Sectumsempra
It is a quiet night. One of the precious few I have these days. It is quite irritating, how war can take up so much of one's private time. Tonight of all nights I am rather pleased with the fact that very few of my… colleagues know of my humble place of residence. It is rather amusing a notion, actually, that should I ever be as bold and highly pain-resilient as to persistently ignore the Dark Lord's traditional form of summons, the greatest Legilimens of our age would have trouble finding me. Unless Lestrange went on a gossiping rampage about "that horrible little shack in a Muggle backwater, our poor dear Severus, but then, what else could he afford on a teacher's salary, haha". Yes, that would be so like her, telling inconsequential gibberish to anyone who would listen, or rather, be either unable to run away or too apprehensive to hex her. Even Azkaban failed to curb her tongue.
I amuse myself for a few moments with the imagery of Bellatrix screaming insults at the Dementors. She never tired of praising herself and her undying loyalty to heaven, however inappropriate the metaphor appears in the context. But how much could she have really endured in Azkaban? What bad memories could she have? She seemed to have always been enjoying herself so thoroughly at her… job, that it would make some older Death Eaters a touch uneasy. Let alone the youngster I used to be then. I was far from being frightened by her, not least emboldened with the knowledge that I could probably beat her should we ever duel, yet… watching her made my skin crawl, in a highly unpleasant way. That was back in the old times. These days, whenever I find myself in her presence, I simply perform an exercise, hardly necessary anymore, in self-restraint by resisting the urge to Scourgify myself.
I have often questioned my seemingly unjustified attitude for the woman, being almost surprised with the repugnance she always seemed to inspire in me. The conclusion I have arrived at was unexpected, to say the least. It would seem that the main reason for my, mildly put, dislike of Bella was her, mildly put, complete lack of moral fiber. Quite a statement to make of a Death Eater, by a Death Eater. And yet… Everyone, well, mostly everyone had some thing about them, some splinter in the long-forgotten heart and soul. With enough leverage applied to it, sooner or later, they would bleed. My theory was reinforced by the knowledge of Rudolphus Lestrange perishing in Azkaban long before his widow and other public-spirited inmates enacted their daring escape. Rodolphus, who had always seemed impenetrable, at times more so than Lucius, did not survive the torment by his own mind, the most ingenious torturer imaginable, while Bella emerged, appearing unscathed. It is all in the mind.
If that is indeed so, how long would I last in Azkaban? I find myself wondering. A week? A month? How long would I resist insanity through sheer arrogance, before even that would be taken away from me? The system is flawed. It relies on the assumption that everyone has a multilayered core of guilt in their soul, and the gradual stripping of every layer will eventually drive anyone, anyone insane with the weight of their deeds pressing on them, day and night. Yet not all of us seem to have that core. And who knows whether at the root of the inexplicable revulsion at such people lies simple envy, the wish to be able to have it so easy as well.
Lost in thought, I fail to notice the small cauldron in front of me boiling over until the table is semi-covered in the would-be-potion, now resembling the gunk often found in the crucibles that students had the nerve to submit as work results.
Evanesco, I grumble and leave the study, closing the door to prevent the still-lingering fumes from penetrating the rest of the house. I do not intend to start over, working on wasted effort being against my principles, however interesting my experiment was and however useful the result could have been. Were it not for my uncalled-for introspection on the nature of morality, I could have brought forth the little fancy of mine I had been contemplating for weeks, never finding the time to do it between the hardly pleasant duties and far less pleasant forced social intercourse.
An enhanced version of the Dreamless Sleep potion, subtle alterations serving to remove the slight addiction side-effect, and ingenious, even if I say so myself, manipulation of ingredients to create perfect correlation between the dosage and the length of rest. Were I successful tonight, I could have quite easily ended up with a sleeping potion so accurate that its effect could be timed by minutes.
