Painter

Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns all.
A/N: Pre-OotP

Painter


You…
You’re back…
And I don’t like it at all…

***

You stand before me today, with that dumb mutt of yours. The stupid animal actually dares to growl at me, as if I’ve done some horrid, unforgivable thing. What is that doddering old fool thinking? Letting you and your pet come back.

You place a hand on his head and smile apologetically at me. Ever the polite one, aren’t you? Well I don’t need your apologies, or your pity. I know you pity me; I can see it in your eyes.

Amber eyes…

Of all the things that make me furious about you, your eyes inspire the most rage. They’re always kind, soft, warm… too kind in fact. I close my eyes and try to suppress the innumerable feelings welling inside of me.
Your soft, gentle voice cuts into my reverie, “Are you alright Severus?”

I nod, my eyes still shut tightly. I can’t find the courage to look in your eyes again. “Well,” I mutter coldly, “It’s getting late. I’d better leave.”

Albus gives a nod of consent and I turn on my heel, leaving the Great Hall behind.

I stride quickly to my chambers, heart thudding painfully against my chest. Why are these feelings returning now? I though I had finally rid myself of them during Potter’s third year… when he came back.

My breath quickens as I hurry through the dimly lit labyrinths of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The door bangs open and I rush inside, heading toward a dark, dusty closet I haven’t visited in years.

My hands tear away the constricting dust and cobwebs and lightly run over the abandoned canvases and paints. How long has it been since I have used them? It seems like an eternity.
As if in a dream, I set up my long-forgotten easel and stand before it, brush poised to paint. My hand moves unconsciously to spread a long streak of color across the blank canvas.
I stop suddenly, struck by the millions of memories that flood through me. Painting reminds me of you. It is inevitable. After all, you were the one who most often inspired me.

When did this first begin? This desire, this need to duplicate your likeness on canvas? Ah, now I remember, it was in our sixth year, was it not?

********

You had been struggling in potions. No not struggling… your grades were utterly abysmal, your potions, without a shred of doubt, absolutely dreadful.

You came to me. That I remember perfectly. I suppose Professor Breuvage had recommended me to you. That old Frenchman always had a soft spot for you. He must have known about your… condition.

But I digress. When you came to me, I wouldn’t have turned you down even without your begging and near groveling. Back then I hated Black and Potter with a vengeance. The two bumbling fools were always in the way, messing up one thing or the other with their childish pranks. But I never hated you. You were always the quiet one, the pale, ethereal, fragile one. With your silver flecked gold hair and amber eyes, you looked like a human version of a jewel mine. Can you blame me for being drawn to you?

I still remember the first time I ever tutored you, try as I might to forget it. You were leaning over the cauldron, heat from the fire causing beads of sweat to form on your furrowed brow. Your face was flushed with frustration and heat. My fingers twitched unconsciously. I was unsure whether I wanted to kill you, kiss you, or paint you.

That night I drew my first picture of you. My long fingers do have another purpose besides making potions. My mother was the same. In fact, it was she who established this love of painting within me.

I ripped up that drawing. Not because I regretted drawing it, but because it didn’t do you nearly enough justice.

I laugh now when I think about it. You never knew of my infatuation. Never knew that while you studied your potions book, I was studying you, trying to imprint every inch of your beautiful face in my memory so that I could later replicate it.

Eventually we became friends. I was shy back then. I would never have dreamt of approaching you myself. So I kept my mouth shut and relished what I had.

But the memory that always stays with me is the day you kissed me.

We were studying in the library for our upcoming potions test. I was reading from the textbook when I felt a slight pressure on my arm. I looked up and saw that it was your arm. I raised my eyebrows slightly and you retracted it, muttering apologies the whole time. My spirits, which had been steadily rising, deflated immediately. It was just an accident… you couldn’t have meant it. I resumed reading.
Then there it was again, your hand brushing mine oh-so lightly. My breath hitched in my throat and I struggled to keep reading. There it was again, your hand slowly but surely running along my cloth covered arm. I shivered, feeling goose-pimples spring up on my skin.

I stopped reading and looked up, straight into your multi-faceted jewel eyes. My heart nearly stopped… your eyes, always so kind and gentle were now filled with an indescribable emotion. You leaned forward and I closed my eyes. The next thing I felt was a soft pressure on my lips. It felt like heaven, your silken lips against mine. All thought flew from my head as I succumbed to bliss. I wanted it to last forever.
Nevertheless we soon drew apart. You smiled uncertainly and I smiled back. Relieved that it hadn’t been a momentary lapse, an action caused by over-stress or momentary insanity.

As soon as I left you I ran to my room, heart nearly bursting with joy. That night I ran off dozens of paintings of you, each one better than the last.

We met every day after that. You probably don’t know how much I looked forward to our daily study trysts.

I’m not stupid, I did suspect your disappearances every month. But Defense Against the Dark Arts was never my strongest suit and I suppose I was also blinded by denial. I convinced myself that your excuses were valid. Why wouldn’t a son visit an ailing mother? Most of all, I didn’t want to suspect, I wanted to keep what we had.

I should have known that it wouldn’t last.

