DAMN….
(thanks to Jan for being a so special person)
- …where did I put the keys…I thought they were still right here! -
A thin figure tenaciously searched a precious, but worn-out, old leather brown bag.
- Ah, here they are, at last.. - hurrying, he unbolted the knotty door.
The man; his long dark cloak spangled with white stars, residue of the night's heavy snowfall; was a lonely man. Dishevelled raven hair fell along his pale cheeks, his hooked nose was disproportionate to otherwise delicate features. He was a man without friends. Now, to all, a man without a name.
He crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him on the world, which had never been able to ease his anger.
The hall floor creaked under his feet as, with heavy steps, he went into the dark residence. There was no doubt its owner had been missing for a long time.
Trembling spider's webs adorned each corner. Only a dim light could penetrate the closed windows. The sole guest of so much abundance was a big rat which, taking shelter inside the closest crack in the wall, knew it would have to leave that place to its new master.
The unique room had an irregular shape, first dark and narrow, then opening on a wide semicircle. If possible, the low ceiling made it even more oppressing. He looked about himself, then shook the snow from his shoulders, fumbling in the darkness for a place where to put the wet cloak and the heavy burden.
His clothes having just returned from days and days of wandering, were drenched with water and mud, making him look more like a soaked dog than a powerful wizard But this was nothing compared with the dampness which was oozing non-stop from old walls.
-- Lumos --
Then he pointed his wand at the big fireplace on the other side of the room, then at a candle, left alone on a small, unsteady table.
The room magically lightened, making it possible to see an old and worn green velvet armchair Incredibly, its material looked like it had been ripped by a furious animal…
-- I should have figured it out - he told himself, while he was lightly skimming his hand over the heavy lacerations which had damaged most of the furnishings.
Few were the objects left in the deserted house, not a picture or a painting, nothing at all.
-- After all, it's comfortable - he agreed, throwing himself, by now exhausted, into the arms of the chair which, at the moment, seemed his only friend. A green armchair. An old green armchair.
He took a small stool and placed it under his slender legs, then turned to the bright, crackling fire. Saturated by steam, the air was so familiar, making him feel at home again, despite having had much difficulty admitting he never got a house.
A gentle warmth started to reheat his limbs. First his feet, then right up to his freezing handsHe looked at them, perfect, white, tapered, but those were a murder's hands.
He had killed on many occasions. Then, there wasn't any doubt that was the right word, Murder.
This time, however, it was different, he didn't feel guilty because it shouldn't have happened that way…the agreement was very different.
But who would have believed him? No one.
His only bond with reality was the person who had allowed him to escape after the terrible events which ended with Dumbledore's death.
The one who had left him this shelter, was the same one who had managed to let him have his precious books, the one who had a debt and was now settling it. Perhaps, all that was left to him was just this, a situation to balance. No respect or loyalty, merely vulgar gratitude. No friendship at all.
The little room was by now heated, a sweet warmth against the freezing English winter. The dark figure lay down towards the table, a blow of the wand and a puffin teapot was pouring some amber-colored tea into a big blue cup.
It was piping hot, like breath which dilutes frozen air. He gently took the drink with his hand, delicately blew, then let his lips slide along the edge, to relish, slowly, that sweet nectar which he had missed savoring for a long time. As he drank, the warm liquid flooded his body, a shiver ran down his spine. He had forgotten how nice was that intoxicating sensation. He rubbed his lips with his fingersHe had to remove that good taste, he knew that he couldn't get used to it again.
He would like to sleep, but too many nights had passed, but his eyes refused to let go, his thoughts were so crowded he couldn't even breathe.
Suddenly there was a dull stroke against the window. The man stood up, and removed what seemed to be an old tumbledown shutter. Then, cleaning the steam from the glass, he saw, pressed against the wall, a little brown owl which was clutching a yellow envelope. Not amazed, with a shake he opened the window, letting him enter. The animal jumped then feeling the warmth of the room, threw himself towards the floor, exhausted because of his long trip.
- "My dear, even this time you have come back" - said the man caressing the plumage covered with fresh snow.
- Take these, they are just for you - he said, offering him some fragments of biscuits, taken from his pocket.
A deep sigh broke the silence, he was sadand disappointed, she hadn't given him a reply, again.
This was the fifth message she had refused to read. To tell the truth he wasn't expecting anything.
He didn't know if he was writing just for her, or to heal that indomitable pride which wouldn't let him think he had lost her. Disappointed her. Betrayed her.
He closed his eyes, then slowly made his hand slide along the red ribbon which was closing the missive, unfolded it softly It slipped on the bare stone floor, beautiful, like fire laid on ice.
