unbroken_halo (unbroken_halo) wrote in pornicators, @ 2005-05-27 21:54:00 |
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Original poster: snapesdarkling
Author: Darkling
Pairing: HP/SS
Rating: Mature for reference to sexual situations.
Age of youngest character: Harry [19]
Setting: After Graduation. The war continues.
Posted in:pornicators and snapesdarkling
"Harry's down!"
I hear the anguished scream and a hollow place deep inside me freezes. Down? Bollocks! We were fighting side-by-side moments ago. I quickly scan to my left and right through the searing acrid fumes of battle magic expecting to see next to me what I have become so accustomed to seeing these past long months of war - Harry Potter, my longtime battle partner, hunched over his broom, eyes squinting, scanning, mind alert, intense and focussed, wand clutched expertly, dark hair streaming behind him. Potter. Intuitively, annoyingly, always in the place I need him to be. Always anticipating the next battle manoeuvre. Almost reading my fucking mind. Working with me as if we were one being. As if he were part of me.
He's not there. I can't see him anywhere in the close group of warlocks flying in formation around me. I press my lips into a thin line of annoyance.
This is no time for jokes, Potter. One day your damn cockiness will get us both killed. Where the hell are you?
I scan the darkening horizon. Nothing. Voldemort's latest attack force has vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. I see those of our forces left uninjured moving urgently towards the fallen, administering healing potion with the same grim determination with which they had delivered hexes and curses only a few moments ago.
The haze is clearing now; I fly low to the ground scanning for any signs of him. I make out two cloaked forms lying just ahead. Black hair, red hair. Weasley on his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the darkening sky. My heart skips several beats as I approach the other slight cloaked form, a black bundle face down, sprawled untidily across the rough grass, wand clutched in its’ outstretched arm. He seems unmarked. He is not moving. I am off my broom and on my knees by his side before I realise I have moved.
Not breathing. Shit!I check for a heartbeat. Weak pulse. I turn him over and my eyes catch the glint of gold at his neck. A tangled chain, an engraved disk. I clear his airway and tilt back his head. Pressing my mouth over his, I start mouth-to-mouth.
So, is this to be our first kiss, Potter?
"RON! HARRY! Harry are you OK?" Hermione Granger. Hair strewn around her face, eyes wide with fear as she runs gasping up the hill to where Harry lies and cries out as she sees Weasley’s broken body, sees me breathing for Harry, urgently filling his lungs, mentally willing him to breathe, just breathe dammit! Twelve breaths, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty. My head starts to spin and I realize I am hyperventilating. Tendrils of brittle cold begin to spread from my gut into my throat and I feel the first faint stirrings of rising panic.
No. No. It doesn't end like this. Not like this. Nineteen. He’s only nineteen.
"Here, let me take over Professor", Granger moves into place on the other side of Harry and I let her resume resuscitation. I check his pulse. Still very weak. I check him over for any visible signs of injury. No blood or broken bones. A hex then? Unlikely. I would never admit this to him in a million years, but Potter is the most talented and arguably the most experienced warlock on the battlefield. I don't remember the last time a hex got through his defences. His skills in the air, already legendary on the Quidditch pitch, render him an almost impossible target. With lightening reflexes and sure co-ordination he is a truly deadly opponent as I have found to my own detriment, and to his obvious glee, during many a practice battle.
I again take over from Granger and furiously start inflating Potter's lungs, forcing air into his unresponsive body, bullying him into taking a breath for himself. Frigid, cold fingers of panic threaten to rise and completely engulf me. I hear mournful wailing and realize the sound is in my own head. I start to curse and plead at him now, between lungfuls.
“Get UP POTTER! You lazy, stupid shit!”
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
“Breathe! Fuck you, Potter BREATHE!”
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
“You useless coward, breathe NOW!”
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
“Breathe."
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
“Please... HARRY!"
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
“Harry...”
I’m almost choking on my own tears. They rain down onto his face, onto his lips as I offer him the gift of my life breath, urging him with all my strength, all my essence.
