A/N: The quotation at the start is from “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”, and I have borrowed heavily from that chapter here.
I hope you enjoyed it, it’s a little different from what I usually write, but it was nice to try something new.
“Harry moved closer to the boy. Snape looked no more than nine or ten years old, sallow, small stringy. There was undisguised greed in his thin face as he watched the younger of the two girls swinging higher and higher than her sister.”
- “The Prince’s Tale”
She is the spring.
On an afternoon swing set her outstretched arms reach high above the clouds. Landing with impossible grace, her roots spread far beneath the cold, unforgiving ground to find the goodness underneath. Her first attempts at exercising her new power are not dangerous, are not crude, but make the natural world weep with envy at her majesty.
He watches her until watching can no longer sustain his greed. He jumps from his hiding place among the bushes and shows himself to her, with all his faults. He pushes down the I am not good enough and forces himself forward so that she will finally see him.
Her sister has poisoned her but not completely, not yet. He will steal her away from their filthy clutches, their narrow little minds and will bring her with him to his new world. He will take her away from this horrible village to the castle where all things are possible, even to a half-blood like him.
By the light of the infant sun he summons up all of his courage, and all of the knowledge that was passed down to him at the risk of his father’s rage and he offers it up to her. He watches her awe and this awakening, and lays his dreams down at her feet. She will tread on them, or she will nurture them into fruition.
He will embark on the journey with her, and she will be his friend. He will lock her away and worship her until she loves him, until he is good enough.
His heart fills with pride as he is her guide into the world in which she truly belongs.
He will grow by the light of her smile. Always.
She is the summer.
They walk in the late sun, alone, across the school’s deserted grounds, safe and whole in her shade. This is the landscape of his love for her.
She blazes like that hot sun. In her kindness and in her righteous rage she transcends the wondrous stars.
She is far more important, infinitely more beautiful than the mud she had come from. He will hide her away from those who would hurt her, the dark looming, waiting to engulf her. He will hold on to her as those undeserving of her notice try to win her affection.
She is his and only his.
A cloud passes over the place where he loves her. The alliance he must makes scratches at them and tears him from her good favour.
He has seen her gaze fall on an arrogant imbecile and he has lashed out in terror. She is his and only his, but yet she does not belong to him wholly. Her fondness for him is limited to a familial love that cannot match his adoration of her.
He strives to win her over, making clever comments or impressing her by his innovation in class. He helps her in any way he can.
He listens to her speak, but rather than hanging on to her words, the words that can so often displease him, he drinks her voice in greedily.
She allows him her audience, and he strengthens in the kindness of her presence.
She is the autumn.
In the darkening castle her voice fills the air, echoes off of walls and windows and doors and the high ceiling and she is master of the space he merely inhabits. She is bold and she is indomitable.
She is hopelessly ignorant to the danger her blood has damned her. She laughs at the evil that is beyond her, and steels herself against the terror that beckons to her.
Still he follows her, somnambulant. Still he will always follow in her wake.
He basks in her glow as he always has, and cannot but scramble for the crumbs she throws his way.
He will be the one to love her; she will choose him some day. She may only choose him, he will not allow otherwise.
When the I am not good enough resurfaces and the terrible power beckons he looks upon her with fear, and knows what he will lose. He pulls at his hair, hands catching, and howls.
He fights, with all he can, with the name forming in his mind when she opens a letter for home, or her attention wavers from him. Mudblood.
He is more repulsed by himself than he has ever been as the words twists in front of his eyes. At his darkest times his mouth aches to utter it, to cast her out and be with his own kind, as he should be.
He will crush down these impulses with all the strength he can summon, and he will guide her to a place where she can love him. He will flourish in the shelter of her courage. Always.
She is the winter.
She is the cruel, midnight frost that bites at the exposed wrists and ankles of school children. She freezes his blood until he is driven madly towards their destruction.
On a cold hillside he begs of a man wiser than them both, though even he cannot save her now.
In the end, it was his betrayal that would kill her and he is helpless against the tide. He was not good enough and now he can never be.
If he could, he would sacrifice countless lives to offer up in her stead. He would kill, gladly, the most innocent of bodies he could find, filth and of purer blood, for her to be spared.
She chose this. She did not choose him, and he cannot save her.
He will waste in the cold emptiness of her abandonment, waiting for a forgiveness that will never come. Always.
She is the green eyes that greet him at his end. He waits for him to guide him on now, as he as waited for her, always. She is the spring at the end of his very long, very dark winter.