PRESENTIENT
Father's gone. Finally. I sit still for a long time, making sure that he will not be back soon, then slowly, I rise from the cold, dark corner where I have spent the last hour and go to look for Mother.
The heavy wooden door of my room is slightly ajar. When Father dragged Mother from my room, after she tried to stop him from hitting me, he had kicked the door behind him, but it did not close all the way. They started arguing along the way to their room, despite Mother's protest "Not here, Silvius! The boy can hear us!"
But even after I heard Father shove Mother into their room with a grunt, heard the sound of crashing things along with Mother's scream, and heard the loud bang of the master bedroom door being kicked shut, nothing could keep the echoing noises of their quarrel from reaching my room. I could not grasp what they said to each other, only snatches, here and there. "…shouldn't have let him … with a muggle!" "…he's lonely … a small child … needs friends …" " … you may be only a little mudblood wench! But …is … heir to the … Snape!" Father's furious snarl, Mother's scream. Horrible sounds of more things falling with a crash. Mother's "No! No! No!" And there was something in the way Father's rough voice drowned Mother's shrill, scared pleas that made the entire episode even more frightening as I curled where my father left me, rocking back and forth, sobbing and trembling, my chest heavy and aching from weeping, my head pierced by a million burning needles, whispering "I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry."
I thought it would never end, I thought he would kill Mother for sure this time. But finally I heard Father's voice booming in the passageway, muttering wildly as he stomped to my room. I gasped in panic when he suddenly appeared in the doorway, a bulky silhouette against the flicker of the passageway candles.
"Stop snivelling, you wretch!" he growled, and I tried hard not to move and make any noises. "Listen! I've an unfinished business with you tonight, and that's only because your meddlesome mudblood of a mother tried to interfere! She's learned her lesson now. And you'd better swallow yours too. If ever I see you running around with any of those filthy muggle kids again, see if I don't remove the skin off your back with this switch, understand?"
I nodded mutely, though I knew he could not have seen me in the darkness of my room.
"What's that, boy?" he barked menacingly, taking a step into my room and blotting the candle light in the passageway. "I can't hear you."
"Yes, sir!" I croaked as fiercely as my quavering voice allowed.
"Good," he snorted, before whirling around—his robe swishing around his feet—and walking out of my room. I slumped on the floor, shaking with terror; my eyes wide and dry, staring into empty space long after he disappeared.
But now he's gone. Truly gone. After the fireplace in the study roared with the sound of the floo powder flames whisking Father away—far away, and for a long time, I hoped—I finally gather the courage to move.
Slowly, feebly, I crawl to my door. My knees feel so weak I dare not to trust myself to walk. Once outside my room, though, I brace my hands against the wall and push myself up, before dragging my feet and inching my way toward my parents' bedroom. It is less than twenty yards away from my door, but it takes me forever to get there.
The room looks as if a horde of pixies had been let loose in it. Shards of broken bottles and jars litter the floor; the carpets are soaking in my mother's perfume and face lotions. A curtain has been burnt loose from the window and now lies in a smoking heap in the corner. The mirror in Mother's dressing table whimpered piteously, its fragments scattered on the floor, weeping a chorus of pain and horror.
I hear muffled sobs from the bathroom and make my way there cautiously through the debris. Then I see Mother. She stands before the mirror over the washbasin, her hands clutching the black porcelain bowl so tightly that the knuckles turn white. She has removed her torn dress and stands in her underwear, swaying and shaking like a tiny sapling in a squall. Her shoulders, back, thighs and legs are covered in bruises and welts and bleeding scratches.
Anger, sorrow, despair and hatred swirl inside me, mingled with a piercingly painful sensation that I would have called love if only my mother had not taught me that love is supposed to be warm and sweet and gentle, like her touch. A depth of feeling I have never before known drowns me, hauling me to the brink of helpless tears, but at the same time kindling a searing wave of strength and calmness that soon spread through every fibre of my mind and body.
I find myself walking toward my mother and looking up at her face. The black eye and the gash on her lip I have anticipated, but the swollen jaw testifies to the new height of brutality my father has aspired to. Her eyes are closed, but they soon flutter open when I slowly run my fingers on her cold, clammy cheek, wiping away her tears.
"Sev," she whispers, alarm rising in her eyes. Her mouth opens several times but the only things she can issue are fresh tracks of tears on her pale cheeks.
I put one hand on her arm and with the other reach for a towel from the stack on the shelf beside me. I wet it with the warm water still spouting and steaming from the faucet, then gently dab at her wounds. I wipe the sweat and blood from her face, and stand on tiptoes to kiss her on an unhurt part of her jaw. Using clean corners of the towel I wipe the ugly scratch across her chest, and another on her arm, careful not to put too much pressure on her bruises; kneeling to tend to the cuts on her knees and legs, and feeling my own tears burning in my eyes, my throat strangled by a sob. I let the towel fall to the floor, fiercely wipe my eyes on my sweater sleeve, and straighten up to look at Mother with a reassuring smile.
