snivellusss (snivellusss) wrote in unloading_zone, @ 2010-08-09 23:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | percy weasley, severus snape |
Who: Severus Snape and Percy Weasley
Where: Their bungalow
When: Tuesday midday
What: Housemates chat
Rating: TBA/low
Status: Incomplete
It had been weeks.
A month, actually. No. More than a month.
And it somehow felt as if it had been even longer.
The impact of the baggage did not lessen with time. Severus was beginning to realise that, if a bit belatedly and (more than a bit) begrudgingly. It did, however, become easier to handle. Some part of Severus wondered if that was not the point, intentionally or otherwise. To face the brute force of those memories and the emotions they dragged up in their wake and do his damn best not to crack beneath their weight.
Was that also the purpose of the memory he had been burdened with the night of the storm? Severus still could scarcely convince himself it had any validity whatsoever. No magic could, to his awareness, provide memories of one's own future. Even Seers could not predict for themselves. But Severus had not forgotten what he had been told by others in this place, either. Before the memory had surfaced in his mind, he had been informed of what he would do.
Ironic, really, because if the expectation was that he should feel some measure of remorse -- should be forced to bear some great emotional turmoil over what he had done -- that goal would never be accomplished. He had certainly fantasised about it often enough, killing the old man. He had never thought he would be capable of doing it, though. Dumbledore must have become weak in the years spanning Severus's last memory and the time of his death. Weak emotionally as well as magically, for Severus could still hear that voice -- Severus, please -- as if it had just been whispered in his ear a moment before. Pathetic.
But in his own memory, Severus had hesitated. A split second, to be sure, but what he had felt in that second had been more than the simple satisfaction of a debt finally repaid.
He preferred not to linger on that point.
Severus sat on his bed, a book propped open on his knees. It was growing easier to concentrate on his reading with his housemates in the room, he noticed. At first, it had seemed impossible. He could not summon the concentration to block out their noise and their movements; he was always acutely, distinctly aware of everything that they said and did. The words on the page never processed.
He could still sense the Weasley boy in the room, a presence on the periphery of his awareness, ginger hair out of the corner of his eye, but he took little note of him.