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Where the Heart Moves the Stone
Verse IX of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
By: Vain
10.7.2003 - 09.26.2004

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Chapter One
The Flight of the Timid Man

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What dark time is coming?
What dark time is here?
The prophet emerges
in garments of fear.
He calls to his people to come to the feast;
They gather unto him to wait for release.
Alleluia . . .

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I think I would make a marvelous lush. It's ten o'clock. Detention is over. I've sent the last owl out to Potions Weekly. My Slytherins are safely tucked in—or at least shamming it well enough that I'll not be bothered. And he's . . . somewhere.

He's not asleep. I doubt he ever sleeps much these days. He's become very good at hiding his slouched posture and smiling when the situation demands it. But I can see past the glamour he's woven around himself to hide his hollow cheeks and the circles beneath his eyes. Most of the staff can as well, and, though we sit around and weekly argue the boy's case at every staff meeting, nothing gets done. I make the proper acidic comments, whether or not it's warranted, Minerva scolds me and glares, Sprout simpers to no effect, and Trelawney favors us all with a sad, condescending smile and her usual occasional dramatics predicting his unpleasant end. And all the while the Boy-Who-Lived-For-Nothing slides just a bit farther away, slowly but surely. It is all very tiring.

In the far corner sits that blasted invisibility cloak, left behind from when he fled my lab and draped with telltale care over an old rocking chair that Albus insists I keep in here. That was probably the smartest thing he has ever done: run away and hide. I recognize this on a purely intellectual level, of course. On any other level, it cuts like Crucius—all the more reason to bypass any other level. My father used to say that you have to break in half to love someone. Not his words, I'm sure, but he was a man of curious wisdom and as a child I learned very quickly to never give him cause to repeat himself.

I cannot stop staring at the damn cloak. For some reason, I have the strangest idea that if I go over there and lift it up, he'll be sitting there staring at me with those horrendously expectant eyes. Watching. Waiting.

For what? Why? Why from me?

He understands nothing.

And yet he always seems to leave me with more questions than answers. I loathe him for that. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance is death.

"There is no time!"

And I hate that damn rocking chair. Damn Albus.

I close my eyes and turn back to the fire. I should burn the cloak. It's the best I can offer him right now—and the best thing I can do for myself. The . . . temptation to use it . . . is great. But it is a Potter cloak, not mine. Nothing that has been a Potter's can ever be a Snape's. We do not accept charity. We have never needed to. And Potters have always (wisely) stayed by their own kind.

Something as which I do not qualify.

"Mother! Father, stop it!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, boy!"

My eyes close before they can return to staring at the chair in the corner. Yes. You have to break in half to love someone. I am not that much of a fool yet.

. . . I should burn the cloak.

Yet I know I cannot.

I slouch a bit farther in my chair and take a sip of merlot. The sweet flavor masks most of the alcohol and I wonder idly if I really should have a third glass tonight. Probably not, but I will anyway.

I do many things that I should not. I find myself caring less and less these days. "You're becoming distant," Albus tells me. "Is everything alright, my boy?"

No. And I am not your damn boy.

Your spy? Yes. Your servant? Yes. I'll even accept serf. It's no less than I deserve; I put myself in this position. My own carelessness, arrogance, bigotry, and stupidity landed me where I am today. I am a slave to two masters—both mad in their own ways, both brilliant—and I know and understand that.

But I am not your boy. Nor am I the Dark Lord's serpent, or whatever other condescending endearment strikes his fancy. I am myself. I leave all other titles to lesser or greater men than I, and there is no short supply of them.

So don't call me your damn boy, Albus.

I take another sip of my merlot. The sudden unsteadiness of my hand has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Fools, liars, and murders: the whole lot of them. And I stand among the worst of them for daring . . . for thinking

Why didn't he simply leave when I told him to? Why did he have to be so stubborn? So damned determined? So . . . him?

And how could I have . . . have attacked him like that? Pressed him so tightly against me, and crushed his mouth to mine, touched what I had no right—no RIGHT—

Why is this happening?

I clutch the glass tighter than necessary and merlot sloshes over the lip to spill onto the expensive rug below.

I see him. I see him everyday. He's hiding. Hiding from me, hiding from his friends, hiding from himself. And I want to comfort him and I want to kill him. Not in some in some abstract way, but in a real, physical, finite way. I want to kill him. I want to end his existence.

I want to kill him because he's here. I want to kill him because he's not with me. I want to kill him so that I never have to face him—this—ever again. I want to kill him so that no one else will. I want to kill him because it would be so much kinder—so much better—to stop this suffering that he's so determined to endure. I want to kill him . . .

Because he's mine.

And those thoughts thrill and sicken me by turns.

