literature

Youthful Reflections

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Literature Text

Snape stood outside the entrance of Gryffindor tower, a mirrored shadow of his youth, so many years ago. A nameless Gryffindor had entered the portrait hole as he rounded the corner. It meant nothing to his conscious mind but his feet ended up stopping just in front of the portrait, instead of continuing on towards other pressing endeavors. He hadn't realized he had stopped walking and his mind suddenly went blank. His eyes glazed over with sadness as he gazed up at the fat lady's face.

At first she had raised her eyebrows contemptuously at him as he stopped in front of her just as she always had but the lines in her forehead smoothed and her own eyes became very misty as she peered back, not at the man, but at that boy, who many a night had so stubbornly camped out in front of her. He would always flee well before dawn so as to avoid any awkward confrontation but she knew who he was always waiting for in vain.

She had tried to stand up for him in the beginning (half out of annoyance) and reason with the girl, if only to afford her poor aged self a decent night's sleep without one eye open. But the redhead she remembered was hotheaded and stubborn, just as stubborn as he was and promptly refused each inquiry; not without her own tears, the fat lady noticed, shinning as she passed. Eventually the kips stopped but every now and then she would spot out of the corner of her eye that jerky imp of a boy skulking in the shadows well after curfew.

Snape blinked then shook his head slightly as his present self recovered from its reverie. He only just realized where he was and couldn't remember what he had been contemplating before his unconscious took over but the sadness of the memory remained, a physical ache pressing down upon him.

"I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way…."

He sighed and looked up at that repugnant painted face that was trying hard to look elsewhere instead of at the now fearsome demon before her, lost in a state of utmost foreign vulnerability.

There was a crease down the side of her face he had never noticed before, it looked very much like a single tear and if at that exact moment he had really been standing in front of a muggle painting, the old haggard belle might've made something of a beautiful piece. He reached out absentmindedly and touched it, tracing a long finger gently down the side of her profile, which was quickly becoming brighter than her dress. It was a flaw where the paint had cracked from age. Wear and tear. Much like the deep lines in his own face.

The hand that rested on the painting closed into a fist and in an instant the potions master was gone, half way down the corridor, his black robes billowing after him, as if they couldn't keep up with his thin furious frame.

If he had cared to look back, he would've seen a real tear sliding down the old belle's sagging cheek.
I have to give full credit of this piece to *Vizen. Her painting "Im Sorry" got the wheels in my head turning and there was no getting out of it. It was a good sidetrack to excuse a tired brain from homework too....but perhaps that wasnt so good because its still not done.....I dont think my professor will accept "The Muse" as a good excuse either....

Vizen I hope I did your piece justice, I am a big admirer of your beautiful work and I thank you for sharing it.

(I find it a little different from my usual scribbling, probably because its an interpretation, instead of a random thought.)

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Narwalmilk's avatar
Wow, I love it.
Wonderfully written :aww:
:+fav: