Snape.
I was challenged by Gemma to do this, so I did. Her main request was the idea of Snape failing at something. I interpreted it as such.
The sunlight hurts my eyes.
It is a blindingly bright day today but I feel I have left my head somewhere altogether darker. I turn from the classroom window and observe the bowed heads before me, pens poised over open books and sighs of dissatisfaction carrying out of the window into the summer breeze. My left arm twinges slightly and I move to walk from the window to the rear of the room, my robes spreading behind me.
I can’t help but think of her.
It had been a day of sunshine and screaming. I remember clearly the way the light caught the dust and highlighted its path to the ground as I sat in the corner with wide eyes; frozen complacently in terror. It had not been a good day for him, or us, and the shouts were becoming louder. My paltry frame seemed to shrink further into insignificance as the lines in his face deepened. I felt the way that even the air seemed to take a deep breath as he raised his open hand…
A book falls off a table and a fumbling hand (Longbottom, surely) struggles to right the situation. I hiss my criticism quietly and stalk once more to my desk. Potter tilts his head to throw a glance in my direction, arrogance shining brightly in those piercing eyes. His father’s face rises in my memory and I turn my head in disgust at my own weakness.
Potter and Evans, curled under a tree; even my presence not enough to disturb them. He murmurs in her ear and she laughs lightly, head tilting to rest on his chest. How can she, of all people, fall for this? Muggle-born yes, mudblood without question, but surely the audacity of his attitude and front is enough to turn even her muddled opinion to the negative? I shall never know. I slink past and watch them, seeing how he would protect her in times to come.
I hated him for it.
A bell rings deep in the belly of the castle and the class begin to shuffle, keen to move. I drag the moments out before I dismiss them, taking small-minded pleasure in their frustration and eagerness to absorb the sunlight once more. I watch as they exit, and say nothing as Longbottom stumbles on the steps, his podgy face becoming ruddy and tremulous. As the door slams, the noise jolts me further back into my own memories.
I screamed to stop it as his hand flew towards her. I cannot remember moving, but I remember clearly his rage and how it turned against me. She was flung to one side and I was the recipient, struck dumb in fear and shock at what I had just done. I lay there, the world horizontal and watched him turn to her once more. I had failed. He would continue, this time with more vitriol than before. I shut my eyes and felt the piercing pain in my left arm, where I had landed.
Somehow I knew this mark would never leave me.
And it never does.
The sunlight hurts my eyes.
It is a blindingly bright day today but I feel I have left my head somewhere altogether darker. I turn from the classroom window and observe the bowed heads before me, pens poised over open books and sighs of dissatisfaction carrying out of the window into the summer breeze. My left arm twinges slightly and I move to walk from the window to the rear of the room, my robes spreading behind me.
I can’t help but think of her.
It had been a day of sunshine and screaming. I remember clearly the way the light caught the dust and highlighted its path to the ground as I sat in the corner with wide eyes; frozen complacently in terror. It had not been a good day for him, or us, and the shouts were becoming louder. My paltry frame seemed to shrink further into insignificance as the lines in his face deepened. I felt the way that even the air seemed to take a deep breath as he raised his open hand…
A book falls off a table and a fumbling hand (Longbottom, surely) struggles to right the situation. I hiss my criticism quietly and stalk once more to my desk. Potter tilts his head to throw a glance in my direction, arrogance shining brightly in those piercing eyes. His father’s face rises in my memory and I turn my head in disgust at my own weakness.
Potter and Evans, curled under a tree; even my presence not enough to disturb them. He murmurs in her ear and she laughs lightly, head tilting to rest on his chest. How can she, of all people, fall for this? Muggle-born yes, mudblood without question, but surely the audacity of his attitude and front is enough to turn even her muddled opinion to the negative? I shall never know. I slink past and watch them, seeing how he would protect her in times to come.
I hated him for it.
A bell rings deep in the belly of the castle and the class begin to shuffle, keen to move. I drag the moments out before I dismiss them, taking small-minded pleasure in their frustration and eagerness to absorb the sunlight once more. I watch as they exit, and say nothing as Longbottom stumbles on the steps, his podgy face becoming ruddy and tremulous. As the door slams, the noise jolts me further back into my own memories.
I screamed to stop it as his hand flew towards her. I cannot remember moving, but I remember clearly his rage and how it turned against me. She was flung to one side and I was the recipient, struck dumb in fear and shock at what I had just done. I lay there, the world horizontal and watched him turn to her once more. I had failed. He would continue, this time with more vitriol than before. I shut my eyes and felt the piercing pain in my left arm, where I had landed.
Somehow I knew this mark would never leave me.
And it never does.