Sirius Black Fest 2013: Fic: The Target Shooting Photograph
Today's entry is not a traditional fest entry, in that it wasn't written for the fest as per the rules. However, the translation of this story (which is an onerous task) was done specifically for the fest as a gift for the community. Enjoy!
Title: The Target Shooting Photograph
Author: erinwood
Translator:emilywaters76
Pairing(s)/character(s): Severus/Sirius, mentions of other pairings.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt# 204
Word count: 1.5 K
Summary: Snape, do you remember the four of us?
Warnings: Highlight to read*angst *
Disclaimer: All rights to HP universe belong to JKR. We make no money from fanfiction.
A/N: The language of the original is Russian. This story was written for Fandom Combat 2013 and was translated for Sirius Black Fest. The original of the story can be found here: http://fk-2o13.diary.ru/p190518734.htm
“Well, don’t you look pleased, Snivellus.”
Snape sighs heavily and pushes away the parchment containing the results of the last test. Once again, the Gryffindors got the lowest grades.
“You again, Black? Ten years in Azkaban - and still you’re none the worse for it. When will you bloody die already?”
“After you, Snivellus, only after you.”
Black is cheeky, he puts his feet up on the table. Several scrolls roll off and fall to the floor. One rustles its way toward Snape’s foot. The edge of the dry and thin leather parchment is folded back and Snape spots the nauseatingly familiar chicken scrawl - Harry Potter. Of course.
“How do you manage that, Black?”
“Me?! You’re the one doing it - seeing things, having the same waking dream every Halloween. All I do is drop by to get a respite once a year. Since you continue to so kindly invite me. Have you got cigarettes?”
Snape sticks his hand in the drawer of the desk and pulls out a pack of Camel cigarettes and flings it violently right into Black’s jeering face. Black catches it - and his movement is lightning-fast, graceful, inhuman. As always.
“You keep expecting it to pass right through me like I’m a ghost.” The sound of the cellophane wrapping being ripped is deafening. Snape winces as he takes out the wand and takes a stab in Black’s direction. At the very end of it dances a thin flame. Black gives him a crooked grin. “You’re an unbelievable fop, Snape. Why not just use a wad of money to light your cigarette?”
“I’m not nearly as well-versed as you where the habits of the golden boys are concerned.”
“Right. Come closer, I can’t reach that far.”
Snape rises to his feet and leans over the desk, the edge of it cutting into his belly. Black takes a drag and lets out a blissful, orgasmic moan.
For a few seconds Snape stares at him intently - the beautiful face of a twenty-year old, like polished marble save for the black and red splashes; the trick of light from the flame.
“You look like crap,” Black says lazily.
“You’re one to talk! A bloody zombie!”
“Vampire, if you please. I never get old, I appear when I’m invited, and I’m eternally beautiful. You know, Snape, you’re impossible, the way you get fixated on something. Whenever I visit Rem, every year I get older. It’s like I’m real whenever I’m with him. It’s amazing, Snape, really amazing. It’s truly restful. Whenever I visit you, I’m like - a frozen photograph. A target-shooting photograph.”
“They why the fuck do you continue to visit me?” Snape asks angrily.
“I’ve told you - it’s not me who’s doing it. Every year on Halloween I fall asleep in my cell. When I dream, I find myself at Remus’ place. Then, I go to you. Sometimes it’s the other way around.” Black lets out a puff of smoke and, pausing briefly, says, “If it’s any comfort to you, Snape, I also keep expecting the pack of cigarettes to pass through my fingers every time you throw it.”
Snape is silent, thinking that, once again, he’s forgotten to bring out the whiskey. Ten years, he thinks, and each time he forgets even though the reminders of these night encounters scream at him from every proverbial pumpkin. There’s a bottle of alcohol in a cupboard. But the cupboard is way over there across the room, while Snape and Black are glued to the chairs that neither will leave until sunrise.
“I hate you so much,” Snape says tiredly.
Black shrugs, shakes off the ashes of the cigarette onto the floor.
“You have no idea how it pains me to hear it, Snivellus. The only thing worse than you is the Dementors. Every time I see your ugly mug, I get sick. And yes, you hate me so much that you just can’t leave me alone. And you drag me here, year after year. It’s almost slavery, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one who killed her! You did it!”
