lovers alone wear sunlight
— e.e. cummings
Many thanks to the few who have reviewed, your thoughts are very much taken into heart.
Snape is at Number Four, to ask Vernon some questions. Ginny is at (where else?) the Burrow, with some thoughts to ponder and dissect…
And now, without further ado, the sixth chapter in In Brilliant Fire Burns Desire.
Chapter 6: Can't Fight the Moonlight
InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire -- this it the new "time" divider, since ff.net refuses the usual divider :)
The chilling gale of summer nights seeped in through the small space between the bottom of the Dursleys' entrance door and the well-polished (and well-dirtied) floor of their home.
The quickly passing wind did not bother the man inside the seemingly strange house, who was intently reading a book on a common Muggle contraption . . ..
AC COBRA 280 & 427
. . . . fitting a 4.2-litre Ford V-eight engine into their lithe and handsome light alloy Ace sportscar. By early 1962, AC had built the first prototypes. . . .
The edge of his abnormally large nose was a few millimeters away from the page, not unlike the manner he'd used in taking a test way before, which had earned him taunts.
It was rather amusing, Severus thought, as his eyes scanned the page, which still had the authentic smell of a new, colored, and expensive book. Nevertheless, the dust he had blown off the cover had told him that the book was merely for display and showing off to any rich ones who might come to visit.
Dursley really is not joking about this rich business, then.
He flicked his wand and a few more pages turned until it landed on the two hundred fifth pages. Snape's eyes bulged a bit at the eye-candy before him.
"What is that?"
ABOVE: You can spot a Plus eight by its light alloy wheels, though the wheelbase was longer and the track wider than the 4/4.
He leaned in for a closer look; the setting sunset in the picture had cast an orange illumination on the midnight black of the car.
"Maybe this car-motor foolishness of Muggles isn't as bad as we thought . . .."
Snape let the thought linger for a while, mulling it over as he drank a cup of hot water, thanks to his exploration of the house, before he closed the thick book and sought out another one with a duller cover (the previous tome had had a black background, and in the center-left, was a gleaming silver jaguar with its jaws wide open).
He really couldn't see the relationship of a wild animal with cars.
Never mind. Leave Muggles to their own crazy world.
The next book had a red . . . a red Chevrolet, was it? Perhaps he should sleep earlier at nights if he wanted full abilities of his eyes when he aged.
1964 Lincoln Continental
Interior
Continental has power steering and windows, walnut cappings . . ..
The sound of an engine turning off.
"Hmm?"
. . . a padded dashboard, lush carpets, and vacuum- powered—
"Argh!"
Might as well finish the Continental thing, he thought as he heard a rather interesting sound that resembled an angered hippopotamus, his favorite Muggle animal. Of course, no one should know that Severus Snape actually had a favorite Muggle animal . . .. They'd think he was going . . . soft.
. . . and vacuum-powered door locks as standard. The locks operated automatically as soon as the cars started to move—
Click.
It was a soft sound, barely audible to untrained ears. No one who knew Severus Snape called him an untrained man.
He paused his admiration of the Continental beauty.
Yes, it the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a door lock. Muffled voices, much more quiet than that of the outburst on wizards' magical abilities, and the sounds of feet scuffling to get in out of the cold were audible.
Poor fools. They make me want to split my insides with laughter at their silly antics.
He looked back onto the book on his lap but to his irritation, he'd lost the page. Sighing with indignation, and feeling a surge of annoyance flow through his veins, he stood up. After much awkward patting around and grunting (the books looked devilishly light, but then again, looks can be deceiving), he straightened up once more, and scanned the room for any signs that he had occupied it.
To his slight dismay, the couch's chignon cover had a tiny hole, maybe due to the time when he'd accidentally let the car book's sharp edge poke through? It wasn't his fault he was born with a most disturbing itch in a certain private part on his backside that had a tendency to sting in the most unfortunate timing.
And the rug, Persian, Severus assumed, which had once been a handsome cream color, now had mysteriously acquired some large brownish chunks. Well, he thought, you couldn't really blame him for having long legs, and big feet, could you? Besides, the plant was ugly anyway, and it went for the rug. He was honestly doing the household a favor.
With two quick words, and some wand movements, the mess, to his slight dismay once again, was gone.
Pity. The house so looked better with my adjustments.
"— Inferior to them, I think not—"
"—Second place! Second place, Petunia!"
"Mum— Mummy, I'm tired. Can we go in the bloody house?"
Ah, but of course. They're talking about the Most Well-Kept Lawn in Surrey contest. Is there such a thing?
The Death Eater turned Potions master tittered slightly as the bony woman, obviously harried, was blaming the "ruddy good-for-nothing contest's" effect on her son, causing him to say things that he mustn't. The boisterous cursing of the patriarch was so, but not too loud that he would have shame put on his family by the neighbors. It seemed the key wasn't working, and could Petunia please have the lock fixed tomorrow by the time he got home? The consequences promised hardly bestirred his darling wife.
After many threats, whimpers, and sneezes (these were feminine-like, so Severus mulled over the fact that Lily's sister certainly was allergic to magic) nothing was happening to the Dursley family.
They were utterly clueless of the simple Locking spell the Potions master had cast on the door, which was so because he needed time to think of how to approach the enemy.
The reason for which was the explanation of his untimely planning was that, he had been thinking of how to confront the Dursleys when a certain stack of books that featured a certain Muggle contraption caught his steely black eye. Still, his trusty cunningness and his quick thinking hadn't failed him, and, soon, Severus had uttered Finite Incantatem.
