Siren
shanna seanachai
[you know you're going to lie to you, in your own way] Humiliation and embarrassment can make you do crazy things. It can turn the most sensible grown man into an irrational monster; but that's nothing compared to what it can do to an anti-social, mentally withdrawn sixteen year old boy.
So he kept to himself, now. All his anger was boiling up inside him; sometimes, when he was in bed at night, thinking about those bastards and what they had done, the rage was almost uncontrollable. He could feel his body contorting with it; his fists clenched and unclenched, his breathing turned to a hiss; he felt like he was about to explode.
It wasn't normal to be like this, and, the truth was, he was teetering on an edge of something at the moment. He was prone to nervous twitches; his voice cracked at odd places and sometimes he felt a great throbbing in areas of his face, like a nerve had suddenly gone into overdrive and was threatening to burst. And, well, it was worse when they were around.
God, he hated them! What had he ever done, to make them treat him like this? Sure, he went out of his way to get them in trouble, but they had been the ones who had started it all. Couldn't they have just given him a chance?
[and you know you're going to lie to you] Something, a little voice inside of him, wondered if maybe his ego wasn't getting in the way of his judgment of this situation.
Something else, an even deeper but altogether more sinuous voice, wondered if perhaps the things they said about him weren't true.
Slimy bastard. Liar. Suck-up. Conniver. Sniveler. Greasy, disgusting, ugly, friendless Severus Snape. The sewer drain for the Hogwarts School for Witches and Wizards.
No wonder James Potter and his ilk hated him.
[in your own way...and I lie] So perfect. They were all so perfect, and secretly, perhaps, he wished he was, too. He could never be, though, so he swung to the other extreme.
Why couldn't he just be happy somewhere in the middle? Why did he have to live from one dangerous tilt to the next? Insanely happy one moment, suicidal the next. Quiet and soft spoken, and then, suddenly, so filled with irrational rage he felt capable of murder.
He had a lot of strange dreams; he couldn't remember most of them, but the ones he did disturbed him. Sometimes they were frighteningly violent; after having dreams like that he often woke in the morning to find he'd bitten right through his lip in the night, blood everywhere. Or that he'd woken up his roommates yelling in his sleep and beating his mattress or bedstead (in these cases, he often had bruised and bleeding knuckles in the morning as well). He once got up and began walking around in his sleep, and made it all the way into the Slytherin common room before he bashed his face against a book case and knocked himself out. The whole right side of his face was bruised yellow and purple for weeks.
There were other dreams, too, but he didn't like to think about them a lot. They could be violent, too, in a way, but it was different sort. They were mostly sexual in nature. They scared him, if possible, even more than the other dreams. They weren't like normal wet dreams; if they had been, he wouldn't have cared. But hell, what normal sixteen year old boy dreamt about being raped and *liking* it?
One extreme to the other. Violator, violated. He didn't want to be like this. He didn't want to be this highly passionate, entirely fragmented madman. That's what he was turning into. It was getting so he didn't even know which person he was anymore, the aggressor or the victim. It was getting so that everyday was a battle with himself, and it was wearing him out, driving him over the edge of his carefully balanced mental situation.
[and I lie] "Snape."
That voice just drove him nuts. Half of him wanted to scream and rip out his hair and kill someone with all his rage and frustration; another part of him...wanted to do something else. Don't think about it.
"What do you want, Potter?" Keep it cool. Collected. Icy.
"Look," and James sighed, a little bit. What? "I'm, I'm sorry about what happened. It was just, Sirius...he doesn't always think things through - you know what I mean? Honestly, I didn't know anything about it; and neither did Remus. He would be devastated if he ever did anyone any harm in...that form. It was not intentional, you understand?"
Severus said nothing. James must have felt encouraged, or something; he sat down.
"Anyway, I feel terrible about it. I just wanted to apologize."
"Oh." He kept his voice calm and smooth; it wanted to crack, it wanted to vault, but he suppressed it. "You just wanted to apologize, hm?"
James smiled. That stupid, dorky smile. That...smile. "Yeah."
"That's nice," Severus murmured, and decked him in the face.
"Fuck!" James yelled, clutching his jaw. "What did you do that for?"
Severus didn't answer; the red hot anger in his head had taken over, and he rushed at James, fists flying.