“Maybe you should scream louder. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.” Black takes another cigarette out of the pack, presses it against the smoldering butt of the other. Snape watches him and sees a hint of a web of wrinkles under his eyes. Black’s pupils look empty and dull.
“What did you say?”
“Oh, bloody hell, Snape. And you consider yourself clever? Merlin almighty, even I worked it out five years ago. I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t. Deep down, in your heart, you know it. When you’re so tired that you have no strength left to resist the obvious, you know it.”
“No.”
“Yes. And Remus knows it. Nobody else. Even I have my doubts, once in a while.” Black takes his feet off the desk and leans in toward Snape. “My cell has a Dementor stationed right next to it. I imagine his colleagues had good cause to envy him at first - there was plenty of nourishment to feast on. These days there isn’t much left. But during the first year he used to stare at me with all the time, that suction hole of his pointing right at me through the bars. I won’t bore you with the details, Snape, but a month later, I couldn’t even remember what a ‘month’ was. It wasn't until a year later when I first found myself with you, and you tried to punch me - only then that I remembered what my name was. I remembered it right away. It was like…”
“Like the sun rising after a long and terrible night?” Snape sneers at him.
“It was like being in a swamp with the mud sinking down your throat, and then - coming up for a breath of fresh air,” Black answers calmly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I remembered myself, and I remembered Jay, and your ugly face, and Hogwarts, and other things - plenty of them. I also remembered that I never served Voldemort. Frankly, by that time I was already quite confused about the entire thing, didn’t know what to believe. And then - there was you and Rem. One of you was screaming, “You did it, admit it!” and the other was staring at me with his empty yellow eyes and asking, “How could you?”
“You know, Black, I believe that Azkaban ate up the meagre scraps of logic and reason that you were endowed with at birth.”
“Snape, do you remember the four of us?”
Snape winces.
“Yes, yes, I get it, but do you remember us?”
Snape remembers. He remembers the sharp envy and anger, someone’s laughter, the shadows in the grass - the dark blur, a mess of arms and four heads.
He remembers the barely audible words that could only be guessed at from the movement of the lips. “Forgive me.” And he remembers Blacks’ face, exquisite, only younger and perfectly white. Black hadn’t even bothered to select a secluded space for this conversation. He just came up to Lupin, who was sitting under a tree, and said, “Forgive me.” Snape froze behind the bloody elm tree and it wasn’t just for the fear of being seen. He was so taken aback by the horrifying, unthinkable audacity of the entire thing. When Lupin, after a long pause, had said, “I forgive you,” Snape felt his knees buckle.
Snape would have never forgiven something like that. Then again, nobody ever asked his forgiveness.
“I remember,” he whispers, his mind still soaking up that cloudy afternoon, the vintage of 1977.
“It’s just too bad that you keep forgetting the alcohol,” Black says with a heavy sigh. “I’d drink with you, Snape. To something.”
Snape glances at him, absently.
“To what?”
“To the enemy who hates me so much that he spends money on cigarettes. To a friend who continues to struggle with the obvious facts for a decade now.”
“Are you saying that Lupin doesn’t believe you’re a traitor, either?”
Black shrugs.
“Remus remembers even more than you do.”
The cigarette smoke makes the eyes tear up and the throat burn. Snape sits, unmoving, observing the silhouette in front of him dissolve in the grey mist.
“I keep forgetting about the whiskey because I don’t remember these bloody dreams when I wake up,” Snape says quietly.
“As long as you remember to get the cigarettes, I’ve no complaints. Snape, I don’t remember fuckall either when I wake. I only remember that I’m innocent. For a man in my position this sort of thing is better than the finest, rarest brandy.”
“Who did it, then?”
Black sighs heavily.
“You know, I really do wish I could work it out from talking to one of you. But neither of you know anything, and I myself can’t seem to work it out. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t - catch it by the tail. Perhaps one day we’ll get lucky, Snivellus. Who knows?”
The hourglass on the desk is turned with a rustle. The dark shadows crawl along the golden face of the clock.