There were a few moments of the sound of metal against metal before—
"Damn door— really, now, Petunia, you should—"
He deeply regretted the fact that at that exact moment when the pot-bellied man stepped into his home, an unfortunate mite found its most unfortunate way into his nostril.
Severus Snape was a man who rarely sneezed, and when he did, all the pent-up sneezes that refused to come out did so.
Thus, it was safe to say, that Vernon Dursley got the shock of his life, when he stepped into his home. After all, it wasn't every day that you would go home and be very nearly blown off your feet by a monstrous achoo!, was it?
No, sir, it wasn't.
After he got over his initial surprise, Vernon quickly retaliated.
"PETUNIA! Intruder! Intruder! He's—"
He got a good look at their slowly-recovering uninvited guest and suddenly, he didn't really remind Snape of the life-size fuchsia plush bunny he'd seen on one of his trips to the Muggle world before. Now, he struck Snape as a rather large snowball, for the plump Muggle had paled so fast as one could make a snowball.
"Great Scott! He's— He's one of them!"
I really do despise having to shove Veritaserum down his unworthy throat. The very thought of my hours of work going to waste is too much for my poor heart.
Even in his thoughts, he sounded sarcastic. He brushed himself off in an attempt to appear distinguished even after that catastrophic sneeze. Small, bumbling footsteps followed by those that were heavy and thick sounding to the ears accompanied the frenzied shouts of Vernon that he tried to tone down should the neighbors wake up.
He didn't suppose they would ever be able to stand the sight of him when faced against danger. It would surely be too much for their frail minds.
In a nanosecond, he was beside Vernon, and his hand over the Muggle's disgustingly wet mouth. The gravity-troubled chap struggled to get out of the wizard's strong hold. After a few moments of indefatigable hassle on Dursley's part, all was still.
"Another word out of you, Mr. Dursley," he hissed very near the ear, where he knew what he would say would be loud enough to make the Muggle flinch, "you and your precious family's heads will be the next decorations for Azkaban's fortress."
The man stiffened, and his wife and son stood still, their mouths agape, since Snape had his wand pointed at the heart of the titanic vista, which was Dudley Dursley.
"I am sure the dementors will enjoy the view of your disfigured heads, perched atop some unused spikes, with the crows feasting on your decaying eyes."
The three's faces were enough to make him let go of the man and just Apparate to Madam Rosmerta's for a "cuppa", what the lovely barmaid called a tough shot of Firewhisky.
Hahaha… But no. Business is what I am here for, and what I will get.
For a very strained matter of time, Severus' own mouth went through a series of rather nasty transformations. From underneath his hand, some muffled sounds were coming, and obviously, Vernon was salivating.
Disgusting Muggle.
"I said, not a word, Dursley! Now. If you would all just…," he gave a wave of his wand that he sorely hoped radiated nonchalance, "step inside your humble abode, then we shall get down to what I came here for as soon as possible."
No sooner had he turned to face the house, when Dursley, unable to fathom his good luck at having writhed his way out off the man's grasp, and not having his head blasted off by that blasted wooden stick, and at his disbelief at the wizard calmly suggesting they all go in his house, and talk business over a cup of coffee, had grabbed a handful of his wife and son's clothes, and was bellowing with all the strength Severus reckoned an angered rhinoceros might exert on a full-blast bellow, "Run! RUN! Petunia, Dudders! Let's go! Hussle it up, boy, come on!"
Severus waited a moment to revel in the rather satisfying fact that he had that particular effect on people before he uttered the incantation for the Binding Spell softly. It was a pity for the sight of an impeccably thin woman, her dress clutched by a ragged-looking man at the front, and the back of her skirt in the hands of a terrified, super-sized bowling ball to go.
All good things must come to an end, they say.
He watched as, it seemed, with exaggerated slow-motion, the family fell down, and the cousin of Potter, Severus was glad to say with a grim satisfaction, was not as lucky as his parents, who had fallen backwards. He landed face down.
Time to get the act up.
Gliding with almost as much deadly grace of a dementor, he reached them.
"I warned you, Mr. Dursley."
The words were spoken with absolute poison.
Soon, his eyes met the frightened ones of each of the fallen Dursleys. The boy was whimpering.
After what seemed like forever, his lips parted once more, but the words were not clipped with as much malice as before.
"Once I undo your binds, you will all get up, and we will follow you, Mr. Dursley, into your home, where you will welcome me. He," a quirk of his head towards Dudley, who cowered, "will be sent up to his room, where he will fall unto his bed, asleep, whilst you, and Mrs. Dursley will sit with me in your living room, where we will talk about some impending matters that can hardly be avoided any longer."
Husband and wife faced each other, and they knew that the boy was gone. Fear was etched onto the stunningly sharp features of Petunia, while apprehension on those of Vernon. Dudley's fright was indescribable.
He stole a furtive glance at the blond woman, and thought, funny, Evans. . . She doesn't look at all a thing like you. . .
He muttered the spell, and soon, they were walking, if not being dragged, on Dudley's part, and if not pushing, on his mother's. Their footsteps echoed throughout the empty street, various sounds, scuffling, thuds. The echoes reverberated in Snape's mind for eternity. They were both soothing and familiarly destructive.
Vernon Dursley couldn't believe his bad luck. His secretary had run off that morning with a note thanking him for everything and apologizing profusely, and that he had no choice. Vernon didn't see the point in running away from so much money. For a secretary, his had a high salary.
Before entering the house one more time that night, Severus cast his eyes to the sky. There were no clouds and the millions of stars up above shone down on the miserable lot.
