Temptation

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The boy lay on the hospital bed, his arms folded across his chest. His breath was warm and slow.

A small candle sat on a table next to his cot, gently burning in the chilly air. His head leaning on one side of the pillow, the boy studied the flame. Its light reflected in his distant black eyes.

He carefully parted the blankets with his long white fingers and reached out to the fire. He did not flinch as a needle of pain shot through his chest, an aftereffect of the poison he had taken earlier that day.

The boy carelessly ran his hand through the tiny flame as it leapt and danced, twirling itself around his fingers. Once, he stayed too long, kept his skin too close to the alluring band of liquid ribbon. Its kiss bit into the delicate flesh of his palm. Without a sound, he withdrew his hand.

Before the pain and heat receded, he had dipped his fingers back into the fire, almost as if he could not remember ever being burnt.

He closed his eyes as the fire licked his hand again with its long, desperate tongue. Sometimes, he just needed to feel something.

A finger, pointing at his heart.

The voice, so soft that he could have imagined it: "Come, boy."

The echo of footsteps down the dark hallway. Down the staircase, one by one by one. Left, right, steady, balance.

The wine-colored carpet spilling across the floor, past the cold marble of the banister. Spilling like blood.

The voice, low and detached, commanding him to look up. "This is your guardian."

A finger, pointing at an old woman, her hair strangled up in a bun, a bitter, superior flash in her eyes when they catch the firelight.

The disdainful lift at the corners of her mouth as she looks him up and down, a leech attempting to suck him dry with the hate pooling in her eyes. Caked, flaking lips pull back to speak. "I prefer ‘nanny.’" He is surprised when cobwebs do not come spinning out as she draws breath.

The cold, unconcerned voice. "Very well. Nanny. I leave the boy to you."

The press of footsteps against carpet. Words thrown over a shoulder: "Just keep him out of my way."

A thin, high-pitched laugh. "Oh yes."

A moment of panic. A moment of wanting, once, to be heard, to be felt, by the man who always turned his back and walked away. Wanting those cold, distant hands to touch him, to clasp his shoulder, to rest upon his hair, even to strike him in the face; wanting, for once, to know if they are cold, or soft, or rough. Needing more than just indifference. "Wait!" Alone with the darkness, wanting to be a part of it, needing to melt into the shadows and escape the woman who is staring. Anything to escape those bitter eyes.

"Father!" The word dies on thin, youthful lips. There will be no escape. Not this time, not ever. Not for him. "Father!"

He shuts his eyes against the chill.

The throbbing caress of the fire drew tears to his eyes. He opened them and blinked, looking away. Sometimes, when he looked at the spiraling flame, he remembered too much.

The boy clenched his fist until his fingernails stabbed the vulnerable flesh of his palm. In a moment, the memories began to recede into the back of his mind.

A knock sounded gently against the door. "Severus?"

The boy slowly removed his hand from the fire and slid it beneath the blankets.

An old man stepped quietly into the room. Beneath wiry spectacles, his kind eyes twinkled. "I’m glad you’re awake."

The boy did not respond. He merely stared at his visitor, studying every feature with eyes familiar with intense observation.

The old man moved closer. The bed creaked slightly as he sat next to the thin, quiet boy. "I…" he began. Then his voice stopped, dying away. He sighed, unsure of what to say. "I want to help you, Severus."

The boy continued to stare at the old man, his eyes unblinking. He seemed to have forgotten the way he had clung to the old man’s robes hours ago, allowing himself to be held. All he could remember was the smooth feel of the antidote as it dripped like sweetened water down his throat. The antidote he had not wanted to take.

"I have sent an owl to your father," the old wizard murmured, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

The boy did not seem affected by the man’s information, but instead seemed to lose interest, his eyes growing darker and more distant than before.

"He wrote back," the old man continued quietly. "He’ll be sending a car around first thing tomorrow morning."

The boy’s lower lip twitched almost imperceptibly. His eyes narrowed; he felt something pass over him like a shroud, or a warning. It seemed strange to him that his father would even bother to write back.

He turned away, deep in thought.

A pall of silence draped across the room.

The twinkle in the old man’s eyes faded as he slowly stood, knowing that nothing he could say would make the boy break his voluntary muteness. "Severus…" His voice trailed off, uncertainty and sadness staining every syllable.

The boy did not look up.

With a final, almost inaudible sigh, the old man left, hopelessness in his step.

* * * * *

The boy watched the black automobile from the hospital window. He stared at the light glancing off its hood until his eyes hurt.

A nurse came quietly into the room. "Severus?"

He heard her, but did not turn. He closed his eyes and saw the car’s outline on his eyelids.

"Severus, it’s time to go. Your bag has been packed and sent downstairs. When you’re ready, I’ll help you to the car."

The boy turned to face her, his eyes flashing. He drew himself up and pushed aside the bed sheets. His black robes tangled around his legs as he tried to stand.

The nurse raised her wand and prepared to levitate him to the car.

The expression on his face made the spell die on her thin lips.

The boy pushed himself to his feet, refusing to cry out as the pain punctured holes in his lungs. He limped across the room, one foot slightly dragging behind. His eyes were fixed blindly on the grain of wood encasing the door.

