This fanfic is not about Snape necessarily, but more about the effect Snape can have on people.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I do however own Elizabeth Jordan.
Time: Takes place in late June 1991. It is the school year before Harry Potter enters Hogwarts.
Darkness (May 2004)
Darkness cannot be technically defined as darkness unless, of course, there is no light. The night often does not bring darkness, then, for the moon and the stars have a way of illuminating even the darkest parts of the world. Even the slightest sliver of moon will reveal the shadows inherent in the environment. During these times the light takes on a blue tint, covering all with a false colour, and blurring the edges, making things such as tables and chairs a little hard to see with the eyes. It is the night, then, that reduces the power of the sight and forces use of other senses, most frequently, touch, and most reluctantly, intuition.
***
"Damn!" the figure whispered, and lowered a hand to rub a sore shin. Luckily the table had been of solid enough construction to not move when bumped into. Besides that one burst of sound, there is no fear that it will awaken the people around, slumped over or tangled in slumber. At times the figure would stand before them, unknown, haunting, wondering what they were thinking now.
Not tonight. Tonight it quietly ignored the pain and continued on its way.
The commonroom was crossed in a few quick steps; there was nothing exciting to see. It had, in its younger years, sat and watched the shadows created on the stone walls, and occasionally make up stories about the figures that jump and sang and fought heroic adventures. But that was when it was afraid, and weak, and still hesitant to break rules for its own benefit. Tonight it did not stop and kept its eyes on the door. It was going to bigger and better things: shadows created by moonlight.
Once it stepped out of the commonroom the senses were heightened; it leered ahead each corner, and stepped with the utmost precision. It was usually quiet, of course, in normal life, but now the trait was especially vital.
It knew the little nuances of the place it was infiltrating. The lit and unlit places, the torched-licked halls that it must avoid, and the days the damned patrols were off. It was, of course, on the committee that selected which teachers patrolled which halls on which days. It had ulterior motives, you see.
The figure silently lurked in the halls that it knew so well without a fear of being caught -- tenure comes to mind, and a sort of invincibility akin to youth drove it to seek its spot. For seven years has the figure dwelled here, knowing the gothic architecture far better than the dirty forms of its other dwelling, too unfamiliar to call home. And now that the figure was so close to leaving, it wanted one more glance at the moon from its favorite spot.
The silence of the halls continued to bewilder the figure. Considering that it was usually surrounded by constant noise of teenager prattling, whining, bitching of its classmates, this was heaven. And they wondered why it always sought a chair furthest away, or sitting in the bedroom, or even now, risking point deduction to be alone. Such issues have stopped bothering it; a sense of time passing and of the end is all that occupies it now.
It imagines that it almost looks like a shadow itself, now, in the darkened corridors. Darkness personified. Its hands flay out behind it, it leans forward, like the masthead of a ship, the hair revealing a thin, pale face carved by sternness, yet still undeniably human. It stops short of calling itself a ghost, for it was still alive, but there were days when it felt beyond life.
It turns one more corner, and freezes. It feels the fabric of its clothes swing forward, rustling against its bare legs, smooth and new-feeling. Its hair hung loosely, limply, the product of unconcern of hygiene. And the concern, the fear, the resignation, the self-abasement all come at once, yet it shows none of this on its face.
A man is sitting in the figure's windowseat, gazing into the grounds that is lit by a full moon. His feet are propped up on the seat, crossed at the ankles. Stocking feet poked out of a purple and gold dressing gown, covering a snowy-white nightshirt.
The figure only felt anger. "You," it stated monotonously.
The man turned to face the figure.
"You're early, Elizabeth."
It blinked. Its name was not supposed to be spoken, not here, not now, not by the Headmaster, whom had been just a name and an image to it for seven years. It must pause a moment to collect its wits and speak as eloquently as it could.
"How did you know?" it asked in the same flat, calm voice.
"I prefer this spot myself." He looked back through the window. "I don't get much chance to look at the school being cooped up in an office all day. And the night always has offered an allure to me."