Merlin, give me the patience, I beg of you. . .
The three-quartered moon seemed to splay much more beams than ever before, casting them in an almost eerie light.
InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire
a few minutes later
"Dudley, go up to bed now. Kiss Mummy and Daddy good night."
Severus thought quickly, as he mulled over the situation, in an attempt to expedite it. They took their time exchanging their evening pleasantries, as if they were the last they'd ever exchange.
Good thing Black's dead and gone. They would be the last 'good night's any of them will ever utter for the rest of their lives if he were here right now.
Once the boy's door had closed, he pounced.
"All right. What did you do to Potter? What reason did you have to do it?"
They shared another fearful glance and Severus thought disgustedly that should he ever find a woman in the world who was competent and blatantly condescending enough to match his own arrogance to be his wife (which was very, very unlikely to happen in any lifetime), he would… Well, he wouldn't do a thing along the lines upon which the Dursleys were acting on.
They were stupid, there was no other word for it.
"I swear, I didn't do anything! Get out of my house, you — you freak!"
Snape merely brushed aside the comment and walked a few steps, taking his time to let the last words roll over each other in his mind before letting them go completely.
"Really, now? And do you suppose that Potter just tortured himself, cut his arms, legs, his body, and banged against the wall for his entertainment? I'm sure he enjoyed himself immensely."
The words were said with no nonsense. He wouldn't take any from any damn Muggle.
"No — yes — well, I don't —"
The wind rushed against the inside of his robes as he pivoted on the spot to face them.
"SILENCE!"
He had what he wanted. The woman kept making noises that were a cross between whimpers and indignant murmurs. Her husband was not much of a difference.
Talk about hypocrisy… For a man his size to be so easily unhinged is opprobrium to obesity.
"Sit down, Mr. Dursley, and tell me your inevitably recreant version of semblance as to why Potter is now in St. Catchpole, being tended to carefully, as he had seemingly endured about a month's worth of torture, and drank some potions that are not known to Muggles and let's see if I will buy it. If I do, we'll drink some tea that your wife will prepare while you tell me what happened. If not, well… We'll see, eh?"
The fear in Vernon's intensified. Severus was careful to take note of that. Unrest grew apparent with every moment that passed in the room.
Taking her husband's silence as a cue, Petunia hurried away to the safe confines of her kitchen. For a minute, she looked up to her ceiling, and cursed her damned sister silently for bringing this upon them. After all, it was her child that the two men were feuding silently about, wasn't it?
Petunia heard her husband start speaking, and, with a moment's hesitation, got around to making tea.
Their conversation was carried by the passing night wind. First, came the stranger's gravelly voice.
"Anything unusual at all in the past three months? Anything that slightly aroused your suspicion, to even the smallest height?"
"Well— well, I don't really know if it's of any importance at all, but— there was a fellow in my office— I work in a drills company, you know, might get a promotion any day now—"
He faltered for a minute, seeing the glare that had come over Snape's eyes.
Only a plank between me and perdition, Muggle. Take your pick.
"Anyway, my old secretary's husband was being relocated to somewhere else, and she refused my suggestion that she divorce him and just stay here, so we had to get a new one for me. A man with my position cannot get on possibly without a secretary. There was a man, he applied, by the name of Danil Vargas."
Danil Vargas. The name was familiar to Snape, like a long-forgotten memory, whose fragments still lingered in one's mind. Spasmodically, he remembered.
Danil Vargas. Mortis Dolohov's fatuous pseudonym during Hogwarts. The one he had a spat over with McGonagall during sixth year. Mortis? Can it be possible?
Severus inclined his head to signal Vernon to go on.
Reassured, he said, "I found him to be a likeable chap, very polite, cautious, and he had the best sense of humor you could ever find. We had a routine: every morning, we'd chat for a while over some donuts, then get to work. In the afternoons, just right about going home, we'd spent a few minutes or so talking about a lot of things, while we drank our coffee. He liked his decaf, but that's the point where I don't agree with him. Oh, and did I mention that he's the one who mixes my coffee for me? Very helpful, really, Danil was…"
Vernon's words trailed off in Severus' mind. It didn't really take a lot of brain cells to work it all out: coffee, afternoon talks, Danil Vargas. . .
"… the funny thing was, that after each cup of coffee we had, I'd forget what would happen for a few minutes."
The Potions Master leaned in more closely at this tidbit of information.
"I suppose it was from the stress getting alleviated from my body. Hard times, hard times— not that we're struggling— I remember always going home in sort of a daze, always wondered if Vargas would put liquor in my coffee, and I—"
Vernon stopped talking, but Severus was already on his feet.
"Speak up, man. This information is on a need-to-know basis."
But the two huge sausages that Dursley had for lips were clamped together. "Why should I tell you? I've told you enough already. What has my new secretary got to do with Potter, eh? You tell me that."
In a swift second, he was at Dursley's side, and he said the spell that would keep his mouth open, before reaching deep into his robes and emerging with a small crystal flask of Veritaserum in his hand. Five drops were in Dursley's mouth and swallowed before he could even begin to react.
The thought occurred to Severus that maybe forcing someone to drink something while their head was tilted upwards could probably cause them to choke.
If that does happen, I'll just conjure the drops out of his throat. . . Wouldn't that be pleasant?
He thought that a choking was seriously going to take place when Dursley started spluttering and clutching his throat desperately.
"How— how dare you! In my HOUSE! Out, you freak! Get OUT!"
But then he realized the man was just choking over his indignation at being treated so savagely. Severus wasn't undaunted the least bit.
