And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass
Broken Lullabies Arc; Line C
- Vain
03.08 – 06.15.2003


Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.

Warnings: HARD R Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about? No sex, though. ;-) Footnotes and definitions are at the end of each chapter.

Continuity: This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after Hush, Little Baby and Don't Say A Word.

Notes: Special thanks you's are extended to Apapazukamori for beta-ing.

Do not steal from me.


Stanza Two:
I'm Gonna Buy You a Looking Glass


"In black skies a storm is streaming,
Snowy whirlwind rude and wild,
Like a savage beast now screaming,
Now lamenting like a child.
Let us drink, my friend, unshrinking
Helper in young manhood's pain.
Where's the cup? Grief calls for drinking!
Hearts will now be glad again!"
Winter Evening
Alexander Pushkin


Potions' Class.

Do you and your silly friends know that I hate it even more than you do? Well . . . Perhaps not more. I, after all, control what goes on in this room. You do not. I imagine that I'll take a great deal of pleasure in reminding you of that fact.

It's no less than you deserve really. Two weeks later and I still have a crick in my neck from sleeping on the dungeon floor. Not the most pleasant way to wake up in the morning. That, and the Ravenclaws have all been glaring at me for eleven days straight. Normally I have no problem with Flitwick's house; they're quiet, studious, dignified, and sensible. I was almost a Ravenclaw, but for my pride, ambition, and cynicism. And, of course, my bloodline. I have far, far too much of my father in me for my liking. He was the very epitome of Bastard—I am merely a sad reflection of the heights to which he aspired.

But that girl? Cho Chang? What on earth do you see in her? She's plain. Ordinary. Utterly unimposing and bland. The word "mudblood" flickers just at the edges of my conscious mind and I shake my head with a sneer. She's . . . not at all you. And as I seem to recall, she was dating Diggory during the Tournament, anyway, so I doubt that your failure to save her snog-toy has won you much of her favor.

She's no reason to fancy you any way. You're only a skinny little boy.

Flitwick was still furious with me for taking 55 points from his house. It's not my fault that the silly girl's cauldron exploded. . . . She should have read the instructions from the book and paid more attention to the lecture. I'm fairly positive I said rosewater before mushrooms.

And I don't usually make mistakes—not in potions.

"All right there, Harry!"

And Creevey. Merlin deliver me from my just comeuppance in the form of these loud, boorish children. It's a wonder that you haven't killed that boy yet. And the leech masquerading as his sibling is no better than he is.

I don't hear your reply, but you and the other two members of Minerva's Golden Trio scramble into the room just as the tone chimes. I stalk to the front of my desk, looking and feeling appropriately intimidating, and sneer as the three of you stumble gracelessly to your seats.

"So kind of the famous Harry Potter and his entourage to grace us with their coveted presences." If I had put any more contempt into my voice, I could have very well hurt myself.

You cringe and I suddenly feel immensely better. "5 points each from Gryffindor." In fact, I feel almost gleeful.

A telltale muscle twitches in your cheek and hateful green eyes glare at me as my Slytherins titter in amusement. I flick my little Death Eaters in training a tiny, indulgent smile, trying desperately to let none of the coldness I feel for them into my eyes. Draco in particular looks amused and my smile becomes bit more genuine. I fear the day he accepts the mark. I actually care for the boy and have no desire to see him kiss the Dark Lord's hem. He deserves a better fate than that. I only hope that, when the time comes, mine is the hand that kills him—it pains me to think of that sheltered child in the loving embrace of Ministry Aurors.

My eyes flicker back to the Gryffindors, all of whom seem ready to pounce and tear me limb from limb, and I sneer at them maliciously. If I can teach some of Minerva's cubs to grow teeth, all the better when they get to the real world and discover what all Slytherins and most Ravenclaws understand the moment the Sorting Hat is dropped over their heads—every House has a dark side, even the precious, beloved Gryffindors. Especially the precious, beloved Gryffindors.

You're glaring at me and I resist the urge to take points on principle, turning instead to my desk and retrieving a stack of papers. "You all have a quiz," I bark, enjoying the looks of horror spreading over the faces of you housemates. Longbottom looks as though he should be excused to the hospital wing and Granger has just turned white beneath her wild hair. No doubt mourning the fact that she couldn't rope you and the Weasely into a twelve hour study session. It never fails to amaze me that the girl the Hufflepuffs have taken to calling the Conscience of Gryffindor was not sorted into Ravenclaw. Though, as my own conscience seems to have generously taken a hiatus, I really doubt I should care what you Gryffindors should do with yours.

