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Oedipean Revolution	By : Sarryn Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 7765 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Oedipean Revolution
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Man, and in general every rational being, exists as an end in himself and not merely as a means to be arbitrarily used by this or that will.

~Grounding for the Metaphysics of Morals, Immanuel Kant

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Albus Dumbledore smiles knowingly when I ask him for a three day leave from my active duties as a professor at Hogwarts. Many a fool has underestimated the man, but not for long. Beneath the veneer of jovial senility lurks a mind without peer�except perhaps in the Voldemort.
Albus calls me friend. Voldemort calls me servant. I am both and neither. A true friend would not betray. A true servant would not rebel. I serve two masters. I am a turncoat and coward. I am a student with two teachers�though one would claim friendship first. I have learned arduous lessons from both. One instructs me in guilt, the other in pain. And I ever so faithfully follow the syllabus.
I decline the proffered sweet in favor of the lingering bitterness that always hangs upon me like an overly enthusiastic lover.
Everything I have sacrificed is for my own selfishness.
I fear the clammy hand of death.
I fear the path of my Karmic circle.

* * *

�Uncle Sev�us!� My reaction is immediate. I throw off sleep with the alacrity of the paranoid. Fortunately I am too battle-canny to lash out immediately. Otherwise young Harry would find himself in serious pain.
�What is it?� I demand as my heartbeat returns to normal and the surge of adrenalin dissipates into my veins. Too-green eyes watch me curiously. The boy-child cocks his head to one side and scoots closer on the bed.
�I�m hungry,� he confides shyly. The small smile he offers should not cause such a heated reaction in my body. It should not cause the most disconcerting tightness in my sleep pants. I cover my sudden awareness of his body with an all-too ready snarl.
�You woke me up for that? Tell the house elves to fix you something.�
�They won�t.� It is my turn to feel curiosity. My master has forbidden the child to request food?
�Once I ordered them to make me seven triple-layered chocolate cakes. I ate them all. Then I got sick all over the house. Daddy didn�t like that.�
Indeed.
�Indeed.�
�So?� He�s leaning closer. I attempt to give us more room, but the child will have none of that. He is determined to acquire breakfast, now.
�Yes, yes. Givea moa moment.� I do not speak his name. I can never bring myself to. His green eyes are a remembrance of a dead woman, but his form is that of my school nemesis. James Potter was the sun burning all those below. His son is a forgotten ghost forever trapped on this mortal plane.
I feel his unwavering gaze upon me as I slip out of bed and stalk towards the closet. I refuse to be intimated by a thirteen-year-old with the mind and body of a child. I pull out a few garments and enter the bathing room. I hear him bounce about my bed and hum some childish song.
I am ashamed to admit that the temperature of my shower more closely resembles that of the southern pole than of the equatorial ring.
I step out fully dressed and find the child sprawled out upon my bed. Thin arms and legs stretch out in a vain attempt to touch the edges of the mattress. He wears those silly silk pajamas that my master dresses him in. It doesn�t appear that he has any other clothes.
I close the door with moorceorce than strictly necessary. The boy jumps and blinks at me with those disconcerting eyes. Then he smiles and I can almost feel sunlight pierce the thick window curtains and fill the room. Perhaps, he, too, is the sun, just like his damned father.
I stalk over to the door. He remains on the bed amid the rumpled sheets. Curious green eyes observe me complacently beneath sooty black lashes.
�Are you coming?�
�Yes!� With too much grace he scrambles off of the bed and lands on theor wor with two thumps from each bare foot. Before I can evade him, he clasps my larger hand between his smaller ones. I have every intention of extricating myself from his hold, but then he looks up at me with na�ve adoration�no, not the same as that which he directs upon my master, but still, it is enough.
With a sigh of resignation to cover the leap of my pulse, I tug the child from the room. In the hallway he begins a one-sided conversation with me. His piping voice breathes light into the corners and haunts the ragged edges of my mind.
The boy has no conception of right and wrong, good and evil. Perhaps he is not so much like a child, but like an animal, for animals surely exist outside of these dichotomies. They are not cruel in themselves, but become so under human morals. What we might call cruelty is merely survival for them, survival of their genes. Animals are uncomplicated; the boy is mplimplicated.
Perhaps, then, I am less of a monster. I do not crave his tender body for the fact that he is young, gods know I am surrounded every day by the world�s finest and most horrid examples of childhood. I yearn to immolate myself in his simplicity.

