Waste [Charlie/Severus - R]
Author: a_shadow_there
Title: Waste
Prompt: #124 Submitted by: seraphimerising
Pairing: Charlie/Severus
Rating: R
Warnings: age-discrepancy, teacher/student relationship, canon character death.
Word Count: ~1,020
Summary: Cold. Like ice filling the hollow of his bones. That's how Charlie felt when he heard that Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore.
Notes: I had a bit of trouble with this one; I couldn't decide where I wanted to take this. Every time I started to work on it, a completely different idea popped up and demanded to be taken care of. Eventually, I settled on this one, which was not at all what I expected. Thanks to the Modly Ones for running the fest.
Waste
1996
Cold.
Like ice running not through his veins, but into the very hollow of his bones. Coursing through his body, causing his fingers and toes to stiffen and shiver, and pooling in his very insides.
The very core of himself.
This is how Charlie felt when he heard; when he heard that Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore.
*
1990
"I wish you'd reconsider, Weasley," Severus said to Charlie. They were seated in the potions class room. The cold air smelled almost metallic: the scent of cauldrons and chemical reaction, mingling still and hanging in the air.
"I've made up my mind. Professor," Charlie said. His voice was quiet, but firm. It was a surety Severus was not used to hearing - and certainly one he was not used to hearing from his students.
But then, Charlie Weasley wasn't just one of his students.
*
1988
As he sat in the potions class room scrubbing dirty beakers, Charlie heard a shifting sound behind him. He didn't turn his head. He didn't need to. He knew what it was; he knew who. Gently, he placed the beaker and cloth he was holding down onto the table, and took a deep breath.
"Weasley," Severus said; the name clinging to his very breath. Approaching Charlie from behind, Severus placed the palms of his hands on the boy's waist: long, slender fingers curling over the curves and planes of Charlie's body. Pressed against him, Severus ran his hands down over Charlie's abdomen and, as he did, he rested his chin against the crook of Charlie's neck.
"Charlie," he whispered, the warmth of his breath moistening Charlie's skin. Shivering, not with cold or fear, but with a sudden, urgent desire that bloomed in his belly, Charlie closed his eyes and, reaching for Severus he clasped stubby, freckled fingers to the back of his professor's neck, burying them in the dishevelled strands of greasy, black hair.
And he whispered: "Severus."
*
1995
Bitter midnight winds whipped the facade of Twelve Grimmauld Place. The house seemed to tremble beneath nature's terrible touch and inside, Charlie was hunched over a piece of parchment. His eyes, prickling with exhaustion, seemed determined to close, but Charlie wouldn't allow them to: he shook his head, rapidly, from one side to the other, and straightened up in his chair. Exhaling, Charlie ran his fingers through coppery hair (hair that his mother had said, time and again, was too long) and turned his attention, once more, to the parchment in front of him: to the list of witches and wizards who would - he, and the Order hoped - be willing to join them in the fight against a resurrected Voldemort.
"Oh," a familiar voice said, interrupting Charlie's thoughts. "You're still here."
Charlie looked up from the list. "Snape," he said. "Yeah. Still here. I'm headed back to Romania tomorrow and -"
"Chuh," Severus snorted, loudly and suddenly at the mention of Romania.
Charlie leaned back in his chair. He narrowed his gaze. "Is there something you'd like to say, Snape?" he asked.
Severus shook his head. "No," he replied, his lip curling in what Charlie could only assume was a distorted, suppressed snarl. "Nothing at all."
"Are you sure?" Charlie folded his arms across his broad chest. "Nothing about Romania, then?"
"No; nothing about Romania. And your job as a glorified dog-walker."
"Christ," Charlie hissed. He pushed his chair back, the haste of its movement against the floor sending up a loud shriek. "This again," Charlie continued as he rose from his seat, and collected up the documents on the table.
