Me Mateys!
Nov. 3rd, 2004 01:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skoosiepantsAll right y'all. Here is a special sneak peek of what I've written for Nighthawk Nine because it's what I consider somewhat crucial - at least for Blaise's character, if not the actual storyline. HOWEVER, I'm not exactly sure it's coming off right. So you must give me your opinions. And I will love you forever.
****
The grounds of Hogwarts were bare, a frozen December rain coating nearly everything with a thin sheet of ice, the gray sky lending a dull, foggy cast to the air. Blaise never liked going back to the old castle, and the weather seemed to obligingly match his mood.
Mainly, it was because the students - lively and carefree in a way that he’d never been able to be - always made him feel old. They hadn’t had to suffer a war, nor nearly as many years of uncertainty, having been mostly babies when Potter had killed Voldemort for the last time. He suffered pangs of jealousy and nostalgia with an unmistakable ache in his heart.
Consequently, he walked up from Hogsmeade with a fatalistic air, dreading his meeting with Severus and hoping to avoid Dumbledore, as the man had the uncanny ability to know, just by looking at him, that he’d been up to no good. He’d always been able to do that, and Blaise had often, as a teenager, found himself confessing to any wrongdoings he’d participated in whenever he’d been cornered by the man’s gaze.
He’d learned how to hold his tongue, of course, but that didn’t make him feel any less guilty when in the old wizard’s presence.
The castle was not quite as chilly as the outside, but a dampness permeated the stones, and Blaise shivered and kept his cloak tight about him as he stalked down the familiar path to the dungeons. Severus opened the door on the third knock, one brow raised and somehow managing to look down his hooked nose at him, despite being of like height.
“You’re early, Mr. Zabini,” he drawled before stepping back and gesturing Blaise inside.
Blaise clenched his teeth in mute irritation. “Hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all.” Snape’s black eyes seemed to say otherwise. “Tea?”
He nodded and followed the man to a small sitting area in front of his brightly burning hearth, tea and biscuits already set out on the table, as well as some toast and jam. He’d obviously interrupted the man’s breakfast. It couldn’t be helped, though, as Potter was covering his morning shift after a long night, and Blaise had assured him he’d be back within the hour.
As he lowered himself onto a worn sofa, the Potions Master watched him with those unnaturally hawk-like eyes, his mouth settled in a grim line, his disapproval blatant.
“What?” Blaise snapped, uncharacteristically nettled.
Both of the older man’s brows rose, expression simultaneously questioning and mocking, and long fingers curled around his teacup, lifting it to his mouth for a leisurely sip. “What?” he echoed drolly.
Blaise sighed and sank down further into the sofa. “You hate me. We both know this. I just,” he waved his hand, “have no idea why.”
A dry, un-amused chuckle slipped past Severus’ lips. “And this bothers you? How disturbingly Hufflepuff.”
Blaise snorted and rubbed a hand over his eyes. It wouldn’t bother him, normally, but his old Head of House had been a hugely influential figure in his past, and he couldn’t help the raw feeling of failure that clawed at his brain. Obviously, he hadn’t made this man proud. And, equally obvious, Severus’ approval weighed a lot heavier on Blaise than his parents’ ever had.
“So you want to know why, do you?” Severus murmured, swirling his cup and staring at him speculatively. “Perhaps because I see too much of myself in you,” he went on with unusual candor. “You’ve let the choices you made rule your life.”
“What?” Blaise asked stupidly, eyes wide. He never really expected Snape to explain himself. The dark man had always been deliberately laconic, and the rush of words caught Blaise off guard, to say the very least.
“Guilt,” he snapped. “You feel guilty, do you not, for not taking more action before? And now you devote your entire existence to fighting Dark Magic. Yes, Mr. Zabini,” he added when Blaise had opened his mouth to protest, “I know what you’ve been doing over the years, if not the particulars. Tell me, if you didn’t find a compelling enough reason to fight in the War, what could possibly have changed, that you’ve so whole-heartedly thrown yourself into this cause?”
Blaise stared at him mutely. He honestly couldn’t say.
“Exactly,” Severus bit out derisively. “Guilt. You’re wasting your life, just as I’ve wasted mine.”
