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jin fenghuang
Author of 9 Stories |
City of Dreams
He stares at the cracks in the plaster.
Not much in the windowless room provides distraction,
keeps the mind from its misery.
He does not know how long he has been here.
There is nothing to indicate the passing of days;
only the endless battering of waves against stone walls.
In Azkaban there is no time.
The light stings. In this place of dark souls there is no darkness,
just ever-shifting shadows, wavering shades.
Here, there can be no dreams.
Dreams mean that there will be a morning.
He does not dream here, he remembers.
Closing his eyes, he yearns for darkness, escape from the blaze.
Whitewashed in light.
If he had it left inside of him, he would be amazed.
He had never thought colour to be important.
It was one of the first things to go.
The walls which line the winding corridors: white.
White: the tiles under his feet.
White: the coarse soap that stung in his eyes while they shaved his hair off.
Maybe, he thinks, maybe they are trying to wash the darkness out of us,
trying to fill the emptiness, the void of memories, with glaring brightness.
His robes are white, too.
Thin shoulders shake, shivering. His breath catches in the cold air.
He tilts his head forward, trying to hide behind the dark curtain of his hair
as the dementor glides by. Then he remembers that it, too, is gone.
There are no cells, no privacy, no sound.
There are no people. Just shells.
Shells do not have rights.
The sleeves of his gown are not long enough.
Scabs, drying blood the colour of ripe cherries. Colour.
Under his fingernails, on his left arm, on his clothes.
Marking him. Again.
His brain registers the irony, dwells in it, weaves it into a shroud of despair.
He clings to it, wraps it tightly around himself, yearning for the comfort of familiarity. At least he is not alone in that shame.
Again and again his long pale fingers find the wound,
tearing it open, making his life a little less white.
Cotton screens separate the beds.
The floor makes a sucking noise when one walks on it.
This is hell. It has to be. Black is here.
He could, would, almost pity him.
Convulsing, as memory after happy memory is torn from him. Almost.
Then he hates him for having even that much.
He should be glad that there is not much for the dementors to take.
They leave him alone, most of the time.
He is not interesting, will not be, not even here.
In another life it would be funny.
There are no guards either. Food is provided by magical means.
Twice a day metal trays appear, then disappear half an hour later.
Another damned soul is brought in.
They are drawn to it like flies to carrion.
Shoving each other, pushing, trying to get the best bits first.
Black tried to throw things at them.
Not that it did him any good.
Black was not fed again for two days.
The next time Black's temper flared they took him away.
To a better place, he is sure. Hell is not for Gryffindors.
Frost clings to the metal frame of the bed.
He wants to scream at them, that he does not belong here.
Not that anyone would believe him. Not even himself.
Under the dim brightness of neon-like mage light he fights sleep.
And loses.
Severus Snape grimaced in distaste as Sirius Black grabbed the front of Lupin's robes, pressing their lips together. With a pang of jealousy he heard the catcalls of Remus' friends, as Lupin shoved the dark-haired boy away, made a gagging noise and wiped his mouth with the satin-trimmed sleeve of his dress robe. To Snape's amusement Black stumbled backwards and nearly fell, catching his balance with a severely inelegant flaying of arms. "I am hurt, Moony, really hurt!" Black clutched the robe over his heart, in one dramatic gesture. Remus snorted.
"Yes, I see, heartbroken… a disease only a true hero's reward can cure"
Remus grinned sheepishly, "Butterbeer"
"You know", Sirius beamed, "I like your remedies better than Poppy's.
Lupin smiled and Peter's hollered "Get me one, too!" followed him as he turned towards the tables.
The red-ribboned mistletoe over Lupin's head hovered for a little while, then leisurely started to move again.
Towards. Him.
Severus froze in panic. Leaning back, deeper into the shadows, he glared at the enchanted greenery, willing it to go away. It did not. It settled ten inches over his head, white berries faintly glowing in the dark. Something tightened in his chest, making it hard to breathe. As if having leaves looming above his head was not enough of a humiliation, Black and his cronies just had to notice. Panic washed over him, drowning him in vertigo. Why always me. Why me.