Severus crossed the room. "You had such potential, Weasley," he said as he watched Charlie collect his things. "And to waste it on -"
"I didn't waste it. I'm not wasting it. Just because it's not what you thought I should've done, doesn't mean that it's a waste," Charlie spat defensively. He tucked his things under his arm and swept past Severus but, as he did, he felt an icy grip on his wrist.
"Weasley," Severus said; "Charlie." As the name rolled off of his tongue, his voice lost its familiar sneer; it was stripped of it, Charlie could hear it.
It was bare.
Charlie paused. He looked back over his shoulder at the man staring back at him: his eyes wide, and brimming not with an apology, and not with tears, but with that same thing that led Charlie to fall all those years ago.
He had always had a fondness for dark creatures, but until that moment, it had never felt quite so dangerous. Destructive.
"Severus," he said. "Please. Let me go."
Silence.
"Please." Charlie turned to face his former teacher: his former friend, and lover.
"I can't," Severus said, the words pushing past the cage of his teeth and lips, breathed into an existence by a man who didn't want them to be.
He tightened his grip on Charlie's wrist. Burn-marked skin and gnarled knuckles digging into flesh; Severus jerked Charlie toward him and Charlie, succumbing, released his grip on the lists he had spent the evening studying.
As they fell clattering to the floor, Charlie fell to Severus, rushing him in a blur if grasping fingers and eager lips; desperate to recapture the feeling that had once existed, that he and Severus had once shared; and fearful that he would fail.
*
1997
Cold.
Like ice running not through his veins, but into the very hollow of his bones. Coursing through his body, causing his fingers and toes to stiffen and shiver, and pooling in his very insides.
The very core of himself.
This is how Charlie felt when he heard that Severus Snape had died; when he heard that Severus had fallen defending the Order of the Phoenix, defending Dumbledore, defending love.
He felt cold; and sick to the stomach. How could he have doubted; how?
Sitting back on his haunches by Severus' grave, Charlie's whole body shook, his grief tearing through him; an enormous, clawing presence shredding his heart, his very soul.
And even in the heat of it, all he could feel was cold; as though he'd never be warm again, never.
Title: Waste
Prompt: #124 Submitted by: seraphimerising
Pairing: Charlie/Severus
Rating: R
Warnings: age-discrepancy, teacher/student relationship, canon character death.
Word Count: ~1,020
Summary: Cold. Like ice filling the hollow of his bones. That's how Charlie felt when he heard that Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore.
Notes: I had a bit of trouble with this one; I couldn't decide where I wanted to take this. Every time I started to work on it, a completely different idea popped up and demanded to be taken care of. Eventually, I settled on this one, which was not at all what I expected. Thanks to the Modly Ones for running the fest.
Waste
1996
Cold.
Like ice running not through his veins, but into the very hollow of his bones. Coursing through his body, causing his fingers and toes to stiffen and shiver, and pooling in his very insides.
The very core of himself.
This is how Charlie felt when he heard; when he heard that Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore.
*
1990
"I wish you'd reconsider, Weasley," Severus said to Charlie. They were seated in the potions class room. The cold air smelled almost metallic: the scent of cauldrons and chemical reaction, mingling still and hanging in the air.
"I've made up my mind. Professor," Charlie said. His voice was quiet, but firm. It was a surety Severus was not used to hearing - and certainly one he was not used to hearing from his students.
But then, Charlie Weasley wasn't just one of his students.
*
1988
As he sat in the potions class room scrubbing dirty beakers, Charlie heard a shifting sound behind him. He didn't turn his head. He didn't need to. He knew what it was; he knew who. Gently, he placed the beaker and cloth he was holding down onto the table, and took a deep breath.
"Weasley," Severus said; the name clinging to his very breath. Approaching Charlie from behind, Severus placed the palms of his hands on the boy's waist: long, slender fingers curling over the curves and planes of Charlie's body. Pressed against him, Severus ran his hands down over Charlie's abdomen and, as he did, he rested his chin against the crook of Charlie's neck.
