Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to Harry Potter (Mind, I sincerely wish I did, I'd have quite the bout of fun).
A/N: This is a Revision because I CAN'T STAND MY OLD WRITING! Heh.
The Silent Watcher –
Insufferable brats! Must they also quarrel so! Snape stormed up the corridor, having sleuthed out the trail of scattered chattering from the jittery students on the rampage with gossip, and was determined to keep Potter and Malfoy from ripping out their throats so late into the year.
Detentions were quite useless a day or two before the school let out—not even his most intimidating glares could get the second year Hufflepuffs working!
Scattering at the sight of him, paling drastically at the decidedly furious air swarming about him, Snape approached the Great Hall in no time flat. Already he could hear the trilling sound of debate, brought down a bravado or two, and slowed his step a bit.
The scene was typical. Malfoy taunting Potter, Potter retaliating against Malfoy. If it weren't for his father, he'd have wised up by now about the whole situation of confronting Potter. Though the reason for this stereotypical confrontation between the Slytherin and Gryffindor was decidedly different from once.
Malfoy was angry—it did stand to reason, Malfoy Sr. was his father despite this ill-tendencies toward one another—and Potter was anger—which, unfortunately, also stood to reason for Black had been quite the father figure for the boy—and this angry confrontation might be the best.
Otherwise they'll have to quell their anger over a whole, resolute summer, wherein they'll have the time to stew, swelter, fester, and draw it to a calm level that'll eventually become nothing more than the calm before the storm, which in turn will result nothing but destruction and injury.
Yes, yes, Albus might be against schoolchildren fights but he was still failing in realizing the repercussions of holding them off…
Propping his shoulder up against the wall, arms crossed stubbornly, he watched the scene with dull interest, only noting the occasional flare of wandless magic from the two males that'd neither realized. Shame, truly, that two strong boys should be controlled so easily by prejudice.
Lips pressing, slightly suppressing the urge to allow his lips to twitch because of Potter's sudden esteemed wit, he abruptly propelled forward as Malfoy drew to attack. Brat's gotten fast. Potter's hand was up quicker than one could blink, tempting upon that perilous edge to attack, and it was no longer a schoolboy fight.
Their reactions are typical, aside from Potter's underlying one. One that only Snape caught. The flair of it was undeniable to a sharply trained Slytherin Head but the boy clearly didn't care through his steaming anger about all that had just occurred.
Dismissing McGonagall's inquiring stare, one that was meant to clearly implore him to follow and discuss the two schoolboys obvious antagonism, he swept forth from the school and down in a fast-stalked after the Potter boy. The audacity to not care! The audacity to blame HIM for that damned Mutt's death. (He hadn't missed the boy's flash in the eyes.)
Students gave him a wide-birth, scared by his stalking tirade and his appearance outside, because Vampires can't go into the sun, but by time he caught up with Potter, the boy was storming the beach the Lake, intent on not being caught. Faltering in his own stalk, eyes pinned, the man hissed through gritted teeth.
Stupid, really. Chasing Potter down. The boy was too drowned in idiocy at the moment to see reason. Especially from him. He'd have to unfortunately do what he hadn't been willing to allow to occur with Malfoy and the boy.
It would just have to be. He could suffer it. He'd suffer a lot worse. The calm before the boy's storm would come when it came.
His declaration of suffering hadn't kept the Head of Slytherin from keeping a keen eye trained on the back of Potter. A strange boy he was, always plastered with smiles, looks, glances—he kept up good appearances—and he had all those about him coned to a lovely degree.
Slytherin. The thought was terribly disturbing to his essence. A Potter…Slytherin? Impossible. Detestable. But, clearly apparent. He was very, utterly, Slytherin…
"Slytherin, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor," the Sorting Hat chanted as Snape, bogged down in unbecoming intrigue, sought out an explanation for the situation. "Surely, Severus, you're not as foolish as to think that one child is meant for only one house."
"Students are in the House which is chief to their personality."
