A little one shot, waiting for the next chapter of "Ballad of the Prince from the Night". ^^
Enjoy!
A flower in the dark
He ran. Along that miserable suburban street, in that landscape saturated with the smoke of the factories. A bony, little child; a small black ant that moved quickly along a street flooded by the putrid waters of the sunset.
In that house all was dark. All was sad. He wanted to go away.
So many signs on child's face. Words printed in bruises and grimaces of pain. Dark images in the bright, black eyes. And the sadness. The anger.
The boy ran, fled. Away. No matter the pain.
His back hurt.
Dads love their children. Dads do not harm their children. Dads are good — they teach — give you presents — Real dads do not beat their children...
His eyes stung. Dried up by the tears that stained his cheeks.
Moms love their children. Moms protect their children. Moms are good. They hug you — tell you stories at evening —
Why did he not have a dad? Why his mom did not hug him, did not protect him? Why was he wrong? So wrong ... what was wrong with him?
A sob caught him in the chest, like the bite of a rabid dog on her heart.
It's not fair...
He stopped. Leaning forward on his knees. He felt breathless. His heart jumped like an old drunk man.
His back hurt. He felt the blood stuck to his T-shirt too big for him. His eyes ached. Why? He did not understand... and within him there was only anger. An anger that hurt. Everything hurt.
"Where you going, child?"
That rasping, dirty voice startled him. He spun around.
His black eyes met the figure of an old tramp huddled under the shelter of a doorway, clutched in a worn and dirty blanket. Grey hair and beard melted together on his wrinkle face burned by smoke and sun.
"Child, where are you going?" the old man asked again.
The child continued to look at him. The old man's eyes were watery. Yet, on the face, he had a strange smile. The boy was not afraid, because... because that man was smiling. He smiled at him. No one had ever smiled at him like that.
The boy continued staring at him, confused and amazed, standing in the middle of that dark and dirty road. Stuck in filthy world which he sought to deny. Soaked with the yellowish, languid waters of the dying sun. And there was that old man, sitting in the cool shade of the door, smiling.
"Go home," the man said.
The child swallowed. Home... no, enough... enough, he did not want to see that house again... he did not want to...
Stupid tears. He hated crying. He must not cry. He was not weak. His parents got mad at him when he cried.
He shook his head firmly. No, he was not going back home.
The old man's eyes twinkled behind the folds of the skin. The smile never left his thin lips.
"Ah, I see," he said. Then he shook his head, smiling sadly, and nodded to the boy inviting him to come closer. "Come here," he said softly.
The child looked at him confused for a moment, in silence, still motionless in the middle of the empty street. His long shadow lying on the asphalt like a forgotten corpse in the light of a dying sun. He felt his tears dry, their salt scratch on his white skin. The old homeless man continued to smile at him; those dull, dirty-blue eyes looked at him without malice.
The child took a small step forward. Then another, and at every step forward the smile on the old man's thin face spread wider. He held out his arm to the child, who was now in front of him, and squeezed his wrist lightly, inviting him to sit beside him on the cold steps of that anonymous door.
The old man and the boy looked each other. Black eyes, which the sandpaper of tears had made shiny, met the blue ones, flat ponds of a life spent in the shadows of the footpaths.
"What's your name?" asked the old man, smiling.
The boy looked down, intimidated, maybe. Not used to the sweet tone that the old tramp had used. No one had ever taken the trouble to know his name. He was only the "worthless brat", the "freak one"... no one cared about his name. Even at school. Nobody cared. But... but that old man with the long beard was asking him his name. His name!
"S-Severus..." he stammered uncertainly, without raising his eyes to the man next to him.
"It's a real pleasure to meet you, Severus," the man said then. The child looked up just as long enough to see that the old man had pulled out a bony hand, from the folds of the blanket, and he was holding it out to him.
The small boy looked at those long fingers, crooked and dirty, with hesitation, but just for a moment — he held out his little hand and held those fingers gently. They were warm, those fingers — rough, yes... but warm.
The old tramp smiled again, showing his broken and yellow teeth. He clenched his fingers around the child's clear ones. He began to wave their hands playfully. Up and down. Right and left...
And little Severus smiled. A sincere smile, one that never had appeared on the child's face. A slight smile that made the nested tears at the corners of his eyes sparkle, and lit up shining stars in those endless nights.
"What's your name?" Severus asked suddenly.
"Oh," said the old man, "I do not have a name. Tramps like me do not have a name. No one called us."
The smile on the boy's face died. He did not have a name? It had to be sad. It was bad to have a name that no one wanted to know, but it was even worst not having a name at all. That old man had to be so lonely...
