Forsaken

Their relationship was poisoned by manipulation and lies and distrust. But at the end of it all, that dreadful night atop the Astronomy Tower, they had each other. That was how it had always been. Until now.

I have no idea where this came from. It just flowed. More updates tomorrow. SS19.

How he made it home, he had no idea. Somewhere along the street, the tears that had threatened finally spilled from his eyes and he did nothing to stop them. He simply walked faster, trying not to fall over. He unlocked the door somehow, stumbling into the hallway and slamming the door so hard the pictures shivered on the walls and plaster trickled from the ceiling. He gritted his teeth, feeling his whole body tremble, his eyes burning and his cheeks now streaked with the emotions of the night—the pain and the heartbreak and the self disgust. He reached out and grabbed the wall, staggering along the thin corridor, nails dragging through the wallpaper and leaving tracks behind. The floor was undulating beneath his feet, the house seemed to be spinning, and everything was blurred before his eyes. He had reached the kitchen, grabbing the worktop, leaning over the sink, still unable to stop the tears. His body convulsed as he fought the sob back down from his mouth, unwilling to confirm to himself that he was crying. He needed a drink — but not water, no, something stronger. Anything stronger. He wrenched the door from the nearest cabinet and rummaged among the bottles, not able to read the labels, not even caring what they were, maybe he would come across some arsenic or cyanide or some other Muggle poison that he could pour down his throat and burn the agony away. He fumbled with the lid, throwing it down, drinking large mouthfuls of the vinegar, ignoring how his body rejected it and made him want to vomit. He continued to gulp, the foul liquid staining his teeth and his tongue and he dropped the bottle, leaning against the worktop, feeling no more satisfied or sated. He needed something more. He was so dirty, a monster, a man who had done the unthinkable — suddenly he was icily calm. He bent down, opening the cupboard below the sink, the water drying on his face as he pulled out the bottle of bleach. It was a Muggle substance, one he hardly used, but he remembered it from childhood. He remembered how his mother — if only she could see him now — telling that it was dangerous, that he should never touch it, and should never, ever drink it. He pulled the lid away, staring at the clear liquid, wondering just how it would taste —

Severus. Don't.

The sobs tore from his mouth as the voice tormented him in the very pits of his stomach and the dark recesses of his mind. He threw the bottle aside and whirled away from the sink.

And saw his reflection in the mirror. He stared at himself. Suddenly his own face seemed so unfamiliar. His eyes reddened by tears. His face wet. His skin colourless. He pressed a hand to the glass, his breathing suddenly quicker. He was staring at a murderer. He raised his fist and punched his knuckles into the mirror, shattering the surface and sending his reflection into hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor. He slumped down, his hand now bleeding, and finally allowed himself to cry.

He was crying for what he had done, what he had been forced to do, what he had had no choice in. He was crying because he, for once, could not stand himself — everything else he had been able to accept, yes, everything, but not this. Not what he had done. How he had caused any life, any sparkle, any damned twinkle to leave those blue eyes, blue eyes that maybe had manipulated him, had tortured him, had seen straight through him — but had also protected him, believed in him, comforted him when the world around him was dark. The hands that had brushed against his cheek, dabbed potions across his cuts and bruises, and a smile that had always managed to lighten his heart. "Why…" He managed the single syllable, tearing it from his vocal chords, still weeping. What was he planning to ask? Demand of the spirit of the man who had used him as a pawn and yet loved him as a son, even in the same moment? Was it why him? Why had he been chosen for this? Was it why he had had to die? Was it why he had not been able to die instead, because yes, he would have laid down his life in an instant, would have stood in front of the Dark Lord himself if that would have helped, why wouldn't have that helped? Why was this necessary? Why couldn't they have searched for a cure? Why did he have to be left alone? He couldn't stand being alone, not after all this time, why had he found someone he was willing to love — only to have them cruelly snatched away, not by Fate, not by Time, not by Age, but instead his own hand. His own wand!