It is past midnight, yet I feel not at all tired, many years of near-nocturnal existence paying off. I silently muse whether any of the faculty ever wondered why I was so adamant about Potions, and in the last year, Defense Against the Dark Arts, usually being among the last classes of the day. Quite possibly they would never have ascribe night-owlishness a place among my flaws, and attributed my frequent absences at breakfast to general avoidance of the noisy event it usually is, owl post and all. No one would dare entertain the notion of their Potions Master oversleeping.
I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the window and notice it sporting a little smug smirk. It fades rather quickly, though, as more thoughts creep into my mind.
Ex-Potions Master. Ex-Head of Slytherin.
Just two more 'ex' particles to add to my eternally growing collection of titles abandoned. Ex-Death Eater. Ex-spy. Ex-friend. Ex-traitor. Or can you ever stop being one?
Nevertheless, I would be always willing to accept some of more 'ex's in exchange for a few of the old and dusty 'never's. There is much less of those. From a logical perspective, it would suggest that my life had been full of various experiences, very little left beyond my grasp. That, I suppose, is one way to put it.
My eyes fall on the window again. One would have thought I should have learned to put out the light whenever I am visited with the wish to look at the darkness outside. Otherwise, all the glass shows is what lies within.
I reach for my wand and point it at the nearest torch when a movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. However mirror-like the window may be at this time, there is no doubt about whatever is out there not being my imagination.
Hesitating momentarily, I refrain from extinguishing the torch. True, remaining in the dark would give me a tactical advantage over the intruder – and an intruder it is, for the last thing I would expect of my colleagues would be dropping by for a cup of tea, for the sheer belief in their self-preservation instincts if anything.
However, choosing to use the advantage would mean combating the impertinent trespasser on his terms, therefore accepting the challenge. Thank you very much. In my house, I do things on my own terms.
I walk to the hearth, leaning to the mantelpiece leisurely, posture evidently relaxed, wand held loosely at my side. Nothing encourages foolishness like seeing it taken seriously, and vice versa. And the very fact of foolishness is confirmed by the fact that my late guest allowed me to notice him. Hmm. It would not be a female, would it now? The last thing I would want right now is having the questionable pleasure of another emotional therapy session with Narcissa or whoever else she could have recommended me to as someone to turn to in times of emotional turmoil. I failed to catch the moment when any of my occupations suddenly entailed counseling.
'Bombardo!' a familiar voice sounds from the other side of the door. I cannot suppress a sigh. Suddenly an evening with Narcissa sounds almost attractive.
'Alohomora would have worked just fine, Mr. Potter,' I remark, shaking a few pieces of wood from my robes.
'Then again, your signature lack of subtlety has long ceased to amaze.'
The boy stares at me with the furious expression I have almost come to forget after, what, somewhat under a year? Has it been that long? No wonder I seemed to regain some peace of mind, if the phrase can be even remotely applied to my life. Somehow, having Potter out of the picture, despite my full awareness of the fact that he could never be out of it completely, even if he wished, made it rather easier to do my duty… for both sides. I did not know how many of my anonymous owls the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix believed, and I would not dare sabotage enough missions to let anyone perceive even a hint of a trend, yet… Yes, I owed them nothing. Everyone I had ever owed anything to is dead, my last duty fulfilled "what, somewhat under a year" ago, put so delicately to lull myself into thinking I would ever be able to forget that night.
And very definitely and absolutely uncompromisingly, I owe nothing to the boy pointing the wand at me right now.
'There's time and place for subtlety, and this isn't it!' he declares, doubtlessly insulted by my attitude.
'Really,' I suppress a yawn, watching him with a bored expression, while trying to work out some form of strategy for this conversation. I need not pretend that I was not expecting this meeting. However, after all this time I would have expected his vengeful righteousness to cool down somewhat, at least to the level of reasonable doubt. Reasonable, Severus? You gambled your plan for this meeting and what is to follow it on Potter being reasonable? You have either taken leave of your senses or gave him too much credit, or rather both, as the latter would only be possible given the former. Or have you simply refused to plan for this meeting, refused to think about it, hoping to improvise? Then again, any plan would have to rely on some of the boy's more predictable traits. Fortunately, those are aplenty. I observe the boy, waiting for him to make the first move and prove me right.
