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Methleigh

Prophecy Creation for Lezard Valeth (arrogantmage)

Prophecy Creation for Lezard Valeth (arrogantmage)

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sherlock.  not good?
Fic for: arrogantmage
Title: Prophecy Creation

Characters: Severus, Lezard Valeth. Mention of Others
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: On his flight from Hogwarts after killing Dumbledore, Severus experiences prophecy of another world, which he assists a young bereft mage to bring into being.
Disclaimer: This journal contains adult material. I am not Severus Snape. I am not Alan Rickman. I am not Alec Hopkins. I do not own Severus, Alan nor Alec, nor any thing nor person from the 'Harry Potter' universe. I also do not own Lezard Valeth nor any thing from the Valkyrie Profile 2 universe. I make no money from this journal, which is written by and for adults.
Word count: 1,715
Author Notes: The prompt was the following quote:
The reward of sin is death: that's hard.
Si peccasse negamus, fallimur, & nulla est in nobis veritas.:
If we say that we have no sin,
We deceive our selves, and there's no truth in us.
Why then belike we must sin,
And so consequently die.
Ay, we must die an everlasting death.
What doctrine call you this, Che sera, sera,:
What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu.
These Metaphysics of Magicians,
And Necromantic books are heavenly;
Lines, circles, scenes, letters and characters,
Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.

From Christopher Marlow's The Tragicall History of Doctor Faustus

Severus ran through the forest, pursued by that stupid oaf Hagrid's stupid illegal uncontrollable hippogriff, sicced on him by that stupid sickeningly seemingly omnipresent imbecilic insufferable useless thieving cheating deceitful stupid brat. Even angry, ineffectually trying to throw hexes at Severus himself, his eyes had a maddeningly blank stare. Why couldn't the little fool have stayed quiet somewhere - Grimmauld Place - and let himself remain protected? But no, that stupid Sirius and the swarming collection of Weasleys would still have incited him to foolhardiness.

He would have apparated now, rather than running through these stupid woods, if he could have. A stupid hippogriff for Merlin's sake. Draco, Lucius' son, was still in danger and he had promised both Dumbledore and Narcissa he would keep him safe. He would not leave him to the Carrows' tender mercies, or Dolohov's madness, far less Bella. Neither will he leave Rabastan to them alone - his old friend. They were all that were left to him now. It was over, and these, his former companions remained only. What a cheat that command had been: Protect the students! Protect the school! He would never have the chance now, to fulfil the promise. Let alone... Let alone to see Albus again.

He let rage and hate swirl though him, consume him because even that was better than the unbearable loss, his soul shredded into loose flaps still clinging to him even after the unforgivable curse. His home had ended. Hogwarts had ended. And that made him angry too, and he tried to hate. What rang through him was mental agony. Everything was over. Everything was lost. It was worse than Cruciatis. That ended, each time. This was bleak, empty. Death, it was Death, and all the spells, all the books, all the knowledge and power in the world could not hold back the fruit of his crimes, his befoulment, the evil that blackened his heart and hands, no matter how he strove. A nightmare life in death, for it was not sleep, nor peace, nor reunion with those he had lost - if there would have been any save Albus to meet him. Albus.

NO.

It was not a scream, for Severus had long practiced silent spells, but he put everything into that protest - all his magic, all his pain. It was not a prayer, for Severus had no one to whom to pray. Perhaps it was a plea. Ultimately, it was defiance - all his will extending to do the impossible. It should not be. Could not. Would not. Not. No.

With his power stretched from him in that one pure clean line of grief, stretched to something that was gone, Severus felt light-headed, even as he ran, even as he followed Draco, Rabastan and the others. Incredibly, it found a mark: another consciousness, poised in agony, in Death.

Even moving physically through the forest - snow and stinging evergreen branches whipping his face as he fled - he was for a moment somewhere else, calm, quiet, rational, clear as thought. It was a pause, a respite granted in that second. No scenery surrounded him, but something akin to mist. His inner vision was clear.

He knew something, saw beyond eyes and fingers, knew with thought. Sometimes it had happened before - come upon him like prophecy, but he did not have that gift. His visions were never true. It was not quite, déjà vu. It was not a sense of having been there before, but a sense of knowing what would happen next - a sense of moving forward rather than back. He suspected his mind of breaking under stress, but he held these thoughts, these anomalies as curiosities, and sometimes there would be shadows thrown of these visions in the waking world.