His lips thinned into a scowl. He felt like kicking something. Hard.
"Oh Prongs, look, the poor mistletoe is going to get all greasy.
"Doesn't matter, Padfoot, it will stay there till the spell wears off, anyway", James smirked.
"Yeah, who would want to kiss that anyway", Peter screwed his face up in distaste.
"Maybe he could pay someone to kiss him", Sirius grinned at Peter, who seemed to ponder the idea.
"Nae, look at his robes, he doesn't have the money.
"True, he can't even afford soap". "Do you think his mother would kiss him, if he asked her"
"Where is my camera when I need it.
They advanced on him, pointing and laughing.
"Oh, there you are", Remus handed the butterbeer to Sirius and Peter,
"The mistletoe caught Snape, huh"
Severus drew his wand, ready to hex as many of them, as possible.
And he would have, he told himself, his eyes burning with unshed tears, had not McGonagall decided to patrol this section of the Great Hall at just that moment. Bristling with frustration and humiliation he stormed out,
feeling the biting scorn of their laughter, every pair of eyes burning on his skin.
It was by chance that Remus Lupin found him hours later in his hiding place near the kitchen.
It must have been the glowing of the mistletoe-berries, Snape thought, that had given him away. At least Lupin was alone, evening the odds in Severus' favour.
"What do you want Lupin", his voice low and dark with anger, "been searching all evening, just to get your chance to insult me too"
His wand was in his hand, ready to hex the Gryffindor at the slightest excuse.
Lupin smiled his most infuriating smile. Stepping closer, so close that Severus could smell the butterbeer on his breath, he pushed Snape's wand aside, handing him an éclair he had pilfered from the kitchen. Before Severus could react, he felt soft lips gently brushing against his cheek.
"Not everyone is out to get you", Remus walked away, smiling that smile again. The mistletoe fell to the ground, unnoticed.
Simon Bartholomew had not returned after winter break. Rumour had it he transferred to Durmstrang. Some might think this a good thing. One Slytherin less. One empty chair in the potions classroom, leaving Professor Slughorn with an odd number of students. Severus Snape sat in the front row. He was always one of the first students to arrive, the first to answer a question, the first to finish his potion correctly. Sichuan aconite root, diced. Kusnezoff monkshood, the essence of. Severus Snape laid out his perfectly prepared ingredients in the order they would be needed. On his half of the table. Professor Slughorn made them work in pairs. The bell rang. Amber, powdered. Dahurian angelica, butts, dried. Jasmine roots, diced. The seat next to him remained empty. He pretended not to notice. Allantoin, borneol, and ephedrae.
Sunlight filtered through the high ornamental windows. Waves of light and shadow washed over the ancient wooden tables, warm, golden, soft; dust danced in the balmy air. Sunday afternoon's velvety murmur echoed off the stone walls, drowning the library in a studious susurrus. Severus Snape liked books. The feel of ancient leather under his fingertips, the rich spicy smell of yellowing parchment. Books were predictable, unlike humans.
"There is a comma missing in your second sentence", Remus Lupin put his books on the table, pointing.
Snape raised an eyebrow and frowned. As irritating as it was, Lupin was right.
"What do you want"
"This is next week's DADA assignment, right?" "Yes, obviously so.
"I still have to finish my potions essay for Slughorn", Remus sighed dramatically, "I'd better go.
"You still have not finished that is due tomorrow.
"It's not like I haven't tried, it just… doesn't make sense.
"Of course it makes sense, it is completely logical", his tone of voice clearly stating 'you are an idiot.
"Oh yes, you must have a different assignment, then …", Remus smirked, "but, well, Potions is your subject. For me, brewing anything more complicated than tea "
Snape snorted.
"Let me have a look"
"I didn't mean… I'm sure I will manage. I couldn't ask that of you"
"Just hand me bloody the essay, Lupin"
Snape sighed and started reading.
