Chapter Three
***
"Me?" I asked as Harry Bloody Potter applied more tender pressure to my hand.
He nodded. "Yes, Professor."
"What was I doing?"
My perfect little world of bitterness and cynicism was spinning out of control. Harry Potter was holding my hand, telling me he had just dreamt of me, his bright eyes still bleary from crying; his untidy raven head set comfortably against the hospital pillow. I stood next to him, not pulling away from his touch because as much as I loathe admitting it, the boy had intrigued me. His sudden desire to relate to his "greasy git of a potions professor" was fascinating.
"Crying," he said simply.
"You and I were crying together?" I asked, confused.
He shook his head. "I wasn't there."
It took a few moments for his meaning to sink in. The boy had been me in his dream. I had been crying. I hadn't wanted to be alone. That's when I decided that there must have been some kind of dark magic involved. The boy knew me much too well.
I stared at him incredulously, reaching my free hand down to brush his hair from his eyes.
"You were my age," he said softly, raising his hand to touch my arm again. "You were just like me."
Only I wasn't an idiot Gryffindor . . .
"You were with Professor Dumbledore," he continued. "My father and Sirius had just done something cruel to you. I don't know what it was, but it was really bad. You were so upset. You just kept crying and crying and crying . . . you didn't want to be alone anymore, Professor. Everyone just left you all alone, and you couldn't take it anymore."
He lifted the sleeve of my robe and touched the closest scar.
"This was a fresh wound," he said. "You had cut it with a dull razor in the prefects bathroom, even though you weren't a prefect." He paused. "The headmaster just watched when you started to wreck things."
I remembered perfectly well. McGonagall had caught me in the act and dumped me in Albus's office, where I broke down, broke apart, broke almost everything in the room.
"How do you dream the memories of others?" I asked.
Harry smiled tiredly at me. "I don't know," he replied. He took a few minutes of silence to breathe deeply. "Maybe I'm just a Severus Snape rerun."
He closed his eyes as I whispered, "Don't say that."
He chuckled. "What made you not do it?"
"Not do what?"
"End your life."
I inhaled sharply. That was a very personal, very difficult question to answer. Why doesn't one kill oneself? A few things must be factored into this response. The first is pride.
Had I killed myself at the age of sixteen years, two months, three weeks, and five days (the precise day on which I had planned to escape this dreadful thing we call "life"), I would have given every person to ever abuse me an amazing sense of satisfaction. By terminating myself, I would only strengthen them. In a sense, I suppose we all exist out of petty spite. I told Potter this.
"What's the second thing?" he prompted.
The second thing, and this is indeed vital, is motivation. I had motivation to live. New opportunities were arriving everyday, and the quicker I answered the door, the more reason there was for me to remain within the world. The opportunity to show my talent, to seek revenge, to kill, and to save.
"Voldemort," the boy said quietly, his tone trying so desperately hard to not sound judgmental, but the slow rise of disgust was seeping through.
"Indeed," I nodded, glancing down at my hands. I could still taste those vile robes on my lips . . . As I looked at the sixteen-year-old, bloodied armed and tired-eyed, but otherwise squeaky clean, I felt, well . . . this unfathomable filth tainting my skin. Terrible things, I had told Dumbledore. I had done terrible things. I had killed, I had aided in murder. So I decay with my victims corpses day in and day out, allowing the insects to tread on me and feast, to take my mind and inch my memories closer and closer to the brink of the present until the only rest I had was the tender caress of insanity.
And this boy, this boy who lay in front of me, with eyes blackened from fatigue and arms scarred by his own hand, had done absolutely nothing wrong. Everyday, he was undoing everything I had done. Righting my wrongs. Saving my victims. The worst part of it, and this is as bad as life gets, is that he had nothing to show for it (nothing at all) but a broken heart.
"And the third?" he asked, squeezing my hand.
"The will to live," I said, meeting his emerald gaze. I settled down on the edge of the bed, and was thoroughly surprised when he rested his head on my lap. "It's embedded into all of us. It's part of our humanity."
"And when you lose it, you lose yourself," Harry whispered. I put my hand through his hair, leaned down, and kissed the top of his untidy, raven head.
"You won't be lost," I breathed. "I won't lose you."
We sat in silence for a few minutes, as I soothingly stroked his hair, and he breathed warmly into my lap. That's when I realized what was happening, not for the first time, but it surely was the most distinctive. I was being protective of Harry Potter.
"You're going to have to get your things out of Gryffindor Tower," I told him. "You'll be staying with me. Headmaster's orders."
He didn't respond to this, but I felt a small nod over my legs, felt his finger tapping my thigh. He finally looked into my eyes, his own once again out of focus and tearing.
"You don't want me," he said. "When you begin to see yourself in my eyes, you'll loathe me far more than you do now."
I sighed deeply, entangling my white finger in a strand of his black hair.
Only time would tell.
***
The boy moved in with me that day, weakly dragging his trunk down to the dungeons and to my chambers. Seeing his blatant struggle, I took the labor of his trunk, and set it down in the second bedroom, which I had (appropriately) decorated for him in various shades of blue. Sadly, I don't believe he caught on to my dark humor.
