Chapter Text
September’s arrival brought the scent of late apples, forest mushrooms, rotting leaves, and lingering rains. Morning mist coiled in the lowlands. With the onset of cold, an endless procession of travelers stretched toward Hogwarts Abbey. Beggars sought food and shelter, pleading for alms at the gates. Brigands and mercenaries flooded the countryside, hoping for easy profit. Occasionally, noble pilgrims appeared, hastening to reach their estates before winter’s arrival.
The inhabitants of Hogwarts feared no attacks. High stone walls, built from gray limestone, and a deep water-filled moat surrounded the abbey on all sides. The monks were versed in the art of hand-to-hand combat, and the patronage of four influential feudal lords allowed them to live in relative safety.
But autumn brought more than wanderers. The vague anxiety that had been gnawing at Severus Snape for some time began to take on familiar contours. With the coming of dusk, grotesque shadows crawled whispering from the dark corners of his cell. The necessity of surrendering to the mercy of dark waters birthed an oppressive feeling. There, in the twilight depths, long-awaited peace was promised. The River lured him into its nets, offering solace. With each passing day, resisting this pull became ever more difficult.
From early morning, he had been so powerfully drawn to the shore that by day’s end, Severus abandoned all attempts to lose himself in the succession of duties.
The morning bell summoned the monks to Lauds, but Severus was already in the herbarium, where the smell of dried herbs and wax mingled with the dampness of stone walls. His ink-stained fingers sorted through parchments with notes on healing infusions. The monotonous labor drowned out the River’s whisper. The memory of his mother, carried away by its dark waters, burned fiercer than the whip marks on his back.
He was sorting dried yarrow when the door burst open. Brother Dolohov stormed in, enraged.
“Snape, your potion is shit!” he bellowed, hurling an empty vial to the floor. “Trying to poison me, heretic?”
Severus clenched his teeth, suppressing a flash of anger.
“If I wanted to poison you, fool, you wouldn’t be standing here,” he remarked acidly.
Dolohov, purple with rage, grabbed him by the collar of his habit and slammed him against the wall with full force.
“Make the potion stronger, and be quick about it, vile bastard. Otherwise I won’t be able to sleep again,” Dolohov roared, bathing Severus in the stale fumes of hops and unwashed flesh.
“Taking it more often than prescribed means losing one’s mind,” he answered coldly. “Not that you have much to lose.”
Dolohov roared and delivered a slap that made the world tilt for a moment. Footsteps in the corridor forced him to retreat. Brother Lupin entered, followed by Sirius Black, whose eyes burned with familiar malice.
“At it again, freak,” Black pounced, greedily examining the drawing of the human body Severus had left on the table. “The abbot won’t like your devil’s work. You’ll burn at the stake, Snape!”
“Your envy betrays you, Black,” Severus observed. “My knowledge saves lives while you rot in idleness and waste your worthless life.”
Black flushed with anger, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. Fear flickered in his eyes. Surely he feared the abbot valued him less than Severus. There was no telling how it might have ended, but the bell rang, summoning the monks to chapel. The infuriated Black stormed out, shoving Severus hard in passing. His two dogs trailed after him.
After their departure, Severus hid the sketches that could cost him accusations of heresy. Later in the chapel, beneath the singing of psalms, Dumbledore preached about humility. His attentive gaze that swept over Severus was cold.
Usually, the exhaustion from the day’s hard labors and the pain from beatings were enough to feel alive for a while.
But not today.
When Severus locked the oak door of his cell, he already knew—this time he would have to resort to the most effective remedy.
Severus approached the wall with its small window covered in bull’s bladder and pushed aside a stone protruding from the masonry. From the dark recess, he retrieved an iron-bound casket with a lock shaped like a coiled serpent.
Inside lay a three-tailed scourge and a small rosewood box adorned with a golden snake with emerald eyes. On the shelf waited a basin of chamomile water, a bundle of lint, and a bottle of grain spirit.
Severus removed his heavy habit and coarse linen shirt and knelt on the worn rug. Five strokes—that should suffice. He would mortify the flesh, rid himself of intrusive, destructive thoughts, and be able to breathe peacefully. Until next time.
His fingers touched the stiff leather of the scourge with practiced ease. His heart beat in anticipation. Severus exhaled and, swinging back, brought the scourge down on his back. Searing pain, like a serpent’s bite, pierced him from head to toe. The sensation of skin splitting under the weight of the blow and the viscous smell of blood brought him back to the present.
He bit his lip, steadied his breathing, and with measured movement delivered the second stroke. Warm droplets trickled down his back, soaking into the coarse canvas of the shirt thrown on the floor. The itch of overwhelming desire dulled to something almost bearable. The third stroke flooded his body with lightness. The fourth sharpened his thoughts to crystal clarity. The fifth brought silence—absolute, perfect silence. Sweet languor claimed him whole.
With lowered head, Severus sat motionless for a long time in the thrumming darkness.