He unrolled the yellowed parchment, and without looking at the paper, read:
"My dear,
Events have precipitated I wasn't up to the promise, but please, forgive me. Mine wasn't the intention, mine wasn't the will. Believe me, circumstances were adverse, I couldn't do otherwise. Understand me, believe me. Listen to me, at least once.
Your servant, Severus. "
He knew those words by heart, having written them endlessly. They were printed indissolubly in his head.
How could he convince her of his good faith? He had never been good for pleasing one's pardon, he was so full of himself, so presumptuous believing he was not wrong, ever.
She was a woman, and to plead with a female was the most improbable thing he might do. But he couldn't do without her. He didn't care about the world, about Muggles, about the Ministry, about death. She was different. He felt he had to give her respect.
The letter fell to the ground, lifeless, and rolled away, to rest against the jamb of the door. There it would lie waiting for its destiny.
Flopping again into the armchair, he threw a log into the fireplace, then leaned forward to catch his bag.
He opened it and took out what seemed like an old book, the dark binding making it very gloomy.
-- Secreto - and magically the volume opened.
It wasn't a common book, a meticulous calligraphy highlighted its owner's maniacal care, pages and pages written in cramped, tiny letters. The notes of a life. His life. In the middle, a paper stuck from yellowed pages, serving as a bookmark, only the creased edge showing.
The man extracted and turned it, a black and white photo. From its bad state one could guess how old it was…
A group of long-cloaked boys was waving and shaking their wizard hats, only one stood aside, lonely, sulky. There wasn't any doubt who was the dark boy, there was no joy on his face, not even on graduation day.
Beside him, a young woman was congratulating her students; dressed in a precious velvet green dress, adorned on the neck with a silvery brooch her long blonde hair waswavy along the perfect oval of a face the color of mother-of-pearl, her eyes were emerald.
The man caressed her face with right forefinger, letting it slide, softly, along her tender features…the woman maliciously smiled from the photo, as his finger shyly withdrew. Her pale hand went to arrange her hair, to hide the blush of her just touched cheek.
He knew it was just a photo, but how many memories reminded him…the youth he would have wished to live.
"Beautiful" . For years this word had been booming inside his mind, every day, every night, and still did, but he had never managed to let it out; for years he had been staying by her side, loyal, sometimes obstinate, often determinedly contradicting her, but always devoted.
- What would they say of me? - for the first time he discovered himself interested in other people's opinion…
- How would they justify my… - in this case, too, he didn't manage to pronounce that damn word!
- Insane - he replied to himself. He was sure, they would have defined him so. How could he claim that others understood, when not even he was capable of realizing what was so upsetting? He was sure his wasn't just a mere desire, but something more, a deeper feeling to which he couldn't give reply, a kind of respect, which has turned on the affect and….maybe more.
He felt pitiful, he, a man without relationships, had let himself be overwhelmed, a woman who could have been his mother, had violently beaten his soul. A sweet shake beyond all limits.
- Why? - he agreed there wasn't a wise answer to that question.
He tried again to get back to sleep, he knew that a bit of rest was necessary, his limbs were asking him for it, but his heart was pounding so hard he could not manage to find peace; he put his head against the back of the armchair, cuddled up like a child and at the end, with a deep sigh, succeeded in closing his eyes.
…One year later, at the Christmas ball Dumbledore had obliged him to open dances with her, senior member of Hogwarts. It was funny to pretend to be annoyed because of that unpleasant commission…
He could still smell her scent, never had he been so close to that face, never had he touched her bony back. It was so nice to talk with the rhythm of the music, so as to make him forget his notorious aversion for dancing.
Someone even remembered having seen him smiling.
His hand could exactly remember her velvet skin, it wasn't the sight, but the touch, the sensation which at the moment was satisfying his desires...his eyes wouldn't want her, as much as his hands were longing.
A shake made him come back to reality. He was gripping the worn armchair, fool to want to have her still there, beside him, at least one last time.
He jumped up, taking the book and throwing it against the wall, with a thud it fell down next to the letter. His hands were now clenching his head He cried, shouted, but she couldn't hear. She was too far away and wouldn't listen to him. Why wouldn't she allow him just a last word? Was he asking too much? After all, they had been friends, fighting for the Order, sharing fears and victories. Why wouldn't she give him the benefit of the doubt?
Why? Perhaps, he was claiming the impossible.
He sat down again, exhausted. From his pocket he took a little blue bottle, a potion canceling memories It was the only one that would allow him respite for some hours, even though he should admit that, recently, its effects were becoming always weaker. He drank it. A moment of dizziness, then his mind was free from every thought.
The owl could even swear he had seen a shining tear on his face.
An odd joke of destiny for the man who wouldn't weep.
Good night, my dear Minerva, see you tomorrow. Because not all is what it seems.