She stares at me with hazel eyes swimming in pools of anguish, lips trembling, but unable to form any words. She watches silently as I pry her fingers from the washbasin and carefully ease her hand into the sleeve of the lemon-yellow robe I have calmly retrieved from where it had been flung on the floor, along with other robes and towels which used to be piled on the upturned wooden shelf on the wall. I tug at the collar, wrapping Mother snugly in the robe's woolly warmth, then loosely tied the cords around her waist.
She begins to weep; her face a mask of deep, dark agony, her body jerking with each heart-stabbing sob. I put her hand around my shoulder and nudge her toward the door. "Come on, Mother," I coax in a voice that sounds so strangely firm and even that it no longer resembles mine. "Let's get you into bed."
It is apparent that, left to herself, she will not be able to make it back into her bed and will certainly spend the night on the cold stone floor of the bathroom in nothing but her underwear. Even with my support—my puny, gasping support—she still has to hold on to the wall: her head bent, her hand around my shoulder clutching a fistful of my sweater, her hair—matted and damp from sweat—brushing against my face, as she shuffled and sobbed beside me. But finally we reach her bed and I help her climb onto it, remove her shoes and finally pull the covers and quilt over her shivering body. Then I bend down and whisper in her ear, "I will be back, Mother. I will not be long." I reach for her cold fingers under the blanket and squeeze them tight, but she doesn't press my hand in return.
I stagger and stumble into the kitchen, the passageways and stairs a whirl of sputtering candles; old, musty hangings; bookshelves reeking of dusty scrolls and leather-bound tomes; polished wooden railing and thick, blood-red carpets. The kitchen is deserted. Moky, our house-elf, had been severely beaten yesterday, and is probably still in no condition to resume his chores; I seem to recall Mother doing the washing-up after breakfast this morning.
I go immediately to the black, steel cabinet that has been spelled to keep perishable food fresh and take out a bottle of milk. I pour it into a saucepan and put it on the stove which immediately glows red. I stand by the stove and watch the writhing columns of heated air distort the shape of the saucepan before me, and suddenly I feel sick.
I just barely make it to the small bathroom in the corridor to the kitchen when the whole content of my stomach pushes its way up my throat. My eyes are soon blurred by tears and images of my mother, battered and shivering in the bathroom where I found her. I vomit and vomit and vomit, pulling nothing but acid-smelling yellow liquid from my empty stomach. Finally the torture passes and I am left feeling drained and empty on the bathroom floor. I do not think I still have the strength to get on my feet, let alone climb the stairs to my parents' bedroom. But I remember Mother and the vacant look in her eyes when I left her. I struggle to rise, wipe my face and wash my hands, and make my way wearily to the kitchen.
I find the milk nearly boiling in the saucepan. I set to work mechanically: taking two mugs, spoons, a tray and some napkins from the kitchen cabinet; pouring the scalding milk into each mug; rummaging in the food cabinet for the bottle of chocolate syrup, the sugar tin and the tiny crystal bottle of powdered cinnamon and stirring, stirring, stirring, a cold, dead feeling numbing my body and soul. When everything is ready I put the mugs, the napkins and a small plate of soft biscuits on the tray, and carry it upstairs.
Mother still lies on her side on the bed, gazing listlessly at an ugly hole in the wall; souvenir, no doubt, of my father's vicious kicks and fists. I put the tray on the small table by the bed and gently pull Mother up to a sitting position. She looks at me with hollow eyes as I put a mug in her hands, wrapping her icy fingers around its warmth. I leave her to make the fire and light some more candles, and the room is brighter and warmer when I return to her side and find a ring of foamy cream on the inside of her mug: she has drained a third of its content.
I smile at her and take the other mug. A dim light begins to bloom in her shuttered eyes, and her lips twitch upward in a tentative smile.
"Do you like the cocoa, Mother?" I ask softly. "Is it sweet enough for you?"
She nods, and as if to brush aside any lingering doubt, lifts the mug to her swollen lips and takes a few sips. She rests the mug on her lap, still draping her fingers around it, and clears her throat before saying, slowly, in a hoarse voice, "It's perfect, Sev. Thank you." Her eyes glow and her smile broadens as she speaks.
I stare at her bruised face, fighting not to cry. It is hard to speak with a lump the size of a cauldron in my throat, but I manage to. "I brought some biscuits too. Do you want any?"
She shakes her head and smiles again. She looks at my mug and raises her eyebrows. "Your mug's still full."
I look down at the creamy, light brown liquid steaming gently in my mug and do my best to grin. I take the mug to my mouth and take a few gulps. When I lower the mug, Mother reaches out and gently wipes the foam on my upper lip with her thumb. Her touch is warm and I close my eyes and sigh.
Mother's hand move to stroke my cheek and I open my eyes. I cover her hand in mine and turn my face so I can kiss her hand. All pain disappears from her eyes and for a while I see her not as the skeleton-thin woman with a tired, bruised face that looks older than her actual age. For a while she is beautiful, radiant and young again; my mother: lovely, loving, much-beloved. And for a while there are no words. Only understanding.
I cannot protect you.
I cannot stop him.
I fail you, Severus.
I never wish to see you hurt.
Forgive me.
I am so sorry, Mother.
I love you, son.
I love you, Mother. I love you.
~fin~