"Professor?"
He had such a meek voice, with such great power. I felt as if a single word could shatter my skeleton; leave me in puddle of skin and blood on the cold, dungeon floor. Thus was the strength of the broken-hearted.
"Yes, Harry?" I asked.
He stepped towards me tentatively, not stopping until he was close enough to hug me. He had begun to cry again, salty tears like ocean pearls running down his childish cheeks, his eyes as vibrant as the jewels on a betrothed woman's thin, elegant finger.
"I'm not well, am I?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
I shook my head, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"No, Harry. You're not well."
"I'm being quarantined from my peers," he mumbled. "I'll miss Ron sleeping in the bed next to me. Will he catch my disease?" He fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He encircled his arms around my leg and clung tightly, as an infant would to its mother.
"You don't have a disease," I replied.
"It is a disease," he snapped, choking a little on a sob. "Not of the body. I am weak, but I will be strong. It's not in the mind, either. It's the disease of life, Professor. The cycle of birth and death, love and abuse. You can't get too much, you can't get too little, and you'll never get just the right amount." He fell over, curled into the fetal position, and sobbed.
The boy was at worst dramatic, at best artistic.
I knelt next to him, ran a hand over his spine, sighed, and picked him up. I carried him all the way to the couch, settled down, and placed him on my lap. Luckily, he didn't know what to think of this. I doubted he had ever sat on someone's lap before. He just stared at me, now unable to cry. His lips were cracked from the constant in and out of air. He sniffled, and I felt his muscles slowly relax. At last, his head lolled to my shoulder, as he adjusted his body to seek comfort in me.
To think, at one time I wished to slit this boy's throat. Fuck the wand-to- the heart routine, just the old-fashioned Muggle way, with an illegal switchblade to the neck. Now I sat, with Harry Potter resting quietly on my legs, my aching hands rubbing soothing circles on his shaking back.
"I feel like taking 100 points from Gryffindor," I murmured.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, closing his eyes.
I shook my head.
He had. He had done something terribly wrong, and in this case, there was nothing viler than burglary.
The boy had stolen my heart.
***
^^**Author's Notes Rock Your Planet**^^
Okay, well, this is a sappy piece of shit, but you guys seem to like it, so I'll continue. I'll admit that I like it, too. I apologize for this chapter. It's worse in the sap-factor than the others. Harry's kind of out- of-character, but I'll pin the name to him anyway. Maybe he's just a completely different personality under the influence of grief. **shrugs**. Happens to me. Maybe it would happen to him, too.
It's sad, isn't it? I'm going to aim to make you cry.
***
"Me?" I asked as Harry Bloody Potter applied more tender pressure to my hand.
He nodded. "Yes, Professor."
"What was I doing?"
My perfect little world of bitterness and cynicism was spinning out of control. Harry Potter was holding my hand, telling me he had just dreamt of me, his bright eyes still bleary from crying; his untidy raven head set comfortably against the hospital pillow. I stood next to him, not pulling away from his touch because as much as I loathe admitting it, the boy had intrigued me. His sudden desire to relate to his "greasy git of a potions professor" was fascinating.
"Crying," he said simply.
"You and I were crying together?" I asked, confused.
He shook his head. "I wasn't there."
It took a few moments for his meaning to sink in. The boy had been me in his dream. I had been crying. I hadn't wanted to be alone. That's when I decided that there must have been some kind of dark magic involved. The boy knew me much too well.
I stared at him incredulously, reaching my free hand down to brush his hair from his eyes.
"You were my age," he said softly, raising his hand to touch my arm again. "You were just like me."
Only I wasn't an idiot Gryffindor . . .
"You were with Professor Dumbledore," he continued. "My father and Sirius had just done something cruel to you. I don't know what it was, but it was really bad. You were so upset. You just kept crying and crying and crying . . . you didn't want to be alone anymore, Professor. Everyone just left you all alone, and you couldn't take it anymore."
He lifted the sleeve of my robe and touched the closest scar.
"This was a fresh wound," he said. "You had cut it with a dull razor in the prefects bathroom, even though you weren't a prefect." He paused. "The headmaster just watched when you started to wreck things."
I remembered perfectly well. McGonagall had caught me in the act and dumped me in Albus's office, where I broke down, broke apart, broke almost everything in the room.
"How do you dream the memories of others?" I asked.
Harry smiled tiredly at me. "I don't know," he replied. He took a few minutes of silence to breathe deeply. "Maybe I'm just a Severus Snape rerun."
He closed his eyes as I whispered, "Don't say that."
He chuckled. "What made you not do it?"
"Not do what?"
"End your life."
I inhaled sharply. That was a very personal, very difficult question to answer. Why doesn't one kill oneself? A few things must be factored into this response. The first is pride.
Had I killed myself at the age of sixteen years, two months, three weeks, and five days (the precise day on which I had planned to escape this dreadful thing we call "life"), I would have given every person to ever abuse me an amazing sense of satisfaction. By terminating myself, I would only strengthen them. In a sense, I suppose we all exist out of petty spite. I told Potter this.
"What's the second thing?" he prompted.