"When is my detention?" it asks. It is trying to ignore the sentimental ruminations of the headmaster; to contemplate them now would be more demoralising, and make the relationship between itself and the Headmaster more complicated than it needed to be.
The man is momentarily amused; he swings his legs so that his feet touch the floor. "I won't give you detention," he says as he stands up. He seems to have trouble doing so. With a slight motion of the hand, he beckons it over. The figure is reluctant, of course, but does so and offering a hand, acts as a support as the Headmaster stands up.
"Thank you, Elizabeth."
There's the name again. Emotions barrages the figure; the guilt of being caught, especially considering what its position is within the organisation, and the luck at not getting a detention. Either the man had pity for the figure, or he was just an emotion-laden fool.
It stood at parade rest, hands behind back, feet slightly spread, military style of subservience. Hung its head for the blow that would ruin all chances of advancement.
"You are aware, then, that you are breaking rules by being out after curfew?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that it deserves some sort of punishment?"
"Yes, sir."
"Elizabeth, I don't want to, but I'm going to have to take ten points from Slytherin."
He had said it with the utmost gravity; yet when the figure looked up, the expression on its face was one of stifled incredulity. How could such an infraction that had, with the figure's experience, resulting in detentions and fifty point deductions had gotten lessened? The concept was maddening.
The figure almost laughed in his face.
"Sir," it said demurely, "I hope you are not showing favourtism toward me."
He smiled. "I didn't say that would be your entire punishment. Follow me."
He started walking; it followed dutifully behind, not nearly as fast. The old man's lack-of-pace forced it to slow down, and tempt it to regard the halls and the statues. It was more of the same image, it saw -- age mottled with blue. Instead it looked at the back of the Headmaster, gearing itself for some trial, some force that it had to fight now that it had realised its stupidity at ever trying to be alone.
Overall an increasing sense of mistrust grew in the figure, warming it like some blanket. His smile was too fake to be genuine; coupled with promises of punishment, it made the 'benevolent dictator' all the more threatening.
The Headmaster opened a door; within was darkness.
"Go on," he said. "I'll be in right after you."
Something about being alone with a man in the dark stirred the wheels of controversy in the figure's mind. Still it entered, after a brief uncharacteristic pause at the doorway.
The light from the doorway created shadows of the room. Quickly the door closes; for a moment they are both engulfed in true darkness, and then the lights explode into existence. The figure had to blink its eyes, allow them to adjust. For what had happened was that shutters had opened, revealing four tall windows. Dust flew; glittering white in the moonlight, it caused both the Headmaster and the figure to cough. While the figure's eyes blurred (there really was a lot of dust) it took in general details of the room: a few columns, continuing the gothic motif, the windows pointed, like all the others, which so often reminded one of church, and a large draped oval, cleared out a little ways from the pile of desks and chairs.
Once the dust had settled, the Headmaster apologised. "You will have to forgive me for that. I don't come in this room often, and I wanted to see the moon still."
The figure said nothing.
Slowly the Headmaster walked away form the door and toward the middle of the room, closer to the mirror. It seemed as if he wanted to say something. So dutifully the figure followed, waiting for an obligatory lecture, as such moments warranted.
"Elizabeth," he said, and it bowed its head. "You are a brilliant student, and one of the best Head Girls we have had -- the first time in a long time she has been from Slytherin."
The figure said nothing.
"An exemplary record, and with plans to go to Eckerd -- "
It turned with just suspicion toward the Headmaster. "How do you know that?"
"It is the Headmaster's duty to be aware of the final destination of all of his pupils," he said ambiguously. They had stopped in front of the big draped oval. They looked up at the immensity of the draped item, which stood a good two feet over Dumbledore's head. There was a quiet solemnity to the act, like looking at a prized piece of art.
"What is it?" the figure asked.
"It is your punishment."
It looked at the Headmaster, who turned away from the piece and returned the look.
"What do I have to do?"
"You must make the choice," he said. He started around the side of the draped piece, and layed one hand on the edge. "This is the Mirror of Erised. It has recently been moved to Hogwarts for a role it will play next year. It will show you what you most deeply desire. But it is your choice. Oftentimes to find one's greatest desire is a lifelong quest. I offer you the chance to learn now what it takes a lifetime to learn, and even then with some uncertainty."