I hand out the papers, feeling more and more pleased with myself by the second. I've noticed that my mood improves in direct proportion with the number of points Gryffindor loses. Fascinating. I highly doubt that Minerva would approve an official experiment, though—not even for the sake of my little happiness. Still, high by mind fuck . . . Exquisite.

I can almost hear your hot accusation of sadism. Undoubtedly exquisite. God bless you if only for rekindling my love of teaching, child.

I return to my desk and sit down in front of a stack of seventh year essays to wait you all out. I frown slightly when I see the Granger pat you on the shoulder as you gaze despondently at your six-foot scroll of essay quiz. Weasely and one of the other boys shoots you a look of sad empathy. I shrug it off and take my irritation out on some poor Hufflepuff's essay, feeling decidedly liberal with my red ink. I'll have to buy a new inkwell soon.

That and more wine. One must never underestimate the curative effects of alcohol. Congratulations. You and your peers have driven me to drinking, boy. Mostly you.

It sickens me the way they fawn over you, though. It sickens me more the way you soak it up like a sun-deprived flower. Do you even know that all these little children who worship you, all their asinine parents and endless relations, are all plotting your death? All hiding behind the tremulous shield of your weak, delicately sloped shoulders? Do you remember how they all turned against you and will turn again at a moment's notice? Your friends, your fans, your silly crush . . . They will all betray you. They will rip you open and offer you up for the slaughter the moment their own inane lives are jeopardized.

Don't think that they love you. Don't think that they need you. They need the perfection that they project onto you. They need the illusion of the strength that they've imposed on you. And they will kill you one day. One day you will fail in your perfection and reveal the tragic, flawed human that you are. One day you won't be able to save the day.

And they will never forgive you for that.

They all call me a monster, yet they're the ones hiding behind the sparse cover of your thin frame. They call me cruel because I expose your humanity, drag it out and provoke that hot, dangerous Potter temper that your father hid so well, but you have yet to master. You wear your heart on your sleeve and it's beautiful and public when it bleeds. How do you bear being so steeped in blood?

I close my eyes at night and I see it sweating out of you in rivers and the remembered smell of sex, fire, and something broken assaults me. I relive the moment in my mind. Do you know you've stolen my dreams from me? Every texture, every taste, every gasp, the feeling of all those hungry eyes is locked within my memory. I've considered Obliviating myself, but the glowing memory of tear-magnified eyes stays my hand when I wake up sticky and gasping in the lonely night.

I wonder . . . when I spilled my seed into you, what else did you take from me? When I seized that silly innocence from you and held you down with rough, experienced hands, what did I really take from you?

I see you wandering the halls at night and I follow a corridor behind, wanting to catch you in the darkness and terrified of what I may do if I ever manage it. So I don't.

For all my ideals, does that make me a coward? Like them? Like the pale gallery of fools who huddle behind you and expect you to clean up their mess? Is my silence in your shadow not just as bad? My . . . worship?

No. Because I expect nothing in return. I've taken too much already and even the borrowed innocence that Albus has so graciously provided you with is not enough to burn the art I've wrought upon you from my memory.

So permit me my quiet revelry at everyone else's expense. Consider it our private joke, so strong a secret that even you don't know it. I doubt that Albus would be amused. But in his own way, he's as much a coward as they are.

You should be grateful, boy. I am not a coward. I am the only shadow in your life that isn't dragging you down.

The chime rings and I jump slightly, startled. How long was I lost in my ruminations? I missed the opportunity to stalk about the room and scowl.

"Hand your papers in and then get out of my sight. You will receive your failures next period. Anything less than 35 will be rewarded with an evening with Filch."

Longbottom looks close to tears and for an instant I almost pity for him. Then I remember that stupid stuffed vulture hat that Albus insists upon bestowing me with every Christmas and I take back the sentiment. And contently wish the little bastard a fine time in hell with Dumbledore's pet werewolf. The ones I pity are his parents—a brilliant, gorgeous witch and a strong, powerful wizard both reduced to drooling idiots diapered in their own refuse. The boy is an insult to the whole damn family. What on earth did the Hat ever see in him in the first place?

You place your test on my desk with a controlled motion, but I can almost see the urge to ball it up and throw it at me. I almost wish that you would. I deserve your violence. But you simply lay it down and walk away. Draco hurries after you and I wonder what insult he's had stewing in that cunning little brain of his. Not that it matters. It will be forgotten and replaced by a new one tomorrow.

