This Place of Wrath and Tears

Part One: The Book of the Fall- Spider

Disclaimer: Not mine, but I wish they were. Title is from W.E. Henley's "Invictus," and John Milton and his works are lovingly borrowed.

Takes place after “Slow Hands.”

AN: My greatest apologies to those who read this and were confused as hell. And for my truly god-awful-disgustingly-unforgiveable sloppiness in changing tenses mid-paragraph. I gave no warning, but this scene takes place in the middle of the fic, so you aren't really meant to know exactly what's happening. The book Snape is holding is actually "Paradise Lost," and if I were a better writer I'd have pointed that out. Apologies again, and thanks to sunnypeach, deeble, and joAnNe for pointing out my errors.

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Thread to thread to thread, the web stretched from damp ceiling to wall as a gossamer shroud over the low sconce, and the flicker of the torch sent beads of light racing along the strands, dancing from one concentric polygon to another. Its creator lay in patient watch at the center, making small corrections and connections among the filaments in preparation for the next insect to heed the siren call of the torchlight.

Snape, seated almost against the wall in the darkened room, stared up past the spider, cradling the book- her book, his gift to her- on his lap. He should have been cursing this book, for it has taken her away, but he cannot. Books and all they represent were the closest physical object to her, this one in particular distinct what he’d wished to impart to her through it; knowledge of himself and the darkness in which he resided. He’d been successful in that quarter, but at far too great a coStilStill, he treasured this link to her, and considered himself fortunate to be in possession of it. He'd wondered if Dumbledore had witnessed his theft of the small volume in the chaos following her disappearance. Probably not, as the old man has been fading, slipping in the power and omniscience he purportedly wields. If not for her, he might have considered finally casting his lot in with the other side.

His hand slid over the bin ain a manner obscene in its reverence and care, and he remembered the taste and texture of her smooth skin. The leather of the cover became the soft cotton of her shirt, and he rubbed his fingers in slow circles over it as he had across her back, recreating each miniature valley and mountain of her ribs and vertebrae meticulously committed to sensory memory. His fingers caressed the light curves of the binding, imagining the swell of the breast he had yet to touch. His hand curled around the book’s edge as it would her waist, his thumb stretching downward, inward-

The play of light and shadow from the movement of the web broke through his reverie, and he watched the spider stalk on long, banded legs toward the newly ensnared moth struggling among the fibers. The moth’s white wings thrashed against the cords, snapping one, then another, as the spider swung itself across the rings, its chelicera quivering in anticipation, drawing closer, almost within reach-

The final thread holding the moth broke just as the spider’s foreleg brushed against it, and the insect fluttered wildly away from the web past Snape, melting into the darkness. Mildly disappointed, the spider began the process of reattaching and strengthening the network of fibers around the breach. Without moving from his chair, Snape reached a hand up to the web, brushing a long finger against the spider’s large mottled abdomen with enough force to dislodge it from its perch. The spider tumbled down the back of his hand until sinking its claws into the skin between his third and fourth carpal. Snape focused on the glittering octet of eyes as the creature bit into his hand just beneath the knuckle, not flinching at the slight sting. Both man and beast remained immobile for a long moment before Snape raised his hand up level to the web, and the spider crawled over his fingers back to its labyrinth.

He brought his hand to rest over the book, relishing the slowly rising throb even as the skin began to blister around the twin red marks. He flexed the hand othe the book, forcing tiny droplets of blood to bead on his hand.

She will return soon. If not-

No. There was no other possibility.

Until she returns, he will wait.

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AN: Hey all. Sorry this took so frickin long to post, but I’ve been really busy the past month and a half. I have pretty much the whole story up in my head, but it has to be dragged kicking and screaming onto the paper. Thanks to the loads of wonderful people giving me kick @$$ feedback, the most vivid being “Holy bouncing christ on a pogo stick,” though all were treasured like Dove bars, Godiva even. Rest assured, your comments were lovingly read as many times as I could load the page. I just hope I don’t let you down.

I’m fairly certain that I’ll be able to update this faster than once a month (fingers crossed), and I’m looking for a beta with some familiarity with the works of John Milton, if you’re interested. I know you’re thinking “enough of this inane chatter” if you already haven’t stopped reading it, so I’ll conclude by apologizing if this story confuses anyone, as it will be somewhat non-linear, though I’ll try to make it as comprehensible as possible.

Thanks all. Feedback is still adored, if you’re willing to leave it.