It’s four in the morning and Black lights another cigarette. The red flame dances before Snape’s eyes briefly before dropping to sparks.
Another minute later, only the smoke remains, grey and bitter.
Title: The Target Shooting Photograph
Author: erinwood
Translator:emilywaters76
Pairing(s)/character(s): Severus/Sirius, mentions of other pairings.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt# 204
Word count: 1.5 K
Summary: Snape, do you remember the four of us?
Warnings: Highlight to read*angst *
Disclaimer: All rights to HP universe belong to JKR. We make no money from fanfiction.
A/N: The language of the original is Russian. This story was written for Fandom Combat 2013 and was translated for Sirius Black Fest. The original of the story can be found here: http://fk-2o13.diary.ru/p190518734.htm
“Well, don’t you look pleased, Snivellus.”
Snape sighs heavily and pushes away the parchment containing the results of the last test. Once again, the Gryffindors got the lowest grades.
“You again, Black? Ten years in Azkaban - and still you’re none the worse for it. When will you bloody die already?”
“After you, Snivellus, only after you.”
Black is cheeky, he puts his feet up on the table. Several scrolls roll off and fall to the floor. One rustles its way toward Snape’s foot. The edge of the dry and thin leather parchment is folded back and Snape spots the nauseatingly familiar chicken scrawl - Harry Potter. Of course.
“How do you manage that, Black?”
“Me?! You’re the one doing it - seeing things, having the same waking dream every Halloween. All I do is drop by to get a respite once a year. Since you continue to so kindly invite me. Have you got cigarettes?”
Snape sticks his hand in the drawer of the desk and pulls out a pack of Camel cigarettes and flings it violently right into Black’s jeering face. Black catches it - and his movement is lightning-fast, graceful, inhuman. As always.
“You keep expecting it to pass right through me like I’m a ghost.” The sound of the cellophane wrapping being ripped is deafening. Snape winces as he takes out the wand and takes a stab in Black’s direction. At the very end of it dances a thin flame. Black gives him a crooked grin. “You’re an unbelievable fop, Snape. Why not just use a wad of money to light your cigarette?”
“I’m not nearly as well-versed as you where the habits of the golden boys are concerned.”
“Right. Come closer, I can’t reach that far.”
Snape rises to his feet and leans over the desk, the edge of it cutting into his belly. Black takes a drag and lets out a blissful, orgasmic moan.
For a few seconds Snape stares at him intently - the beautiful face of a twenty-year old, like polished marble save for the black and red splashes; the trick of light from the flame.
“You look like crap,” Black says lazily.
“You’re one to talk! A bloody zombie!”
“Vampire, if you please. I never get old, I appear when I’m invited, and I’m eternally beautiful. You know, Snape, you’re impossible, the way you get fixated on something. Whenever I visit Rem, every year I get older. It’s like I’m real whenever I’m with him. It’s amazing, Snape, really amazing. It’s truly restful. Whenever I visit you, I’m like - a frozen photograph. A target-shooting photograph.”
“They why the fuck do you continue to visit me?” Snape asks angrily.
“I’ve told you - it’s not me who’s doing it. Every year on Halloween I fall asleep in my cell. When I dream, I find myself at Remus’ place. Then, I go to you. Sometimes it’s the other way around.” Black lets out a puff of smoke and, pausing briefly, says, “If it’s any comfort to you, Snape, I also keep expecting the pack of cigarettes to pass through my fingers every time you throw it.”
Snape is silent, thinking that, once again, he’s forgotten to bring out the whiskey. Ten years, he thinks, and each time he forgets even though the reminders of these night encounters scream at him from every proverbial pumpkin. There’s a bottle of alcohol in a cupboard. But the cupboard is way over there across the room, while Snape and Black are glued to the chairs that neither will leave until sunrise.
“I hate you so much,” Snape says tiredly.
Black shrugs, shakes off the ashes of the cigarette onto the floor.
“You have no idea how it pains me to hear it, Snivellus. The only thing worse than you is the Dementors. Every time I see your ugly mug, I get sick. And yes, you hate me so much that you just can’t leave me alone. And you drag me here, year after year. It’s almost slavery, don’t you think?”
“You’re the one who killed her! You did it!”
