First Time for Everything Fest: FIC: Penumbra Title: Penumbra Author:faieance Rating: PG Word count: ~2,500 Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Character death, dubious science* Summary: So much time, and yet not enough to say anything. A/N: Snarry. In spaaaace! Thanks to arjd for the beta, and to the mods for their patience.
Penumbra
The first time they met had no date or time, but it was a trillion years before inertia; that was all he knew. They drifted through infinite space. Photons trailed away from them like lost children, prodigal sons. Perhaps their particles eventually collided together, millions of light-years away, but if they did, neither of them knew.
Hello.
He felt the signal, and debated whether he should answer.
Hello.
No response.
Hello.
And this time the signal was fainter. It was moving farther away.
Hello ….
He sent back a dim flash, just to see what would happen.
It gave off a brilliant flare when it encountered his message, so bright and hot that he had to look away. It began to spin in joyous circles, across and across the slice of space he could detect. There was nothing to block the light it was emitting. No shadow.
Who are you?
He did not answer. It had been a long time since he had thought about himself; a long time since he had thought about anything at all.
Hello …?
It seemed disappointed, but not especially bothered. Instead, it settled down, and hovered near him restlessly.
He didn't care either way.
Time went on, and slowly his lights began to fizzle out. He could sense it, parts of him losing energy, then flickering, then going dark. He did not mind; there was no sense in fretting over it. It would happen eventually—he knew it to the exact second—whether or not he wished it to.
He had long since learned in his … former … life? Not to fruitlessly rage against things he could not change. There was no use in it, no value. Nothing he could do. So he'd soon learnt to keep his mouth shut and his head down, and accept it in silence.
Or perhaps he hadn't. It was hard to remember.
What are you doing?
What was he doing? Nothing, of course. Ridiculous.
Well, not quite nothing.
Remembering, was his response.
Why?
None of your concern.
It had been a long time since he had tried to remember anything. The sheer futility of this act overwhelmed him so, that he soon stopped trying. Many of his memories had gone, anyway, decayed with his neglect. He wondered where they were.
Where do vanished memories go?
He had not meant to say that out loud.
I … I don't know, it—he—whatever it was—responded, nonplussed. It was the first thing he had said in quite a while. I've never really thought about it.
Just his luck. He'd been surrounded by imbeciles in his former life, and it seemed that they had followed him into his second. Though here he was, engaging with it, of his own free will.
What was it?
Maybe they're still out there, it said, trying to sound hopeful.
Like his photons, scattering away.
Perhaps.
He wondered if his companion still remembered, and yet, somehow, he could not ask.
Do you … and that was all he could say. Pathetic, really. He'd traveled across space and cosmos, and yet he couldn't—
Yes, came the response. I can remember a lot of stuff—almost everything. Though most of it's gone, now, of course.
But undoubtedly, he remembered more than Severus did.
Show me one.
Hm. Wait—I ….
A faint memory.
A young boy lay down in a patch of grass, stroking a kitten. The kitten had black fur, with white markings on its face. Then he pulled on the kitten's tail. The kitten scratched him, hissing, the same noise a pork scratching made when dropped in a vat of oil. The boy reared up, a cut on his cheek, and the scene faded to black.
What happened to the—animal?
The kitten had black fur, with white markings on its face.
It was fine. It ran away.
The memory felt oddly familiar, like a scene from a film he'd watched long ago but long since forgotten. He replayed it again in his mind—the young boy, the rhythmic strokes, the kitten. There had been no one else there.
Who are you?
Perhaps Severus had known him before. It was, of course—he hastened to add—inordinately unlikely. The chances of that were miniscule. No chance at all.
Well. My name is Harry James Potter. I was born on July 31, 1980, in Godric's Hollow. My best friends were Ron and Hermione ….
His message trailed off, leaving nothing behind.
The name was familiar, conjuring up a deep sea of faded antipathy.
Who are you?
A pause, lasting centuries.
Then:
00000024. That was his number. His official identification.
Then:
Severus Snape.
Oh. Potter was wary, he could tell. There had been history between them, though where it was now, he didn't know. Gone, he supposed. Eroded away. Like his memories.
They drifted out between burnt-out stars.