He was not alone, but the other figure did not seem hostile, did not seem interested in him beyond curiosity itself. Somehow, he was encountering another in the same state. He looked with his mind reaching thought-fingers curiously and without legilimency to feel the other's being, what remained of his soul, in pain as it was. It was something he was simply able to do in this state. With him stood a young man, who looked like that damnable Potter, but with the soul of the Dark Lord, and - in this dream-state Severus could recognise it - his own hungry wilful loneliness, nervousness, lack of social surety.

"What will happen?" Severus asked. It was all he knew to ask, in this state, all he hoped to expect, for within his own mind he was not afraid to hope, not afraid to seize chances. This man must be bound to him, a part of him that revealed darkness, wistful striving, and a figment of his past he could apparently not relinquish, even subconsciously.

"What do you want?" The young man asked back, and as reply took from Severus his knowledge, his awareness. There was no threat as when his Dark Lord invaded and plundered his mind. There was no gentle tingle and slight worry as when Albus did so. It was simple and clean, and Severus simply gave without resistance, without struggle. This was not legilimency, but some simple ability usually unavailable, even inconceivable. The things taken were not the dangerous ones of war or secrets, darkness concealed, noble principles held resentfully, that determination for reform. No, what was taken was what was imperative: the grief and keen memories wracking him in horrified mourning: Stone corridors and potions storerooms, his quiet lab and Slytherin colours; Albus; his sense of vocation and purpose, of place as his feet sounded familiar, as his black hair shone and dulled as he passed through the sunlight and shadow in the big windows; Albus; his sense of responsibility, even pride, his starvation for home, for home, for home, and for family somewhat assuaged; Albus; purpose; life. He gave the young man Hogwarts, and all his intensity. And Severus was stilled somehow, leaving it in his hands. Trusting, the feeling unfamiliar. The thought passed through Severus: I need this. Or I will surely die.

The young man showed him what would happen. He would be school nurse. School nurse? How can it be? Albus would be returned to him, the withered hand made whole, as Severus had been unable to accomplish in the waking world. But I couldn't... it can't be real, no matter how comforting. This young man would be there, would be James, his Dark Lord, part of himself. You are part of me, my soul perhaps. A projection. I cannot meet you, cannot, cannot. He would stand innocent; his latest crime which sang so painfully would be made right. My own soul is broken. How can it ever be mended? How. It was a dream - a dream inexplicably enveloped in the smell of popcorn.

The eyes peering from behind the round slightly crooked glasses seared his heart as well, as he saw them broken, lost, needing what they too could not have, and irritated in limitless will and skill, but angry, agonised, furious though it was not personal. And his question was returned to him. "What will happen?"

"What do you want?" Severus asked. In turn he drew from the young man. First his love, then his death, finally his power. He granted him a Valkyrie, as his heart's desire. He gave him love, taken and offered. Because it sings so strongly within his own chest, he gave the young man Hogwarts too, and the home he valued so highly. The young man already held incredible power and pride beyond dreams. He had built worlds, Severus saw, and he gave him power to build this one for them. Sensing indelible omnipotent yearning within him, an irresistible force of will - megalomania born of lack of recognition - he gave him respect, even his own. He gave the young man awe, even, generous for once in this shared dream and Severus offered his admiration.

Something, some grasp of psychic hands, was engendered, reaching out when Severus withdrew - a steady reassuring, mutual sealing of their need by will and high magic. Some smile passed between them too, reaching eyes and lips, the mutual appreciation and pleasure so unaccustomed to them both that the smile is wistful and embarrassed but mutual and close. Secret, as Severus values secrets. One final image of what will come is shown to them, and he sees the young man sitting across from him in his own rooms he has just abandoned. Eyes looking into one another's, serious, working, sharing work. He learns from this young man. The young man learns from him.

"Lezard Valeth."

"Severus Snape. But we will forget, maybe hold vestiges until it happens, and how it will happen I cannot imagine."

It is not what he deserves. It is what he wrests from fate by will, by power. What he deserves is living death. All the books and oaths, all the striving and working, all the will and pain and unfulfilled longing, all the loneliness that high power can never counteract shows him is this: he deserves death. But because he is Severus and has always defied everything fate had offered, he seizes it, creating it in that moment with Lezard.

Severus' feet run in the forest, a dark blond head and a silver one before him. His mind, his soul - his consciousness and being - find themselves curled tightly into a round hard kernel in a room filled with the same. His body too is curled hard, compact in this seed, this grain of corn. Will he grow? Will he nourish? They have created this strange chance, this dream of desire, seeing imperfectly. Time has not turned back, but it has changed. Heat rises and he is thrown in a greasy explosion. Soon the young man will join him, and in the jolt of new awakening, he forgets the encounter.
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