By Subversa
I. Pathetic Pilgrim
The snow fell lazily, almost as an afterthought, from the fraught grey clouds overhead. Afternoon in the park boasted only happy, family-types this day before Christmas. Fathers, charged with keeping the children out of the way, pushed swings and stood at the foot of slides and threw balls in the company of their progeny. Teenagers stole last minute meetings with their friends before being consigned to the doubtful felicity of family celebrations. Lovers strolled, hand in hand, oblivious to all others, enjoying the festive, holiday atmosphere of the small neighbourhood park.
One dark, solitary man moved on the periphery of the scene, somehow neither present nor absent. He lurked in the trees and patrolled the edges of the green, now ankle-deep in snow, seeing everything and nothing at all. Those in the park, for the most part, did not notice him, as if some magic spell hid him from their eyes.
Well, of course it did.
Severus Snape stalked impatiently through the Muggle neighbourhood, Disillusioned and further protected by both a Muggle-Repelling Charm and a strong Notice-Me-Not Spell. He loathed his presence here, and even more, loathed himself for being unable to stay away. It had been three years since he had chanced to see her here one day near the Solstice. Since then, it had been his custom to humiliate himself annually with these pathetic treks to Wanstead, to watch for her again, as if he were a bird enthusiast on a quest to view the endangered species, Bushy-Crowned Know-It-All-icus.
He scowled and kicked at a rock, watching it bounce over tree roots and disappear into a small drift. He had been in the area on business that day three winters ago, and on impulse, had walked from the High Street down to a small play park. It had been a fine day then, unseasonably warm, with the sun shining in a cloudless blue sky—quite different from today’s snowy misery. The park had been relatively deserted, and he had seated himself upon a bench, under cover of a strong Disillusionment Charm, to enjoy the quiet. Christmas was a difficult time of year for people laden with family and friends—for a solitary man burdened with neither sets of dependents or supplicants, it was … brutal.
She had strolled into the park from the High Street, as well, a diminutive figure in brown boots, blue jeans, and a short, cranberry red coat, her crazy brown hair lifting from her shoulders and blowing about her face with the intermittent gusts of wind. It had been the work of mere seconds for him to recognise her. His stomach had clenched, as had his hands in his pockets.
Now, his fists clenched in memory of his distress, and he did another visual sweep of the area, though he had never seen her again, since that day. Yet by the simple act of strolling through this park before his eyes, she had made his pilgrimage an annual event, as he hoped against hope to see her again.
For what? he mocked himself. It’s not as if you have the stones to approach her now, any more than you did then. Pathetic!