Revenant

Summary: WIKTT Challenge: The Hollow Man: Severus Snape is subjected to an archaic ritual that destroys his mind and magic. Now that he is needed once more, can the Dream Team find a way to bring him back? SS/HG

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I claim nothing.

Revenant


Remains

The whimpering had finally stopped.

Severus shifted his weight upon the stone floor and felt the half healed wound on his chest tear as it begin to seep again. His legs had cramped in the small space; all his muscles frozen from inactivity in the chilled cell.

He could hear the fainund und of a guard’s footsteps, pacing somewhere in the darkness, the echoes of sound reverberating down the dark corridors and confusing the listener as to where the guard might actually be. Sound was strange here; down in the darkness sound became a living entity all of its own. Echoes pooled against each other and shivered along the walls, creating images and strange unimaginable sights. It was the sounds that reverberated through the shadows, giving the darkness the shape of bars and strong walls, holding and confining.

Down in the dank blackness where sound was carried so oddly, twisting and writhing in the darkness, the shout of a prisoner nearest you would sound muffled and distilled, devoid of passions and meanings while the quiet murmur of a distant criminal would ring against the stones, damning both the speaker and the listener to the knowledge of what had been said, and could never be taken back.

Tonight was a quiet night however; the heavy hush of the other prisoners’ breathing was only broken by the occasional soft groan or whispered confession. Faint in the distance, the sound of a guard walking was punctuated by distant snuffling and whining, but the sound was so faint as to be rendered and imaginary.

On the quiet nights like tonigSeveSeverus didn’t mind the prison cells so much. It was easy to imagine, in the darkness -without light or sound to deny his reason- that he was actually home in his dungeons at Hogwarts. In the darkness, it was easy to pretend that he was no prisoner, but only an old and tired potions teacher, falling to sleep in the quiet of his chambers.

But it was the whimpering that denied him his fantasy.

It was the whimpering, above all else, that drew him from his half-sleep and reminded him that he was, in fact, a prisoner. It was the whimpering that set his teeth to grinding and quickened his pulse. The whimpering resonated deep within his bones, soaking into his marrow and heating his blood until the desire to attack, to thrash, to kill and silence that pathetic voice had grown so great he would shrug his way out of sleep and shout at the whimpering coward. He would howl like a feral dog and set the other prisoners to shouting and cursing as well, and they would become a pack of wild things, caged but still dangerous; barking obscenities at the absent moon and all of the lunatics that dwelt down in the caverns with them.

These were the times that he hated the most, when he felt himself drowning in a kennel of human misery.

So when the whimpering would start, just on the edge of his hearing, he would try to rock his body to sleep, struggling to console himself away from that pathetic noise and curl into unconsciousness, the sound of teeth grinding loud in his ears. He would mumble a litany of whispered “no, no, no,” in denial of the noise, but it only served to wake him further.

Night after night of this began to wear against him, drawing him thinner and thinner until the lure of sleep seemed to fade indistinct into the darkness around him. A delirium grew, and Severus found himself drifting in and out of wakefulness, his only mark of time being the rattle of food bowls on trays and the memories of whimpering and shouting; begging and pleading.

A few weeks of sleeplessness and shouting, and then the wardens began to treat his food with potions. He was uncertain weather or not the other prisoners’ food was being similarly treated, but in the end, he really didn’t care.

The dosages were light at first, but he was a Potion’s Master; he was able to detect even the slightest amounts that they had begun to add to his food and water. They were simple sleeping and calming droughts at first. Simple enough potions, and after the sleepless nights of yelling at the other prisoners, he had finally given in to the medicated foods. That first night he slept the whole time through, waking only as his body cramped and complained after an overly extended rest.

When the dosage began to increase, he found himself sleeping more and more, the whimpering distracting him less and less as the wardens began to add other potions to mix,mix, creating a strange slew of unidentifiable potions that began to work on his body. The medicated food began to provide less and less of a relief as the strange chemicals began to build up in his system, leaving him dehydrated and only half-asleep; the worst of the nights leaving him not only wide awake, but in an agony that left him writing in pain; nauseas and vomiting on the cold stone floor.

