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Behind These Cold Eyes by Vain
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Author's Notes:
Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this. The excerpts from the book (Snape’s Occlumency lesson) can be found in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix between pages 530 and 536.

 

Warnings: SS/HP pre-slash overtones and some rather intense violence at one point.

 

*Continuity: “Behind These Cold Eyes” is the companion piece to “Balm in Gilead” and the third fic in the J. Alfred Prufrock Arch. It takes place after OotP and CONTAINS SPOILERS for Book 5.

 

Notes: Paragraphs separated like this: ( -------------------- ) and italicized are Harry’s thoughts as he’s watching the meeting. If the words are in quotes, those are Harry’s memories from Snape’s lessons. It’s all stream on consciousness (that, and I suck at writing Harry).
Also, the first quote is Severus’s POV and the second quote is about Harry (it’s massive all just foreshadowing!!). As is always the case, I recommend that you look at the quote in context of the source if you’re confused as to its application.
Behind These Cold Eyes
Verse III of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
- Vain
7.4 - 10.2003

 

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 

So ya thought ya might like to go to the show
To feel the warm thrill of confusion—
That space cadet glow.
Tell me, is something eluding you, sunshine?
Is this not what you expected to see?
If you want to find out what’s behind these cold eyes
You’ll just have to claw your way through this disguise.

 

- Pink Floyd
The Wall

 

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Verse III of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc
- Vain7.4 - 10.2003 *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~* “”

The room was a long rectangle; perhaps it had once been a dining room, but now most of the furniture had either been destroyed or moved to a different part of the house. Thick, slightly moth-eaten green carpets covered the wooden floor and dusty, weary looking chandeliers drooped heavily from the water damaged ceiling on their greenish, rusty hooks. Thin, gossamer strands of cobwebs straggled down from their once golden bows, giving them an ancient, forgotten air. Dozens of thick beeswax candles had been magicked to float in lazy clusters at seemingly random intervals throughout the room, providing the only light. Although it was nighttime, the once luxurious red velvet curtains were drawn tight over the windows, preventing any light from entering or escaping.

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It’s different this time.

I try to empty myself of all emotion like you told me to, but instead I hear your voice.

“Well, Potter, you know why you are here. The Headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency.”

It’s like flying and floating and falling all at once.

I try to block the dream.

“As I told you back in your dear godfather’s kitchen, Occlumency seals the mind against magical intrusion or influence.”

I’m not him . . . Or in him.

I try to escape.

“I am about to attempt to break into your mind. We are going to see how well you resist.”

But I can’t.

“You let me get in too far. You lost control.”

I’m simply outside watching.

“You lost control.”

So it all just comes in vague and fuzzy—half felt.

I think I prefer it this way.

I’m not inside him. I know what’s me and what’s him. It’s too difficult to tell who’s who when I’m in him. Or he’s in me. I’m not sure anymore. But everything’s muted. I feel . . . detached.

I can see him. Him and all the others. I can feel them, hear him. Are you here tonight? And why do I care?

I want to wake up.

“You’re not doing it, Potter . . . You will need more discipline than this . . . Focus, now . . .”

Get out of my head, Severus Snape.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The only piece of furniture left in the room was a hideous, enormous black armchair raised up on a makeshift dais magically drawn out of the floor. The cobwebs had been swept away and some vague, half-hearted effort had been made to return it to what had to have once been velvet-clad majestic glory, but instead the tattered chair only gave off an atmosphere of rot and faded dignity. Stuffing jutted out from a large rip clawed into one arms and the covering was twisted and bunched. Perched in this monstrosity with all the poise of a decadent emperor lording over his decaying kingdom was Lord Voldemort.

A large green snake was coiled menacingly at his feet and a semi-circle of black-clad, white masked men and women were standing around the dais, watching the spectacle before them with varying degrees of awe, amusement, and fear. The spectacle—a black-robed man writhing, shrieking, and foaming at the mouth on the floor before the dais—twitched sporadically beneath the Crucius Curse, watery blue eyes rolling up into the man’s head. Wormtail’s white mask had fallen off his face and shattered the instant it hit the floor and lay in four pieces of porcelain around the sweat-soaked halo of his straw-colored hair.

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Are you here? Did Dumbledore let you go tonight? Does he still trust you? I don’t see how he could. How anyone could. Because you killed him. I know you did. How many other people have you killed? How many like—

I want to laugh, but I’m afraid of how it will sound. Will it make a sound?

