Fic: "Dancing on the Berlin Wall", for julian_black
Title: Dancing on the Berlin Wall
Author: istalksnape
Recipient: julian_black
Rating: PG for mention of character death, I suppose
Character(s): Severus Snape
Warnings: Mention of fringe character death
Summary: Severus remembers snapshots of his life.
Author's Notes: Written for julian_black for the springtime_gen exchange. I'm hoping you enjoy this fic. It was a challenge as I usually write in first person present tense (which you noted not liking). I also tried to stay clear of your undesirables and I hope that you don't mind some liberties I took in some areas. Also, the title is incredibly random and just so happened to be the song I listened to while writing this. Huge thanks to E. for the beta. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic. Thanks for the great challenge.
Dancing on the Berlin Wall
He remembers white; white walls, white uniforms, white papers fluttering in the air as a young nurse tripped. He remembers the smell of death coursing through the halls like a river running along tiles. The dampness of the air stuck to his skin and made him shift nervously. He remembers being alone. But he doesn't remember why he was there.
The young nurse had pale skin, the color of the soap his mother made from goat's milk. Her hair was caught up in a tight bun, a swirl of light auburn tucked against the nape of her neck. The clicking of her shoes on the tile sounded like a band director counting off the beats to an upbeat song on a music stand. Click. Click. Click. She was the one that talked to him. Her lips, full and constantly moving, would contort into odd shapes between syllables and when her chest heaved with a deep breath her lips would pull up into a small smile before speaking again. He simply stared at them until she stopped talking. Her smile was confusing because it never quite carried up to her eyes. It made him nervous. He only nodded until she left, because he couldn't quite remember what she had been talking about. All he remembered from her were kind eyes and the smell of lavender.
His shoes never touched the floor as he sat on that bench. The feeling of isolation was suffocating, until his mother ran down the hallway and grasped his hand, tugging him from his perch on the white boards of the bench. Her shoes were dull and never made a sound as she took long strides to take him away from the nurse. She had been pretty, he told his mother. She was pretty.
He was seven.
---
The nurse died in the war. He saw her, her face tear stained and dirty, sitting in front of a building that had once been a hospital. Her hair was lighter and fell across her shoulders. She had been talking to a young man and that was what Severus remembers about her. Her lips moved without stopping, occasionally turning into a weak smile that never met her eyes. She knew that this war would be the end of her, he told himself. She knew that she would die. And she did.
She died in her sleep, a quick curse thrown through a window as a white mask and dark cloak walked by. It was not his wand, nor his voice, that killed her. Instead, it was his faithfulness for the cause and the hatred that sank into his bones that let him walk by when Nott killed Mrs. Potter in her sleep on a Thursday evening. Severus would never know that he had been there the night that Potter's mother had been killed.
He was nineteen.
---
By the time he reached the age of twenty-nine Severus knew which side he was going to pick. He knew which leader he would help to destroy and he knew who he wanted to kill him. In his mind, he was dead already; spies as crucial as he never saw the ends of the wars that they helped to fuel.
Of course, men are often wrong in their judgments, even men as sharp and clever as Severus.
---
The night was cold on his skin and his breath exited his body in small clouds of translucent white that contrasted with the darkness of the streets. His body, worn from years of betrayal and war, felt the night air slowly sinking into his bones as he walked slowly along the sidewalk. The cloak he wore was heavy and warm and a strange comfort in the way it fit his body made him feel confused for a moment as he stepped down from the sidewalk to cross the street.
Children laughing made him stop and stare at the swings that sat in the nook between two apartment buildings. The chains made an awful grinding sound each time the second child swung backwards, but as the swing fell forwards and tossed the child into the air a shriek of laughter would erupt from the small lips and echo through the neighborhood. Tiny shoes fit tiny feet and Severus had an unnatural urge to yell at the child to tie the loose shoelace before they took a step and fell into the sand that the ground of the playground was made up of. The first child, smaller and younger, did not go nearly as high with each pumping of their legs, nor did their laugh carry as far on the chilled air as the other, but it was this youngest child that caught Severus' attention.
Two pigtails ran down her back, tied up with simple ribbons. The hair caught the light from a nearby lamp; light auburn twisted into braids. Each time she swung forward and kicked her legs up towards the night sky she would giggle and bring her head back, letting the light pigtails fly through the air.
Severus walked away, continuing with the loop he walked nearly every night. With each step he took himself farther away from the children, until finally there was only what might have been a laugh carried on the air to him.
Even old men as wise and important as he were taught new things every day, or as the case may be, every night. That night he sat in his chair with a book open on his lap. He never read a word on either page as the book sat there for three hours before he softly closed it and set it aside before going to bed. At the age of fifty-seven he realized he had made a right choice somewhere along the lines, and that choice was what made that laughter so important for him to hear. With that he walked through his house, feet making not a sound on the old wood floors, to his bedroom, where he would sleep a restful night.