My number's 00000041, Harry offered up helpfully.
There were supposed to be a million of them. Countless numbers, living for nearly an eternity. Man's last legacy. That was what all the additional zeroes had been for—they filled up space that, in the end, had never been taken.
Less than fifty of them, in total. Severus wondered where they all were.
How far have you traveled?
I …. Not sure, Harry offered up sheepishly. The numbers were too large. They wouldn't calculate.
Did you meet anyone else?
Most of his memories had long since blown away, but he still had some scraps of them left. He clung onto them with almost religious devotion, but without the fervor. He cycled them through his mind every once in a while or so, trying to remember, trying not to forget. A rote sacrifice done to a god that he no longer believed in.
No.
That was a good thing, Severus reasoned. He didn't like having his solitude disturbed. Everything had been so much better before, when he had been drifting all alone, in blessed, peaceful quiet.
Nothing, then, Severus said, letting his disapproval show.
No. Then: I'll leave. To see if there's anyone else, he said sulkily.
Don't bother, Severus said.
Why not?
You won't find anyone else.
Even the fact that Harry had found him was almost inconceivable. The chances …. Too small to calculate, too small to think about.
I can try.
That's idiotic. He didn't know why he was so angry, or why he even cared. It was Potter's existence, after all, to squander as he wished.
But Harry did not listen; he never had. And soon enough, he had disappeared, leaving only a trail of light behind in his wake.
—
After he left, the time seemed to drag on. Severus's mind continually hummed, as if it were probing over each and every one of the tiny grains in his hourglass as they drained away his time. Nine hundred eighty-two billion, four hundred twenty-five million, seven hundred seventeen thousand years, fifty-three days, two hours, eleven minutes, and thirteen seconds before inertia.
Nine hundred eighty-two billion, four hundred twenty-five million, seven hundred seventeen thousand years, fifty-three days, two hours, eleven minutes, and twelve seconds before inertia.
It was maddening.
Severus could hardly believe it when Harry came back, quite a bit dimmer but nonetheless here. Harry zipped around him in a tight circle, before coming to a stop and hovering before him.
Hullo, Snape, he said cheerfully.
Kitten, Severus replied, rather incongruously.
Kitten? Harry asked, then: Oh. Right. That kitten. It's dead now, I suppose.
Of course, Severus replied sharply. It had died long ago. He knew that.
And Harry sent him a vision of the sun swelling like it was being inflated, like a rotting corpse in the heat, turning scarlet. It turned the Earth red and sweltering, swallowed it up like a ravenous leviathan—
Stop, Severus said. The kitten burst into flame, then shuddered into a pile of ashes.
The memory stopped.
Did you see that happen?
Yeah, came the response. Of course, that was a long time ago.
It was precisely a hundred billion years before inertia; Severus felt the second strike. And then, the moment passed, the second juddered on, time crept grudgingly by. Ninety-nine billion, nine hundred ninety-nine million …. It was a number almost too large to contemplate.
How long do you have? Severus asked.
How long …?
You know what I'm talking about. Before inertia.
That had been the name they had called it. Inertia, noun. A property that continued on only in its existing state of being, until it was acted on by an outside force. Somehow he'd managed to remember that, all while his other memories—his life before, his self—had dissipated away.
Harry's light—the outside force that acted on the world around it, emanating, blinding in its brightness, its beauty—
I'm not sure, Harry hedged. I mean, I traveled a lot, so I probably don't have as much time left as you ….
Just tell me, Severus said faintly.
Around … two hundred thousand years?
Two hundred thousand years. Man had crawled out of their caves, traded stone for iron. Fire had been struck for the first time, and then had blown out. It was far longer than they should have lived, far longer than what was normal, what was decent.
I'm not going to go off again, Harry said.
Severus tried to shrug in practiced disdain, before remembering that he couldn't. Do as you wish, he said instead. It does not concern me.
The light coming from Harry was very dim, and Severus wondered, gazing at him, if it would go out. It flickered, but then remained steady.
Good, then, Harry said cheerfully.
Severus did not like his cheerfulness. He settled into a kind of practiced sulk, like he had been doing for the past few hundred billion years. It was familiar to him. Comfortable.
