Broken Lullabies Arch; 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?
Continuity: This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arc and occurs after Hush, Little Baby and Don't Say A Word.
Notes: Special Thank You's go to Chantal Malfoy, Moi, and Sarryn for their reviews. sends them loads of virtual Chocolate Frogs Also, I'd like to thanks Anathedemalfoy, Quoth the Raven, and Mikochef 22 for their reviews of Don't Say a Word and Ravenclawgrrl, Morgeth, GMTH, Inge, PGB, WittchWay, and Anaischan for reviewing Hush. ALL of you have been wonderfulespecially you repeat reviewersand I'm more grateful than I can say. Doumo arigatou.
Stanza Four
And If That Looking Glass Gets Broke
" 'Now you're free of illusions,'
Jack said, pointing to my wasted seed upon the air.
'How does it feel to be free of one's illusions?'
And I looked up through a pain so intense
that the air seemed to roar with the clanging of metal, hearing,
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE OF ILLUSION . . .
And now I answered, 'Painful and empty,'
as I saw a glittering butterfly circle the air three times over my
blood red parts, up there beneath the bridge's high arch.
'But look,' I said, pointing.
And they looked and laughed and,
suddenly seeing their satisfied faces and understanding,
I gave Bledsoe a laugh, startling them.
And Jack came forward, curious.
'Why do you laugh,' he said.
'Because at a price I now see that which I couldn't,' I said."
Invisible Man
- Ralph Ellison
Due to the restrictions imposed by the first part of this chapter has been posted on Links can be found through my profile. Please be advised that the segment does contain adult content and disturbing imagery. If you choose not to read the deleted section, you won't be missing any major plot points, though.
(Don't run with foreshadowing! Someone could lose an eye! V )
Black and Lupin. My lip twitches towards its requisite sneer. They're gone now, too. And though I cursed them when they were here, I curse them more now that they're gone. All the light—that false light Albus and I forced down your throat—seems to have dimmed painfully. The loss makes my mood even darker than what passes as normal for me. I wish you'd smile.
I never knew how very much I needed that smile. If only to let me know that you're okay.
I sigh and my eyes flicker from you to my stone-cold teacup, falsely fascinated by watching my fingers dance lightly over the ceramic rim. I haven't been much in the mood for tea lately. My nails are dark and have what appear to be shavings of lugworm skin beneath them and the tips of my fingers are stained with something golden brown that smells faintly of nutmeg and thyme. It turns my skin an odd, sunburnt shade I've never seen before. One discolored fingertip slips into the teacup and I stare at it idly for a moment before muttering a Heating Charm. The temperature of the liquid slowly rises until steam begins to emerge from the once-cold cup. I don't remove my finger until it begins to boil slightly, wanting—needing—to feel the pain. I know it should hurt, but it doesn't. Not enough.
The latest in a long line of inept (if not outright dangerous) Defense Against the Dark Arts professors looks over at me curiously and I gaze back into his eyes expressionlessly. He looks away quickly.
On my other side Sprout is chattering with Minerva about Quidditch, or maybe just brooms in general (although the idea of the admittedly rotund Hufflepuff Head on a broom makes even me want to laugh) and my head aches horribly. My eyes are dry and scratchy and I keep feeling Albus casting furtive glances my way, blue eyes slightly dimmed in worry.
Stop looking at me, Albus.
My head hurts.
I want to go take a bath.
. . . Sink under the water, exhale, inhale, and not come back up. I did that once when I first started teaching. Albus found me first, though; he was quite put out with me at the time. Of course, liberal amounts of cognac and absinthe helped my state of mind at the time. I've never had the combination since.
Instead I run my finger along the rim of my teacup again, wishing that either the cup was you, or the tea was Port. Or you full of Port.
Mmmmm . . .
Even better.
My head hurts.
"Severus, are you alright?"
Yes, Minerva? "Yes, Minerva."
Ever since I came to teach, she's always been like a mother to me—taking me under her Gryffindor wing and keeping an eye on me. Sometimes I appreciate it more than I will ever be able to express. Other times it makes me want to kill her. Or myself. I sometimes have trouble distinguishing between myself and other people.
It's so much easier to hurt everyone equally.
You see? I'm fairer than you think.
The Gryffindor table bursts into raucous laughter over something—most likely something I'd take points off for—and I wince, my finger slipping into the hot tea again. And then I hear that odd tone that emerges only from your mouth.
Your mouth.
Merlin.
My head snaps up and my eyes latch onto you. The rest of the room swims sickeningly, but you're in perfect, crystal focus. Head ducked slightly, face buried in your little hands as you laugh mindlessly at something. You're so immature.
There's an odd rushing sound in my ears and my hand slips, overturning the teacup. The white tablecloth turns an odd brown-ish red as the liquid spreads. The inept Defense teacher swears, but all I can focus on is you . . .
You.
It's different this time, as though I'm seeing something new. Something I saw and didn't see. It's strange and confusing and makes me oddly agitated somewhere beneath the blinding pounding behind my eyes. I feel like there's a House Elf symphony in my head.
You've stopped laughing.
My hands are shaking.
What is it I see . . .?
