a quick greeting and a short story for review
It's been more quiet here lately, but I suspect that we're are waiting for Book Six to come out (in less than a month!) before jumping back into writing stories.
If you haven't so far, please review Nightlight's posting, or consider commenting on future posts if you're new or old to this site. By no means is anyone here required to post only lengthy reviews! Short comments, ideas, fixes are very welcome. I really don't want to feel like it's a 4 woman club here, commenting on each other's fan fic. --Hollis (one of your co-mods)
I've been trying to finish up my list of requested fics and mostly done stories before July 16th. Here's one I just finished yesterday, and feel like there's still something missing from it.
Title: Millions of Unread and Useless Words
Author: Hollis (tesseract_5)
Pairing: Snape alone (no pairing)
Genre: introspective character study
Audience: [Almost Anyone]
Warnings: brief allusions to past violence
Length: ~ 1,200 words
Complete?: yes
Beta-ed? : yes, recent edits and suggestions incorporated
Summary: The request was for: gen fic, Severus Snape... when he decides to go to Dumbledore for shelter from the Death Eaters...he's probably in his early twenties. It's probably shortly before the Potter's deaths, and his mind is a jumble.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Millions of Unread and Useless Words
"It was one in the morning, a wind had risen and something curious too had happened; as if everyone in the city, simultaneously, had become sick of news of any kind; for thousands of newspaper pages blew through the small park on the way crosstown, blundered like pale bats against the trees, tangled themselves around the feet of Rooney and Rachel, and of a bum sleeping across the way. Millions of unread and useless words had come to a kind of life in Sheridan Square; while the two on the bench wove cross-talk of their own, oblivious, among them."
- Thomas Pynchon
The wind gusted past the doorway, catching his robe in its icy fingers. Snape snatched his garment back and wrapped himself up more carefully against the chill of the early evening dusk. No moon tonight, and no stars in this light-polluted hell hole of a go-to location. He stamped impatiently, and waited for his Death Eater contact to nose around his hidden alcove.
Pity he was forbidden a warming spell. The alleyway was much too near the Ministry warning wards, him being a marked man. Literally. He slipped his right hand under his left sleeve to trace the tattoo as had become his nervous habit. The skin felt slightly uneven from the thick spelled pigments that had been slipped under the surface, and still warm from the last summons. The feeling of warmth might be more of an side-effect of the Invigoration Draught he'd taken earlier, though he was doubtful of that.
Repeated pinching of the thin skin on his wrist produced a welcome sensation of stinging wakefulness. A nip of teeth confirmed the vivid sensitivity, a feeling of being alive and present, so unlike the past few months. It wasn't that he felt numb or not in control, oh no! He'd whole heartedly made the decision to participate in the disposal of that stupid Muggle woman, and the foolishly trusting squib of a courier. He could even give it the proper term, murder. The memory of the success of his spells and the approval of the Dark Lord still made his blood rush. No, it was the tingling suspicion that he'd forgotten something vital, something that he'd tried to keep hidden so deeply from his parents and then from his mates at school that he'd somehow hidden it from himself.
While the Invigoration Draught sent his thoughts spinning, unfortunately it did nothing for his cold feet. Methodical tensing and relaxing of muscles brought some feeling back to his toes. Cessation of the pins and needles sensation allowed his thoughts to slip back to picking away at that itching memory of something forgotten. Closing his eyes, he realized that this was the first time he'd been allowed out on his own for some months. Yes, allowed was the correct term. He opened his eyes, pronouncing the word aloud as if for the taste of it. Ever since he'd balked slightly at the disap - assassination of that useless Muggle family, he'd found himself constant companions with one or another fellow Death Eater. Prior to this disconcerting moment of clarity, he'd assumed it was a closer level of induction into the Dark Lord's circle. Now, it alarmed him greatly that he hadn't thought to question the presence of a minder, surveillance not promotion. He shivered with premonition, or was it the deepening bitterness of the night. Hours must have passed since he'd taken up his post to wait. Too much time in which to ruminate on vague impressions.
Shifting his weight from side to side, he tried to think back to the first time he participated in one of the assassination assignments from the master. Why were his memories of this so cloudy? Some memories of that night remained: the ice storm, the mulled wine, the dark haired woman's red lips and warm mouth, the black veiled bed, the hands on his hips and head, the easy and glorious submission to a stronger will, the flash of a man's pale face. Pain gripped his head suddenly and violently. He doubled over, and retched dryly. Squatting down, and clutching his temple, he massaged the side of his head with both hands.
His breath was shallow, his skin oily with perspiration. Slowing his breathing, deepening it, he fought the heart-clenching foreboding of fear. Was this a memory that was forbidden him? Had he stumbled on it by happenstance? The Dark Lord did nothing by accident, every meticulous step was planned out. Think it through Severus, your intellect has been the only thing granted you your whole miserable life.
