The golden clock upon the wall struck the hour with tinkling silver bells. Midnight. The chimes echoed around the vast stone office, eliciting various snorts from the portraits sleeping in their frames. The moonlight and whistling winter wind seeped in through the high open windows of the office's rear rotunda, shaking the vast brass and steel orrery ever so slightly. In the midst of this silent cacophony sat Professor Severus Snape, erstwhile Potions Master, one-time Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and now Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Snape had sat at his desk for several hours now, unable to move. It had been like this every night for weeks; almost as soon as he had taken office as Voldemort's puppet, the changes had begun. The children of Death Eaters had replaced most of the prefects until only the party faithful remained, the Carrows had taken more and more liberties with their duties as teachers until they could be seen as little more than mercenaries, and Slytherin now resembled more an autonomous nation with diplomatic immunity than a Hogwarts house. It was all too much for Snape; he had expect Voldemort to begin making his hand felt within the school swiftly, but such a brazen show of control had shocked him.
Removing a pair of silver-framed reading-glasses Snape sighed and buried his head in his hands, staring down at the reams of parchment that littered his desktop. His long, lank black hair tumbled through his fingers like seaweed as he let loose a coughing sob, sniffing sharply as he threw his head back and cast his gaze around the portrait-covered walls. No matter how many pairs of eyes were trained upon him at any one point, Snape could always feel a certain soft, blue pair burning into him. Gingerly he turned to face the portrait of Dumbledore, smiling paternally down at his successor.
Snape opened his mouth as if to speak - but what words could ever suffice? How could one even choose what to say to a man who had died at your own hand, and whose lifelong sanctuary you now occupied, a pretender to the throne? The breath caught in his throat and Severus froze once more. The perpetually wise and winsome image of Dumbledore seemed to almost mock him in its kindliness; the image of his old friend and mentor tumbling endlessly, helplessly down the Astronomy Tower was forever burned into his mind, searing itself onto the insides of his eyelids, replaying itself when he tried to sleep.
Rising from his chair for the first time in hours Snape rushed hurriedly out of his office, his palms pressed to his temples and his teeth clenched as he bounded down the circular steps and out from behind the great stone gargoyle to wander the dark, empty halls of the once-proud school. Down every corridor he remembered laughter and recalled the sight of dozens of first-years, so small and afraid on their first day of school, crowding this way and that in a great fearful mass against the tide of larger children. He saw them grow before his eyes, stretching and swearing their ways through adolescence to mature and mellow into perfect imitations of real life. So many; so many trusting, happy faces running carefree down the ancient stone corridors, safe in their sanctuary against a dark world. Not anymore; now they were prisoners to the darkest of them all.
Unable to take the guilt anymore Snape fled, up to the seventh corridor to escape the haunting cries of schoolchildren that seemed to seep from the stone in which they'd been embedded. Here in the dark and lonely highest tier of the school he found some comfort; it's hallways were dead and empty, not unlike himself these days. As he walked he passed open door after open door, each exposing long-forgotten, dust-filled classrooms, more like tombs than places of learning. Then, from the other end of the corridor, he saw it; the great, shining glass surface, framed by ornate gilt and silver scrollwork. Swallowing hard Snape strode towards it with a purpose. Dumbledore had told him of it's existence many, many years ago, and Snape had told himself then that he would never allow himself to indulge it what it had to offer; greater men than he had lost their minds over what they had seen, and he was not in a position to be so insensible.
Stopping just yards from its surface Snape sighed breathily and closed his eyes, clearing his mind and organising his thoughts the way Occlumency had trained him to do. If he could just control his mind and his thoughts the same way as when a Legilimens would attack him, he thought, then surely that would grant him control over the mythical Mirror of Erised. Opening his eyes, Snape almost stumbled backwards as he saw, in perfect clarity, that he had failed.
