The House of Rimmon

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My conscience hath a thousand several tongues

                        And every tongue brings in a several tale

                        And every tale condemns me for a villain.

                                                            -Richard III, Act V.iii

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Prologue:  August 3, 1993

34^th day-or is it the 35^th?  (Time is measured by the arrival of my daily meal, and the likelihood that I have missed a count somewhere along the string of days is highly probable) 

A small, disguised blessing has descended upon me.  When I awoke this morning (afternoon? evening?) I discovered a roll of parchment, a miniscule inkwell, and half-deplumed eagle quill propped up against my cell door.  Apparently my gaoler has grown weary of my endless demands, or Dumbledore´s eyesight reaches further than I had imagined.  The squeaky wheel gets the grease, indeed.

Excellent.  Perhaps I shan´t go insane after all.  Not that they haven´t already given it a jolly good run.  The first few weeks-I think they were weeks, who knows, it could have been only days, or hours-I barely stirred from my pallet, motionless in my misery.  Now I pace the length and width of my cell, barely even noticing when the grey-cloaked monstrosities glide past, so lost am I in my thoughts.

Lost in my thoughts.  What a perfectly banal phrase for such a twisted fate.  The mind is a terrible prison, and I myself have become a sadistically capable gaoler.  Who could not be, with such instructors as the Dementors? 

After several weeks of their visits, one no longer has a need for them.  We have become spectacularly adept at torturing ourselves.

I can hear my cellmates groaning in their surrounding cells even as I write.  The stone and iron muffles them, but some words are audible.  "No"-"please"-"God help me" (what a laugh, does God even exist in this forsaken place?)-"forgive me"-agonized screams-"I´m sorry." 

Sorry.  Aren´t we all.

I would say `poor souls,´ but I do not know if their souls remain.

Does mine, I wonder?

Ah, my humble luncheon is served.  Today the consistency of the stew is closer to that of `glue´ rather than the `pond scum´ I received yesterday.  My compliments to the house-elves.  This is the only miniscule pleasure that remains to me, unless one includes the endless counting of my cell´s bricks as a pleasure.  Personally, it has the same repetitive qualities as a Chinese water torture, but it keeps my mind occupied on a totally menial level.

Occupied.

Oh, God.

Occupied?

As if my mind was not already occupied every waking second, every single hour, every single day....

I relive it over and over, every breath, every touch, every miniscule detail that I have tried endlessly to shut out and forget.

But one does not forget here. 

One cannot. 

And with every memory, I die again and again.

I suppose by now I should truly be dead, in the psychological sense as well as the physiological, or at least completely `off my rocker,´ as a certain Defence Against the Dark Arts professor might have said. 

(Damn Lockhart-he received the lighter punishment-who wouldn´t choose death over living hell?)

But I am not dead.  I am very much alive, no matter how much I may wish to choose otherwise at times. 

Perhaps this is because, in the blackest hours of my memory, I can feel the shadow of a mouth upon mine.  Perhaps it is because, through the screams echoing in my head, a faint whisper can be heard:  "I forgave you.  Remember that."

Forgiveness.

Words are hollow and empty, and forgiveness even more so, for here I remain, rotting in the ever-present ghost of memory.  I suppose I should be bitter, yet I am not. 

After all, this is no less than I deserve. 

Hmm, the groans my fellow prisoners have increased.  The Dementors must be making their rounds.  Right on schedule, as per usual.  In a few moments I shall place this quill down and relax upon my pallet to wait for our grey-cloaked guardians to pass.

All the better to torment you with, my dear.

In this thing the Lord pardon thy servant: when my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth upon my hand and I also prostrate myself in the house of Rimmon, when I prostrate myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon thy servant in this thing. 

Forgive me, Lord.

For I cannot find it in me to forgive myself.

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A/N:  I´m baaaaack!  *waves happily to eager readers*  Did you miss me?  I´ve certainly missed you all!  Just to give you a brief run-down on what I´ve been doing:  I´m safely back in the States, and am currently working at my local Country Club (remember my endless moaning and groaning about that last year?).  School starts on the 18^th-gaaah!  I´ve got to move into my new house and start getting ready for real education.  And then...it´s off to the real world!  I am so not ready.

This story is (as all of you know who have read the summary!) a companion piece to TFYT, told from Snape´s point of view.  I figured it was high time for him to tell his tale in his own words, plus it gives me something to do while I´m fiddling around with ideas for the sequel and my original novel.  I´ve decided to write a humorous murder mystery, which is panning out to be lots of fun but lots of work. 

All of you will be a part of creating The House of Rimmon with me-after each chapter, I´ll give you a choice as to what chapter from TFYT you want me to tweak from Snape´s POV.  Hopefully, this will give you a chance to get some of your questions answered about ambiguous spots in the first story.  I´m starting off the first chapter slightly before Chapter 7 of TFYT, just so you know how I´m springboarding this...

Well, darlings, it´s good to be back!  Until the next chapter!  -AKB