It wasn’t true. Blaise knew it. He wasn’t wasting his life on anything. He was living it. Adventure. Intrigue. And it had nothing to do with the war he hadn’t fought in. If he felt any residual guilt for that decision, it didn’t make any difference on the work he did.
“What drives you?” Snape asked, his tone genuinely curious if still edged with disgust. He shifted in the leather armchair, carefully placing his cup back on the coffee table and letting his hands fall on his knees, eyes locked all the while on Blaise. “I have my debt owed to Dumbledore. My sins to atone for. I was a Death Eater, Mr. Zabini, and I’ve paid for that mistake nearly everyday of my life. What are you paying for?”
The silence was tense and accusing. “Pansy fought with Potter,” Blaise said finally, his voice low and thick. And Merlin, thinking back on it, how he’d admired her for that. He had. Pansy. Cutting and sarcastic and rude and hateful. She’d fought with all the anger and enthusiasm she’d exhibited in torturing first-years, surprising all with her vehemence against the Dark. She hadn’t believed whole-heartedly in the Order, but she’d believed in the fight, in the immediacy of action.
“And she died for it,” Snape pointed out bluntly, acknowledging the small phrase for the confession it was. “I suppose you think that made her better than you, boy, but she’s dead. And you, Mr. Zabini, are most certainly not.”
Guilt. Guilt had made him a recluse. A masked avenger. The concept really wasn’t so foreign, not when he really thought about it. And neither was Severus’ contempt for him because of it. Snape had made far worse choices than him as a boy. He’d killed and raped and done unspeakable things that would gleefully rip at his soul until the end of time.
“I… I was a child then,” Blaise said softly.
“Yes,” Severus affirmed. “Yes, you were.” And Blaise knew what he was thinking. Knew that children who lived through what they had, the first and second coming of Voldemort, were hardly innocents. And that Blaise’s choice had been infinitely less damning than Snape’s.
“No wonder you hate me.”
“Hate is an emotion I can no longer afford.” Getting to his feet, Severus paced the length of his room and came back towards Blaise with a small green bottle between his fingers. “Neither is envy. Be sure not to let Miss Granger swallow the whole thing at once.”
“How did you—“
“She was exhibiting all the symptoms when she visited last,” Severus cut in brusquely. “It wasn’t a hard won conclusion.”
****
At this rate, you'll have read the entire chapter in pieces before I ever post :)
****
The grounds of Hogwarts were bare, a frozen December rain coating nearly everything with a thin sheet of ice, the gray sky lending a dull, foggy cast to the air. Blaise never liked going back to the old castle, and the weather seemed to obligingly match his mood.
Mainly, it was because the students - lively and carefree in a way that he’d never been able to be - always made him feel old. They hadn’t had to suffer a war, nor nearly as many years of uncertainty, having been mostly babies when Potter had killed Voldemort for the last time. He suffered pangs of jealousy and nostalgia with an unmistakable ache in his heart.
Consequently, he walked up from Hogsmeade with a fatalistic air, dreading his meeting with Severus and hoping to avoid Dumbledore, as the man had the uncanny ability to know, just by looking at him, that he’d been up to no good. He’d always been able to do that, and Blaise had often, as a teenager, found himself confessing to any wrongdoings he’d participated in whenever he’d been cornered by the man’s gaze.
He’d learned how to hold his tongue, of course, but that didn’t make him feel any less guilty when in the old wizard’s presence.
The castle was not quite as chilly as the outside, but a dampness permeated the stones, and Blaise shivered and kept his cloak tight about him as he stalked down the familiar path to the dungeons. Severus opened the door on the third knock, one brow raised and somehow managing to look down his hooked nose at him, despite being of like height.
“You’re early, Mr. Zabini,” he drawled before stepping back and gesturing Blaise inside.
Blaise clenched his teeth in mute irritation. “Hope that isn’t a problem.”
“Not at all.” Snape’s black eyes seemed to say otherwise. “Tea?”
He nodded and followed the man to a small sitting area in front of his brightly burning hearth, tea and biscuits already set out on the table, as well as some toast and jam. He’d obviously interrupted the man’s breakfast. It couldn’t be helped, though, as Potter was covering his morning shift after a long night, and Blaise had assured him he’d be back within the hour.
As he lowered himself onto a worn sofa, the Potions Master watched him with those unnaturally hawk-like eyes, his mouth settled in a grim line, his disapproval blatant.