The figure tried to see the punishment in learning one of life's secrets but could not see a reason. Its hand stroked the grey fabric, its long fingers swollen at the joints. The figure had seen this description before in a palmistry book: the philosopher's hand.
The figure looked to the Headmaster. It understood -- to have such knowledge at seventeen was to cut years away exploring, investigating the self, and to potentially have an edge over those still floundering over their beliefs. Yet the power over knowing...
"It is a difficult choice," it said.
"Yes it is," the Headmaster replied. "Many have seen the mirror and wasted their lives in front of it, content with living in an image. I warn you, Elizabeth, the mirror will give you neither knowledge nor truth. But it will give you a glimpse into yourself..."
"Why me?"
"You want to know if you really want to be alone," the Headmaster said. "You want to know if you would be happy being the recluse you act like, or if you are really happy with others."
The figure was stopped by the Headmaster's piercing words. All was truthful that the old man uttered, yet confronting the truth still required some adjustment. It looked down at the floor, torn by humanistic indecision.
Oddly enough the shadows poked and prodded the figure, laying their icy hands on the figure, forcing it to sacrifice life on one hand, and knowledge on the other. At times it felt like the figure would say 'no', then 'yes', then both at once, then neither. The masthead for the figure body just could not make the decision.
"Besides, Elizabeth," the Headmaster spoke quietly, his soles patting gently across the floor toward the figure, "many people are much happier for the journey."
His hand touched the shoulder of the figure; and while the urge is to pull away, it is stock and still, apparently unaffected by the movement of warmth. Indeed, the figure is highly affected by the nighttime concern for its being; after being treated like a thing for most of its life, and the accumulated inward treatment of the self as a non-feeling thing, the reversal is unusual and sensuous. Just the time of revelation to occur under the full moon.
It wants to reveal to the Headmaster so much about its life, but it does not. Some impenetrable wall built by dedication to one ideal prevents the figure from doing so. Instead it asks a innocuous question.
"Why do you call me Elizabeth?"
"Because it is your name."
No it is not, it thinks. I have no name. I will remain nameless through the centuries, People will never remember me, not unless I make a stand. Do something important. But now, when I'm a mere child, I am nothing. Besides, the rest of the professors treat me as such, why not you?
Such human thoughts to emerge from a thing was its secondary reaction.
All the while the figure is straight, looking and not looking at the massive responsibility before it.
"I want to see," it pronounced.
It watched out of the corner of its eyes Dumbledore nod, step away until she was alone.
"Pull the cloth when you're ready," it hears from behind itself. Dumbledore must have moved behind, so as to not be in the way of dust.
The figure stood for a moment, not indecisive (for it had resigned to its fate) but gearing up for the movement. There was really nothing holding the hand back -- all self imposed, all it would take is one yank. The hand grasped the fabric, shocking the owner of the hand with the richness of the sensation --a fine, light cloth -- and with a jerk, pulled.
The cloth fell to the figure's feet in a quiet descent. No dust flew; instead the figure is faced with itself. The silver of the mirror reflected the moonlight, allowing the figure to see Dumbledore as a quiet figure far behind the figure, almost at the window.
And then the picture started to change. Slowly it morph into a figure familiar to the figure, quite familiar, standing tall and firm, arms crossed before the figure. It took a few steps back in surprise as the very image was marred and deformed into something altogether alien yet familiar, an image that the figure had admired but never recognized had wanted. "My god," was all the figure said.
Standing before the figure was an eight foot tall image of Professor Snape, all the more imposing, the eyes not losing an ounce of their hypnotic glare.
It is under the moonlight, with the blurred forms of the room, that the figure felt the first stirrings of emotion. The mind moved across impressions made, how it had been perceived by others. Slowly and surely something was changing in the figure. Perhaps it was the moonlight, that made the image on the mirror age deeper and its nose more pronounced, perhaps the sternness of the night that decided just then to blow a breeze through the room. The chilliness subdued the figure, and with a realization was faced with the desire of herself -- Elizabeth Jordan. Despite of all the efforts of the figure, it was no longer an it. It was a human; it was a she. And she wanted a man.