The second thing, and this is indeed vital, is motivation. I had motivation to live. New opportunities were arriving everyday, and the quicker I answered the door, the more reason there was for me to remain within the world. The opportunity to show my talent, to seek revenge, to kill, and to save.
"Voldemort," the boy said quietly, his tone trying so desperately hard to not sound judgmental, but the slow rise of disgust was seeping through.
"Indeed," I nodded, glancing down at my hands. I could still taste those vile robes on my lips . . . As I looked at the sixteen-year-old, bloodied armed and tired-eyed, but otherwise squeaky clean, I felt, well . . . this unfathomable filth tainting my skin. Terrible things, I had told Dumbledore. I had done terrible things. I had killed, I had aided in murder. So I decay with my victims corpses day in and day out, allowing the insects to tread on me and feast, to take my mind and inch my memories closer and closer to the brink of the present until the only rest I had was the tender caress of insanity.
And this boy, this boy who lay in front of me, with eyes blackened from fatigue and arms scarred by his own hand, had done absolutely nothing wrong. Everyday, he was undoing everything I had done. Righting my wrongs. Saving my victims. The worst part of it, and this is as bad as life gets, is that he had nothing to show for it (nothing at all) but a broken heart.
"And the third?" he asked, squeezing my hand.
"The will to live," I said, meeting his emerald gaze. I settled down on the edge of the bed, and was thoroughly surprised when he rested his head on my lap. "It's embedded into all of us. It's part of our humanity."
"And when you lose it, you lose yourself," Harry whispered. I put my hand through his hair, leaned down, and kissed the top of his untidy, raven head.
"You won't be lost," I breathed. "I won't lose you."
We sat in silence for a few minutes, as I soothingly stroked his hair, and he breathed warmly into my lap. That's when I realized what was happening, not for the first time, but it surely was the most distinctive. I was being protective of Harry Potter.
"You're going to have to get your things out of Gryffindor Tower," I told him. "You'll be staying with me. Headmaster's orders."
He didn't respond to this, but I felt a small nod over my legs, felt his finger tapping my thigh. He finally looked into my eyes, his own once again out of focus and tearing.
"You don't want me," he said. "When you begin to see yourself in my eyes, you'll loathe me far more than you do now."
I sighed deeply, entangling my white finger in a strand of his black hair.
Only time would tell.
***
The boy moved in with me that day, weakly dragging his trunk down to the dungeons and to my chambers. Seeing his blatant struggle, I took the labor of his trunk, and set it down in the second bedroom, which I had (appropriately) decorated for him in various shades of blue. Sadly, I don't believe he caught on to my dark humor.
"Professor?"
He had such a meek voice, with such great power. I felt as if a single word could shatter my skeleton; leave me in puddle of skin and blood on the cold, dungeon floor. Thus was the strength of the broken-hearted.
"Yes, Harry?" I asked.
He stepped towards me tentatively, not stopping until he was close enough to hug me. He had begun to cry again, salty tears like ocean pearls running down his childish cheeks, his eyes as vibrant as the jewels on a betrothed woman's thin, elegant finger.
"I'm not well, am I?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
I shook my head, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"No, Harry. You're not well."
"I'm being quarantined from my peers," he mumbled. "I'll miss Ron sleeping in the bed next to me. Will he catch my disease?" He fell to his knees, too weak to stand. He encircled his arms around my leg and clung tightly, as an infant would to its mother.
"You don't have a disease," I replied.
"It is a disease," he snapped, choking a little on a sob. "Not of the body. I am weak, but I will be strong. It's not in the mind, either. It's the disease of life, Professor. The cycle of birth and death, love and abuse. You can't get too much, you can't get too little, and you'll never get just the right amount." He fell over, curled into the fetal position, and sobbed.
The boy was at worst dramatic, at best artistic.
I knelt next to him, ran a hand over his spine, sighed, and picked him up. I carried him all the way to the couch, settled down, and placed him on my lap. Luckily, he didn't know what to think of this. I doubted he had ever sat on someone's lap before. He just stared at me, now unable to cry. His lips were cracked from the constant in and out of air. He sniffled, and I felt his muscles slowly relax. At last, his head lolled to my shoulder, as he adjusted his body to seek comfort in me.
To think, at one time I wished to slit this boy's throat. Fuck the wand-to- the heart routine, just the old-fashioned Muggle way, with an illegal switchblade to the neck. Now I sat, with Harry Potter resting quietly on my legs, my aching hands rubbing soothing circles on his shaking back.
"I feel like taking 100 points from Gryffindor," I murmured.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked, closing his eyes.
I shook my head.
He had. He had done something terribly wrong, and in this case, there was nothing viler than burglary.
The boy had stolen my heart.
***
^^**Author's Notes Rock Your Planet**^^
Okay, well, this is a sappy piece of shit, but you guys seem to like it, so I'll continue. I'll admit that I like it, too. I apologize for this chapter. It's worse in the sap-factor than the others. Harry's kind of out- of-character, but I'll pin the name to him anyway. Maybe he's just a completely different personality under the influence of grief. **shrugs**. Happens to me. Maybe it would happen to him, too.
It's sad, isn't it? I'm going to aim to make you cry.