And I sing and sing of awful things
The pleasure that my sadness brings
As my fingers press onto the strings
In yet another clumsy chord
Haligh, haligh, an awful lie
This weight will now be satisfied
I'm gonna give you only one reply
I know not who I am
-bright eyes
Chapter Four
He woke up periodically throughout the night, Harry did. He kicked, screamed, thrashed, writhed around on his new bed, causing the headboard to bang against the wall. He cried for his mother. He cried for his father. He cried for Black.
I lay awake, watching the shadows play across the white ceiling. Shadows are like clouds - they can be anything. With me, they were usually angels, sprouting wings and flying off to a better place. That's how I got over my fear of darkness. Angels - the ultimate source of light.
I laughed bitterly. If anyone knew that Severus Snape formed angels from cluttered blackness, there would be no living it down.
The boy's in an awful fit now; I can hear his sobs through the walls. Not a hard thing to do, when the walls are paper-thin. Everything's been paper- thin lately, though. Even me.
To think, my emotions had been on display all day. Crawling and crying to Albus Dumbledore like a lowly student, comforting Harry Potter . . . No, I wasn't myself anymore. I was a new man.
I snorted. Right. A new man.
The screaming had stopped. The headboard creaked in the aftershock of its victimization, and all was eerily quiet for some time. His whisper rang through my bedroom like wind chimes, distant and haunting.
"Professor?"
My heart skipped a beat in my surprise, and I sat up to distinguish his small form in at the threshold of my sleeping quarters. He was shaking.
"Yes, Harry?" I attempted to keep my voice comforting.
"Can I . . ."
He didn't continue his question, stepping closer to me, shifting from foot to foot and looking down at his hands. Oh no, not this. I'm going to do this, aren't I? My last shred of dignity!
I slid over, offering him space to crawl in. When he didn't, I sent him a soft smile and patted the mattress encouragingly. Shyly, he climbed in, rested his head on my pillow, and stared at the ceiling with a look of intense concentration.
"What do you see?" I asked quietly, returning my own gaze to the ceiling.
He didn't respond for a while, just rested quietly. He was so quiet that if it weren't for the sound of his soft breath, I would have questioned his vitality.
"There's a boy," he said finally. "And a man."
"What are they doing?" I asked.
"Dying."
I shifted my position to look at him, unsure if he meant the shadows on the ceiling or his nightmare.
"What are they dying from, Harry?"
"Neglect."
"Who's neglecting them?"
"Everyone."
"Why do you think this?"
"Because there's no one there to save them." He turned to look at me; his cheeks wet with fresh tears, moved closer, and tucked himself beneath my chin. I stroked his hair, whispered incomprehensible nothings into his ear until he fell asleep, tucked him under my blankets, and wondered why his body continued to shake.
***
The next morning, classes resumed for both Harry and myself. I woke up to find him clutching my pant leg for dear life, his head cuddled into my chest, his eyes tightly shut, his breathing hard, his lips chapped, his cheeks sticky, his hair messy, his arms scarred, his body shaking, his dreams tearing him to apart.
"Harry," I whispered, rubbing his back. "It's time to wake up."
He shook his head into my chest.
"C'mon, love," I said softly. "Class. You have to learn, I have to teach. You know, the same routine as the past six years."
"No," he moaned, his voice muffled by my shirt. "Don't want to."
"Harry . . . " I trailed off warningly. "You have to go."
He sighed, turned on his other side. The side not facing me. Is it so utterly pathetic of me to be hurt by such a response?
Anger quickly seeped in. It was almost pleasant to feel it once more, to have that last grasp of sanity reclaim me. I cleared my throat, got to my feet, rounded the bed, kneeled in front of the boy.
"Open your eyes."
"No."
A growl escaped my throat. "Yes, Harry. Shut your mouth. Open your eyes."
He turned away again. The rage heated my blood to a boil, searing through me like the burn of a flame. I grabbed his shoulder, turned him on his back.
"Open. Your. Eyes." I gritted the words through my teeth. This time, he obeyed, opening his bloodshot green eyes disdainfully. "Go take a shower and get ready for breakfast," I said. He laid still. "NOW, POTTER!"