"May I?" without waiting for an answer he started to make corrections, murmuring to himself.
"Want some?" Lupin unwrapped a chocolate bar under the table, carefully hiding the offending sweet from the librarian's hawk-like eyes.
"Thanks." Snape took a piece, careful to watch Lupin eat his first.
"Lupin, how hard can it be… the reading is on third-class potions, that means you need to use Farrington's formulas not Silverbeard's"
"You don't say"
"I think I just did.
"Very funny, Severus.
"I don't have to help you, you know"
"Mr. Lupin. Mr. Snape. This is a library. Where people read. Quietly"
"Yes M'm.
"Am I making myself understood"
"Yes, Madame Pince". She was about to return to her shelving, when something caught her eye.
"Mr. Lupin. Is. That. Chocolate"
"Chocolate, where?" Lupin tried not to look guilty. He failed.
"Mr. Lupin"
Madame Pince held out her claw-like hand.
"Oh, this? Yes, that appears to be chocolate"
Snape snorted. Remus grinned and stuffed all of the candy into his mouth.
"Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Lupin. I suggest that you instantly go and remove all of that", she spat the word 'chocolate' like it was something foul, "from my library"
Snape seemed not to notice the conspiratory glance Remus gave him while picking up his things. Madame Pince tapped her foot in annoyance.
"Chocolate in a library, I really would have thought that you would know better by now, Mr Lupin. Books do not grow on trees".
The textbook he was reading was plucked from his hands; looking up he saw the stern face of Professor McGonagall staring down at him.
"Mr. Snape, as you well know, during the break students are not to be inside.
"I was reading", trying hard not to let desperation show in his eyes.
He wished for her to go away, to just leave him alone.
"A bit of fresh air would do you good", Professor McGonagall smiled and pointed at the door, "Out with you"
He reluctantly gathered his things but fast enough to keep her from taking House points. The books in his arms nearly more than he could handle, he more stumbled than walked towards the narrow door that led outside. After the gloominess of the castle's corridor the bright daylight stung his eyes and blinded his vision. He squinted. Not five steps into the courtyard he noticed, too late, the foot stretched out to trip him. He managed to catch himself, but his books went flying. When he knelt down to pick one up, someone kicked it away, out of his reach, its leather making a scratching sound as it skidded over the gravel. Severus winced, Madame Pince would have his head for this.
"Look what Snivellus is reading! Dark Arts, I knew it!"
"How many times do I have to tell you kids: no snogging"
The bright glare of 'lumos' drowned out the night.
"Oh, it is just you Mr. Snape", Professor Slughorn, Head of Slytherin House, sneered, "Not a snogging couple after all. I take it that there is no need to ask if you are alone up here? Detention with Mr. Ogg for being out after curfew".
Snape wrapped his arms around himself, as if suddenly feeling the chill of the coming winter. Besides the clicking of the Professor's shoes on the stone floor, as he continued his round, Snape felt his Head of House's barely suppressed snicker follow him all the way to the staircase.
"… there isn't enough alcohol in Hogsmeade…"
Slamming the ancient oak door shut, Severus Snape leaned heavily on the rail, fighting back tears of rage and humiliation, fighting the lure of the staircase's fathomless depth.
Strange things grew under the canopy of the ancient trees, glowing a sickly green in the darkness. Small animals chittered, rustling through the dry leaves of summer.
Under the scant light of the waning moon he could barely make out the group of people waiting for him in the clearing. When he approached, as if in recognition, magelights started to gleam softly, outlining two rows of hooded figures. At the edge of the clearing, not far away, he could make out the glowing white masks of even more Death Eaters.
The first two Death Eaters lowered their wooden staffs, refusing him entrance. They formed an honour guard, the path between them scattered with freshly cut pine branches. Obedient to what he had been told, he walked towards them. He stood trembling before the crossed poles -- trying to compose himself, trying to keep his calm.
