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Three things about Severus Snape. (From the Corvus Fallere universe) written fordixiebell12

Spoilery for Corvus Fallere books one and two. :D

1) Snape has become a morning person.

It happened gradually. Before the Lord's victory, he would have hexed anyone to suggest such a thing. His classes never started before 9 am, and, even then, it was all he could do to drag himself from his bed to pour knowledge into the cracked and broken vessels of his student's heads. Even the comforting darkness and comparative silence of the dungeons shattered into a hundred thousand echoed shouts and bouncing laughter, of thunderous bookfalls and rushing bootsoles by 9 am, and the peace of his sleep was irreparably shattered.

No one ever commented about his bad moods in the morning, however; whether from fear or from the fact that his mood never actually improved as the day wore on, he couldn't be bothered to discover.

But now the castle rang only with silence for most of the day. His laboratory, the massive re-purposing of the main hall and some of the larger classrooms, was active at all hours, and the soothing sounds of chopping, grinding and bubbling cauldrons overlaid the hushed voices of his workforce. He often took a mug of tea and walked the floor, asking questions and correcting mistakes. They worked in shifts, carefully noting progress on various potions on the clipboards attached to each workstation, so that the next shift would know where to pick up the work. Even the experimental section was scrupulously laid out, with protection charms separating each section, and frequent safety barriers to dive behind if the need arose. The lab was never silent.

Nor were the workers' dorms quiet, he supposed, tucked into the old Hufflepuff area, though he respected their privacy and rarely went there. The Ravenclaw dorms, filled with his Coraxis, rang with laughter that only he and the Coraxis could understand, and he went there when he couldn't stand the sound of human voices any more. Nearer still, in the Slytherin rooms, his Corvatica slept and studied, close at hand and protected. The large window into the belly of the lake absorbed any noises they made.

The Gryffindor rooms held no one at all.

His late night skulks through the castle from Before were to find some peace and quiet. Now, he found himself waking earlier and earlier, throwing back his blanket and stalking the castle in robe and bare feet, trying to convince himself that the only reason he couldn't hear the sound of children's feet was because of the unholy hour.

Somedays, he almost could do it.

2) Snape has a hobby.

He doesn't consider it such, of course. Merely a collection of like items, kept and held in a cabinet. Mementos, of a sort. Once a month, he sends his caretakers away, despite their clicking and ruffled displeasure, and takes out his collection, one by one, to clean. The Coraxis don't like seeing him do what they consider 'bird work', but these are his alone, and he alone will care for them.

Each fragment of shell is carefully dusted and inspected for new cracks. He checks that the gold numbering hasn't rubbed off against the wooden holder, and that the small portriate spelled inside is still moving. It takes him all day, but all 1200 shells are cared for. The oldest, the ones inscribed with only two digits, are curved sharply, and he can remember the first attempts. Many of them failed, and he touches those shells softly, apologetically. Numbers 20 through 25, his first success, and he remembers them, small enough that they could still fly, just different enough from real crows that he had to hid them. He didn't weep when they failed, all of a sudden, one of them falling from the sky with a gasp and the others plummeting down, 1,2,3,4. He didn't weep, but there were no more shells in the cabinet for almost a year.

When he tried again, he did not fail.

3) Snape doesn't have sex for fun, anymore.

Not that he every really did in the first place. But the concept of sex for fun, for pleasure and no other purpose, was there as he grew up. His painful schoolboy crush had certainly caused him to dwell on it. But he hadn't so much lost his virginity as bartered it away for a practical purpose, and after that he could see little practical use in it. It could be a commodity, or a tool of control, or a beginning chip, but to squander it for no reason, for the paltry and sorted reason that it was fun was ridiculous.

Like any tool at one's disposal, however, it was dangerous if one didn't know how to use it. Any tool could be turned against you if you didn't know how to use it properly. And as time went on, he learned that others didn't know how to use it, and turned it against them. The pleasure he gained from that was what he supposed others got from the act itself. He learned how to turn others against themselves without them even knowing it, and reveled in that power.

After the Dark Lord's victory, he carved a place for himself. His potions were needed, of course, but he saw others clumsily wielding sexuality against the newly fallen, and could hardly stand to watch it. He went to one of the actions and, just to spite that imbecile Hystrix, bought an angry young man.

It took him a while, but he taught the young man, whom he named Odín, to use the only weapon he had left. Other young men, other weapons taught, and slowly his organization grew, and he realized that he had a chance, just a chance.

And then, just when he was starting to place the players for his plan, they showed up. Caught, and penned like so many hogs, and, all of a sudden, his plan changed. This was like being given a rusty sword by your jailer to use to cut bread without him realizing that you would stab him with it, and for weeks after he snatched him up he waited for the reprisal, the punishment. It had to have been a trap, because no one, not even the dark lord, could be this arrogant, this sure of his own invincibility.

But no reprisal came, and he began the task of sharpening his sword. It took a long time, and he was unsurprised that he cut himself on it, unsurprised that he was bleeding as he shaped him, shaped them, and he grit his teeth and finished his task. He had done his best to make sure they wouldn't break, wouldn't snap and splinter under the final blow, but you could never tell. He did his best.

And afterward, as he watched them flee into the forest, he wondered who else they would cut. A sword, once sharpened, takes a long time to dull.


Oct. 7th, 2007 05:46 am (UTC)
lol, very good! Braking my heart makes me happy, that sounded odd.