The Other Side Of The Dark: Chapter 13
The sand was soft and fine, yet firm beneath his bare feet. Harry sat down, trailing his hand through it, enjoying the silken feel. He wondered at Dobby's words. All this had been created for him? He drew a deep, slow breath, drinking in a fresh scent of sea salt, carried by clean, cool air. His mind felt clear; all the pain and exhaustion had gone.
He tried thinking about Sirius, and pictured him the last time he had seen him; long black hair streaming around a strong face that would never be ugly, even with the flesh melted away by years of imprisonment. I miss you, Harry thought; but the agony he had experienced while awake was here no more than a muted regret. He pulled his knees up under his chin, hugging them as he gazed out to sea.
He had no idea what to make of what Dobby had said. Snape had told him the charm would keep Voldemort out, but he had said nothing about bad memories or unhappiness. What did that have to do with anything? Shutting them out so you could close you mind was obviously difficult if there was a lot of them; but Harry had lots of happy memories too; the years he had spent at Hogwarts had been the happiest of his life. Maybe if Snape had taken some time to explain exactly how one was supposed to shut one's mind, then Harry would have had more success. And then Sirius would still
It was like warm water being poured over a sudden flare of heat in the back of his mind. Anger leapt up and died immediately, a peculiar tranquillity taking its place. As if Sirius' death was of no consequence; as if it didn't matter. Anger flared again at the total invasion of his mind that Snape's charm represented. Blot out the pain and the emotions so the Dark Lord can't get in. Then you can close your mind and cease to be a threat to us. Like Snape of all people should care about Harry's unhappiness and bad memories! And again the anger was dampened; but this time into an itchy sense of irritation. That was interesting. In here, he was still able to feel negative emotions towards Snape, reduced though they were.
Harry got up. There were questions he needed to ask, and he wasn't going to get the answers down here staring at the sea.
Alastor Moody stared down at his patient. It was more than a day since he had last slept, but the adrenalin from last night's meeting had fired him with too much energy to allow him rest now. In any case, Snape needed a vitalis infusion every three hours, so he would have time for nothing more than a nap. Might as well get on with it.
The bandages on Snape's back were stiff, and he cut them away piece by piece rather than attempt unwrapping them. The flesh underneath was so mangled that the main job would be separating the muscle tissue from skin, but once that was done, healing would be the work of a few minutes. Until then however, Moody reckoned he had a good few hours fiddly work ahead of him.
Outside, the light matured into a warm summer morning. Snipping away gently at the bandages, Moody felt himself relax.
In the early days of his wizarding career, Moody had trained as a Healer. He had found something infinitely rewarding in taking away pain and distress and seeing the return of health and strength; in taking something broken and mending it. How idealistic he had been back then, and what a simple view of the world he had had. His naivety had lasted until the first time he saw the kind of damage that could be wrought by dark magic. Of course he had known about that kind of thing, had read case histories and written exam papers; but somehow he had never truly believed that any human being could actually intend such violence on another. Young Moody's world view had been fractured at its very core, and from that day on he had pursued his vocation with an increasing sense of futility until finally he abandoned his career as a Healer and retrained as an Auror.
Now he was calling on that early training from the days when he believed the world was a nice place, and it was unexpectedly soothing. Face down on the mattress, his shaved head turned away and a clean white sheet wrapped around his lower half, Snape could be anyone, and Moody found his anger melting in the presence of a deeper, older desire to heal the wounded. The complexity of the damage absorbed him; some healing had already taken place, melding muscle with skin, and that needed taking carefully apart, like unpicking a badly sewn seam.
The injury itself was unusual, and the Auror stood next the Healer in Moody's head as he worked. His magical eye roamed the site of the damage, assessing and analysing while his normal eye focused on whichever tiny area he was currently working on.
Clearly this had been some kind of whip, something like the cat o' nine tails to cause this shape of wound. All the strokes had come from the same direction, and they had been concentrated mainly on the space between his shoulder blades, although one or two livid tendrils ended just above his hips. Moody grimaced; even with an ordinary scourge that would have been agonising. But this particular weapon had been a bit more special than that, and again something of the ancient muggle world was called to mind.