If a Potter falls in the manor and there are no Death Eaters around to hear him, does he make a sound?

“We are going to see how well you resist . . .”

No?

What about a Black?

I want to wake up.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the Death Eaters, a tall man with greasy looking black hair and coal black eyes, watched the former Marauder’s plight with little emotion. His body was perhaps a bit too tense and his hands clenched a bit too tightly, but otherwise he appeared to be the very picture of calm. The man next to him, a platinum blond with hair so light it was almost white and gray eyes so cold they looked like steel, occasionally shot him dark, angry looks. Wormtail gave a final, desperate sob and Voldemort raised his wand up, signaling an end to the punishment.

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But I can’t.

“Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions and allow themselves to be provoked this easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers!”

‘I am not weak,’ I told you.

I am not weak.

Are you?

I see you, Snape. Even underneath that white mask. It’s your eyes I see. Dark. Cold. Hateful. Empty. There’s nothing inside you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you so much it burns me inside. Is that weak?

Is that why I can’t wake up? Those eyes?

I feel strange, like there’s a buzzing in my head and a lump in my throat, though I don’t even know if I have a throat in this dream. Is it possible to feel my body in bed when I’m like this?

I think I’d rather be the snake.

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---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Death Eaters all raised their white faces to their master as he began to speak.

“Wormtail . . .” Voldemort hissed menacingly.

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Does he say your name like that? Do you ever cringe? Do you have any heart at all? You taunted him about not being able to leave the house. You kicked me out of your office. You stopped my lessons. You didn’t listen to me in front of Umbridge and my scar always hurt so much after those lessons . . . What did you really do to me?

“You let me get in too far.”

What are you doing to me?

And why do I not want you to be here?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The little blob of man remained huddled in a pile on the floor in front of the dais, occasionally whimpering. After a few moments, he pushed himself up on shaky arms and raised his slightly balding head to his master. A long trail of drool extended from his slack mouth to a small wet spot on the carpet. “M—m—master . . .?”

Voldemort shifted slightly, moving his weight from the right side of the chair to the left, and the snake—Nagini—hissed hatefully at Wormtail from his feet. “You disappoint me, Wormtail . . .” Voldemort hissed, drawing the man’s name out uncomfortably.

A silent ripple went through the Death Eaters and Wormtail’s mouth moved soundlessly for a moment.

“Why . . .” Voldemort continued menacingly, “have you failed to bring me the Mask?”

The Death Eater with the greasy hair seemed to lean forward a bit, appearing a bit anxious. The shift was subtle and nearly completely imperceptible, but one person—one who had made it his business to watch the other Death Eater—noticed the slight change immediately. The white-haired man’s cold eyes narrowed at the sight. The greasy man’s eyes flickered to those of his companion and he restrained himself.

Wormtail looked horrified at the question and tried to backpeddle, getting tangled up in his robes instead. “M—m—master . . . . T—there were complications and—and—and . . .”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I can hear him, but I can’t look away from you—can’t think to wonder about what he’s talking about. About what Wormtail’s begging for.

It’s your eyes.

Your eyes say that you did it—that you’re responsible. And I can’t seem to wrap my head around it because I know you did something or maybe nothing and that what happened is your fault, but I don’t want you here and I don’t want to be here and this is all your fault.

Your fault.

Why didn’t you deny it that day by the lake? Why didn’t you—

Why didn’t you—

Why couldn’t you have just lied to me and said that it wasn’t your fault?

I want to scream at you. Demand that you look away from Voldemort and Wormtail and whatever those empty, cold eyes see and LOOK AT ME. Tell me the truth or lie to me! Just—just—

Tell me something.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crucio.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I think I’m screaming. Or crying maybe . . .

I don’t think that it’s the curse.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wormtail shrieked in agony and collapsed into a fetal position.

The greasy Death Eater’s left hand twitched.

After a moment Voldemort raised his wand, releasing the man.

“For—for—forgive—”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why can’t I wake up? I don’t want to see you.

I don’t want to see those eyes look so—

Let me go. I don’t understand this. Let me go.

“You lost control.”

Let me go!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort’s nonexistent lips stretched into a smile, revealing a thin, jagged line of unnatural teeth. “I am feeling merciful today, though Wormtail. You are my trusted servant, my faithful Wormtail, are you not?”

Wormtail nodded frantically.

“Very well then, Wormtail. You have one more chance. You will retrieve for me the Mirror.” He paused. “Or you will be fed to my Nagini. A fair trade, yessssssssssss?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I don’t want to see anymore! I don’t want to see those eyes anymore! Your eyes. Your black, cruel eyes that looked so sad that day . . .