"Snape! Dammit!" James tried to hold him off, but finally he punched back, taking the wind out of Severus' stomach. He made an 'oof' sound and smiled in a twisted sort of way. Sure, that's what he wanted. The pain. A good reason to hate him. He grabbed James' hair; James socked him a good one in the eye. Bastard! His adrenaline levels were through the roof. He wanted to kill him!
[know too well know the chill] But James was a hell of a lot stronger than he was. He had him pinned down to the floor after about fifteen minutes.
"What the hell?!" James sputtered. "What is wrong with you?"
Severus glared malevolently from beneath him.
"Why are you so - so -"
"Evil? Rude? Dirty-dealing, conniving -"
"Enough!"
"Well, it's true, all of it, Potter, so don't expect anything else."
"You needn't be so fatalistic."
"How else am I supposed to act?" There it went. His voice shook a little bit; the emotion trembling out a little bit. He gave an involuntary shudder and pushed at James. "Get the hell off of me."
James complied, and sat on the floor, staring at him as he stood. Severus didn't like the way he looked at him. He began to leave.
"Severus?" He'd stood up, now, and he took a step towards him.
"What do you want, Potter?"
"I'm sorry." He sighed. "Really, I'm sorry. Can we just forget all this?" He held out his hand, like a peace offering.
Severus ignored it. "You're not my friend, Potter. Knock it off."
"Why can't I be your friend?"
[know she breaks my siren] Severus stared at him. What the hell was he doing?
James took another step forward. His face had a young sort of earnestness in it; his eyes stared out at him. Severus felt very tired, suddenly. Tired and fed up.
"I'd like to be your friend." He looked just like a kid.
Damn him. Why couldn't he just be like everyone else? He was on him in an instance. The kiss was almost as brutal as his punch had been, but the emotion behind it, if anything, was stronger.
James made something like a muffled shout and pushed him away. Severus wanted to push deeper, keep the kiss going, it was all he wanted, all, everything, but he didn't. He backed away, catching his breath, looking everywhere but at James. James - his name sent shivers up his spine. Love and hate mingled together so finely they were hard to tell apart. James.
"Severus -" He'd never heard him say his first name, and a long, lugubrious sigh fill the room; it came from him, though he could hardly believe it. The sigh said, I know what's going to happen next. You're going to leave, and we'll never mention this again. We'll go back to the way things were, because I just wrecked the one chance we had at ever getting along.
He waited; but it did not happen. He did not want to look up. He did not want to see the disgust on his face. He waited, and then he felt something against his face; a hand, cupping his cheek. He looked up, and James kissed him.
[know teenage flesh know the chill] Oh, my God.
It was soft at first, and he responded accordingly, but then his violent side erupted, and his passion overwhelmed him. He pulled James close to him, close, and pressed harder. James moaned into his mouth. Amazing. Incredible! The heat was everywhere. He slid his hands up James' sides, and tore his mouth away.
"Oh...James," he murmured, and his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. He buried his face in his neck, kissing and licking and breathing in, in. James smelled so good. He'd dreamed of doing this. He'd dreamed of it. A groan rose up in his throat. This was it. What he wanted.
On the floor, down on the floor. The wall was to his back. He ran his teeth along James' throat - ah! He wanted to bite it, to suck on it; his fingers curled into a tight grip on James' back and James' hands were looping around his neck, holding him close to him. Severus pushed him down, slowly, hungrily, to the floor. Then he closed his eyes and paused for a second, luxuriating in the feeling of being on top of James. He opened his eyes again and made a decision; then he rolled off of him.
"What?"
He lay on his back and turned his head towards him. "Listen - do you really want to do this?" His voice was shaking; he was afraid of what his answer would be. He licked his lips.
James rolled on to his side, propping his body up with his elbows. "Yes," he murmured, and smiled at him.
Severus felt all his breath rush out him, like a gale-force wind, like fire. He reached out with one hand and tentatively touched James' arm. "Then I want to be on the bottom," he whispered.
James blinked. "You do?"
He nodded, flushing; he was giving away a little piece of himself, now, it was like telling a secret. It wasn't so much that it was embarrassing as that it was frightening. He was afraid to let go.
"Oh..." James murmured, and he smiled even broader. That dorky smile. That beautiful smile. Severus let go, just a little, and let his eyes show how much he wanted.
"Oh," James repeated, and then he leaned down to him and kissed him.
"Hard," Severus whispered around his lips, and James slid his tongue in his open mouth, and Severus sighed and let himself go the rest of the way.