Author: istalksnape
Recipient: julian_black
Rating: PG for mention of character death, I suppose
Character(s): Severus Snape
Warnings: Mention of fringe character death
Summary: Severus remembers snapshots of his life.
Author's Notes: Written for julian_black for the springtime_gen exchange. I'm hoping you enjoy this fic. It was a challenge as I usually write in first person present tense (which you noted not liking). I also tried to stay clear of your undesirables and I hope that you don't mind some liberties I took in some areas. Also, the title is incredibly random and just so happened to be the song I listened to while writing this. Huge thanks to E. for the beta. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic. Thanks for the great challenge.
Dancing on the Berlin Wall
He remembers white; white walls, white uniforms, white papers fluttering in the air as a young nurse tripped. He remembers the smell of death coursing through the halls like a river running along tiles. The dampness of the air stuck to his skin and made him shift nervously. He remembers being alone. But he doesn't remember why he was there.
The young nurse had pale skin, the color of the soap his mother made from goat's milk. Her hair was caught up in a tight bun, a swirl of light auburn tucked against the nape of her neck. The clicking of her shoes on the tile sounded like a band director counting off the beats to an upbeat song on a music stand. Click. Click. Click. She was the one that talked to him. Her lips, full and constantly moving, would contort into odd shapes between syllables and when her chest heaved with a deep breath her lips would pull up into a small smile before speaking again. He simply stared at them until she stopped talking. Her smile was confusing because it never quite carried up to her eyes. It made him nervous. He only nodded until she left, because he couldn't quite remember what she had been talking about. All he remembered from her were kind eyes and the smell of lavender.
His shoes never touched the floor as he sat on that bench. The feeling of isolation was suffocating, until his mother ran down the hallway and grasped his hand, tugging him from his perch on the white boards of the bench. Her shoes were dull and never made a sound as she took long strides to take him away from the nurse. She had been pretty, he told his mother. She was pretty.
He was seven.
---
The nurse died in the war. He saw her, her face tear stained and dirty, sitting in front of a building that had once been a hospital. Her hair was lighter and fell across her shoulders. She had been talking to a young man and that was what Severus remembers about her. Her lips moved without stopping, occasionally turning into a weak smile that never met her eyes. She knew that this war would be the end of her, he told himself. She knew that she would die. And she did.
She died in her sleep, a quick curse thrown through a window as a white mask and dark cloak walked by. It was not his wand, nor his voice, that killed her. Instead, it was his faithfulness for the cause and the hatred that sank into his bones that let him walk by when Nott killed Mrs. Potter in her sleep on a Thursday evening. Severus would never know that he had been there the night that Potter's mother had been killed.
He was nineteen.
---
By the time he reached the age of twenty-nine Severus knew which side he was going to pick. He knew which leader he would help to destroy and he knew who he wanted to kill him. In his mind, he was dead already; spies as crucial as he never saw the ends of the wars that they helped to fuel.
Of course, men are often wrong in their judgments, even men as sharp and clever as Severus.
---
The night was cold on his skin and his breath exited his body in small clouds of translucent white that contrasted with the darkness of the streets. His body, worn from years of betrayal and war, felt the night air slowly sinking into his bones as he walked slowly along the sidewalk. The cloak he wore was heavy and warm and a strange comfort in the way it fit his body made him feel confused for a moment as he stepped down from the sidewalk to cross the street.
Children laughing made him stop and stare at the swings that sat in the nook between two apartment buildings. The chains made an awful grinding sound each time the second child swung backwards, but as the swing fell forwards and tossed the child into the air a shriek of laughter would erupt from the small lips and echo through the neighborhood. Tiny shoes fit tiny feet and Severus had an unnatural urge to yell at the child to tie the loose shoelace before they took a step and fell into the sand that the ground of the playground was made up of. The first child, smaller and younger, did not go nearly as high with each pumping of their legs, nor did their laugh carry as far on the chilled air as the other, but it was this youngest child that caught Severus' attention.
Two pigtails ran down her back, tied up with simple ribbons. The hair caught the light from a nearby lamp; light auburn twisted into braids. Each time she swung forward and kicked her legs up towards the night sky she would giggle and bring her head back, letting the light pigtails fly through the air.
Severus walked away, continuing with the loop he walked nearly every night. With each step he took himself farther away from the children, until finally there was only what might have been a laugh carried on the air to him.
Even old men as wise and important as he were taught new things every day, or as the case may be, every night. That night he sat in his chair with a book open on his lap. He never read a word on either page as the book sat there for three hours before he softly closed it and set it aside before going to bed. At the age of fifty-seven he realized he had made a right choice somewhere along the lines, and that choice was what made that laughter so important for him to hear. With that he walked through his house, feet making not a sound on the old wood floors, to his bedroom, where he would sleep a restful night.