First Story of The Senses Vignettes
By Alecto Perdita
Rating: PG
Posted: June 24, 2004
Revised: December 29, 2006
Warnings: Pre-slash, HP/SS
Email: alecto . perdita (at) gmail . com

Harry Potter is the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. All situations, opinions and characters not belonging to J.K. Rowling are the intellectual property of Alecto Perdita.

"Stop, please!"

It does stop. All the pain, the memories, the malicious laughter, and the sound of a thin veil fluttering madly in a non-existent wind... I collapse onto my knees as I feel your now-familiar presence withdrawing from my mind. I choke back that sob threatening to consume me whole. Memories still too raw and too painful... I curl my fists against the cold stone floors. How so very familiar I've become with these grounds as of recently...

"Get up, Potter." You snap angrily.

I refuse to move. My limbs are heavy with grief, despair, and failure.

It's too much to take.

Too much to handle.

Too much to absorb.

Make it stop. By Merlin, make it all stop. But it doesn't. It never will for the simple fact I'm Harry-bloody-Potter.

"Do not make me repeat myself!" A surprisingly strong hand grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. "You will get this right. And Potter, by Morgan, you will." Your hand tightens its grip on my forearm.

I finally bring my gaze up to meet yours. Snape (your name still brings forth feelings of hate in me to this day), your eyes- so dark, without the blackness found under the hood of Dementors... I turn my face to the side, towards the locked and warded door that holds me captive here.

Sirius! Oh, Sirius! The Dementors would take him... The Veil did... Lost to me forever...

"Control your emotions. Master them. Take them and mold them to your purpose."

Your voice's so hard. Why are you so devoid of any sympathies? Can a man truly be so without passion such as you?

Your other hand closes around my chin and guides my eyes back to your face. You are by no means handsome. Never. But your features are quite distinguished. I imagine that you have quite a standing in this world... Pureblood, powerful, possessing a lineage untarnished by "mud." What am I thinking?

"Are you listening, Potter?"

I rip my chin out of your grip. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."

It is a mantra I've clung to for six years now. I really do hate you. So much. So much. So much. From the bottom of my heart. From the deepest wells of my mind. For always making me feel like an ignorant child. I hate you so very much.

"You're projecting, boy." you tone is so flat- so disapproving. Who gave you the fucking right?

I dive for my wand on the floor, nearly tearing my arm off in your vice grip. I'm overcome with the need to humiliate you. I want to take revenge for all you've taken- stolen from me. It seems like so much now.


Your shields come up quicker and stronger than I expected. But this time, you're finally no match for the force of my emotions. I tear straight through the walls you erect and dive into a sea of memories. You can't stop me now. You simply can't.

Your mind is so much like mine. I reach for those memories. Boring. Trivial. Of no use to me. Not nearly incriminating enough.

A flash of red catches my mind's eyes. Is it blood? Perhaps your first kill? You must have killed in your time as a Death Eater. Maybe even recently? I grab it and hold onto it.

My mum's sad face.

Your anger.


Humiliated for having to ask for my mum's help to learn Occlumency.

The shock of seeing this memory stuns me for a few seconds, but it's more than enough to expel me from your mind. My knees hit the floor again.

My mum? It had never occurred to me you would have ever interacted with my mum. Why? Why couldn't you give me just this bit of peace? Why are you so invariably intertwined with my entire life?

I don't want you.

I do not need you.

"Why?" my voice is cracked by the sledgehammer of grief. "Why are you doing this to me if you had the same troubles?"

You take a few shaky steps toward me. Your shadow looms over me, quivering- whether it's from weakness or shock or something entirely different- I can't tell.

"I am not the Headmaster. I am not your mother. I am not so kind. I could never afford to."

"What were you doing with my mother?" I'm so desperate now for anything to cling onto. Just give me that much...please...

I think you understand my silent pleas. "Lily, she was teaching me meditation and how to clear my mind."

Her name sounds so bittersweet on your lips. Is that because you knew my mum in life? Did you ever come to respect her?

"Teach me."

You snarl. "I am doing just that. If you could only get this through that thick skull of yo-"

"No! Teach me meditation. Teach me what my mum taught you. Can't you give me at least that much?"

I never plead to you. Not aloud, at least. Merlin, I sound pathetic even to myself.

