Living Shadow
Title: Living Shadow
By: Vaughn
Rating: PG-13 (Hints of SS/SB)
Warnings: Implied Character Death
Summary: What happens when we cannot let go?
Inspired by: The wonderful 'Mortal Coil' by McKay (fka JayKay)
At first, he thought he had been imagining things. Paranoia could do that to a person, and he had more than his fair share of unpleasant surprises in his past. It was only due to pure luck and the persistence of Dumbledore that he was among the living.
As the days melted into weeks, he could no longer deny that something was amiss. He was intimately familiar with his quarters, since he spent all of his free time there. Quite an expected turn of events, considering that Voldemort had been defeated once and for all and with it came his much desired freedom.
Yet here he was, teaching at the very school he had attended as a child. With the stigma finally lifted from his name, he had snapped up the Defence Against the Dark Arts post as soon as it was offered to him. He was earning a comfortable living and more respect from the wizarding public than he had ever dreamed possible. By all rights, he should be a happy man.
He told himself he was a happy man, anyway.
He could not deny the fact that his old hobbies no longer held any real interest for him, nor did mingling with any of the other survivors. Some had paid him multiple visits, trying to reason with him that this self-imposed isolation was unhealthy for him, he was too pale; they all came with the usual litany. Once they realised their words fell on deaf ears, their unwelcome intrusions became more infrequent, and they eventually stopped coming all together.
The nights were the only bane of his existence at present, all things considered. Childhood memories haunted him in his dreams, and he came to the conclusion that they were connected to his current situation. It was when the dreams were at their worst that he would notice something unusual the next day. Little things, like a book he had been reading the eve before was not where he left it. He would find it later, near the only box of mementos he had kept from his life prior to the second rise of the Dark Lord. In fact, everything that turned up missing wound up near that damned box. At this point, when he could not locate one of his possessions, he would go straight to that dusty cardboard encasement on his shelf, and there it would be.
Out of the blue, the reason behind the occurrences finally dawned on him. He only had to rid himself of the box, and he would be left alone. He only wished he was strong enough. The presence was now a sort of comfort to him, and he did not want it to go away.
He now knew what..who...it was.
They say that when a wizard dies, their spirit cannot go on to the next world if a living person refuses to let them go.
He had lost once, and could not bear to lose again. He clings onto his memories as tightly as he can to prevent himself from going mad with grief.
Sometimes, he can almost hear that silky voice...almost see that pale face with the glittering ebony eyes. That is when he reaches out and tries to grab the barely visible wisps of black smoke that swirl in front of him. He hopes that the plea for forgiveness of his weakness is clear in his dull gray eyes as he whispers the forbidden name.
...Severus....
By: Vaughn
Rating: PG-13 (Hints of SS/SB)
Warnings: Implied Character Death
Summary: What happens when we cannot let go?
Inspired by: The wonderful 'Mortal Coil' by McKay (fka JayKay)
At first, he thought he had been imagining things. Paranoia could do that to a person, and he had more than his fair share of unpleasant surprises in his past. It was only due to pure luck and the persistence of Dumbledore that he was among the living.
As the days melted into weeks, he could no longer deny that something was amiss. He was intimately familiar with his quarters, since he spent all of his free time there. Quite an expected turn of events, considering that Voldemort had been defeated once and for all and with it came his much desired freedom.
Yet here he was, teaching at the very school he had attended as a child. With the stigma finally lifted from his name, he had snapped up the Defence Against the Dark Arts post as soon as it was offered to him. He was earning a comfortable living and more respect from the wizarding public than he had ever dreamed possible. By all rights, he should be a happy man.
He told himself he was a happy man, anyway.
He could not deny the fact that his old hobbies no longer held any real interest for him, nor did mingling with any of the other survivors. Some had paid him multiple visits, trying to reason with him that this self-imposed isolation was unhealthy for him, he was too pale; they all came with the usual litany. Once they realised their words fell on deaf ears, their unwelcome intrusions became more infrequent, and they eventually stopped coming all together.
The nights were the only bane of his existence at present, all things considered. Childhood memories haunted him in his dreams, and he came to the conclusion that they were connected to his current situation. It was when the dreams were at their worst that he would notice something unusual the next day. Little things, like a book he had been reading the eve before was not where he left it. He would find it later, near the only box of mementos he had kept from his life prior to the second rise of the Dark Lord. In fact, everything that turned up missing wound up near that damned box. At this point, when he could not locate one of his possessions, he would go straight to that dusty cardboard encasement on his shelf, and there it would be.
Out of the blue, the reason behind the occurrences finally dawned on him. He only had to rid himself of the box, and he would be left alone. He only wished he was strong enough. The presence was now a sort of comfort to him, and he did not want it to go away.
He now knew what..who...it was.
They say that when a wizard dies, their spirit cannot go on to the next world if a living person refuses to let them go.
He had lost once, and could not bear to lose again. He clings onto his memories as tightly as he can to prevent himself from going mad with grief.
Sometimes, he can almost hear that silky voice...almost see that pale face with the glittering ebony eyes. That is when he reaches out and tries to grab the barely visible wisps of black smoke that swirl in front of him. He hopes that the plea for forgiveness of his weakness is clear in his dull gray eyes as he whispers the forbidden name.
...Severus....