My Master and Yours

My Master and Yours

You sit across from me with such piercing, disapproving eyes.

No wonder. You only realized my presence rather than Moody's a week ago when the Potter boy figured out the second task when finding refuge from a furious girlfriend. Most of the girlfriends usually have been furious and you like that.

No wonder. You grew up with anger. Your mother, who you worshipped, was a seething fury and took it out on you. Our friend Lily was another furious woman, and you often laughed at her rages. You yourself have a strong temper, which you use rather than lose, but never have you been really angry. You have learnt from experience with rage how to provoke it and why it does not become you.

No, it doesn't become you, yet now your eyes are always flashing as you walk through the halls. They are glaring at people you pass in halls because of their house, as if their house ever mattered to you. They look at Dumbledore with resentment because he has brought you here to this.

It is in your apartment that you sit across from me with your piercing disapproval. I am being a disappointment to not only my father anymore, but now you too. A sad state of things considering that you were the one who helped me conquer my father's hold over me. I remember how that happened. You had taken interest in me, a scared little Hufflepuff that should have been beneath you, and you called me Bart.

That was a turning point in my life, that "Bart" of yours. I became a rebellious teenager–more in spirit and mind than actual doing–and my father became suspicious of the crowd I associated with. You became my best friend, whether I was yours or not, and even succeeded in winning over my father: bottle of expensive wine each Christmas for twenty years. You were my role model.

I suspect that right now you try to elicit guilt from me. It is working, as you full know, and in a second, you will stop.

And so you do, replacing the disapproval with coldness and a request to explain myself.

What else can I do? I spent years obeying your every request, even the ones you didn't pose to me... we have to change that someday.

I try to explain to you the way of things.

Because Severus, you see, it's like this: I have spent years imprisoned by my father after committing deeds for my master and yours, and he has freed me from such a grasp. I am here posing as Moody to keep an eye on Harry Potter so that at the end of the year I may bring him to our master. Help me and think of the accolade we will together receive!

You stare at me with your mouth twisting to one side of your face. This is your way of restraining laughter.

Severus, you pain me. Would you laugh at me so?

You do not even attempt to hold in your laughter now, but let it all out like I've seen you do so many times before. It's different now; it's mockery.

Must you think this frivolous?

You seem to think you must, for your laughter continues until you must breathe again. Resentment rises in me at your derisive smile.

Severus, we must be serious. I must know that I have an ally at Hogwarts. Are you not on our side?

You sigh and shake your head. You make excuses, because I am being so fanatical about this. I am betraying our friends, if I remember correctly their deaths, and I had better. This is betrayal. I betrayed us. No, you are not on my side. You will help me if it keeps me from death, but you will not help me advance my little plan.

You do everything but pat me on the head. I do know my limitations, but condescension makes me feel as if I am less of a person because of them. No one but you could have brought me down now, and you know it.

Do you wish your nose was longer so you'd have an excuse not to see past it?

Severus, will you not help? I don't need you! You are clearly under the spell of Dumbledore. I can't make you see the light anymore. I'm sorry it had to be this way...

I try to leave out the front door, but this is clearly not Hogwarts. I remember now: this is an expensive flat in London, that I came with you to buy twenty years ago that you could hide from wizards, who did not understand vertical living. It is the thirteenth floor. You pretend it isn't.

Do you wish the lights were brighter in the city that you live?

The door through which we entered was some kind of portal; I look foolish.

You aren't laughing this time, at least, but you make no move to show me out.

Bart, if you do this, I think you will die.

You do not trust me, and you never have. You never had to, because there was little to trust in me. But now, when I am successful on my own and do not need you as a crutch, you doubt me. This is what my mission is about, sacrifice and risk and honour. Are you too comfortable in your miserable life at Hogwarts?

Severus, it saddens me that our paths must so part–do you realize this will end it all? If you won't help me, you will be left behind. The Dark Lord will punish you accordingly. You can change that now, don't you see? There is still a chance for you!

You are silent for a minute. Your mouth twists, this time in thought. You actually indulge me by considering my offer. For a minute, I think I can see you again, that aloof, clever hero of mine, still struggling between the Jekyll and the Hyde. What if I were to bring it all back?

No, you don't take seriously what I have to say to you. Perhaps you were grave enough that when my father told me that you never did, I did not believe him. My offer stays on the table but the table is no friend of yours.

Bart, the door is through the closet if you were looking for it. I will keep you from death if I can, I'd save you from anything but yourself–I still remember, if you don't. I will give you the Polyjuice Potion you so desire tomorrow.

And, Bart–don't bother trying to break into my office again. It's sealed tight with something unpleasant. I won't let you through, I won't.

I hear what you're not saying: I have dug my grave, and I must lie in it and not pull you in with me.

What if I do? I could–if you are not willing to help me, I could do anything...

On the table next to me, I see a wizard photograph. There are two boys in it, one young and pale, the other tall and dark. The shorter one is looking up to his best friend, the happiest boy in the world. His face is open and friendly, shining out at the world with teenage optimism and ready assistance. His friend looks down on him, smiling at his youthful happiness, but more cautious about his facial expression. One puts his arm around the other, and their stride is even from years of synchronization. They could be mistaken for brothers without any resemblance.

Will we ever get that back? There is something in me to regret now, itching at my brain, seen only in retrospective.

You conniver. You devious bastard. You know me well, and you put that there on purpose.

End