myblackeyedfire: (Snotter: delicate watercolour)
I'm a bit nervous about this piece. I wrote it right before dropping off to sleep, certainly not the best time to be jotting down profound thoughts. Snape continues to tutor Harry.

Title: Survival of the Fittest
Rating: PG
Warning: 219 words worth of weird imagery

Harry Potter feels thick slabs of pain startle him out of the temporary quiet. Snape, with the shards of glass and paralyzed cockroaches, with beast-yellow teeth that bite, with long fingers stained a sanguine shade of brown from his daily work is the culprit. Harry knew the conditions from the start; he would be taught vital spells until they became instinctual, until the sum of his efforts meant the Dark Lord’s weakened defenses.

Between throbbing headaches and muscle spasms treacherous threads of thought wind their way into his head, make him notice Snape. Really notice.

Severus cracks Harry open with his mind, his wand. Harry steals what shred of humanity remains in turn. There is no warmth in their work. A success at a task only brings on a new one while failure promises screams blotted on spittle and dusty books explaining theory until next time. Cupboards and dead flies are not mentioned out loud as Harry begins to differentiate resentment-tinged resignation from loathing, wary of his steady acclimation to both.

He spends lackluster evenings distracted from his assignments, mulling over this new confusion. A Death Eater, he knows, has at their disposal more cruel curses than his overactive imagination can piece together, ones that march fire-ant red and determined past his skin, infecting vital organs.

The heart, for one.


myblackeyedfire: (Default)

January 2016

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