“Maybe you should scream louder. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it.” Black takes another cigarette out of the pack, presses it against the smoldering butt of the other. Snape watches him and sees a hint of a web of wrinkles under his eyes. Black’s pupils look empty and dull.
“What did you say?”
“Oh, bloody hell, Snape. And you consider yourself clever? Merlin almighty, even I worked it out five years ago. I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t. Deep down, in your heart, you know it. When you’re so tired that you have no strength left to resist the obvious, you know it.”
“No.”
“Yes. And Remus knows it. Nobody else. Even I have my doubts, once in a while.” Black takes his feet off the desk and leans in toward Snape. “My cell has a Dementor stationed right next to it. I imagine his colleagues had good cause to envy him at first - there was plenty of nourishment to feast on. These days there isn’t much left. But during the first year he used to stare at me with all the time, that suction hole of his pointing right at me through the bars. I won’t bore you with the details, Snape, but a month later, I couldn’t even remember what a ‘month’ was. It wasn't until a year later when I first found myself with you, and you tried to punch me - only then that I remembered what my name was. I remembered it right away. It was like…”
“Like the sun rising after a long and terrible night?” Snape sneers at him.
“It was like being in a swamp with the mud sinking down your throat, and then - coming up for a breath of fresh air,” Black answers calmly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I remembered myself, and I remembered Jay, and your ugly face, and Hogwarts, and other things - plenty of them. I also remembered that I never served Voldemort. Frankly, by that time I was already quite confused about the entire thing, didn’t know what to believe. And then - there was you and Rem. One of you was screaming, “You did it, admit it!” and the other was staring at me with his empty yellow eyes and asking, “How could you?”
“You know, Black, I believe that Azkaban ate up the meagre scraps of logic and reason that you were endowed with at birth.”
“Snape, do you remember the four of us?”
Snape winces.
“Yes, yes, I get it, but do you remember us?”
Snape remembers. He remembers the sharp envy and anger, someone’s laughter, the shadows in the grass - the dark blur, a mess of arms and four heads.
He remembers the barely audible words that could only be guessed at from the movement of the lips. “Forgive me.” And he remembers Blacks’ face, exquisite, only younger and perfectly white. Black hadn’t even bothered to select a secluded space for this conversation. He just came up to Lupin, who was sitting under a tree, and said, “Forgive me.” Snape froze behind the bloody elm tree and it wasn’t just for the fear of being seen. He was so taken aback by the horrifying, unthinkable audacity of the entire thing. When Lupin, after a long pause, had said, “I forgive you,” Snape felt his knees buckle.
Snape would have never forgiven something like that. Then again, nobody ever asked his forgiveness.
“I remember,” he whispers, his mind still soaking up that cloudy afternoon, the vintage of 1977.
“It’s just too bad that you keep forgetting the alcohol,” Black says with a heavy sigh. “I’d drink with you, Snape. To something.”
Snape glances at him, absently.
“To what?”
“To the enemy who hates me so much that he spends money on cigarettes. To a friend who continues to struggle with the obvious facts for a decade now.”
“Are you saying that Lupin doesn’t believe you’re a traitor, either?”
Black shrugs.
“Remus remembers even more than you do.”
The cigarette smoke makes the eyes tear up and the throat burn. Snape sits, unmoving, observing the silhouette in front of him dissolve in the grey mist.
“I keep forgetting about the whiskey because I don’t remember these bloody dreams when I wake up,” Snape says quietly.
“As long as you remember to get the cigarettes, I’ve no complaints. Snape, I don’t remember fuckall either when I wake. I only remember that I’m innocent. For a man in my position this sort of thing is better than the finest, rarest brandy.”
“Who did it, then?”
Black sighs heavily.
“You know, I really do wish I could work it out from talking to one of you. But neither of you know anything, and I myself can’t seem to work it out. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t - catch it by the tail. Perhaps one day we’ll get lucky, Snivellus. Who knows?”
The hourglass on the desk is turned with a rustle. The dark shadows crawl along the golden face of the clock.
It’s four in the morning and Black lights another cigarette. The red flame dances before Snape’s eyes briefly before dropping to sparks.
Another minute later, only the smoke remains, grey and bitter.