Candlelit Nightmares
Traitor. That was what he was. A traitor.
Severus paced his chambers in assertive, deep strides, reflections of the turmoil that was brewing dark clouds in his mind. Only a single candle was lit in the room, making his shadow against the wall twisted and unnaturally long.
His mind swarmed in thoughts too quick for him to follow. He was out of all time, lost in the gentle swish of his steps. His brow was crinkled in heavy concentration. How he wished he could be rid of these thoughts! But he knew that he would never be able to let them go, and so he paced.
A traitor, he thought again, this time in a sneer. Nothing more than a traitor!
No! His mind rejected the thoughts fervently. He was not a traitor! Never would he be called that. He was one of the redeemed, not a traitor.
"I changed my ways," he announced to the candle in the room. It seemed to flare towards him in reply, and the mark on his arm burned intensely at the blasphemous thoughts.
Not a traitor, he reiterated in his mind decisively, trying to block out the searing pain. He made a turn to pace the room again, his black hair falling in front of his face and covering his gleaming eyes.
He had been helping Dumbledore in his attacks against the Death Eaters. He had been teaching the boy Potter. He had even tried to save Sirius. And worse—worse, Voldemort knew.
There was no hiding from him, especially since Severus had once been one of the man's Death Eaters. And Voldemort knew that Severus had betrayed him, had turned to Dumbledore, denying the evil wrath that the Dark Lord promised.
And because of that Voldemort would not let him rest.
Severus felt Voldemort's teases in his mind, his never-ceasing torments that plagued and haunted his dreams. Not a night had gone by that Voldemort did not send him promises of a painful death. Sweet promises, Severus knew, promises that rolled off of Voldemort's tongue smoothly and truthfully. The Dark One had promised him death before the end, and Severus did not dare to deny it.
But Severus didn't fear death. Why should he? But he felt the pains that the dreams brought to him, and they were almost too much for him to bear on his own. And yet, Severus knew that he had no choice but to endure the tortures.
And besides, who could he tell? Who could he share these dark secrets with? Who could even begin to sympathize with him, and understand his tormented soul?
No one. Not even Dumbledore. Just him.
He let his eyes drift to his bed, the covers torn back in the night's earlier horror. The nightmares again had woken him from his sleep. Severus sighed, ending his pace as cold sweat streamed down his pale face. This was the sixth night in a row that he had paced his room, alone with his thoughts...watched only by the candle in the corner.
But he could not let his gaze linger on the bed, too disgusted of his human weakness to take in the fact that he was alone to bear this burden. He wanted to run from his room, from his bed, from the candle—from everything he knew, just to escape the coming darkness that Voldemort whispered to him in his dreams.
And so he paced, running in his mind from the covers of the bed and the promises of the one he had betrayed. He walked until he was drenched in his sweat, the salty beads pouring into his eyes and stinging him. He didn't care. Severus kept his feet rolling on the floor until he was certain that the night was over and that the dawn had finally come.
And then he stopped. There was no fanfare, no silver trumpets to proclaim his triumphant. There was nothing, but silence.
But what was there to cheer for? His victory over the night?
No, Severus thought. There would be no cheering for that. The nightmares would come again the next night and the next. They were his nighttime lover, who took him over mind and body until he was no longer his own.
Severus closed his eyes, only opening them after he had taken his first step to the candle. Silently, he leaned close and gently let his breath roll across the flame, blowing it out of existence. The only remnants of his night were the soft wisps of smoke, rising into the air. Severus shuddered.
He knew that the smoke would return to linger in the air the next night and the night after that. They were his curse for being saved by the good, chains for him alone to endure. Severus watched until the smoke had evaporated into the air, leaving nothing behind but a light scent of burnt wax.
"The smoke," he whispered under his breath. His eyes glazed wearily.
The smoke would plague him for the end of time. It would stifle him and choke him in the darkness of his room where there would be no witnesses. The smoke was the only testament that remained to remind him of the candlelit nightmares he had every night, the horrors he could never escape.