Figments

 DEVILMAN CRYBABY

Cow-T #12, w2, m3: Specchio rotto

534 w

Lo specchio rotto ti rimanda l’immagine frantumata del tuo viso, una crepa che ti attraversa l’occhio sinistro moltiplicandolo in frammenti troppo piccoli perché un occhio umano possa contarli. 

Ti osservi il dorso della mano, le schegge piantate nella carne bianca, ma non c’è sangue. Non può esserci adesso che sai chi sei. 

Si cristallizza tutto in quell’istante, nel momento in cui, quando riapri gli occhi, hai di nuovo i tuoi ricordi. 

Non esiste più il passato, quello non ti appartiene. Tutto quello che è successo dalla Caduta ad oggi non è successo davvero a te, ma all’involucro di carne nel quale ora ti ritrovi. 

Eppure non è vero, non deve essere vero, perché non ti spieghi la tua ossessione per Akira quando quel mortale era solo un amico - ah, amico che strano concetto, ora che non sei più umano - di Ryo. E tu non sei più Ryo. 

Provi a dirti che è fascinazione, che ci deve essere qualcosa in lui, per ritrovartelo sempre tra i piedi in questa dannata eternità di nulla in cui ti ritrovi imprigionato, costretto a ripetere ancora e ancora le stesse stupide azioni nella speranza di ottenerne qualcosa di diverso - ma non ha più speranza chi non è nelle grazie di Dio. 

Lo specchio è rotto, lo hai rotto tu. 

Lo hai sempre rotto tu. 

Scuoti la testa, scuoti un migliaio di teste nei caleidoscopio di vetri che era lo specchio pre-arredato di un bagno cubicolo in un appartamento loculo di una città del Giappone di cui non ricorderesti nemmeno il nome se non fosse per Akira. 

Per Amon?
No, per Akira, per quell’umano debole e fragile, fatto di carne e sangue. Quell’umano che non si piega e non si spezza e non si fa possedere. Non si è rotto Akira, non si è fatto mangiare e consumare e dilaniare dal demone che hai portato in questo piano dimensionale, ma nemmeno lo scacciato, con la rettitudine di un santo. (Perché non è un santo, Akira, non è un santo e nemmeno un peccatore e tu non lo sai cosa sia, non ti viene in mente che magari sia solo umano, soltanto e fondamentalmente umano). 

Lo specchio è rotto e, Ryo, sei caduto, di nuovo e di nuovo, non sei in grado di lasciare le cose come stanno. Avresti potuto vivere un’esistenza umana, lo sai, una seconda opportunità che tuo Padre ti aveva dato. Crudele, quando era stato Lui a crearti così, il Portatore di Luce, colui che rischiara la strada verso la conoscenza. E poi condannati, per vivere, per non continuare a cadere e cadere ancora, a rimanere nell’oscurità. A sapere che un segreto esisteva, che dietro quello specchio che ti rimandava il tuo stesso viso, così perfetto, così candido, così umano, si celava qualcosa.
Avresti dovuto rompere lo specchio per sapere. Avresti dovuto rinunciare alla tua intera esistenza, a Ryo e Akira, al padre che ti aveva generato in carne ma non in spirito, all’illusione di un’umanità che non ti apparteneva.
Lo specchio è rotto. 

Lo hai rotto tu e ci sono cocci piantati sul dorso della tua mano. Non fanno male. 

E perché dovrebbero, quando fa male tutto il resto?
Lo specchio lo hai rotto. 

Non avresti potuto fare altrimenti. 

 

Edvige

 HARRY POTTER

Cow-T #12, w2, m3 - Il grido della civetta 

1 - Il grido della civetta risuona cupo fuori dalla sua finestra in risposta.. 

“Edvige, smettila!” Harry sibila tra i denti, sentendo i passi dello zio al piano di sotto, ma non riesce comunque a smettere di fissarla con un sorriso a trentadue denti, nonostante il rumore. 

La sua nuova civetta bianca è chiusa nella gabbia, ma questo non le impedisce di richiamare con il suo verso i suoi simili all'esterno. 

A Harry, undici anni, una lettera scritta in inchiostro verde e un baule pieno di libri sulla magia chiusi nel ripostiglio sotto le scale dove una volta dormiva, non importa particolarmente se zio Vernon ora verrà a sgridarlo per il dannato rumore che fa la sua civetta. 

2 - Il verso di compatimento di Edvige è l'ultima cosa che Harry vorrebbe sentire, ma se deve essere onesto si compatisce da solo. 

Un'intera estate passata senza nemmeno una lettera dai suoi amici, Edvige che scalpita per uscire dalla gabbia, che lo guarda con malcelata disapprovazione perché 'andiamo, apri la gabbia, fammi andare a consegnare qualche lettera'. E certo che Harry vorrebbe, conoscendo la sua civetta tornerebbe senz'altro con qualche lettera. Ma quelle che ha scritto lui all'inizio dell'estate non hanno ancora avuto risposta e non vuole sembrare così disperato da continuare a scrivere e scrivere e scrivere ad un muro. 

Gli sembra quasi che Edvige scossi la testa, quando le dice che 'no, non stavolta, solo perché io non ho niente da fare non significa che tutti gli altri non si stiano divertendo'. 

(Quando vedrà di nuovo quell'infame dell'elfo domestico Edvige gli beccherà quelle orecchie a sventola che si ritrova). 

3 - Edvige emette uno strepito quando il Nottetempo prende una curva un po' troppo stretta ed Harry finisce a gambe all'aria, facendo quasi cadere la gabbia. 

Forse non è stata una buona idea salire su un autobus magico, non dopo aver considerato quanto facciano schifo i mezzi di trasporto magici - davvero, sa chi abbia inventato la MetroPolvere, ma se questa corriera è l'alternativa Harry preferisce vomitare la cena tutta in una volta appena uscito da un camino piuttosto che un po' alla volta ad ogni curva. 

Edvige lo guarda diventare verde non particolarmente impressionata, mentre la gabbia beccheggia tra le sue mani come un pendolo. 

Ah, le cose che sopporta per questo umano. 

4 - La civetta grida, attirando la sua attenzione, non appena Harry entra nella voliera. 

Il ragazzo la fissa, si morde il labbro inferiore e poi sposta lo sguardo sulla lettera che stringe tra le mani. 