[know she breaks my siren] It was a double life; it certainly didn't simplify things, but perhaps the complexity of the situation was what attracted him. Maybe the daring tilt to one side of the knife edge was what he wanted - that little bit of danger. Through the danger could come an understanding, of a sort.
"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to," James assured him, smiling.
Then why did he stare at her like that?
Of course, he never said that to him. He just nodded and kissed him, and made himself forget, for a little while. Through the forgetfulness there could come an understanding.
Now he was slowly beginning to map James out in his head. Everything about him, everything he could find out, he tried to remember, because he had a feeling he would not have much time with him. The affair was intense, but intense things never last very long. That was something he realized, though he would not admit it, and something which James himself would probably never understand.
So he spent a lot of time just looking at him; when he had the odd moment, or afterwards, when they were both exhausted and James had fallen asleep. Severus never slept on those nights when they were together. Why waste what little time they had together in oblivion? But there's a unique feeling that comes with sleeping peacefully next to someone you trust, that is different than anything else. Knowing you will wake up and they'll be beside you; that if you had a nightmare, they would wake you up. It's a safe feeling. He did not realize this until later, but by then it was too late.
[no, I...] Someone you trust - but did he trust James? If he did, then why was he so worried about losing him? Why did he get so angry inside when that girl looked at him, spoke to him, giggled at him, gave him a hug? Why did he feel like he was something to be left on the shelf, something to be hidden, way in the deep, dark back - something to be enjoyed but ashamed of? Of course, James didn't really feel that way. James didn't think like that. James didn't think at all, he just felt, and he had good intentions for everyone. Intention didn't always amount to much, of course. But there was nothing Severus could do about that.
Nothing he could do, and when he felt his hold slipping, when he felt his time was drawing to a close, he did not try to stop it.
[never was one for a prissy girl] "I have to go."
He didn't answer; he just closed his eyes and slid his arms from around James' waist. He was leaving a lot earlier than he usually did, tonight. But then, his mind hadn't really seemed to be on what they were doing, anyway. He felt the displacement of air next to him as James stood up.
Thinking about her. Everyone said they were going out. James never spoke about her in front of him. Severus didn't bring her up, either. It was sort of a mutual understanding. That didn't stop Severus from thinking about her, though; not anymore than it probably stopped James.
What would she say if she knew James was seeing Severus Snape? Hell, 'seeing' made it all sound so tame. What would she say if she knew James was screwing Severus Snape? He gave a sort of sigh and turned his face against the wall. What a sordid truth, and so totally removed from her precious purity. It made him feel dirty, it made him feel terrible; he was 'the other woman', so to speak, the lay on the side. It didn't matter that he had come first. It didn't count.
[coquette] James was leaving, and he made himself find his voice. "Good-bye."
"Maybe..." James' voice was hesitant. "Maybe sometime next week."
"No."
"You're busy?"
"No, James." He kept his face averted. This all felt so familiar, so turned inside out. He did not have to glance up to know what James looked like at the moment. He knew him too well by now. He could see him perfectly in his mind: face rather flushed, glasses sliding down the smooth slope of his nose. Hair quite sweetly mussed. He was nervous, a bit anxious to go, moving back and forth from foot to foot.
"I, well...all right." James closed the door behind himself. Now the whole room was dark. Shut up in here with himself. Severus sighed. God, he ached. They always did it so hard - it was because he wanted it that way, of course. James had gotten used to it, and probably enjoyed it that way now, himself. Usually afterwards the ache was good. It made him want more. It made him wish for the next time to come. It stayed with him afterwards, when James himself was gone. When he was alone in his own bedroom, it was like being held.
Now it just hurt, and he was still alone.
[call in for an ambulance] He made himself get up, eventually; he could not allow himself to just sit there, wallowing in his own misery. It was too risky, too easy to get caught. Getting caught, that still mattered, didn't it? He made his way downstairs, slowly, down to where it got chilly, to the dungeons. He whispered the password and stepped into the common room. The fire was out, it was dark and empty. Really?
"Where've you been, Snape?" Two hands, quick as lightening - one clamped around his mouth, the other grabbed one arm and twisted it around and up his back. He gave a muffled shout of pain, and pried at the stifling object with the hand of his still-free arm.
The lights came on, quite suddenly, revealing them - a small select group of sixth and seventh years he knew by reputation rather than acquaintance. Young, aspiring Death Eaters, all, and at the moment, they were interested in him.