And I could be so kind! So gentle. No pain. No fear. No terrible knowledge of the end. Poison in his butterbeer—simple, sweet, and quiet. I'd hold him as he slept. I could do that for him. I could save him like that; I swear I could.

So I mustn't go near him. Mustn't look. Mustn't touch. Mustn't want, even though I can't stop myself. Even though the effort tears us both apart.

I've made his life hell this year. I ignore him. I barely acknowledge his presence in class, save to prevent him from harming himself. I fear that he may become more reckless or even self-destructive. Instead he studies. He's smart, so much smarter than I thought he was. I want to tell him so, but what would it mean? I look through him when he tries to speak to me. He takes his detentions with Filch. I watch him, and we both know that he's watching me, but I don't dare go near him. Not ever again. Not when I want something this much.

I don't even have a name to assign to the mess of emotions he inspires. I loathe him. I cherish him. I want him. I want to destroy him to protect him. And the feelings grow daily. What happens, I wonder, if one day the Dark Lord looks in me and sees him? Or worse, if he looks into me and sees himself? That scares me even more than the Dark Lord.

I am a coward. I have lived my life dictated by either apathy or fear. I feared James Potter and Sirius Black. I feared the possibility of turning into my father. I feared failing my mother—invalidating her sacrifice. The rest does not matter to me, neither then nor now. I don't care who wins the world by the end of this—I will survive. I am Slytherin. When all has passed, I will be standing still, or nothing will be left to stand.

But now there is him to contend with. My benevolent, misguided child-god. My own Odin on the World Tree. My wise Fool.

I do not fear Harry Potter. I fear what I will become beneath him—and I am beneath him now. I am his utterly, and that disturbs me less than it should. I could sooner cut off my own hands than deny him; all the more reason to keep my vigil from a distance. A long, safe distance. However much or however little I ever served Albus, for better or worse, I now follow his lead. And he is leading us all down into oblivion.

I do not know what to do any longer. It is not I who has gone mad—it is the world. How then can I survive?

"You should eat more, Severus. You've only drunk your wine; you know that's not good for you."

I pour myself another glass of merlot and stare at the fire.

"You know that's not good for you."

Leave me alone, Albus.

I drink more than I should—I know that—but I rarely get drunk. I also know that Albus carefully monitors how much liquor I take on a daily basis and (though he'd never admit it), he is behind the times when my liquor cabinet turns up mysteriously bare for several days. He's a nosey old bastard, even if he is a well-intentioned one.

I raise my glass to the disinterested fireplace and toast the flames. "To meddling, senile fools, Muggle Hunts, and supple young boys." A log pops in the fire, chastising me for my poor taste. I drain the glass and pour myself another.

"You should talk to him, Severus. Everyone else has tried. The young man responds to you."

Oh, if only you knew just how he responds to me, you manipulative, condescending son of a—

A dull knock on my chamber door rouses me from my uncharitable thoughts and I turn in my seat, staring stupidly at the entrance for a moment.

'Tis some visitor, I mutter, knocking at my chamber door—only this and nothing more.

Some part of me is amused by the thought, but the knock sounds again, quieter, and my amusement vanishes beneath a scowl. I mutter a charm under my breath and my merlot disappears. I really wanted that fourth glass.

"Come!"

And here I open wide the door.

There is no hesitation, confirming that it's one of the Slytherins. I sigh and sit up a bit straighter. It is not an uncommon occasion for a student to come to me for something after curfew when their housemates are asleep and therefore unable to either fuss over or harass them. All of the Houses are very territorial and over protective of their members and, though Slytherins are the rule rather than the exception to that, my little snakes have no problem with terrorizing one another within the safety of our dungeons.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

I'm getting too old for this.

Draco Malfoy enters with his usual self-possessed grace and I watch him critically. He's attractive, there's no denying that, but I am not attracted to him. In fact the very idea of having sex with Draco Malfoy is enough to make even my stomach turn. It has been the same with every boy in the school. I've watched them this year—watched them all—in the hopes that perhaps some madness has possessed me. Perhaps I've been taken by a demon, or have truly, truly sunken to the lowest level of depravity possible . . .

But, no.

Though there is no shortage of pretty boy or variety in any of the classes at Hogwarts, none of them are anything to me but snot-nosed, arrogant, upstart, ankle-biters. All of them except one. And he is always the exception, isn't he?

"Sir?"