He does that very quickly by attempting a non-verbal so crude I can almost see "Impedimenta" written over his face in large letters.
Expelliarmus, I think calmly, barely flicking my wand in his direction, and watching his fly through the air as he is thrown back on the floor.
'Pathetic,' I remark, approaching him at a speed that gives him enough time to either crawl back or stand up just for me to hold at wandpoint. Unsurprisingly, he does the latter. He is clearly not afraid, mainly for the anger, which is easier to work with than either pure fear or pure pride. With the right leverage, anger can be channeled appropriately, and the sheer fact that I have never done that regarding Potter indicates only my unwillingness to deign him worthy of manipulation.
'Now was there something you wanted to say?' I inquire calmly, reluctantly forced to admit that, in a way, I find the challenge oddly enjoyable. There is something deeply satisfying about pulling the right strings and watching someone move in the precise direction you have chosen for them, while nurturing the proud belief of making their own choices. As expected, anger flares right up, this time tinged with heroism around the edges.
'Yes! I don't care if you kill me now-'
'Hmm?' I cannot suppress a smirk. Does he not care because he is willing to make a pointless sacrifice to his own vanity, being killed in an attempt to have revenge, irresponsibly abandoning the war for a personal cause? Or does he simply think that I would not kill him right here and now, which would be a grave misconception, given his mostly justified mental image of me as a murdering traitor.
'Except that you wouldn't anyway, because you'd rather deliver me to your master.'
It turns out he has an even greater misconception than I had thought, then, expecting me to take a risk for the reason of personal gain by delivering him to the Dark Lord and earning favor for myself instead of simply dispatching him now, risking to suffer displeasure yet guaranteeing the war's outcome. Not only a murdering traitor, then, but a vain and stupid murdering traitor. Sheer impertinence.
'What this comes down to, then, is that the brave hero comes to accuse the cowardly villain, maintaining a firm belief in the fact that the latter will not kill him on sight for the sake of allowing him to deliver the classical speech titled "the world shall tolerate your wickedness no longer". All that, rather than doing what must be done and being prepared to accept the consequences. Heroic, indeed.'
The boy is silent, almost appearing to consider the point of view presented. Being given the chance to observe your actions from the side is not entirely pleasant, is it, Potter? Giving him a minute to dwell on that, I continue.
'Silence is good. It almost makes me believe you have learned something. Now, let us get this over with. You have come to kill me, no doubt. Well then…'
I Levitate the boy's wand back into his hands and take a step back, my own wand lowered.
'Go ahead.'
The boy stands still, eyeing me, then lowers his wand with a barely audible sigh.
All too predictable… Had you changed at all, I would be dead seconds ago, or quite possibly before I knew what hit me. Yet exacting vengeance, as the majority of the heroic deeds, requires the opponent to know what he is paying for. The difference between heroes and villains is immaterial, really. Both categories are hopelessly dramatic.
'Just as I thought. You would rather talk than act.'
As obvious as his feint is, given his complete ineptitude of non-verbals, I need an effort, if minimum, to remain completely still with a wand pointing at my face. Certain events in my life have made me rather… allergic to being at the receiving end of curses of people I… dislike.
'Very well,' I sigh, 'it is obvious that we shall have to do this… your way.'
'As opposed to your way, killing people in silence?' he snaps at me, the disdain of my last two words hitting the mark carefully outlined by my earlier words.
'You obviously give me too much credit, Potter. As you may recall, I have no yet mastered the Killing Curse in an inverbal form.'
His face is immediately distorted with such pure hatred, I feel tempted to take a step back. Almost. A wand slashes through the air before I can react. Almost.