* * *

�So what do you want?� I ask at the dining room table. He thinks over my question with mohoughought than is strictly necessary, in my opinion. Pink lips purse. I resist the urge to snap at him as I would with one of my delinquent students. The child wouldn�t understand the reason�or forgive.
�Waffles and strawberries!� the boy announces with a delighted clap of his small hands.
�At least you are having fruit,� I mutter as I summon a house elf. The pathetic creature appears with a pop and takes our orders with much bowing and scraping. I am tempted to kick the thing to make it shut up, but I fear that the boy would not appreciate such displays of irritated anger. Really, though, against whom do I rage so? The house elf is not to blame, then who?
Myself.
�What�re you gonna do today?� the boy inquires between bites of fluffy brown waffle. The house elves have decided to increase the caloric count by adding fresh whipping cream. The child happily eats his breakfast. He swirls the glistening red strawberries through the cream and then eats them. Soon his pink lips are stained sanguine with their juices.
��Going to,�� I correct him automatically. He sticks out his tongue in retaliation and then giggles.
�So?� Persistent brat.
�I am going to watch over you as your�father has ordered me to,� I inform him archly as I sip my coffee.
�That doesn�t sound fun,� the boy replies thoughtfully. �What do you want?�
What do I want? The same question I asked him of breakfast, yet, from his sweet mouth, the words take on a flashflood of innuendo. I restrain myself before saying, �you,� and thereby confusing the child. I doubt he understands the full spectrum of desire.
�Well?�
�Nothing.� He cocks his head inquisitively and stares at me incredulously.
�There�s nothing you want?�
�Nothing,� I dissemble.
�You are either very happy or�� He blinks owlishly and smiles. �In denial.�
I manage to choke rather inelegantly upon my coffee. He watches me with a mixture of surprise and childish amusement as I clean up the spill.
�I assure you that I�m not in denial.� I am not. I lie to others, not myself.
�And happy?� the boy persists.
�I am quite content.� He shrugs and continues to eat his breakfast. I return to my own meal. He begins to hum happily as he eats. Every small swallow is followed by a low purr of approval. I find this quite distracting. He doesn�t even have the decency to enjoy his food in silence.
�Will you cease?� I growl after several minutes. He looks at me with surprise and licks his fork clean with a pointed, pink tongue. At least he has stopped humming.
�I want to go outside,� he announces wiping his mouth with a napkin.
�You can�t.� My master does not allow it. He prefers to keep the child indoors for his�protection.
�Please?�
�No.� He frowns at hlatelate and then at me.
�Just for a little while?�
�No.�
�But��
�No.�
He doesn�t attempt to cozen me further, much to his credit. On previous occasions he has been known to wheedle for hours on end. I wonder why he gives up so readily now. Perhaps he is up to something? No, there is no trickery in him, just the simple push of �id�.
�Will you read to me?� The frown of disappointment has vanished as if it never were and in its place is a hopeful smile that lights his too-green eyes. If I am not careful, I will lose myself to him, to this pure innocent.
�Can�t you read, yet?� I ask without thinking.
�Of course I can. Daddy taught me long time ago.� He bounces out of his chair and quickly circles around the table. �I like your voice,� he whispers with a shy smile as he reaches for my arm. Heat flares up beneath the gentle grasp of his small hands. �Please?� Cupid�s boy lips cradle the word like the sweetest invocation. I am helpless to resist.
There is no use in denying that which transcends good and evil.

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We, whose duty is wakefulness itself, are the heirs of all the strength which the struggle against this error has fostered.

~Beyond Good and Evil, Friedrich Nietzsche

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Oedipean Revolution