"Mi dispiace," dice ad alta voce, tornando a fissarla, e poi scossa la testa, "Davvero, Edvige, lo sai che te la farei consegnare se potessi, ma sei troppo riconoscibile." 

Certo, Edvige lo sa, lei è bianca, candida e bellissima, attira lo sguardo di chiunque e ne è sempre stata fiera. 

Si lascia comunque scappare un verso di disapprovazione quando Harry lega la lettera alla zampa di un gufo dal piumaggio marrone, assolutamente banale e gli dice, " Portala a Sirius, cioè a Felpato." 

5- Edvige affonda il becco nella carne con un grido e uno strepitio e un frullare d'ali. Il sangue comincia a scorrere e zampillare e le imbratta il becco coriaceo, ma Edvige è implacabile quando vuole. E ora vuole. 

(Le ha dato un ordine, ma anche se non lo avesse fatto, Edvige beccherebbe le dita della ragazza comunque perché scriva quella dannata lettera e gliela dia; non esiste che il Ragazzo soffra così tanto se lei può fare qualcosa per impedirlo). 

Hermione si stringe la mano al petto cercando di sottrarla alla civetta. 

"Va bene, va bene, sto rispondendo," dice, con il sangue che le cola tra le dita della mano non dominante - perché la civetta è intelligente e sa benissimo di non rovinare quella con cui la ragazza deve scrivere. 

Edvige smette di beccare, e si appollaia accanto a lei, fissandola con quegli occhi gialli che sembrano vedere tutto. 

6 - La civetta arruffa le piume e lancia un grido da perforare i timpani. 

"Buona, dai," il ragazzo con i capelli rossi stringe la sua gabbia tra le mani e si guarda intorno, “Adesso Harry arriva.” 

Ma Harry non è tornato ed Edvige lo sente che è in pericolo. Lo ha visto sparire nel corridoio del treno dopo aver preso il dannato mantello che pensa lo renda invisibile - come se lei ed i suoi occhi rapaci non fossero abbastanza acuti da vedere oltre a quel velo di stoffa; e se può farlo lei che è solo una civetta chissà a chi altri è visibile il ragazzo, pensando di non esserlo. 

7 - Edvige pensa che ci siano modi peggiori per morire. Sette anni è stata con il ragazzo, ha portato le sue lettere, certo, ma ha anche tentato di proteggerlo. E forse non vale niente, forse è stato tutto inutile per morire in una gabbia, a metri di altezza nel cielo senza nemmeno star volando, senza nemmeno poter sbattere le ali. 

Forse ci sono modi migliori per morire, certo che ci sono, ma questo in fondo non è nemmeno così brutto. Vicino al ragazzo. 

L'ultimo grido della civetta. 

Sull'eternormatività dei bottoni a pressione

 ORIGINALE

Cow - T #12, w2, m2: La cruna dell’ago
541 w

Note: Tutto questo è (più o meno) successo davvero, grazie Club del Cucito per regalarmi queste perle il martedì sera. 

“Non possiamo davvero star discutendo sull'eteronormatività dei bottoni,” Arianna si passò una mano tra i capelli biondi, scostando una ciocca da viso.
China sull’enorme tavolo bianco, Margherita non alzò gli occhi dai bottoni a pressione che stava cercando di applicare. “Sull’eternormatività dei bottoni a click,” specificò, mentre cercava di infilare l’ago in modo che il bottone stesse adeso alla stoffa, ma comunque attraversando solo l’orlo della cucitura in modo che non si vedesse sul dritto. “Non ho assolutamente nessun problema con i bottoni normali.”  

Arianna alzò gli occhi al cielo, “Eh, certo! Le asole poi, da quando io ho comprato la macchina da cucire nuova che le fa in automatico, sono le tue migliori amiche.” 

“Dettagli,” Margherita scosse il capo, masticando un’imprecazione verso l’ago che aveva trapassato entrambi gli strati di stoffa, “parliamo delle cose serie.”
“Come l’eternomatività dei bottoni?” Arianna alzò un sopracciglio, piena di sarcasmo, e quando Margherita fece per aprire la bocca, si corresse, “Scusa, dei bottoni a pressione.” 

“Non ho capito, scusa, a te sembra una cosa normale che il mezzo bottone con il buco sia la femmina e il mezzo bottone con la protuberanza sia il maschio?” 

“Beh, anatomicamente…”
“Punto numero 1, sono bottoni. Non hanno anatomia. Punto numero 2, senza nemmeno entrare nel discorso della disforia di genere, pure gli uomini hanno un buco.”
“Ommiodio,” Arianna soffocò una risata coprendosi la bocca con la mano. 

“Vogliamo anche parlare della misogina intrinseca nel fatto che la femmina debba stare sotto?” Margherita frustrata, staccò il bottone che non si stava facendo cucire come doveva e lo gettò via. Quello rimbalzò sulla tavola e scivolò a terra, infilandosi sotto il termosifone. 

“Ma che cazzo.” 

Arianna ormai non stava più neanche fingendo di imbastire i fianchi del vestito che sarebbe dovuto essere pronto per la settimana successiva, ma che con tutta probabilità a quel ritmo avrebbe visto la luce tra mesi. Era troppo presa a guardare l’amica imprecare contro i bottoni a pressione, contro il dannato filo che non voleva saperne di infilarsi nella cruna dell’ago, continuando a scivolare via con tutte le sue doppie punte, e contro la dannata gonna che chi le aveva mai suggerito quel cartamodello con i bottoni a pressione non si azzardasse mai più. 

“Potevano chiamarli top e bottom a questo punto,” Margherita esasperata fece il giro del tavolo per recuperare il pezzo che le era caduto. 

Dovette chinarsi e spazzarlo via dalla polvere che si era accumulata nella sala ricreativa. E meno male che dovevano pulirlo spesso perché nel pomeriggio lì ci facevano doposcuola i bambini. 

Margherita rivolse un’occhiataccia al mezzo bottone, quasi ci si fosse infilato da solo in mezzo a tutto quello sporco e il mezzo bottone la fissò di rimando con quel suo occhio nero - era la femmina, il bottone con il buco. Argh, le prudeva il naso solo a pensarci. (O forse era solo la polvere). 

