Bother

Wish I was too dead to cry
My self-affliction fades
Stones to throw at my creator
Masochists to which I cater

I knew better. I did. I tried to stop myself. Tried to stop my traitorous, weak, desperate body from acting-- tried to stop him from getting so close.

Him. I hate him. Die, old man, die and rot. I would not cry. I would gladly throw stones at you-- isn't that what we do with saints? Saint Albus Fucking Dumbledore. My Creator-God-- and my torturer.

You made me this. You are responsible. I repeat it over and over and over. It remains, at best, a half-truth.

There is too much light here in your chambers, old man. It slashes at my retinas and sears my soul. Too much light, and too much white. White sheets and white pillows and white walls. I'm fairly sure you brought the linens up from the infirmary. Didn't want me soiling your bedclothes, Albus?

You come in every day. Often every hour. To check on me. You don't speak much and your eyes do not meet mine. I glare at you and I say nothing. I haven't since I woke up here, in your bedroom, and realized you had not had the decency to let me die. Three days ago now.

Masochist. Even Voldemort, even he, would never have stopped me from taking my own life. You are crueler than he. Damn you.

And in this infinite cruelty of yours, you come in and 'check on me.' You call it concern and you mean so very well. Hah.

Don't bother, Headmaster. Really. I'm fine. Fuck off.

Don't bother. 

You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on,
I won't let go 'til it bleeds

Wish I was too dead to care
If indeed I cared at all
Never had a voice to protest
So you fed me shit to digest
I wish I had a reason;
my flaws are open season
For this, I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying 

You brought me books. I ignored them at first, having determined and sworn never to accept one more damned thing from you. But I cannot leave-- your little spells keep me in this room and more or less in this bed-- and boredom, it seems, is a far more potent force than my petty resolution.

The first in the stack is the Bible. I stare at it for a long second, then laugh. I laugh for some time. I know you are in the other room, at your desk; that you can probably hear me. You do not enter at the sound of my laughter. It is the first kindness you have shown me since I threw myself on you in your office, eight days ago.

Well. That's not true. Slapping me was also kind. It was honest, at least, and despite what fools and Gryffindors say about Slytherins, we do indeed appreciate honesty.

I still wish you had let me die. Then I would not have to be, have to deal with this damn burden; the heavy and tiring weight of hating you, of hating me, of hating the world, of hating the summer sun that comes in your windows.

How long do you intend to hold me here? You can't forever, you know. Sooner or later, I'll leave, take my wand back, get out of your damn school. Sooner or later. You can't seriously think of just... keeping me here. That would be keeping a man prisoner, Dumbledore, and that wouldn't be very Gryffindor of you.

I'm still not speaking, to you or anything. I wonder now if I have ever had a voice of my own, or if all my words have merely been either you or Voldemort speaking. Using me as a battleground. Whenever I protest one of you, I am merely acting as the mouthpiece of the other.

(Was acting. Voldemort is dead. Gone.)

Which means you can't feed me war-rhetoric any more, yes? Instead, you give me platitudes about the weather, when you come in. Or off-hand comments about music. Or books. Trite shite. Small talk between strangers.

Despite every thing I do (not speaking, not responding) to let nothing of myself into your claws, I still feel very open in your gaze. I prefer the piercing of the painful sunlight to your eyes, which lay bare my small-mindedness and flaws and defects. All of them fair play for your tactics. Open season on Severus Snape-- let's transform him into something palatable.

For this-- for you and your damned lemon drops and licorice twists-- I gave up my dignity? Gave up my efforts, my last defense, my small, remaining measure of self-respect that let me act like a normal human being?

This is my reward-- this jail-room, these books, you. And I am your reward, Albus. You see what happens when you go around saving lives? No good deed unpunished, and all that.

Wish I'd died instead of lived
A zombie hides my face
Shell forgotten
with its memories
Diaries left
with cryptic entries

I am trapped behind my face. I am trapped behind the hatred you make me wear. Why do you do this? What can you hope to gain from this, other than awkwardness between the both of us? Don't you see, I had the solution? After that one brush of bodies, that one misbegotten meeting of lips in your office, I understood I had fucked things up royally. Not an original occurrence, of course, but I knew what could be done to fix it. I knew-- you'd blame yourself, you'd say something pat and moral, you'd laugh it off, you'd put a distance between us, you'd never mention it again, you'd never be alone in the same room with me again. So. I decided to spare us both the bother.