All he has to do is take it.
Breathe in for me. Breathe out for him.
Then, after what seems like eternity, a sound, a sweet symphony of tortured rasping. Coughing.
Breath. Life.
Granger's voice sounds thin and distant. I vaguely wonder why the stupid girl has moved so far away.
"Professor? You can stop now. He's breathing again, Professor. Are you alright?"
I look up at her and nod, unable to speak.
****
Part of me tries to calculate the hours the boy has spent in this bed. It should be named ‘The Harry Potter Perpetual Fuckup Recovery Centre’. He lies there, absolutely still, staring at the hospital ceiling.
“I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t block it”. The quiet agony in his voice pierces me. “I wasn’t quick enough. I just wasn’t quick enough.”
What can I say? That there is no one on this earth could have prevented that Death Curse reaching its target? Not even Dumbledore? That it is not his fault? That he nearly got himself killed as well? No. He deserves better than these clichéd platitudes. I decide silence is preferable.
“Ron.”
The devastating loss and grief in that one word strikes me hard in the guts. All I can do is reach out and take his hand, hoping that he knows he is not alone and that somehow that will help him to bear the unbearable.
I wonder who would have been there for me, had the one word been “Harry.”
I am still there when he wakes. Red-rimmed eyes search mine for an answer. I have none to give.
****
“You must eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“FINE.”
I rise from the bedside chair that I have occupied on and off for the past week and pick up the tray of cold, untouched food. I place the tray on an unused trolley.
I turn back to face Potter. He has hardly moved in days and seems unaware of the sounds and activity surrounding him in the ward. Lying on his side semi-foetal, eyes staring fixedly into space, he has spoken less than a dozen words since the attack that claimed Weasley’s life. Other than assistance with his basic bodily functions, he has spurned all attempts at touch.
I know what ails him. I have felt this – still feel this. During the night I wake, sweating and paralysed by it. Over the years, I have learned to endure it, if not live quietly with it. I have no name for the silent inner demon. I only know its cold touch deep within me, wrenching my guts, possessing my soul. Is it fear? Shame? Guilt? Dread? Terror? Anger? No, it is none of these. It is all of these. Call it grief, if you will. It seems a small word for such an overwhelming emotion. All I know is that it is enough to shatter the heart into cold fragments, enough to isolate and petrify, enough to destroy from within. I bear the scars of its effects for all to see. Snape. My name alone is enough to strike fear and disgust in to any who hear it. Snape. The Cold, Heartless Bastard, The Death Eater, The Relentless Bully. The Untouchable. The Intolerant. The Uncaring.
“You know, you are not proving anything by this, Potter.”
The man in the bed remains unmoved. I try again. “You are not the only one to lose someone in this war.” Hmm. Stating the bleeding obvious is not working either. The silence between us seems eternal.I search inside myself. Perhaps I could dust off a little tenderness? I say softly, “Ron would not want this, Harry.”
Ah.Green eyes move to meet mine and I am stunned at the ferocious anger I see there.
“What the HELL do you know about what Ron would want? When did you care? Hypocrite!”
He has a point. I really have not cared much about Weasley, save that he was important to Potter. It is a well-known secret that I abhor the Weasley clan – the whole red- haired and freckled mob of them. I am however, ruthless enough to use any means to get Harry out of this ennui. His reaction is a starting point. I press my advantage.
“Well of course I am a hypocrite Harry. Everyone knows that. At least I’m honest about it. I don’t believe in my own myth and have a messiah complex to boot.”
“Meaning…” his eyes narrowed, spiteful. He seems more interested in engaging seriously now. This is good.
