Severus Snape is tired of the lies. (fortiscadere) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-08-07 20:26:00 |
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Apparating under his current stresses was not an easy thing and with an unfamiliar wand, Severus was not certain about attempting it. He hesitated in the woods, his back against a tree trunk as he tried to regroup. He pushed from his mind what had just happened at the Longbottom's house and focused on his body. The pain in his wand hand, and wand arm was intense and he looked down at the shredded fabric and splintered skin. It would take time to heal it, but beyond that, he had to get away from here soon enough to send word to the Inner Circle and before he went into shock from the injuries. "Focus, Severus," he muttered to himself, and he looked at the wand in his hand. "protego, incarcerous, aguamenti, avis," a string of spells one after the other, all with Frank's wand, and all a check to see whether or not the wand would perform adequately at all. Somewhere between his determination, and the wand itself, the magic held and he let out a shaky breath, pushing himself off of the tree. Options. He couldn't floo. He could try to accio a broom (if the Longbottoms had one) and attempt flying back to Cornwall, or he could Apparate. If the last, which would have been the obvious under any other scenario, he would no doubt need to do it in short distances. If he splinched himself - well, Severus couldn't heal that himself - but perhaps it would cover up the mess in his arm. Probably not. Flying in his condition (or really any condition with him) was probably equally dangerous. Apparation it would be, although it would take him six jumps to travel the distance he normally would have travelled in one. By the time he was in the field behind his and Agatha's home his entire shoulder and side was aching and he'd lost more blood than he felt was safe but thankfully being in the middle of the war meant he was mostly prepared. He pushed through the wards - carefully, as he was not doing it with his wand, and stared up at the brightly lit cottage but turned towards his workshop, pushing the doors open and locking them behind him. That done, he stripped off the shirt, and examined everything more carefully. The glass from the nearby window, the wood from his wand, there were pieces of both deeply embedded within his skin and even muscle and Severus winced at the look of it. He laid Frank's wand down on a table, and reached for a bottle of blood replenishing potion, removing the cork with his teeth and then drinking what would have been approximately a dose. After that he set about actually cleaning up his wounds. It was a painful and lengthy process removing the splinters, particularly with a wand that was not his own, and then using the basic healing spells Dolohov had taught him to actually patch things up. At the end, he had a clean arm, shoulder, and face, if not a perfectly healed one. The wood from his wand had been by far the worst. The pieces had been tiny, digging into his skin almost as if they could bury into his soul through it and when all was said and done Severus was uncertain he had gotten every single one out, but he could do no more. He took another sip of the blood replenisher, and then begin smoothing a paste over the shoulder, arms, neck, and face. The small shed was quiet - filled with potions, and cauldrons, and all of the tools of his work. It was almost too hot on that summer's evening, but it was in some ways less so than his room at Spinner's End had always been. Severus stood still, his shoulder and arms still aching from the impact of the shrapnel that had moved into his skin, and he didn't know how to move into the house. He had no idea how to go in and pretend to Agatha that everything was all right. When he closed his eyes, he could see Frank & Alice Longbottom's open fear-filled eyes, and the child had looked no larger than a doll, but far more real. And bones - washed white bones - there could be no life left. Pain removing potion. He removed that cork and took another sip - it would lessen the effect of the blood replenisher just slightly but hopefully not so much that it would be problematic. But even as the ache in his arm and shoulder begin to subside he realised there was no potion that could take away the memory of the Longbottom's deaths. Or the one following them. He had killed the Dark Lord. The man that had cost so many their lives was dead. Severus slid down against the edge of a table, his hands shaking with all the fear and anxiousness he should have felt while in the Longbottom's cottage and Frank's wand clattered discarded on the cobblestone floor. The strain of the last year was fracturing chinks in his emotional armour and things normally suppressed were suddenly impossible to ignore. Severus had killed the Dark Lord; He could have been killed himself. The Longbottoms had died - and his plan had not worked because they hadn't been meant to die - and there was no turning away from this now. He'd chosen a side and with the Dark Lord dead, Rodolphus Lestrange dead -- how long would it take to clean out the rest of the Inner Circle? His throat tightened, because there were men there he respected, even as there were men there he disliked. It didn't matter, and if he had to fight his best friend, he had to see it through to the bitter end. It wasn't about friendship or relationships any more - it was about the right of everyone in the Wizarding World to live freely and pursue their dreams - even those who were not of pure blood - and it was what he always should have been fighting for. And he might lose everything, but he had to take the risk. Severus realised that his cheeks were wet. His sobs couldn't have been held back even if he'd tried to listen to his father's voice in the back of his head that told him he was an emotional fool and real men did not cry. His shoulders shook, sending pain through the ripped skin and muscle, and his hands were wet with salt as the impact of what had happened this night poured over him. It wasn't over yet. It was closer - Severus knew it was closer to being won - but it wasn't won yet. And yet the sobs still came, harsh and raw in their demands. Five minutes maybe ten, and he felt a slight pressure against his legs and looked down to see Aislin Amalthea, the cat, pressing against the back of his calves as she threaded between his legs. Her presence only reminded him of Abe, and of Agnes, and of the fact that although it was over for Agnes, it wasn't over yet for him. All of the carefully built defences and armour had collapsed, and they would need to be rebuilt because there was still a war to be fought. But this part he wouldn't have to do alone - in fact this part might not even be his to fight. He drew in deep shaky breaths, trying to regain control over his emotions. In the end there was only so much he could pull together. His hands still trembled as he stood and put away the potions and bandages. His breath was shaky, but moved towards more calm as he continued putting things away. He glanced at the wand on the workbench. He would need a new one. Agatha would know it wasn't his, but she would also know that he'd been injured - there would be no hiding that. And if she asked, he'd ask her please not to ask. He'd ask her to give him some time. He'd ask her one more time to trust him without him giving her anything in return, but those days were soon to be over and he could tell her the truth. But not yet: Not yet. He reached for the robes and pulled out his journal, warding first to the Inner Circle, and then to Alastor Moody. His hands were still shaking and his emotions still raw, but emotion would not win the war. There was still work to be done. |