Poi tornò al suo posto perché maschio o femmina, misoginia o meno, quella dannata gonna la doveva finire.

“E se ci mettessi una zip?”

Nemmeno la notte più buia

 ORIGINALE

Fantasy

Cow-T #12, w2, m2: Fu sera e fu mattina. 

1510 w

Fu sera, una di quelle che sembravano non terminare mai, con la luce rosea del crepuscolo a tingere il cielo pervinca di una tonalità sanguina. 

Il sonno della ragione, lo chiamavano alcuni, e forse era questo a generare i mostri, o forse erano quelle ombre scure ad aver addormentato qualsiasi forma di ragione o raziocinio, perché quale logica ci poteva mai essere in quei demoni senza anima né pietà che sembravano emergere dalle nebbie, rendendosi corporei soltanto di fronte alle proprie vittime. 

Caeil si strinse il mantello addosso, chinando la testa per proseguire nonostante fosse già sera - una sera calata all’improvviso, che lo aveva sorpreso senza un rifugio lungo il sentiero. La notte sarebbe arrivata presto, Caeil lo sapeva, e con essa le sue creature mostruose e sanguinarie. Decise di proseguire comunque. La runa che lo proteggeva non era abbastanza forte, non lo sarebbe stata mai finché qualcuno non avesse capito di cosa fossero fatte le ombre che infestavano le lande senza lasciare scampo e non avesse creato un incantesimo adatto, forse costruendo una runa nuova.
La luna in cielo non era altro che una pallida falce contro l’azzurro del cielo, ma non appena gli ultimi raggi del sole si fossero dissipati Caeil sarebbe rimasto solo, in mezzo alla piana, alla mercé dei mostri. 

Doveva trovare riparo, si era detto, uscendo dalla foresta labirintica che aveva inghiottito più di un viaggiatore disattento, perdendolo tra fronde tutte uguali tra loro e confondendo lo scorrere del tempo. Un’illusione pericolosa quella foresta e Caeil pensava di essere un viandante più furbo con tutte le leghe che aveva messo sotto i suoi stivali, invece era stato catturato tra le sue maglie. 

Doveva trovare riparo, si era detto quando aveva notato lo stato del cielo, ma la piana che si stagliava dinanzi a lui era spoglia e deserta. Non ci sarebbe stata una casa, nè una cascina, alcun riparo. Poteva scordarsi una fiamma.
La luce della Dea sarà con te, gli aveva detto Xylea quando ancora erano al castello, prima che gli fosse assegnato quell’ingrato compito, e Caeil avrebbe tanto voluto crederle. La luce della Dea, se mai aveva illuminato qualcuno, oramai era spenta da tempo. 

Lo dimostrava la pietra che portava nel tascapane, una reliquia dei tempi andati, vitrea e immota, che si diceva avesse ospitato lo spirito della Dea, illuminando per secoli le sale del Castello di Urll, portando nelle sue sale un calore che si irradiava fin dalle pietre. 

Il castello di Urll era il posto più gelido in cui Caeil avesse mai alloggiato e certamente faticava ad immaginare le scure pietre di fiume come qualcosa che potesse mai diventare caldo per contatto, figurarsi addirittura irradiare tepore. Leggende, tutte quante, stupidaggini che le vecchie massaie si raccontavano per sopravvivere al gelo della notte, alla paura che essa si portava dietro.
La luna era risalita nel cielo imbrunito, gli ultimi raggi di sole lasciavano il posto alle tenebre e Caeil accelerò il passo, pregando i numi che quella notte fosse priva di terrori e disperando nel suo cuore di poter arrivare alla mattina. 

Quando anche l’ultima vestigia di sole fu scomparsa dietro l’orizzonte, l’ombra gli comparve davanti senza che Caeil potesse accorgersi da dove venisse, come se si fosse materializzata davanti a lui, prendendo corpo e forma in una mostruosità dagli occhi glauchi e le zanne affilate, braccia fin troppo lunghe, arti dinoccolati che terminavano in artigli taglienti come spade, in grado di tranciare un uomo adulto in due metà o trapassarlo da parte a parte. Le fattezze vagamente antropomorfe erano distorte da gobbe e bitorzoli che si sfaldavano e si ricomponevano mentre le figure si muovevano, quasi quei mostri fossero fatti di nebbia scura tenuta a malapena insieme da una volontà maligna di distruzione. 

Caeil non aveva scampo, cercò di ritrarsi, di afferrare, la spada che portava al fianco, come se potesse mai servire per qualcosa a uno come lui, abituato a passare il suo tempo nelle biblioteche di Urll piuttosto che nell’arena ad allenarsi. Tirare di spada era quello che ci si aspettava che l’ultimo genito del signore del castello fosse in grado di fare, ma certo lui non conosceva più che i rudimenti, certamente non sufficienti per avere la meglio di quelle ombre letali. 

Eppure la sua mano corse comunque all’elsa dell’arma. E si chiuse invece sul suo tascapane. 

Non ricordava di aver lasciato aperti i lacci della bisaccia, ma preso dalla disperazione vi infilò comunque dentro la mano, chiudendo le dita attorno alla Luce della Dea. 

Forse poteva tirargli addosso la pietra, magari avrebbe attraversato l’ombra da parte a parte, dissolvendola abbastanza a lungo da permettergli di fuggire. Invece fu una sensazione dolorosa quella che lo colse, quasi i lati della pietra fossero divenuto affilati come coltelli e lo avessero tagliato. 

Caeil non ebbe tempo di considerare che altro fare, l’ombra incedeva verso di lui pronta ad ucciderla, e se la sua presa sulla gemma era resa scivolosa dal sangue o se la pietra fredda si stava intiepidendo, poco importava, Caeil estrasse la pietra comunque e si stupì di vederla risplendere luminosa. 

L’ombra si fermò, la luce bianca era resa rosacea dai rivoli di sangue che colavano dal palmo di Caeil, un sacrificio che l’uomo pagava volentieri per sopravvivere. 

La gemma era calda adesso, calda contro il palmo della sua mano dolorante, ma Caeil non aveva la minima intenzione di lasciarla cadere. Le dita erano tanto strette attorno alla superficie lisca e tagliente che le articolazioni gli dolevano e i che i bordi continuavano ad affondare nella carne, spillando altro sangue. 