“Meaning simply that you have an ego that is a world-beater. That if someone dies, it must surely be your entire fault because you weren’t there, and you couldn’t save him or her. Naturally, you are the one-and-only saviour for the rest of us and we have no option but to put our own feeble abilities to one side and bow to your omnipotence, while you rush around trying to put the world to rights and save us all single- handedly. I shudder to think what disasters would have befallen us all had you not been here to prevent them. Clearly, true evil, fate or individual choice, have no sway in your universe Harry. It is your duty to save the world and if you fail even once to prevent pain or death or sadness, then you may as well crawl away to die. Apparently, if you are the saviour of the world you are allowed much more self indulgence than we mere mortals who have to endure the reality that life equals death and that playing with the big boys means risk of annihilation and the fact that life continues cruelly afterwards, leaving those behind to carry on. But of course, I’m sure you already knew that.” I pause to see the effect of my monologue. I do not have to wait long.
“Is that what you really think? Is that how you see me?” he is sitting up and shouting now. I am strangely pleased.
“After all that has happened; after all that we have been through together. You don’t know ANYTHING about me – NOTHING! And I was deluded enough to think that you…" He takes a breath. "You pitiless FUCK!” He stops to take a couple more breaths.
“It’s not me who asked for this scar. It’s not me who wanted a bloody connection to Voldemort. It’s not me who wanted any of this!” He takes another shaky breath and continues, quieter now “Of ALL people, I thought YOU would understand.”
I blink at him, raising an eyebrow in feigned disinterest. “Really? And I would understand what, precisely?” He waits, thinking.
“You have brothers?”
Oh yes. I have brothers, Harry.
“Yes, I do.”
I’m sure you would love to meet my brothers, Harry. I had a very special relationship with them. Close, we were a really... close family – father, brothers, me.
“Ron was my friend, my first real friend. He was the brother I never had. He was supposed to be always there for me. He was not supposed to die for…” He choked and turned away.
“He was not supposed to die for you?” I finish. The silence goes on for a long time. His shoulders are shaking a little. I long to reach out and comfort him. I don’t. When he speaks his voice is strained. The bleakness of it scares me. “I don’t think I can go on. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I’m so alone.”
I snort. This really is becoming pathetic - even raw grief cannot justify such grandiosity.
“Have you ever been anything other than alone, Potter? Have any of us? It seems you are ready to ignore the many times you have been helped; that your very existence here in this castle is testament to the confidence and love that others bear for you.” I pause and adopt the classic Snape, ‘You are a Tiresome, Loathesome Brat’ expression. “However, self-pity has always been your strong point, Potter.”
His shoulders slump in defeat. His voice is so quiet, almost inaudible.
“That’s not very original, Snape.”
“Professor Snape if you please.” I chide, and then respond to his statement.“I know it is not an original observation, but your behaviour and attitude continually prompt its use.” He sits quietly for some time, head lowered. I let him be.
“I thought you despised the whole ‘Boy Who Lived and Who Will Save Us All’ thing. Why do you bother? Why do you care if I wallow in self-pity and despair?”
I pause before speaking. So many things I could say at this point.
The current situation reminds me of a conversation held long ago by a lakeside; of a boy bearing the mental and physical scars inflicted on him by a Muggle adult. I remember setting his punishment; showing him my own scars.
He had calmed down gradually after that, attending the evening detentions, handing me his journal each day and watching from his dorm window, the Quidditch matches he had been forbidden to play. He dutifully re-brewed the potions from the day's class and corrected mistakes he had made. After two weeks of this, his classwork improved noticeably.
I knew that he watched me when he thought I was not looking. I wondered at times what the looks meant but what with academic and military duties, I had more than enough to worry about without one doe-eyed young adult into the bargain.
I had charmed his journal to record the truth. One reading was all it took. It seemed the boy was infatuated with me; his dreams and waking thoughts often featured me in various situations but it was the sexual dreams that were the most intriguing . Not that there was anything abnormal about a young man his age having sexual dreams. It was, however, my recurrent appearances in these dreams as Potter's sexual partner that disturbed me. His journal contained page after page of nocturnal fantasies in graphic detail. I read them all.
