Observations
Slowly and reluctantly I could feel myself coming to senses as I awoke from a deep and restful slumber. My eyelids fluttering slightly at a rather harsh attempt to open them, I tried to listen hard for any sign of the sound that I was sure had woken me up. It took a while for my sight to adjust to the darkness of the room, and I glanced around the chamber looking for anything unusual or out of place. However, even after several long-drawn minutes of forced attention I was still listening to nothing but deep silence. A stillness of all things that seemed to enclose even the ever-restless air, the most boundless child of nature, stifling every breeze and turning it into a stuffy, clear fog. In spite of the open window, there was nothing but dunning humidity that made it uncomfortably hard to breathe. The perfectly round shape of a full moon was sitting in the upper part of the window frame, shining brightly and illuminating the cloudless summer night sky, clearing it off any sign of stars. Still little of this brightness filled the room, which remained dark and shadowy, lying too low for any pleasance of the night to reach it.
My eyes left the window and wandered over the familiar silhouettes of the scarce furniture made of dark wood: The towering shelves of books on the opposite wall, the large and heavy desk with its objects of utility and stocks of paper neatly placed and stored on their designed spots, the solid, rustically ornamented bed in the distance, offering snow-white fresh linen that had not been touched for days, the large, cold fireplace that now looked ancient and empty.
I swallowed hard and closed my eyes to the deserted quarters, somehow feeling restless and unable to ease my mind about the remaining absence of its resident. There was a mocking smack to the eerie peace of the dark as if it was covering up this night with confident satisfaction. I shook my head at the treachery of summer, which had chosen to turn into a scornful farce.
The door to the chamber opened with a trenchant but very controlled sweep, and I almost yelped with shock. My eyes darted to where a dark, hooded figure entered the room and paused to let the door slowly lock in place in an attempt to make as little noise as possible. I felt relief wash over me as several long swift strides crossed the room with familiar movements, the black fabric of the full-length cloak standing out against the darkness around it. Dust started to swirl and twinkle against the distant face of the moon as a pale hand reached up to close the window with long and slightly shaking fingers. A light breeze ran through the room like a small wave, caressing several pieces of parchment on the desk, then fading and leaving the air to its former stillness.
I watched as the hand retrieved into the cloak and its owner stood motionless and upright on the spot for what seemed like hours. Staring hard at what was so successfully absorbed in the surrounding darkness, I eventually made out the slight heaving and sinking of the upper torso, breathing and trying to live off the scarcely provided oxygen.
When he finally moved, there was a low and barely audible rumble in his chest, and he reached up to take off the hood, revealing the coal black shoulder-length hair that stuck to the ashen skin of his sweaty forehead and cheeks. Studying the outline of his pale face, I noticed its sunken features and the way they emphasized his high cheekbone, making his eyes look like deep, black holes. The lines between his brows divulged the absent scowl that he usually wore but now seemed to lack every will or energy to show.
My eyes travelled to where his right ear was hidden behind a dark curtain of hair, where I found a thin stream of not fully dried blood running down from his hairline over his temple and ending in a small pool on his cheek. He was hurt, and when I watched him take off the entire cloak with more effort than usual, I realised that this time his task must have been even more difficult to accomplish.
He coughed as he placed the cloak on a stool, and the fairly muffled sound pierced through the silence of the chamber, making me flinch. Another cough erupted from his body and he caught it with his hand before taking a sharp intake of breath, hissing slightly at the hasty movement of his arm. Focusing on it, he began to roll up the sleeve of the black robes that had emerged under his cloak, and I could not help but squeeze my eyes shut at the sight that was revealed to me. A large part of the usually pale skin on his arm was as red as fire and covered with burns and blisters. Observing the harm that had been done to his body, his eyes turned into an even darker shade of black, shimmering with a dreadful haze of hatred and disgust at what he saw. With slow movements he repeated the procedures on his other arm, which showed the same horrid and painful injuries. However, no sound escaped his lips as he approached a small wooden console under the window and poured some water from a pitcher into a mid-large bowl. Reaching for a towel he started to clean the burned skin, the expression on his face hard and fixed.