The tramp could not stop smiling. When he saw the eyes of the child become sad again, he tightened his grip on the boy's and held out the other to give him a caress, passing his hand gently on the smooth skin of his cheek.
"Are you sad?" The child asked then, comforted by the gentle touch of the man's hand. No one had ever caressed him. It was nice.
The tramp looked at him deeply. "Sad? No, I'm not sad," he said softly, "I'm happy, in truth."
Little Severus looked at him confused. Happy? How could he be happy? He did not have a name, he did not have a home... he had no friends, he was alone... how could he be happy?
I have a home — I have a name — and I'm so sad.
"You should go home, child." The voice of the old man distracted him from his thoughts.
Severus looked at him, suddenly panic-stricken. He felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks again, marking with fire the ruts of salt. He began to tremble — he could feel the sobs banging in his chest, trying to get out, but he would not let them go. He could not be weak.
"I do not want to go home! I'm not going home anymore!" he cried, lungs beaten like drums as he tried to repress the sobs. His eyes stung. Why? Where did that voice come from? Why that outburst? He should not — but he could not help it — no more —
The old man looked at him in silence, with those blue and sick eyes.
"No one wants me. Why? What's wrong with me? Nobody wants me. I'm just a burden. He hurts me — I want to run away — " the child continued, no longer able to hold back the sobs.
He felt so hot inside him, he felt so much anger...
He felt the warm hand of the old man wiping away his tears, the other stroking gently his aching back. Slow circular movements that managed to melt the icy and painful sobs, to appease the bumps of his heart.
"But, child, you're in a flowery meadow." Said the old man's voice, while he continued to massage his back gently.
The boy slowly raised his eyes, full of tears, at him. A flowery meadow? No, no meadow: it was only a dirty, dark suburban street. The broken street lights peering blind on the asphalt. No flowery meadow. There was only asphalt. And smoke and darkness... and that sun, swollen with pus, staggering on the empty horizon like an infected pustule.
"All of us," said the old man, wiping away the child's tears, "we walk in a flowery meadow."
"You see, little Severus, no matter how our life can be unfair. No matter the evil we suffer: we just need to look at the flowery meadow. And it's always there, no matter how dark the night can be. The flowers won't wither: we just need to have the strength, the hope, to bend down and pick them up. Even groping for them in the darkness." The old man smiled gently under the wet gaze of the child, who looked at him interested, as a young student listening to the teacher.
The tramp pat him on the cheek. "Look at me: I have certainly not had a carefree life, but I'm happy. That's why I'm not sad, child: because I know I'm surrounded by flowers. Flowers so beautiful and so fragrant that most people could not find them even in their most fantastic fantasies. And I'm happy. And proud of my garden. So, you see," he added, "just believe it, and pick the flowers." He smiled and gave a gentle caress to the child.
"Hold tight your flowers. Do not stop looking for them. Don't give up hope," he added after a while. "Now, go home," he finally said jokingly, encouraging the child to get up.
Severus stood up wearily, confused and fascinated by the old man's words. It was nice to think of living in a meadow with many flowers. It was nice. He could tell at home.
At home... he still did not want to go home. He was afraid. He was afraid of get back there... he was afraid of his father... but...
...perhaps dad does not see the flowery meadow. I do not see it either — but, maybe —
"Go home," the croaking voice of the old man urged him.
The boy jumped and turned abruptly towards the tramp crouching on the ground. He smiled, his eyes twinkling under the bushy eyebrows. And little Severus smiled too. One last smile before turning and running away. Running away from the sun. At home. Maybe — maybe, who knows — maybe one day he would find one of those flowers — groping in the dark — he would be able to grab something. Just believe it, the old man said. Just believe it...
He squeezed tight the icy iron balustrade. Tighter. The cold air of the night was just a sigh on his white face. A blank face, carved in the wax of his invisible mask. Not a wrinkle on his face. Not a signal of the fire that raged within that armor made with the ice of the night itself.
He could not feel his hands anymore. They had melted with the night and the cold, stolen by the same night, or perhaps, it had taken them in its, black and astonished. Like those black eyes, that seemed to have been torn away from the chest of darkness. Two nights staring into the dark sky.
He was alone up there, on that tower. Alone with the night and his own thoughts.
Where was his meadow? There was nothing around him, only a wasteland contaminated by the ghost's blood. And darkness — so much darkness. A black and thick fog — like the smoke of the chimneys of Spinner's End — a black mist that hid everything. If indeed there were flowers around him, well, now they lay rotting on the ground, poisoned by the fumes of the poisonous fog. He could hardly smell their stench, hear their last exhaled breath still screaming in that nothingness.