His daily thoughts contained the usual post-adolescent angst and spurious rants with a smattering of self-pity. He hated being the Boy-Who-Lived; he didn't know why girls were so hard to understand; he worried about the size of his dick and whether it was normal. One page was covered with repeated scrawl that read, 'I love him.' The page after that contained a sketch of a male figure with long dark hair and an oversized hooknose watching a young dark haired man masturbate.
At first, Potter seemed resentful at having to hand over his deepest thoughts for my perusal, but as I did not once question him about them, he soon became used to the routine and ended up almost nonchalantly flipping the book onto my desk as he entered the room. I sometimes wondered if he had embellished the entries for my benefit; if he was trying to seduce me. I wondered if I wanted to be seduced by him. By that time it was too late - I already was.
The day after the end of his month of prescribed punishment, he arrived at my door at the usual time. We stared at one another and then I let him in. From that day to his graduation, he spent his evenings with me. When the castle sustained damage, he set up his sleeping mat next to mine on the great hall floor. After a battle, he always repaired his broom in the barracks. He repaired mine as well. During the early days of combat, he rarely smiled and when he did it was for me after I had done some insignificant thing for him. An extra bread roll or a hastily brewed pain relieving potion seemed a small price to pay for such a reward.
We continued to fight side-by-side, the demands of war making us equal, each committed to the safety of the other. He never once let me down. Until now.
I sigh and move to cup my hand under his chin, gently turning his face towards me. I look into those green, green eyes for what seems like years. I am aware that my thumb is stroking his cheek, that I am close to him and that his body is trembling. He does not move away from my hand. I subtly cast a silencing spell around us. I swallow and begin, carefully.
“Harry, you are right. I do not care one iota about the ‘Boy Who Lived’. I care very much about The Real Harry Potter, not the hysterical fantasy hero created by the masses. I care very much about how you see yourself and I wish that I could let you see through my eyes the man you have become. You are not the ‘Boy Who Lived’. You are the 'Man Who Lives, Stands and Fights for Survival’. You are altogether much more than the hype surrounding you, Harry. I despair when I see you buckle under the pressure of so many people’s hopes and fears.”
His eyes are brimming. I fear that I have not helped; have somehow increased his burden. There is silence while I try to find the right words. He gets there first.
“Why didn’t you just let me die, Snape?” I ignore the incomplete title. He is not being dramatic now. He really wants to know the reason why I did not just let him lie there and slip away from all this. I wonder if he is toying with me, fishing for the words behind what I have been saying. I draw breath and reply, afraid of what waits to be said and wanting so badly to say it.
“Harry, there is… we have… something. Something has grown between us during the past months and years, that I have learned to trust. I am not a romantic fool for saying that I think you have felt it, too."
He is sobbing, quietly.
I draw a deep breath. I am trembling. This is it.
“I did not let you die because I had not told you something important. I had not told you that ... I am in love with you. I want to be by your side, not tragically mourning the loss of you, forever regretting my fucking inability to open up and say this to you.”
He is absolutely still, tears streaming down his face. The sight is unbearable.
I stop now, slightly dizzy, wondering at my boldness and at the new light feeling in my chest. I reach up and brush a stray tendril of hair from his face.
“I see”. He takes my hand and gently kisses it. I feel the wetness of his tears.
“You know that I am an insufferable cold, hard, cruel, heartless bastard, don’t you Harry?”
He smiles. He just... smiles. It is a smile full of affection, warmth and acceptance. It lights up his entire face and takes my breath away. Some time passes before I am able to whisper, “Will you stay by my side, Harry?"
He is shaking visibly, now.
"Will you marry me?”
I find out several interesting things at this point.
One: time really can stand still.
Two: the heart can lodge itself in the throat.
Three: I can hold my breath - indefinitely.
These wonders are nothing compared to the fact that I am capable of feeling joy – pure joy. Which is odd, considering the words that caused the feeling were quite ordinary. Just:“God, Severus! You know I will. What took you so bloody long?!”
Our second kiss is nothing like the first.