Because I do not hope to
turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to
turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no
longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged
eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished
power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to
know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do
not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable
transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees
flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time
is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is
actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I
rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed
face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn
again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon
which to rejoice
And pray to God to have
mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that
with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do
not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is
done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy
upon us
Because these wings are
no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The
air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than
the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit
still.
Pray for us sinners now
and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of
our death.
Snape's eyebrows contracted as he stared at Dumbledore for a moment, trying to see into his mind, scanning the newly formed materials. Dumbledore made no movement to stop him from doing so. Snape pulled out after watching the memory flash before his eyes as if it were his own.
Dumbledore's blue eyes looked severe now, and Snape studied them for a moment before snapping, "You cannot possibly be telling the truth." His voice betrayed his opinion, though, as even he could hear the shock echoing.
"I'm afraid it is true." Dumbledore sighed and pulled out his watch. "It's getting rather late, Severus. We can continue this conversation tomorrow morning." Snape wordlessly nodded, turned, and headed back to the castle.
He paused and let Dumbledore pass him. His black eyes grazed over the castle a few times as memories spun around his head, starring himself and Black.
"Hey, Severus," the black haired boy smirked. His gray eyes looked Snape over a few times before returning to his eyes. "How'd you manage to get to Hogwarts? Bribe Dumbledore?"
The other dark haired boy next to Black grinned and laughed for a second. Snape's thought turned to him and he automatically decided that the boy was not to be trusted.
Another boy was tagging along beside them. He sniggered into the arm of his robe. Blonde hair clung to his round face as all were soaking wet from the boat ride to Hogwarts castle. Watery eyes shimmered in delight. The blonde one was also trouble.
A few feet away, a tall girl with long red hair rolled her eyes. She looked very pale, as if terrified by the sorting that was yet to come. Her jaw was still clenched tight, as though determined to get through her first year. Snape settled on her being a muggle-born. He would stay clear of her.
Next to her, a light brown haired boy was trying to steer away from the fight. He had his arms crossed and seemed to by seeing how hard it was to sink into a wall and disappear. Snape knew the feeling. The boy's brown eyes flickered over to him, and quickly shot away, admiring a picture on a wall.
The group of first years were led into the large hall were students sat before them. Behind were the teachers. Dumbledore's eyes scanned the group, and Snape raised his head slightly.
The ceiling was first to catch his eye. Stars trickled into the dark blue, and he felt himself sink into a dream. Nothing was real anymore. No students were near him… nothing could hurt him… those three boys weren't alive, or at least in Europe….
When his eyes snapped back into focus, he sturdied himself and listened for what name they were on.
"Sirius Black!" The tall witch with a dark bun placed high on her head lifted the old patched hat and placed it on the boy's head. Sirius Black was his name? Snape made a note to remember what a foul and horrible name it was.
"GRYFFINDOR!" Ah, and he was now a Gryffindor? Vague memories of the name swam past him. A Slytherin family. Pity that a member was wasted on Gryffindor.
But, even as he passed to get to the table of black- robed students, Snape felt a small pang of jealously rise from his stomache.
The Professor made his way up to the doors and followed the Headmaster. The conversation would wait until tomorrow.
IILady,
three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the
day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that
which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God
said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that
which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry)
said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And
because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in
meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here
dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the
posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this
which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the
indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is
withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is
no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I
would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will
listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the
grasshopper, saying
Lady
of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose
of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the
Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under
a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad
to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree
in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting
themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert.
This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither
division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our
inheritance.
A cup of tea sat before Snape at the smallest table in the Great Hall. He was staring into it, thinking about what type of news Dumbledore would report? The world being taken over by mutant socks? Snape couldn't suppress the snort he gave up. If Sirius Black losing his memory was possible….
Footsteps alerted him that someone else was entering. Now, in December, very few students would be at the castle. When he looked up, a teacher was entering. Flitwick was hard to see at a tall height, but Snape recognized him.
Flitwick took a seat at the table, a few seats from Snape. As he picked out a sausage, he turned to talk with Professor Vector. Snape averted his gaze and stared at the door where Dumbledore would be coming from.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Dumbledore returned. He had been talking with Hagrid a little while before, mainly about the thestrals, which were killing a few owls. Hagrid responded that he would continue training them. He entered a few minutes later, shaking snow off him.
"We shall speak later," Dumbledore murmured to Snape, winking. He managed a feeble grin, thoughts still lost.
IIIAt
the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The
same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid
air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The
deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At
the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting,
turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At
the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied
like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a
pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is
sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over
the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord,
I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
Snape waited patiently in the staff room. Classes had just ended for the day, and only two other teachers were in the staff room. He sat in a low chair in the corner, ignoring the conversation McGonagall and Sprout were having. After ten minutes, he wondered whether Dumbledore had forgotten or if –
"Glad to see you here, Severus," Dumbledore greeted, sitting in a chair next to his. McGonagall and Sprout looked up at Dumbledore's voice and, with another word or two, quickly left the room.
Severus looked at Dumbledore for a moment, trying to see what he was planning on mentioning. There could not possibly be something bad going on that he needed help with this early in the year. And why ask him? Severus raised an eyebrow to himself, which was a very hard thing to mentally do. Maybe this had to do with Potter, or Lupin, or worse – Black.
His worse fears were confirmed when the conversation started with: "I'm sure you remember young Sirius Black from school?" Dumbledore tilted his head, popping a small yellow candy into his mouth. Severus nodded grudgingly and inwardly rolled his eyes. How wonderful. Nothing ever went well when Dumbledore was eating candy- especially muggle candy.
IVWho
walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The
various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's
colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge
of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who
then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made
cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur,
blue of Mary's colour,
Sovegna vos
Here
are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the
flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and
waking, wearing
White
light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk,
restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns
draw by the gilded hearse.
The
silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind
the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and
signed but spoke no word
But
the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time,
redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
Dumbledore kept the candy in his mouth for a moment, stalling, not chewing. It took a moment before he spoke to Severus.
"He is ill, you remember I told you. And – and I need you to do me a small favor."
Severus did not like how this was going. Anything that had 'Black' and 'favor' in the same sentence would rival only death and misery. But then, 'Black' and 'favor' were death and misery.
"Yes, Headmaster?" Severus inquired as politely as possible, his tongue planted firmly between his clenched teeth. "Any favor you would wish."
"I need you to take care of him."
The words were quick and sudden like a knife through the heart. Actually, Severus noted, I would rather a knife through the heart than this. Was Dumbledore joking? Severus searched his eyes and saw no trace of a joke. That was the thing about Dumbledore. He made jokes, he was a funny man, but he never made jokes when you wanted him to.
"I mean, after he is out of Saint Mungos, of course. That will be in about three days if I can get him out. And one more thing."
"Yes?" Severus managed from gritted teeth, his eye threatening to twitch.
"I need you care for young Potter."
Severus really did feel several muscles move around his face. There was one thing worse than 'Black' and 'favor': 'Potter, Black, favor.' Of course, 'Potter, Black, Lupin, favor' rivaled that, but this was bad enough….
"Yes, Headmaster."
"Thank you."
It was that innocence in Dumbledore's eyes again. Was it the blue color? Or the twinkle? Or the voice? Whatever it was, Severus thought about ripping the offending body part out and stomping on it.
VIf
the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard,
unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken
word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness
and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About
the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where
shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here,
there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those
who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of
grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those
who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will
the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose
thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between
season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and
word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the
veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go
away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will
the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those
who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And
affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last
desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the
garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the
withered apple-seed.
O my people.
-T.S. Eliot