What are you doing? Harry asked, for the second time.
And again, the response was the same as before. Remembering.
No—Yes, Severus replied. Then: What happened to it?
I … I don't know. It went away, I guess. Or I forgot ….
You don't remember, Severus said gratingly. He forced out the words like a greedy boy reluctantly letting go of a present he deeply coveted. You do not—you've forgotten, you—
No, Harry protested. I might. I might remember—and besides, there's other things— Harry sent him an image of a fountain, merrily tinkling away in clear spring air. Then a bird—blurred with time, its colors smudged, but still recognizably avian—ducked into the air, spun around, flew away with a rodent tightly clutched in its claws. The kitten flicked its tail in the air, and purred.
The kitten had black fur, with white markings on its face.
Another picture. Harry was at a school—Hogwarts, Severus finally remembered—surrounded by a horde of laughing sycophants. Another—a red-haired woman laughed, tossing her head back in the air. A girl flipped aimlessly through a book. A boy ruined his potion, yet again, and a tall, ugly man—him?—sneered, frustrated.
Snippets. The warm taste of chocolate. Joy when a flash of hair that did not belong to Severus caught Harry Potter's eye. Quidditch, and flying.
Severus pulled away, stung and jealous.
No, wait, Harry said. I wasn't done.
Continue, Severus said, juddering in a strange, unfocused beat. What did you see?
The vastness of space, the utter blackness, the glimmer of Severus's light disappearing over the horizon.
I … apologize, Harry said. That I left, I mean.
Don't be, Severus said brusquely. It doesn't matter.
Harry sent him more pictures, wordlessly, without Severus needing to ask. The smell of autumn leaves. The tingle of blood in extremities gone white with cold. A blurred outline of telephone towers, a scribble of graphite against the sky.
Show me something else, Severus said, trying to sound commanding.
An old woman, as soft and comfortable as bread dough, turned a pumpkin into a carriage using magic Severus had never heard of before. A stupid girl ate a poisoned apple and died, but only temporarily, until her prince came to save her. A bird swooped down and plucked out an eye, ate it like a ripe berry, and the cruel stepsister was left blind.
It was a selfish thing to do, a cruel thing. It would be better for both of them if Harry went away, wandering far off to burn out alone. He was a thief, sapping away his energy, bringing both of them closer and closer to what was inevitable.
But Severus had never been kind, especially not to him.
Continue, Severus said.
More images, smells, sounds, sensation, what seemed like an infinite stream of them. They blended into each other like watercolor paints, but they only grew clearer, transparent.
Severus drifted silently, like he had been doing for the past trillion or so years, too tired to do anything more.
That's all, Harry said, a touch resentfully. His voice was very faint. Severus felt a prickle of guilt, before stuffing it away to deal with later. After.
He hadn't forced Potter to do anything. And it was only fair. He'd forgotten so much.
He hurt a little, a small, dark little ache that huddled up and wanted to be left alone. It felt like the dregs of a migraine, or like the burn of tears long-suppressed.
He wondered if that was how love felt.
The lights flickered.
What …?
It's not long now, Harry said cheerfully.
You're happy about this?
I don't know, came the response. Maybe I don't really care.
Severus bristled. You should. Don't you understand? You're going to—not die, really; there was nothing about them that was living—not exist. Gone.
Like he had never existed.
No, Harry replied dully. I'm sorry.
No. No. Severus did not know if he was repeating what Harry had just said, or saying something new. You should have told me. I would have stopped.
He would have.
He didn't know.
Another flicker, lasting longer this time.
How much longer?
Thirty seconds.
Why didn't you tell me? Severus hated how petulant he sounded, hated himself.
Silence. And Severus had too much pride to ask again.
They drifted. Severus felt full with everything Harry had shown him, swollen, like he would split open and spill blood all over him. Taint. Contaminate.
Ten, Harry said, his lights flickering and wavering all the while, like he was trying to send a Morse-code message.
Would anyone see it?
Was anyone there?
Nine eight seven sixfivefourthreetwo—!
The lights flickered out, leaving cold and darkness where there had been—something—there before. Severus knew this had to be true. Something missing, something gone.