Hey, J, how many times did you flashy-thing her?

Oct 13, 2004 00:59

"Redeemer came a dark way"
Harry/Snape
Harry's out of commission, Snape comes to save him (TAKE TWO)
R



The Boy Who Lived is a warm living memory in the hearts of the faithful:
The Boy Who Lived is a hero in the hearts of the faithful:
The Boy is;

a) savior
b) redeemer
c) destroyer
d) all of the above (The Boy is powerful a creature to be reckoned with the earth moves under his feet)

The Boy Who Lived is alive but Harry Potter is dead: the legend (alive in the hearts of the faithful) is healthy like all superheroes are, healthy and strong and vibrant. The (lowercase) boy, the child, is dead or perhaps just very thoroughly lost.

e) The Boy is a tangled mess of crossed vein-wires sitting mute in the Department of Mysteries, his only company a revolving list of top psychologists and healers who are successively sworn to a secrecy that Obliviatus renders pointless but the Ministry is careful and so they all say, when asked,

No I have never seen the Mysteries

and each time they are suprised at the question.

Sucessively they lose their way with the Boy who will not talk or gesture or smile or frown or stomp his feet - he moves and he is alive but it is a very perfunctory aliveness. The body, and nothing more. Each day they read their own notes - which are passed off as having been written by their predecessor - and in a sense this is true - and they ask new questions and test new reflexes and watch with oddly accustomed unease as he sits and stares and does not respond.

Among these is ex-Potions master, ex-Death Eater, ex-spy Severus Snape, the Man Without a Face - so-called for his use of Polyjuice after his original self had been turned out to die. Ex-Severus Snape is now the type of man who is continually shocked at his reflection: long-ignored age and drug abuse has turned his appearance even more rotten than he would have expected. But, despite the ugliness that inspires fear in small children, he is uncommon relieved to be back in his own skin. It is comfortable, it is known, it fits well on his bones. He has no name for who he is now, but he is strongly considering Abel.

He is not a leader or a killer of men; he is an infiltrator and manipulator. He is not a snake so much as he is a parasite. This makes him ideal for the job: he was annoyed but unsuprised when the long-suffering owl dropped the letter in his office that said

ONE-TIME ONLY CHANCE!
PARTICIPATE IN THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF OUR LIFETIME!
YOUR NAME WILL BE IN ALL THE HISTORY BOOKS!
BE A HERO TO THE PUBLIC!

In the Department of Mysteries, the Boy sits in an overstuffed paisley armchair, staring dumbly out at the world. He is the only thing in the room not covered with a black velvet drape, though there are house elves hovering that seem anxious to blend him in with everything else.

"Who are you?" Snape asks, the transcription quill scratching away behind him. The Boy is silent; motionless.

He almost asks permission, but then he remembers that he's not the sort to say please so he snaps out his wand and hisses Legilimens! and dives face-first into the Boy's mind.

Grey, then:

Swimming through the lake his hands tangled in reeds - Running stumbling from a pitbull, cracked glasses on the pavement - Bellatrix with her eyes bright and hard as ten-penny nails, saying come Harry just a name one name and we'll let you go - OWLS and a five-paragraph essay that won't be written -

Then, grey.

Snape says, "There is a real boy under all that skin. Mr. Potter is most definitely alive. If you will, I'd like to try again tomorrow: too much time between such sessions can be problematic, both for the viewer and the viewee."

The fresh-faced crewcut of a guard smiles and says, "Of course, Mr. Snape, we'd be happy to oblige. Obliviate."

In the Department of Mysteries, the Boy sits slightly off-balanced on a bright yellow beanbag chair. To his right, a house elf clutches a length of black fabric.

"Who are you?" Snape asks. The Boy is still.

Legilimens!

Blood on grass, green and red like holly - Coffee machine at the Ministry, a woman in silvery lipstick flirting and yes yes I will, there's a supply closet next to the - Muggle traffic dizzying with speed and the view, the vertigo-view from an overpass - A slick-wet nightmare memory, face he hasn't seen in the mirror in years and -

"Oh, for all that is right and just in this poor pitiful world - " Snape drags himself out of the Boy with a look of distaste. "If you'll excuse me," he says, and packs up his satchel.

"I am grateful for the opportunity to participate in this matter of no small importance but I must request that I not be considered for further such efforts. I find myself unable to continue with Mr. Potter, for personal reasons." Snape is more ashy than usual and tighter-lipped and he wonders fleetingly if his skin could possibly just split right off his face like it was rotten fruit.

The guard is ingratiating. "Of course, Mr. Snape, we understand. Obliviate."

In the Department of Mysteries, the Boy sits cross-legged on the floor.

"Who are you?" Snape asks, then: Legilimens!

But today Mr. Potter is just grey, nothing but the blank cottony wall that Voldemort left right before he disappeared again.

Snape doesn't particularly mind; he has no need to see the inside of Potter's mind. He had hoped for the pay, but he isn't all that poor, and it is no great loss. He sits on a wing-backed chair looking down at the boy and looks: he's an attractive boy, wild-eyed and slack-jawed like his father before him.

The room is empty, though there could be someone hiding behind one of the draped things that litter the floor. Snape slides arthritically off the chair and kneels in front of the boy.

"What do you remember, Potter? What is still in that pretty little head of yours?"

The boy just stares, but Snape swears he sees a glint in those green eyes and no this is not happening, this cannot happen because he specifically asked -

Snape is not a good man but he is a smart man and a pragmatic man and yes, he has his interests to protect. But there is nothing - there is nothing definite, nothing that he would risk his reclaimed self for, and so he drags himself back up and glares hard at the boy before leaving.

"I'd like to monitor the boy," Snape says in an undertone to the guard. "There's not much there, but something might come up."

The guard nods and smiles widely and says "Of course, sir, the Department will contact you. Have a nice day, sir. Obliviate."

In the Department of Mysteries, the Boy kneels on a pink bed pillow with white lace trimming.

"Who are you?" Snape asks.

"I'm not yours," Harry says hoarsely.

Snape leans forward, unsure of what he heard: the boy is so quiet. "Could you repeat that?"

"I'm. Not. Yours." Harry's head slumps back, like he's exhausted or maybe just bored.

"Of course you're not mine, you little brat." Snape's cool reserve is breaking up a little. "What would possibly convince you that you were? Please, Potter, neither you nor I have any time for this sort of game."

Harry smiles with just the corner of his mouth. "Oh, you know. You...You do know. I know. They'll know. Ff..fuck you, Snape."

Snape growls and leans in close, close enough to block out any surveillance and he slips his wand out of his pocket, pressing it into the boy's thin chest and whispers, "Goddamn you, Potter, you will not win this. You will not, do you hear? Obliviate."

He pulls away from the again-vacant boy and stands up with cracks and pops, grabs his still-packed bag and near-runs past the guard who jumps up from his post and shouts after him "Sir, excuse me, sir, oh, shit, Immobulus. Sir, I'm sorry, I did not have enough coffee today to deal with this. Obliviate."
Previous post Next post
Up
[]