Die for your DNA
Over the last week of school the amount of times Severus Snape had been seen could be counted in one hand. He rarely graced the great hall with his presence (choosing to merely take food from the kitchens, not without a fairly long argument with the elves every single time they tried to give him far too much food then he could likely eat in multiple days much less a singular one (he ignored the fact he should probably take it considering he didn’t know when he’d eat a full three meals upon returning to Spinner’s End but he pushed that thought away, he wouldn’t ever be returning, not if he could help it)) and with the lack of classes had no reason to be seen there either.
In fact, despite the marauders (and others) multiple attempts to find or catch him, he never stayed in one place for too long (even with their incredibly concerning stalking when they found where he was the doors were practically welded shut and even they were not stupid enough to chance destroying part of the castle, it was sentient after all and would do much worse than detention. And even when they tried to catch him by being there before he arrived he had already moved to a different classroom).
From potions classes to unused study halls to abandoned rooms, anywhere that had space to allow him to brew and create where he could spell the doors closed to work without fear of being interrupted or having his work destroyed (something that had unfortunately become a fairly common occurrence, the injustice in the school was truly concerning).
And upon leaving it was as though no one had been there in the first place, even the rooms that had a thick enough layer of dust to make you sneeze hard enough you flew through a wall, upon exiting, seemed entirely undisturbed. After around three days most of them gave up, instead only seeking him out if they were really looking to blow off some steam or merely a ritual in passing (not that they ever found or could get to him, still though, he almost felt his cheeks tint at how much attention they paid him when he wasn’t available, made him feel like those popular girls who flaunted how many love struck men they had practically groveling at their feet. No wonder that annoyingblonde kept up appearances, it was almost…fun. Well- if he wasn’t incredibly preoccupied and annoyed at having to constantly move workstations in fear just so he could work in peace).
Finally, after exactly six days, twenty three hours and fourteen minutes, he had accomplished what might become his (quite literal) biggest achievement in life till the day he died. In all honesty, it was almost absurdly simple to create, he couldn’t believe that not only had no one else managed to create such a thing but also that it had taken him (someone who proved themselves in bettering and fixing just about everything he came across) so long. Really, he almost felt ashamed.
All in all, he was ready to turn his life around after a terrible and absolutely horribly excruciating sixteen and a half or so years, and nothing was going to stop him. He’d decided, with what little time he had left, that he would complete the ritual on the train back to London, as magic was still allowed on it and it wasn’t until they left platform 9 and ¾ that he would have to suffer through the dealings of the Merlin forsaken Trace (he didn’t wasn’t to do it still at school as not only would it be suspicious but he also couldn’t afford accidentally missing the train because he was (essentially) passed out in a ditch somewhere (since he knew this was gonna hurt like a bitch)).
But hey, in the long run, he’d take just about anything if it meant his life would end up being even half decent (and with what he had planned, it would end a lot better then just half), hell, he’d even take the dark mark for all it was worth (which- I mean, he was still considering either way. Besides, there was a chance with this change it would jump him up to one of the inner circles).
Today was the day of departure from Hogwarts. His (technically) last day of fifth year (and last day as the scrawny poor underfed weak runt of the litter) and the one in which he would find out if what he’d been working on for the last week straight (he wasn’t) was all for nothing (and whether he should disappear and resign himself to a life of uselessness in which he yearned for magic and yet made no use of it (like his mother)).
As nondescriptly as possible, he made his way to the carriages, snagging one of the earliest ones before anyone was even close to ready to leave (he’d finished everything, including packing and preparation, at around four in the morning, skipping even trying to sleep, knowing the nerves and excitement would leave him staring at the ceiling if he tried) and getting to ride there in silence and best of all, alone.
(He ignored how he could see the thestrals, how he’d gotten so close to death so many times magic itself decided, ya, that counts enough I guess. Still, after making sure no one could see him, he pet the ones pulling his carriage gently and scratched them behind the ears a little before moving to the platform with a soft wave (they’d been far nicer and kinder to him then most over the years, they never judged him (others maybe, but not him)).)
He sighed, glancing around at the platform and the like- two other people that were early risers and were also at the station already (luckily, that did not include slytherins or gryffindors, only ravenclaws were as…crazy as he was). Mentally he ran through his plan in his mind, he would grab an inconspicuous compartment, not too close to the middle but not too far, aka, very different from what others would expect of him, ward it too high heavens, chaos and back again, set about twenty alarms so that he wouldn’t end up missing his leave, and then (essentially) bleed out.
