A Forest
One
The first man entered the forest at a swift pace, slipping between oak trees and out of sight. The second man entered with less grace, snapping twigs and scattering leaves, and the former, hearing this, broke into quicker strides.
It continued like this for a while; hunter and quarry slinking across the darkened forest. The second man was closer, much closer to the forest floor, and was inclined to notice better his surroundings. A thick carpet of dry mud made up the forest floor, damp layers of earth enveloping last year’s autumn scattering. These rotting leaves gave off a sweet, yet not unpleasant scent. Natural decay was not nearly as foul as it could have been here. Above the tarmac of rot was an earthly confetti made of twigs and stones. The stones; large, rough and jagged, formed the pattern of a path though the trees, but they were treacherous guides.
Further ahead, the first man stumbled over a loose stone. His pursuer had no such difficulty, bounding over everything as if the path ahead was smooth and clear.
And then the forest fell away suddenly. They were both at its edge. The first man turned, raised an eyebrow at the other, and seemed to step over some invisible barrier at the forests’ edge. At that moment, the second lurched forward and caught him about the waist. Although he was far thinner, he bore the other man down into the dirt.
“Oh no you don’t,” he hissed, though clenched teeth.
He dragged his captive back to the forests’ edge and pinned him against a tree. The other man did not struggle, but shot his captor a look of pure loathing, one which was mirrored in the face of the captor.
“Running away, are we?” growled the thinner man.
“Surely,” began the other, in a tone heavily imbrued with dislike, “not even you would be so idiotic not to realise that I am following orders? In fact,” he paused, for effect, continuing in a mock-innocent voice, “I could have sworn you were there, barely ten minutes ago, when I was given said orders.”
The two men continued to stare at each other for a few moments; still, unblinking, silently hating each other.
“Azkaban has turned you stupid,” the captive continued, at which point he found himself shoved more roughly against the tree and a hand at his throat. He merely smirked at this. “Do let me down when you’ve finished your pale attempt at intimidation, Black.”
“Why? Can’t you wait to crawl back home to the family, Snape?”
“Family?” repeated Snape, incredulously.
“Or perhaps it’s your master you really want to see.”
A peal of mirthless laughter answered this statement.
“Then please, let me go. Why do you so cruelly prevent me from seeking him?”
“Was that a confession?”
“No, idiot, it was what you wanted to hear” snarled Snape, suddenly throwing Sirius off him. Sirius fell to the floor, snarling back at Snape, baring his teeth in a canine fashion.
“Azkaban has rotted your brain, as well as your good looks. Give my love to the werewolf, won’t you?” Snape said, before stepping forward and vanishing into the night.
Sirius remained on the forest floor for a few moments, half-stunned. ‘My good looks?’ He roared with laughter, got to his feet, and then began to shake with amusement. Was he really going stupid, or had his arch-arch-enemy thrice removed just paid him a compliment?
‘Maybe that’s why old Snivellus hated James for so long,’ thought Sirius, still deeply amused. ‘He wanted me, he really wanted me (at these thoughts, Sirius again laughed raucously) and was so jealous of him because of it.’
Sirius grinned. He was quite confident that Snape really did hate him and always had, but all the same, the thought of a youthful Snape writing “I [heart] S.B.” on the inside cover of his Transfiguration books amused Sirius too much for him to let it go easily.
“My good looks,” snorted Sirius again, before vanishing at exactly the same spot Snape had done.
It continued like this for a while; hunter and quarry slinking across the darkened forest. The second man was closer, much closer to the forest floor, and was inclined to notice better his surroundings. A thick carpet of dry mud made up the forest floor, damp layers of earth enveloping last year’s autumn scattering. These rotting leaves gave off a sweet, yet not unpleasant scent. Natural decay was not nearly as foul as it could have been here. Above the tarmac of rot was an earthly confetti made of twigs and stones. The stones; large, rough and jagged, formed the pattern of a path though the trees, but they were treacherous guides.
Further ahead, the first man stumbled over a loose stone. His pursuer had no such difficulty, bounding over everything as if the path ahead was smooth and clear.
And then the forest fell away suddenly. They were both at its edge. The first man turned, raised an eyebrow at the other, and seemed to step over some invisible barrier at the forests’ edge. At that moment, the second lurched forward and caught him about the waist. Although he was far thinner, he bore the other man down into the dirt.
“Oh no you don’t,” he hissed, though clenched teeth.
He dragged his captive back to the forests’ edge and pinned him against a tree. The other man did not struggle, but shot his captor a look of pure loathing, one which was mirrored in the face of the captor.
“Running away, are we?” growled the thinner man.
“Surely,” began the other, in a tone heavily imbrued with dislike, “not even you would be so idiotic not to realise that I am following orders? In fact,” he paused, for effect, continuing in a mock-innocent voice, “I could have sworn you were there, barely ten minutes ago, when I was given said orders.”
The two men continued to stare at each other for a few moments; still, unblinking, silently hating each other.
“Azkaban has turned you stupid,” the captive continued, at which point he found himself shoved more roughly against the tree and a hand at his throat. He merely smirked at this. “Do let me down when you’ve finished your pale attempt at intimidation, Black.”
“Why? Can’t you wait to crawl back home to the family, Snape?”
“Family?” repeated Snape, incredulously.
“Or perhaps it’s your master you really want to see.”
A peal of mirthless laughter answered this statement.
“Then please, let me go. Why do you so cruelly prevent me from seeking him?”
“Was that a confession?”
“No, idiot, it was what you wanted to hear” snarled Snape, suddenly throwing Sirius off him. Sirius fell to the floor, snarling back at Snape, baring his teeth in a canine fashion.
“Azkaban has rotted your brain, as well as your good looks. Give my love to the werewolf, won’t you?” Snape said, before stepping forward and vanishing into the night.
Sirius remained on the forest floor for a few moments, half-stunned. ‘My good looks?’ He roared with laughter, got to his feet, and then began to shake with amusement. Was he really going stupid, or had his arch-arch-enemy thrice removed just paid him a compliment?
‘Maybe that’s why old Snivellus hated James for so long,’ thought Sirius, still deeply amused. ‘He wanted me, he really wanted me (at these thoughts, Sirius again laughed raucously) and was so jealous of him because of it.’
Sirius grinned. He was quite confident that Snape really did hate him and always had, but all the same, the thought of a youthful Snape writing “I [heart] S.B.” on the inside cover of his Transfiguration books amused Sirius too much for him to let it go easily.
“My good looks,” snorted Sirius again, before vanishing at exactly the same spot Snape had done.