For several days I had run into Black after I had left you. He usually never said anything, just glared at me angrily. Granted, that was what Black usually did, so I didn’t pay it much heed.

Then one day he chose to speak. He was leaning against the wall, glaring at me in contempt. I nodded coolly; I was attempting to be friendly to him because of you. I knew how close you were with him, I even knew about the silly names you had for each other. Strange that I never noticed the significance of your own nickname.

He spoke, “Like the moon much, Snape?”

I shrugged and narrowed my eyes at him, “I have never had much of an opportunity to observe it.”

He changed the subject abruptly, “I notice you and Moony are getting rather friendly.”

“We’re just studying,” I said firmly.

“Is that what it’s called now?” he drawled, sounding remarkably like Lucius, with a matching smirk to boot. “Well, Remus told me to give you a message. He wants you to meet him tonight. He says he has a secret to tell you, although,” he scoffed, “I don’t know why he would want to share anything with you. Go to the Whomping Willow and prod the knot on the root with a long stick. Follow the tunnel that opens up. Remus will be waiting for you on the other side.”

“Why should I believe you?” I sneered.

“You don’t have to,” he shrugged. “But if you care for him, you’ll go.”

He turned and walked briskly away, only pausing to give me a meaningful glare.

I stood there for a while, contemplating his motives. There was no way Black’s plans could be in my favor. But in the end, I had to go see you. You see what you do to me Remus? You make me weak, something I can’t afford to be.

That night I “borrowed” Lucius’s invisibility cloak and snuck out onto the grounds. The full moon made the dew on the grass shine like silver. I shivered and wrapped the cloak tighter around me. I ignored the sense of foreboding welling up inside me; I was so intent on finding you.

I reached the Whomping Willow and found everything just as Black had said. As soon as I jabbed the knot with a stick, it opened into a long passageway. Determined to find you, I hurried down the tunnel, stumbling occasionally on loose rocks and roots. It never occurred to me to wonder why you would ask me to meet you in such a place.

Then there it was, the end of the tunnel. I pushed it open and was surprised to find myself in a room. A dusty, ruined room but a room nonetheless. I started poking around cautiously. “Remus?” I called out, hoping that you were there and that this wasn’t some prank you and Black and Potter cooked up. My pride would never stand it if it were so.

I slowly opened a closed door and suddenly, arms jerked at me from behind. I whirled around quickly, expecting to see you standing there. But instead it was Potter. “What are you doing here Potter?” I drawled.

He didn’t answer me, he just kept pulling at my arms and insisting, “You have to get out Snape! Hurry!”

I crossed my arms, “There is no way I’m leaving until you give me an explanation.”

Potter threw up his hands in frustration, “I can’t tell you now. We have to go now!” he beseeched.

I shook my head, “Where’s Remus?”

Suddenly I heard a low snarl behind me. I turned and saw a huge, monstrous wolf, with fierce yellow eyes and a blood-red mouth. Potter kept yelling, “Run! Run! Get out of here!” But my legs couldn’t move. Potter grabbed me by the collar and threw me into the tunnel. He forced the door closed, but not before I heard him say, “Moony! Calm down! It’s me… James! Calm down Remus!”

I gasped. That monster… was you? No… it couldn’t be. The feeling in my legs returned and I sprinted down the long corridor, all the while thinking, It’s not true. It’s a trick. Remus would never lie to you.

I kept running until I reached the dungeons, where I collapsed in a sobbing heap on the bed. I reached under the mattress and found the drawings and paintings I had made of you. I grabbed the penknife from my bedside and began slashing the paintings, removing all evidence of their very existence. A great anger consumed me as I destroyed those pictures, how could you do this to me Remus? What made you think you couldn’t tell me?

You followed me around for the last few months of school, begging me to forgive you. But I couldn’t. You had betrayed me, my trust. No I am not speaking of your lycanthropy but of your decision to lie to me. Did you not trust me?
But I know why you didn’t; try as I might to forget. After all, I was the Slytherin, the enemy, the cold, greasy bastard. The whole thing was a trick, a tool to humiliate me. You all hated me… I know that much. I suppose it was too much to hope for that you felt anything for me in return.

********

I never painted again after that, my inspiration drying up that very night. I couldn’t even bear to look at the blank canvases. So I threw them away and hid the sporadic gifts from my mother.
But now… I step back, eyes closed, reluctant to see the object I have so haphazardly painted.
My eyes open of their own accord and I gasp. The canvas is filled not by your beautifully golden skin, nor your amber eyes. No… emblazoned upon the canvas is your wolf form. But it is not how I remember it, cruel and bloodthirsty. This time it is howling at the moon, sadness evident in it’s golden-yellow eyes. Strangely beautiful in a surreal way.

I back away from it and slide down the wall, slumped in a heap on the floor. Why? Why of all this did I paint this?

Something inside me breaks and tears splash down my cheeks. I do not wipe them away in anger, as I usually would, but let them fall. Soon I shall return to my usual bitter and cold self, soon I shall pack the painting away, and pretend it never existed. But just tonight, I’ll remember. Tonight is reserved for grieving, over a love lost… that will never be found again.

Finis