A normal cat o' nine tails wouldn't pull muscle through flesh. It could open your back if applied with enough force, but the friction usually cauterised the edges. But for the truly sadistic, there was a nasty variation, and in Moody's recollection, the Romans had been fond of this one. Along the length of each frond of the whip would be plaited pieces of glass. When that hit fragile human flesh, it cut straight through to the bone and came back pulling muscle. An obscene, monstrous device. In spite of his feelings for Snape, in spite of his certainty that the wounds were self-inflicted, Moody felt a sudden stab of pity. What on earth would induce anyone to do such a thing to himself?
Guilt? Moody paused, interrupted by an unexpected idea. For fourteen years he had kept the hideous image of Snape in the Longbottoms' living room encapsulated at the back of his mind, utterly convinced that Snape had been involved in that atrocity, and incredulous at Dumbledore's trust in the man. Could this be it? Was it possible that Snape felt such remorse for his unpunished crimes, that he would seek to punish himself?
And yet he had run away when the Ministry finally decided to arrest him. Frank's death a fortnight ago had been the reason the Ministry had finally decided to ignore Dumbledore's evidence exonerating him. Presumably it was Frank's death that had precipitated this. So why not just give himself up? The Roman scourge was lethal; Moody had trouble believing that anyone prepared to undergo something like that could possibly fear death in the slightest. In any case, the work he had done for the Order would have probably seen his sentence commuted. So why run?
Moody paused suddenly, reaching across to grab Snape's remaining hand for a closer look. If someone else had done this to him, presumably he would have been restrained; were there any signs of rope burns? No. There were a couple of scars across the fingers as if he had held his arms defensively over his head. Moody flinched at the sudden mental image of Snape's scrawny body crouched naked on the floor while this vile whip had torn his back to shreds. He sat back as the word floated through his mind again.
Harry ran up to the room in which Snape waited, defiantly holding onto his annoyance. Staying angry was important. The anger belonged to him and he refused to let Snape take it away; but the closer he got to Snape's dream-room, the more comforted he felt; it was like a cloying hug from an unwelcome relative. It felt, now he thought about it, rather like being under the Imperious curse in that Defence Against The Dark Arts class long ago, this warm sense of everything being right with the world. And he was fighting it, just as he had back then.
The door was half open when he got there. Without pausing in his flight, Harry put out a hand to push it the rest of the way open, intending to run straight through. Instead he hit it with a crash and collapsed.
Unsurprisingly, the impact caused no damage or pain, and only a slight sense of foolishness. But the shock had broken his concentration, and as he got up, a sense of calm told him he had lost the battle to retain his anger. He gave the door a puzzled look as he slid past it, and looked around for Snape.
Snape was sitting on the floor with his back to the room, in front of the vast window overlooking the bay. The stars were as breath-taking as before, although there were dark clouds drifting across the moon, obscuring its light But while Snape seemed arrested by the majestic view, Harry was pulled up short by something else.
Snape's hair was beautiful. Long, luxuriant and as black as the night outside, it fell like a shining cloak to trail on the floor behind him. Long elegant fingers were wound into the radiant locks, and Harry could see the perfect nails gleaming against the darkness. It suddenly occurred to him that this Neverland, by its nature, had to be more than just a place of solace for him. He thought about the ugly, greasy-haired man who had taught him Potions for five years, and wondered if Snape knew how unappealing he was and wanted to be attractive. This whole place was a dream, a fantasy. Was this Snape's fantasy of himself?
Harry drew closer. Snape seemed as unaware of his presence as he had before, and this, now Harry thought about it, was odd. Snape had never missed Harry's presence in the real world, and this place had supposedly been created just for him. Surely he should be twice as sensitive to him in here?
But then he realised that Snape was too preoccupied to notice him, or anything else at that moment. Snape was crying.
The sand was soft and fine, yet firm beneath his bare feet. Harry sat down, trailing his hand through it, enjoying the silken feel. He wondered at Dobby's words. All this had been created for him? He drew a deep, slow breath, drinking in a fresh scent of sea salt, carried by clean, cool air. His mind felt clear; all the pain and exhaustion had gone.
He tried thinking about Sirius, and pictured him the last time he had seen him; long black hair streaming around a strong face that would never be ugly, even with the flesh melted away by years of imprisonment. I miss you, Harry thought; but the agony he had experienced while awake was here no more than a muted regret. He pulled his knees up under his chin, hugging them as he gazed out to sea.