"We were waiting for you, Snape," one of them said. He approached him, smiling facetiously. "We wanted to speak to you. But you weren't in your dormitory." He patted Severus on the cheek; Severus made a disgusted noise against the hand covering his mouth. "Now, are you going to tell us where you went?"
Severus thought a moment; then he raised his free hand and made a rude gesture that translated to 'no'. To say the least.
A icy smile graced the other boy's mouth. "I see. So that's how we're going to be?" He stepped away, and another boy, a big hulking giant, came forward and, without a word, punched Severus in the stomach. He doubled over, and they dragged him over to one of the couches.
[reach high] "Now, see here, Snape," said the first boy, the leader; Severus knew his name but that did not matter. "We know where you've been, you cheap little whore, and we aren't exactly happy about it." He began to pace the room. He was obviously enjoying this. "Do you know, we were thinking of asking you to join us, Snape? You have such promise. We could use one with your talent in potions. But see now," and he clicked his tongue, sounding like a reproachful parent, "we can't allow you to go around fucking Gryffindors! Rather demoralizing, don't you think?" Now he moved back over to the couch where Severus was being held, and sat down next to him. He patted him on the shoulder with a paternal air. "Honestly, what were you thinking? Why would you want to mess around with a Gryffindor?"
"Other Slytherins not good enough for you?" someone else spoke up.
"Or maybe it's the other way around."
"Maybe he's not Slytherin material after all. Maybe he's Muggle-loving scum."
Severus growled.
"Shhh, now, boys," said the leader, smiling. "I'm sure that's not the case. Snape, here, I think he's just been..." he paused, as though searching for the right word, "...misguided. And it's our job, boys," at this he turned, including all assembled, "to guide him back into the fold."
"Teach him a lesson."
"Give him a chance to mend his ways," he corrected.
"Yeah, give him something, at any rate." There were a few snickers. Severus felt his heart skip a few beats. They couldn't possibly mean...
"Who's first?" one of them asked, and Severus knew they did indeed mean what he feared they meant.
The leader chuckled. "You'll have your turn, boys, all in good time." Yes, Severus knew who he was. "But first," he continued, leaning down and leering slightly at Severus, "I think Snape and I need to get better acquainted." Severus stared at him, at the cold eyes, at the bitter, twisted mouth. "You boys can leave. Give him to me, Goyle." The full drum roll of doom was filling his head; he was forgetting to breath. He was alone with him, and he knew who he was, and what that meant.
He was Lucius Malfoy, and that meant his time was up.
[it doesn't mean she's holy] The world was fuzzy and incoherent. There was a feeling of resistance, a pressure from within and above; like warm, wet blankets, heavy on his chest. Pressing and pressing, until he couldn't breathe.
He closed his eyes. Dizziness was descending on him sickeningly, a wave of haziness. Spinning. He moved his hands, trying to grab onto something; they caught the edges of the mattress and gripped tightly. Hold on. Hold on to something.
After awhile the dizziness went away, and he had enough courage to open his eyes again. He stared thoughtfully at the ceiling, breathing haltingly and staunchly avoiding memories of earlier that night. Across the room he could hear the breathing of his room mates; yes, sleep on, innocent, not knowing, what they did, what they did to me - !
Stop.
He let his breath flow out, one long rush, and lowered his eyes to look at his body, prostrate on the bed. He could see bruises on his arms where countless fingers had gripped him. His lips were sore where countless lips had pressed, unasked, unanswered. His thighs were numb; they'd had a knife, hadn't they? He didn't want to look. He had to close his eyes again. The dizziness was returning.
Red. He saw red, red hair, and a girl's smile, and two green eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes. Lily. Hate, hate filled him, washing away the pain, and he slept.
[just means she's got a cellular handy] He awoke again, about an hour before anyone else was stirring. He could see the hands of the clock on the wall, lined up with the six and the twelve. He wished he could feel the sun on his face. But there weren't any windows, down here in the dungeons. It was hard to believe it was really morning.
One by one, he moved his muscles, trying to remember how to coordinate them; he rolled himself over, onto his side. Then he pushed himself up with his arms, his breath coming in short, pained gasps. One foot, two, on the floor. Now sit up. Short stabbing pains filled his stomach, but he ignored them. Stand. He leaned against the bed post, finding his bearings. He had to get himself cleaned up and dressed. Fix your clothes. He began to walk across the room, limping a little at first, but gradually steadying himself. He opened the door, and it occurred to him suddenly that Lucius' gang might be waiting for him.
