenly, pushing her from the warmth of his body and punched Brandon Carter in the face. The whole stage infused into a crystal ball, rolling onto the floor of the Divination classroom, where Sybil Trelawney was predicting death from behind a black veil.
Viola woke up, and in an instant wished that she hadn't.
She was still on the bed, in the dark except for a small candle glowing on the headboard. She was still bound by the wrists and unable to move, and she was also half naked.
Brandon, apparently, had taken it upon himself to remove her jeans and panties while she was unconscious. He was still there, sitting at the other end of the bed and watching her intently. He had a cigarette in his hand as well, nervously smoking it in severe silence. She shifted her legs nervously, trying to find a position in which less of her anatomy was exposed, but it was no use. She was burning with humiliation under his gaze, and was so scared of him she felt sick.
He kept watching her. He watched her start to cry, and try to break the ropes that held her in place. He was thankful of the silencer spell he had placed on the curtains of the bed when she started to scream. The cords strained at her wrists, cutting her skin until tiny rivulets of blood ran down her arms.
He was finished with his cigarette, and so he leaned forward and put it out on her stomach, wincing as her piercing yell of pain cleaved through his brain. While still leaning over her, he wrapped his hands lightly around her throat, taking some sick sort of pleasure from the fact that he could scare her so effectively. Some part of him was delighted with the fact that she was afraid, and wanted to see her shriek and writhe. Another part of him just wanted her to shut up.
But in there still, was the part that loved her. Loved her, but hated her at the same time. Because of what she was, his love was his shame.
"Fuck you, Brandon," she spat at him in some last-ditch attempt at bravado, and he tightened his grip on her neck until she couldn't breath.
Deprived of air, and so afraid, her surroundings seemed to fade. Bright lights flashed in front of her eyes as she faintly felt her knees being prised apart. She thought she was going to die.
There was a shock of terrible pain, deep inside her, like nothing she had ever felt before, between her legs . . .
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