"Sit, Mr. Dursley, for a few minutes and the potion will take effect. Then, we will continue our little… chat," said Severus.
Potter's gruesome relative was in his seat, begrudgingly held down with the use of a spell, which he'd had to cast due to the man's refusal to sit down. Honestly, the cheek of these Muggles.
Greasy-haired face slightly balding, with nothing but silence between them. Pure loathing was flashing in the eyes of Vernon. Severus accepted that with mild amusement.
Tick.
Tock.
They both heard a tinkling sound, before a rather hollow-sounding crash resonated through out the house. It came from the kitchen. Neither of them looked away from each other.
A quiet that greatly unnerved the Muggle occupants descended over the household once more. It was comforting to Severus.
Tick.
Tock.
His heart beat in time with the clock's ticking behind him.
Thud.
Tick.
Thud.
Tock.
He waited patiently for any sign from the man who was watching him intently, a challenge in his eyes. Any thing, a quick jolt of a finger, the slight tap of a foot.
Tick.
Tock.
The scraping of broken china pieces on some tiles. The indisputable swish, swish of a broom. Petunia's moving shadow was cast on the ecru carpet.
The grandfather clock behind Vernon suddenly burst into chimes, as the big hand had finished its journey and reached twelve, whilst the smaller one pointed to three.
Witching hour.
An eyebrow very, very imperceptibly twitched. Severus saw.
Only in these kinds of situations do I get to flaunt the fact that I am knowledgeable in potions is very beneficial.
Well.. I suppose it really isn't that big a change in Potions history, but, still. . . . Altering the legendary Veritaserum is quite an achievement, if I do say so myself. . . Not to get away with my large head here. . .
"What did you do every time you got home after having a cup with this Vargas man?"
It must've come as a shock to Dursley that his first impulse was to answer. He swallowed hard, as if trying to swallow the information he inevitably was going to give away.
Hard thing, Veritaserum. Hard to fight.
"I'd go home, kiss my wife hello, spend time with my boy. At night, when they sleep, I—
"
He shook his head furiously. Severus knew this was hard. There was a feeling that followed the drinking of the serum that sort of forced you to answer. It was unpleasant, to put it down in a nutshell.
"Go on."
Fat beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his head, dampening the few strands of hair that lingered there. His hands were pale with effort of trying to keep it all in.
"You're just doing that to spite me, Muggle. Believe me, to be annoyed is something you wouldn't want me to see?
What harm was there in telling a complete stranger about his nightly terrorizing of his unwanted nephew? Dursley wondered sarcastically.
Finally, he couldn't hold it in any longer.
"I—I hurt the boy."
Humph. That was made blatantly obvious.
"I don't know why. Something inside just made me."
We all have our evil twins, Mr. Dursley. Unfortunately, you do not know how to send them off on vacation.
"An anger, deep inside, boiled inside of me."
Oh, no, I'm mistaken. It's not your evil twin, Muggle, just gas.
"I just had to vent it out on someone. Who else to but Potter?"
I'm afraid we share the same dilemma.
"I don't know what else. It was like someone had ordered me to do it, I can remember. Vestiges of memory. I have dreams about it, about a voice, that tells me what to do."
He paused, gasping for breath, before glaring insolently at Snape, whose quirky comments were making him wince slightly. It was… unthinkable for a man like him to smirk. A wince would have to do.
"During the day, I don't remember, for some reason. But at night, everything comes back. Not full-force, mind you. If it came back fully, I would see who tells me these things, obviously."
Obviously.
Severus mulled things over inside his head. A storm of ideas brewed inside his head.
Danil Vargas or Mortis Dolohov, new secretary. Was last seen in Wizarding World ten years ago, after his manor was barged down by Ministry officials in search of his brother, Andrew… Coffee, anger boiling, abusiveness. The Dark Lord's planning something.
He could feel it. Just like he'd felt when Pettigrew betrayed Lily and James Potter. Of course, he'd been on the wrong side that time.
His eyes zeroed in one Dursley's tense face, trying to discern anything.
"What happened to Danil Vargas?"Through his nervousness, Vernon managed a deep-browed frown.
"That's just it. This morning he took off. Said in his note he'd had everything he needed, done everything he'd done. And he apologized like mad, and thanked me. Ungrateful being," he couldn't help but add in the end.
The small beginnings of panic racked Severus' heart. Took off? What was happening? The panic was growing and it flew around him, threatening, like a mosquito. Then it bit.
He tried to look nonchalant.
You're the king of nonchalance, Snape. Yes, you are. . .
"So," he said, walking around a few steps to add to the vibe, "You've no idea where he is?"
"Haven't the foggiest"
Damn.
He tried his hardest to think of another question, a possible one that might lead to where Mortis Dolohov really was, and why he was traipsing about Britain, using an old school nickname. It was greatly… disturbing.
The clinking of metal against china was heard as Petunia set down the tea cups with stiffness radiating from her every move. His eyes began to fuzz at the edges as Dursley hesitantly tried to reach for the table but found he couldn't.
His forearm began to burn. It was starting.
Not now… Severus mentally groaned.
The woman who reminded him of a vulture surveyed the scene with intense concentration. It was slightly unnerving. She looked exactly as how he'd overheard Lily describing her to Potter.
Potter senior, he thought with disgust. Unimaginative, plain, strikingly boring. And that she looked as if she had dung all the time under her nose.
Funny. Her son said the exact same thing about Narcissa Malfoy. He remembered Malfoy recounting the events with Crabbe and Goyle. From what he'd heard, Malfoy had knocked Potter out cold.