The breath in his throat froze solid once more. Face-to-face again, after what he'd done; what about him made him deserve that look of well-meaning understanding? "Hello", he finally mumbled after minutes of useless silence. "It's…it's good to see you again."
A raging fire of bitterness and self-loathing tore at Snape's gut. How the hell can you say that, he thought to himself. Have you forgotten what you did? Burying the nagging doubts he breathed in sharply and said very quietly, "I'm so sorry." The words hung pregnant in the air, not echoing down the cold stone corridors but floating like moths in the streaming moonlight. The image in the mirror did not respond; he'd been warned that hope of a response was a dangerous road to go down. "I didn't want this," he continued, looking down at the ground sheepishly. "I didn't want any of it. He just…had his way," he muttered guiltily, feeling more and more pathetic by the minute.
Snape turned his face from the mirror to sob. The choking cry rang out down the corridor and the pale, sallow-faced professor had to reach his arm out to a pillar to prevent him from falling. Maybe it will have gone, he thought in vain as his eyes stared pointedly into the dark. Maybe it disappears if you look away. Turning back to face the mirror his stomach slid down to the floor as there the image remained; smiling, friendly and eternally forgiving. "I didn't know what I was getting into," he whispered hoarsely as tears began to sting at his eyes. "I didn't know what it would mean for…for all of us," he lamented.
The tears flowed bitter and wild as Snape confronted the emotions he had shut away for so long. "Why did you make me do this?" he hissed through clenched teeth as rage began to boil to the surface. "Why did you turn me…into this?" He could barely meet the image's gaze as he went on, "I didn't have to have any of this; it wasn't fair, what you asked of me, what you expected of me - God, a saint would find it hard to put up with!"
Snape began to breathe harder and deeper as mountains of anger began to unleash themselves. "It was your fault! YOUR fault all any of this happened! You had every chance to stop it all those years ago but you didn't!" Snape gave a wretched sob and bent double as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "What was so bad about me? Why couldn't you just have trusted me? Why did you make me ki-ki-ki-" Snape collapsed into a reverie of sorrow, curled up on the stone floor as he sobbed uncontrollably. Slowly he dragged himself to the mirror, his black robes stained grey with dust and dirt as he scratched uselessly at the glass, kneeling before the frame and weeping.
"I'm so sorry," he groaned through choking sobs. "Oh God, I'm so sorry…it's not your fault," he whispered, "Not your fault, not your fault…it's my fault," he admitted with a sniff. "It was always my fault. All the bad decisions, all the stupid lies…I could have changed it all, all those years ago, if I'd just listened to you and not….not betrayed us all…" Snape pressed the side of his face to the glass, his palms pressed desperately into the frame as if he were trying to embrace the image it contained. The tears that flowed from his eyes stuck his greasy, dark hair to his cheek as he wept against the image; on his knees and desperate for absolution.
"You didn't hold it against me, though," he said. "You weren't that kind of person…you never were. You never were," he repeated, unsure of whether he was confirming a known fact or reiterating a point in the vain hope of believing it. Gradually his sobs lessened and his breathing slowed to a shallow sniff. "You forgave me," he whispered, feeling suddenly tired. "Forgave me for being such a child." He closed his eyes and felt his body slip away as sleep threatened to claim him. Jerking awake and falling back from the mirror, Snape fell onto his backside unceremoniously and sat in the dirt, looking up at the image which now looked down to him, it's smile ever understanding and forgiving.
"I think you'd be proud of me," he muttered very softly as he wiped the tears from his face and picked himself up. Dusting himself off he stood straight and tried to regain some of his composure. A small, sad smile crept over his features as he said, "Let's do this again some time." With a curt nod Snape turned away and set off down the circular staircase back to his office.
Once more alone in the cold, empty hallway, the image on the Mirror of Erised began to fade. Bit by bit the delicate lines melded back into the formless glass of the surface to leave nothing but a trace of twin green eyes, disappearing with one last lick of red hair into nothingness.