(no subject)
"Factories That Make Factories"
Goyle&Snape
Black sheep and the simple things in life. Fluff.
Goyle's father always said he was slow, and his mother would smile nervously and say "he's just different from the others, that's all." But difference is a mortal sin and when the boys he knew went to Mr. Weddon for private lessons, they'd come back and look at him with pity and maybe a little disgust.
"He's not much better than a Muggle," he'd overhear Draco complaining to Mr. Malfoy. "Do I really have to be nice to him?"
Of course, face to face, Draco was as patronizing as he could make himself. Goyle seethed and clenched his fists and railed against his own thick skin, his own broad hands that'd snap a wand as soon as cast a spell. Crabbe would just shrug and smile bluntly and say, "well, it's what we're made for."
Summers, the Malfoys and Crabbes and Goyles would go out to the coast and sprawl out on the hidden unforgiving land. Crabbe Sr drank too much and the boys knew enough to stay out of the house, to spend every day fishing off the rocks or racing their broomsticks low to the water.
Over in the town, Draco would hold up everything for sale in the hardware store and giggle at it, not even bothering to make jokes, just ha ha those crazy Muggles. Crabbe would make that low stupid laugh, like hur hur hur hur, but Goyle would only force a smile because maybe they were crazy but he could understand the things they made, which were a little silly maybe, just making up for lack of magic, but they made more sense then all that Latin he could never remember.
One of these outings Goyle hung back for a minute and bought a knife he'd been looking at. Simple but sharp and well-made and he spent his free time carving animals out of driftwood.
In the middle of their third year, Professor Snape called them individually into his office for, as the daily bulletin put it, Career Counseling. Goyle and Crabbe stood silently outside the door as Draco dropped as many hints and insinuations and winks as he could when Snape asked him what his plans for the future were. Draco came prancing out; Goyle stood silently outside the door as Crabbe said "I'd like to follow in my father's footsteps, sir."
His turn, Goyle stuffed himself into the too-small chair and looked across the desk at Snape: fingers stained with ink, red and black, papercuts and a deep frown and the drips of something orange and greasy-looking. Goyle waited for the question, but when it came, it wasn't the right one.
"What do you like to do, Mr. Goyle?"
Goyle thought for a moment. "I'm good with my hands, sir."
"Are you now," Snape said. "That's quite rare in this day and age."
Goyle crossed and then uncrossed his legs. "I guess so, sir."
Snape stared at him but didn't say anything else. Goyle said, "Well, uh," and shifted forward in his seat; Snape blinked and said "Yes, well, you may go now." And Goyle lumbered back to the Slytherin common room, alone.
Later, when he'd started failing more than just Charms, which he'd never been good at, Snape started tutoring him. Every other night in Snape's office, and Goyle would bring his books and some paper and his best quill and try as hard as he could to follow the nonsense syllables and the wand flicking or waving or twisting but wound up just watching Snape's hands as they scratched notes across the paper.
"You have really nice handwriting, sir," he'd said one night, but didn't say it again after that because Snape had looked strangely at him and then pretended nothing had been said at all.
Sometimes he'd come on offnights, and Snape was suprised the first few times but he didn't ask questions, just tucked away whatever it was he was working on and motioned for Goyle to pull up the extra chair. Sometimes he didn't have assignments to work on for that night, but he came anyway, just took his knife and a block of wood and sat in the chair without moving it to the desk, carving and enjoying the fire, the quiet, the peace. At the end of the hour he'd have a little animal, a hippogriff or frog or snake or spider, and he'd leave it on the corner of Snape's desk.
Snape never said anything about them, but one time Goyle caught a glimpse of the back room and there they were, all lined up on a shelf.
Draco said he was dumb to need so much tutoring, and Crabbe laughed even though he was failing everything too (hur hur hur hur), but Goyle shrugged and said "it's okay, I don't mind it." And then he went and suprised everyone (including himself) by passing all his exams and it felt good, even with Draco mock-fainting from shock.
Day after exam results came in, the last official day of school for the year, Goyle went to Snape anyway.
"It's the end of the year, Goyle. There's no need for you to be here," Snape said, but he didn't seem that suprised. "Congratulations on your exams, by the way."