For a second, I think your expression softens. That's impossible though. Even if you have a heart, you couldn't afford to show it. Why would you ever show any kindness to me- the son of James Potter?

"That memory you just saw, it was the first civil conversation I ever had with your mother," you lower yourself to sit by me on the cold dungeon floors. "It was and still is the most lasting impression of your mother to me."

"Were you and my mum friends?"

"No," you reply almost too quickly. "I would not allow it. Your father would not allow it."

"I'm not my dad. I'm not James Potter." The words are quiet at first, but they gain both strength and conviction the second time.

You push back, pressing your hand into the floor by our thighs. You pull your knees up to your chest and lay your other arm over one knee. You look almost...youthful in that pose. Your voice- it stands out amidst the turmoil in my heart and mind. It always has. "No, you're Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and the bloody martyr of the free world."

"Not a martyr, hopefully." I mutter and glance at you out of the corner of my eyes.

After all, there is Prophecy. How appropriate that the word would seem capitalized to me. Do you know about it, the Prophecy?

You snort. It's the closest you have and ever will come to laughing outright. "Do you truly believe you can defeat the Dark Lord as you are?"

"No," a bit of resentment wells up within me. "If I'm to be a tool, I would be a dull one at best. Not nearly as sharp as you."

You look down at me again. The slight twitch at the corner of your face seemed to indicate your approval of my assessment of my own value and worth. "So you are not as naive as your father. Your mother was always more perceptive."

I swallow. "No one has ever called my dad that."

"James Potter was one of the most naive individuals I have had the displeasure of knowing. Most persons spoiled as children usually are. They have no concept of the world outside their own realm of understanding. They are sheltered and coddled to the point of ignorance."

"Am I naive?"

I don't know why I need to hear this from you. I hold my breath, waiting for your answer.

"You are foolish, reckless, tactless? You are many things, Potter, but naive? Never."

My chest tightens as the words spill from your thin lips, almost like an irate tirade. Yet your face is void of the usual malice, just an odd look of pensiveness is left over. I crave for the knowledge and insight you can bestow upon me.

I suddenly feel your fingers gently against my cheek. I shudder at the slightest caress. When did this moment become so intimate? You tenderly lay the palm flat on one cheek and then the other. You lift my face up, but not for me to meet you this time, but for you to examine me.

"You really do have your mother's eyes."

My breathing is erratic now. I've heard this sentence a million times before from others. I fight to calm my raging heartbeat. Why is it so different hearing it from you now? Your breath is almost over my lips, hovering there. It shouldn't make any difference. Why are you so close? Your opinions shouldn't matter to me.

You continue, "The same green. Some would say it is emerald. To me, it is the colour of death."

I fall back, away from you, as if stunned by some hex. You make no move to keep me still, to keep me by your side. The tears prickle at the corner of my eyes. My dad screams for my mum to run. My mum begs for my life. Everything fades into the green of the killing spell, Cedric's eyes stare lifelessly up at the gray open sky, and Sirius vanishes into the embrace of ghostly silk.


His death.

Her death.

My death.

I feel the bile rising to my throat. The small supper I ate just a few hours ago fights its way uphill. It burns. The tears I'm fighting back now burn. Everything burns. Like the fires of hell. This is my own personal hell. I feel sick now and I'm not sure if I'll ever get better.



I rise to my feet in an uongainly manner. I don't care if I'm stumbling around like some drunken buffoon. I need to get out of this room and away from you. I run to the door, never noticing you picking up his wand and unlocking the door for me. I grab the knob, twist, fling open the door, and it hits the wall with a great bang. The sound echoes down the darkened and empty corridors of Hogwarts' dungeons. I don't look back as I race toward my room in the towers, to hide in the place furthest away from you. All the while, your touches are still burning trails of insubstantial fire on my skin.

I never looked back to see that something pass over your usually impassive features.

This little drabble was inspired partly by a RP session I did for the wonderful AU Harry Potter RPG, Trousers of Time, on LiveJournal at www . livejournal . com / userinfo . bml?usertrousersoftime. You can read the original RP regarding Lily teaching Snape meditation at www . livejournal . com / community / vintagetrousers / 8002 . html.

Thanks ahead of time for all reviews!