Severus highly doubted it.
He sucked in some air, after sipping at his tea. Chamomile, he noted. He was partial to chamomile. Vernon was miserably staring at his cup. The clocked ticked slowly behind them, the movement of the larger hand producing a repetitive sound, not unlike a metronome.
Tick.
Vernon struggled some more but all his efforts were in vain. Lily's sister didn't move. She stood, her lips in a line so straight that they could challenge McGonagall's.
Tock.
"Well," he started. "It was nice… meeting you, Mr. Dursley. Mrs. Dursley," he bowed his head a little, all the way his teeth gritted at the prospect of bowing to Muggles who obviously had no hearts.
Tick.
It was tingling. He supposed he would've been used to the feeling by now, but no. It tingled like every time he hit his funny bone. Not that anyone expected Severus Snape to have a funny bone.
Tock.
He could feel the distress of the man as he started walking to the front door.
Tick.
Severus couldn't just leave the man that way. It wasn't out of pity. Severus Snape didn't feel pity. It was that if he did (leave Dursley that way, that is) he could, no, he would get caught by the Ministry, and he didn't need any nasty business right now.
"Finite Incantatem."
Tock.
Dursley sprang to his feet. "NOW, Petunia! Get the rifle!"
Tock.
He was vaguely aware of Petunia's alarm as she broke her stiff posture to reach for the gun. It was in her hands at the same time his wand was in his.
Dimly, he heard the sound of the rifle being prepared to shoot. The feel of his wand was familiar and oddly comforting, and was it just his imagination or did the touch of the wand alleviate some of the hissing pain that was in his arm?
Severus pointed his wand at the couple and shouted, feeling all the magic he gathered inside come out through the end of it.
"Obliviate Dismarte!"
He didn't see the blank looks on their faces as they struggled to remember what had happened. Then, with a satisfaction descending over his body, he fully Disapparated. His left forearm, where the Dark Mark burned, was the last to disappear.
The moonlight followed him as he reappeared at one of the places he loathed most in the world.
InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire
Dear Diary,
I had a million things to mull over, a million inquiries about myself that I failed to answer. Then something so terrible like this happens, that one of the people I love the most is hurt beyond belief, and soon, I'm full to bursting with a million more inquisitions about Harry, and no one is competent enough to answer me. But, then again, I didn't actually summon enough courage to ask them out loud.
I've been pushed around these past three days, and ordered here and there to do this and that. Not that I am fed up with doing anything to help Harry, not at all. I'd do anything to help him get better as soon as he can. After all, that's what people who are in love do, right? Help the person they gave their hearts out to. Even if the action wasn't returned.
A thousand thoughts buzz through my head, and I'm so confused. Good thing I decided that I couldn't, wouldn't, take anymore of this emotional torment and write to you. You've been here for me, diary, for quite a long time now (because two weeks is a very, very, very long time for a diary to last with someone like me, who is absolutely terrified of them). And I think that, I can trust a blank book once again without having to carry fear on my shoulders every time I confide in you.
It's good to finally be able to wind down after that much running around and following orders and unleash my emotion onto these empty pages. After all, that's what you're here for, right? To help me with my life. To share with the task of carrying my load of problems.
So . . . ready for a rather pent-up harangue?
Here it goes, cap'n.
What is it with Harry always having to be the one to get hurt, eh? What's he done to anyone, in the first place? It's not fair. Everyone expects everything else that isn't included in their lists of good and favorable things to happen to someone, and just so unluckily for Harry, it had to be him.
He always has to be the hero, who in their minds, has to take on the responsibility of saving everyone else's throats by sacrificing his own. He always has to be the one to give up something for them.
Isn't it enough that he's practically becoming a martyr for all of them? For millions of people he's never known. People who, whenever he should fail to protect their arses, suddenly turn their cheek on him and make up explanations of the reasons behind his failures. He's a deranged person who seeks only our attention. He's a filthy liar who deserves nothing more than a life-term sentence in Azkaban.
He is NOT! Good God! People certainly have the nerve to just treat him like a dolphin. Yes, I've read about one of the world wars, whichever one of them included trained dolphins swimming up to enemy ships with explosives strapped securely to their backs.
The dolphin, much to my chagrin, and yours, doesn't survive. How can he? He'd be a thaumaturgy.
What really bothers me, and taps into my temper often (which doesn't take much to flare up) is the damn fact that no matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, it's never good enough for the damn world.
And it breaks my heart.
On to less-saddening topics, then...
Mum said that Professor Snape's right there at the Dursleys (Merlin forbid them to live one second longer) and he's going to straighten things out.
Well, that's comforting. It was hardly better than knowing how they found out about Harry, now. How does anyone expect anyone to be reassured by the fact that Hogwarts' very own menace of a Potions Master can be counted upon to redeem the dignity that was stolen viciously from one of his most detested pupils?
I know Snape was always good, but that still doesn't change the fact the he's a bloody Death Eater. Even though it's perfectly clear to me that he's a spy for our side, it's still so unsubstantial and hard to believe. Wouldn't you have a hard time putting your trust fully into someone who is so unnecessarily condescending and very critical about every little thing you do?
And, add to that that he was an active slave of the Dark Lord for who knows how long? before he decided that he'd been bad and deserved to turn over to the good side.
Not to mention that he has an divergently large nose, which is slightly off-center, and that his really awful hair could do with a washing every decade and that the way his robes fly with the wind is downright frightful, not like Harry (because on Harry it's quite sexy) and that . . . that I sound silly, yes, even to myself.