The nurse watched him stumble out into the hall, shaking her head. She would not have touched him now for the world. "Snape," she spat as she left him to limp downstairs alone.

* * * * *

The old man rapped against the car window. "Severus, a word if you will."

The boy flicked his hand and the window slowly came down. His eyes were hooded as he stared up at the headmaster.

"I want you to rest yourself when you get home, Severus. It’s been a hard year on you. Your father will understand."

For a moment, the boy’s veneer dropped and a sharp rush of breath steamed from his mouth. His eyes were like wounded points of darkness. "you’ll never understand," they seemed to say.

Impulsively, the old man grasped the boy’s hand. "Please trust me," he said fiercely. "Tell me. I will listen."

The boy leaned away. His hand slipped out of the urgent grasp that struggled to keep it there. The window slid up and the old man had to jump back to avoid getting his hands caught. He stood on the pavement, his eyes no longer twinkling as brightly as they had before. A simple spell could have kept the window down, but he wasn’t willing to force his will upon the child like that. He had tried pleading and it hadn’t worked; it should have been enough, but he knew it never could be.

The old man sighed and trailed his fingers against the glass that separated them. "Come back, Severus," he said quietly before letting his hand fall to his side. He sighed and gave the top of the car a sharp tap with his wand. "Drive on."

The car pulled away from the curb. The boy leaned against the window, his pale face hidden amongst the reflection of the castle. He did not feel it when the car left the road and started out over the water, skimming over it like a weightless ship.

The old man watched until the black automobile became no more than a dark smudge against the blue-green water of the moat.

* * * * *

The door to the ancient manor seemed to stare down at the boy as he climbed out of the car. At a low whisper and flick of a wand, his bag landed beside him. The boy lurched forward, forcing his feet to bear him up the three steps to the door, wanting above all to not appear weak.

He stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, one hand pressed against the cold metal door-knocker for support, his breath coming out in drafts of staccato smoke. When he could breathe freely again, he stood up tall, ignoring the pain in his veins, and hurled the door-knocker against the enormous door twice.

It swung open slowly, as if under its own power.

The boy stepped through the entrance, blinking at the sudden shift from light to darkness.

Everything was just as he had left it— the marble staircase disappearing into the gloom, the carpet the color of blood, the high ceiling that seemed both so smothering and far away at once.

Part of him felt like there should have been cobwebs stretched across the corners of the vaulted room. Part of him wanted to set the room on fire.

He looked to the far left corner at a room half hidden by a velvet curtain. He remembered hiding there, wrapped up in velvet, half-asleep and on the edge of a dream. He remembered jerking awake at the harsh voices of the two people he should have known better than all others, but did not. The boy’s hands turned icy with remembrance of what he had seen there long ago. He closed his eyes and bit his lip until a tiny drop of blood slid into his mouth, forcing the memories away as he swallowed.

The boy stooped and pushed his fingers into the carpet, feeling it give beneath his skin. He wanted to stretch himself upon its wine red expanse and bury his nose in it until he drew out a memory of those who had walked on it years before. He quickly stood before he could give in to the absurd impulse. He headed towards the marble staircase, towards his cold, locked room at the end of the hall, silence before him and emptiness behind.

* * * * *

Once in his dark room, the boy crawled into his bed in the corner and lit the candle on his nightstand with a flick of his wand. He folded one of his arms behind his head as he looked at the place that had been both sanctuary and prison.

The bookshelf was the most important feature of the room. Everything else, from the closet full of black clothes to the table next to the bookshelf, was devoid of personality. It looked more like a guestroom than a place where a boy had spent his childhood. Even the window was crossed with bars.

The boy reached out with his left arm and felt under the bed for his most valuable possession. A half-smile lit his pale face when his fingers brushed against yielding cloth. Slowly, he drew the large piece of velvet out, loving the way it melted against his skin. He pulled it towards him, smothering his face in it, rubbing it against his neck and forehead, holding it as he would a beloved parent or friend. In a world utterly devoid of feeling or sensation, this velvet cloth offered him the touch that he needed.

With the velvet covering his face in its silky embrace and musty smell, the boy reached towards the candle flame.

Somewhere, children laugh. The air is full of it— their nervous giggles, their loud exhalations of breath. He smells the sugar in their mouths.

But all he wants to see is cloth. The wrinkled folds of his robes as he lies, face down at his desk, his head buried in his arms, feeling the thin fabric against his forehead. He does not want to see any of them.

A mocking voice: "He’s a terribly anti-social fellow, isn’t he?"

"Well, wouldn’t you be if you looked like that?" A boy’s laughter smashes the air. "Such an ugly face."

He inhales, a distinct cedar scent rising from his sleeve. He thinks of his cedar chest, and what lies at the bottom, hidden under his clothes. He imagines holding it on his palm, lifting the bottle up to the light, letting it shatter the wide beam into shafts of color, tinged with red. He thinks about the crimson liquid, sloshing against the inside of the vial, riding up the sides as he tilts it. He wonders what it tastes like, and if it will hurt.

He wonders if he should even bother making the antidote.