"I know, sir. I just. I wanted to, to thank you, sir. For, um, teaching me how to do Charms and all. I made you, um, I made - " He snapped his mouth shut, angry at his own incoherence, and shoved a cardboard box at Snape.
"A box. How thoughtful." But Snape was smiling and he slid a fingernail along the seal, opening the lid.
"It's Hogwarts," Goyle said, and scuffed his toe at the floor as Snape drew the carved wood castle out.
"Of course," Snape breathed, and turned it gently in his hands with something approaching reverence. "The detail...you even have the bend in the North Tower."
"I see that sort of thing."
"Yes, you do, don't you."
They stared at each other for a moment.
"Sir," Goyle said uncertainly, and took a step forward. Snape took a step back. "I guess I should go."
Snape took another step back and nodded firmly. "Yes, I'm sure you have a party to go to."
And he did, and he went, and sat in a chair watching Draco drink too much and make passes at cute Ravenclaw girls and maybe a few of the boys. He ate a piece of cake and drank the punch til he realized it was spiked and talked to Millicent until he got tired of her nattering on about how some other girl was wearing the same dress she was and how that was so completely unfair, because she'd had it first and how dare that no-class Ravenclaw bitch even think she could pull it off. He left as soon as he saw an opening, right between That Ravenclaw Bitch and Draco Is So Cute, Don't You Think?
"It's late, Goyle," Snape said when he knocked on his door. He didn't seem that suprised.
Goyle stumped in and sat in his chair. "Yeah, I know. But the party's stupid and there's no one in the dorm and I like it here, anyway."
"Do you now," Snape said, but it wasn't a question. Goyle figured out that not-a-real-question thing a while ago.
Snape smiled and Goyle smiled back and then smiled again at his little Hogwarts sitting on the front of the desk. "Thanks again for everything, sir," Goyle said, enunciating as carefully as he could.
Snape frowned, like he just realized he was being too nice for too long and it was killing his reputation, and walked stiffly into his back room. Goyle settled back into his chair and pulled out his block of wood. "Cat, I think," he said, and fitted his knife to his palm.
Title taken from the poem "Factory" by Antler, which is one of the best poems ever in the history of everything.
Goyle&Snape
Black sheep and the simple things in life. Fluff.
Goyle's father always said he was slow, and his mother would smile nervously and say "he's just different from the others, that's all." But difference is a mortal sin and when the boys he knew went to Mr. Weddon for private lessons, they'd come back and look at him with pity and maybe a little disgust.
"He's not much better than a Muggle," he'd overhear Draco complaining to Mr. Malfoy. "Do I really have to be nice to him?"
Of course, face to face, Draco was as patronizing as he could make himself. Goyle seethed and clenched his fists and railed against his own thick skin, his own broad hands that'd snap a wand as soon as cast a spell. Crabbe would just shrug and smile bluntly and say, "well, it's what we're made for."
Summers, the Malfoys and Crabbes and Goyles would go out to the coast and sprawl out on the hidden unforgiving land. Crabbe Sr drank too much and the boys knew enough to stay out of the house, to spend every day fishing off the rocks or racing their broomsticks low to the water.
Over in the town, Draco would hold up everything for sale in the hardware store and giggle at it, not even bothering to make jokes, just ha ha those crazy Muggles. Crabbe would make that low stupid laugh, like hur hur hur hur, but Goyle would only force a smile because maybe they were crazy but he could understand the things they made, which were a little silly maybe, just making up for lack of magic, but they made more sense then all that Latin he could never remember.
One of these outings Goyle hung back for a minute and bought a knife he'd been looking at. Simple but sharp and well-made and he spent his free time carving animals out of driftwood.
In the middle of their third year, Professor Snape called them individually into his office for, as the daily bulletin put it, Career Counseling. Goyle and Crabbe stood silently outside the door as Draco dropped as many hints and insinuations and winks as he could when Snape asked him what his plans for the future were. Draco came prancing out; Goyle stood silently outside the door as Crabbe said "I'd like to follow in my father's footsteps, sir."
His turn, Goyle stuffed himself into the too-small chair and looked across the desk at Snape: fingers stained with ink, red and black, papercuts and a deep frown and the drips of something orange and greasy-looking. Goyle waited for the question, but when it came, it wasn't the right one.