L’ombra sembrò indugiare con il braccio sollevato, indecisa se colpire o meno ora che quella luce era presente… e poi si dissolse. 

Caeil sbarrò gli occhi, nonostante la luce fosse abbastanza forte da ferirli, e prese un respiro tremante, perché era sopravvissuto. La luce lo aveva salvato. 

Poi cominciò a correre. 

Corse, tenendo la pietra di fronte a sé a dissipare la notte. Corse finché non ebbe più fiato in corpo e anche quando si dovette fermare, piegarsi sulle ginocchia e impedire al misero pasto di qualche ora prima di risalirgli alla bocca, tenne la pietra ben altra sulla sua testa. 

Camminò quando non fu più in grado di correre, camminò tutta la notte, trascinando i piedi stanchi, un passo alla volta per far scorrere il tempo, senza staccare gli occhi dalla pietra nel timore che decidesse di abbandonarlo, di tornare un semplice pezzo di vetro e sprofondarlo nella notte. 

E poi fu mattina, una di quelle che sembrava non arrivare mai, a rischiarare con la sua luce dorata le terre invase delle ombre, insinuando una lama di calore e di colore nella vallata. 

Caeil guardò la pietra illuminata brillare fulgida tra le sue mani, nonostante la luce del sole. 

Gli sembrava di essere un personaggio uscito dritto dritto dalla leggenda del Cavaliere di Sangue, una storia che risaliva a prima che le ombre conquistassero la notte, quando ancora i mostri che popolavano la terra erano di carne e ossa e sangue, e potevano essere ancora combattuti e  trapassati a fil di spada, seppur fosse difficile. Il Cavaliere di Sangue era un giovane il cui nome si era perso nel tempo, un ragazzo, dicevano i miti, che la famiglia aveva sacrificato senza pietà alla Chimera che viveva in quelle terre. Doveva morire per appagarla, dicevano le leggende, perciò era stato mandato nei suoi domini perché la Chimera se ne cibasse, se chi raccontava la storia pensava alle Chimere come animali selvatici, oppure perché fosse smembrato e il suo corpo usato per riti occulti, se il narratore vagheggiava che le Chimere fossero maghi catturati dai loro stessi incantesimi, stregoni che aveva pagato a caro prezzo la rottura degli equilibri naturali. In ogni caso, il giovane era stato stato abbandonato disarmato nei boschi e la Chimera lo aveva trovato, lo aveva braccato e inseguito, finché il giovane non era caduto a terra e non era più riuscito ad alzarsi. Solo allora, mentre la Chimera stava per ucciderlo, mentre disperato rivolgeva preghiere ai numi, la Dea gli aveva salvato la vita, mettendogli tra le dita una pietra, benedetta dal suo potere, che il ragazzo aveva usato per uccidere la Chimera.

Una leggenda, una storia per bambini. Eppure aveva tutto improvvisamente senso, il sangue, la paura, il sacrificio salvato dalla Dea. 

Xylea lo aveva ingannato. Non doveva portare la pietra al Concilio dei Maghi perché potessero studiarla meglio - non aveva senso, no, non quando qualsiasi incantatore avrebbe potuto usare le sue arti per giungere ad Urll. Caeil doveva essere il Cavaliere di Sangue, il giovane sacrificato alle ombre per suscitare la pietà della Dea. 

Come se la Dea potesse farsi ingannare da un misero intrigo umano. 

Perché il Cavaliere del Sangue non aveva spillato una goccia del proprio. Il Sangue con cui era tornato a casa era quello della Chimera, che gli aveva imbrattato i vestiti mentre la colpiva ripetutamente. 

Invece tra le mani di Caeil la pietra riluceva di una luce cremisi, assorbendo il sangue. 

 

White orchid (turned blue) - chapter 7

HARRY POTTER

Harry Potter/Severus Snape 

Cow-T #12, w2, m2: Cattiva fede

Dear Ron and Hermione, 

Nothing new happened since my last letter. I’m still stuck in a place I can tell you nothing about, with a person I can tell you nothing about, doing nothing, period. 

I know it’s all for my safety, knowing myself I would have already told you everything and tried to run away and meet you somewhere safe, but I need to consider that the person that’s keeping me is risking their life too. They tell me everyone is very curious to know who has me and their motives are for the most part ‘evil’. 

Anyway, what I can tell you is how much I miss you, (you and the rest of Gryffindor tower and probably the rest of the school, too. At this point I would even be happy to see Malfoy’s stupid face if only that meant coming back). 

Don’t feel too bad for me, though. I’m safe, and treated way better than I ever was at the Dursley, so there’s no need for a rescue on a flying car, though I really appreciate what you’re trying to do for me with the H.O.L.A. (By the way, Micheal Corner is an idiot and that name is amazing!). It’s just… be careful, ok? With what you told me about the new DADA teacher, I wouldn’t want you to get punished for opposing the Ministry, be either on Voldemort’s return or Omega’s rights. I know I would be the first to talk back to her, probably I would have landed a detention the first day of class, so it’s a little bit hypocritical of me, but I just… I don’t know, lay low? If that makes sense. 

Whatever, I feel bad writing a letter so short, but there’s nothing really I can add without giving away too much, or at least what they think is ‘too much’. 

You know, I think they are a little bit paranoid, but better safe than sorry they say and I trust them, so my lips are sealed (or my pen is dry?). Anyway, the less you know, the safer we all are. 

But please, keep sending me updated on everything that happens in the castle! It almost feels like being there with you.

Love, Harry. 

PS. I’m sending along another letter for Snuffles. Can you please forward it to him? I asked him to send the reply to you, too. I don’t want to draw too much attention to place I’m in with sending more owls than absolutely necessary (in case some one decides it could be worth intercepting them) and besides a lot of letters are sent to Hogwarts, it’s way less noticeable. Thank you. 

* * * 

Hermione sighed and thumped her head on the book opened in front of her, disheartened. 

“Something’s wrong?” Ron asked, looking up from his homework. He was trying to stretch his  Transfiguration essay past the first foot without much success. 

“It’s just that I can’t find anything useful,” she sighed again, her forehead still plastered to the book. “O.C.A.’s reports aren’t accessible to the public, the books that I’ve found on the Alpha and Omega’s biology are either informative pamphlet that skims over the physiological mechanism, or full of incorrect made up theories that anyone who had ever met Harry could disprove in three minutes and I don’t know where else to look.” 