"Is there something you need, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's impassive silver eyes watch me for a moment, contemplating things that no sixteen year old should have to deal with most likely, and eventually he turns away. He stares blankly at a bookcase and I frown at the unusual behavior. Draco inherited a good deal of his mother's personality, including her direct and slightly overbearing way of dealing with things. It's unusual for him to hesitate after approaching someone, particularly if he initiated the contact. Though I sometimes truly loath the boy for his terminal pride, pride which often leads him to do unbelievably stupid things, I cannot help being amused by his boundless self-confidence. Draco is one of the strongest Slytherins I've met in years. To see that confidence disturbed . . . unnerves me.

After some moments of silence I shift in my seat to get his attention. "Have a seat, Mr. Malfoy. Your affect tells me that this may take a while."

He turns away from an intensive study of my armoire and accepts my invitation with a curt nod. I watch with hooded eyes as he settles himself. He rearranges his night robe around himself with unnecessary care, his slipper-clad feet crossed at the ankles. The fire pops again and I feel a ridiculous urge to tell it to be silent.

"He's had a rough time of it, hasn't he?" Draco's eyes are fixed on his lap where his hands rest, fingers interlaced. "Potter, I mean," he clarifies after a moment.

"Most likely." I settle back a bit more comfortably in my armchair. "I do not concern myself with such things." Nor should you. I do not say it, but the message is clear.

Draco continues staring down at his hands. They are large in comparison to Harry's. The thought irritates me, so I push it away.

"Things will end badly for him, won't they?"

"Most likely." My voice is flat and emotionless. I have come to terms with that fact. I hate it and I want to reject it, but it is pointless to fight the inevitable. I always lose.

"My mother asked me to give you something, sir." I stiffen imperceptibly, but he does not look up. "Father and I talked before . . ." his voice cracks pitifully, the only emotion he's shown since he arrived, "before he—he was arrested. He told me that there might, perhaps, be choices."

I tilt my head slightly to the side, measuring him. "We all have choices, Mr. Malfoy. I was under the impression that your father had been released from Azkaban in June. He and I . . . met."

Draco's eyes remain fixed on his hands. His voice is a whisper. "Father's not been well since he came home."

I watch him silently. That certainly explained some things. Lucius and I have always had a . . . complex relationship. Never close friends, never outright enemies, he and I have always walked a fine line. He knows I am a spy; I have mountains of evidence to prove beyond a doubt that he was and still is a Death Eater of his own recognizance. Neither of us has ever chosen to act on what we know—we are both far better at the game than that—but I still cannot help but feel a bit uneasy.

Is this the day that Lucius decides to play his hand? My own is pitifully weak at the moment. And if the Malfoy patriarch is no longer fit to make the family's decision, then that leaves Narcissa in charge. Though Narcissa is a brilliant as she is deadly, she is proud and impetuous—if not out and out emotionally unstable at times—habits that she and her husband have passed on in abundance to their progeny. For his part, the Malfoy heir looks . . . troubled. Frightened, perhaps. Though he had been acting oddly this term, I had thought little of it.

Careless.

I must be losing my touch. This matter with the boy has me far too distracted. Thank Merlin He has not summoned me since August.

"You said that you had something for me?" I prompt at last.

Steely gray eyes raise and regard me expressionlessly. "A message. It's something Father told her. It's my choice to tell you this." His eyes flash suddenly, daring me to challenge him. "Father said so. It's my choice."

I remain silent.

"Mother wrote and told me to tell you, 'Horace is awakening. We've bought a new glass.'"

It is only a lifetime of control that stops me from leaping out of my seat. Instead, I tilt my head slightly once more and struggle not to swallow the lump that's risen in my throat. "Those were the exact words?"

"Verbatim."

I nod and look away to stare into the flames in silence. Draco watches me with hard eyes, studying me, searching for some emotion or sign of approval or disapproval. It is a wasted effort. I know what a risk he's taken . . . probably better than he does. But it is because of that risk that I dare not acknowledge what he has done. Not yet, at least.

A full minute passes before Draco accepts that he will receive nothing more from me. He stands with atypical awkwardness and hovers anxiously for a moment before heading towards the door with a "Goodnight, sir" that I barely process.

At the door he pauses, his hand on the handle. I can sense his hesitation and turn to look at him. He does not turn around. "The Headmaster does a good job at protecting him, doesn't he? I've seen him . . . friends always on hand. Staff always watching. He's in good hands."

I turn back to the flames, frowning. Draco is right, of course; he's always surrounded by people. Always in a crowd. But they're not with him, only surrounding him. The teachers, the staff, the Order . . . He's even got himself quite a lovely army among the students—and the name D.A notwithstanding, they follow Harry, not anyone else. Yes, we've done a fine job protecting him; he's very safe.

Very safe and very overwhelmed.

"Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy."

The door closes silently behind the child and I release a breath I hadn't known I've been holding.

I'll not complete my grading tonight.

I cannot bring myself to care.

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