YESSS IT'S ANOTHER UPDATE! :D ITS MY GIFT TO YOU ALL
So, this is a Snape chapter and I realize it is not in chronological order, but I felt like we needed to see all of Penny's reactions and her settling in elsewhere before delving into what was really going on in Snape's head when he decided to be so mean! I think it makes for a good contrast and shows how complicated it all is.
I also hope it gives better insight to Snape's intentions and feelings for Penny. Personally, this chapter is really special to me because I think it captures where I believe every decisions Snape has ever made regarding Penny is coming from. It' s also always a great challenge and honor to write from my favorite characters head space!
He slammed the door to his office shut, yelling when his eyes fell on the chair that lay before his desk, reminding him of the girl, of the head of red hair he'd become accustomed to seeing there, too accustomed. He'd been a fool, forgotten himself, let his guard down, and for what? He could not change course, not now, he had not made his vow lightly. What the infuriating girl wanted from him was impossible. He'd allowed the insufferable pull he felt toward her to blind him. But the truth remained regardless of their delusion, and he could no longer pretend. It was his price, he should have not let himself forget it, but whenever he was near her. . .He'd tried to keep her at a distance, been successful for years, watching her and that insolent brother of hers prance about the castle.
But something about her had been unexpected. She was a Potter, to be sure, the spawn of that miscreant, but she brought none of the loathsome reminders of him that were ever present in the boy. At first he convinced himself that it was her likeness to Lily that had caught him off guard. There had been times, when his eyes, wandering over the loud brats in the Great Hall that he found that head of red hair, the blazing green eyes looking up as though magnetized to him, and he'd believed, even if only for a moment, that he was looking at a ghost. The day she arrived in his office, that first cursed encounter that had ruined everything, he'd been certain her only purpose was to be his purgatory-to endlessly remind him of what he'd done, what he'd lost.
And yet, though he tried to send her away, he'd called her back, finding it unbearable to watch her storm away. And so, he studied her, against his better judgement. Though her physical features would suggest otherwise, he found she was nothing like Lily, having none of the poise nor subtle graces that had characterized Lily. Even her features, upon closer examination contained the signs that she was entirely her own creature. Loud, prideful, challenging, oafish and insistent on thrusting herself upon him. And yet, at some point he'd come to find himself irritable when she did not show, when, just last year, she began to frequent his office less often and he'd instead find her giggling ridiculously after that pretty boy.
He knew he should have seized upon the natural distance that was developing, it was the out he needed. His mark growing darker by the day, it was inevitable that she would discover what he was. He should not care, had trained himself for years to be indifferent, for the moment he would return to his master's side. But an unnatural compulsion compelled him to search for any reason to be near the girl, to prod her, relishing the way she would rage against him, greedily savoring what it revealed-that regardless of all that transpired around them, she'd become as addicted as he.
Then of course the Diggory boy had died, the dark mark burning hot upon his forearm, and so he'd let go, though he knew the image of those lifeless eyes would haunt her forever, just as Lily's did him. There was no use sheltering her from reality, and reality was reminding him how carless he'd been-because standing there, watching her inch toward the truth that would alter her forever, he wanted no part of it. He cursed the day he'd made the vow, cursed the path that had led them to this moment-and for a moment he succumbed to weakness, he wanted something else.
Rubbing his face angrily several times, as though he could rub away the filth, away the intractable harm he'd just done her. But it did nothing to ease the discomfort, or to rid his conscience of the sound of her pleas; the memory of the green eyes widening in terror the moment she understood-he meant not to return. He'd almost relented; allowed himself to be pulled back into the intoxication of her, but the blindfold had fallen from her eyes and she finally asked the questions she should have asked from the beginning.
For a single wretched second, he considered lying to her, giving her the sob story she desired to hear. Constructing himself into the broken creature she wanted so desperately to believe he was, what she needed him to be in order to forgive him. It would have been easy, she always had been so foolishly trusting of him, making barring the truth from her an absurdly simple affair. He was a master of the craft, there was nothing stopping him, except, for the second time weakness preyed upon him-he did not want to lie to the girl.
The truth in his greedy heart would not permit him. Time and time again, they'd gotten closer to the truth, him convincing himself it was the last. But she was ever the contrarian, refusing, in her rash pigheadedness, to be deterred-reaching out and touching that which was most vile to others. She ensnared him, her words enchanting his senses and robbing him of his reason, but he could not deny the truth, he had not resisted. The lie he would construct, it would be a taint, a poison stealing from him that which he coveted most-her trust.
Eyes falling onto the dusty cabinet in the corner, he made for it, unlocked it with a flick of his wand. Yanking it open, he carelessly rifled through bottles, sending several to the cold dungeon floor where they shattered. Finally, furthest to the right, he found what he was looking for. He rubbed the dust from the label and considered the firewhisky. He had not partook for several years. After Lily- a day had not gone by that he hadn't poured one if not three to endure the night. Sometimes taking even a fourth the next morning in order to make it through the first period with the inept brats he spent his time uselessly trying to teach.
It wasn't until that damned woman's passing at the hands of that drunkard that he began to find the habit intolerable, though he'd never gone off it completely, not until she showed up, bringing with her a new life to the shadows of the castle. He no longer found pleasure in the drink, finding it dulled his senses, senses he needed to study the creature who had ruined everything-the girl, that for some unbeknownst reason had chosen him. He became obsessed, he needed to know everything. He quickly determined her to be talented, though not in the manner of her peers. Brewing a potion was a task even an idiot could accomplish, it did not require any real skill outside of applied attention and discipline. No, she was different, she looked beyond the mundane, pressed on buttons beyond his surface, challenged him with that insolent desire to discover what she wanted at any cost. There were moments, too many moments, when she reminded him of himself. She was lured by the darkness, of a different make entirely than that pretentious, self-righteous brother of hers.