What's it to me or anyone else, for that matter, what Professor Snape looks like?
Nothing at all. I would seriously do Fred, George and Ron proud, though. Now, who would want that? They most certainly aren't proclaimed fans of Snape. Quite the contrary, in fact.
When I got my first good look at Harry, I swear, my heart beat faster at the sight of him and it stopped still. It really did. How could it not? It hurt me to see him hurt. And who knows just what his mind's been going through?
It took every fiber of my being NOT to scream out loud in horror. Why? Because:
1. It would alert the Professors and Mum, and they'd probably think a Death Eater has gotten to me down here
2. When they do find out that it was just me screaming out of horror at Harry's countenance, Ron, the twins and me will be in very big trouble with Mum, for I rather have a loud scream for someone my size
3. She'll start fussing about how she didn't raise her children to disturb people who are in need of rest and ranting about how she's so ashamed, and how dare they, right in front of their guests (and one of the twins will most probably mutter how having teachers at their home doesn't amount to guests)
4. Then, Mum would hear that, and she'd yell her head off about not being polite and to keep things to ourselves if it's not anything nice (at this point, she'll look at each of us in the eye to try and challenge us, but mostly she does that to catch her breath. Even empress dowagers need oxygen once in a while. I expect it refuels them for their next yelling times...)
5. McGonagall and Pomfrey will just be standing there, looking like bloody idiots (well, not McGonagall, she never can look like an idiot, even while wearing Snape's ensemble whenever Neville casts Riddikulus on a Boggart, but maybe Madam Pomfrey. The woman lives for hysterics, honestly!) while Mum lectures us four Weasley "young ones"
6. And last of all, number six, Harry would wake up and that's not good at all for someone in his condition, and plus, I would hate to be the reason ( I yelled) started the reason (Mum yelled) that he woke up.
Luckily, due to my unsurpassable amount of self-control, and the fact that the moment I gasped at the sight of Harry, he beat me to screaming out loud, therefore, saving my brothers and me the trouble of having to be indefinitely bored by Mum, and indefinitely amused with the squirming of Madam Pomfrey.
And, diary, I can't help but feel hurt… Who is Carmine? Sandara? I don't care about Mulciber. After all, he is a guy. Unless Harry swings that way… No!! I will not permit myself to think of Harry that way! It wouldn't do anyone in the world justice, certainly not me or Harry.
I know I don't own Harry. I never did, and, most likely never will. What with this drab head full of orange-y red feathers that only pathetic people call hair and my plain brown eyes that are nothing when compared to Harry's emeralds?
I'm being silly again and it's so stupid. I know Harry well enough now to know that he doesn't really go much for looks, but he still does, just a tad bit (what boy on earth could be straight and not ogle at a girl who's well endowed in the chest part?). I've studied him, diary, just as hard as I've studied my Potions lessons (and my grades, which, to tell you the truth, and nothing but, are so abysmal, they can rival Neville's) and I've thought about him a lot.
Obviously, you would say. You have a bloody crush on the git!
But, Harry's anything but a git and what I feel for him is more than just any stupid crush. It used to be just that: a silly, schoolgirl crush. Over the years, somehow, it's developed into something more, right under my nose, and now, and only now, do I realize what it is, and see it for what it really is: true love.
And what I mean by 'studied' is that I've come to terms on my conclusion of Harry's personality through rigorous thinking (during sleepless nights, of which the excuses were nervousness for an upcoming quiz, or such)
He wouldn't just go for a girl just because she's beautiful. Harry's deeper than Ron (ah, Fleur… If Bill only knew…), much, much deeper. He's not thick at all.
And it isn't bloody likely that he'll just suddenly notice me for my astounding beauty, which to the rest of the world is non-existent, but in his eyes, I am the apple. It isn't bloody likely he'll just fall head over heels for me as soon as he realizes what a prat he's been to waste precious time not loving me.
I really think I am losing my mind. Here I am, on this grassy knoll that I always came to as a child, writing to you about my love's preference and a bitter report of what I want to happen between him and me but most probably never will when he is in that house, which is mine, coincidentally, lying, after a month or so's worth of abuse from his relatives. I can really hate myself.
Speaking of myself, I'm lost in the world of self-discovery. It's the teenage years, perfectly normal, as Mum would say, however, I can't help but feel disgruntled with my self. It's like I'm sick of my own skin. I can't stand living in this person anymore. It's like my body's just a shell, and I'm a crab. It's perfectly known that a crab changes shells once in a while.
But here I am, halfway in and halfway out, and in the middle of the big change. A part of me won't give up the old me, but a bigger, much more important part wants to get rid of the old me so badly.
I need to define myself, and to see why my life is as it is. How can I jump so quickly from Snape to Sand-whatsit to crabs? I seriously do not know. Don't look to me for answers, for I have but questions.
There's a need to find myself, to find the real me. The big question is: should I find whomever the real me is, will I love her like I used to love my old self?
Well, right now, I have no time to answer any of my inquiries. Funny how many times I mentioned questions in this entry, hmm, diary? Although I loathe changes, for it's so hard to adjust to them, I actually regret not having changed something within me in the past hour: I still have no answers.
I have to go and tend to Harry now, make sure he's all right and everything. Diary, I really am so worried. He hasn't woken up since the night they brought him here. Every night, I wish on every star that he gets better soon. If there's one thing I'm happy about, it's the fact, though, that I am not a crab.
Yours, and very confused,
Ginny
InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire
"Ginny, could you be a dear and just take over tonight? I'll be going to Diagon Alley tomorrow for some supplies, and I'm afraid I'll have to get sleep before challenging the crowd out there."
