Hmm... title. I suck at titles. Let's just call it a writing exercise.
And you can use my skin to bury secrets in. - Fiona Apple
When the candle flickers on its last bit of wax, Snape writes. Foot ater foot of parchment is filled with his scrawl -- sharp as his anger, angular as his politics, slanted as his sense of justice. He was less surprised by Umbridge’s little experiment than he was disappointed in her lack of imagination. Amateur, he sneers, and begins to write.
The quill tip drags across the flesh-toned parchment agressively, scratching and tugging and leaving angry grooves upon the page that mirror the welts that appear on his skin as he writes. It starts at his collarbone, bony where there is little flesh, and continus down over weak pectorals and decolored nipples. Words never solidify, instantly deformed by the crimson beads that trail down his chest following secret paths of wiry black hair.
He writes secrets too shameful to speak out loud, too painful to acknowledge without the oblivion of pain, too incriminating to confess were he ever so inclined.
... Arrogant pile of hippogriff-dung, done in by a lucky “stupify” and a veil...
... I had saved three weeks to buy new underwear. The blood stains never came out...
...Cousin Bellatrix had taught him well...
... Dumbledore lies to me again, I know...
... at least I passed out after the second cracked rib...
... Draco came to me today. I was his father whore, I will not be his...
... the Morsmordre cannot be carved out, but perhaps it can be burned...
Foot after foot of parchment, and when he is spent and the thick liquid covers his chest and pools at the juncture of his leg and drips onto the dungeon floor, he sets the paper on fire. When ashes are all that remains, he turns the wand upon himself. (percuro*). Blue veins are visible under that pale, transluscent, but unblemished skin once more. The blood, the scars, the confessions are gone.
Snivellus no more. His body will hide his sins.
When the candle flickers on its last bit of wax, Snape writes. Foot ater foot of parchment is filled with his scrawl -- sharp as his anger, angular as his politics, slanted as his sense of justice. He was less surprised by Umbridge’s little experiment than he was disappointed in her lack of imagination. Amateur, he sneers, and begins to write.
The quill tip drags across the flesh-toned parchment agressively, scratching and tugging and leaving angry grooves upon the page that mirror the welts that appear on his skin as he writes. It starts at his collarbone, bony where there is little flesh, and continus down over weak pectorals and decolored nipples. Words never solidify, instantly deformed by the crimson beads that trail down his chest following secret paths of wiry black hair.
He writes secrets too shameful to speak out loud, too painful to acknowledge without the oblivion of pain, too incriminating to confess were he ever so inclined.
... Arrogant pile of hippogriff-dung, done in by a lucky “stupify” and a veil...
... I had saved three weeks to buy new underwear. The blood stains never came out...
...Cousin Bellatrix had taught him well...
... Dumbledore lies to me again, I know...
... at least I passed out after the second cracked rib...
... Draco came to me today. I was his father whore, I will not be his...
... the Morsmordre cannot be carved out, but perhaps it can be burned...
Foot after foot of parchment, and when he is spent and the thick liquid covers his chest and pools at the juncture of his leg and drips onto the dungeon floor, he sets the paper on fire. When ashes are all that remains, he turns the wand upon himself. (percuro*). Blue veins are visible under that pale, transluscent, but unblemished skin once more. The blood, the scars, the confessions are gone.
Snivellus no more. His body will hide his sins.