Disclaimer: Not mine.
4.
For a moment, all you can do is blink. You don't know what to say, or for that matter, what to think. It is bizarre, seeing your least favorite professor like this- young and vulnerable. Human.
You take a step towards the boy, unthinking, lost in the shock and chaos of the moment. You are torn between your own memories of nights in the cupboard, stiff and sore, and the knowledge that this is Snape, a man who has tormented you for several years now. Memories win. You approach slowly, hands outstretched, hoping to appear nonthreatening. After a minute, you slowly place a hand on the boys shoulder and-
The world shifts and stretches like taffy. You reel back, trying to make sense of the swirling maelstrom of colors that envelop you. With a crack everything snaps back into focus, and you find yourself in a now familiar room, on a now familiar bed. Dread begins to grow in your stomach, and there is a sour taste in your mouth. The sudden whiff of alcohol through the open doorway does nothing to assuage your fears. You try to brace yourself for it, but to no avail.
The small body sails into the room and hits the floor with a smack. You cringe, unable to close your eyes and block out what you know is coming. You can only watch, caught between the horror that you are witnessing and the deep, poisonous ache of familiarity.
Your bite your lip until it bleeds, and the coppery tang of blood only strengthens your futile rage. At times, you find yourself cowering in a corner, unable to stay afloat in the overwhelming tide of memories that swamp you. You come back to yourself only to see that while the memory has changed while you fought your own demons, the fear and pain have not. You long for the blessed peace of unconsciousness; it doesn't come.
Eventually, you are numb.
You drift raggedly from memory to memory, noting little. There is no need, you've seen it all before. So when you open your eyes to find the stone wall of the cell before you, you are nearly unable to comprehend what you are seeing. You continue to float along, cold and quiet. No attention is paid to the figures that unchain you from the wall, or to the tall man who strides from the cell without a backwards glance. The cool stone on your cheek soothes your headache and you allow yourself to slide towards the floor.
Your eyes flicker open one last time as you begin the journey into unconsciousness, and you find that a now familiar pair of dark eyes follows you into an uneasy slumber.
You do not dream.
A/N: I don't enjoy begging for reviews, however some constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. This story is somewhat of a stylistic experiment for me, and I'd like to hear what others think of it. So please take a minute to drop me a line with any comments or questions you may have. I am always looking to improve. Thanks! -Rose