“What?” Blaise snapped, uncharacteristically nettled.
Both of the older man’s brows rose, expression simultaneously questioning and mocking, and long fingers curled around his teacup, lifting it to his mouth for a leisurely sip. “What?” he echoed drolly.
Blaise sighed and sank down further into the sofa. “You hate me. We both know this. I just,” he waved his hand, “have no idea why.”
A dry, un-amused chuckle slipped past Severus’ lips. “And this bothers you? How disturbingly Hufflepuff.”
Blaise snorted and rubbed a hand over his eyes. It wouldn’t bother him, normally, but his old Head of House had been a hugely influential figure in his past, and he couldn’t help the raw feeling of failure that clawed at his brain. Obviously, he hadn’t made this man proud. And, equally obvious, Severus’ approval weighed a lot heavier on Blaise than his parents’ ever had.
“So you want to know why, do you?” Severus murmured, swirling his cup and staring at him speculatively. “Perhaps because I see too much of myself in you,” he went on with unusual candor. “You’ve let the choices you made rule your life.”
“What?” Blaise asked stupidly, eyes wide. He never really expected Snape to explain himself. The dark man had always been deliberately laconic, and the rush of words caught Blaise off guard, to say the very least.
“Guilt,” he snapped. “You feel guilty, do you not, for not taking more action before? And now you devote your entire existence to fighting Dark Magic. Yes, Mr. Zabini,” he added when Blaise had opened his mouth to protest, “I know what you’ve been doing over the years, if not the particulars. Tell me, if you didn’t find a compelling enough reason to fight in the War, what could possibly have changed, that you’ve so whole-heartedly thrown yourself into this cause?”
Blaise stared at him mutely. He honestly couldn’t say.
“Exactly,” Severus bit out derisively. “Guilt. You’re wasting your life, just as I’ve wasted mine.”
It wasn’t true. Blaise knew it. He wasn’t wasting his life on anything. He was living it. Adventure. Intrigue. And it had nothing to do with the war he hadn’t fought in. If he felt any residual guilt for that decision, it didn’t make any difference on the work he did.
“What drives you?” Snape asked, his tone genuinely curious if still edged with disgust. He shifted in the leather armchair, carefully placing his cup back on the coffee table and letting his hands fall on his knees, eyes locked all the while on Blaise. “I have my debt owed to Dumbledore. My sins to atone for. I was a Death Eater, Mr. Zabini, and I’ve paid for that mistake nearly everyday of my life. What are you paying for?”
The silence was tense and accusing. “Pansy fought with Potter,” Blaise said finally, his voice low and thick. And Merlin, thinking back on it, how he’d admired her for that. He had. Pansy. Cutting and sarcastic and rude and hateful. She’d fought with all the anger and enthusiasm she’d exhibited in torturing first-years, surprising all with her vehemence against the Dark. She hadn’t believed whole-heartedly in the Order, but she’d believed in the fight, in the immediacy of action.
“And she died for it,” Snape pointed out bluntly, acknowledging the small phrase for the confession it was. “I suppose you think that made her better than you, boy, but she’s dead. And you, Mr. Zabini, are most certainly not.”
Guilt. Guilt had made him a recluse. A masked avenger. The concept really wasn’t so foreign, not when he really thought about it. And neither was Severus’ contempt for him because of it. Snape had made far worse choices than him as a boy. He’d killed and raped and done unspeakable things that would gleefully rip at his soul until the end of time.
“I… I was a child then,” Blaise said softly.
“Yes,” Severus affirmed. “Yes, you were.” And Blaise knew what he was thinking. Knew that children who lived through what they had, the first and second coming of Voldemort, were hardly innocents. And that Blaise’s choice had been infinitely less damning than Snape’s.
“No wonder you hate me.”
“Hate is an emotion I can no longer afford.” Getting to his feet, Severus paced the length of his room and came back towards Blaise with a small green bottle between his fingers. “Neither is envy. Be sure not to let Miss Granger swallow the whole thing at once.”
“How did you—“
“She was exhibiting all the symptoms when she visited last,” Severus cut in brusquely. “It wasn’t a hard won conclusion.”
****
At this rate, you'll have read the entire chapter in pieces before I ever post :)