Close your eyes.

“Let go of all emotion . . .”

Let me go.

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Wormtail continued his nodding.

Voldemort made a flicking motion with his hand, dismissing the man. He turned his flat face to the rest of his followers, red eyes narrowing slightly. “Severusssssssssssss . . .”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, God no . . .

“Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves . . .”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The greasy-haired Death Eater stepped forward and bowed. “My Lord?”

Voldemort’s cold eyes fixed on the Potions Master for a long moment, red irises glittering coldly in the firelight. “Severusssssss . . .” he hissed again, the long ‘s’ sounds drawing out much better than Wormtail’s name had. “Tell me, my Severussss, my childe . . . How is it that you have failed to find me more information about Potter’s muggle relations and that,” a thin lip curled into a sneer, “werewolf . . .?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

. . . Remus . . .?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape drew himself up, making himself momentarily appear larger than he actually was. “My Lord, that fool Dumbledore—”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NO!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crucio.

The man immediately dropped down to the ground, his thin body folding in on itself, crumpling with a sad sort of grace. Long fingered hands balled into fists and he dropped down to his side, tall body making spasmodic, thrashing movements as though caught in the final throes of a violent seizure. His mask jerked with surrealistic slowness over his face but didn’t fall off and a thin thread on saliva slipped down his chin. Choked, gasping whimpers emerged from beneath the porcelain. The arch of his back curled and uncurled desperately.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

sTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTSTOPIT

I can feel it inside me eating me alive. Your curse inside me—

Oh, God.

“Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves—”

“Fools who wear their hearts on their sleeves—”

STOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTsTOPiTSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT

You don’t deserve this.

But oh, Merlin, how I wish I wished you did . . .

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort raised his wand and watched as the professor’s twitching faded to a slight, steady trembling of his hands. “Try again, Severussssss.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let me go. Stop holding me here with your damn eyes and LET ME GO! I want out of this!

“You lost control.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trembling slightly, the other wizard pushed himself to his feet before once more turning his hidden face to Voldemort. He seemed to shudder. “My Lord, I fear I am no longer trusted . . . Potter sought to warn me of Black’s peril whilst being detained by the Umbridge woman and Dumbledore believes that I intentionally delayed the message in the hopes of seeking revenge against the boy’s do—godfather. Potter has confirmed this assessment. Because of this, Dumbledore will no longer trust me with anything he views as of great importance.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I want to feel vindicated. Instead I feel sick.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nagini shifted at her Master’s feet unhappily while Voldemort stared fixedly at his servant. After several long minutes the other Death Eaters began to shift imperceptibly, unnerved by the silence. Snape stared directly back at Voldemort, his body language somehow earnest, reverent, and appropriately awed and frightened all at the same time. Finally, a long, spindly-fingered hand emerged from Voldemort’s sleeve and one bone white digit gestured for Snape to come closer.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You did it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?

Why can’t I hold back the sob in my throat? Why do I feel like—

Like—

“Let go of all emotion.”

Like you’ve killed me too?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The man obeyed without hesitation, gliding forward with an impressive amount of his usual grace to kneel down at the right side of the foot of the dais and kiss the hem of Voldemort’s immaculate black robes. That same hand gently reached down and cupped Snape’s chin almost tenderly, thumb lifting the chin of Snape’s mask so that it came a loose and fell quietly to the floor and then guiding Snape’s head to rest on the armrest on the chair. Nagini hissed hatefully at the Potions Master.

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Let me out of this damned dream! I know all this. I don’t need to see anymore. Don’t want to!

“You lost control.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Voldemort trailed a finger down from Snape’s left temple to the tip of his jaw and looked down at the man with almost paternalistic affection. “Severusss . . . my brave, idealistic, foolish Severusss . . . Give me your left hand, my little serpent.”

Dark eyes remained expressionless as he obediently shifted slightly and then held out his left hand for the Dark Lord’s perusal. The older wizard took the proffered hand and began to examine it with apparent fascination, lightly drawing his wand over the lines crisscrossing the palm and up and down the long, graceful, yellowed fingers. Snape shivered at the sensation.