Sectumsempra!
The rebound from my non-verbal Shield must present the boy with a lesson on casting attack spells in enclosed spaces. He barely manages to dodge the spell, which, according to my estimation, even rebounded, would be enough to gash his left shoulder open. I appreciate his agility for saving me the trouble of having to heal him, lest the blood loss dilutes his judgment capacity.
'How many times do I have to TELL you, Potter? Using MY spells will do you no good. It is still as true as on the day you have entered Hogwarts. You believe you can afford to not pay attention.'
'While you believe that you can afford to treat me as if I was still a student of yours, Snape! Stupefy!'
I feel an urge to immobilize him to cease this tedious Shielding business. I am saved the trouble again, as he dodges the rebound less elegantly this time, failing to notice a chair behind himself.
'As long as you act as one, I can afford anything, Potter,' I reply, approaching the boy, wand raised. This time, by the time I reach him, Potter is trying to scramble to his feet, groping around for his wand. I assist him by kicking it aside and pressing the point of my own wand just below his chin.
'How else do you expect me to treat you? Always the childish petty ambitions, arrogance, cheek, and not a shred of behavior worthy of a grown man'.
My glare at the end of the sentence makes him flinch slightly, as if the very words are a curse.
I take a step back and observe him with unveiled despise before lowering the wand.
'You want to fight me. Then fight like a man, acting on thought, and not your pathetic impulses!'
The boy remains silent, holding my gaze before looking away. I shake my head ever so slightly. Who would have thought that this case would be so completely, utterly hopeless. A part of me, and not an inconsequential part, advocates giving up on the boy. There is nothing I can possibly tell him that he will hear, blinded by his own self-proclaimed righteousness. I should have known better. Nevertheless, I continue, it not being in my nature to waste my work.
'But you have not given it much thought, have you, Potter? You are… hurt, and the most natural thing to do is to lash out on the one you believe to have caused you the pain.'
And this is so true. You of all people know.
'Ever tried to work it out, Potter? Remember the time when we met last? Did not anything strike you as odd when you were crouching in the corner under your precious Cloak?'
Potter gasps, faint traces of thought that were just beginning to form on his face, gone immediately. For a moment, I wonder whether I may have overdone it a little. The boy's voice comes out almost a growl.
'How-'
'…dare I accuse you of being a coward?' I supplement helpfully. He is glaring at me with the same genuine, undiluted hatred as a short while ago.
'Or do I even? Maybe it is just your guilty imagination?'
At that moment, Potter lunges forward, catching me off-guard. I lean aside just in time, but not fast enough. His fist barely brushes my cheekbone as the blow aimed for my face misses and he staggers forward past me, almost losing his balance. The brief contact is more than enough, however.
My reaction is one of a complex nature, an infernal mix of emotions: surprise, fury, hint of humiliation, and even more fury spurred by it. Having taken a step back to keep my balance, I almost raise my wand. There is nothing, nothing in this world that I want more right now than to shower the insolent brat with every forgivable curse I know and possibly finish up with one particularly attractive Unforgivable. To leave him writhing on the floor in agony, to finally collect the long overdue revenge for… everything he had done. For everything he is. To revel in his helplessness, and…
A realization strikes me so hard I am almost fooled into thinking that Potter had picked up his wand and Stunned me. No, he is eyeing me, seeming almost frightened with what he had done, justly expecting swift retribution.
I lower the wand. I will not do anything to him. Because no matter how sweet revenge would seem, the aftertaste would be unbearable. Because I already know one person who would torment people for what they were and revel in their helplessness.
Besides, my thoughts helpfully guide me into a safer venue, was it not I who was lecturing on rational thought and pathetic impulses just a few minutes ago? Of all names Potter may want to call me in his mind, I would not give him the satisfaction of adding 'hypocrite' to the list.
Suppressing an instinct to wipe the place where his fist grazed my skin, I speak, weighing every word as ounces of the precious Acromantula venom.