He jumped off the bed and scampered to the bathroom.
Ah, normalcy. How I missed thee.
He came out 15 minutes later, wearing a bathrobe, harshly tugging a comb through his wet hair and cursing beneath his breath.
"Oh, honestly, Potter," I scowled, snatching the offending object from his hand. "You'll pull your hair out."
"Will not," he grumbled.
"You will," I told him. "You'll tug it all out and be bald in ten years time." I set to work, waging war on the tangles of his thick, black hair.
"I can comb my own hair," he said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sixteen."
"So you say, Potter," I replied distantly, focusing most of my energy on one particular impossible struggle, "Perhaps you should act it."
"I do. Usually," he mumbled. "And don't call me Potter anymore. I like it when you call me Harry."
It came loose. "Aha!" I said triumphantly. He leaned his head back to stare at me. I cleared my throat. "Um, I meant . . . Harry, get into your clothes. We have a big day ahead of us."
He snorted. "A big day. Just like every day for the past six years."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
I think I like Potter best when he's crying.
***
I watched from the head table as Harry settled down with his fellow Gryffindors, smiling, laughing, greeting, discussing, lying. Granger and Weasley appeared to be rather perturbed, however.
"How was your first night?" Albus asked from beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.
He looked amused. Blasted old man was ALWAYS fucking amused.
"As well as expected, I suppose," I replied. "He has awful dreams. His bed was shaking as if he were the fucking twat from the classic Muggle film, The Exorcist."
"Severus!" McGonagall reprimanded me sternly. "Language!"
I smirked, shrugged my shoulders. "But that bit with the crucifix, Minerva- "
Albus cleared his throat to cut me off. "Severus, do behave yourself."
I snickered, casting a brief glance at the Gryffindor table once more and let out a relieved sigh. He was eating. Good boy.
"Worried about your young charge, Severus?" Albus asked, his eyes dancing.
I answered his question with glare.
Of course I was.
***
--authors notes-
Thanks for the words of support, guys. I'm not sure if you'll like this chapter or not. It starts off in its normal angst-ridden self and dissolves in humor. Oh well. Review! More will come. 33
The pleasure that my sadness brings
As my fingers press onto the strings
In yet another clumsy chord
Haligh, haligh, an awful lie
This weight will now be satisfied
I'm gonna give you only one reply
I know not who I am
-bright eyes
Chapter Four
He woke up periodically throughout the night, Harry did. He kicked, screamed, thrashed, writhed around on his new bed, causing the headboard to bang against the wall. He cried for his mother. He cried for his father. He cried for Black.
I lay awake, watching the shadows play across the white ceiling. Shadows are like clouds - they can be anything. With me, they were usually angels, sprouting wings and flying off to a better place. That's how I got over my fear of darkness. Angels - the ultimate source of light.
I laughed bitterly. If anyone knew that Severus Snape formed angels from cluttered blackness, there would be no living it down.
The boy's in an awful fit now; I can hear his sobs through the walls. Not a hard thing to do, when the walls are paper-thin. Everything's been paper- thin lately, though. Even me.
To think, my emotions had been on display all day. Crawling and crying to Albus Dumbledore like a lowly student, comforting Harry Potter . . . No, I wasn't myself anymore. I was a new man.
I snorted. Right. A new man.
The screaming had stopped. The headboard creaked in the aftershock of its victimization, and all was eerily quiet for some time. His whisper rang through my bedroom like wind chimes, distant and haunting.
"Professor?"
My heart skipped a beat in my surprise, and I sat up to distinguish his small form in at the threshold of my sleeping quarters. He was shaking.
"Yes, Harry?" I attempted to keep my voice comforting.
"Can I . . ."
He didn't continue his question, stepping closer to me, shifting from foot to foot and looking down at his hands. Oh no, not this. I'm going to do this, aren't I? My last shred of dignity!
I slid over, offering him space to crawl in. When he didn't, I sent him a soft smile and patted the mattress encouragingly. Shyly, he climbed in, rested his head on my pillow, and stared at the ceiling with a look of intense concentration.
"What do you see?" I asked quietly, returning my own gaze to the ceiling.
