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Severus laid in the soft green grass beneath the shade of an apple tree. The scent of spring permeated the air, flowers gracefully dancing with the wind around him, brushing his arms with a delicate gentleness. Unseen birds sung a lilting tune twined into the sound of water falling into a nearby fountain. An unending flow of sounds that tasted almost like honey. He stared listlessly at patches of sunlight, bright where the generous sun warmed the earth below. Such a serene scene.
Unprompted, he felt the need to get up, and so he did. He brushed some inexistant dirt off of his clothing, and a basket made out of braided straw miraculously found its way into his hand. He strode on, a faint frown gracing his face as he picked flowers to fill it. Blossoms of all kinds and colours found their way inside, pilling in a happy multicoloured mass.
Then did the clear sound of bells and fairy wings echo through the peaceful orchard. A tall gilded mirror now stood in from him, shimmering with its golden edges adorned by birds caught mid-flight and frozen fluttering butterflies. Startled by the new apparition, he stumbled backwards, his fingers growing lax around his prize.
He could only watch as, in slow motion, the flowers fell from his hand and shattered like glass.
A faint ringing lingered, unpleasant and breaking up the birdsong as the colourful glass petals littered the ground. Splitting the illusion of the sunny orchard into kaleidoscopic shards. And when he looked up into the mirror once again, he was a beautiful milk maid.
Staring back at him, his smoky reflection's face was blurred, the eyes hidden in the hazy fog. Dark strands of hair lightly fell in front of it and were complexly braided down his back, interwoven with lovely purple blossoms. A flowy white cotton dress fell down to his bare feet, fine lace brushing the grass where the woven basket now rested. The orchard behind him was but a painting of vibrant melding watercolours and he eyes stayed focused on the figure before him. For there was a purity to such a vision, a beauty words could not express.
Taking a step towards the mirror, pulled by an unknown force, he stopped as he felt a sharp sting in his foot. Below, blood was slowly soaking the ground in a deep crimson stain, dying the shattered flowers into rubies. Forwards he took another step nonetheless, then another, till the mirror was close enough to touch, and his reflection stood in an expansive pool of red. In a trance, he brought his pale hand to the looking glass and, as he skimmed the tips of the other’s fingers reaching back, he fell in.
He dropped down to his knees on the other side, harsh unforgiving pavement bruising the flesh. Only then did he feel the icy tears streaming down his face, his hands hurting as they kept him upright. He felt raw, as if born anew, unwillingly forsaken from the safety of the orchard in a violent exile to the bitter cold of life. Looking around, he found himself in a dark alley next to what looked to be a rather disreputable motel. A woman standing at the back door crushed her cigarette against the wall and walked back in, loudly closing the door after sending him a disgusted look.
Quickly, he drew himself up, pulling his crimson raincoat tighter around himself and his hood up over his braided hair as he travelled down the narrow alleyways of Knockturn. Above was the grey drizzling sky, clouding the world in permanent misery. He was but a splash of red in the night, a little girl traversing a dark forest. Yet, no one saw him, not the merchant hags with their clever clawed fingers nor sharp-eyed, sharp-eared wolves. He went on as a ghost, nothing but a shadow on the cobblestones, a faint sound of footsteps, unnoticed and easily overlooked.
Somehow he knew to stop at a corner shop with no name on the front. Inside, he paid no attention to the interior which was to him but a blur of brown, his attention entirely focused on the display near the front desk. After a moment of deliberation, he purchased a pair of mice. The monocled old owner placed them in a little cardboard box and forgot about him as soon as he was handed a handful of silver sickles. The shop was once again empty with a lone ringing of the doorbell.
As he stepped outside into the street, a harsh wind blew and he found himself walking through the small unkempt garden of his father's rickety old house in Spinner's End. Silent and unperturbed, we pushed open the door and entered the house, hanging his raincoat at the door. He was surprised to find that the purple blossoms had left his hair and had instead propagated all over the red fabric, growing like strange moss over the bark of a crimson tree.
Slipping his feet into his houseshoes, a quick glance to the kitchen mirror showed him a short-haired man in over-starched church clothes, staring back despondently. He averted his eyes quickly, unwilling to look, and found himself sitting in the rigid armchair of the living room, dying embers crackling in the hearth and the box laid out neatly onto his lap.
With a faint tremor, his hands pried open the cardboard lid to find that one of the mice had devoured the other, only to die of loneliness. The bigger mouse laid around the half eaten corpse, as if protecting it. Claiming the remains perhaps, or seeking company from its departed companion, embracing it in death. His, then, was a strange kind of sorrow. It was deep-reaching but twisted, weaving into his ribcage and puncturing his lungs. Almost envy.
Closing his eyes in grief, he opened them back to a half-filled bathtub. The room he was now in was blank, undecorated but for the off-white paint prickling off the walls in small sections. Tepid water felt stale and dirty against his prune-like skin, which appeared to have soaked for longer than it had. His tongue felt like sandpaper, leaden and dry in his mouth, weighing him down. He leaned back, sinking into the water until it reached above his nose, covering his mouth. He closed his eyes and quietly, he waited.
A pit opened underneath him, pulling him under and his limbs were too heavy for him to resist even if he tried to flail around. As he was dragged deeper and deeper, his eyes having finally opened, he saw hundreds of fluorescent fish swimming around him in artistic swirls. He was floating in a sky of luminous creatures, a parade of curious beings, each more fascinating than the last. Drowning, he was held in stasis by the wonderful sight, eyes wide in awe as his lungs were steadily deprived of all oxygen. He couldn’t help it, he breathed in.
Water turned into air after awe and agony had suffocated him, leaving him unsteady. Leathery skin held solidly against his palms, the flapping of large wings and of his billowing robes accompanying the loud howling wind as he once more regained his sight. He was riding a thestral through a thunderstorm, and he could only faintly guess at the shape of the Forbidden Forest below, spreading on for miles under the all-encompassing sky.
Adrenaline coursed through his veins as they flew between angry clouds and bolts of lightning, making him lightheaded. He imagined falling off, dreaming of the rapid descent through the rain and clouds. Unseen and unheard, impossibly fast. Would it feel like freedom, he wondered. The air was thick with electricity, raising the hair on his neck. Each thunderclap resounded in his head, overcoming his thoughts, and resolved into their voices,
Bother. Bother. Bother. Bother…
Suddenly, it became music. He stood in his second-hand dress robes at the entryway of the Great Hall. It was the night of the Yule Ball, chatter and laughter filling the room. Lily Evans' bright red hair shone in the dancing lights, contrasting little purple blossoms interwoven with the fiery strands as she twirled around. Her dress robes followed her every movement, flaring magnificently like butterfly wings behind her. She stopped as she reached him, laugh lines disappearing from her face, traits hardening like a judge before a convict.
He stared helplessly, at her eyes, so much like jewels, green as the vibrant spring and hard as gemstones. At her skin, sunkissed and full of life. At how well she blended into the crowd of the ball, beautiful and joyful and proud, while he stood out like a scarecrow in an aviary. She was all that he wasn’t, all he had lost. Unthinking, he asked her to dance. She asked him to die.
Would that I could, Lily. Would that I could…
At that, a knife appeared in his hand. He examined it closely. It was sharp, delicately engraved with golden runes, and magically potent enough that it could slice through anything as easily as butter. His gaze was almost hungry and he traced the ancient letters on the metal, careful so as not to prick his fingers on the edge. Lily was nowhere to be seen. And of all the students and faculty present, no one ever looked his way. Slowly, he smiled.
Severus walked up to the buffet table, and left the knife next to a porcelain plate.