'Have you worked it out of your system, Potter?'
Potter is staring at me as if I had suddenly addressed him in Parseltongue. He obviously expected something… different.
'Now finally do yourself a favor and think ONE sentence through before blurting the words out. One at a time. It may seem an alien concept, but thinking before speaking does help sometimes.'
The boy is silent for a few seconds. An improvement, it seems, because he genuinely appears to think.
'I have seen everything with my own eyes,' he speaks, obviously fighting back emotion. The odds are, of course, not in his favor.
'You murdered Dumbledore,' he finally says, his voice trembling with… Hate? Anger? Well-concealed grief?
Grief. Well-concealed, yes, but not well enough. Not for me. I need no Legilimency to read him. I stare him squarely in the eye. Pain. Writhing, unbearable pain of losing one of the precious few cornerstones in the never too stable foundation of life. Who would have thought… Who would have thought that he was capable of such feelings... ones that match my own so dangerously closely.
'Yes,' I answer, keeping my voice level.
'You betrayed him,' he continues, barely audible. I was expecting him to shout this in my face.
Last chance to reestablish yourself as the villain he had always perceived you to be. In a way, it would be even a kind of mercy. Do you think he can handle the truth? Let him keep hating you. Despise you for being a Death Eater. Or… try him and see whether Dumbledore's trust in him was not ill-placed?
'No.'
His head shoots up from staring at the floor, from reliving the events of that night. Silence. Then…
'I don't understand.'
I silently thank him. For breaking the silence, for giving me another perfectly legitimate excuse to berate him.
'You don't, do you, Potter? I would not expect you to. Not you, who is always right'.
I stare at him, not bothering to conceal the hatred in my eyes. Not that I ever did. He meets my gaze. As usual. But not quite… Less arrogance. Unbelievable, but true. Looking not to stare me down, but almost trying to understand. Giving me the benefit of doubt. Him? No!
I turn and take two steps towards the window. Congratulations, Potter. For the first time in six years, you have beaten me in a staring match.
'I still don't understand,' I hear a low mutter from behind.
I take a slow deep breath in a way that does not show. Control yourself. You could do it in front of the Dark Lord. You can do it in front of Potter.
'Never learned much about research, have you, Potter?' I ask almost casually. The boy flares up immediately, predictably so.
'What does this have to do with anything?'
'Typical,' I remark just loud enough for him to hear, then turn to face him again.
'Had you known anything about research, the true nature of it, you would have remembered that… You do not assume a hypothesis and discard every single shred of evidence against it. You consider all sides of it, you THINK, you ANALYZE, you TRY to unearth the TRUTH, and not what YOU believe it to be because you have SEEN it with your own EYES!'
The eyes in question are directly in front of mine now. I cannot even remember moving across the room. Steeling what remains of my heart against the piercing green, I speak quietly this time.
'You have three options, Potter. One,' I lift my finger and his gaze switches to it, thankfully.
'You pick up your wand again, and we continue this, for lack of a better word, duel. Two,' another finger extended, 'you pick up your wand, turn on your heel, walk out that door' (I point. He does not look.) 'and close it very quietly behind you. Three, you keep your righteous anger to yourself for some time, and do something you had consistently failed at for six years – listen. Decide already.
My manipulation is so hopelessly obvious at this time it isn't even manipulation. Only one excuse available. He also knows perfectly well that despite the options presented, he has only one.
'Fine,' he says after a few seconds, pushing my straining self-control to the limit. 'I will listen to you, but-'
That little word was one too many. Self-control shatters spectacularly.
'But me no buts, Potter! You are in no position to state conditions, nor sound as if you are doing me a favor. It is YOUR interest to hear what I choose to tell you, not mine to waste my time enlightening you on the issue!'
Maybe I finally did give him a reason to include hypocrisy amongst my innumerable flaws.