He became even further separated from himself; his mind chanting the word “no” over and over again as the soft whimpering tugged at the edges of his attention and his body convulsed around the poisons in his bloodstream. He wrapped himself in sleep and fantasy, reminding himself that he was home, that he was in the Hogwarts dungeon, and that he was safe. He wrapped himself around the idea that if he opened his eyes, the darkness would flee to reveal the solid and comforting stones of his school and that this, that everything, was only a fever dream; that there were no rusted iron grating set in pitted stone walls to keep him here against his will.

His eyes shut securely against reality; he threw himself into sleep; his will demanding what his body was rejecting.

*


He awoke in a large cavern, suspended between two heavily robed figures. The figures stepped aside as they felt him wake, leaving him swaying on his feet alone. The cold of the chamber more pronounced than it had been in the tiny cell he’d been in, and he felt his body begin to shiver beneath his worn and filthy robes. He grimaced as the slight movements topen pen waves of pain, and struggled to regain control of his body. The faint torchlight of the chamber seemed abnormally bright after his weeks of confinement, and he squinted as he examined his surroundings.

The stone walls of the chamber were rough cut and caught the torchlight in sharp spurs and ragged edges. The light was dim down here, soft and filled with dreams of dying men. Soft whimpers could be heard, floating from the corridors behind Severus as he tensed his body to keep himself from turning and looking over his shoulder. The round chamber was empty but for a single slab that stood in the center of the room, grooved and carved like an altar. Severus could not tear his eyes away from the runes that swirled and danced along the stark stone surface; he could not drag his mind away from analyzing how perfectly a man’s body would fit upon the stone, and how the carvings would act as drains to keep the surface free from the slick greasiness of blood. His eyes flowed along that thought, drawn along the carvings and cascading to the floor where spiral after spiral of runes blossomed away from the stone edifice, creating deep notches and funneled grooves on the floor.

The better to provide a non-slick surface, a traitorous voice in his head whispered. Wouldn’t want to slip during the ceremony.

A robed figure brushed past him, disrupting his thoughts. Startled he turned to look behind him and saw a procession of figures, all heavily cowled and cloaked in thick ornate robes, striding into the room. He watched, mesmerized as they filed past him and began to shut the heavy doors, blocking out the sounds of the cells. As the heavy thud of the doors closing was replaced by the faint hum of magical wards locking into place, Severus turned his attention back to the figures that encircled him and the stone altar.

They were faceless, hidden in the shadows of silk and velvet, warded and protected by the silvers and golds that had been woven into their clothing and draped across their figures, denying them of any humanity; in the torchlight they were figures of shadows and veiled intents.

As the first two figures stepped up to him and motioned him towards the altar, Severus knew that he was in Hell. They stepped closer to him, gloved hands held outwards in a gesture of guidance and gentleness. His body shook with his mind’s desire to fight and to flee; to struggle and escape. But with a heavy feeling in his stomach that almost caused him to drop to his knees, his will left him, and he was stranded before those dark caricatures of justice, himself a dark and damned thing.

He was so tired, and as his stomach roiled in a pain that left him panting, he felt himself lowered to the altar. He had fought for so long, at times never knowing which side he was on. He had done so many things that he could only hope that he regretted; the feelings so strange and mixed to him that everything seemed surreal and unimportant. Here was his just reward, his punishment, his trial, and his execution. He was an unholy thing, and if this was the only redemption that was in store for him, then so be it.

In full submission, we shall be reborn.

The words soaked into his mind, and he closed his eyes as he felt the first drop of oil upon his forehead and the cool touch of metal upon his eyelids. Hands that were neither gentle nor cruel traced the broken outlines of his face, and the soft murmuring of words lulled his body into relaxation.

He began to drift to sleep, his body splayed across the altar; a sacrifice to the gods, a sacrifice to ideals, a sacrifice to the common man. As the darkness drew him downwards, a faint noise strangled in his throat, and this time he realized that the whimpers that had haunted him the most had always been his own.