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Harry walks mindlessly down the halls of the rickety house of his professors being.
Forced to stay here, in a thirsty attempt for normalcy of his addiction.
His fingers wrap automatically around the handle of the glimmering knife, rubbing absently as a reminder.
He feels the cold tile against his bare feet. His reflection glimmers, and he seethes at the reminder of what he is ever failing to be.
His toes curls slightly as he notes the change of flooring beneath his footing. Cold tile to splitting warm wood.
He navigates his knees to the floor in the darkness, kneeling before the window which whispers clarity through the moonlight.
He sets his knife down next to him, gently breathing as he pays to the labyrinth of knowledge.
There is a grey shadow between the lines of faith and madness. What he truly is, is forever lost in the library of endless worship.
He whispers to nothing, his hands clasped together desperately. Every whisper is a commandment, because he is Gods son, the next one coming.
“Please, O’ Father of mine, take this teeter of my mind as a beg, let me flourish into what you require of me.” He whispers, each breath a fractured hymn as he pleads.
The celestial edge rubs his mind, salvation eating him from the inside out, his organs rotting.
“O’ Father of mine, the cleanest I am, let me vouch loyalty of being your reprimand…” he mutters softly, unclamping his hands as his knowing hands reach for the idle blade.
“Let me show you my insides… I am the one, let my wings spread,” he whispers false truth, holding the silver to the thin wrist of his.
As he presses it down, dragging it across the glow of his frame, his soul stirs, waking from the fragile slumber it once cascaded itself in.
His eyes are stained glass, working as Mother Mary begs him not to, the ruby falling to the floor.
“Take it, Father, let its sanity rush to make me what I must be,” he rasps, turning his wrist over to the floor. Each drip acting as an angels tears, the sacred song of his heartbeat rushing through cursed insides.
Twixt’ faith pounds his ache, the night trembling as he feels himself pushed to the blood stained wood, his body calling to whoever has the will to answer.
His faith unfolds underneath the matted altar, seeking redemption as his body bleeds with sorrow. Each bloom is a devoted trance, the haunting link of each plight.
Snape’s arms snake around his body, his dark robes contrasting the shimmering blood of Harry’s. His body is lifted, disappointment twisting off of his Professor.
“I am divine,” is all Harry can whisper through his reason, his fear clad in devotion.
“You are,” Snape reassures, the warmth of his broken wings, stretching from his throat, hitting Harry like a harsh wind.
Only then do his weeps melt off of his promise, his sobs begging truth as his arms are wrapped in swear.
The solace he feels of the rotting wood beneath him, his skin latching onto the cold of Snape, is incomparable.
His body is sleek with distrust, but his mind pounds with acceptance, as his being is nurtured by the one he was banished by.
And as honest hands wipe his tears, lying him down in bed, he feels like a boy, unwilling to devote for the night.
Maybe his feverish journey could take place in some other prayer of disease, where his mind heals from being sick, and his insides replenish themselves.