Pretty green eyes. Raven hair. Quirky little mouth barred behind soft, luscious pink lips. Delicate cheekbones that are slowly becoming striking. Little hands with blunt, overworked fingers and tiny cresset nails. Limbs that are too long for you, but still small. You'll never be a big man. You'll never clear 2 meters. You're too small. Too . . .
. . .
Too . . .
(My head hurts.)
. . .
(And I don't want to see this.)
. . .
But it's right there.
You're . . . young . . .
Young.
Not young in that way that seems to make me want to throw you on the floor lately, . . . just . . . small. And there's something about that that disturbs me and I stare at you, knowing that you're aware of it and uncomfortable, but I also know that this is too important. There's something here, something that I have to see. But I can't.
And then the thought hits me with such force that I almost cry out. Immature. Of course. You're a child. A child. You're a child.
I knew that. I know I did. But . . . somehow it never really occurred to me.
And I feel ill.
Merlin.
A child.
A child in my arms.
A child beneath me.
A student beneath me . . .
And that strange, mercilessly hitherto unknown connection between fucking Harry Potter and raping one of my students is suddenly made and my stomach heaves.
I don't . . . I can't . . . Oh, God . . .
What have I done?
And your terrible mouth quirks in a scowl as you glare at me defiantly and I almost retch.
Am I shaking?
What have I done? And why do I want to do it again and again and—
The room is spinning. Everything's spinning.
I can't. I can't. I need to leave this place.
I can't.
Oh . . . God. It's suddenly hard to breathe. Hard to see. Hard to—
"Severus? Severus, are you all right?"
Oh . . . Oh . . . Shut up, Minerva.
"Severus? Do you want me to get Poppy?"
The room pitches. The floor tilts. When did I stand up? Am I standing up?
"Severus? Are you all right? You look very pale, my boy . . ."
Albus . . . "Albus . . . ." It's so hard to breathe. Am I having a panic attack?
"Albus . . ." Albus . . . "I . . . need to go . . ."
I seem to be in the habit of fleeing his presence lately.
The castle spins in a kaleidoscope of color and I have the strangest impression that the floor is actually a wall and the walls are somewhere near the ceiling and theturn to my chambersshouldhave been here and it'snotand I can't think beyond this damn poundinginmyhead and odd little laugh/sobs keep risinginmythroatandwherethehellamIwhycan'tIbreatheIIIIIII
I
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I'm sorry.
So sorry.
And then there's my door and then there's my sitting room and then there's my fireplace and then there I am.
There I am.
Alone.
The fire roars next me, blending into the pressure between my ears.
It's hot.
I don't feel it.
I don't feel anything anymore.
But the heat is easy to inhale and the little flecks of light vanish the corner of my eyes as I press my forehead against the warm stone of the floor.
The floor.
Yes.
I'm sitting.
Alone.
How much time has passed? It seems like only moments—I don't even recall getting here—yet here I am with my legs asleep. Sitting on the floor. It's hot in here.
I'm cold, though.
So cold.
And dirty.
Of all the things I've ever done, this—you—has to be the worst. And the one I regret the least.
Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick . . . .
How is it possible to want something so much and be simultaneously repulsed by it?
If I were a lesser or a greater man, I think I'd sob. I'd weep and tear at my hair and scream and dash my head against the uncaring damp stones of my dungeons. But I'm not a lesser man, nor a greater one, so I merely huddle on the floor and stare into the flames, longing for a drink, but too hurt to move.
Too . . . much. Everything.
And I suddenly wish that I was a lesser or a greater man, because I can't stop wanting you. Vile, horrible creature that you are—that I am—I can't stop. I don't even think I truly want to. And what would you do if you saw me now, nauseous with self-loathing and hard for want of a little boy?
I loathe you, Harry Potter.
I loathe you for what I am and for what I have become.
I loathe you because your remembered taste is too much and never enough. I loathe you because I can't dare touch you and I don't dare leave you alone. I loathe you because I am alone.
I loathe you because, for all my sins, all my depravity, I HAD A LIMIT! I had that line in the sand, that Great Divide between my self and the truly damned. Between my acknowledged wants and the quiet whispers of my subconscious at night. Because . . . because . . . if I had never touched you . . . I would never have known how badly I wanted to—still want to—and I would never have given you, a student, a second thought. And the fault is all my own.
You didn't want this. Didn't deserve this. Don't deserve the burden of my . . . affections.
My god. What have I done to you?
Yes, love. I loathe you . . . even though I can't really loathe you at all.
And so I loathe myself for all those reasons and more.
So I sit, empty, ill, and dry-eyed in front of the fire, mourning myself. What would you say?
"It's just Snape being Snape."
Yes, Harry. Lover. Innocent. Child.
I'm just Snape—hook-nosed, unattractive, unfair, greasy, Slytherin-favoring, snarky bastard of a professor.
Severus Snape—monster, Death Eater, murderer, rapist, spy, child molester, liar, traitor, man. Not a great man, not a small one. Just a man—tragically arrogant and foolishly in love. Sickening, empty, impossible love. Just a man who was, until today, all these things and more.
Severus Snape—a man who was, until this moment, everything but a coward.
Fin
