Three studies of Severus Snape (PG)
Legilimens
Beware, those who venture into my mind. Do not invade any further. Turn back and save yourself, for you are not welcome here.
This is my territory.
The questions you have will not be answered, and these thoughts are mine and mine alone. It’s the only thing that I truly own and the only sanctuary that I require.
Do not reach behind my eyes, stranger. You will find them empty. Stop your futile pursuit for you will never make it through.
If you take a plunge into that emptiness, be ready. I will not be gentle. I will retaliate by scraping every cherished vision from the bottom of your consciousness. I’ll gather all the treasured and feared possessions of your mind and will bring them forth to overwhelm and overpower. Vision by vision, I will take my revenge.
I’ll keep drowning your perceptions in your sorrows and greed, pity and anguish, until you choke against the spectacle of your past thrown back in your face. Until I win and you are clutching at the pitiful remains of your sanity, and it will be over.
Legilimens.
The Glare
He has many types and kinds of glares, enough to overfill the Great Hall and present the greatest challenge of the year for the Sorting Hat with its measly choice of four houses. So many glares should be kept in dusty jars, soaked in vinegar or alcohol, stored under the label dark and faded with time indicating their exact place in the world.
Over the years, I've perfected their classification.
Each glare is directed down his crooked nose, intolerantly stern and wickedly sharp, always hitting its target at the most vulnerable moment.
Their assortment is so complex that it can almost be its own language, befittingly, a silent one.
Among such a multitude there is one particular glare that I consider uniquely mine. The glare he gives me is enough to fry eggs yet not quite enough to reduce one, yolk, shell, and all, into the smouldering pile of grey ashes speckled with spongy, black cinders.
I’ve came to recognise it as indication of our uneasy friendship, the only one I’m likely to receive from him in my lifetime. Yet sometimes I wonder if anyone has ever been burned by his eyes in an entirely different way.
A Tool
They found no Mark on my arm after the initial trials. How could they find anything? It was long gone: the Dark Mark as well as my Lord. It didn’t matter. Murderer or not, every single Death Eater was damned when we were inducted into our Order. I was just another unfortunate soul to tread in the footsteps of my predecessors.
At Wizengamot I hold my head high and speak, condemning myself before the Chosen One speaks for me, before he offers me the same chance at salvation given to Draco.
Unlike Draco, I refuse to be a tool -- the tool of Potter’s redemption. I refuse to be the one to settle his conscience and give him peace.
Beware, those who venture into my mind. Do not invade any further. Turn back and save yourself, for you are not welcome here.
This is my territory.
The questions you have will not be answered, and these thoughts are mine and mine alone. It’s the only thing that I truly own and the only sanctuary that I require.
Do not reach behind my eyes, stranger. You will find them empty. Stop your futile pursuit for you will never make it through.
If you take a plunge into that emptiness, be ready. I will not be gentle. I will retaliate by scraping every cherished vision from the bottom of your consciousness. I’ll gather all the treasured and feared possessions of your mind and will bring them forth to overwhelm and overpower. Vision by vision, I will take my revenge.
I’ll keep drowning your perceptions in your sorrows and greed, pity and anguish, until you choke against the spectacle of your past thrown back in your face. Until I win and you are clutching at the pitiful remains of your sanity, and it will be over.
Legilimens.
The Glare
He has many types and kinds of glares, enough to overfill the Great Hall and present the greatest challenge of the year for the Sorting Hat with its measly choice of four houses. So many glares should be kept in dusty jars, soaked in vinegar or alcohol, stored under the label dark and faded with time indicating their exact place in the world.
Over the years, I've perfected their classification.
Each glare is directed down his crooked nose, intolerantly stern and wickedly sharp, always hitting its target at the most vulnerable moment.
Their assortment is so complex that it can almost be its own language, befittingly, a silent one.
Among such a multitude there is one particular glare that I consider uniquely mine. The glare he gives me is enough to fry eggs yet not quite enough to reduce one, yolk, shell, and all, into the smouldering pile of grey ashes speckled with spongy, black cinders.
I’ve came to recognise it as indication of our uneasy friendship, the only one I’m likely to receive from him in my lifetime. Yet sometimes I wonder if anyone has ever been burned by his eyes in an entirely different way.
A Tool
They found no Mark on my arm after the initial trials. How could they find anything? It was long gone: the Dark Mark as well as my Lord. It didn’t matter. Murderer or not, every single Death Eater was damned when we were inducted into our Order. I was just another unfortunate soul to tread in the footsteps of my predecessors.
At Wizengamot I hold my head high and speak, condemning myself before the Chosen One speaks for me, before he offers me the same chance at salvation given to Draco.
Unlike Draco, I refuse to be a tool -- the tool of Potter’s redemption. I refuse to be the one to settle his conscience and give him peace.