The Solitary Cell of a Mind

Why on earth had they put a mirror in that cell? Severus wondered as he splashed his face with ice-cold water from the tiny sink. Was it so people could study the guilt in their own eyes, plunge into it and drown in it?

He surveyed his reflection. The last few years had deepened the lines in his sallow skin, and blueish shadows highlighted the dark pools of his eyes. The ugly scar on his neck did not improve matters: it looked as if some many-legged insect was trying to push his way through, stretching the skin into taunt ridges. Not that he had ever cared much for his appearance, really. There was a time when he had wondered whether Lily would have loved him if he had had the carefree looks and handsome features of James Potter. He had been quick to dismiss the thought, knowing full well what had really driven her away. He had tried to pinpoint the exact moment things had gone awry between them. Of course, the insult he had hurled at her that fateful day had destroyed any chance he ever had of receiving her love. Yet, Severus was perceptive enough to see what he had not realized as a teenager: it had started long before that. Over the course of their friendship, there had been countless small things, each of them like a piece of grit in one's shoe: as tiny as it is, it becomes unbearable after a while. He had obviously – obviously – been hanging out with the wrong crowd, and she had resented it. Besides, the numerous times he had derided Petunia, or indeed Muggles and Muggle-borns in front of her, had been so many nails in the coffin in their friendship. He berated himself for his lack of judgment and his arrogance, for at the time, he had never questioned his own superiority over others. That pride alone had made him almost as loathsome as James Potter. Almost.

The previous night's dream was still clinging to his mind despite his attempts to block it out. It had been one of the usual memories that gnawed at his soul, leaving him his heart racing and his temples throbbing, biting back his boiling grief and rage. He wished, more than anything, that he could tear out all feelings and emotions from his heart. They were too cumbersome, too inconvenient, and altogether too painful.

Which was why the timing of the arrest could not have been better. It had stopped that thing going on with Morag right in its tracks. Severus could not, in all earnestness, see how it could have developed in anything other than a disaster. Once Morag realized how marred his soul was, she would not want to associate with such darkness. Or, worse still, he would drag her down. The young witch radiated honesty and kindness so much that it hurt – how could he possibly have anything to offer her?

He recalled the appalled look on her face when the Aurors, apparently standing guard in front of the Shrieking Shack, had stepped forward to confiscate his wand. "Severus Snape, you are arrested on suspicion of murdering Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, as well as conspiring with Death Eaters. You will now be escorted to the Ministry of Magic to await your trial."

Morag had stared at them, then at him, a look of horror and disbelief on her face, and Severus had felt a heavy weight fall in his stomach, the same way it had the day Lily had walked away from him after he had insulted her.

Attempting to explain himself to the Wizengamot was utterly futile. Who would believe his story? Dumbledore was the only one who had known his true motives, and now, Dumbledore was gone, and his secrets with him. It mattered little, anyway: whatever the Wizengamot sentenced him to would be no more than he deserved. Besides, now that the Dark Lord was finally defeated, he had accomplished his purpose. He found himself wishing for death, the way he had the day Dumbledore had confirmed what he already knew: Lily gone, forever.

Severus stared at the damp stone walls of his cell. He found that he missed Dumbledore, the only person who truly knew and understood him. For all his scheming, all his half-truths, the old wizard had been the only friend he had, after Lily. Even when he was still a committed Voldemort supporter, he had been smart enough to know that other Death Eaters despised him for being half-blood, while being jealous of his powers and intelligence. As for his Hogwarts colleagues, he knew their sentiments towards him ranged from wariness to tolerance, and could see the suspicion in the eyes of many. Not that he would have encouraged attempts on their parts to befriend him, in any case. His soul felt like a parched land beaten by a merciless sun, desperate for the rain that never came.

Snap out of it, he berated himself. Was he not the one telling Potter that wallowing in self-pity was weak?

Just then, a loud clang resounded against the stone walls, and the door swung open. If the cell had felt cold and damp before, it was nothing compared to the chill that crept into his bones as two Dementors glided in.

Of course, they had to send them. Clearly, the nincompoops at the Ministry had learnt nothing, and certainly not that Dark creatures belonged to the Dark and had no place in a civilized wizarding society. Severus wished he could conjure his Patronus, but his wand had been confiscated, his magic shackled. There was nothing he could do to fight the creeping despair, but then again, had it this hopelessness not been lurking in his soul all along?

He felt the long-fingered, rotten hands dragging him along narrow corridors. The flickering light of torches did little to dispel the darkness as he entered a large dungeon filled with large rows of benches, where several witches and wizards in purple robes sat. Slightly to the side, Minerva McGonnagal, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Aberforth Dumbledore were looking at him anxiously. He averted their glance. He could make out a crowd of onlookers – a public trial. The Ministry probably wanted to make an example of him.

Severus knew that place only too well: it was the court where he had been tried after the First Wizarding War, when Albus Dumbledore had vouched for him. Today, there would be no one to defend him. He was made to sit on the chair in the centre of the room, and the chains instantly snaked up his arms, binding him tightly.

Author's note:

The most observant among you may have noticed I have changed the thumbnail picture to my story. I had initially selected a picture of a younger Alan Rickman. Indeed, as brilliantly as he played Severus Snape, he was much too old for the role: Snape was born in 1960, and therefore he would be 38 in 1998. Rickman was 55 when he took on the role.

Anyway, last week I had Kate Bush's song Wuthering Height playing on loop in my head, for some reason, and I searched for fan videos using that song on YouTube (as one does). I found one that used footage from a 2009 TV adaptation of the novel featuring Tom Hardy. When I saw him, with his dark, greasy hair falling on his face and his brooding looks, I thought, "Gosh, this is so Snape".