As If
An allegory of Severus' life as a spy for Albus Dumbledore, and after
By Torina Archelda
It is as if you are in a house.
It is as if you wake up one morning in this house, and realize you do not know your name. You know how to bathe, to dress, to eat, to sleep, to go outside and gather food and clean water; as if you know instinctively which plants are edible and which are not, how to tie a knot in such a way as to prevent it from untying, when the best time of day is to catch fish in the pond and how to curve a hook so that it will catch them, but you do not know who you are. You do not know how you know these things. So you simply are, from day to day, again and again doing these things- why? You do not know. You do not think to ask. It is as if you exist simply to be.
And it is as if you do not dream. You sleep, you know you must, for you lie down and close your eyes when your body seems to require it, and when you wake the sun has changed. But you do not dream- you do not know what it is to dream- you know only that there are times when you must sleep, and that time has elapsed when you wake.
And it is as if there is a wall around this house. You know there is plenty of land around you to sustain you- that there is ample enough grass, and plants and fish and water, and that you could live your whole life here and need for nothing. You do not know what it is to want- there is no want, only necessity- but you know this, that your basic needs have been provided for.
But it is as if there is a wall around this house, enclosing it, and you do not know to wonder whether it is keeping you in or something else out. You have never approached the wall, never tested its strength, but you know that it is impenetrable- that there is no point trying to scale it, to beat it down by force, to in any way surpass it. The wall Is, as the house Is and you Are, and you do not think to question it- you do not know how to question it.
And it is as if one day you wake, and the wall is gone. The wall is gone, and you are surrounded by endless vastness, and you are frozen, paralyzed, and you should go now, it is the time of day to pick mushrooms, while the light is fresh, but for the first time you can remember you feel- and you feel fear. You do not know what it is to feel- you do not like it- you are frightened by it- but what is it to like- what is fear- and you are surrounded and overwhelmed and so incredibly lost and there are so many things and they are everywhere and you are so, so, so very afraid. You stand paralyzed- you know not how long, but the sun has changed many times since you woke- and you hold yourself close, and fear, and fear, and fear.
And it is as if suddenly you are not alone, and you don't know what to make of this, but there is someone there, someone beyond where the wall once was, and their lips are upturned, and their arms open wide, and you are feeling again, but this is a different kind of feeling, and you don't know what to make of it either. This is scary, and uncomfortable, and hard and difficult and frightening and so many other things you don't know how to name- but this is better, so much better than the fear, because this is good, too. And you walk, ever so slowly, toward the once-wall, and each step is hard beyond measure, but it's all right, because with each step the fear lessens and the goodness grows stronger and by the time you're by their side you're filled with more good than fear, though there's a new fear to replace the old, fluttering like butterflies in your chest. And they reach out their hand, and you take it, and you have never felt what it was to touch before, and you are overwhelmed, and so blissfully, blissfully happy. And you take a step, and the butterflies flutter, and then you take another- and your heart is racing like mad and your hand is sweaty in his but that's all right, because you look into his impossibly green eyes and again you feel.
And it is as if you are home.