A staff hit the ground with a hollow, echoing thud. Another followed, then another, until the whole clearing was awash with the heartbeat sound of wood hitting soil. As suddenly as it had begun it ceased, droning on in the dark.
The stone circle lit up, blazingly bright. A voice, deep and sonorous, addressed him.
Severus Snape!
"Yes".
Do you come willing?
"Yes".
Do you come knowing?
"Yes".
Do you come true?
"Yes".
So enter!
The pounding rhythm of wood on forest soil began anew, slower this time. The barrier was lifted and he took a tentative step forward. Hands seized him, passing him from side to side, from person to person, staggering from embrace to embrace. Hands holding him, voices: male, female, old, young -- whispering into his ears.
Courage, secrecy, loyalty, honour, duty, obedience -- respect.
The hands released him into the ancient stone circle, pushing him to the ground. He kneeled, head bowed in respect. The eerie pounding, that had once again sped up, suddenly ceased.
Bluish magelight began to glow and out of it stepped a middle-aged man dressed in white. A hand touched Severus' head lightly, then the light seemed to fill his mind and a voice whispered softly.
Do you come willing?
Yes
Do you come knowing?
Yes
Do you come true?
Yes
Let me be the judge of that!
Severus Snape felt his memories, wishes and fears spread out before him,
dissected, judged, discarded; but a spectator in his own mind.
Stand up, Severus Snape, you are worthy.
A feeling of belonging, of worth filled him, flooding his mind with pure and utter joy, swept through him leaving a dull ache of loss in its wake. A hand reached out, grasping his, pulling him to his feet. He tired not to wince when the stone blade was placed in his left hand and Lord Voldemort grasped his hand firmly.
Do you come willing?
Yes
Do you come knowing?
Yes
Do you come true?
Yes Then be!
The handshake tightened and the blade cut into their flesh. It hurt more than he thought it should. Waves of pain swept through his body, centering in his left forearm. Their blood mingled, red, hot, alive and just as he felt he would pass out from sheer pain the handshake ceased and his forearm was grasped in a tight hold. Nails bit into his flesh and his skin began to pulsate. He suppressed a shudder as he felt something slither, glide under his skin.
Then be!
A faint greenish glow cocooned them. The hand was removed from his forearm and where a second ago the Dark Lord's bloody handprint had been, now a green snake was winding itself around the outline of a skull.
The light seem to creep after him. He stood alone, once again facing the procession. Someone placed a cloak on his shoulders and a mask was handed him to cover his face. The pounding rhythm picked up once again as he stepped into the passage, once again hands seized him, once again soft voices whispered.
Courage, secrecy, loyalty, honour, duty, obedience, respect --- brotherhood.
The last word echoed with the drumming.
Then the clearing lit up. One by one the Death Eaters removed their masks, bowing to one of their own.
Voices droned, echoing in his head. Vertigo washed over him.
All he could do was not scream.
Lupin's life was at stake, Dumbledore had said.
He would not send an innocent to his death, would he? Innocent.
What about me? A persistent voice in his head asked.
What had he been doing outside anyway?
Leaving school grounds at night without permission.
He did not feel the sting of the splinters,
just watched in fascination as the blood slowly dripped from his fingers
onto the floor.
His head is jerked back by the remaining strands of his hair.
Soapy water runs down his spine, in one cold, endless trickle.
The neon-like mage-light makes everything a blur, a stark outline of black, and white, and light and shadow.
"More hygienic this way, don't you agree?"
Someone chuckles.
He can feel the razor scrape over his skull, again.
The void devours the sunshine, touching him almost gently and glides away.
He is tired, always tired.
It seems to be one of the constants.
There are not many. Fear. Pain. Control.
From the cursed day they have set foot on this island there has been another's control over his mind.
He gets up from the bed, puts on his terrycloth bathrobe.
Just one more body in the line to the common washroom.
They clean themselves in unison, wake up when the food arrives,
even lift their spoons like one.
Imperius.
TBC
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