Voldemort drew his wand delicately along the heel of the other’s palm. “You didn’t delay the message, did you? No, not you my Severus . . . Not knowing that Black’s death would have been so advantageous . . . Not when I told you . . . I TOLD you, Severusss . . . that you were to be a good little White Hat and act as one of Dumbledore’s faithful sycophantsssss, did you? Not when I told you to play Dumbledore’s fool regardless of what you may or may not have thought my own plans were, did you? No. Not you. Not my bold little serpent . . . You wouldn’t have acted on your own? Questioned the orders of your Lord, your sworn Master . . . Would you? Not even for revenge on those who hurt you . . .?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes. Say yes.

Prove me right.

Prove me right and then let me wake up from this damn dream and your damn eyes and this white noise between my ears that makes it so hard to think and the tearosesweetourYOU smell that makes my chest ache—

“You let me get in too far.”

“You let me get in too far.”

Say yes and leave me alone, Severus Snape.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A thin sheen of sweat shone on Snape’s skin in the candlelight, but his gaze never faltered. “No, my Lord.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And I have the oddest feeling that I’ve closed my eyes, but I can still see everything . . . So this is what happens when you cry and you don’t have tears.

I’m ready to wake up now.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No . . .?” The trailing wand paused in the exact center of Snape’s palm as red eyes flickered down to stare into obsidian ones. “No . . .” The Dark Lord seemed to taste the word, savoring the sound of it in the air. “My slippery friend . . .” Voldemort looked back to the hand in his grasp. “I believe you.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something inside me snaps, breaks and shatters, little bits of some wall I never knew coming down and hurting me so much that I can feel the shards slicing into my skin.

Because you had to! You HAD to!! You hated us, hated us all, hate me so much that—that—that—

That you simply had to.

Or else . . .

Or else it’s my fault . . .

Mine.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape shifted uncomfortably as Voldemort continued to run the tip of his wand over his palm for a few more moments. Finally, either unable to maintain his position or to stand the sensation of the wands feather light brushing anymore, the professor cleared his throat. “My Lord . . .?”

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Mine.

“Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions and allow themselves to be provoked this easily—weak people, in other words—they stand no chance against his powers!”

And that’s not fair when it’s so easy to hate you.

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“What wonders you create with these hands of yours, Severusss . . . They are magnificent. Unique wonders of their field I am told . . . Such valuable toolsss, yesss?”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, let me go, Snape! Please, please, let me go! I don’t want to know what’s behind those eyes anymore. I don’t want to—

Why won’t you leave me alone?!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Snape’s already pallid face seemed to loose its remaining color. His voice came out in a dry, dusty whisper. “Yes, my Lord . . .”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I want—

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Voldemort smiled down at him benevolently as he carefully laid Snape hand down on the armrest, making sure that the fingers were fully splayed.

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I want—

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A spider-like hand grasped Snape’s chin again and raised the man’s head up from the armrest so that he was kneeling with one hand on the armrest, the other at his side, and his back ramrod straight. Voldemort then reached down and plucked a tuft if cotton from the ripped arm of the chair, pointed his wand at it and muttered something under his breath.

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I want—

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The bit of cotton transfigured into a hammer.

“Now pay close attention, Severusss.”

The hammer rose slowly and then descended on Snape’s hand so fast it was a blur in the air.

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I want Sirius!!

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There was a strange, wet, popping noise that was immediately followed by in inhuman cry of agony and Snape suddenly jerked back, damaged hand reflexively cradled protectively against his stomach and he fell backwards off the dais and onto the floor. He curled up entirely around his hand in a fetal position, half-screamed sobs ringing loudly in the chamber.

“Severusss . . .”

The fallen man shook his head wildly at the sound.

“Come here, Severusss. Now.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stop it! Stop it! LEAVE HIM ALONE!!!!

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Choking back a sob, Snape half-crawled, half-staggered back up to Voldemort, his arm still desperately hidden. Voldemort gestured to the arm of the chair again, that same loving, benevolent smile fixed to his thin lips. Snape’s entire boy trembled, but he obediently removed his hand and laid it on the armrest again, squeezing his eyes shut to block the sight and clenching his jaw. Whatever tears he may have shed were dry, leaving only pale streaks on his sallow skin, and a thin line of bloody saliva trailed down his jaw from where it looked as though he’d bitten his lip.

“Open your eyes, Severusss. Watch.”

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No! Nononononononononononondon’twanttoseethisdontwantto—

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Black eyes opened with a look akin to despair and briefly locked gazes with Voldemort for an instant before looking at his pounding hand. He nearly wailed at the sight. The flesh of the impact point, directly in the center of the top of the palm, was a hideous greenish white in the center that turned to blackish purple at the edges. The blood vessels around that point had exploded from the force of the blow, but had not broken the skin and as a result his entire hand had immediately swollen. The tips of the fingers were unnaturally large and purple and the skin had taken on a strange glove-like appearance.