'Now sit yourself down,' I Levitate a chair from the corner with an off-handed flick of the wand, then pocket it. The boy complies reluctantly, but not before picking up his own wand from halfway across the room, where it was flung during his last attempt to attack me magically. This gives me a few seconds to gather the swiftly fleeting resolve.
How low you must have sunk, Severus Snape, I muse to myself, to choose Potter of all people as your confessor. How desperate you must have become if you grabbed at this chance to, believe it or not, redeem yourself, even if it is in the eyes of… her son.
'There is something I am… compelled to admit to you, Potter,' I begin, eager to get this part out of the way. It is something that must be said. Now is not the time for personal stabs, but for unadorned and objective truth. And if there is one person I am objective about, it is, regretfully, myself.
'I was not being entirely just on your account earlier during our conversation,' I manage, boring his face with my eyes, daring him to look surprised or sarcastic. Well, at least the boy had finally learned what is good for him.
'I refer to my words of you not being one to understand the circumstances surrounding Dumbledore's death. While you certainly lack the mental capacity to comprehend the issue without detailed explanations, which, fortunately for you, I am going to provide – you are not alone in failing to understand the truth. The reason being, only two people had known the truth all along. One of them is now dead.'
'And the other one, conveniently, is you. Not what I would call a convincing alibi,' the boy sneers. I turn. Slowly.
'Alibis, Potter, alibis I would offer to the Wizengamot. The best I can offer you is the truth.'
'Your version of the truth, you mean.'
The snarky tone becomes too much, again. I lean over him menacingly.
'THE truth, Potter. Complete and unadorned. You have the last chance to walk out that door now! Or listen and speak only when I ask you something!'
His jaw squared, he nods stiffly. Good enough. I resume my slow pacing. It is always easier when I pace…
'Do you recall anything unusual about the Headmaster in the last year, Potter? Anything about his looks that was out of ordinary?'
For a short time, he seems to restore the image in his mind, then mutters softly,
'His hand…'
'Outstanding. His hand, Potter, had suffered so as a result of a powerful curse protecting a Dark, very Dark artefact he had attempted to destroy. His attempt was successful, but the curse took over. I succeeded at containing the curse to one hand, yet not even my skills would keep it dormant forever. According to Dumbledore's and my estimates, he had somewhat under a year before the curse continued to spread like cancer, bringing with it slow and painful death. He was doomed from the moment he destroyed the… artefact.'
The boy's eyes are fixed on me in a fashion that is almost unnerving. In six years of tutoring him in and out of class, I have never been subjected to such attention. Resisting the urge to clear my throat, I continue.
'Ever since you have returned clutching the Triwizard cup and Diggory's body, I have been a spy in the Dark Lord's camp. Just as I was before the end of the first war.'
Saying that out loud makes it somehow… irreversible. Almost frightening in its simplicity. I silently urge Potter to interrupt me. He is silent, staring at me and looking as if he is holding his breath. I stop pacing and fall silent as well, looking back at him.
'But why…' the boy starts speaking, but the words come out a barely audible rasp. He coughs painfully. Without thinking, I reach for the wand, Levitating a glass from my desk and muttering Aguamenti. In a moment I find myself holding a glass of water, and ridiculous though I feel, the only logical thing to do seems giving it to Potter. He takes it, his hand less than steady, and makes a few sips before looking up at me in what appears to be amazement beyond words.
'You were saying, Potter?'
'Why did you kill him… when you did?'
'Because I promised,' I reply, looking anywhere but at the boy.
'Dumbledore asked you to KILL him?'
Reprimands, retorts and ridicule are lined up just behind my lips as I turn to Potter again. However, only one word escapes.
'Yes.'
'And you agreed?' the green eyes look huge in a mixture of shock and disbelief.
'I assume that you would not,' I sneer. 'You would never do such a thing, am I right?'