He had truly believed in that story. He was a child then. Any naïve dream was better than the reality. He had really looked for those flowers. Groping in the dark. He was even able to graze one, he had felt its soft petals under his fingers —
"I figured you'd be here" a voice said suddenly.
He did not move, nor gave any sign of having intended those words. He heard light footsteps approach him, calm and silent.
Albus Dumbledore leaned wearily against the railing, next to the man in black. He sighed, feeling the cold air sting his nostrils and, at the same time, he savored the sweet taste of freshly fallen rain. The headmaster peeked at the young man beside him, analyzing every line of his face, as if sensing the doubt that struggled within him. His eyes rested on the slender hands hanging agonizingly on the railing. And he remained silent.
The young man, absently, bit his lower lip without moving his eyes away from the black panorama that spread, like a stain of dirt, around the tower.
"Did you need me, Headmaster?" He finally asked, flatly.
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled like stars in a clear sky, as if to want to take the place of the white stars hidden behind the rain clouds.
Albus shook his head as he looked away from the boy. "No," he said simply, "You seemed rather distracted at the meeting, Severus. I figured there was something that upset you." Dumbledore explained with a gentle smile.
Severus sighed deeply as he straightened his shoulders and loosened a little the grip on the railing.
"The fact that you're up here argues in favor of this thesis" said Dumbledore then.
"I was just thinking." Severus replied laconically.
Albus smiled. "Oh, I can see that. This is the right place for reflection in solitude. I come here often..."
Severus turned slowly toward him, eyes blacks just ruffled by a slight tide of irritation. "That's right, Headmaster: I come here to reflect in solitude," he said coldly, gritting his teeth on the last word.
"You want me to leave?" Albus asked innocently, knowing very well what the answer would be.
Severus, however, did not answer immediately. He turned away abruptly, removing his eyes from the figure of the headmaster, with a twist of black ink, to give them back to the night.
Albus looked at him for a moment, then turned back, determined to leave the boy alone, in peace. But he was not allowed to take more than three steps.
"I was thinking of something someone told me. Many years ago," said Severus.
Albus turned slowly toward him. The Potions Master was turning his back on him, but he could clearly see that he kept his head bowed. Albus retraced his steps, taking again his place next to the young man. He leaned wearily to the slender column of stone, watching gently the man beside him, his head slightly bent to one side to be able to better see Severus' face.
"What is it?" the headmaster asked curiously.
Severus sighed again, looking up at the dark sky. "Do you think we are in a flowered garden, Albus?" He asked.
Dumbledore smiled. "I think there is always for each of us a chance of running into a flower" he said softly.
Severus smiled bitterly, shaking his head. "I've destroyed my flower," he said in a low voice, "I have found it groping in the dark and I trampled on it."
His lily was so nice... if only he had not been so stupid to stumble and destroy it forever...
Albus shook his head. "One false step happens to everyone. You only need to have the courage to try again" he said quietly.
"No. I no longer have the strength to stoop down and pick flowers. I'm afraid of being still so blind to destroy them. I just want to find the gate and leave." Said Severus, coldly.
No. Trying again — what for? When you know that anything you find will be destroyed? When you know that your own hands are poison for any flower?
Albus sighed deeply, and his eyes grew darker. "A garden has always flowers. Even when night falls and you can not see them."
"Just believe, he said. Just believe..." Severus murmured, so quietly that Albus could barely catch the words.
Just believe. He had believed. And that faith had brought nothing but more pain, another disappointment, more remorse. He was not like Dumbledore, nor like the old tramp — his garden was dead, he had never cared for, he had never seen its flowers grow nor he had ever loved them. Ever. No one. Except one. And he had stumped on it, because of a mistake, a naïvety, nothing. He had wept over that lily crushed to the ground by his own feet, but the tears had not been able to give it new life.
Dumbledore saw the features of the young man relax, saw him close his black eyes on the night, feeding the intimacy of his reflection. That was, after all, what Severus truly needed: hope. While Severus pondered those words ringing in his memory, trying to give them a real meaning, to find that meaning again, Albus remained silent. Waiting.
Suddenly, Severus opened his eyes, the obsidian irises gleamed vacuüm.
"What consolation can dead flowers bring?" He said harshly, almost angrily, then turned abruptly, leaving the long black cloak waving behind him, and left the tower.
Albus watched him walk away, his blue eyes veiled by a hint of sadness.
Review, please! :D