I watch the last of your peers (I almost choke on the thought; executioners is more accurate) file after you in silence and remain staring at the closed door long after you've gone. It's several minutes before I realize that I'm holding your test and tapping it absently against my mouth. My lips tingle slightly. The paper slides from my hands to land quietly on the desk. My long fingers skate over your inadequate writing almost timidly, as though touching the words were the same as touching you. The smile on my lips now is a bit broader. Draco's smile for Draco and your smile for you. Each different.

I'm too damn old to wax philosophical.

I stand and grab the papers, suddenly longing for red wine and a hot bath followed by an evening of brewing Potions. . . . . I wonder what you would taste like drunk? Sweet, I imagine. With a bite. It's Friday—Albus will be kind enough to forgive my absence in the Great Hall tonight. Besides, he wants those potions ready for Black's blood tomorrow morning. I can't restrain the sneer that the thought evokes.

"I don't know, Harry." I stop dead in the hall and lean against the wall out of sight. It's Weasely.

"I think Ron's right, Harry." Granger. "You have to admit. It's odd."

I cock my head to the side as your petulant tones sound around the corner. "Look, guys, I'm sure it's nothing."

"But he's always . . . staring at you. It's damned creepy! What's that greasy git trying to pull, anyway? He spent half the test glaring at you like he wanted to tear your face off."

Not your face; I'm rather fond of that. Just your clothes. Harry Potter—the stuff wet dreams are made of. My desire to ensure that the Weasely family ceases to procreate has just moved up from distant wish to attainable goal.

You start to say something, but Granger interrupts you. It's amazing you ever get a word in edge-wise between those two. "It's not just in class. Have you seen him in the Great Hall lately? He's eaten more meals there this term than he did all of last year. And he always seems to be wherever you go, Harry. How many times have you turned around and walked right into him? It's . . ." a dozen adjectives flicker through my mind, but she settles on the word, "odd."

Odd. Somehow that word was not among my choices.

You sigh and my lips part as though by hearing the sound, I could inhale you. I wonder absently if I should jump out and take points, but I'm curious as to what you have to say.

"It's probably nothing. Maybe Dumbledore told him to keep an eye on me. You know half the teachers in school have been staring at me. Merlin, I can barely go to the loo without an escort. Besides, Snape would never hurt me. He may not like me, but he wouldn't do anything to hurt me." I can't imagine the look on their faces as you continue—nor the look on mine, for that matter. "You know what he's like. It's just Snape being Snape."

Weasely makes a noise of disgust. "I don't know how you can trust that greasy bastard so much!"

Taking points just graduated to strangling the Weasely. It would be infinitely more satisfying. It's been years since I've killed someone.

"I just do, Ron!" Ooooh. Anger. For me? I don't know whether to be amused or appalled. "Dumbledore trusts him and that's good enough for me—" further proof of your stupidity, "—so it should be good enough for you."

"He works for You-Know-Who!"

Nice, Weasel. Shall we make an announcement in the Great Hall next?

Strangulation is now torture. Slow. With a nice Heretic's Fork. Or an Inquisitional Chair. Psychological pain is astoundingly underrated. I wonder if Filch would mind if I appropriated some of those chains he keeps.

"He used to worked for Voldemort! And stop flinching every time I say that! Honestly, you're worse than Fudge! Vol-de-mort! It's only a name!"

One of your cronies says something that I don't hear and you make a sound of disgust in your throat. "Well it shouldn't matter! I'm the one who has to face him! I'm the one who has to—"

You stop abruptly and I realize that you're far, far more observant than I thought.

"It shouldn't matter," you murmur after a moment of uncomfortable silence. "It's my choice who I trust and who I don't. It doesn't matter."

Something like pity wells up inside me and I crush it down. You don't need pity. You have worlds of pity. I won't ever pity you. Never.

You sound like you need a drink. I need a drink. And a bath. And a long vacation away from green eyes and kiss-bruised pink lips. I wonder how much butterbeer it takes to intoxicate a human?

I will definitely be buying more wine soon.

The three of you walk away, heavy uncomfortable silence between you. I wonder if it's hard on them, being so close to the Boy-Who-Lived. But then it occurs to me that you're more correct than you know. It doesn't matter.

They are children and cowards. I am not.

I am everything but.

The thought is small comfort, though, as I remember your tiny frame standing before the Dark Lord. How do you survive it every year?

And what happens if you don't next time?

. . .

I need a drink.