Little seed of evil
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
11
Views:
9,341
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
11
Views:
9,341
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Open my eyes
Little seed of evil – Chapter eight – Open my eyes
Albus Dumbledore had remained his calm self when Severus Snape suddenly stormed inside, his black robes floating behind him, with a look that told him immediately that something was gravely wrong.
“It concerns Harry Potter. He is not well. Poppy Pomfrey suggested you should come, as you should see for yourself.”
The potions master had spoken calmly, as if almost nothing was wrong, but his eyes told a whole different story. He’d recognize that look everywhere. He had seen it several, numerous times before.
Something was more than gravely wrong.
“I am coming.”
Theionsions master led him through the empty, dimly lit hallways to Harry Potter’s rooms in the dungeons, where barely someone came. Before the portrait hole, depicting the peaceful scenery of a landscape in Ireland with a rather attractive damsel on it, Dumbledore paused for a second, not out of exhaustion, but merely out of respect.
This concerned Harry Potter; The-boy-who-lived, the young man who had defeated Voldemort with the simplest spell a wizard could come up with, man man who had disappeared for sixteen years and finally had shown up in Diagon Alley.
He had not yet spoken to Harry as he had been planning to; he had indeed arrived with the Hogwarts express, and had been escorted to his rooms before Dumbledore had even gotten the chance to mutter a single word.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped through the portrait hole, and noticed Poppy Pomfrey muttering over the unconscious body of the former auror, trying to figure out what she could about his wounds or injuries, might he have any.
And these rooms … He was convinced of the fact that he had not given Harry chambers like these; the ones he had given him had been decorated in the colours of Gryffindor, with a four poster bed fit for a king, with all the luxuries that a man could ever need.
Not this. Not a room that looked like it could be the dingiest motel room in Knockturn alley, not even fit for a rat.
“Albus!”
The voice of Poppy Pomfrey made him tear his eyes away from this awful room, and his gaze rested on the limp body of Harry James Potter. He indeed did not look well; he had noticed the scars on his face, but had not thought there would be more. Not that much.
Moody. Sirius. Those two names crossed his mind as he neared the small bed. He looked like a combination of those two persons of the past, two people the boy had adored and had looked up to during his teenage years.
It almost seemed that he had donis wis willingly; that he had exposed his body to many combats and had received these scars as to prove that he was strong and brave enough.
Of course he, Albus Dumbledore, did not know Harry’s motives. He could only guess. And guessing was one thing he had become good in during the years.
The scars on his chest looked like they had been hard to heal, and when he looked further down below the grey, worn boxers, he saw that even his legs looked like a map of all the rivers of Great Britain, marked with scars of all sizes, of all origins.
One of them looked like the result of claws of a werewoeetieeting that pale, tender flesh. Another one was from a sword. Another one from a Hixety spell.
There were more, too much to properly identify, or count.
In how a poor, mutilated state that this boy was in. Dumbledore sighed a loud, causing Pomfrey to look up from her patient, her care forgotten for a single second.
“Look at this, Albus.”
She carefully grabbed the limp left arm of the man and turned it slightly, so he was able to see what scar had been hidden there; a bit further from his wrist, was a mark that could not be denied. He had seen it a few times before, only in Azbakan, under the greatest protection from the Dementors. For the bearers of that mark were strong, powerful.
The Death Eaters mark. On Harry Potter’s arm.
“Do whatever you can to help his discomfort, Poppy.”
The elderly, plump woman nodded shortly before she reached for her bag and took out a greenish looking salve; with no doubt meant to soothe his other scars, who looked like those who could never completely heal; Dumbledore had a few of those as well, though not as many as the-boy-who-lived.
“Severus, I want you to go with me.”
The potions master nodded. He knew that the former death eater had done exactly the same thing he had done; observe Potter’s body in full amazement, in silence, out of respect.
And shock.
For Harry Potter was a death eater.
Albus Dumbledore had remained his calm self when Severus Snape suddenly stormed inside, his black robes floating behind him, with a look that told him immediately that something was gravely wrong.
“It concerns Harry Potter. He is not well. Poppy Pomfrey suggested you should come, as you should see for yourself.”
The potions master had spoken calmly, as if almost nothing was wrong, but his eyes told a whole different story. He’d recognize that look everywhere. He had seen it several, numerous times before.
Something was more than gravely wrong.
“I am coming.”
Theionsions master led him through the empty, dimly lit hallways to Harry Potter’s rooms in the dungeons, where barely someone came. Before the portrait hole, depicting the peaceful scenery of a landscape in Ireland with a rather attractive damsel on it, Dumbledore paused for a second, not out of exhaustion, but merely out of respect.
This concerned Harry Potter; The-boy-who-lived, the young man who had defeated Voldemort with the simplest spell a wizard could come up with, man man who had disappeared for sixteen years and finally had shown up in Diagon Alley.
He had not yet spoken to Harry as he had been planning to; he had indeed arrived with the Hogwarts express, and had been escorted to his rooms before Dumbledore had even gotten the chance to mutter a single word.
Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped through the portrait hole, and noticed Poppy Pomfrey muttering over the unconscious body of the former auror, trying to figure out what she could about his wounds or injuries, might he have any.
And these rooms … He was convinced of the fact that he had not given Harry chambers like these; the ones he had given him had been decorated in the colours of Gryffindor, with a four poster bed fit for a king, with all the luxuries that a man could ever need.
Not this. Not a room that looked like it could be the dingiest motel room in Knockturn alley, not even fit for a rat.
“Albus!”
The voice of Poppy Pomfrey made him tear his eyes away from this awful room, and his gaze rested on the limp body of Harry James Potter. He indeed did not look well; he had noticed the scars on his face, but had not thought there would be more. Not that much.
Moody. Sirius. Those two names crossed his mind as he neared the small bed. He looked like a combination of those two persons of the past, two people the boy had adored and had looked up to during his teenage years.
It almost seemed that he had donis wis willingly; that he had exposed his body to many combats and had received these scars as to prove that he was strong and brave enough.
Of course he, Albus Dumbledore, did not know Harry’s motives. He could only guess. And guessing was one thing he had become good in during the years.
The scars on his chest looked like they had been hard to heal, and when he looked further down below the grey, worn boxers, he saw that even his legs looked like a map of all the rivers of Great Britain, marked with scars of all sizes, of all origins.
One of them looked like the result of claws of a werewoeetieeting that pale, tender flesh. Another one was from a sword. Another one from a Hixety spell.
There were more, too much to properly identify, or count.
In how a poor, mutilated state that this boy was in. Dumbledore sighed a loud, causing Pomfrey to look up from her patient, her care forgotten for a single second.
“Look at this, Albus.”
She carefully grabbed the limp left arm of the man and turned it slightly, so he was able to see what scar had been hidden there; a bit further from his wrist, was a mark that could not be denied. He had seen it a few times before, only in Azbakan, under the greatest protection from the Dementors. For the bearers of that mark were strong, powerful.
The Death Eaters mark. On Harry Potter’s arm.
“Do whatever you can to help his discomfort, Poppy.”
The elderly, plump woman nodded shortly before she reached for her bag and took out a greenish looking salve; with no doubt meant to soothe his other scars, who looked like those who could never completely heal; Dumbledore had a few of those as well, though not as many as the-boy-who-lived.
“Severus, I want you to go with me.”
The potions master nodded. He knew that the former death eater had done exactly the same thing he had done; observe Potter’s body in full amazement, in silence, out of respect.
And shock.
For Harry Potter was a death eater.