And then you went and got to me before all the blood got out and my heart stopped, and what the hell was the point? Did you even think? I doubt it. It's your Gryffindor failings again. Save lives-- no matter if it's the intelligent thing to do or not.

And now I'm the one paying for it. Having to keep up this shell, these movements so empty, to spare you the embarrassment, to spare me the humiliation. I keep the memories away. I read the books. I skim journals of wizards and witches dead many many years and envy them. I would prefer to be a memory on a diary page. Preferably one with a lot of expletives and profanity.  

I said thank you for the tea today. I think it was partly me surrendering and partly me hoping you'd have a heart attack. It's been twenty-three days, after all.

But you didn't. You said I was welcome and acted like it was nothing at all. I fumed at you in silence.

You make conversation now. I, knowing I've already lost, answer. Tersely. But I answer. We both sit in the sunny bedroom now, reading quietly.

You don't need to bother with the new books. I only want the old volumes, bound in crackling leather and smelling of age. I wonder if you ever kept a diary? I wonder if you'd let me look at it?

You left my wand with me, this morning. Very casually, on the tea tray. I looked at it, then at you. You smiled slightly. I said something unprintable. You smiled a little bigger.

You've seen the worst of me now, Albus, you truly have. I can't shock you anymore, that much is clear. Perhaps I should relish the memory of The Kiss! as it will no doubt be the last time in my life I ever get a reaction from you, or startle you, or make you hit me. I want to see you angry. Why am I such a perverse little viper?

Even though you've given me the wand back, which to fools might indicate I am trusted once more with my own life, you still watch me covertly. I acknowledge it and accept it because I have no choice in the matter.

But truly, you don't need to bother. It would be... predictable of me. I think I am tired of being predictable.

I seem to slip farther each day. I find myself neglecting the books in favour of staring at you. I find my thoughts moving to you. I find my dreams once more featuring you. My anger at this knows no bounds. I seethe inwardly.

But you sense it. You look up to see my eyes on you. And you smile. And you say nothing.

Damn you!

It is nighttime. Darkness. The sun has gone for now. I stare at the ceiling, in the shadows of this room. A book is open on my chest, unread.

You come in, preceded by the light from your wand. I close my eyes and feign sleep, as if I had a chance in hell of deceiving you.

I can smell you as you move closer. You smell of sunshine and licorice. (God, not more sunshine.) You take the book from off my chest and place it on the table. I wait for you to tuck me in, or some other such infantile shit, and leave.

Instead, I can feel the warmth of your breath by my ear. "I am sorry," you whisper.

"You did what you had to," I feel myself say automatically, and curse the words that leave my mouth. I curse the tears, too, as they trickle from under my closed lids, against my will.

You kiss them away, and my world shatters.

Damn you. Damn you to a hundred hells. I don't want this to come from your pity!

I realize I have said it out loud when you stop for a moment, your warm, dry hand at the side of my face. You say nothing, but I can feel your heartbeat in your wrist. I breathe in raggedly. I manage words; sneering, composed, biting.

"You don't need to bother, Albus. And I don't need to be here--"

You shut me up with your mouth. Shut off my lies, my deceit.

Dawn will find me in your arms, my tears cried out, my skin on yours, the blanket and sheet around us both. You didn't need to bother.

But you did anyways.

You don't need to bother;
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on:
I'll never live down my deceit 

Title: Bother
Author: Lady Dien Alcyone
Rating: R for adult themes, male/male, darkie angstie
Summary: The long-awaited sequel/next installation to Death of Me/Nightshade, Hemlock, Monkshood/Hallelujah. Severus, perhaps, comes to some sort of absolution.
Disclaimer: I'm sure she'd be horrified by what I'm doing, but JKR owns the characters. Stone Sour owns the song Bother.
On with it. *crosses fingers and hopes it lives up*