"Charlie," he whispered, the warmth of his breath moistening Charlie's skin. Shivering, not with cold or fear, but with a sudden, urgent desire that bloomed in his belly, Charlie closed his eyes and, reaching for Severus he clasped stubby, freckled fingers to the back of his professor's neck, burying them in the dishevelled strands of greasy, black hair.
And he whispered: "Severus."
*
1995
Bitter midnight winds whipped the facade of Twelve Grimmauld Place. The house seemed to tremble beneath nature's terrible touch and inside, Charlie was hunched over a piece of parchment. His eyes, prickling with exhaustion, seemed determined to close, but Charlie wouldn't allow them to: he shook his head, rapidly, from one side to the other, and straightened up in his chair. Exhaling, Charlie ran his fingers through coppery hair (hair that his mother had said, time and again, was too long) and turned his attention, once more, to the parchment in front of him: to the list of witches and wizards who would - he, and the Order hoped - be willing to join them in the fight against a resurrected Voldemort.
"Oh," a familiar voice said, interrupting Charlie's thoughts. "You're still here."
Charlie looked up from the list. "Snape," he said. "Yeah. Still here. I'm headed back to Romania tomorrow and -"
"Chuh," Severus snorted, loudly and suddenly at the mention of Romania.
Charlie leaned back in his chair. He narrowed his gaze. "Is there something you'd like to say, Snape?" he asked.
Severus shook his head. "No," he replied, his lip curling in what Charlie could only assume was a distorted, suppressed snarl. "Nothing at all."
"Are you sure?" Charlie folded his arms across his broad chest. "Nothing about Romania, then?"
"No; nothing about Romania. And your job as a glorified dog-walker."
"Christ," Charlie hissed. He pushed his chair back, the haste of its movement against the floor sending up a loud shriek. "This again," Charlie continued as he rose from his seat, and collected up the documents on the table.
Severus crossed the room. "You had such potential, Weasley," he said as he watched Charlie collect his things. "And to waste it on -"
"I didn't waste it. I'm not wasting it. Just because it's not what you thought I should've done, doesn't mean that it's a waste," Charlie spat defensively. He tucked his things under his arm and swept past Severus but, as he did, he felt an icy grip on his wrist.
"Weasley," Severus said; "Charlie." As the name rolled off of his tongue, his voice lost its familiar sneer; it was stripped of it, Charlie could hear it.
It was bare.
Charlie paused. He looked back over his shoulder at the man staring back at him: his eyes wide, and brimming not with an apology, and not with tears, but with that same thing that led Charlie to fall all those years ago.
He had always had a fondness for dark creatures, but until that moment, it had never felt quite so dangerous. Destructive.
"Severus," he said. "Please. Let me go."
Silence.
"Please." Charlie turned to face his former teacher: his former friend, and lover.
"I can't," Severus said, the words pushing past the cage of his teeth and lips, breathed into an existence by a man who didn't want them to be.
He tightened his grip on Charlie's wrist. Burn-marked skin and gnarled knuckles digging into flesh; Severus jerked Charlie toward him and Charlie, succumbing, released his grip on the lists he had spent the evening studying.
As they fell clattering to the floor, Charlie fell to Severus, rushing him in a blur if grasping fingers and eager lips; desperate to recapture the feeling that had once existed, that he and Severus had once shared; and fearful that he would fail.
*
1997
Cold.
Like ice running not through his veins, but into the very hollow of his bones. Coursing through his body, causing his fingers and toes to stiffen and shiver, and pooling in his very insides.
The very core of himself.
This is how Charlie felt when he heard that Severus Snape had died; when he heard that Severus had fallen defending the Order of the Phoenix, defending Dumbledore, defending love.
He felt cold; and sick to the stomach. How could he have doubted; how?
Sitting back on his haunches by Severus' grave, Charlie's whole body shook, his grief tearing through him; an enormous, clawing presence shredding his heart, his very soul.
And even in the heat of it, all he could feel was cold; as though he'd never be warm again, never.