She looked so dejected, Ron wanted to hug her. He didn’t, of course, because that would have been weird. He looked away instead. “So no luck.” 

He didn’t know what to do, research was Hermione’s area, and if she couldn’t find anything, how was he supposed to help?

“I know I’m missing some clue,” she told him, sitting back straight and closing the useless book that had caused her outburst, “There must be something we can do.” 

“Let’s just review what we talked about in the past HOLA’s meeting, ok? See if we missed something,” Ron gave up on his essay and used his parchment to write the list on it. “One, we should prove that Omegas are sold, as Greengrass put it.” 

“But we can’t, because the O.C.A. never admitted it and we can’t exactly go to another Omega to ask them if they were sold, nor to an Alpha and ask them if they wanted perhaps to buy Harry this time.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think this was a really good point from the start,” he looked apologetic, “I mean, people already kind of know Omegas get sold, even if it’s just a rumor.  I don’t think the backlash of proving something like that will be enough to change the laws.” 

“But if we can prove it…”

“I’m not sure people would want to believe us, or even if they believe us that they would see something wrong in it.”

“Because they still think Omegas are dangerous.” 

Ron nodded. “So, two, to prove that Omegas aren’t dangerous.” 

“Which I can’t do beside telling anyone that Harry never lost control of his magic.” 

“Yeah, not a good point either. Especially with all the bad press the Ministry gave him for You Kn- no, for Voldemort’s return. I bet you someone will say Harry was just being hormonal when he said he was back.” 

“They can’t do it!” She shrieked and half the Gryffindor in the common room turned to look at her. She blushed, lowering her voice. “But of course they will, it’s just too convenient to pass it up.” She passed a hand over her face, tiredly. 

“So, let me guess, you’re just talking about the H.O.L.A., aren’t you?” Ginny dropped on the chair next to her brother, Neville right beside her to take the last free chair. 

“I really don’t know what gave us away,” Ron joked, looking at Hermione with fake surprise. 

“Yeah, well, sorry about that, but it’s getting frustrating.” 

“Books are not the solution?” Ginny asked, picking up Hermione’s discarded tome to look at it. 

“Not the ones at Hogwarts, no.” 

“And what about the Restricted Section?” 

“I can’t go there without a teacher permit,” Hermione replied “We can’t sneak in without Harry’s cloak and no teacher is going to give me access.” 

“We tried and McGonagall basically said that Dumbledore knows what he’s doing and we shouldn’t worry.” Ron thoughts on that take were extremely clear on his face. “If only the DADA teacher was an insufferable idiot as Lockhart, instead of that toad.” 

“But what about the other teachers?” Neville asked, trying to be useful, “I’m sure someone must be sympathetic with what we’re doing.”

“Hermione tried with Flitwick since she’s his best student…” 

“I’m not really,” Hermione tried to play modest, “but he also made it clear that the teaching staff was unite in letting Dumbledore deal with it.” 

“… I even went to Trelawney. I predicted I would die three times in a row just getting to the library to see if she would sign the permit, but she’s too scared of Umbridge to help us. We’d have better luck asking Snape.” Ron threw up his hands. Why were adults being so obtuse? Maybe he would really try it with Snape, what did he have to lose, a thousand points for Gryffindor? 

As silence stretched and they all though about possible solutions, Neville perked up. “But maybe we could get the books outside of Hogwarts.” 

“How? If they’re in the Restricted Area we can’t exactly purchase them at Flourish and Blotts,” Hermione had already tried it all and she looked just a step away from committing a crime.  

“Beside, how much do you think it would cost just one of them?” Ginny added, practical as usual. 

“I wasn’t thinking about buying them,” Neville shook his head, “what about family libraries? I’m sure I can owl my grandma and ask her if we have some books about that. And I’m sure the Greengrass have something too. Every Pureblood family must have books on the topic.” 

Ron and Ginny exchanged a look. Of course! Since both their parents had oldest siblings, they didn’t get the family library, - books in the Weasley household were ancient just because they were second hands, not because they were passed down generation to generation - so they hadn’t even thought about it. Their mother must at least have something from when Bill presented.
“The Greengrass know so much about secondary sexes, they must have books we can check, see if they overlooked anything,” Hermione was glowing at the idea of getting her hands on more books. 

“If we trust them enough to think they aren’t keeping back anything from us,” Ron added, not wanting to get his hopes up that much. The two sister might be friendly, but they were still Slytherin.  

“Well, they seem very concerned about Omega’s rights,” Ginny rolled her eyes at the house prejudice. “That must mean something.” 

Hermione looked contemplative. “Do you think one of them will present as an Omega?” She had been thinking about it quite a lot, puzzling over motivations and possibly hidden purposes. 

“That would make sense,” Ron nodded, “I mean, Daphne, right? The one in our year? She seem really… determined every time we meet with the H.O.L.A. I bet it’s her.” 

“It’s Astoria,” Neville corrected him, so sure, and then proceeded to blush when everyone stared at him. 

“Astoria?” Hermione looked doubtful. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Neville, but since she thought it was Daphne too, she just wanted to know the reasoning behind that conclusion. 

“It’s Astoria. I mean, I think…” Neville blabbered and got even more red. “It’s just a… a feeling?” 

A feeling?, Hermione though. A feeling wasn’t enough to form a hypothesis. But again she really didn’t know how Alphas and Omegas worked, and maybe, maybe it wasn’t just about having a feeling, maybe there was something else she couldn’t get at because she hadn’t a secondary sex. But if Neville could, maybe Neville too was… No, that was being too forward, she’d have to wait to prove that theory out. 

“So, how do we get those books from them?” She got back on topic, wanting to spare Neville the round of questioning. He was already uncomfortable as he was. 

“We can’t exactly go to them in the Great Hall. Everyone will talk about it and I don’t want Umbridge to even get the wind we’re organizing something like this.”

“We could met them in the hallway,” Neville fidgeted as he talked, not meeting their gaze. “IknowAstoriaisabouttoendCharm.” 

“Uh?” 

“I know Astoria’s Charm class is about to end, so if we get there we could met her in the hallway. We’ll make it look like a chance meeting.” 

