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The Wounds That Never Heal: The Boggart by Woodrow M
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The Wounds That Never Heal: The Boggart

Woodrow M

(A/N: This is a Quasi-sequel to The Wounds That Never Heal, as it shares the same theme that TWTNH does…though little else. This is going to be a two or three chapter story…we'll see how long it is as it goes. I will hopefully get chapter 2 out this coming week…no promises though.)

Severus Snape strode briskly through the halls, his cloak flaring up behind him like the wings of a bat. After lunch, he swore, he would go down to the dungeons when he did not have a class and finally get rid of the boggart that had been occupying his ingredient chest for the past several weeks. Such creatures have been wandering through the lower dungeons since time immemorial, and, occasionally, one would climb the steps into the upper dungeons, where Snape held his classes. They only rarely went as far as to infest one of his personal effects. The creature had been lurking in there unchallenged, and Snape felt more than a little reluctant to face it, and he fleetingly wondered if it had not been planted there. It would be something that Potter would do.

And, almost on cue, Harry Potter came up the corridor in the opposite direction, and they would invariably brush past each other unless one of them veered away. Of course, Potter did not. He nodded and grunted a short greeting "Snape" and went on his way.

Severus, in turn, gave the required response of "Potter" and they bother went on their separate ways. He had long stopped caring whether Potter had addressed him as 'sir' or 'professor'. Such titles were meaningless, anyway. Besides, the headmaster had ordered him to address Potter as 'Mr. Potter' or renounce his own title. Seeing as giving Potter any sort of respect would be unacceptable, he chose the latter.

Making his way through the dungeons at a slightly slower pace now, Snape found himself absently studying his hands. They have been aching for some time now, and even the most potent of numbing potions did not ease the sting. However, as a Potions master he knew that the body would not accept what the mind could not, and that the pain was merely a manifestation. Looking at them now, he saw that there were five small scars on his palm; memories of the open wounds that were once there.

It was an old family tradition for Snape's not to cry, and, as with some pureblood families, he was taught at a young age that emotion was weak and something to suppress.

What good is it to show pain? He remembered his father saying. Do tears return what was lost? There are only two emotions of any value: Hate and anger, and both of those must be controlled to be of any use.

So, following family logic, the lesson was beat into him; the idea behind this being that you would lose a little of your 'pure blood' every time you showed emotion, both figuratively and literally. So Severus learned on his own to express his emotions in different ways. Unusual ways. When an urge to demonstrate despair overcame him, he dug his nails into his palms. These scars were tributes to his ingenuity.

And stupidity. And ignorance. And naivety.

Albus once asked him why he did this to himself, and he answered honestly that he did not know. The headmaster responded with one of his sad, sympathetic frowns, the twinkle in his eye faltering. Exuding pity. Snape hated pity.

"Why the hands, Severus?" Dumbledore asked sadly. More pity.

Again, Snape could not answer. How could he explain something that he had subconsciously developed? But he saw some wisdom in his father's words. Emotions only lead to pain, a bizarre, cruel kind of mental self-mutilation that life oh-so-much enjoyed inflicting upon him. Now he was beginning to pity himself, and rage frothed up in his brain.

To think that I once thought you could be a man, father said.

Shut up you old demon.

Snape wrenched open his classroom door and advanced upon the chest with the determination of an executioner. Holding his wand stiffly in hand, he stopped in front of the chest, listening to the Boggart shake its home as it sensed the presence of another.

Why should he be unnerved by a Boggart? Severus was better at the Dark Arts than he was even at Potions. His proficiency at hurling curses and hexes was exceptional. Even Lupin had once commented on his skill…the werewolf who in a lot of ways was the worst of the quartet.

He would be good at throwing hexes too if he had to fend off his father's drunken friends from touching his mother, Snape thought bitterly.

But Severus knew that there was only one reason he was reluctant to face this Boggart, and it had little to do with talent.

He would be seeing him again; dressed resplendently in his damned dress robes. Banishing a Boggart, Snape knew, required the victim to laugh. How could he laugh when James Potter was standing before him, complete with his trademark overbearing arrogance?

The chest shivered as the Boggart slammed heavily into the side. It was becoming excited.

Strange how a person's worst fear and a person's worst hate are oftentimes inextricably intertwined. Snape hated Potter more than anything else; even the Dark Lord. So then why was he also his worst fear? Where was the logic in that?

Of course, no mind ever obeys logic. That is one of the first lessons he learned during his Occlumency training. The brain erects barriers and facades and shields to ward off the suffering, sometimes blanketing certain emotions with other ones; fear with hate, love with-

Stop that line of thinking Severus, his father warned. Snape did not bother to reply. His father's voice, rarely ever surfacing, was painful to deal with.

