Out of the Shadows (Shadow and Light Remix)
Remix Author: madsciencechick
Original Story: Out of the Shadows by Lyras
Summary: Everything is different, now.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Spoilers: Through HBP
-1
You look at your face in the mirror, and see a man: hardened, complete. There is no space for change in you anymore, just this cold hard lump of grief and hate, lodged in the base of your throat.
You take up your weapons again, and leave, alone. Everything is different, now.
0
You're screaming at him, throwing hexes fast and wild through the red fog of rage bubbling up in your chest. He dodges. You miss. He deflects. Coward, you scream, just to watch him hurt as much as you, to witness his pain, to witness his grief, to witness his rage. This is the bottom for you, but it will get so, so, so much worse for him. You will make him bleed. You will make him suffer. Latin shatters in four syllables around you, agony, but you will endure. You will be reborn from this, phoenix-like, and you will make him pay. You scream your challenge to his vanishing form. Run, you dare him, You can run. And run. And run.
1
How can two words hold such power? A moment's hesitation, and then - then, the end of everything. Your mentor, your guiding light, burned to dust and ashes in the blind, unjust crucible of his own endless, misplaced faith. In that moment, Dumbledore is weak, frail; he flutters like a candle-flame, and goes out.
Snape and Draco are running, and you cannot remember how to breathe. Dumbledore is dead. It is too late. You are always too late.
2
It is a black omen that Snape should be in charge of teaching you to defend yourself from the twisted, wicked magic he himself has practiced. You chafe under his instruction, as always, even while you get your revenge: you are excelling at Potions for the first time in memory, due to the Half-Blood Prince's book, your own hard work, and Snape's fortuitous absence.
For enemies, the Prince had written, and Malfoy was nothing if not that: a droplet of poison threatening to taint the whole of Hogwarts; a traitor just waiting for his moment to betray; a smaller, paler, pointier version of Snape. You watch the blood blossom across his chest (not an accident, not quite intended), you hear Snape speak (dittany, scarring, shock), and you feel your insides suddenly and sharply realign. A glimpse at Snape and you see caring, concern; a glimpse of your reflection, and see cruelty, scorn.
There is truth in that, for a moment - then, gone.
3
It is difficult to believe that Dumbledore thinks Snape is the best person to teach you Occlumency. You attend your lessons with slow-boiling resentment, and are unsurprised to find that Snape becomes more cruel and inflexible every week.
When you see what it is he hides in his Pensieve from you, you burn with fury and shame. You speak with Lupin and Sirius, and they offer words of calm and comfort, but you cannot entirely believe them. It wasn't right, what your father did, and nothing can change that. It wasn't the behavior of a good man. You have learned to doubt your professors, your schoolfellows, even your friends - must you now doubt your parents as well?
It is bad enough to be forced to witness Snape's bitterness each and every day. It is intolerable that you should begin to taste it on your own tongue, as well.
4
It isn't until fourth year that you fully understand. It isn't until you see his face, until you see the stub of Pettigrew's wrist, until you see Cedric die, that you really grasp what it is that holds you fast, that seeks to steal your blood and covets your life. You have long been isolated from your fellows, called out and painted by celebrity's tawdry brush, but this moment, in which you witness another child's murder, is what makes the divide between you and them ultimately unbridgeable.
Snape wears the mark of this evil on his arm, another token with which to measure your mistrust. You believe that he is a spy. You just doubt that anyone who could ever bear that on their skin could truly be Dumbledore's man.
5
Third year comes, and with it pain, and terror, and mistrust. How could Black have betrayed your parents, his dearest friends? How could that man - handsome, smiling beside them at their wedding - have submitted them to their death? You do not like to think such thoughts, to look at Ron, at Hermione, at Neville, and wonder. You do not like to doubt.
That Sirius should prove innocent and Pettigrew guilty changes nothing about your discomfort, though you may find yourself flying high on hope, on family, on the prospect of dreams come true, until Snape (Snape, of course it would be Snape) tears it all down again, and Sirius must be sent away, and Lupin must leave in disgrace, and you are left again with mistrust, and terror, and pain.
Third year ends, and you return to the Dursleys, alone.
6
After you save Ginny and destroy the diary, it should all go back to normal. The others should forgive you, let you be their friend again. Instead, you emerge as a hero - who would have thought a twelve-year-old boy could achieve so much? - distanced from your fellows, a boy apart. Ron and Hermione stand by you, of course, but the others are awed, careful; you are their savior, not their friend. Even the teachers succumb to fits of gratitude and praise. It is uncomfortable and strange.
Snape alone seems unimpressed. He watches you more carefully than ever, and is even quicker than before with his sneers.
7
You can't understand how they could all turn against you so quickly.
You understand fear. You fear your uncle, but with reason: you have seen proof of his cruelty toward you. But now the other students suddenly fear you for an unlearned skill, and for discovering the victims of another's misdeed. You have done nothing wrong, and yet they abandon their casual kindness to you, in favor of rumors and paranoia.
Malfoy, Snape's pet, must be involved. Malfoy mocks Mudbloods, and Snape sneers at you in class. His hatred has grown familiar to you, even though it still makes your stomach churn, your cheeks flush crimson, anger clench hot around your heart. And when Snape's fingers linger on the fabric of his left sleeve, you cannot help but suspect that once again, he knows more than he will admit.
8
You survive the battle, proving yourself to have been in error but emerging triumphant nonetheless. You return to your friends - your friends - to stand solid beside them in the face of serpentine defeat, only to witness Dumbledore give their victory to your house. You feel lighter than a key with wings, so weightless you might float away. Snape catches your eye, but not even he cannot touch you tonight.
One year passed, too quick, and six remain.
9
Snape's cruelty is baffling, infuriating. You have done nothing to earn his hatred, nothing to deserve his bile, but while the others around you seem willing to permit you to be happy, for once, Snape is like a hard sour lemon when you expected a peach. His bitterness threatens to overwhelm what sweetness you can find.
You seethe inside, and try to bear him. You will not let him take this from you. You will not let him make Hogwarts as much a misery as the Dursleys'. He will speak his cutting lies and you will burn with anger, hatred, shame, but you will not let it consume you. You will not allow him to twist your life back into everything you disliked about it before.
10
You walk into the Great Hall, feeling anxious and strange.
This place is full of other children, and eleven years of torment at the hands of other children has taught you what beasts the young can be. But they are like you, here. No Dudley. No Dursleys. Just hundreds of other children, just like you. You glance around. A man at the High Table sneers at you, and you look away. His hatred is familiar, and ignorable.
The children's faces, however, are benignly curious, excited for the start of term. Wizards and witches, boys and girls, who don't already know you. Who don't already hate you. Who might -
Gryffindor! the Hat announces, and you hear their cheers, and think, they do. They like you. It is a strange feeling, an electric shock, a rush of warmth along your breastbone.
You smile, and permit yourself to hope. Perhaps everything will be different, now.
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