Neville didn’t met their eyes, and missed their glances. A whole conversation seemed to go on just in those few seconds because Ron shut his mouth, Ginny smiled and Hermione simply said, “Ok, let’s go.”

Ginny actually waits for the portrait to close behind their backs, before nudging him with her elbow, 

“Neville, why is it that you know Astoria Greengrass schedule?”  

“I don’t, well, yes, I do, but - it’s not -  It’s just that she gave it to me for, you know, cases like these. She asked for my schedule too.”

“Bloody hell, you’re befriending the enemy!” Ron cried out, slapping him lightly on the arm. There was no malice in his tone, it was a friendly jest that should have conveyed how happy he was for him, but Neville felt embarrassed nonetheless. 

“She’s not the enemy,” he muttered. 
“Of course she’s not, Ron is just being Ron, don’t mind him.” 

“Anyway,” Ginny looked at him with a glint in her eyes, “are you sure you want us to come with you?” 

“We wouldn’t want to take away too much time from your ‘chance meeting’ with your girl friend,” Ron didn’t take the scolding to heart. 

“Why did I even tell you?” Neville whined, already embarrassed. 

Hermione nudged him, trying to make him feel a little more at ease, “Because we are your friends?”

“And you love us?” Ginny kept up the banter and Ron actually winked at him. 

“Not as much as Astoria, of course.” 

“Are you sure you want to keep mocking me?” Neville looked at them exasperated, but at least no longer defensive, “I could stop helping you…”

“Come on, mate, do it for Harry.” 

“That was a low blow,” Neville complained. 

“Yes, I’d say it went below the belt,” Ginny wiggled her eyebrows, “exactly where you want Astoria to go…” 

“Oh my -” Neville blushed to the root of his hair. 

“Ginny!” Ron looked at her, scandalized. 

“You’re such a bunch of prudes,” she rolled her eyes. “Come on, I’ll behave, we’re already there,” she gestured to the classroom door, and almost on cue, students began to pour out. 

* * * 

Sirius Black was an idiot. 

An idiot with a heart of gold, but still an idiot, as many twenty years old guys are. 

The fact that he was actually thirty-five was a trifle - after all, he had spent twelve years of his life in Azkaban where he didn’t have that much occasion for an emotional and psychological growth. 

Anagraphical age notwithstanding, Sirius was still a rash and impulsive Gryffindor, so of course he briefly reflected on the best course of action and then proceeded to do it, without a second thought. 

He didn’t tell Remus what his plan was, because he was sure his friend would have stopped him and  even thought Sirius should have by now realized it wasn’t actually easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission, he needed answers. 

So that’s why on a late evening of middle September a black dog was walking hurriedly in Hogwarts grounds, moving away from a strangely still Whopping Willow. 

Oh, the thrill, the adrenalin rushing through his blood - Sirius had missed the feel when he had settle down at Grimmauld Place, months before. And now it was all back, he could feel the tingle of excitement as he stealth through the corridors, trying to be inconspicuous as he had done the last time he was there, uninvited and unwanted. Well, at least this time there would not be any slashing of portraits, the place he needed to infiltrate was guarded by gargoyle’s statues and surely he couldn’t force his way in. 

No, Sirius sat and prepared to wait. Sooner or later, Albus Dumbledore would leave or come in his office and then Sirius would be able to talk to him. 

* * * 

There was shouting, when he approached the Headmaster’s office. 

Snape couldn’t exactly make out who was shouting what, but it put his senses on alert. Who would even dare to - oh. As the stairs brought him up he could recognize Black’s voice. That idiot. 

He leaned against the cold stone of the wall, trying to regain his breathe as he clutched his arm. The throbbing pain was already unbearable and piling on it an argument with Black was just pure cruelty - but he would bear it as he had always had, because this couldn’t wait. 

Severus composed himself, hiding the pain behind his mask of impassability, and opened the door without knocking, softly enough that the noise was covered by the yells. 

“…demand to know where he is!” 

In the silence that followed Black’s idiotic demand, Severus grinned maliciously, “Well, if this isn’t a surprise.” 

Black’s head snapped to him so fast that Severus had to wonder how it was still attached to his body. Not that it would make a big difference. 

Snape cocked his head, looking at the ragged man in front of him. “I thought you would still be in Grimmauld Place, hiding.” 

He thought that would at least elicit a growl, at least make him bare his teeth, but Sirius Black just stared at him with a blank face. 

“You son of a bitch,” he breathed, incredulous. “You have him.” 

Severus was too good of a spy to let anything make him look surprised, but how the fuck did he found out? He wasn’t - he didn’t have a secondary sex, Snape was sure, and yet all it had took was a look at him, a few seconds in the same room to know. How?
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Severus mocked him, without losing a beat, “We’ve always been so close, he personally requested my help,” he scoffed, trying to make it seem absurd to even hint such a thing. “I get your brain can process more than one thought at the time, but the fact that you were here discussing about Potter, doesn’t mean I’m here for the same reason.” 

“Don’t try to fool me,” Black did growl this time, and to someone it might have even sound dangerous, but Snape was not afraid of him. “I can smell him on you.” 

Severus spared a glance at the headmaster, to see what he should do. It seemed pointless to deny it, but Sirius Black was the last member of the Order that should have been told - if only he thought that was the best think he could do, he would do something about it without even stop and considering the consequences. It was his fault, Severus knew, a damn mistake that could cost him his spy role and his life, but Black shouldn’t have been able to smell anything, he had counted on it. 

Dumbledore sighed and nodded, “Yes, Sirius, Severus is the Alpha tasked to take care of Harry.” 

“What did you do to him?” Sirius didn’t even acknowledge the admission, not tearing his gaze away from the Alpha. 

Severus took in the clench of his jaw, his fists closed against his sides, the anger burning in his eyes, threatening to overspill… and deliberately stung him, “Nothing he didn’t ask for.” 

Dumbledore was old and that was why a lot of people tended to underestimate him, but his reflexes were still fast, or maybe he just knew who he was dealing with. He disarmed Sirius before he could even completely extract his wand from his pocket. 

“No violence,” he warned them. “And Severus if you could tone it down, it would be much appreciated.” 

