Bleak Midwinter
Disclaimer: I am a student, therefore I own nothing, but especially not any characters and situations depicted below. They are the property of the amazing J.K. Rowling, and publishers including, but not limited too Bloomsbury, Scholastic Books etc.
Rating: PG-13 just to be sure, and because of some swearing
Summary: There is a price for every action. Snape reflects on his past, and the bitterness of true cold. Very angsty. A short one-shot.
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I am so damn cold. The icy tendrils climb the old oak legs of my chair from the damp stone floor, furling themselves through my bones and clawing at my head. In the candlelight, I can see that my fingers have gone a miserable, sepulchral blue, mist-white under the nails. I clasp my hands together in a pitiful attempt to warm them so that I can begin to work, but when I release them, my fingers are as clammy as ever, and the knuckles show even whiter through the translucent skin.
How they would laugh, those wretched students, to know that Severus Snape huddles in the chair in his office, buffeted by waves of chill escaping from the walls of these ancient dungeons. But they never bloody think – not that I want them to – that I might be anything other than the image I project: impervious, even to the elements, a man of ice. My cloak, the menacing sweep of which these foolish children cringe at, is not merely a dramatic device, but the one thing which keeps me from passing out from the malevolent cold on the worst of days.
I drag the chair as close to the fire as possible, leaning over the glowing flames, and drawing my cloak even closer around me. A shiver trails up my spine with agonising slowness, as if the north wind itself were treading from one vertebra to the next. Although I pull my legs up in a futile attempt to conserve body heat, the aura of the dungeons is just too powerful. As the paroxysms intensify, wracking my body with agonies of ice, I bury my chin in my chest, and lose myself in thoughts.
It never used to be this way. As a student, I revelled in the cool of the Slytherin dungeons, the perfect complement, I thought, to their echoing quiet. On the hottest days of summer, I would escape the rabble around the lake and retreat to the deepest, darkest, coolest nook with an ancient tome, a scroll of parchment and a quill. There, I would be perfectly content to spend an afternoon, chilled by breezes from long-forgotten passageways. This was how the world should be: freed from the exultant clamour and malodorous heat of the foolish masses. Calm. Precise. Calculating. Deadly. The chill encapsulated everything I wanted to be – its tang carried the promise of dark secrets, of words whispered in corners, and thoughts which none dared to voice. This was the world of Slytherin (or what I thought Slytherin was) and no damn Gryffindor idiots like Potter and Black could disturb it. This was the world of the greatest wizards, the keenest minds.
But when I returned, when Dumbledore asked me to teach, the cold no longer balmed my skin but chilled it beyond hope. Mostly, the dungeons remain my refuge from a vulgar world, but the cold had become an enemy in my absence. It no longer sings a song of dark and wondrous history but carries a waft of the grave, of decay and unbidden regret. Here, the cold does not let me forget, and there is no blissful oblivion, and I remember every scream. The ice seeps into my bones and I wonder if this is what it is like to die – what it was like for those I killed? An unstoppable descent into a hellish pit of ice, snow clouding the vision, joints stiffening, fingers aching with numbing pain. So, I'm not a fool. I take the cold because it is my due. I did not turn from Voldemort until it was too late for so many people. I detested what I had become, I shuddered at the hideous sentiments I professed, and yet I still chose the ease which Voldemort gave me, chose to kill others rather than risk turning my back on him, because I did not care enough for humanity. I was too late for my soul. So, I pay this way, and what was once comfort is now torture.
Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff – they all have their cosy towers. Sometimes, in the depths of the night when I lie in bed, rigid with cold, and spectres of past victims march before my eyes, I would almost trade my house pride for warm chambers and a clear conscience. Almost – but not quite. I remain a Slytherin at core, and determinedly proud of it. So I pace the corridors in heavier robes and cloaks each year, goosebumps prickling my limbs, icy fingers scratching at my scalp. Every year, the cold envelops me more, is more merciless. And the cold is mine, and the darkness, and I tread the path I chose, and nowhere do I find peace.
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Flames will be used to burn my textbooks so I don't have to work. Positive reviews are as welcome as hot chocolate on a cold day. J