Leliha
Chapter Six: FutiliyAlexandra had applied for another permit for Azkaban as soon as possible, hoping to find a way of talking Severus Snape out of his notion that prison was the place where he belonged. Dumbledore's image had not been able to provide further help. The old wizard had kept talking about 'perseverance' and 'womanly instincts' until Alexandra had got tired of it and had chucked the mirror face down into a drawer. From there it had emitted a faint, but constant humming sound ever since, but by turning on the stereo she had managed to ignore it.
It was cold this time, too cold for July, dark clouds and rain alternating with sunshine and strong gusts of wind. The waves made the boat dance wildly and Alexandra was glad that nervous anticipation had made her skip breakfast this morning.
And now it was the third time she went through the motions of entering the fortress and it had not lost any of its dreads. The visitor's room, the prisoner, the chains. He looked worse than ever, emaciated, eyes sunken in his sallow face. His left hand was wrapped with a dirty bandage, there were dark stains on his uniform - dried blood?
"You again, Ms Moody? You never give up, do you?" he said as a greeting. "I must tell you, I haven't changed my mind. So don't waste any more of your time and go."
A coughing fit shook him.
Alexandra swallowed hard, fighting against the impatient urge to shout at him, to grab his shoulders and shake him out of his stubborn arrogance. She forced herself to remain calm.
"You are ill. Do you really want to die in here?" she asked softly.
"Why not? I don't cling to my life and nobody else cares. Good riddance!" he spat, underlining his words with violent coughing, which left him slumped in the chair, his eyes closed, his face drawn in pain. There was a small patch of spittle and blood on his chin. He couldn't wipe it away with his hands chained to the chair.
Alexandra watched in mute fascination as the reddish spittle made its way down his chin, forming into a tiny drop amidst his black stubble. Arguments were useless here. She shook herself out of her hypnotized stare and reached for her bag, looking for a tissue. Then she slowly got up from her chair and went over to him. He didn't show any signs of noticing what she was about to do. Very gently she wiped his chin clean. His eyes shot open, he stared at her in disbelief. She attempted a shy smile and put her hand on his uninjured right one. It twitched, he certainly would have liked to snatch it away, but being bound to the chair he couldn't. So he just glared at her. Alexandra held the eye contact. And suddenly she felt herself being sucked into these eyes, into his mind, she could sense the fortress of loneliness, self-loathing and despair he had built there. She shuddered, wanted to back out, get away from this unspeakable misery, but something held her mind in a grip of iron, forced her to watch and experience and suddenly there was something else, a little spark of hope trying to break through the walls, an obstinate spark that seemed to come from her own mind, sneaking its clandestine way into his. The spark was there, with a will of its own, she didn't have the power to control it, to call it back or urge it on. It seemed to grow, to become brighter and faster…
"Get out! Leave me alone!" he hissed and with a painful moan turned his head away. Alexandra blinked and came back into the reality of the prison room. Her heart was pounding, her ears were filled with the sound of its rapid beat. What on earth had happened? Had she really been inside his mind?
"You're a squib, you can't do that," she heard him whisper hoarsely.
"I didn't do anything, it just happened, I don't understand it," she breathed. She felt awful, nauseous, a dull pain was spreading in her head, her mouth was dry, her hands cold and sweaty.
He looked at her again, there was a strange expression in his eyes.
"Of course you don't. Go now, leave me alone."
And when she just kept standing there, staring at him in confusion, he shouted, "Don't you hear me? Go!"
He, too, was confused and agitated, and absolutely furious. His body strained against the chains, he was breathing hard and coughing,
"But I don't…"
"Go!"
Blazing eyes, face no longer pale but red and contorted into a horrible mask of fury. For once Alexandra was glad that the chains bound him to the chair.
Still trembling with confusion she signalled to the guard and watched as Snape was led away again, supported by the guards, too weak to walk unaided.
