Author: Mosh Title: All Just Photos Note: You may not archive, re-post, or alter any of my stories without my permission. Please contact me first. Thanks! |
He's an old man now. He walks to town every morning to collect the Daily Prophet, perhaps some bread and milk, and perhaps, if he's running low, some hand rolling tobacco. People pass him with nods of respect, quiet 'good morning's, or perhaps, if they've known him long enough, gentle smiles. But he never stops to talk. There isn't much to talk about that holds his interest these days. The sky is murky grey today, but sometimes, if he's lucky, it'll be sunny. He likes the sun, but it does get too hot for him, and he burns very easily if he's not careful. People always stare at his hands if he's doing something, like paying for his paper, or holding a door open for another. When they get that look, mesmerised by the movement of his pale fingers, he muses that his hands alone have had more life than most people have lived. He killed a lot of Death Eaters in his day. He fought the Dark Lord, along side a group of people he never, ever thought he could grow to admire. People he hated at school. He wanders home along a stony track, by the side of a small field, which leads to and from Hogsmeade. It runs from his house to the south end of the high street, though there are very few dwellings along the way. He enjoys the quiet of the countryside, the solitary crunch of his feet upon the gravel. "Um, s-sir?" He stops and turns, freezing in the process of rolling his paper up into a funnel so it's easier to carry. He stares, his eyes flickering with recognition for the briefest, most terrifying moment. It can't be. His heart does a wild thumping dance in his chest; his robes suddenly feel too heavy and thick, the top button pinching his neck. He is momentarily unable to breathe; his throat seems to close up. He stares. The boy looks almost frightened. He blinks, face flushing. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir... but..." The boy nervously scratches the back of his neck, below the mass of soft-looking, messy black hair. "I was wondering... I have this essay due. Um, I'm a student at Hogwarts, and well, I know you used to teach there-" His heart is still racing, though he's trying to concentrate on what the boy is saying. "Hm?" He doesn't trust his voice. For the first time in years, he is afraid of what he might sound like if he speaks. "I- well, there's this essay," the boy repeats, reaching up and adjusting his glasses. He can only be fourteen. Fifteen at most, surely. He stares at the boy, slowly deciphering what he has said. Yes, the youngster is asking for tutoring, in his stuttering, round about way. In a voice that sounds so frighteningly familiar he feels nauseous to hear it. The last time he'd heard that voice, it had been screaming the killing curse from twin clouds of green light while the same curse was hurled from the opposite direction. Only hours before that, it had been crying out his name in the rapture of orgasm. The boy's face is too round, his eyes are too soft, and not the right colour. But the rest... the lankiness, the pale skin, the gleam of mischief, the smudge on one lens of his glasses, the lines of his mouth, the long, smooth slope of his neck - it's all the same. The resemblance is uncanny. Like the past has jumped out in the middle of his quiet road and is staring at him with an expectant, hopeful expression. "I'm sorry," he manages eventually, cradling the newspaper to his chest. "But I'm too old to teach you now. I have not the time nor patience, nor any inclination to tutor children again." He turns to leave, swallowing words and curses and memories and regret and love and don't leave me. "Oh, okay," the boy says quietly. "Thanks anyway, Mr Snape." He goes back to his house, puts the unread paper in the kitchen bin, makes his way upstairs, through to his bedroom, to the bureau in the corner, where he takes out a photo of the Order of the Phoenix. The last photo ever taken of them when they were all still alive. There are the Weasleys, red-hair and pale skin, scattered carelessly among the many smiling faces. There is Moody, standing beside a scruffy Mundungus Fletcher, looking supremely pleased with themselves, both with hip-flasks in hand. There is Granger, standing next to a very happy-looking Lupin. That grudge had taken some time to bury, but he had succeeded, slowly. There is Hagrid, most of his face hidden under an unruly beard, one giant hand clapped on Arthur Weasley's shoulder. Dumbledore... Albus, who never seemed to age, even then towards the final days, he still had that smile that seemed to make his eyes sparkle with relentless amusement. And there he is, standing next to Harry, in the middle of them all. Two pale, black haired men, one old enough to be the other's father. And nobody had remarked how they were holding hands in that picture. How Harry had grabbed his hand as the flash went off. The others must have noticed. But nobody said a thing. All those people he grew to admire, steadily, slowly letting things become almost comfortable, then comfortable, then trusting. Then too close. He brushes grey hair away from his eyes. And now all that is left are photos. ~Fin~ |
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