(no subject)
Who: Severus Snape
What: Demolition
Why: A dare from
sayshisname
When: AU, post Death Hallows. Severus survives. The Boy Who Lived…didn’t.
It was easy in the beginning. So very easy, because there was work to done, and for a time at least it’s something that doesn’t make you think. You can lose yourself in work. In rebuilding. In demolition.
People leave you alone. Mostly.
Demolition. Breaking down the walls too unstable to stand, using the magic to support ceilings and floors of the building. And you think, or you know, that the castle will survive even without this work. That’s what Hogwarts does. It survives. It lingers. Because Hogwarts isn’t the castle. That can be built, destroyed and made again and it will still be the place that stood as a haven and home. It will still be the place England sends her children to learn, still be the place of the Founders’ dream and the subject of a Sorting Hat’s song. It’s something more then it’s physical form.
People not so much.
And it was easy, in the beginning because you could forego tiredness for clearing the debris, for attending funerals. Not that you do. Really. You have nothing to say at them, and no tears to shed. Not for the fifty, not for the more. On either side. So, you can ignore them. Let them drag out, sometimes you hear there’s as many as six in one day, and you can ignore them to focus on the task at hand.
You are able to go for weeks before you are finally forced to acknowledge it. The strangest thing triggers it.
It wasn’t Minerva asking if you were going to stay on staff. Nor was it Kingsley asking you if you would help the Ministry. It’s not the Order (…what’s left of them) or the Death Eaters.
It’s that first day of summer where the air is so hot you can feel the sun bake your skin.
You were walking home, short sleeves because even if the Mark remains it means about as much as those two faded scars on your neck. They could have meant something once, but they don’t right now.
What matters now, is the realization that you have continued when he didn’t.
There is a bright, brilliant sun overhead, against a clear blue sky and there are children in the Park. They’re laughing. You could kill them now. You want to. And then you realize, in waves that crash over you, standing there on the sidewalk, like an ocean.
There’s a castle to rebuild and a Ministry. In a few months, if the Governors think it’s ready, the school will open and a new song will be sung. Empty places at the table will be filled with new faces and the old ones will be a little more haunted sure, but that doesn’t really matter because they have to go on. They can go on.
Because of him.
You freeze, standing there with the sun over your head. You should be able to accept it, you think for a moment. From a perfectly logical point of view, it’s a good bargain. One for a hundred, maybe thousands. Fifty for a nation. Like pigs lined up for the butcher, intended to kept the rest fed and secure. It’s a good deal. You made that choice yourself after all. At the beginning of the school year. You can give them a little if it means protecting more.
It should be easy to accept. To celebrate.
You gave it her too, after all, and him because he told you to. You gave it dozens those you couldn’t save and those you just didn’t want to. What is one more, you want to think. He died a hero.
But heroes are like castles; they just ideas that are built up, demolished and rebuilt. In time, there will be someone else that fills that title and the people will love him just as well. They’ll cling to him, give him their children, and sing his praises too. It makes little difference. In the end.
Except for the fact that he died for it. He wasn't a hero. Not to you. He saw something in this world, and it’s transience that was worth something…that was worth him. You can’t tell if he believed that the world was beautiful or if just his friends were. You wonder if he even thought about that when he marched so foolishly and stupidly…
You can’t tell if you hate him or envy him. Because he’s gone. Because he doesn’t have to live in this, in the world without him. He doesn’t have to see it’s just stone and masonry; they’re just blood and bone. They’re not ideas at all. You wonder if he could, would he come back. Trade places. You wonder what he would haven chosen.
He would have chosen the world. He had.
You. Can’t.
The world isn’t worth it.
What: Demolition
Why: A dare from
sayshisname
When: AU, post Death Hallows. Severus survives. The Boy Who Lived…didn’t.
It was easy in the beginning. So very easy, because there was work to done, and for a time at least it’s something that doesn’t make you think. You can lose yourself in work. In rebuilding. In demolition.
People leave you alone. Mostly.
Demolition. Breaking down the walls too unstable to stand, using the magic to support ceilings and floors of the building. And you think, or you know, that the castle will survive even without this work. That’s what Hogwarts does. It survives. It lingers. Because Hogwarts isn’t the castle. That can be built, destroyed and made again and it will still be the place that stood as a haven and home. It will still be the place England sends her children to learn, still be the place of the Founders’ dream and the subject of a Sorting Hat’s song. It’s something more then it’s physical form.
People not so much.
And it was easy, in the beginning because you could forego tiredness for clearing the debris, for attending funerals. Not that you do. Really. You have nothing to say at them, and no tears to shed. Not for the fifty, not for the more. On either side. So, you can ignore them. Let them drag out, sometimes you hear there’s as many as six in one day, and you can ignore them to focus on the task at hand.
You are able to go for weeks before you are finally forced to acknowledge it. The strangest thing triggers it.
It wasn’t Minerva asking if you were going to stay on staff. Nor was it Kingsley asking you if you would help the Ministry. It’s not the Order (…what’s left of them) or the Death Eaters.
It’s that first day of summer where the air is so hot you can feel the sun bake your skin.
You were walking home, short sleeves because even if the Mark remains it means about as much as those two faded scars on your neck. They could have meant something once, but they don’t right now.
What matters now, is the realization that you have continued when he didn’t.
There is a bright, brilliant sun overhead, against a clear blue sky and there are children in the Park. They’re laughing. You could kill them now. You want to. And then you realize, in waves that crash over you, standing there on the sidewalk, like an ocean.
There’s a castle to rebuild and a Ministry. In a few months, if the Governors think it’s ready, the school will open and a new song will be sung. Empty places at the table will be filled with new faces and the old ones will be a little more haunted sure, but that doesn’t really matter because they have to go on. They can go on.
Because of him.
You freeze, standing there with the sun over your head. You should be able to accept it, you think for a moment. From a perfectly logical point of view, it’s a good bargain. One for a hundred, maybe thousands. Fifty for a nation. Like pigs lined up for the butcher, intended to kept the rest fed and secure. It’s a good deal. You made that choice yourself after all. At the beginning of the school year. You can give them a little if it means protecting more.
It should be easy to accept. To celebrate.
You gave it her too, after all, and him because he told you to. You gave it dozens those you couldn’t save and those you just didn’t want to. What is one more, you want to think. He died a hero.
But heroes are like castles; they just ideas that are built up, demolished and rebuilt. In time, there will be someone else that fills that title and the people will love him just as well. They’ll cling to him, give him their children, and sing his praises too. It makes little difference. In the end.
Except for the fact that he died for it. He wasn't a hero. Not to you. He saw something in this world, and it’s transience that was worth something…that was worth him. You can’t tell if he believed that the world was beautiful or if just his friends were. You wonder if he even thought about that when he marched so foolishly and stupidly…
You can’t tell if you hate him or envy him. Because he’s gone. Because he doesn’t have to live in this, in the world without him. He doesn’t have to see it’s just stone and masonry; they’re just blood and bone. They’re not ideas at all. You wonder if he could, would he come back. Trade places. You wonder what he would haven chosen.
He would have chosen the world. He had.
You. Can’t.
The world isn’t worth it.