How exciting!
…
Wow, congrats. You’re right, he was being sarcastic. Here’s a gold star! (Or whatever the magical equivalent would be he supposed, he didn’t know as he’d never got one. Though maybe it would be house points…? Hm… something to think about when he’s passed out.)
Anyways. (Anygays)
The minute the train arrived, the station now not looking like a ghost town (as much) and instead like an incredibly rural village that rarely had visitors, he practically ran into it the moment the doors parted to find himself his perfect cabin. He didn’t care about what he might look like in his half-sleep-deprived half-high-off-his-ass-on-adrenaline craze, he had already essentially ruined what little of a reputation he might have had, who cares if he made it worse (there was a high chance it would get twenty times better anyway).
Shutting the door behind him a little more forcefully than necessary (it didn’t matter, it was magic. It wouldn’t break unless like- absolutely needed) he stuffed his trunk below his seat and (before he could get ambushed or someone accidentally find him) began setting up the wards and disillusionment charms on the entire compartment.
From things to make it impossible to let anyone in or open the door unless he gave his clear consent to silencing charms and smell removing charms for any…accidents that might occur (he was not going to be taking any chances of someone finding him looking, probably, half dead, he’d rather throw himself off the Astronomy tower) to hiding charms and notice-me-nots that would give the illusion there wasn’t anything special about his cabin (or that or even existed) unless you knew where he was (not that you were looking for him, because Merlin knew he’d learned his lesson on that one) and finally more alarms then necessary, enough it could probably wake up the whole of the country.
He practically exhausted his entire mental (and physical) library of spells, his magical core beginning to ache slightly at the large use in such a short time (it lit a grim determination in his mind at the reminder of why he was doing all this, why he was still trying, why he was still here. He would fix his life himself even if it meant practically dying and rebuilding his whole body if no one else was intent on helping him do so) and he laid back with a soft huff, at least no one would find him (for better or for worse, he still wasn’t sure how this whole thing would end but he could only hope it end well (not that hope of all things was something he trusted in slightest, it hadn’t saved him from the hell hole of his home, nor from the bullies at school or almost dying to a werewolf, no, he placed no trust in hope)).
Bringing the bag he’d had slung around his shoulder to the front he quickly pulled out everything he would need, while his research and attempts had told him it would probably be better to do this process over the course of a week or so and in small doses so as to not potentially send his body and mind into delusion, he could not afford the time nor place to do so. He still had the trace activated and the moment he left the station of 9 and ¾ he would be unable to do magic for two months (unless he wanted to deal with the ministry, he shifted at the thought, too much corruption in one place (and that was saying something considering where he lived and went to school)).
So, instead, in clear Severus Snape fashion, he’d hacked it. Increasing the potency and changing a few of the original runes in the ritual, tweaking the ingredients of the potion to be more effective more quickly and adjusting the necessary cantation to work in one use instead of multiple.
Really, what had life been expecting him to do? Obviously immediately after creating he would’ve gone and better it, who did they think he was? (He was almost offended you thought he would’ve just left it to the first thing that worked, he wasn’t some gryffindor with blinded trust or bravery, really, the audacity to think so little of him.)
As soon as he heard the other students begin to pile in (or at least the very start of them) he commenced, he didn’t want to be accidentally startled (at that thought he cast a silencing charm on the outside noise as well to give himself some much needed quiet to focus (especially considering how dangerous this would likely be)) or interrupted (he put a small note that could only be read by the snack trolley worker (if they somehow saw through his magic) that he was uninterested, Merlin knew he didn’t need to unintentionally traumatize them if they had some type of overly powerful magical hack to get into the cabins (he wasn’t taking any chances)).
The first thing he had to do was write the runes for the ritual, something that unfortunately (he had learned) had to be done with blood infused magical lettering (a type of casting where you condensed thin strands of magic into a more… corporeal form to write in the air or, in his case, cast a spell or charm with written invocation, especially in condensed space. Really, it was quite fascinating and he’d surely have to look more into it later).