The Hat laughed. Literally laughed. A strange affair on the ragged piece of fabric. "Severus," if objects could wheeze and wipe watery eyes, the Hat would've. "Don't be foolish—I've taken you for a wise person, stably sound, logical…" a pointed tone to the word. "The Sorting Ceremony is nothing more than symbolic that has unfortunately been taken too far."
"So, Potter is Slytherin."
"He would've done extremely well, yes," the Hat conceded. "His attributes for Hufflepuff have even enhanced over the years too." Snape snorted this time. "Ravenclaw qualities will come more so in his later years, I do believe."
Snape had his skepticism about that.
Then, finally, he voiced a question that plagued not only his own mind, but the occasional thought of the wiser students (especially Hermione Granger), even the fair-minded Albus Dumbledore, and the Sorting Hat himself.
Why was there was a Sorting? Why were their Houses? Why, if there were so many repercussions to the Sorting, was it there?
The Hat made a 'hmm' noise for the briefest of moments. "Because," a grim response began. "Because it's expected. An expected tradition that will continue, forever, and all one can do is make it be realized that it doesn't mean anything—just gives you a tower or dungeon to reside in."
"Realize," he murmured quietly to himself. Somehow, with the generations that were arriving continuously at Hogwarts, that word created a sense of foreboding despair.
Without a word to the Hat, Snape swept forth from the room. Wading in his wake, blurrily, overrun by the man's emotions, the Hat cocked its tip to the side. "My, my, it is the strangest ones that take the keenest interests—or is it, realizations?" he chuckled, amusedly, to himself.
"Now you will receive us.
We do not ask for your poor, or your hungry.
We do not want your tired and sick.
Detangling himself from his position behind the desk, Snape rose quietly to his feet. Following the softly speaking voice, curious to who was speaking, to what exactly was being said, he found himself trekking into the corridor that was empty of students so late into the night.
It is your corrupt we claim.
It is your evil that will be sought by us.
With every breath, we shall hunt them down.
Each day we will spill their blood, 'til it rains down from the skies.
Potter. The was meandering down the corridors, hands crammed into his pockets, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, talking to himself. His head was bowed, his eyes were tired, and his body to seem to be physically slumped with a unseen burden resting on his shoulders.
The sight of him, so shocking, and his words, so surprising kept him from jumping the boy on the spot with a severe loss of house points.
Do not kill. Do not rape. Do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace.
These are not polite suggestions, these are codes of behavior, and those of you that ignore them will pay the dearest cost.
Noble words, coming from the mouth of their Savior.
There are varying degrees of evil. We urge you lesser forms of filth, not to push the bounds and cross over, in to true corruption, into our domain.
For if you do, one day you will look behind you and you will see we three, and on that day you will reap it.
And we will send you to whatever god you wish."
The declaration at the end was mind-numbing in its bluntness. Could Potter really kill? He said 'three'—did he mean to include Weasley and Granger into it all? Ridiculous question, didn't matter if he wanted them included or not—they would come no matter what.
Eventually, repetitively murmuring the speech of Boon Dock Saints (something Snape wasn't privy to), Potter reached the Astronomy Tower. Snape, so entrapped within the speech, hadn't realized where they were headed or even wandered to why Potter had been in the dungeons to begin with.
He'd been moping about a lot lately, anyway.
Upon reaching the brisk night air the murmuring died and Potter let himself be content with just leaning against the balcony. His face was creased into a strange look, shielded even in private, and a feeling of something uncomfortable formed in Snape's stomach.
Unbelievable. The boy was doing it. Actually doing it. He was cutting himself off. Being innately numb to the whole world. Drawing away, stunned as to why a Potter would foolishly do something like that, he left into the shadows.
Some things were better left alone—Potter in a state of depression was the last thing he ever wanted to deal with.
Yet, somewhere, deep within him, he knew that Potter was a Potter, and Potters never stayed depress for long, and that repetitive speech he chanted would be what he'd do in the end.
Potter was human, yes—that was obvious to him now.
Potter was the savior, yes—that was just an unfortunate consequence.
And from afar, Snape would help and watch the boy, for very few realized he was a human that was Slytherin.
Bad, I know, I lost my mood for it halfway through but ended to finish it.