She fell to her knees, partly in submission, partly in reverence before the image. Her head bowed, all the feelings of insignificance and weakness flooding her system. She wanted what he represented: power, dominance, self confidence in abilities, and a lack of reliance upon others. Thoughts merely hinted at were now brought into the open range of her mind; and she accepted them all.
"He would be interested to know this," said a vague voice from behind her prostrated body. "But I will not tell him. A person's greatest desires should be a secret unless willingly divulged by the person."
"It's true -- I want to be him," she muttered from the floor. The emotions were coming and she could not stop them."From the first day I was impressed with his poise, his diction, the general lack of emotion." Cursing herself for her weakness all the while, she did not look up at the figure.
"But do you realize, Elizabeth, that it could mean a number of things," the Headmaster said. "You see before you Professor Snape. But where are you? Are you around him, are you hiding behind him, are you him? Do you wonder why you yourself is nowhere in sight?"
She looked up at the figure once more. The form had lost some of its realism, due to the realisation that it was merely an image, but that did not make the power any less.
"Like the best symbols, this image before you represents any number of interpretations, any of which is correct. It represents itself, as in there is really a Professor Snape, but it also represents ideals -- self-confidence, power, traits that he exhibits that you have already named. The number is immense. To contemplate all interpretations is not meant for human thought. You can only analyse the symbol so far until the mystery is lost and the symbol loses its power. "
She knew this. She knew that the figure before her represented an ideal -- whether reachable or not was yet to be seen. Yet what she held herself to be -- this man, hated by the majority of the school, this was her ideal? This was what she wanted in life? Her deepest desire?? She had been perhaps hiding it from everyone, especially herself. She remembers just today, when he made a young girl cry. To admire that seemed crazy. But it was different, in the moonlight, to see him revealed in magical form eight feet tall...
She felt the tears start to form, and pushed them back. Not now, not in front of others. Not in front of him, though he's only an image. She looked up at the contemptible face and could actually see it scoff as she struggled for control.
"Which interpretation is it, though?" she muttered, looking at the figure. "Which one is it, Professor?" Still the image said nothing.
"That is the enigma," responded the voice of Dumbledore. "You will never know for sure. You can only guess."
"But -- but --" She got off her knees and sat fully on the cold stone floor, legs angled to the side of her. Her hand touched the mirror, then flayed out over the image's shoes, palm flat. The other one quickly joined its partner, until she looked like a mime in its box, except with real walls. She was only trying to touch the symbol, get a tactile touch, so that she could work with it. But all she felt instead of hard leather or rippling fabric was the cold glass. It was shocking; she knew it was glass but could not accept the fact, still her stupid foolish human mind told her it was Snape. One could see a blissful and confounded look in her eyes. She felt her mouth open. She never wanted to leave. She wanted to live in the symbol, never have to explain anything, stay down here and exist without effort. Now that she knew (and had) what she deeply desired, why should she leave?
Suddenly a shock came as if from the glass itself; her hands flew back, and the cloth replaced itself, hiding the image. She was slightly bewildered, and immediately pulled down the cloth.
It did not move.
She pulled harder and harder, continually grasping the fabric with more force, just to see her desire one more time. She pulled so hard it should have ribbed the fragile fabric, but not a single loose thread.
She tried to put her hands back on the mirror, but the connection was gone. The image of Snape was quickly fading from her mind.
"Bring him back," she said.
"No."
"Bring him back!" she said, close to hysteria. She slid herself toward the mirror, and grabbing it by the width, hugged it like some lost child to its mother.
"No."
"Please!" She was whining now. Tears blurred her vision, she had happiness for one moment, living in her mentor's shadow, though laden with fear and submission, and it was so quickly taken away...."Please! One more minute! One more second!"
"No."
"Please! You have to! I wanna see him now!" She positioned herself so that her cheek laid on the fabric directly over the glass. Yet it felt just like that -- a covered mirror. She had no vestiges to creating or maintaining a stoic image -- she had been reduced to a child state, and knew it.
