|winoniel (winoniel) wrote,|
@ 2010-06-17 09:00:00
|Entry tags:||harry potter, hp/ss, nc-17, slash|
Fic: Everybody Knows 1/15 (Harry/Severus, NC-17)
I thought I'd jump-start my muse by posting here some of my fics that had originally appeared on the festival sites. Enjoy!
Title: Everybody Knows
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Warnings: Graphic Violence; slash; Harry is 17, bottom!Snape
Disclaimer: This story is all mine, but is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Harry has grown tired of the wizarding world. He feels that he just doesn’t have a good enough reason to fight for it.
Author’s Notes: Written for Togsos in the 2008 Snarry Holidays fic/art fest. This is AU from mid-HBP; beta admirably performed by Hikisp04; greatest of thanks to the Snarry Holiday mods!
It is said that after one kills, the soul is fractured. That is how the Dark Lord created his Horcruxes. Yes, I know that he has created one, at least one. Albus plays his cards close to his chest, but an idiot could glean from the headmaster’s questions that he’d suspected the Dark Lord has managed to remain alive through the benefit of some Dark Arts ritual. But I digress… Though not in the service of creating a Horcrux, I have also killed, on the Dark Lord’s direct orders, and with Albus’ tacit acquiescence. While in the creation of a Horcrux, the soul is split irreparably, it is assumed that with ‘normal’—less dark and ritualistic— murders, in time those fractures are healed.
But the memories remain.
There was the home of a Muggle-born witch, her wizard husband, and their three children. Their torture was excruciating, bouts of the Cruciatus Curse interspersed with physical and emotional torment. The Death Eaters present howled with laughter as the Imperiused witch sodomized her husband with a dagger, her eyes wide with hysteria and self-loathing. The children were in a corner of the same room, screaming in terror before they were themselves silenced by the witch’s blade, tears streaming from her eyes as she tried to fight the Curse. When the Imperius Curse failed for a moment, the witch tried to turn the dagger on herself before she was disarmed by a cackling Bellatrix, who wanted a few more hours of fun with the ‘mudblood.’ Finally, I was given the honor of dispatching her, with a quick, soul-splitting, merciful, “Avada Kedavra.”
The memories always remain.
Severus entered his chambers, his black robe dusty, spattered with blood, his white mask balancing almost elegantly on his fingertips. He divested himself of his robes immediately, and they fell to the floor, forgotten, as he strode quickly through to the bathroom, desiring only scalding hot water, strong soap, antiseptic, something, anything, to remove the stench of death and madness, of brutality and anguish. He turned on the taps of the shower, and stared into the mirror, gazing at his reflection through the thickening steam. He looked at his eyes, through his eyes, into the hell, the revulsion in which he dwelled.
“Severus?” He started. Looking at the clock, he realized that he’d stood there for almost two hours, water pouring in the shower, mist clogging the air, still steeped in his filth and depravity.
Listlessly, he pulled on a dressing gown as he returned to his sitting room. In his fireplace floated the head of Albus Dumbledore among the green flames of the Floo call. Just about to call out again when he caught sight of the Potions Master, Dumbledore stopped himself and smiled gently. “How are you, my boy?”
Feeling the weight of his superior’s compassion settling about him like a suffocating heavy cloak, Severus stood before the hearth. His thoughts, numb and unmoving, refused to form, and he responded, dully, “Fine, Headmaster. Shall I come through to your office to report?”
Taking in Severus’ weariness, his inability to hide his self-disgust with a sharp glance, Dumbledore said, quickly, “Only if there is something pressing that you feel I need to know tonight. If not, just write it on our special parchment, and I’ll ask Fawkes to retrieve it from you in the morning.” Severus nodded absently, catching a glimpse of his hands, surprised that they were so clean after the foul deeds of the evening.
“Severus?”……“Hmm? … yes….” He answered softly, having drifted into contemplation of his hands. They were thin and pale, with fingertips and nails stained by years of chopping and preparing potions ingredients. Why can’t I see the blood I feel dripping from my fingers? How could I create such a perfect glamour, one in which I am not blooded like the champion of a hunt? Is the cruelty which suffuses my spirit that disguised? Hmmmm, I wonder if I’ve spelled them to appear so clean?
“Severus!” Startled, he realized that Albus was apparently awaiting a reply.
“My apologies, Headmaster.” Severus gave himself a mental shake, sardonically amused that he wasn’t as jaded as he thought: I can still be astonished at my own corruption. “There is nothing of note, simply the continuation of previous plans of which you have already been apprised. I will have the report ready for you in the morning.”
“Very well, then, my boy. Is there anything else you would like to talk with me about?” Dumbledore asked, hopefully.
“No!” They were both surprised at his vehemence. He continued, more smoothly, “I’m fine, Albus, I simply wish to take a shower. I had been cleaning my classroom when I was summoned, and it has been a long day.”
He really needed to spend some time reconfiguring his Occlumency shields. His controls were fraying, dissolving around him, as he spiraled closer and closer to the bliss of insanity. It was late, and his first class in the morning was double Potions with fourth year Slytherins and Gryffindors. He was so very exhausted by his evening. He was so very disenchanted with teaching almost indistinguishable bumbling dolts who were not only indifferent to the unalloyed beauty of the art of brewing potions, but often incapable of simply following instructions for a boil salve. He was so very world-weary with the thought of beginning yet one more day in a long line of strangling days, weeks, and years, that he wished for a moment that he still had the ability to cry—he would weep for his deathless, endless, all-encompassing ennui. Instead, he turned from his hearth, took a brief shower (will I ever feel really clean?), renewed his mental barriers, and went to bed.
“Do you know what I think, Potter?” said Snape, very quietly. “I think that you are a liar and a cheat and that you deserve detention with me every Saturday until the end of term. What do you think, Potter?”
“I—I don’t agree, sir,” said Harry, still refusing to look into Snape’s eyes.
“Well, we shall see how you feel after your detentions,” said Snape. “Ten o’clock Saturday morning, Potter. My office.”
“But sir…” said Harry, looking up desperately. “Quidditch… the last match of the ….”
“Ten o’clock,” whispered Snape, with a smile that showed his yellow teeth. “Poor Gryffindor…fourth place this year, I fear…” (2)
Severus swept into his chambers, fear and fury creating such a spike in his magic that his locking spell shuddered the door and adjoining walls. How dare he use my spells against someone I’m bound to protect? Just like his worthless father, stealing my inventions to turn them against me…
Severus stopped himself mid-rant, and drew in a deep breath, then another. What was going on with Potter? Why would he use such a dark spell that had become associated with Inner Circle Death Eaters? Severus remembered what he’d seen in the boy’s memories as he sneered, Pathetic, really! That boy cannot close his mind to intrusion to save his miserable life! He saw the boy poring over his potions book, copying instructions and spells, actually excited about finally—what does he mean, finally? I’ve been trying to cram knowledge into the little monster for five years!—learning why potions were so thrilling. Even though that was not the book in his bag, Severus knew that somehow the reckless imbecile had gotten his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Why had Severus written about Sectumsempra in that thrice-damned book?
Something is going on with the ‘Chosen One,’ Severus mused. Well, he’d think about it more after he’d taken more dittany up to Poppy Pomfrey.
(1) The story and chapter titles are taken from the song “Everybody Knows” by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson.
(2) Excerpt taken from Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince (US edition), p328.