He didn't respond for a while, just rested quietly. He was so quiet that if it weren't for the sound of his soft breath, I would have questioned his vitality.
"There's a boy," he said finally. "And a man."
"What are they doing?" I asked.
"Dying."
I shifted my position to look at him, unsure if he meant the shadows on the ceiling or his nightmare.
"What are they dying from, Harry?"
"Neglect."
"Who's neglecting them?"
"Everyone."
"Why do you think this?"
"Because there's no one there to save them." He turned to look at me; his cheeks wet with fresh tears, moved closer, and tucked himself beneath my chin. I stroked his hair, whispered incomprehensible nothings into his ear until he fell asleep, tucked him under my blankets, and wondered why his body continued to shake.
***
The next morning, classes resumed for both Harry and myself. I woke up to find him clutching my pant leg for dear life, his head cuddled into my chest, his eyes tightly shut, his breathing hard, his lips chapped, his cheeks sticky, his hair messy, his arms scarred, his body shaking, his dreams tearing him to apart.
"Harry," I whispered, rubbing his back. "It's time to wake up."
He shook his head into my chest.
"C'mon, love," I said softly. "Class. You have to learn, I have to teach. You know, the same routine as the past six years."
"No," he moaned, his voice muffled by my shirt. "Don't want to."
"Harry . . . " I trailed off warningly. "You have to go."
He sighed, turned on his other side. The side not facing me. Is it so utterly pathetic of me to be hurt by such a response?
Anger quickly seeped in. It was almost pleasant to feel it once more, to have that last grasp of sanity reclaim me. I cleared my throat, got to my feet, rounded the bed, kneeled in front of the boy.
"Open your eyes."
"No."
A growl escaped my throat. "Yes, Harry. Shut your mouth. Open your eyes."
He turned away again. The rage heated my blood to a boil, searing through me like the burn of a flame. I grabbed his shoulder, turned him on his back.
"Open. Your. Eyes." I gritted the words through my teeth. This time, he obeyed, opening his bloodshot green eyes disdainfully. "Go take a shower and get ready for breakfast," I said. He laid still. "NOW, POTTER!"
He jumped off the bed and scampered to the bathroom.
Ah, normalcy. How I missed thee.
He came out 15 minutes later, wearing a bathrobe, harshly tugging a comb through his wet hair and cursing beneath his breath.
"Oh, honestly, Potter," I scowled, snatching the offending object from his hand. "You'll pull your hair out."
"Will not," he grumbled.
"You will," I told him. "You'll tug it all out and be bald in ten years time." I set to work, waging war on the tangles of his thick, black hair.
"I can comb my own hair," he said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sixteen."
"So you say, Potter," I replied distantly, focusing most of my energy on one particular impossible struggle, "Perhaps you should act it."
"I do. Usually," he mumbled. "And don't call me Potter anymore. I like it when you call me Harry."
It came loose. "Aha!" I said triumphantly. He leaned his head back to stare at me. I cleared my throat. "Um, I meant . . . Harry, get into your clothes. We have a big day ahead of us."
He snorted. "A big day. Just like every day for the past six years."
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.
I think I like Potter best when he's crying.
***
I watched from the head table as Harry settled down with his fellow Gryffindors, smiling, laughing, greeting, discussing, lying. Granger and Weasley appeared to be rather perturbed, however.
"How was your first night?" Albus asked from beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.
He looked amused. Blasted old man was ALWAYS fucking amused.
"As well as expected, I suppose," I replied. "He has awful dreams. His bed was shaking as if he were the fucking twat from the classic Muggle film, The Exorcist."
"Severus!" McGonagall reprimanded me sternly. "Language!"
I smirked, shrugged my shoulders. "But that bit with the crucifix, Minerva- "
Albus cleared his throat to cut me off. "Severus, do behave yourself."
I snickered, casting a brief glance at the Gryffindor table once more and let out a relieved sigh. He was eating. Good boy.
"Worried about your young charge, Severus?" Albus asked, his eyes dancing.
I answered his question with glare.
Of course I was.
***
--authors notes-
Thanks for the words of support, guys. I'm not sure if you'll like this chapter or not. It starts off in its normal angst-ridden self and dissolves in humor. Oh well. Review! More will come. 33