First off, let me say that I don't normally write fanfiction so this is totally alien to me. I think I did it correctly, complete with the little asterisks when there's a flashback. I'm looking for critiques that point out inconsistencies of Snape's character or incorrect facts. Other than that, enjoy!
He dragged me down by my arm, roughly, his cold fingers squeezing and releasing, chewing up and spitting out silence as we descended. Down into the deepest part of the school where the black that was so complete it had a presence, a velveteen texture.
Snape’s office looked like a supply closet. There was nothing save for a small skylight to cut through the darkness of the room. There on the shelves lay dozens of bottles, most with neatly printed labels and some without. That frightened me, how some vials sat there unabashed, full of liquid that no one could identify, save Snape. There was a quiet sort of drama to them; in each there could be the power to give or take a life. And by not labeling them Snape claimed them as his own: anyone can use a potion, but only if they know what it does.
I think that is the problem I have with potions: they can be used by anyone. Spells have to be mastered; potions just have to be possessed.
Snape stands up, and I can tell he’s about to . Even though I dislike everything about him, from his unkempt hair to the way he pauses in between his sentences for dramatic effect, I appreciate his enthusiasm as a teacher. He defines occlumency as the act of cleansing one’s mind, prohibiting others from reading it.
If used properly, the power of Occlumency will help shield you from access or influence. In these lessons I will attempt to penetrate your mind. You will attempt to resist.
And before the words had even registered, my mind was beset.
Prepare yourself! Legilimens!
I tried to close off my mind, tried to shut out the thoughts as simply as shutting out the cold from a house, a methodical closing of doors and window panes.
And as if I had forgotten to close one window all the way, Professor Snape slipped through an area of mind no more that a centimeter wide and the cold invaded.
It is hard to describe what this feels like. A thousand memories are stamped like pictures and laid out in front of you, and as one person runs their hands over them and tries to grab them, you try to snatch them away. I would search out a memory and then discard it, but eventually Snape grasped one of my memories, a moment so tender and painful it practically defined me, and ripped it open.
His name was Thomas, and he played the violin. In my cul-de-sac on Privet Drive, his music would waft lazily in the summer breeze. He played at the park, in church, sometimes he just sat cross-legged in the street, forcing cars to drive around him.
He struck me as the kind of person who would love to die clutching the neck of his violin.
And I watched him, sometimes for hours on end. When he started to play during the night I would stick my head and shoulders out of the window, braving the cold to hear the few solemn notes that settled on my sill.
Today, one hot day in mid-July, he was downtown, where I had followed him at a distance. We had struck up conversations a couple of times, but we were nothing close to friends. I didn’t know anything about Thomas but his first name and that his music strung the days of summer together like beads strung up in a necklace.
It’s hard to describe how all of this can hang in one memory—it’s as if it’s written into smells, colors, textures—the trees blossom with anticipation, the ground beneath my feet is gummy with a tweenager’s puppy-love desire.
I sat for over an hour as Thomas tried to charm the buyers and sellers downtown; but their ears were clogged with the sounds of banknotes and they passed by unaffected.
When Thomas finally packed his violin into his sleek case, dusk hung in his hair and in the space between us. The music of Vivaldi and Bruch, simple, heart-wrenching chords punctuated my complicated bits of arpeggios, hung heavy on my tongue. I spoke, but only a few clumsy words.
“You’re really brilliant.”
“Erm, thanks.” His smile was one of pity and preoccupation. He walked down the road without looking back.
I couldn’t help following him; my house was in the same direction. I don’t know whether it was anger or shame, but I promised myself not to look at him.
So I didn’t notice when he stepped off the road and into the street, where the night rendered him indistinguishable. I didn’t notice, just as the car didn’t notice as it sped up at the turn.
When I finally saw the headlights approaching, it was too late. I dropped to my knees and screamed, wishing beyond hope that it could be me in front of that car instead of him. This wasn’t even love but something more practical. Thomas was a credit to society; he benefited the world with music. I just was one of many mediocre people populating it.
But miraculously, impossibly, the car missed Thomas. Without visibly swerving, the two simply moved past each other. The headlights traveled up Thomas’s body, and then disappeared down the street.
I was sitting on the side of the road, crying silently. Thomas turned this way and that, as if looking for something, and then fixed his eyes on me. I read so many emotions in his face—fear, excitement, relief. But most curious of all was, when he really looked at me, I felt contempt and some cousin of hatred.
“You can’t think I had anything to do with this.” I was on the verge of laughter, tears still muddying my vision.
“Thank you,” He said. “And thanks in advance for not telling anyone about this. I don’t we’ll see each other ever again. Don’t try an’ speak to me.”
I remember wanting to laugh—it all seemed so idiotic. I wished to die in his place and maybe I had; maybe this was my personal hell.
“Thomas, really I didn’t--”
“You know you’re different, don’t you? You know this isn’t the first… inhuman thing you’ve done.” He winced at the word inhuman. “We’ve heard stories about your old school, and now I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“I’m just like you, really.” I was openly laughing now, and openly crying. I never thought I would have to make a case for my humanity. “Bloody hell. My parents are the Dursleys.”
“Your bloomin’ foster parents! You’re a nutter, just like your parents before you.”
His expression sobered up a bit. “I mean thanks, really. But I just can’t be seen with the likes of you; people already take the piss at me for playing an instrument.”
I stood up, and looked him straight in the face. “G’bye Thomas,"
And I walked away, finishing the sentence in my head. " You stupid fuckin' prat.”
It was when I got home that it really hit me. I lived in a closet under some stairs in a bleak suburb where everyone hated me. I was a teenage girl with nothing to live for, and I was too cowardly to end my own life.
I spent that endless night sitting on the floor of my room, trying to empty my head of thoughts and my soul of emotion. I wasn’t leaving until I knew I was impervious to all the miseries the world could give me. Sometime before the sun rose I met all of my demons; sometime before the sun rose my bed frame splintered into pieces and my light bulb shattered. Sometime before the sun rose I came to terms with being completely unloved and in possession of unspeakable power. By the time dawn came to Little Whinging I with the idea of me being a monster.
When I finally came to in Snape's office, neither of us had moved. I was still sitting in my chair, a thin sheen of sweat prickling on my brow. Snape still had his want pointed toward me. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Did you mean to inflict harm upon yourself, Potter?"
"Sir?"
He gestured at my left hand. In the agony of the moment, I had clawed at my own arm with dirt-caked nails. It was smeared all over my arm, blood mixing with the sweat on my skin.
Wordlessly he waved his wand over the cuts; the skin knitted back together.
He paced back and forth for a while, saying nothing. Then he turned to me, limp stands of hair framing his face, dark eyes clouded with hesitancy.
“That was a… brave first attempt at occlumency.” Snape could inject dark humor into even the bleakest of moments; another of the many reasons I hated him.
“I suppose we should resume tomorrow, as I can’t imagine resuming this lesson to be profitable for either of us.”
And before I knew it I was stumbling out of his office, up the seemingly endless stairs, and into the Griffindor common room.
“Mimbulus mimbletonia.”
I didn't know what to think of my first Occlumency lesson: my head was throbbing, I felt nauseous and my mind felt more vulnerable to attacks than ever before.
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