The hammer rose once more. Snape moaned. The hammer fell.

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STOPIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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The Potions Master shrieked once again and pitched forward, slamming his forehead into the arm of the chair instead of jerking away. The other Death Eater watched, mute, as Voldemort allowed the hammer to slip through his long fingers. It transformed back into a tuft of cotton as it fell and gently floated the rest of the way to the ground. The Dark Lord gently ran a hand through his shaking servant’s hair and bent down slightly to whisper in his ear.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

no.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a moment he released his hold on Snape and sat back up. “You will find a way to ingratiate yourself with Dumbledore once again, my little serpent, and you will find a way to rid Potter of that thrice damned werewolf. Do you understand?”

Snape did not raise his head. “Y—yes, my Lord.”

“Excellent . . . You are in a very powerful position, Severusss . . . The very bed of my enemy. Our enemies. You will not disappoint me, will you, Severusss?”

“No, my Lord.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

no.

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Voldemort patted his head with mock affection. “Return to Hogwarts then and have that hand repaired. I’m sure that the good Healer there will have little trouble patching up such a nasty accident. You will no doubt think of some clever tale to tell her. You always excelled at clever tales, Severusss . . .”

Snape attempted to bow, but instead crumpled into a heap, dragging his savaged hand down to his stomach protectively once more as his forehead pressed against the ground. “Yes, my Lord . . . You are most merciful, my Lord.”

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Let me go, Severus Snape.

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From his position on the ground Snape watched with vacant interest as a trail of blood and spittle dripped from his mouth to the ground before he could gather the strength to Disparate with a dull pop.

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

In the smallest bedroom of number 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinington a teenage boy sat up with a soft cry of distress, his hands flying to the burning ache of the scar tucked beneath his messy black hair as tears streamed down his cheeks. He sat very still for several minutes, knees drawn tight to his chest and hot palms pressed to his forehead.

A snowy white owl hooted in concern from her cage in the corner, but the boy ignored her. After a moment, he uncurled and moved to the foot of his narrow bed with shaky, unsteady motions. He reached over the edge of the footboard into an open trunk marked with the initials H.P. and a red and gold crest. After a few moments of fumbling in the dark he found a carefully folded bundle of heavy black clothe and pulled it out of the disorganized mess of scrolls, quills, books, trinkets, and inkwells he had dumped into the trunk haphazardly that evening. Once the clothe was safely extricated from the jumble, he clambered slowly back up the mattress with the same slow, painful looking movements.

The owl hooted again, sounding both worried for her boy and disgruntled at being ignored. The youth avoided her yellow-eyed gaze, instead unfolding the clothe to reveal a large heavy cloak, far too large for his small frame, but obviously well-worn at one point in time. He stared blankly down at the blurry material, large green eyes unable to focus without his glasses. He made no attempt to reach for them, however. He should have thrown this away. Or insisted that Snape take it back. Or—

He sighed and pulled it up under his chin, inhaling the odd mélange of scents that clung to the fabric, even after over a year. He didn’t try to recall the dream that had left him shaken, tearstained, and desperately in need of the odd comfort he could find only in the black folds of this cloak. He didn’t even try to calm the throbbing in his head or identify the inexplicable feeling of loss and . . . brokenness . . . shattering . . . in his chest. Like something inside him had been torn apart. Instead he clasped his hands together tightly and, trembling every so often, tried very, very hard to fight the tears in his eyes. He remained that way until the sun rose at the end of the street, flooding the well-trimmed lawn with light and pushing back the darkness with busy, insistent hands.

“You let me get in too far. You lost control.”

Get out of my head, Severus Snape.

He sat that way for a very long time.

He sat that way for a very long time. *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 

‘The evidence before the court is incontrovertible.
There’s no need for the jury to retire!
In all my years of judging, I have never heard before
Of someone more deserving the full penalty of law!
The way you made them suffer, your exquisite wife and mother,
Fills me with an urge to defecate!
Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear,
I sentence you to be exposed before your peers!’

“‘TEAR DOWN THE WALL!’ ”

- Pink Floyd
The Wall

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*


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This is a Harry Potter and Severus Snape Slash archive, and is not intended for those who are either not of age, or uncomfortable with homosexual situations. There may also be some situations where a minor has sex with an adult, you have been warned.
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