That stilled him, and he almost lost control of his legs. He didn't want to think about Lucius, or his face, his hated face. To think he would have to face him today and the day after that and the day after...
They were not in the hallway. He made his way down to the lavatories, holding on to the cold stone walls as he went. He could do this, pretend everything was all right, cover it up. Easy. A normal day.
Actually forgetting was another matter.
But perhaps that, too, would come with time.
[almost brave] It was one of those late August days, when the heat was unbearable, and the possibility of something called snow seemed laughable. But at the same time there was the feeling of an end; there was a sense of upcoming death in the air, and the sun-scorched grass was just early mourning for the massacre to come. Sounds echoed and the world seemed a barren husk.
Severus Snape hated this time of year - it meant chaos, as a dozen frenzied teachers tried to ready themselves for the upcoming school year. All of the professors looked rather sick. McGonagall was constantly rubbing her forehead, a sign of her migraines. Flitwick was a bundle of nerves - he dropped things, jumped when you spoke to him. Sprout took on a forgetfulness that rivaled Neville Longbottom's. Snape himself always suffered from an agonizing upset stomach every year for the last three days before September first. And this heat, this ancient, death-laden feel in the air made it even worse.
[almost pregnant] He always felt so useless in the summer. He didn't know when he had begun to define himself solely with his job - when he'd severed away all the extraneious, vital parts in himself. His mind nagged at something, buried deep, reluctant to come forward. It left him with questions, and no asnwers. What had happened to make him commit himself to this route?
He had forgotten.
He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to remember.
[almost in love] In his desk, in the very bottom drawer on the right, buried under papers and rubbish and odds and ends, was a picture. Half a picture, really; it had been ripped down the middle, the other half thrown away. It lay there, unknown, denying the existence of whatever had resided in that lost half. The remaining half contained a person. He did not move a lot; he just stared out sadly at Severus, occasionally shaking his head.
It's your fault, Snape would think on the rare moments he took out the picture to look at it. You drove me to this.
Sometimes when he looked at the picture, a sort of spasm would go through him - his vision would blot out for a second, and he would see a face; a face that was similar to the one in the picture. Except for the eyes. Harry did not have James' beautiful gray eyes. He had green eyes, her eyes, her hated green eyes. How he hated green eyes, and red hair. And light, musical laughs that fluttered through the air, accompanied by a deep bass chuckle. They were so perfect together. They flowed perfectly, seemlessly, and it drove an icy stake through his heart. Even after all these years, even though they were both long dead and gone. Shattering him.
[VANILLA] And now it was September, and death was in full swing, leering at him in its last colorful clothes as it fell back down to the earth to be buried. Buried, torn in half. But he did not have time to think about this. He had work to do now. He had work to distract him.
Another laugh came into his thoughts; came into reality, across the room. A sudden, icy laugh, a cruel laugh. It froze him for a moment, and an image flashed in his head: a small, sharp knife sliding along skin, leaving a thin trail of blood, while a hand gripped the flesh so hard it seemed to break it apart. The laugh echoed in his ears. He spun around, looking for its owner, and his eyes connected with Draco Malfoy's. Smile at me like that, will you? Like you know something about me? Something I don't....
Something I don't remember?
[and you don't need that light off] A sharp pain, stabbing in his chest, cutting off his oxygen flow; but you mustn't show, mustn't show. He sat down at his desk, watching the students before him out of slidded eyes: I'm watching you. Just you remember that. They were all so nervous. How pathetic, Malfoy's laugh was saying. They are so pathetic. You are so pathetic.
Why didn't he remember?
Why didn't he know? Why did Malfoy? What did he have to do with all of this?
Harry Potter was staring at him, too, out of those awful eyes. Puzzled; what's the expression on my face?
[to guide you through the sunlight] Hatred. Not unusual, of course. Except for who it was directed at.
He hated Draco Malfoy. And that frightened him, shocked him. Why did he hate him? It was all right to hate Harry Potter. After all, he knew why he hated him. There was a reason. And he knew why he hated the rest of his lot: they were so blissfully, ignorantly happy. Innocently happy. Innocent, after what had been done...
What had been done? He didn't know!
Why did he hate him? He had no reason to hate Draco Malfoy. It was awful, not knowing.
[to go] He had to know.
[go to her]
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