She looked up to her mother just as she was finishing her diary entry. Hastily, she pocketed the book, and threw on the covers. For whatever reason, she was not aware of at that time.
"Mum!! I'm writing in my diary!"
Molly Weasley smiled at her youngest fondly. In her eyes, her baby was beautiful everywhere, even with her hair in clumps from taking a shower and not drying it before lying down.
"After, then, dear. Good night."
Ginny couldn't help but beam back at her mum. She loved it when her mum, who was always dashing around, ready to help someone, flashed her that particular smile, pretty much like the same Harry wore rarely, but different in a special way.
"All right. You take care, now, Mummy."
Ginny kissed her good night before settling in back in her bed to finish her diary entry.
. . .
I have to go and tend to Harry now, make sure he's all right and everything. Diary, I really am so worried. He hasn't woken up since the night they brought him here. Every night, I wish on every star that he gets better soon. If there's one thing I'm happy about, it's the fact, though, that I am not a crab.
Yours, and very confused,
Ginny
…
After signing her name (which she found very silly, but felt compelled to do it every time), she placed a clammy hand on top of her racing heart. Harry had this effect on her, but lately, she'd been proud of herself.
She no longer shut up around him, but went on normally as she would around her friends. She was finally able to talk to him face-to-face, eye-to-eye without turning red or doing something stupid.
Yes, she had reason enough to be proud. That, and she wasn't self-deprecating anymore. Not as much as she used to be, anyway.
As her socked feet found their way down the stairs, she tried to make her footsteps as quiet as possible. Soft, almost inaudible thuds. She didn't want to wake Harry up. Not when he needed rest the most.
Like many nights before in her life, the moon was pale and only three-fourths full. It shined brighter, still, nonetheless. A thought occurred to her.
Poor Professor Lupin. The full moon is nearing.
She inwardly winced. Professor Lupin had always struck her as a person who would accept anything but pity. And here she was, her heart reaching out for him. No, it would not do to do something a person didn't want.
Ginny continued to the living room, where a fire was just starting to burn.
Good old Mum, wanting to keep Harry warm.
Thinking of warmth made her skin tingle. It was a cold night. Thank god for fires. Fires were special. They represented a lot of things Ginny loved: warmth, closeness, passion for life, and love.
There was a song she'd heard as a child from a Muggle radio her father had assembled from scratch.
Her brothers were offered to keep it, they could have it. From Bill to Ron, it was handed down. Every time it was passed on, the wonderful object from hand to hand of different sizes, she grew more nervous that one might like it. She wanted it more than any of them, she'd decided. They didn't want it as much as she did.
In the end, Ron had been granted the gift of music to be kept in his room. Ginny fumed. But then, the brotherly love taking over his smugness, Ron gave it to his little sister.
Burnin' love..She hoped Harry and her would have burning love someday. Then, in the dark, Ginny blushed deeply at the way that sounded. It sounded as if she wanted to sleep with Harry. Sure, she had fantasies, but none of that kind. They were the kind of beautiful, wildly spun stories that girls her age were allowed to dream of, the kind that had fairy tale endings to top it all off.
The fire cast the shadow of the couch where Harry lay onto her and the wall behind her.
The corners of her mouth curved upward into a somewhat truly happy smile. She loved how fires could crackle and die slowly, or whenever it roared high into the sky, licking the stars with flames. Yes, fire was good. It was the color of her hair, some people said. She used to take it badly. Now, it was a compliment more beautiful and true than anything else.
On top of the cherry wood side table was a bowl of really hot water. Thin wisps of steam flew from the surface of the water and dissolved in the air. Beside it was a creamy yellow face towel. It was pretty obvious what her mum wanted her to do.
The problem was that she didn't think she could actually summon enough courage to wipe away the sweat and dirt from his face. No, she didn't think she would be able to resist kissing him.
The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.
Ginny picked up the cloth and poked a tentative finger at the side of the bowl, with the fear of being scalded ever-present in her mind. It was cool to the touch.
Mum and her Cooling Charms.
She reminded herself to thank her mum for being so brilliant tomorrow morning. Heaven knew she needed to be reminded once in a while. Heaven was also where mothers came from. She smiled upwards.
The blankets were rustling.
Ginny positively froze. Did she make too much noise? Had she disturbed Harry? Oh no. She didn't want Harry to remember anything about her helping him. She was just content to watch from afar. It was… It seemed better that way. She would just be an unnecessary distraction.
And there I was, saying I wasn't so belittling as before.
There was a word that described her perfectly. It indicated that you were a horrible waste of a person. It started with the letter 'h'. What was it again?
Oh yeah. Hypocrite.
She closed her eyes and counted to a hundred (ten just didn't cute it). She wasn't going to be surprised if Harry would be standing in front of her when she opened them, his own filled with puzzlement. She was sort of expecting it, even.
Ginny's eyes flew open. She sighed, whether out of disappointment or relief, it was hard to tell.
Of course he wouldn't be there. He wasn't strong enough to stand up, let alone walk. Instantly, her anger at Harry being hurt flared up again. The Dursley man would pay.
She kneeled down beside the couch where he lay. A quiet so serene and calm yet at the same time so deafening took up the little space between her face and his. Ginny gazed at him longingly. That was the worst part of loving, she decided.
The wanting, and wishing and then, the not having. And, yeah, there was also the part when you had your heart broken.