He pulled the weapon from his robe and stared at the black wood. Why did it seem that there was blood on the wood? And when he looked at his hands, it was there too. The red liquid, he knew it not to be real, he knew it to be his own twisted imagination, and yet it made his stomach churn. He had his blood on his hands. He pointed his wand at himself and wondered if it was easy to kill himself — and yet that was far too clean a way out for him, no, he needed to suffer for the crime he had committed, such a terrible crime, to take a life, even if he had not meant it. And yet, how had he conjured the curse if he had not meant it? Why had he been able to kill him? He turned the wand on the furniture opposite and shot flames from the end, engulfing the furniture and sending the fire shooting to the ceiling. He watched it burn, not caring about the heat, not caring about the smoke, not caring about the danger — for the chaos of the flames was nothing to the chaos whirling inside his mind, his heart, in his very soul.

"I am no murderer!" He bellowed at the flames, at the ceiling, at the world, at the Heavens, at the Hell, anyone who would listen. "I am no murderer." His voice quietened as he shook himself, as if thrown into Purgatory and being judged on his decisions, "Please, I am no murderer. I did not want to, why will no one understand that, I did not want to kill him, why I would want to kill him?" Everything seemed to be pressing in on him, the world was suddenly tight and stifling and he wanted to scream to…to….to….to who? Who could he scream to now? Who had he screamed at in the past? Who had he gone to when he had been close to breaking? Who had he gone to when he had needed someone to hold him? Who had he gone to when his life had been falling apart at the very seams, when the blood and the sweat and the tears had been fresh, when he had cried himself hoarse just for the sheer injustice and magnitude of everything that was so very wrong with the world? Who had been there, always, in all ways, when he had needed it? Who could he scream to now?

He lurched up from the floor, extinguishing the flames with his wand so that they did not attract attention, climbing the stairs and standing in his bedroom. Once, he had been found here. The one place no one would think to look, simply sat on the bed, thinking. And he had not wanted to be found, but the finder would not leave, whether he asked, pleaded, yelled, begged, anything. He had sat next to him, and had not spoken, had not said a single word, even his breathing was silent, and through that presence alone, he had been able to find some semblance of peace and now —

Now there was no peace to find. His whole world was nothing.

He threw himself to his knees by the window, clasping his hands together, staring up at the sky, suddenly in a position of such unworthiness. "You said you would protect me! You said I could believe you! You said I could believe in you, and your promises, and your word! You said your word was law, and I obeyed that law, every word, and I want to know why! I want to know why you would do this to me, ask me to do this, leave me no choice in the matter! What did I do so very wrong, to make you wish such a punishment on me? Tell me what to do now, tell me how I should feel, tell me how I should think, tell me how I should be, now, after you have done this to me? Do you know how this feels? Do you know what is wrong with me? Do you know that I am unable to think without you, I do not know what to feel, I do not know how to be! I do not know how to control myself! Is this how you protect me? Is this how you wanted me to believe you? Is this how I believe in you? Is this how you keep your promises, forcing me into this? Answer me, damn it! Answer me, you coward! Answer me, because if you do not, why should I continue to follow this path? Why have you damned me to darkness? Why, why, why have you forsaken me?" He broke off, the emotional outpouring draining him and he sagged, shaking his head, "Why have you forsaken me, when I did everything for you?"

I have not forsaken you. I would never forsake you, Severus.

He raised his head. "You are not real."

I want to help. I want to help you through this. I knew this would be hard. Listen to me…

"No!" He leapt up, speaking perhaps to himself, to wherever the voice that suddenly filled his ears and made his head throb and his heart pound, "I will not listen to you, any more! Not now you have done this to me! You said you loved me. You lied!"

I never lied about such a thing. I would never lie such a thing. I do love you.

"You use those words to manipulate me, so that I would do as you command! Why? Tell me why! Why would you do that?"

Because I, like you, had no choice.

"You had a choice. You did not have to choose me. Look at me, Dumbledore. Look at me, and tell me what you see!"

I see you. I see you in pain, in torment, and I wish I could put my arms around you and hug you close and tell you that everything will be all right…

"Do you know what I see? I see a Death-Eater."

No, Severus, no.

"I see a man who can kill. I see a man who enjoyed the syllables, caressed them with his tongue, killed out of hate and anger and revulsion. I see a man who could have tortured you, perhaps will torture others, perhaps no longer cares about the cause, because he sees only the darkness."

Stop this.

"I see a man betrayed by the one he loved most, would have done anything for. I see a monster. An assassin. A worthless coward who was pathetic enough to plead and whimper and beg and yet never strong enough to disagree with the command of his two masters."

