Amortentia Dolorosa

He just wanted to use the john. That was all. He'd walked into the men's expecting an empty bathroom, and instead he'd found Goyle beating up the little Irish queer. He really just wanted to piss in peace.

He levelled his wand at Goyle's back. "Stupefy," he snapped, irritatedly, and watched the bulky thug slide to the ground.

He turned toward the thin redhead, who had curled into a bloody, wheezing ball in the corner of the room. "Get out," he snarled, pointing at the door.

The redhead pulled his long hair over his face and shook his head, sinking further into the corner.

He nearly kicked the boy, but stopped with his leg cocked. Kicking a terrorized upperclassman while he was down was probably not the brightest idea. Besides, he seemed to recall this one having a larger and far more unpleasant brother. And you've been on the wrong end of Goyle a few times yourself...

Shut up!

He leaned menacingly over the older boy. "Stay right where you are. If I see you even think about moving, I'll do worse to you."

He walked stiffly over to the urinal to relieve the now stabbing pain in his bladder. Sighing with relief, he felt some of the tension and malice leave his system along with the water.

He looked back at the redhead. "You want to be out of here before that wears off. I don't want to trip over your bloodied corpse the next time I stop to take a piss."

The redhead looked up, eyes full of shame and gratitude. "Thank you." He sniffled, and a bubble of blood spread from his nose and burst on his face. "I didn't mean to... to... anything."

He grumbled. This was ridiculous. "It's not your fault, this time. Goyle's just like that." He pointed his wand at Goyle again, with a vengeful sneer. "Furnunculus." He snickered and put his wand away. "If it happens to you because you don't get up and leave before that stunner wears off, then it will really clearly be your fault. Look, if you'll wipe the blood off yourself, I'll help you back to the commons, but then you're on your own."

The redhead nodded and stumbled to his feet. He made his way to the sink and rinsed the blood off, drying his face on his robe. "Thank you so much," he said to the young, black-haired boy as he pulled him into a grateful hug.

"Stop! Don't touch..!" he cried. He stepped back, but not quickly enough, and was captured in the other boy's arms.

The door slammed open and a flash of light filled the room.

Flash

"I got the camera, Goyle! Did you..." Crabbe's eyes grew wide as he studied the scene before him. The dark haired boy was pushing the redhead away to grab his wand. Crabbe went for his own, but the other boy was faster.

"Stupefy!" Crabbe crumpled, landing on top of the camera. "Move if you want to keep breathing. That makes two, and if he went to get a camera, I suspect there will be more in a minute." He grabbed the redhead's hand and dragged him out the door.

As he stumbled after the dark haired boy, he realised he had no idea who his hero was. "Um, who are you? I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think I know your name. I'm Roddy."

"Severus," the boy replied, "Now, please shut up."

He stared down at the page in stark revulsion, reading through that afternoon a year and a half back. He was bright -- a goddamn genius by all accounts -- but he'd never be someone that mattered. Half of it was a matter of blood, and he still held that against both Lucius, for having it, and his own father, for taking it from him. The other half was his looks, and that was all about Roddy. There were two ways to get up in the world -- blood and beauty, and Severus had neither of them.

Roddy was unquestionably cheating, though. He wasn't even human.

And that bothered him, too -- Roddy had what was considered by some to be the very source of wizarding power directly from his mother, and still the Irishman struggled with all but the simplest charms. Maybe there was no substance to the idea that pure blood ensured power, but Pureblooded or not, a wizard was still a wizard, and subject to the will of no powerless Muggle.

Unless you counted his mother. And he did, sometimes -- wondering why she hadn't charmed her reckless beast of a husband, or killed him. She was still young -- she could still get a Pureblood husband and win back her family, have a son who would be someone...

And there was the rub -- here sat Severus Snape, one of the brightest and certainly best-trained wizards of his generation, powerless in the face of politics, because magic can't overcome everything, no matter how much you want it to. But, neither could beauty, he reminded himself, thinking of Roddy, and that just made him feel worse.

If he hadn't been born, his mother would still have her name, her pride, her family... and there would have been no one to look after Roddy, since the boy's own brother couldn't be bothered, and Lucius had more politics than personal interaction to handle in a day. That was it, then. He was just here to look after Roddy. And in some sick little way, he could almost be content with that.

Almost.

Except for the part where Lily slipped little farther away, with every passing day, and in closer with those rabid Gryffindor freaks. There was nothing quite so painful as losing the ones you loved -- and he was afraid he'd lost his mother years ago, and all that remained was Lily -- this girl who liked him, but didn't need him and didn't seem to have any ulterior motives. She was a Gryffindor, after all. They were pretty straightforward, on the whole, whether they liked you or hated you.

There was nothing Roddy and Lucky could do that would ever make up for losing her. This, he feared, was a once in a lifetime thing, and he was already watching her slip away. Maybe if he talked to Regulus -- he'd be more than happy to make his asshole brother look like an asshole, but Severus would have to explain himself, and then would come the railing for falling for a Gryffindor.

There really was no right answer. And he still felt like shit, only now it was kind of worse. In the end it was all noise. All that mattered was defence of the self and home, and the endless pursuit of knowledge -- better and brighter skills.

He lay down on the bed, trying to clear his mind before he had to sneak out to meet Lucky and Roddy. Eleanor, his rook, pecked and picked at his hair, before finally nesting in it. He took some small comfort in the fact that at least one creature he loved was still wholly comfortable with him.

Dear Self,

The next time Roddy puts a drink in front of you, consider it closely. And don't have five of them. Ever. I don't care how good the whiskey is, stop drinking at some point before you leave for the pub. And then, when you get to the pub? Remember what Roddy said about the water.

For Merlin's sake, man, you're fifteen, and well old enough not to make an ass of yourself in public.

Shut up and let me get back to sleep,
Me.

P.S. Don't ever read Roddy's mind when he's drunk. Or when you're drunk. There are things you don't want to know, no matter how much you appreciate him.

[This page has a fine spatter of something that may or may not be vomit on the lower right quarter of the page.]