Human Scraps

Human Scraps



Chapter One: Breaking the Ice



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It must be your skin

I’m sinking in

It must be for real

because now I can feel.

— Bush, 'Glycerine'

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Half dead. Black eyes, black hair. Pale, pallid skin. Severus stares intently at the mirror in the Slytherin boys’ bathroom, contemplating his reflection. Without warning, scowling, his fist splits the glass into a myriad of glittering shards. He gasps, red rivers winding their way down his forearm.

A softly muttered “reparo.” The blood-flecked diamonds rearrange themselves into a whole.

“Pathetic.” The pale spectre hisses, glaring back at him, before stalking out of the room.

Sometimes the loneliness becomes unbearable. He has long ago accepted his solitude. It still makes him bitter. Why is it so easy for others? It seems the rest of the world is in on the joke. Severus has always been a private person. To him it is akin to opening the floodgates; all or nothing. Bottling everything up for so long, now he doubts he’s even able to let it out.

Worse than the loneliness, is the numb emptiness that has begun to consume him. Cut off, disconnected from everything. Conversations seem almost surreal. As if he’s not even there. Just going through the motions. No-one even notices.



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Black. It’s Black again. He’s smiling. Not a good sign.

“Hey - HEY, Snivellus!”

Dumbledore has to notice this time. He has to. He’s sitting there at the high table, chatting merrily. Oblivious as usual.

Severus feels the rough wool cut into his armpits, as Sirius Black effortlessly lifts him off the ground by the back of his robe.

Potter. That name doesn’t even conjure any hatred any more. Doesn’t make him want to hex everything in sight. Doesn’t bring the vitriolic bile curdling up his throat. Nothing.

Odd.

Potter’s face inches fhis.his. His breath smells like month-old pumpkin juice, mingled with a breath-freshening potion that obviously isn’t working.

“Well, well, Snivelly, heard you got full marks on that last potions test. Think you’re pretty smart, eh?”

Severu sil silent, suspended by Black’s arm, feet dangling just above the floor.

Potter looks slightly put out that his prey isn’t rising to the bait. He tries a different tack.

“Not even Sirius got full marks on that one - you must have cheated. What’d you do? Slime up to the Professor? Or did you just cry like a little first year until he took pity on you?”

Normally this would be the point where Potter sprouted an extra nose, or lurid purple scales, but Severus remains perfectly still. His hand doesn’t even reflexively grip his wand. Lately it seems to take all of his effort just to keep breathing.

He is dumped unceremoniously on the ground, just able to keep from falling over. Potter has tired of his little game. Black offers one last spiteful shove before slouching after his friend. Severus looks up.

Lucius Malfoy is watching him from the Slytherin table.



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Dark. An all-enveloping night so inky black it is easy to belithatthat the world has fallen away and Severus is the last person left alive. The last scrap of humanity. It could be true for all he knows.

A hand appears out of nowhere, burning his shoulder through the thick material with its warmth.

Lucius Malfoy.

Severus knows he should not be outside at this time of night, but somehow he doubts this is why Lucius is here.

“Youuld uld not let those Gryffindors bother you.”

“I don’t.”

r>“Gr>“Good.”

The Thestrals are hunting, swooping over the forest. Luminous skeletal figures, they look like a picture of Death’s stable, out for night-time exercise. Severus wonders what it means that he can see them at all.

Lucius removes his hand.

“You are showing a lot of promise in your studies.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.” He pauses. “I have heard that you are also quite proficient in the Dark Arts.”

Severus stares straight ahead, replies in a voice devoid of emotion.

“My father tested my hexing abilities every morning from the time I could lift a wand. If I failed, I ended up with no food. Or no mouth to eat it with.”

“Impressive.”

He turns to look at Lucius. The older boy's eyes are the colour of the winter sky at 6am. Hair so fine and white it gives off an ethereal glow. Voice like snow.

“You realise that as a prefect I shall have to report your infringement of curfew.”

Lucius watches the young Slytherin. So much potential. He has never met anyone quite like Severus before. The eyes are almost unnatural, with their complete absence of light. Perfect.

“Perhaps just this time I can let it go.”

Severus says nothing, and Lucius places a hand on his cheek. He feels it scald his face, until he is sure it will leave a mark. Lucius smiles. It does not reach his eyes.

Strange. Such warm skin, but cold eyes. If the old saying is to be believed, it must be winter in Lucius’ soul.

“You intrigue me. Come and visit me tomorrow afternoon after lessons. We can speak some more.”

It is not a request.

Back in his dormitory, Severus sits on his bed fully dressed, amid the quiet snores of his housemates.

A sob chokes him, breath rushing unevenly, vision swimming. It comes as soat oat of a shock. Eyes hot, liquid dousing the fire on his cheek where Lucius touched him. He swallows.

It’s better now. Because he can feel again.



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