Disclaimer/Author's Note: Just a little something random I started writing in study hall the other day. I was in a bit of an angsty mood, so I decided to write a little Sev drabble. He didn't seem to mind me sneaking into his house, so we were all good about that. There's a whole 'nother chapter I could post, but I'll only do so if y'all like this first one, here. So, okay... no specific time setting, really, so we'll call it Post-OotP. As always, loves, nothing belongs to me, it's all the lovely JK Rowling's. So, bow down and worship her. Then, enjoy my little ficlet!
From his window, he stared out at the brisk winter day, studying it and trying not to remember similar days long past. The snow fell in perfect, crisp, white flakes, harsh like life, not fluffy like the soft cotton of a dream. It was better this way. Frost spun its intricate web across the green-stained glass of his window, a beautiful warning of the bitter air outside, a remainder that he could look, but should by no means touch something as lovely.
Nevertheless, he laid a hand on the icy pane, watching with sad black eyes as the delicate lace melted at his touch. Quickly gone from his grasp, like all things of natural beauty. Such things were not meant for him, after all. He had forsaken them long ago. He was not a better man for it.
Briefly, he caught a glimpse of his reflection, as the black tapers wavered in their light. He had come to abhor that reflection, the hideous image of himself, sallow and cadaverous, the beauty of you never having painted its cheeks, but simply passing over him to bestow its gifts upon more worthy individuals. He did not begrudge this; he had grown used to his own ugliness. But, he often felt that outside revealed what lay beneath; his past deeds still lingered in the depths of his very being. What he regretted most however, was that he could never atone for those offenses tattooed on his soul, more permanent than the mark that burned into his arm.
He sighed then, long and heavy, a sigh full of regrets and lost opportunities and futile emotion. The past was not worth dwelling on, he told himself; it could not be changed.
