Authors Note: Hi! Good to see you all again. Severus came knocking and this is what spilled out. Though the town is fictional, the black moors do exist. Dreich is a Scottish word meaning, "Dreary," or "Dark." Scottish words are both beautiful and harsh which reminds me very much of the potions master. I plan on making this a chapter story, so hang on for a wild ride. This is rated M for later violence and sexual situations. Reviews are always appreciated!

XOXO

~C.B.

The bits and pieces of me that once harbored any feelings of love have long since been broken off.

I am a shell.

I am empty.

If a stone was dropped inside of my hollow self all one would hear is the dull echo of a long abandoned canyon, the wind crying its anguish to unhearing ears.

If I was a tree and were to fall, no one would ever know if I made a thunderous crash.

I should be dead and in an eternal slumber.

And yet…

I am awake.

This small town on the black moors of Scotland that I have resigned myself to is a fine example of a time long past. The citizens in this muggle place are mostly farmers, shepherds, inn keepers and store vendors. Often times they are dirty faced and dirty shoed. Faces of those who pass me on the cobbled streets are weary from a days hard labor. There may be only about four hundred men, women and children in total who live here full time. There are no wizards here, at least to my knowledge. This is how I prefer it. No one asks questions. Only the rotund grocery clerk who has six children and a baby still attached to her teat has ever asked me how my day was; and It would have been easier to answer if she hadn't whipped out a well used breast to start feeding the screaming infant attached to her with a wrap around her chest. I don't remember if I ever gave her an answer. It is just as well; the muggles here are obviously afraid of me. I am at least a head taller than most of the men here, sallow faced, pale skinned, dark eyed and dark haired. The gene pool here appears small as mainly everyone is fair haired, light eyed with a rosy complexion. I am an outsider, a stranger. There were whispers when I first moved into the old cottage on the hill that I was an odd sort, not to be trusted, a recluse. Children scattered as I passed, women cast their eyes downward and men puffed their chests out like ridiculous roosters, as if daring me to meet them on their own ground. The fools. I could kill them all with a whisper, maim them for life, make them repulsive. Violence is like breathing, once you practice long enough it becomes second nature. But…I am tired.

For a former soldier of the dark arts and spy of the Order I realized with disgust that this place was not much different from where I came. The unending looks of wariness from strangers and cruel whispers are all things I am used to. It is only natural to be suspicious of someone like myself. The unyielding weight of sin is a heavy burden. Others can feel your past without even realizing it. I have killed, I have lied, I have betrayed those I loved. I expect fear from those who do not know me. The muggle world is different; this time instead of intimidation, I have practiced peace and indifference. It has taken many years, but now I am somewhat accepted. A small nod of acknowledgment is better that having a back turned to you. I have no one close to me, but that is all right. It is better this way.

I have resigned myself to this simple way of life and have not used any sort of magic in ten years. An average wizard or witch in my position would no doubt be suffering; the electrifying power burning in their soul howling to be set free. But, not I. I despise magic. I loath it. It has caused me nothing but pain. Flipping a light switch or lighting a candle is easier than chanting 'Lumos,' accompanied by foolish wand waving. A ball point pen is less messy than using a quill and ink pot. If there are no spells, there is no magic. If there are no wands, there are no charms. If there is no Hogwarts, there are no children. If there are no children, there is no Potter. If there is no Potter there is no…

There is no pain.

Here I do not have to see the swarms of children who have caused me so much strife. At least that is what I tell myself. There is no Albus breathing down my neck, controlling my strings like a sadistic puppeteer. No longer do I encounter the constant reminders of Lily and all of the horrible deeds I have left in my wake. I no longer have to see her son and be reminded of what could have been. I have left everything, and everyone, behind. I still have my mark, the dark stain on my forearm that will never fade. Countless potions, spells, and even muggle treatments have failed. It is one of the only mementos I have brought with me into my new life and it is both humbling and humiliating.

I look out my front window towards the moors surrounding my home. The sky, while typically overcast, is blacker than normal. The tall grass bends over on itself with the sudden gale of wind that has begun to blow from the East. This weather is ominous. My eyes are drawn towards the dirt path leading to the mailbox with 'T. PRINCE,' the name I have adopted written on in it white paint and see a lone figure come into view. This is no muggle delivering mail, nor a lost traveler. I can feel the power of a magical being. Their face and body is covered with a dark colored walking cloak, and my hand drifts towards the desk drawer where my wand has laid untouched for ten years. The tips of my fingers begin to burn with a familiar pulse, of a dark magic gone long unused. With a frightening realization, I have become aware that I am smirking. I am older in years, but wizards do not age in physical or mental strength as quickly as others. In fact, I am in my prime.

I have been found, but I am not afraid.

I welcome this violence welling up within me, filling the empty places.

For the first time in a very long time, I feel alive.

The figure is coming closer and has passed my mailbox without a glance. They know who really lives here. They wouldn't be here if they didn't.

My fingers are clutching my wand and I don't remember opening the drawer it has been dormant in. I am ready.

Severus Snape is my name, and I am tired of hiding.

There is a storm coming.