He pulled the hood of the robe tighter around his clammy skin, huddling against the gusts. In a sudden inspiration, he stood up, threw back the bulk of the hood, and stepped out of the protective walls of the alcove into the full force of the bitter wind. The cold wind stung his cheeks into blushing and whipped his long tangled hair about his head. He breathed the chill air in deeply until it hurt his lungs and he coughed, choking. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as an image distilled in his mind. It was an older man with half moon glasses, a long beard and a melancholy expression in his face, the eyes not so sad as severely disappointed. The image shifted to that of his father, perpetually disappointed and pained.
Snape clenched his fist, aware for the first time that this expression his father has worn wasn't so much indicative of disappointment in his son, but in himself. His father more angry at himself than the wife he beat? His chest felt tight, thinking of the useless tortured arguments of his parents. He'd swore vehemently that he'd be everything opposite of his father, but what was he becoming, but another victim of a bully, on a grand scale. Worse, he'd let himself become a tool used for killing in the hands of this Dark Lord.
Unfurling his fingers one by one, he stared unblinking at his hand, his wand hand, stunned by what he had done to so many dead bodies these past months. How many potions he'd stirred with that hand for the benefit of a manipulative master of legimens. It came to him slowly at first and then rushing back, sickening thoughts and memories he'd buried with the encouragement of the Dark Lord's smothering will. He gaped aghast at the yellowed callouses and stained fingertips, the rusty grime under the fingernails.
Rubbing his hand frantically on his robe, as if to cleanse it, he grasped blankly at possibility of ridding himself of the mess he'd gotten himself into. Was it even possible to leave? Where could he go? What could he possibly say to the man? Idiot! Fool, what can I offer but useless words and excuses. He flung his hair back, looking around the alleyway wildly. Panting, he ran through the confining press of walls out into the open square.
An errant gust of wind swooped up his robe, momentarily making him look as though he were to take flight with drooping black wings. Silhouetted against the street lights, he realize he made an easy target. If this had been a test of his persistence and loyalty to the Death Eaters, he'd come to the opposite conclusions that he was meant to have. They'd left him with too much access to his own memories, unless that wasn't a mistake at all, which meant...
A crunch of dead leaves off to his left alerted him to an approaching figure and startled him into instinctive action. He took his one chance and apparated to Hogsmeade, running to the promise of escape given by Albus Dumbledore deep within the warded stone walls of Hogwarts.
notes:
The Death Eaters are a cult-- (from what I've read) when one is inducted into a cult, one isn't allowed to be alone, the constant presence of another cult member keeps the doubts dampened, until the person accepts the beliefs of the cult.
I've played with the ideas of returning sensation to Snape's body, paired with his returning self consciousness. The image of his father is the "I wouldn't beat you if you didn't make me so angry" reasoning of a passive aggressive jerk. I hope the part of his thoughts about his father aren't too cliche.
If you haven't so far, please review Nightlight's posting, or consider commenting on future posts if you're new or old to this site. By no means is anyone here required to post only lengthy reviews! Short comments, ideas, fixes are very welcome. I really don't want to feel like it's a 4 woman club here, commenting on each other's fan fic. --Hollis (one of your co-mods)
I've been trying to finish up my list of requested fics and mostly done stories before July 16th. Here's one I just finished yesterday, and feel like there's still something missing from it.
Title: Millions of Unread and Useless Words
Author: Hollis (tesseract_5)
Pairing: Snape alone (no pairing)
Genre: introspective character study
Audience: [Almost Anyone]
Warnings: brief allusions to past violence
Length: ~ 1,200 words
Complete?: yes
Beta-ed? : yes, recent edits and suggestions incorporated
Summary: The request was for: gen fic, Severus Snape... when he decides to go to Dumbledore for shelter from the Death Eaters...he's probably in his early twenties. It's probably shortly before the Potter's deaths, and his mind is a jumble.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Millions of Unread and Useless Words
"It was one in the morning, a wind had risen and something curious too had happened; as if everyone in the city, simultaneously, had become sick of news of any kind; for thousands of newspaper pages blew through the small park on the way crosstown, blundered like pale bats against the trees, tangled themselves around the feet of Rooney and Rachel, and of a bum sleeping across the way. Millions of unread and useless words had come to a kind of life in Sheridan Square; while the two on the bench wove cross-talk of their own, oblivious, among them."
- Thomas Pynchon
The wind gusted past the doorway, catching his robe in its icy fingers. Snape snatched his garment back and wrapped himself up more carefully against the chill of the early evening dusk. No moon tonight, and no stars in this light-polluted hell hole of a go-to location. He stamped impatiently, and waited for his Death Eater contact to nose around his hidden alcove.
Pity he was forbidden a warming spell. The alleyway was much too near the Ministry warning wards, him being a marked man. Literally. He slipped his right hand under his left sleeve to trace the tattoo as had become his nervous habit. The skin felt slightly uneven from the thick spelled pigments that had been slipped under the surface, and still warm from the last summons. The feeling of warmth might be more of an side-effect of the Invigoration Draught he'd taken earlier, though he was doubtful of that.
