Title: "Shards of Erised"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating/Classification: SAC for implied adult content and mild language, angst, Snape gen, angst, filler
Disclaimer: Not my characters, etc.
Summary: 575 words. Filler ficlet for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. He never needs to know their names.
Knockturn Alley is dark even in daylight and for that he is thankful. For every shadow, for every eave and corner. For those that cower away when he passes, knowing what he is, and those that sway forward because of it.
He picks a girl that looks relatively clean, unmarked. Her hair is dark and her eyes darker, but that hardly matters. He doesn't need to know her name; he never needs to know their names. "Polyjuice is extra, Guv'nor," she scoffs, waving her fingers until he lays the additional Galleons in her palm.
Once her hand closes around the coins, her disgust transforms to simpering accommodation and she leads him into the depths of The Witch's Tit, assuring him, "I don't mind a Dark Mark. They're a bit posh, really," and going on until he growls, "Shut up."
In the room, Severus draws the vial of Polyjuice from the depths of his robes. The liquid is golden, precious, and he's been told before that it tastes like clovers and honey and just a hint of roses. The whore doesn't seem surprised that he remains clothed until she swallows it. It is only when her hair turns red and her eyes fade to green that he strips anything bare at all.
**
There are faint crashes and thuds echoing from outside his office, punctuated by oaths and Peeves' maniacal cackles. He does not pay them any mind, turning instead to the painting that has been eyeing him with disapproval since he returned in a flourish of black. The painting *always* eyes him with disapproval, regardless.
"Severus, are you quite certain…"
"It's Longbottom versus the Carrows. Again. I'm quite certain the boy shall persevere."
"Not that." Even drawn, the motions simply mimicking that of the reality, Albus Dumbledore is foreboding. "Are you quite certain your trips to Knockturn Alley are wise?"
"They aren't your concern," he murmurs, shortly, ignoring the glimmer behind the half-moon shaped spectacles. Ignoring them until he can do nothing but add, quietly, "and, no, Albus, they are not wise at all."
**
The delicate fingers close around the Galleons and the tiny vial. This one is angry, her face lined by years of use. "My man's in Azkaban," she hisses with contempt when his sleeve flows back over the pulsing Mark. "He's Muggle-born and the wireless says your lot helped the Ministry put him there."
"Then I suspect you'll enjoy exacting revenge," he murmurs, softly, as she tastes bitters, and gasoline, and a pocketful of posies.
Severus stays dressed as Bella's eyes meet his. He hands her the cane and she flays him open in other ways.
**
"Poppy should look at those for you," Dumbledore chides.
"Most definitely not."
He ignores the voice directly behind him after that, gingerly turning to Phineas Nigellus instead, who freely complains about the inside of Granger's handbag and a tent that smells vaguely of cats.
"Tell me," he demands, sharply, "tell me how they are and how they are progressing."
**
The room is small, the dankest corner of The Witch's Tit, reserved for Muggle-born and Muggle whores. Severus does not mind the insult, nor the subtle threat that his Master will learn of his proclivities.
He simply hands over the extra Galleon to the boy who calls him "Sir," and watches him drink cut grass, rich, brown earth and sunlight.
"I'm sorry," he haltingly tells Potter. "I'm terribly sorry."
Lily watches them both from the doorway and smiles.
--end--
July 23, 2007.