When he was finished, he got hold of the pitcher yet again and filled the cool water into a nearby cup. Reaching for it in haste, he emptied it with one large gulp and a thin stream of liquid ran from his mouth as he did so. I watched him lick it away. His hand came up to wipe the wetness that was left, and he started to massage his mouth and his chin, his fingers trailing the lines of his jaw in deep thought as he used his other hand to grip the surface of the console. The expression on his face remained stern and I saw the exhaustion in his eyes as he finally turned around to make his way to the armchair in front of the cold fireplace. Completing the familiar picture of this chamber, he sank into it, a small sigh escaping his lips at the soreness of his tense body, obviously still recovering from whatever had happened only a few hours ago.
Muttering an incantation under his breath, he conjured up several small, crackling flames in the fireplace, and I sighed deeply at his body's call for warmth in spite of the almost unbearable stuffiness in the room.
He sat motionless for a while, his still exposed arms lying on the armrests on either side of him, and this time I did not have to observe him closely to notice that his hands were still trembling. His head was rested against the back of the old leather chair, though despite his evident physical exhaustion his eyes would not close. Instead, he stared off into space, conscious to everything that happened around him, but at the same time deeply absorbed in sinister thoughts, unable, unwilling to rest or sleep.
I turned to take another look at the shadows of his bed, one of the contents of his chambers that he had not used for quite a while, preferring insomnia to the kind of dreams he had.
My thoughts drifted off to where people were sleeping right now, children, husbands and wives, the rich, the old, the homeless, resting and wandering about in their dreams, visiting places where they would never be.
I knew he would eventually go to sleep, possibly lasting a night or two of constant self-combat, but in the end losing to what he had no power to fight.
He moved again, lowering his eyes to his left forearm and staring at it as if he could look at its other side through his very skin. With a completely emotionless expression on his face, he turned his arm around and faced the mark that was staring back at him. I bit my lip to prevent myself from making a sound.
He stared at it, and I observed him closely, wondering what he would do, remembering the countless times he had cursed that spot under his breath. But this time he kept quiet. Instead, he slowly lifted his other arm from the chair and began to trace the black lines on his skin that were still shimmering in a reddish colour with a delicate finger. My eyes darted between his face and his forearm, trying to detect a sign of what was going on in his mind. I watched his fine strokes become more and more intense, his finger leaving marks on himself until, without the slightest twitch on his face, his breathing became gradually deeper and he used his fingernail to scratch along the upper part of the snake's body to draw blood. Withdrawing his hand he continued to look at his arm, examining closely as the tiny drop of blood started to dry, the red colour growing more and more dark until it looked like a mysterious jewel fixed to the snake's neck.
He kept staring as if punishing himself to face the remnants of his own past actions.
His eyes, however, remained black, fixed, and unaffected, showing no mercy, but at the same time no sign of fear or surrender of his liability.
Slowly the fingers of his right arm started to move as he clenched them tightly into a fist, nails digging into his palm, and the blue veins under the pale skin started to show. Finally, as if he had reached the point where there was nothing else for him to observe, he turned his arm around and placed it into his lap. With a small sigh he drew his eyes away from the burnt side of his forearm and sat back in his chair. His breathing became even and he lowered his eyelids, which seemed to have become more and more heavy by the minute.
The flames in the fireplace were still crackling soothingly and I noticed his slender body leaning towards it as a slight shiver made him flinch.
He did not move, though, as a low rumble resounded in the distance, and as my eyes wandered to the window I could no longer see the moon, which was now hidden behind thick mountains of clouds. Leaves of the tree outside the window were moving, rustling in the soft swift of the wind that was carrying the long awaited coolness of a thunderstorm, a fresh breeze that would have filled the room. If just the window had been open.
I rose in my chair and noticed the smallest of movements in his eyes as his gaze followed me, stepping noiselessly out of the frame of my painting, heading for Professor Dumbledore's office to report that Severus Snape had once more returned to Hogwarts Castle.