The Shadowed Wall
Harry Potter.
Neville + Snape, rated R for masturbation to orgasm.
A study about fear and the freedom of losing it.
He thinks about it sometimes, the fear that drove him on. For so long he felt the fear defined him. He was some small twitching thing hiding in the corner, quiet in the presence of others. So defined by his silence while his grandmother lectured, or the way his stomach shrank when his uncles spoke about him that it had become him, this shrinkage of the skin, this cold presence in his heart. He thinks about what tore him out of it, what freed him from it, and he thinks of course of Harry, and of Ron, and of Hermione. Their bright passion and effortless nerve. But he is an introspective young man, and one inclined to be fair and faithful to others, and it occured to him one night that the one who truly wrenched him out of the cage of his fear was Severus Snape.
He hated Snape. He shivered in his bed at night imagining the cold, sardonic voice explaining to all the world what a stupid fool he was, how useless. He would sweat and be unable to speak, unable to coordinate his fingers. It was unlike the little day to day fears that simply convinced him to stay quiet and accept that he was less than his parents, that he was not much of a wizard. This made him terrified and resilient all at once, made him try to resist, try to oppose... and this was why Snape had changed him. Without Snape, he would never have faced what he had faced. He would never have had the fury to choke down his fear and his feeling of inadequacy and to take up Gryffindor's sword. He'd never have the guts to be what he was.
He wonders, late at night, if Snape intended it so, or if he was just a habitual sadist who had picked a perfect target. It disturbs him that lately, it doesn't matter, and that he feels a strange tenderness toward his former Professor, a desire that he might say, 'thank you,' and watch the astonishment turn to bitter disdain in those lightless, depthless eyes.
His skin turns warm when he thinks of this, and as an adult, he would like to say, 'Severus,' but can only whisper it to the shadowed wall beside his bed. Neville thinks of fear, and the exhilaration of opposing it, of losing it like a snake's shed skin, and when he thinks of no longer being frightened of Snape he feels feverish and light.
Once he touched himself, ran his fingers up and down until he realized that he had never faced down Snape, never not been afraid in his presence, and that the specter would always retain the haunting clarity of that fear. His fingers tightened, but did not stop, and in the friction of the fear, almost unable to breathe, he came violently, desperately. He did not whisper Severus' name again.
Neville + Snape, rated R for masturbation to orgasm.
A study about fear and the freedom of losing it.
He thinks about it sometimes, the fear that drove him on. For so long he felt the fear defined him. He was some small twitching thing hiding in the corner, quiet in the presence of others. So defined by his silence while his grandmother lectured, or the way his stomach shrank when his uncles spoke about him that it had become him, this shrinkage of the skin, this cold presence in his heart. He thinks about what tore him out of it, what freed him from it, and he thinks of course of Harry, and of Ron, and of Hermione. Their bright passion and effortless nerve. But he is an introspective young man, and one inclined to be fair and faithful to others, and it occured to him one night that the one who truly wrenched him out of the cage of his fear was Severus Snape.
He hated Snape. He shivered in his bed at night imagining the cold, sardonic voice explaining to all the world what a stupid fool he was, how useless. He would sweat and be unable to speak, unable to coordinate his fingers. It was unlike the little day to day fears that simply convinced him to stay quiet and accept that he was less than his parents, that he was not much of a wizard. This made him terrified and resilient all at once, made him try to resist, try to oppose... and this was why Snape had changed him. Without Snape, he would never have faced what he had faced. He would never have had the fury to choke down his fear and his feeling of inadequacy and to take up Gryffindor's sword. He'd never have the guts to be what he was.
He wonders, late at night, if Snape intended it so, or if he was just a habitual sadist who had picked a perfect target. It disturbs him that lately, it doesn't matter, and that he feels a strange tenderness toward his former Professor, a desire that he might say, 'thank you,' and watch the astonishment turn to bitter disdain in those lightless, depthless eyes.
His skin turns warm when he thinks of this, and as an adult, he would like to say, 'Severus,' but can only whisper it to the shadowed wall beside his bed. Neville thinks of fear, and the exhilaration of opposing it, of losing it like a snake's shed skin, and when he thinks of no longer being frightened of Snape he feels feverish and light.
Once he touched himself, ran his fingers up and down until he realized that he had never faced down Snape, never not been afraid in his presence, and that the specter would always retain the haunting clarity of that fear. His fingers tightened, but did not stop, and in the friction of the fear, almost unable to breathe, he came violently, desperately. He did not whisper Severus' name again.