Little seed of evil

Little seed of evil

Disclaimers: Harry James Potter and all other characters from that same universe belong to JK Rowling. However, the plot is mine.

Rating: R maynge nge in the future. Even I don’t know where this story is going. It may turn to Slash, may turn to abuse … I don’t know…

Summary: An adult, tired Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts for the Defence Against the Dark Arts position after facing a lot of emotional dilemmas.
Lyrics belong to The Verve. Matches wondely wly well with this story.

And now … I gotta get a move on. This story has far from really begun.
:S A lotta work (instead of a lotta love)

Little seed of evil – Chapter ten – Bittersweet symphony

Well I never pray

But tonight I\'m on my knees yeah

I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah

I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now

But the airways are clean and there\'s nobody singing to me now

Yes, Harry James Potter was praying. Down on his sore and painful knees, hands clasped tight around the other one, praying in the Muggle fashion he had so long ago abandoned.

Not that he was praying to God. This almighty Muggle fictional figure didn’t mean anything to him. He was praying to people he’d lost long ago; friends, family and partners, in the hope they could give him redemption for what he’d done, one thing Albus Dumbledore would not.

He was badly shaken, but would not let it show. Right after Snape had left his chambers, he had sunken down onto the majestic carpet, and clasped his hands together for prayer.

The words had come to him like there was no end; he had begged and begged, hoping that some ghost appear from the realm they were caught in, it be heaven or hell, or some substantial realm in between. He was those words to his estranged parents, people he had never known and never would, to Sirius, to Molly Weasley and most importantly; Ron Weasley.

Ron Weasley, who had never gotten the chance to grow old. It saddened him most of times, when not drunk on Muggle liquor or Witches brew, and right now his death fell down hard.

But this changed nothing to the fact that Harry James Potter was down on his knees, praying.

He was afraid.
When he turned his wrist ever so slightly, the fabric fell away, and he could see the bandage marking the place where a wound had been. It no longer was, thanks to the magical skills of Poppy Pomfrey.

The desire was so strong … and Gods , they knew he was weak right now.
He could almost imagine the metal blade of the sharp knife shining in the moonlight, cutting this pale, vulnerable flesh ever so smoothly, ever so careful.

But he knew that he could no longer do this. He was tired of spells, sick of potions to hide his scars. And he knew there were much more then they could see. And he was almost certain that he would have to account for it, right there in Dumbledore’s office.

The hour was late, and he was tired yes, but he knew that sleep would not come at all, no matter how much he tried. And a potion he would not take; it would make him delve too deep into his thoughts and nightmares, too far.

Was he furious? He could not say. He had all reason to, of course. But it had been partially his fault. Snape had done what every man would have done if one saw a man suffering in front of his own eyes. It didn’t quite matter if you had hated to particular person dearly the past years. He knew that much. No man can stand true suffering.

And perhaps he had suffered badly, in Snape’s eyes. But everyday’s routine had somewhat dulled to pain to an annoying blur. Except when the Dark mark came. Then there was no holding back the grimaces of pain. The only thing that could numb the pain then was the comforting bottle of liquor.

And Snape had not understood that. Yes, he had understood when he saw the Dark mark.

He relieved his strained hands from their grasp, and slowly got up from the warm, soft carpet, to merely sit down in the arm chair, the only thing that had moved with him from hide-out to hide-out.

Perhaps he had grown used to the lack of sleep; years of ill sleeping made routine. He could only sleep when there was someone keeping watch. In years past it had been Ron, Hermione and Lex, short for Alexander.

Lex was an auror , having signed for Fudge’s mission. Closest partners they had been, and they had trusted each other with their own life.

But Lex was gone now, as was Ron. The memory was painful, the pain too fresh.

His hand reached out for his bottle of Witches brew, but he abondoned the idea. He needed to be fresh tomorrow.

Hangovers didn’t bother him; rumours did. There would be enough rumours tomorrow, with the students getting the ‘heroic’ Harry Potter as a DADA teacher. He had expectations to fullfill; and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at all.

Daylight came sooner then he though it would be. What meant that the day was to begin soon.

After standing up from that oh so comfortable chair , stretching his sore muscles, he looked into the mirror. Not a magically enhanced mirror, no. He had gotten enough of screaming mirrors years ago. This was a plain muggle one, with a baroque gilt frame.

He looked bad. He looked like any old man that seemed to to fall over at anyy moment.
He looked like a drunk. Or an insommiac.

In fact, he looked much like Remus Lupin in his old days, the ‘good’ old days of his life.

Torn robes, scarred face, unkempt hair … He had become his own worst nightmare.

Nobody wanted to become the very mixed image of their deadfather, mother and godfather.
And yet he had become that very image.

Only one thing seemed important to him now, how silly it ever sounded; he needed a shower.

It would soothen his strained muscles, relieve the pain, and make him forget the world for a very short moment.

He removed his robes, and threw them aside, never looking where they ended up. His boxers remained on his body. Even though he was alone here, he had the feeling that still some decency was allowed.

The hot shower beam had worked like a charm. He almost felt like a new man … for so far it was possible. As he stepped out of the shower, with faint regret in the heart that he had to abandon it so very soon, he carefully stepped out into his living quarters.

At first glance, he only saw a red path lying across his bed. Nearing closer to the path, it turned out to be a pair of robes. New robes, because he had not ever possessed a set of robes like this in his whole life. Not in this fabric, not in thick, heavy velvet. Not this finely made. A small card lay upon the robes. Harry recognized the hand writing immediately.

Dumbledore.

It was an easy decision to make; if he would wear these robes, he would show him that he was subdient. A follower. A slave.

He went to one of his battered trunks and selected out of the robes he had, the most faded and worn of them all. It would tell him that he was not at all planning to play the slave.

Not after having been one for so many years.

It was his oldest pair; plain black fabric, not in velvet or any of that sort. Just plain, durable fabric. But one fight had seemed enough to demolish it. So he had stitched the pieces back together with a wave of his wand. He could not part from clothing that fit him perfectly, or paid for himself.

The bloodstains were since long gone, removed by magic, but he knew that they were there.

They simply were.

Lex’s blood must be on this robe somewhere as well. This piece of worn fabric had one meaning; the gruesome meaning of death. He had been wearing them when he saw The Burrow go up in flames; he still had been wearing it as he tried to soothe Hermione, screaming in pain as the magic burned deeper and deeper into her skin.

Black was good. Black was evil. The color black. Now he partially understood why Severus Snape always wore black; he mourned. But about what? That must be his biggest secret.

He grabbed the books he had selected for his students, and made his way to the Great Hall.

Early risers from the different houses already were gawking at the mere sight of him, which brought a little smile to his lips. What would Dumbledore’s reaction be?

Would it be anger? Would it be dissapointement? He seriously didn’t know, how secretly he hoped that The Headmaster would be furious. Yet that chance was small.

He sat himself down on the very spot where he had been drinking last night; next to Poppy Pomfrey. She was’t here. Ah well.

He couldn’t be bothered.