He found himself wondering why she had not been sorted into his house, even wishing she had been. Too often, she demonstrated those traits that Slytherin so prized, more often in fact than any of her own house, Gryffindor. She was like an imposter, wearing red to conceal the green. But, nevertheless, she clung to those irritating ideals of Gryffindor, fighting against her nature to be something else, but he did not know what. He had been a fool, a selfish fool for not seeing. It wasn't until he'd pulled that blade from her abdomen and discovered the nature of the curse that he realized how blind he'd been, how his nurturing of those qualities she resisted, that tempted her, would be her undoing. He'd sealed the wound, done all within his capabilities to lift the curse, it was of no true skill, Amycus' was no match for his, but in his simplicity was their undoing, and Amycus' genius.
The curse, he discovered, found its source of life within her, weakening her because of the darkness that already resided there. Amycus hadn't been looking for the pleasure of stealing her life, he desired a soul capable of corrupting, to watch the slow, agonizing torment of his curse's influence ripping apart all the girl was and reshaping her into what her basest instincts desired. The only way to break the curse was for her to reject those parts of herself and rely on those features she doubted most in herself. It was a truth he could not share with her, he would spare her, while he could. That was all he could do to atone for the fate he'd damned her too. That and. . .
He yanked off the top to the firewhisky, not bothering to get himself a cup, he drank deeply, the familiar warmth burning all the way from his esophagus into the innermost parts of his chest. Shutting the cabinet, he turned and sank to the floor, clinging to the bottle with his left hand and flicking off the light with his right, leaving him only the light of the dimming fire. Another swig, another twinge within his chest as he allowed himself to wonder if the panic had receded or if the girl was still trapped within herself, enduring again and again the terror locked within her memories. The helplessness he'd felt in the wake of it, it'd made him irrationally angry. It was a feeling he wanted to banish from himself simply because he wanted to deny it, linger in their delusion.
But the time had come and it did not matter how he railed against it. He'd left and now he needed to stay away, because the truth she asked for, it led to the single truth that would be her undoing. If she knew he were the reason-he'd kept it from her-no, he would not be the match that ignited the anger, resentment and hatred that would fuel the curse, giving it power over her that she would eventually no longer be able to resist. She'd always been tempted, there was no denying that, what else could have compelled her into his company, to spend her hours in the dark, cold dungeons. He'd been leading her like a rabbit with a carrot on the end of his stick, away from all that might have spared her. Instead, he'd dragged her into his hell, a hell he could not even remain in. He'd abandoned her for the vow, the vow he'd made for Lily's son, at a time when he did not even know of Lily's daughter. If he had never meddled, she might have been more like Potter, a prospect he loathed to admit was the only way to protect her.
Another swig of the bottle and he was beginning to feel the dulling effects of the drink. He gave it a disgusted sneer before downing the rest of its contents. There was no going back now, the way forward was clear, he would do all in his power to ensure the girl not end up as he, she would be spared the darkness he knew all too well. Her path would not be as his, there was still hope of her finding her footing and breaking the curse, if he would only let her go.
Leaning his head back, he looked at the ceiling, the abhorrent moment returning to him, tormenting him as her words played over and over again in his head: because I love you! He pulled at his own hair not caring of the pain, or if he ripped it all from his scalp, releasing his anguish in another yell; accomplishing nothing, so he threw the bottle from him, the sound of it shattering appeasing only a fraction of his anger. If only he'd relented, allowed her words to reach him before he'd ruined everything they might have had a while longer. . .
But he knew, a moment would never satisfy him, and he could not escape what he was. No, now made it a mercy, the longer it went on, the harder it would be for both of them. She must never know his mistake, his vow, all his evils, or the truth of his feelings for her-how vital she was to him. He would endure the affliction of the emptiness the loss of her nearness brought and he would return to his duties, be Dumbledore's spy, keeping her far from him with the walls he built years ago. He must allow her to hate him, to blame him and never to forgive him, it was the only way, as vile as the prospect was. But he would not do it for him , that awful boy who everyone loved to adore. Not him, never him. He would do it for her , for that annoying-selfish-arrogant-brilliant-beautiful-infuriating girl who's presence had done what no other had, allowed him to hope. For the possibility that things could be different for her, he must do it: he would be the cause of her pain, if only to spare her from the evil within him that would surely taint her. He would no longer entertain the possibility of a life where he need not leave those words that he was so undeserving of, linger in silence. He must never tell her, in spite of all his efforts to detest and abhor all she was, somewhere along the way she'd become essential to him. Because he did love her, he would not say those words, he would let them die in his throat and take them to his grave.
But the prospect was unbearable. He would do anything, anything other than what was required, to be near her. Getting to his feet, he stumbled to his desk, throwing open the drawers, dumping their contents on the floor until he found it. Brushing away the vials and corks, revealing the long forgotten Slytherin tea cozy she'd made him for Christmas.
Clutching it tightly, he allowed himself to sink back to the floor, not caring he sat on the junk he'd left everywhere. Pulling his knees to his chest, he placed his elbows on them, bent low his head and took a long breath in, it smelled mostly of mildew, but the faintest hint of dahlia still remained. Cumbersome tears rolling off the end of his nose, he closed his eyes, holding onto that smell, that last piece of her, until it lingered no more.