Regardless, only the most professional of Legilimentists can uncover the mind's core, that is, its true feelings, thoughts, and hopes. Breaching the core is nearly impossible, and usually results in the subject becoming irrevocably unstable. For that reason, Legilimentists scan the outside of the core, reading the clues and guessing what is inside without actually entering.

And here Severus was, procrastinating, still blankly staring at the chest.

The dress robes. James Potter's dress robes.

Snape felt the urge to destroy the chest with a powerful curse, destroying the Boggart and the ingredients along with it. But that was unacceptable. He had a small vial of vampire blood in there, and its value was measureless…especially in a powerful Resurrection fluid.

The chest itself was once his father's, and elder Snape had once used it to store various dark artifacts and treasures. It had come into his possession after his father passed away many, many years ago. For awhile, he planned to use it for kindling, but the ornate design on its outside was too exquisite to destroy.

Severus stared hard at the archaic symbols that were carved into the chest's lid, trying to make them out. He was never one to take interest in such classes as Ancient Runes, (which he understood the Granger girl now took) but he knew enough to read this sign. His father had explained it to him, long ago. It meant 'Reckoning', or 'The Divine Battle', depending on how you chose to interpret it.

He felt a stir of uneasiness deep in his bowels.

Reaching out, he jerked the lid up and leapt back, his wand drawn and at the ready. Instantly, a figure uncurled and rose up from the chest, first feature the disheveled raven black hair, then the startled green eyes. That was all Snape needed to see for him to know who it was.

"Potter," he said softly, black eyes becoming wide and temporarily forgetting that the shape was a Boggart and not his worst enemy.

"Snivellus," Boggart-James snarled back at him. He wore extravagant dark jade dress robes, the edges exquisitely folded back. The material, undoubtedly velvet, hugged his form quite tightly, and made him intimidating and towering. The dress robes…

"Ri-riddickulus!" Snape incanted weakly. His mouth was sagged open and he was now stepping backwards, knocking over a chair in the process. His chest became tight, and he wanted desperately to get out of the room. He had not seen James for years upon year; and the effects that he could once easily conceal, now manifested themselves in every one of his body movements. A trembling hand…a quaking foot…

The Boggart was not affected in the least by Snape's incantation, and advanced upon the Potions master like a monarch. "Something wrong, Snivellus?"

Snape tried to laugh, picturing Potter tripping over his robes, but it came out forced and fading. Still, it was enough to fool the Boggart. It stopped, confused.

"Riddickulus!" Severus said loudly, and the Boggart cracked and vanished in smoke, leaving Snape stunned in his classroom, eyes focused on the place where Boggart-James had occupied only a moment before.

Cheat heaving, Snape staggered over to one of the desks, falling onto a seat as if he had run ten miles in ten minutes. Closing his eyes, he tried to reel in the whirlwind of emotions that swirled about in his chest and skull. What had made him break like that?

Boggart-James was worse than the real one, granted, as most Boggarts are worse than their realities…depending on the fear. But nothing justified this sort of weak outpouring of shock. He had faced the Dark Lord countless times…lied to him to his very face…spoke deceptions even during the Cruciatus Curse…and yet his fear remained firmly locked onto Potter.

Oh, yes, he knew the reasons behind the bizarre mingling of hate and fear that he felt now. He was not wearing those dress robes by accident. Snape tightened his eyelids, as if shutting them would block out the memories. He promised himself that he would stop doing this to himself, but he could not…would not.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Dumbledore had once asked. Pity.

Severus did not have the answer then, but he did now. "I deserve it for what I have done in my lifetime."

Muggles writhing in dark, isolated chambers.

Watching, smiling, as wizards were executed before him, sometimes even enjoying it.

Being far too slow when Wormtail had revealed the location of Godric's Hollow.

Another feeling welled up inside his chest and he suppressed it immediately, wanting it to end. Irresistibly, his father's voice spoke in his head.

You aren't my son, he said scornfully.

And I don't care.

Looking around, he decided that he would have some time. After all, there was another hour to go before the second years would come for their Potions class. It was time to pry open old wounds again…let the pain that had been building up to flow out once more. He would do this from time to time…when the burn on his arm and the hurt in his skull became too much…and simply remember what had happened. For a while afterwards, he could almost continue on with his life almost normally.

What life? You've left Hogwarts grounds only four times in sixteen years…and that was only to go to Grimmauld Place and see your dear old friend Sirius.

Time to break open this old niche…time to experience it all over again.

And so Severus opened his eyes, closed them, and brought the images of the fifth year Yule ball back into his mind.