Repeated pinching of the thin skin on his wrist produced a welcome sensation of stinging wakefulness. A nip of teeth confirmed the vivid sensitivity, a feeling of being alive and present, so unlike the past few months. It wasn't that he felt numb or not in control, oh no! He'd whole heartedly made the decision to participate in the disposal of that stupid Muggle woman, and the foolishly trusting squib of a courier. He could even give it the proper term, murder. The memory of the success of his spells and the approval of the Dark Lord still made his blood rush. No, it was the tingling suspicion that he'd forgotten something vital, something that he'd tried to keep hidden so deeply from his parents and then from his mates at school that he'd somehow hidden it from himself.
While the Invigoration Draught sent his thoughts spinning, unfortunately it did nothing for his cold feet. Methodical tensing and relaxing of muscles brought some feeling back to his toes. Cessation of the pins and needles sensation allowed his thoughts to slip back to picking away at that itching memory of something forgotten. Closing his eyes, he realized that this was the first time he'd been allowed out on his own for some months. Yes, allowed was the correct term. He opened his eyes, pronouncing the word aloud as if for the taste of it. Ever since he'd balked slightly at the disap - assassination of that useless Muggle family, he'd found himself constant companions with one or another fellow Death Eater. Prior to this disconcerting moment of clarity, he'd assumed it was a closer level of induction into the Dark Lord's circle. Now, it alarmed him greatly that he hadn't thought to question the presence of a minder, surveillance not promotion. He shivered with premonition, or was it the deepening bitterness of the night. Hours must have passed since he'd taken up his post to wait. Too much time in which to ruminate on vague impressions.
Shifting his weight from side to side, he tried to think back to the first time he participated in one of the assassination assignments from the master. Why were his memories of this so cloudy? Some memories of that night remained: the ice storm, the mulled wine, the dark haired woman's red lips and warm mouth, the black veiled bed, the hands on his hips and head, the easy and glorious submission to a stronger will, the flash of a man's pale face. Pain gripped his head suddenly and violently. He doubled over, and retched dryly. Squatting down, and clutching his temple, he massaged the side of his head with both hands.
His breath was shallow, his skin oily with perspiration. Slowing his breathing, deepening it, he fought the heart-clenching foreboding of fear. Was this a memory that was forbidden him? Had he stumbled on it by happenstance? The Dark Lord did nothing by accident, every meticulous step was planned out. Think it through Severus, your intellect has been the only thing granted you your whole miserable life.
He pulled the hood of the robe tighter around his clammy skin, huddling against the gusts. In a sudden inspiration, he stood up, threw back the bulk of the hood, and stepped out of the protective walls of the alcove into the full force of the bitter wind. The cold wind stung his cheeks into blushing and whipped his long tangled hair about his head. He breathed the chill air in deeply until it hurt his lungs and he coughed, choking. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes as an image distilled in his mind. It was an older man with half moon glasses, a long beard and a melancholy expression in his face, the eyes not so sad as severely disappointed. The image shifted to that of his father, perpetually disappointed and pained.
Snape clenched his fist, aware for the first time that this expression his father has worn wasn't so much indicative of disappointment in his son, but in himself. His father more angry at himself than the wife he beat? His chest felt tight, thinking of the useless tortured arguments of his parents. He'd swore vehemently that he'd be everything opposite of his father, but what was he becoming, but another victim of a bully, on a grand scale. Worse, he'd let himself become a tool used for killing in the hands of this Dark Lord.
Unfurling his fingers one by one, he stared unblinking at his hand, his wand hand, stunned by what he had done to so many dead bodies these past months. How many potions he'd stirred with that hand for the benefit of a manipulative master of legimens. It came to him slowly at first and then rushing back, sickening thoughts and memories he'd buried with the encouragement of the Dark Lord's smothering will. He gaped aghast at the yellowed callouses and stained fingertips, the rusty grime under the fingernails.
Rubbing his hand frantically on his robe, as if to cleanse it, he grasped blankly at possibility of ridding himself of the mess he'd gotten himself into. Was it even possible to leave? Where could he go? What could he possibly say to the man? Idiot! Fool, what can I offer but useless words and excuses. He flung his hair back, looking around the alleyway wildly. Panting, he ran through the confining press of walls out into the open square.
An errant gust of wind swooped up his robe, momentarily making him look as though he were to take flight with drooping black wings. Silhouetted against the street lights, he realize he made an easy target. If this had been a test of his persistence and loyalty to the Death Eaters, he'd come to the opposite conclusions that he was meant to have. They'd left him with too much access to his own memories, unless that wasn't a mistake at all, which meant...
A crunch of dead leaves off to his left alerted him to an approaching figure and startled him into instinctive action. He took his one chance and apparated to Hogsmeade, running to the promise of escape given by Albus Dumbledore deep within the warded stone walls of Hogwarts.
notes:
The Death Eaters are a cult-- (from what I've read) when one is inducted into a cult, one isn't allowed to be alone, the constant presence of another cult member keeps the doubts dampened, until the person accepts the beliefs of the cult.
I've played with the ideas of returning sensation to Snape's body, paired with his returning self consciousness. The image of his father is the "I wouldn't beat you if you didn't make me so angry" reasoning of a passive aggressive jerk. I hope the part of his thoughts about his father aren't too cliche.