"Elizabeth..." Dumbledore softly whispered into her ear. He had sat down beside her and taken her by the shoulder. "It is only an image. You cannot live in your dreams."
The bliss had drained completely from her, leaving only a swelling hole of hate.
"Why did you take it away?" she whispered.
"I didn't take it away. I can't take away your dreams. But remember that dreams are meant to be tried for, but you must find joy in life."
"Life offers me no joy," she spat.
"You're so young, though. You have life ahead of you."
She did not say anything. She was too tired to rebuke with her real ideas on the purpose of life. Dumbledore gently pulled her away from the mirror until she was sitting upright. She faltered a moment, then gained her balance.
"If you were wondering, this is your punishment," said Dumbledore.
"Isn't this cruel and unusual punishment?" she asked, wiping her face with one sleeve.
"It's a punishment that everyone goes through at some point in their lives. Some never get there, in eagerness to avoid the pain. Some get there, and never want to leave. They love the pain so much that it becomes life. You have just observed this effect. Having been through this now will make additional punishments a little more tolerable."
His voice was soft and soothing, gentle in a manner that she had never seen or heard from anyone, especially directed toward her. Of course, she mused, she had not told anyone this, having been so unsure of it herself. And there was nothing in Dumbledore's aura that spoke of laughter at her weakness, or astonishment at having such a ... well, such a socially unacceptable desire. She allowed herself an untried level of trust with this man: to melt at the touch of his embrace, a simple hug that held her whole being, much like the image had. This one was more real: she could touch him, and he her. There was real heat too, that warmed both frail old man and frail young woman in the cold night.
They stayed like that for a minute or two, until Dumbledore gently let go. She was colder afterwards.
"I'm sorry." she said, her voice barely audible.
"For what?" Dumbledore asked.
"For -- for sneaking around late at night," she fumbled. This was not what she was sorry about, she was sorry about a lot of things, and was so at odds with the truth presented her tonight. "The behavior is unbecoming of a Head Girl of the Slytherin House."
"It is only your deepest desire," said Dumbledore. "You can't apologise for that."
He smiled; in return she shared a tentative smile.
"Come on," he said, and stood up. He helped her up. For a moment she wobbled in place, leaning against the Headmaster for support. She then gathered the strength and stood.
"Don't tell him I said this," said the Headmaster, "but tonight wasn't my idea. Professor Snape wanted you to look in the Mirror of Erised."
"He did?" she asked incredulously, looking at the covered mirror.
"He was concerned for your welfare especially," Dumbledore mentioned. "He told me that you especially was distant from even your House mates, and he wondered if you really wanted to be alone."
She stopped. She thought she was going to faint. The very idea of Snape showing some concern for her, even if she was in his House, was incredible. She blinked her eyes and felt the weariness. "I -- never thought --"
"That he cared? That he even saw any of your activities?" Dumbledore took her hand and smiled. "Severus is more aware of your Housemates activities than even they are. He cares deeply for every student ... and tries his hardest to appear otherwise. Why do you think he never takes points away from Slytherin? It's his weak spot."
Somehow humanizing Snape made him all the more alluring to her; she looked once more at the mirror and imagined the image again. It of course had none of the emotional colour as it had while unveiled, but it was a comforting image that was nice to use as a backdrop to real life.
"Can I go now, Headmaster?" she asked. "It's getting rather late."
"I agree." They walked, together, toward the door. She exited first, and he made one gesture and the windows closed, encasing the room in darkness once more. He then closed the door. The door's edges merged with the wall, until soon the entire door had been covered with a wall.
"I ask you, Elizabeth, not to look for the mirror again."
"I won't."
"Then let me walk you back to your commonroom," he offered. "By this time Filch is guarding the halls, and you don't want to get in more trouble tonight, do you?"
"No, sir."
The two then walked, slowly, down the corridor. The moonlight was not as strong, but the windows were still big enough to let the light cascade in angles, that their two figures crossed, not in a line, but together.
FIN.
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