Taking out a needle, the one he typically used to fix up his clothes or bag, he stabbed himself (lightly) right under his wrist, careful not to accidentally puncture a vein or artery (gods knew he was going to be doing enough bleeding later), and drew out a thin string of blood like thread from the wound, letting out a silent hiss as he began writing in the air, ignoring the strange feeling of pulling his ‘ichor’ (considering it was infused with magic by his magical core, it wouldn’t necessarily be too far from the truth to consider every witch and wizard to be partially godly if their powers really did come from Lady Magic) from his body on purpose (though he’d done more than enough bleeding to not mind the sensation too much and stay focused on the task at hand).
As soon as the last lettering was written, the ruby red gleaming in the morning light, casting a scarlet light into his face and the walls that reminded him of a blood moon, he quickly proceeded with the rest of the process (he couldn’t stall too long between each part or Merlinknew how it might fuck it up, not to mention he had only around three hours to complete this before he’d have to peel himself off the floor and leave, whether he liked it or not).
The next steps had to be done in quick succession before they had time to properly settle or he wouldn’t have time to complete them (and he didn’t know if it would even work a second time if he botched the first, not to mention whatever side effects might occur because of a failure (something he refused to have happen)).
Popping off the cap to the potion h e held his breath (in anticipation and because it smelled and tasted horrendous, like rotting flesh that he was purposefully choosing to cannibalize, pleasant no?) and downed the whole thing in one go, gagging slightly as he shut his eyes, squeezing them as tight as possible to stop the growing inherent need to throw up, and dropped the bottle back into his bag as he picked back up his wand.
Muttering the incantations in a (as much as possible) clear voice with careful pronunciation he moved his hand in the needed movements to cast the spell, a circle with a line down the middle to split it in two, what appeared to be a tear drop and then a large jagged ‘X’ across where he’d performed the previous movements. In the blink of an eye excruciating pain passed through him, starting at the tips of his fingers that were holding his wand and quickly spreading like fiendfyre across his entire body (greedy in its nature as it sight to cover every inch of his body and soul).
Hastily (and rather haphazardly), he uncorked the vial of pain relief and blood replenishing potion he’d mixed together (he’d assumed, and rightfullyso, that he likely wouldn’t have the time nor the physically capacity or abilities to drink two separate potions, so, after a bit of tweaking to make sure they didn’t turn his insides inside out (aswell) he managed to make a slightly more diluted yet no less efficient variation of the two fused together into one) and almost broke the glass with how hard he was gripping it (he didn’t have money to buy the unbreakable ones, and Slughorn kept his in his untouchable office (since it was also where he kept his precious alcohol) and almost choked on the thick texture when his throat closed in on itself, ragged breaths escaping him as dark purple and pink spots covered his vision and dizziness spread through his head.
He barely managed to squash the sudden urge to stand up, not having the mental capacity to figure out where it suddenly came from in the absolute agony he was feeling, and instead grasped around almost blindly (his vision obscured and blurry) for some type of purchase to help the random and inexplicable sinking feeling that enveloped his entire being, like being plunged deep underwater and unable to swim no matter how hard he tried (not that he felt physically capable of doing anything even close to that right now, mentally or not).
He felt like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel, couldn’tanything. Like someone had cast a spell to rid him of his senses and left him completely in the dark about everything (not that that wasn’t a usual feeling, it just felt far more profound and noticeable right now). The sound of cracking and crunching filled his ears as his bones moved around, some growing and others shrinking, shirking or adding additional cartilage to (or from) certain points and some even going as far as grinding itself into dust before rebuilding into that of a completely different shape.
(He had known it would hurt, that he’d likely scream, that he might even cry, he’d known a lot of things, but to actually feel it happen? It was even more excruciating than he thought was possible. Every nerve ending in his body alight and screaming in overstimulation (he didn’t even want to think about what it would’ve felt like without the pain relief, Merlin knows he might’ve died if his body simply chose to shut down) as tears flowed freely down his cheeks and a loud guttural cry meet his ears, taking far longer than it probably should’ve for him to realize the had come from him. Thank Salazar he had put up silencing charms.)
He barely even noticed the thick substance suddenly leaking from his nose until he accidentally swallowed some of it (somehow) and spit it back out so quickly his head spun with the movement, barely restraining himself from throwing up there and then (at least he had known better than to eat breakfast huh?). It was quite possibly the most disgusting thing he’d ever had the unfortunance of tasting (and he was poor. He’d tasted a lot of revolting and barely (or most likely even not) edible things), realizing far too late that it was the excess cartilage and bone finding a way to leave his body in the most natural way possible (and there weren’t a lot of choices so he supposed he should almost be thankful with what his body had chosen).