“I don’t know what your twisted plan is…” Sirius spat between his teeth, not even moving to retrive his wand from Dumbledore’s hands. He knew he would try to hex him again, if only he had the meaning to do so - damn, he wasn’t past using his fist to wipe that smug smile from his face. 

“Please, spare me,” Severus scoffed. “Potter has been with me for months, if I ever had the intention of giving him to the Dark Lord he would already be there, twisted plans be damned.”

But Sirius shook his head, he knew Snape must have had a secret intent - maybe it wasn’t giving Harry up to Voldemort right now, but he had a plan, he was certain and it surely had to be more convoluted than that. 

“I know there are ways to avoid the developing of a second sex, and you do too,” he pointed out, as calm as he could, which meant he was still growling, “I don’t know why you did it yet, but you let him present as an Omega!”
“I did no such thing!” Severus looked affronted, but Sirius knew it was just a façade.  

“Oh really? And it’s just a coincidence that now you have him, isn’t it?” 

“I assure you, the last thing I’ve ever wanted was the burden of an Omega Harry Potter.” 

Sirius scoffed, “You assure me, you assure me! I don’t trust you, I’ve never have, so your assurances are worth nothing to me.”

“Then it’s just so fortunate that I couldn’t care less for what you think about me,” Snape bit back, unrelenting. It was true, of course, that he should have noticed the signs, but he hadn’t. It hadn’t been a conscious decision letting him presenting, he wouldn’t have risked it. 

“Sirius, please, calm down,” Dumbledore tried to placate them, “I too should have noticed, and I failed to recognized the signs as well.”

“Yes, yes, you failed him. And now he’s in the clutch of that slimy Death Eater.” 

“Sirius!” the Headmaster chastised him. 

“Well, clutches he’s enjoying at least,” Snape sneered, provoking him. 

“You have a death wish,” Sirius growled, “you son of a bitch.” 

“Said the mutt.” 

“Maybe it’s time I actually earned my twelve years of prison.” 

“Enough!” Dumbledore said, not yelling yet, but stern and forceful enough to silence them, “Both of you! Enough!” 

They stood, silently seething, not looking away from each other as if waiting for the other to struck. 

“Sit down,” Dumbledore instructed, waving his wand to conjure another cup and pouring in it some tea. “Drink and don’t force me to treat you like children.” 

Severus obeyed, sitting down to take the cup, but he didn’t drink from it. He felt bile in the back of his throat and he swallowed it dry, feeling as dirty as Sirius Black was hinting he was. 

Black sat down too, scowling at the Headmaster, and not even moving to take his cup. 

“I know this is a situation none of us expected,” Dumbledore said, shifting his gaze from one man to the other, “but, Sirius, rest assured that Harry is now in the best hand he could be.” 

Sirius sneered at that, but didn’t interrupt the Headmaster. 

“If we had known, we would have suppressed him, you know it.” 

Sirius believed him, but Severus had the extracorporeal feel that Albus might have been telling a lie. It wasn’t that he had voluntarily ignore the symptoms, Severus knew Dumbledore had been taken just as blindsided as he had when Potter had been taken into custody by the O.C.A.. It was just that Severus wasn’t so sure Dumbledore would have really told him to prepare a Locking Potion if he had known. After all, maybe this was the power the Dark Lord knew not, and if they were to dampen it… 

“I know how to brew the Locking Potion, if I had even the mere suspect that Potter would present, I would have started brewing it.” 

“I know you know it” It was still hostile, but at least he wasn’t being personal anymore. “The only reason you knew anything at all is because of my cursed family. For all the good that it did to us, you knowing how to brew it.” 

Severus wasn’t about to ask how he knew he had taken the book from his family library, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, but Sirius noticed the lapse of surprise in his features, if only because he was looking for it. 

“Oh, yes, you don’t think it was just a fortuitous coincidence for you to find an old recipe, in my family library, do you?”

Severus looked at him, deadpan, “I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.” 

“Mother suppressed me,” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal, “She regretted it a few years later when she banned me from the family tree, told me I could have at least brought prestige to the family if I had been sold. But she knew the Master Potioner she had contracted was too old, it was the same that helped her grandfather after all, and you were such a promising student… she invested in you to keep the Black offspring out of O.C.A.’s hand, she forged you into becoming the new brewer for the family. Of course she couldn’t have foreseen how we all had ended, my brother dead and me in prison, no offspring and no generations of Blacks for you to keep safe.” 

It was twisting a knife in a wound he had just provoked, telling him he had been set up, manipulated, again and again, to do someone else’s bidding. But Severus was also relieved, for Black had been suppressed. He had smelled the boy on him because he did have a secondary sex, albeit castrated, he hadn’t made any mistake. 

He was about to reply, scathingly asking him, why, if he had such a sensible nose, hadn’t he recognized Potter’s symptoms when the Headmaster interrupted him. 

“Why are you here, Severus?” Dumbledore asked him, tiredly. 

Severus was snapped out of his spat, back to the more urgent problem. 

“I need to leave the school ground,” he replied, his anger sobered up, “the Dark Lord called me.” 

* * * 

Malfoy’s Manor was buzzing with activity when Snape arrived, and he managed to reach the study where the other Death Eaters were waiting for their Lord inconspicuously enough that he had almost raised his hopes in falling under Lucious’ radar. 

Wishful thinking, of course. 

“I can’t believe she dragged even you in this farce.” 

Cursing inwardly at himself for not noticing him coming, Snape turned to his host,  “Excuse me?” 

“Your smell, Severus,” Lucius smiled knowingly and Severus had to rein the impulse to hex him just to wipe that gloating expression from his face, “I don’t know what Althea has on you but I would have never imagined you accepting to change your smell for her.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lucius,” he replied without loosing a beat, his tone so sincere anyone else would have believe him. Anyone else, except someone already knowing he was lying, of course.
“Oh, spare me,” Lucious waved his hand, dismissing his excuses, “I saw you talk and dance with her the night of my party. You didn’t seem very happy about it, from where I was. And every single Alpha in the room smelled weird, so it was not difficult to put together what was going on.”

Severus had to thank every single minute spent in practicing Occlumency for his lack of reaction at Lucius’ words. Damn it. 