He had no idea what to make of what Dobby had said. Snape had told him the charm would keep Voldemort out, but he had said nothing about bad memories or unhappiness. What did that have to do with anything? Shutting them out so you could close you mind was obviously difficult if there was a lot of them; but Harry had lots of happy memories too; the years he had spent at Hogwarts had been the happiest of his life. Maybe if Snape had taken some time to explain exactly how one was supposed to shut one's mind, then Harry would have had more success. And then Sirius would still
It was like warm water being poured over a sudden flare of heat in the back of his mind. Anger leapt up and died immediately, a peculiar tranquillity taking its place. As if Sirius' death was of no consequence; as if it didn't matter. Anger flared again at the total invasion of his mind that Snape's charm represented. Blot out the pain and the emotions so the Dark Lord can't get in. Then you can close your mind and cease to be a threat to us. Like Snape of all people should care about Harry's unhappiness and bad memories! And again the anger was dampened; but this time into an itchy sense of irritation. That was interesting. In here, he was still able to feel negative emotions towards Snape, reduced though they were.
Harry got up. There were questions he needed to ask, and he wasn't going to get the answers down here staring at the sea.
Alastor Moody stared down at his patient. It was more than a day since he had last slept, but the adrenalin from last night's meeting had fired him with too much energy to allow him rest now. In any case, Snape needed a vitalis infusion every three hours, so he would have time for nothing more than a nap. Might as well get on with it.
The bandages on Snape's back were stiff, and he cut them away piece by piece rather than attempt unwrapping them. The flesh underneath was so mangled that the main job would be separating the muscle tissue from skin, but once that was done, healing would be the work of a few minutes. Until then however, Moody reckoned he had a good few hours fiddly work ahead of him.
Outside, the light matured into a warm summer morning. Snipping away gently at the bandages, Moody felt himself relax.
In the early days of his wizarding career, Moody had trained as a Healer. He had found something infinitely rewarding in taking away pain and distress and seeing the return of health and strength; in taking something broken and mending it. How idealistic he had been back then, and what a simple view of the world he had had. His naivety had lasted until the first time he saw the kind of damage that could be wrought by dark magic. Of course he had known about that kind of thing, had read case histories and written exam papers; but somehow he had never truly believed that any human being could actually intend such violence on another. Young Moody's world view had been fractured at its very core, and from that day on he had pursued his vocation with an increasing sense of futility until finally he abandoned his career as a Healer and retrained as an Auror.
Now he was calling on that early training from the days when he believed the world was a nice place, and it was unexpectedly soothing. Face down on the mattress, his shaved head turned away and a clean white sheet wrapped around his lower half, Snape could be anyone, and Moody found his anger melting in the presence of a deeper, older desire to heal the wounded. The complexity of the damage absorbed him; some healing had already taken place, melding muscle with skin, and that needed taking carefully apart, like unpicking a badly sewn seam.
The injury itself was unusual, and the Auror stood next the Healer in Moody's head as he worked. His magical eye roamed the site of the damage, assessing and analysing while his normal eye focused on whichever tiny area he was currently working on.
Clearly this had been some kind of whip, something like the cat o' nine tails to cause this shape of wound. All the strokes had come from the same direction, and they had been concentrated mainly on the space between his shoulder blades, although one or two livid tendrils ended just above his hips. Moody grimaced; even with an ordinary scourge that would have been agonising. But this particular weapon had been a bit more special than that, and again something of the ancient muggle world was called to mind.
A normal cat o' nine tails wouldn't pull muscle through flesh. It could open your back if applied with enough force, but the friction usually cauterised the edges. But for the truly sadistic, there was a nasty variation, and in Moody's recollection, the Romans had been fond of this one. Along the length of each frond of the whip would be plaited pieces of glass. When that hit fragile human flesh, it cut straight through to the bone and came back pulling muscle. An obscene, monstrous device. In spite of his feelings for Snape, in spite of his certainty that the wounds were self-inflicted, Moody felt a sudden stab of pity. What on earth would induce anyone to do such a thing to himself?
Guilt? Moody paused, interrupted by an unexpected idea. For fourteen years he had kept the hideous image of Snape in the Longbottoms' living room encapsulated at the back of his mind, utterly convinced that Snape had been involved in that atrocity, and incredulous at Dumbledore's trust in the man. Could this be it? Was it possible that Snape felt such remorse for his unpunished crimes, that he would seek to punish himself?