I know you are hurting, but please, do not compare me to Lord Voldemort.

"Why not? Why are you any different from him?"

Because I do love you, I do.

"I see someone who deserves to bear the Dark Mark."

You do not deserve it. You deserve it to be wiped from your arm, erased, for all eternity, and it is only through this that such a thing can be achieved. I would not have done this to you without good cause, and I wish you would understand that, Severus, my boy…

He slumped back to the floor, head in his hands, exhausted. "Hold me."

I can't.

"Please. Hold me, like you used to. Put your arms around me, the way you used to. Brush the hair back from my face in the way you used to. Hush me with some words of kindness, like you used to. Make the pain go away, like you used to!"

I can't.

"Then you truly have forsaken me."

I will never forsake you. I have told you this! It is physically impossible for me to come and comfort you this time, and I know my words are not enough, and you do not even believe it is me, for you think this is your twisted imagination, trying to torment you.

He pulled his knees up to his chest. "Leave me be, Dumbledore. You are no longer welcome here."

Do not send me away. I want to be here with you, to guide you, to protect you…

His voice was deadly calm. "I do not want your guidance. I do not want your protection. Your guidance and your protection has brought me here. I do not want you."

You hurt me, Severus.

"You hurt me, Headmaster. You have hurt me more than anyone has hurt me before. You asked me to kill you. Can you not understand?"

Yes. I know what you are feeling. I understand. I comprehend. I feel what you feel, and I want to make it better, but I know not how, Severus, dear…

"Stop. Stop. Leave me alone. I will continue to follow your orders. But do not deposit pleasantries and terms of endearment on me. You do not deserve that privilege, and neither do I. You have done the one thing I thought you were never capable of, Dumbledore."

And what is that?

"You have broken my heart. I thought that perhaps you were the one I could depend upon. I thought you were the one who would always be there. I thought you were the one who would never hurt me intentionally. I thought you were the one who could pull me back together, fix the broken pieces, stop the darkness. I was wrong."

I am sorry.

"You said. Go to Potter. He will need you more than I."

Harry has friends. You have no one.

His voice did not change. It was simply deadened. "And who is to blame for that?"

Let me stay. Let me inside. Let me help.

"No. Leave me." He tightened the grip around his knees and rested his forehead against his thighs. "Leave me be."

Severus. Please.

The words were the same as the tower, and he felt them rise up inside him, echoing inside his very skull, "Get out. Get out! GET OUT!" He screamed, and he kept screaming until there was only silence. He broke off, nothing more than a trembling, shaking, quaking, sobbing wreck upon the floor, reduced to nothing, downgraded to more than anyone had ever managed before. "I love you. I love you so much. I didn't think I would love you so much." He simply continued to cry, because what else was there for him to do now?

He stood beside Lord Voldemort, face neutral, eyes deadened. He was not wearing a mask, but that was because he did not need to. He could not remember how to show emotion after all. His ability to feel had been stolen from him that night when he had been forsaken, and it had taken his emotions with him. He watched the Muggles, tortured to near insanity, before him, and felt nothing. And when it was over, and their screams had faded and been replaced by the silence of death, he simply walked away, and there was nothing left to feel.

Yes, he would follow commands that had been left for him. Yes, he would die for the man who had sacrificed him, because that was all he had been raised to do. He was not strong enough to turn his back on everything. The ties that bound him to his duty were torturous and unbreakable.

He returned to Hogwarts, walked across the grounds, through the castle, up the stairs, along the corridor, barking his password at the gargoyles, ascending the spiral, opening the door.

He stood in his office, the office of the Headmaster, and saw the portraits on the walls recoil at the blood and the death that seemed to linger around his very shadow. He walked past them, walked past them all, ignored every single one of them, even the one that rose from his chair and placed one hand against the prison of his portrait, wanting to reach out to him, but unable to do so.

"Severus, wait, please. What happened? What are his plans? Severus, would you at least try to speak to me?"

But he simply closed the door and blocked out the voice.

He stood in his own room, his bedroom with the black curtains and the black furniture and the black covers and the black carpet and listened to the sound of the simple silence. Because that was what the sound of being forsaken was.

Silence.