As on the night she first wrote on a diary again, beams of moonlight highlighted his scarred face. The blood from his wounds that spilled out seemed to have lingered, and gave his cheeks a reddish hue. Old and new wounds decorated his face. In Ginny's eyes, he couldn't have been more beautiful.
For a few minutes she just watched him. His chest rose and fell with each breath his tired lungs took in. Underneath his eyelids, his eyes rolled around a little. Ginny wondered if they were still as green as she remembered them to be.
She wondered if the room was big enough to keep her love for Harry. It wasn't. The house wasn't big enough, either. She wondered if perhaps the sky could contain her love for Harry. Perhaps nothing could ever keep her love for Harry.
The blanket was up to his waist. His shirt had somehow ridden up, maybe because he'd slept fitfully every night he was here. Harry never woke but his sleep was plagued with nightmares. Just how horrific, no one knew. She wished she did and she wished she could transfer some of his pain to her. Anything to help him.
She tried to avert her stare when it landed on his stomach. It hurt her to see him so viciously torn down. Ginny reached out a shy hand to pull his shirt down. As she did, he let out a small groan.
Her hand remained there when she froze, rooted to the spot. When he didn't wake up, she allowed some air into her lungs.
Mmm…The scent of Harry was heavy in the air. It was a familiar smell. When Ginny tried to dissect it, she found that he smelled of mist. A good kind of mist, she thought faithfully. This time it was different.
She tightly shut her eyes, and shut out the rest of her senses too. Sniffing her hand, which had touched his stomach and shirt, she tried to concentrate solely on the scent.
She recognized something new. A minute passed by with her in that position before—
Aha!"He smells of fire." She sounded sure even though she hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Not the kind of fiery smell that reeked of burning and destruction. That was nauseating. Burning flesh, burning rubber, burning smell. Nope, this was different. This smell was tinged with heat and she liked heat. The scent also reminded her of love.
Deciding she'd wasted enough time being stupid, Ginny picked up the face towel and dipped it into the water. She let a freezing hand land on the side of his face, before wiping his cheeks, chin, nose. Gently, gently.
She felt as if he would break into a million pieces at the slightest touch. A drop of water trickled from his hairline and directly through his scar. She touched the legendary thunderbolt. It was the cause of a lot of things, most of them seriously impacting Harry's life. And it held a curse.
Strangely enough, she felt secure just stroking it tenderly.
After washing his face, she went to his hands. Up and down, her hand was steady. Dip into water, squeeze out the excess, clean his arms, run over with lotion. Dip, squeeze, cleanse, run over. It was a routine she would gladly have repeated for any period of time if it would expedite his healing. The running over part with lotion was tough.
She could feel the distinct bumps of his wounds. Each was different in their own way. Each one represented different degrees of pain.
When she finished with his arms, she moved on to his hands. After applying lotion to them, she clasped both of his in hers, and held them close to her heart. She wanted him to feel the steady rhythm. She wanted him to know that, inside there, great love for him lay.
Reluctantly, she let go. She wished he would do the same when she lay vulnerable and unconscious. Ginny looked up to his face again and touched the tip of her finger to his lips.
Shh, Harry. It's our special, magical moment.
With a growing sense of dread and uncertainty, she peeled off the thick blanket. He wore boxer shorts underneath. She recognized them as one of Ron's, white covered with orange polka dots. He'd hated it at first, but bought it for the sake of buying underwear that donned the Chudley Cannons' colors. She'd worn it herself a few times.
Her mixed embarrassment and pleasure at having worn the same underwear as Harry sent her into furious work. She noted that his hair on his legs were definitely better than George's or any of her brothers' for that matter.
Running her soft hands over his legs seemed a bit out of her league to Ginny, but she couldn't just leave his legs dirty, could she?
His legs were firm and well-defined under her touch. Quidditch did that to a person. She wondered if his legs were well-muscled, what more of his chest? Then, turning red in the dark, she remembered that his arms had been strong, too.
Being a little bit more venturesome than what was usual for Ginny, she lathered on the thick lotion onto his left foot equally. She massaged the sole of his feet, and his toes. She kneaded and let her nimble fingers trace patterns on the surface. The same went for his right.
And, much too soon for her own liking, her job was over. She pushed his leg with mildness back onto the sofa. Ginny kneeled once more, and drank in his appearance with thirst. Her eyes scanned his closed ones, his perfect nose, his perfect lips, down, down, down from his lean arms, beautiful hands, his muscled legs, his little toes.
She rose, trying to vie against time, trying to slow down her actions so she could spend more time with one of the people she loved most in the world.
Pretty soon, she finished patting the blanket snugly around his chest and breathed. She placed her hands chastely on his shoulders, and relished the feel of them. She was going to be fifteen soon and she had someone special to love. He was here, not really in her arms, but close enough. Ginny was happy and content.
She leaned in so close that her breath made the few strands of hair that were splayed across his smooth forehead dance. And left a mark of her love there through her quick, but meaningful kiss.
Quietly, without any other unnecessary words or movements, she picked up the basin and the towel. The basin she would bring to the kitchen. The towel she would keep. As she left the room as noiselessly as she could possibly walk, Ginny missed an important thing that she should have seen.
For when she turned her back, at that very moment, Harry Potter's fears and worries stilled. And when his fingers touched that warmed spot where her lips connected with his skin, he smiled. The moonlight played on his face as her fingers did.
He slept.
InBrilliantFireBurnsDesire
So, how was it? Too cheesy? I'm sorry, people, for the really, really, REALLY long time before updating (A month plus a few more days)
Writing this chapter was really fun! And I loved the last part with Harry and Ginny. J Please review. Thank you very much. J