After that was the tissue and muscle, dissolving into puddles in his body (leaving the skin to sink unnaturally onto his newly formed bones and skeleton) before slowly reforming where necessary, stretching and pulling his skin taut (in some cases even breaking it apart and creating open wounds because it’d been too thin to stay together) as he slumped in his seat with a barely concealed shriek of pain through his grit teeth (that had also been pushed and pulled around his mouth until they felt completely different from before).
(His gums were bleeding intensely, filling his mouth with liquid until he choked, unable to do much but lean (fall) forward and let it escape through parted lips onto the floor and (unfortunately) the tail end of his clothes. Apparently, from what he guessed at least in his halfdelirious off of pain and adrenaline haze, there wasn’t enough material to rebuild his body in the shape or way needed so it instead began to pull from his fat reserves (what little those were), and made his (new) skeleton figure even more prominent against his pale skin, the shirt he’d worn falling down with gravity and giving him a (very unneeded) view of his own chest as he felt his body destroy itself to recreate. How horrifying to think of (not that he was currently thinking of much besides how much it hurt).)
Then came his organs, luckily nowhere near as much change needed, but that didn’t mean it spared him in the slightest. The otherworldly feeling of having them move around, tear, get sewn back together, and almost rip from the tubing that kept them connected to the rest of his body and let him stay alive and (what he was now thinking had become more of a subjective term) breathing. His brain hurt, aching and pulsing in pain, squishing and distending to rearrange itself more properly to fit its new needs and cranium (he felt unreal, literally. Like he was thinking and yet not, floating outside of his body and yet drowning inside of it, everything feeling detached and yet part of him).
He didn’t feel real.
He didn’t feel alive.
But he knew he wasn’t dead. And so the pain and self imposed cruelty continued at his command (though he wasn’t so sure he was the one directing it anymore, wasn’t even sure he had any control of his body as he collapsed haphazardly onto the floor in a jumble of limbs in a position that hurt far more than it should’ve).
Then was, in his opinion, after looking back on it, the worst part. His blood and the DNA in it (the one he was removing, getting rid of, purging from his body). It seeped from his skin, from his pores, covering him in a layer of scarlet that looked like he’d (literally) taken a bath in his own blood (he supposed the muggle saying would be true right now, who would’ve thought that would be possible). It poured from every facet of his body, spreading over his eyes as they leaked from their lids, rendering him even more blindthen he’d been before with what reminded him of a child’s nursery (not that he’d ever been in one) with the vibrant and neon colors that made your eyes hurt, spotting and covering his vision, oozing from his head as it matted in his hair, staining the already dark color even more and giving it an auburn tinge in the morning light behind him, even spilling from various (now) reopened scars along the entirety of his body.
It was disgusting.
It was horrifying.
It was gut wrenching (though in his case, his had been. So ha, he could actually say that).
He would’ve almost thought he was hallucinating or seeing things (from what he could through his blood stained (and now, crusted) vision) when he felt his skin start peeling off like a fucking cucumber. If it weren’t for the sudden increase (again) of blood spilling from him and the vague recognition of some type of…beige substance falling into the ground around him in layers and the sudden increase (if that was even possible) of pain (he was sure being constantly tortured with the cruciatus curse or being burnt alive back in the Salem era was nowhere near as bad as this was. If it weren’t for the forced consciousness to ensure the process was completed and correctly he was sure he would’ve passed out at the very beginning when it’d started, no matter how high his pain tolerance was), he would’ve never believed he was being skinned like a vegetable and tossed in a soup (of his own bodily discharge and blood).
He felt nauseous just looking at it, so, with possibly some of the most physical effort he’d ever exuded in his entire pathetic sixteen or so years of existence, he turned his head and gaze away from his own suffering, instead propping it up against the seat he’d fallen off of and stared out the window, almost crying in relief (he was pretty sure he already was or at least had been) when it finally stopped and he was allowed a small glance out into the passing surroundings before it all went dark (finally).
(Somewhere in the back of his mind, as he watched the outside world continue on without any clue of his suffering or the disastrous distress he had and was (most likely) about to cause with his crucial decision to change, he thought how glad he was that he remembered to close the window and lock it.)