"What do you like to do, Mr. Goyle?"
Goyle thought for a moment. "I'm good with my hands, sir."
"Are you now," Snape said. "That's quite rare in this day and age."
Goyle crossed and then uncrossed his legs. "I guess so, sir."
Snape stared at him but didn't say anything else. Goyle said, "Well, uh," and shifted forward in his seat; Snape blinked and said "Yes, well, you may go now." And Goyle lumbered back to the Slytherin common room, alone.
Later, when he'd started failing more than just Charms, which he'd never been good at, Snape started tutoring him. Every other night in Snape's office, and Goyle would bring his books and some paper and his best quill and try as hard as he could to follow the nonsense syllables and the wand flicking or waving or twisting but wound up just watching Snape's hands as they scratched notes across the paper.
"You have really nice handwriting, sir," he'd said one night, but didn't say it again after that because Snape had looked strangely at him and then pretended nothing had been said at all.
Sometimes he'd come on offnights, and Snape was suprised the first few times but he didn't ask questions, just tucked away whatever it was he was working on and motioned for Goyle to pull up the extra chair. Sometimes he didn't have assignments to work on for that night, but he came anyway, just took his knife and a block of wood and sat in the chair without moving it to the desk, carving and enjoying the fire, the quiet, the peace. At the end of the hour he'd have a little animal, a hippogriff or frog or snake or spider, and he'd leave it on the corner of Snape's desk.
Snape never said anything about them, but one time Goyle caught a glimpse of the back room and there they were, all lined up on a shelf.
Draco said he was dumb to need so much tutoring, and Crabbe laughed even though he was failing everything too (hur hur hur hur), but Goyle shrugged and said "it's okay, I don't mind it." And then he went and suprised everyone (including himself) by passing all his exams and it felt good, even with Draco mock-fainting from shock.
Day after exam results came in, the last official day of school for the year, Goyle went to Snape anyway.
"It's the end of the year, Goyle. There's no need for you to be here," Snape said, but he didn't seem that suprised. "Congratulations on your exams, by the way."
"I know, sir. I just. I wanted to, to thank you, sir. For, um, teaching me how to do Charms and all. I made you, um, I made - " He snapped his mouth shut, angry at his own incoherence, and shoved a cardboard box at Snape.
"A box. How thoughtful." But Snape was smiling and he slid a fingernail along the seal, opening the lid.
"It's Hogwarts," Goyle said, and scuffed his toe at the floor as Snape drew the carved wood castle out.
"Of course," Snape breathed, and turned it gently in his hands with something approaching reverence. "The detail...you even have the bend in the North Tower."
"I see that sort of thing."
"Yes, you do, don't you."
They stared at each other for a moment.
"Sir," Goyle said uncertainly, and took a step forward. Snape took a step back. "I guess I should go."
Snape took another step back and nodded firmly. "Yes, I'm sure you have a party to go to."
And he did, and he went, and sat in a chair watching Draco drink too much and make passes at cute Ravenclaw girls and maybe a few of the boys. He ate a piece of cake and drank the punch til he realized it was spiked and talked to Millicent until he got tired of her nattering on about how some other girl was wearing the same dress she was and how that was so completely unfair, because she'd had it first and how dare that no-class Ravenclaw bitch even think she could pull it off. He left as soon as he saw an opening, right between That Ravenclaw Bitch and Draco Is So Cute, Don't You Think?
"It's late, Goyle," Snape said when he knocked on his door. He didn't seem that suprised.
Goyle stumped in and sat in his chair. "Yeah, I know. But the party's stupid and there's no one in the dorm and I like it here, anyway."
"Do you now," Snape said, but it wasn't a question. Goyle figured out that not-a-real-question thing a while ago.
Snape smiled and Goyle smiled back and then smiled again at his little Hogwarts sitting on the front of the desk. "Thanks again for everything, sir," Goyle said, enunciating as carefully as he could.
Snape frowned, like he just realized he was being too nice for too long and it was killing his reputation, and walked stiffly into his back room. Goyle settled back into his chair and pulled out his block of wood. "Cat, I think," he said, and fitted his knife to his palm.
Title taken from the poem "Factory" by Antler, which is one of the best poems ever in the history of everything.