And yet he had run away when the Ministry finally decided to arrest him. Frank's death a fortnight ago had been the reason the Ministry had finally decided to ignore Dumbledore's evidence exonerating him. Presumably it was Frank's death that had precipitated this. So why not just give himself up? The Roman scourge was lethal; Moody had trouble believing that anyone prepared to undergo something like that could possibly fear death in the slightest. In any case, the work he had done for the Order would have probably seen his sentence commuted. So why run?
Moody paused suddenly, reaching across to grab Snape's remaining hand for a closer look. If someone else had done this to him, presumably he would have been restrained; were there any signs of rope burns? No. There were a couple of scars across the fingers as if he had held his arms defensively over his head. Moody flinched at the sudden mental image of Snape's scrawny body crouched naked on the floor while this vile whip had torn his back to shreds. He sat back as the word floated through his mind again.
Harry ran up to the room in which Snape waited, defiantly holding onto his annoyance. Staying angry was important. The anger belonged to him and he refused to let Snape take it away; but the closer he got to Snape's dream-room, the more comforted he felt; it was like a cloying hug from an unwelcome relative. It felt, now he thought about it, rather like being under the Imperious curse in that Defence Against The Dark Arts class long ago, this warm sense of everything being right with the world. And he was fighting it, just as he had back then.
The door was half open when he got there. Without pausing in his flight, Harry put out a hand to push it the rest of the way open, intending to run straight through. Instead he hit it with a crash and collapsed.
Unsurprisingly, the impact caused no damage or pain, and only a slight sense of foolishness. But the shock had broken his concentration, and as he got up, a sense of calm told him he had lost the battle to retain his anger. He gave the door a puzzled look as he slid past it, and looked around for Snape.
Snape was sitting on the floor with his back to the room, in front of the vast window overlooking the bay. The stars were as breath-taking as before, although there were dark clouds drifting across the moon, obscuring its light But while Snape seemed arrested by the majestic view, Harry was pulled up short by something else.
Snape's hair was beautiful. Long, luxuriant and as black as the night outside, it fell like a shining cloak to trail on the floor behind him. Long elegant fingers were wound into the radiant locks, and Harry could see the perfect nails gleaming against the darkness. It suddenly occurred to him that this Neverland, by its nature, had to be more than just a place of solace for him. He thought about the ugly, greasy-haired man who had taught him Potions for five years, and wondered if Snape knew how unappealing he was and wanted to be attractive. This whole place was a dream, a fantasy. Was this Snape's fantasy of himself?
Harry drew closer. Snape seemed as unaware of his presence as he had before, and this, now Harry thought about it, was odd. Snape had never missed Harry's presence in the real world, and this place had supposedly been created just for him. Surely he should be twice as sensitive to him in here?
But then he realised that Snape was too preoccupied to notice him, or anything else at that moment. Snape was crying.
Hi lovely reviewers! Thanks for the shiny reviews! (and "hi" anyone else reading but reserving comment ;) Go on - say something nice, you know you want to! ;D )
Erm, I feel a tad silly after everything I wrote last week, and despite not actually going as far as thanking my mum and breaking down in tears, I think I went a bit over the top. Reading it back this week, in fact, it sounds like two different people - the author and the headcase thanking people at the end! So I'll be a bit more dignified this week and restrain myself ;D
Kateri1, Aredhel, Raphaelle, Khamul, moni and zimo: Thank you all lots!
Barbara: I'm glad Fanfiction seems to be fixed too! Apparently they had a server problem... Glad the chapter answered questions and posed new ones. Just what I'd hoped :)
Frogfoot24: Thank you so much! But no, Moody's not the spy, that was Peter "Wormtail" Pettigrew. Nobody knew it was him until Sirius broke out of jail in Prisoner of Azkaban. But of course, that doesn't necessarily mean he was the only spy...
BekaJWP: Yep, the line about Moody fighting Death for Snape made me grin when I wrote it and every time I read it :D ...
Lilith11: ... glad you see Moody as the slightly obsessed but honourable type. That's how I see him and how I was hoping to portray him. Thank you so much for your comments. :)
Knitekatz: Don't be too concerned about the "D" word. I love Snapey far too much.
LinZE: Glad to see you again! And thanks a lot! And... MM will be getting a chapter soonish... with the emphasis on the -ish... ;)
Ataraxis: Bear with Moody, he may yet prove himself ;>