Damn! Damn, damn, damn! Another visit gone awry, another failure. It was hopeless. Why was this man so difficult? What had made her start this sentimental concern for him in the first place? He was right, she was wasting her time. He would never co-operate, all her efforts were useless, they only caused her headaches and left her totally exhausted. And now this strange connection, this transmission of thoughts and feelings. Surely this was mental! First she had started communicating with an image in a mirror and now this. Was this the road to madness? She should stop bothering about Snape before it would cause her serious damage.
The wild roundabout of confused thoughts and impressions remained with her all the way to London. She still did not understand what had happened, it had been so strange and unnerving an experience, embarrassing even. Somehow she did not want to talk about it, not even to Dumbledore; but although he didn't question her vague account of the visit, he seemed to guess something from the bits of information she gave him reluctantly and –strangely enough - it seemed to please him, because his eyes twinkled, he chuckled softly and repeated under his breath, "Very good, very good."
He did not volunteer to explain this comment to Alexandra and she was too tired to ask.
Unceremoniously she chucked the mirror back into its drawer without further conversation and went to bed. But her mind was in a turmoil and she could not fall asleep for a long time. And when she finally did, she dreamed. It was nothing coherent, just confused images of people being tortured and killed, of a battlefield full of smoke and screams, accompanied by this constant, nagging, helpless feeling of being responsible for all the damage. She woke, drenched in sweat and with a terrible headache. What was happening to her? She went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes had a haunted look. Dreadful. She looked as bad as she felt. She grimaced at her image and stepped into the shower.
One hour later, after plenty of hot water and several cups of strong coffee Alexandra was ready to face another day at the office. She left her flat, determined to forget about Severus Snape and the face of Dumbledore in the mirror.
Severus Snape stared at the wooden bowl in front of him. He knew he should be hungry and he knew he needed to eat, but his stomach was a tight knot, even the thought of one more spoonful of the grey lukewarm liquid they called soup brought along a wave of nausea.
Around him were the noises of many people eating. They were not allowed to talk with each other, so there were just the slurping and scraping sounds to be heard. He coughed and noticed the others stare at him. In their eyes he could read their thoughts: Another one to die soon. He concentrated on breathing, listening to the gurgling noises in his chest. Maybe they were right. And death was welcome. Or was it? He thought of Alexandra Moody. How had she managed to enter his mind? He shuddered at the memory and yet - her presence had been comforting, soothing, it had evoked some hope… No! he commanded. There was no hope for him, no redemption, no freedom. He would die in prison. It wouldn't be long now.
A shrill whistle. End of the meal. The prisoners rose and shuffled towards the exit of the hall, where guards awaited them to lock them into their cells for the night. Someone pushed Snape, he stumbled and fell against the man in front of him, who spun round with an oath and hit him with his fist. Snape crumbled to the floor. Vicious feet kicked him and he tasted blood. Then the guards were upon them with their cudgels, swearing and shouting. Bruised and bleeding Snape was lying on the floor, trying to protect his head with his arms. Rough hands pulled him upright.
"Oh, it's him again", a hard voice said and he was dragged away. His half-conscious mind realized that they were not on the way to his cell. His heart sank. He knew what was coming.
Three flights of stairs down they pushed him into a narrow, windowless cell with just enough room for a man to stand upright. One of the two guards squeezed in next to him fastening Snape's hands to chains hanging from the wall, locking his leg irons to a hook on the floor. He would be forced to stand in this position for hours on end in complete darkness with his face to the rough stones, unable to move. It was one of their favourite methods of punishment and it was hard even if you were healthy and strong. Apart from the bruised and chafed wrists there would be painfully swollen legs from the water collecting in his lower body.
"You should have learned by now that disorderly behaviour results in punishment", the guard barked, leaving the cell and ordering his colleague to clean away the blood. Snape was hit by a bucketful of cold water. Then the door closed and he was alone in the darkness, dripping wet, his teeth chattering. He tried to take the strain from his wrists and arms by leaning on the wall. In vain – his legs gave way, they were too weak. His wrists hurt. He did nothing to hold back the desperate tears of pain running down his face, their salty taste mixing with that of the blood. Gathering all his strength he let out a cry that made his throat sore. Death would come soon…
Thanks to J.K.Rowling for inventing these wonderful characters