'But… There must have been another way…'
'There was NO other way, Potter! How difficult can it be to understand that there are times when there IS no other way? Or would you rather let him be killed by Draco, or Lestrange, or Greyback, or the Dark Lord himself? Would you rather watch him tortured? Would you rather endure seeing him tormented into insanity? Have him watch the Death Eaters taking Hogwarts apart stone by stone? Or see him force fed Veritaserum and tell the Dark Lord everything he ever wanted to know, including the easiest way to dispose of you? Although that required no Veritaserum, even. Tell me, Potter,' I lean over him again. The boy seems to try to disappear into the back of the chair, his face a mix of emotions I cannot quite place.
'Would you have the strength to stay put if the Dark Lord announced he would kill Dumbledore unless you surrendered? Would you have the strength to NOT try to rescue him? Or would you have either handed yourself over or got caught in a reckless rescue mission, and have Dumbledore watch you tortured and killed?'
'Would you have the courage?' I demand in a hoarse whisper. The boy seems to be shaking. His lips form an inaudible answer.
'No.'
My mouth curls in a snarl. I push myself away from the chair and walk towards the window briskly. I know that my back is straight and betrays no emotion. While my fingernails are close to drawing blood from the palms.
It must have been some time before I trust myself to turn, maintaining an expression worthy of a gargoyle. I need not have bothered. Potter is slumped in his chair, his face buried in the palm of one hand, his glasses clutched in the other. After a few seconds, he looks up, sensing my look. Some unwelcome part of my mind notes that this was the first time I see him with no glasses on. He looks curiously helpless and several years younger, and… for the first time ever, nothing like his father. I blink, attempting to shake off the illusion, to no avail.
'You… you never told… anyone…' he mutters. I arch an eyebrow.
'All these years… And after his death… It is not possible!' he suddenly cries out, staring at me.
'Not possible, Potter, as I have told you before, for fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves.'
He slumps back again, his lips forming words I cannot and do not want to hear. There is no end to my regret that this conversation has taken place at all.
'Now you know everything that you need to know,' I say coldly. He looks up again, this time more obviously having trouble speaking.
'Professor… I…'
He is looking at me as if he had never seen me before. It takes me a few moments to notice a strange shine in his eyes. Holding back an expression of utter shock could have easily been the most difficult thing I have done in months.
'You… you're right… and…'
He swallows, for the first time in the years I had known him looking vulnerable and… repentant? Impossible. Getting up from the chair, he loses his footing, and… I manage to stop my hand that has already started reaching out to catch him. Not noticing any of this, he gets up still looking at me with positively tearstruck eyes.
'I…'
'For goodness' sake, Potter, spare me your sentimentality!' I snap, aggravated beyond measure by struggling to stop myself from… reaching out to him, looking at him with sympathy, allowing him a moment of weakness, waiting for him to calm down, and accepting the apology I can see him trying to form… Just what a man would do for… his son. Unthinkable!
Our eyes meet again, his flaring up immediately, no sign of the renegade emotions of a few moments ago. He turns and bolts, no other word for it, out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to bash open a half-closed window.
I watch the window thoughtfully as it slowly creaks back and forth, letting in a still-chilly wind that ruffles some parchments on my desk. I sink into the chair Potter got out of, having no will to close the window. A gust of wind catches a small piece of parchment and tosses it towards the fireplace. I watch idly. There is nothing on that desk worth saving, worth moving a muscle at this moment. The parchment tumbles through the air as I find myself thinking what it could actually be. Some random scribble? Note of a meeting? Note passed to me in a meeting? It turns to me for a moment before landing in the fire, and I freeze for a split second before knocking the chair over and bolting – no other word for it still – to the fireplace, sticking my hands into the flames up to the wrist.
It is barely damaged when I grab it, yet I pull out my wand and whisper an incantation used to restore things damaged by fire. Kneeling in front of the fireplace and holding a little picture of a red-haired woman in my burned hands, I weep. Just as a man would do for… his wife. It seems a little less unthinkable, however.