CHAPTER 7

A/N: I'm listening to TONS of music for inspiration…I find that it really helps and influences my writing.

I do not do any wood carving myself (I wish I could, and maybe I'll try it out one day), so I researched a little on the web.

Finally, there is a religious theme in the middle of this chapter. This is only to underline Severus's gloom, disillusionment and lack of faith in himself and others, and is not in the least connected or concerned with a scheme of having Severus undergo a religious epiphany at a later stage :-)

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Harry was sitting at a table in the Gryffindor common room, carving his block of wood. His hand was tense from holding the knife for so long. He loosened his grip. He was feeling happy, absorbed in what he was doing. He was not always a patient person, but it was precisely the slow development which pleased him when it came to wood carving. It was something worth his time and creativity. He put the knife away and stood up, stretching a little. It was a Hogsmeade weekend; Harry had gone down to Hogsmeade only briefly, buying some more wood carving material and a fat diary. Ron and Hermione were still in Hogsmeade, probably enjoying their coffee and shopping together. Harry grinned at the thought and went to the bathroom to wash his hands, flexing his fingers under the flow of water to relax them. His motions reminded him of Severus Snape; the Potions Master had a tendency to flex his fingers when he was particularly restless or angry. Harry stopped grinning, dried his hands and went over to his bed, where the new diary was lying. He fetched a quill and some ink and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against his bed. He opened the diary and thought for a few moments. He scribbled his name on the first page. He flipped it over and wrote the date as the header of his first entry. He chewed on his lip and started writing. His sentences were short and clipped at first. He mentioned that Ron and Hermione were currently in Hogsmeade, hopefully enjoying their date. He wrote about school. About Occlumency and duelling. About Severus Snape. The sentences became longer and his writing untidier as the anger welled up in him. Finally, he snapped the diary closed.

"Not bad at all. Good idea, 'Mione," he muttered, amazed that he had managed to keep so much bottled up inside himself. He could not tell his friends every insult, every emotion, every thought after all. His hand was aching with carving and writing.

Later that evening, he wrote some more, setting down a rough summary of seven years of hostility between Severus and himself on paper. He noticed that he was less angry and irritated when he snuggled into the sheets and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, a nightmare woke him up in the middle of the night; but he was aware of having tried to resist or block it out; only incomplete chunks of torture and vague images remained instead of whole detailed scenes. It was still very unpleasant, however, and Harry knew that he had to by all means master Occlumency if he wanted to ward off the nightmares and Voldemort's ruthless exploitation of their link via his scar.

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"Alohomora."

The door of the small Catholic church in Hogsmeade clicked open, and Severus Snape entered, his hair moist from the slight drizzle outside. The Saturday night was cold. Severus's face was very pale, nearly floating in the dimness of the church. He saw the altar and tabernacle from afar, and his eyes narrowed. He pointedly ignored the silvery basin of Holy Water; the only sign he gave of noticing it was a characteristic curl of his lip. On the right side, votive candles were flickering softly. There were pictures of saints here and there. Severus's black eyes swept impassively over the pews.

"Witchcraft is a sin!" Tobias Snape had snarled at his wife Eileen Prince. "I have married a witch!"

Small Severus, watching his parents fight, his eyes wide and frightened. His father pointing at him, revulsion in his face.

"And this little freak is like you!"

Severus jerked his head, as if trying to shake off the memories. He drew out his wand.

"What!" he whispered, but his voice was perfectly audible in the echoing room. "No one to strike me down? No vengeful flash of lightning?"

He climbed up the stairs leading to the altar. He approached the tabernacle, and his eyes were haunted; angry; confused. His wand twitched. He had often wished to blast it open, to fling the bread and wine all over the floor, to watch the round wafers drown in a river of blood. With an abrupt movement, he turned and strode towards the stand of votive candles.

"Aguamenti!"

The candles were doused with a jet of water; they went out without a sound, and the corner where the stand stood seemed to be swallowed up by the shadows, by his hatred.

"Thank you," he said with a mirthless laugh, "thank you for your generous blessings, oh Lord."

Beats of silence, then he continued in his soft voice, sounding nearly seductive:

"Why waste prayers, candles, water and a whole building? Where are your miracles? Do you need a wand, perhaps?"

He uttered another laugh.

"Thank you, oh Lord, Lord Voldemort."

He stared at the little bust of Mary and her baby.

His mother making it clear every day that she wished he had never been born. Making it clear through her silence, the dead look in her eyes, her body language. Always making sure never to touch him. His father touched him from time to time. To slap him or push him away.

For a moment, he imagined Mary to have green eyes and her baby a scar on his forehead...

He sank down onto his knees.

"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed, and omission: through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault," Severus said the words which had been hammered into his mind. "Yes, always my fault. And what good is my confession? What good?" He yelled out the last question. His hunched black-cloaked body was a forlorn rag on the floor of the church. The minutes ticked past. At last he got up and left the church, locking it again. He turned his head to look at it, and he seemed like a child in the gentle drizzle, his faith in everything and everyone, most of all in himself, shredded to tatters, his past and future hopes dashed, his life drowning a little more everyday, its spark suffocating like he had extinguished the candles in the church; and then he was an adult who had never had a childhood. His face resumed its harsh expression. When he returned to Hogwarts, he would head for the sanctity of his dungeons to brew potions. How easy it was to collect, combine and unify the ingredients while his life was always being dissected and sliced apart every day. But he was not yet ready to go back to the school. He sighed, checked to see whether the coast was clear and Disapparated. He Apparated in front of a Muggle bar. Sometimes, the longing for some kind of intimacy, for living out his asphyxiated dust-coated sexuality was so bad that he couldn't sleep at night. He would probably need to indulge in paid services tonight. No one in their right mind would sleep with him on a level of equality or consensus. He wrapped his cloak around his figure, searching listlessly for a man to provide him with some type of human contact, even if it was a travesty of what he actually he wanted. He felt for the box of condoms in his pocket and slid inside the noisy place like a shadow, knowing that he would feel alive in a short while – only to feel deader than ever afterwards.

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Harry ate breakfast hungrily on Sunday morning. He looked at the staff table. The Potions Master was eating little, as usual; Harry caught his eye and had to avert his gaze; Severus shot him a smouldering look of absolute loathing. Harry looked at Ron. His friend, too, was eating little, pushing his food around. It was the same with Hermione. They weren't talking to each other. Ron had come back from his date with Hermione looking sour. He told Harry that he would enlighten him after breakfast on Sunday. Harry waited.

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