If every Alpha had smelt differently, Severus hadn’t noticed - so much for being a good spy, even if he had more pressing matters to worry about. Back then he hadn’t talked with anyone but Althea, and it had been too long since they met each other for him to tell if her smell was any different, to tell if anyone else’s was. It was both a relief and a new worry. Yes, his cover was safe for the moment and more solid than he thought, but that also mean that Althea had come to the party with a plan. Althea had known that he had the boy even before smelling him that night? Or had she hoped so - hoped that the only one who could save her daughter was also the one who had the boy? In the long run, it didn’t matter if Althea knew where his loyalty truly lay before, or if she was just gambling on it, for now she knew it nonetheless, but… if she had found out somehow, be it by putting all the clues together or by pulling some strings and making someone talk a little too much, then Snape’s position as a spy was more fragile than they had though. 

Severus quirked an eyebrow and filed the information away for later.

“How did you find out it was her that made every one change their smell?” Snape asked instead,  ignoring the sense of guilt in confirming to Lucius that it was indeed Althea’s plan. The woman could stand some suspicion, after all. She wasn’t a Death Eater, so she couldn’t be called a traitor for taking the boy, but she was also a Pureblood and a Slytherin. They wouldn’t attack her or her family straight away, no, they would try to recruit her before, to make her see the advantages of joining them and handing over the boy. 

“She could have been the only one to pull out something like this, the only one neutral enough to know wizards from both sides and asking them this kind of favours.”

“Have you considered that she might do it for someone else?” Snape asked, because he didn’t need Malfoy to think about it on his own and entertain the idea too much, “Maybe someone blackmailed her.” 

Lucious laughed at that, not just a smirk or a polite giggle, but a real laugh, as if the mere thought was ludicrous. “Please, Severus. The day I see Althea Greengrass not having the upper hand with someone is the day I snap my own wand.” 

“Ah, you’re right, of course. Foolish of me to even think such a thing,” Severus lips quirked imperceptibly upward, “But I wasn’t aware she had asked that of other people too.” 

“Well, she did and now I am curious to know why you accepted.” 

“It was just a simple favour she asked of me, nothing that could hinder me.” 

“But it could hinder our cause,” Lucious’s reply was harsh, but Snape didn’t dignify him with and answer, forcing him to elaborate further. “She’s muddying the waters, trying to throw us off with pathetic tricks.” 

“Do you think she has Potter?”

“You don’t?” 

“I didn’t enquire why she had to ask that of me, she wouldn’t have told me anyway, but if what she wants is muddying the water, she’s not being very smart in doing so, is she?” 

“Perhaps so,” Lucious seemed reluctant to dismiss her role in the scheme, “but now I’m really wondering, Severus, what does she have on you?”
“Ah, Lucius, but why would I have allowed her to ask such a favour in exchange for her discretion just to go around and tell it myself?” 

“True,” Lucius conceded the point, “but you know you can trust me. I wouldn’t tell anyone.” No, of course not. Not until it would be useful anyway. “Besides, who better than me to help you keep her at bay.” 

“Keep her at bay.” 

“You yielded to her, she’s gonna come back with some other favour to ask of you.”

Lucious looked at him expectantly and Snape wondered if it was too soon to cave and tell his lie, if someone with such a secret would have confided it in Malfoy, even if under pressure. 

But again Lucious would have bragged about it - he was sure of it - he would not have considered it shameful or appalling. 

So Severus let the silence stretch a little longer, as he would if he were too focused on the internal struggle of assessing the risks of confiding in him, and then he sighed, both defeat and relief in his voice,  “Lionel Greengrass.”
“Althea’s younger brother?” 

“Yes.” 

“What of him?” 

Severus refused to explain, he just looked at him, the ‘what do you think?’ written on his face. 

“Oh,” Lucius realized, and then, “but I don’t see the scandal in that. I hardly think your… proclivities are worthy of a blackmail.” 

Snape let out a bitter chuckle, “As much as I appreciate your… liberal views about what you call my proclivities, I am sure the Board of Governor would beg to differ.” 

“You’re too paranoid,”  Lucius scoffed, “Even if she tells them, there’s no base to have you fired.”

“Of course, because the Board of Governor has always acted on evidences and has never been forced by someone else to bend to their will, hasn’t it?” Severus let out a mirthless laugh, “Besides, it wouldn’t be in my best interest telling you that this isn’t just about where my interest lays. I don’t suggest you to do the math and realize how old Mr. Greengrass exactly was eight years ago.” 

It took him a moment, but Lucius’ eyes widened at the realization. He wasn’t particularly acquainted with the young man, too young to be recruited in the previous war, sent to Europe to continue his studies right after graduating at Hogwarts and not very much seen in the English wizard society since then. But still, Lucius knew who they were talking about and it didn’t take that much of a leap to realize that he must have still being a student at Hogwarts eight years ago, maybe even underage. 

Before he could ask anything, Severus continued. “But after all, you, contrary to Althea Greengrass, have no proof of it except my word.” Which would be enough, should Malfoy really want to harm him, even if what Severus had just told him was a lie and had never happened. Well, there in every rumor there was a grain of truth and Mr. Greengrass had actually developed quite a crush on him, but Severus had known better - at least back then, for his sanity this days was up to debate. “And no reason to use it against me. If it got out I would be fired and the Dark Lord needs an insight in Hogwarts, you realize.” 

“But of course, of course, I wouldn’t dare ruin the Dark Lord’s plans. Rest assured I wouldn’t have told anyone nonetheless,”

And then with a grin that disgusted him and made him feel sick to his stomach , Lucius placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned against him with a conspiratorial attitude, “Ah, Severus, corrupter of innocent souls, are we.” 

He was prying for details and Snape wouldn’t have liked anything better than shaking off the hand on his shoulder and go home to drown in bleach. Instead he plastered a smirk on his face, as if he was secretly pleased with himself about his debauchery and now he could finally let it out. “Well, let me tell you, he wasn’t innocent at all. I don’t like them quite that young.” Liar, liar, liar. He swallowed the bile that had raised to his throat. He had an underage boy currently residing in his quarter that he had abundantly taken advantage of to prove the contrary. 

“Well, look at the bright side, if he wasn’t underage, at least you’ll only be sacked and not imprisoned,” Lucius had never been funny and this was no exception. Severus looked at him and then laughed nonetheless. 

For the moment that problem was averted. Now he just needed to let Althea know about his lie. 

But first, he had a Dark Lord to deceive.