Around him, children laugh.

But inside his woolen sanctuary, he is feeling far more, seeing far beyond the children, to a small cedar chest and the vial that is waiting.

He smiles and can almost taste it.

A tiny hand grasped the boy’s wrist. With a rush of breath, he jerked away in surprise, the unfamiliar sense of touch burning him. The candle flame at his side turned to wisps of smoke and he flung the velvet cloth to the floor. His memories fell to his feet, seeming to shrivel and curl in the cold air, lacking the comfort of the fire.

The boy rubbed his face then forced himself to confront the pair of wide blue eyes staring up at him.

It stretched out its hand and brushed gently against the candlewick, coaxing fire from the tip.

The boy watched. A far-away look returned to his eyes.

With a small bow, the house-elf turned its sad face to its young master and again reached for him. It gently lowered its hand onto the boy’s, covering the scarred, sweaty palm with its own. It sighed quietly and shook its head.

The boy could hear the stump of its tongue slapping uselessly in its mouth. The elf had cut it out twenty-nine years ago at his master’s command.

In its tearing eyes, the boy saw a frustrated struggle being waged. The elf seemed to want to tell him something, to warn him, or to perhaps console him. Instead, it could only stand there, quivering, holding the boy’s hand.

A moment later, its head jerked up and it leapt back as if shocked. The boy regarded its actions with mild curiosity. Shaking, the elf made one final gesture to the boy, its eyes wide with fear and warning, then disappeared.

A knock sounded on the door.

A moment later, a man entered.

He was tall and thin with a strange air of both youth and age about him, or perhaps the arrest of life. His hair was dark and spilled over his shoulders. A disarming smile crossed his smooth, white face.

In his black eyes the boy was reminded of death’s beauty.

When he opened his mouth, the boy could see the shine of white teeth. "Severus," he said.

The boy exhaled as if someone had forced the air from his lungs. The way the man had said his name— it was like scales slithering against golden coins; like the sibilant hiss of a pale, thin, forked tongue against a narrow, decaying mouth. But that couldn’t be— the boy stared at that mouth, the soft lips and the way they pressed together in a smile. He closed his eyes to find the truth.

"Severus," the man repeated suddenly in the boy’s ear.

The child opened his eyes and found the man kneeling beside him. He shivered at that dark voice, both seductive and horrifying. Its low tones made the boy want to grasp at silk and have it pulled slowly out of his hands. It made him want more.

The man ran a finger along the boy’s shoulder. The child shivered as it glided like an icicle against his skin. "I have been waiting to meet you for a very long time."

He felt a breath of chill air against his face.

"Your father is away on business," the man continued. "He is doing something for me, a favor. Much like what you will someday, perhaps, do for me."

Here, he paused and fixed the boy with a piercing stare. His eyes bit into the child’s and dissected them, measuring, judging. His fingers continued to stroke the boy’s shoulder, moving higher to glide against the soft skin of his neck. The boy leaned into the touch, already lost. The tall man smiled again, this time a feral lilt twisting at the edges of his mouth. "You may call me..." He paused, as if searching for inspiration. His eyes narrowed suddenly, drawing in at the corners as if he was enjoying a significant, private joke. "You may call me Tom."

Powerful fingers suddenly tightened around the boy’s shoulders. The child looked up, startled, and found himself falling into the blackness in the man’s eyes, a darkness so much deeper than his own. He began to reach for it, to try to draw it around him and make it his, to smother his pain and loneliness.

"I can teach you so much, Severus," the voice whispered in his ear. Lips brushed against his tingling skin, barely touching, yet so close, so soft. He felt the warmth of breath against his cheek.

The boy parted his lips as if half-expecting to be kissed, and gently sucked in a breath full of tangy air. He let it sift through his mouth in a constant, mellowed flow, rolling it over his tongue to expose its heady feel to his taste buds, sipping it as if it were wine.

"But it is more than that," the man said, smiling, as if hearing his thoughts, as if feeling with him the darkness in the air.

The boy turned his thin, pale face towards the man beside him.

"So much more child," he said, lowering his voice. He ran a cold finger along the boy’s forehead. "I could show you." His face twisted into a hard smile as he withdrew his hand. "And you can always go back. You can always return." His smile widened, reminding the boy of a snake, or the frozen expression on a corpse. "I will not stop you."

The boy felt heat flare up on his hand, the place where the house elf had touched him. It burned like a shard of ice driving against his skin.

"You are in control, Severus," the man whispered, forcing the boy’s attention away from his hand. His eyes glinted in the dim light. "I am just a guide."

The boy closed his eyes, then nodded slowly. His hand was throbbing mercilessly.

"Do you want to understand?"

The boy’s eyes closed briefly, sweat lightly coating his eyelashes. His hand emerged from the cooling folds of the blanket to touch upon the man’s unmarred wrist, smooth and still.

When the answer came, it was hidden in the rough, uneven tones of a child— one who had not spoken for a very long time.

He opened his eyes and drew in another deep, heavy breath of air. "Yes," Severus whispered, his dark eyes opening to fix upon the man kneeling beside him. The pain in his hand faded away. "I do."