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The Vision

"Through dreams one becomes acquainted with aspects of one's own personality that for various reasons one has preferred not to look at too closely. This is what Jung called 'the realization of the shadow.' "
"The Process of Individualization", by M.-L. von Franz in Man and His Symbols.

I have had an image in my mind for the longest time. It is alluring in a sense. A heavy, impenetrable sadness and dark penetrates the image, much like the rain that occurs in my dream. I am cold. Very cold. The rain pelts my skin, making it cold. The wind, which nicely compliments the scene only in an artistic manner, gently scrapes away feeling in my face. I am standing on a moor, feet not wet, merely cold, standing in the rain. There is one desolate, leafless tree to the left of my vision. Between the raindrops, I see the turbulent black of the lake. It is strangely comforting -- a reflection of my own mood. Adolescence does not bode for sunny, happy pictures, and the overall monochromatic blue tint to my vision was persistent. Wherever I was, I could always count on the lone dead tree, the biting wind, and the figure contemplating by the water.

I have an irrational reason to believe I know the figure, standing under the tree's branches, looking out into the water. From my position, it is a human-shaped. Its suits of solemn black blend dimly in the rain and cold English moor.

It is this image that has appeared to me at the oddest of times. It appears more frequently now, comforting me in my near darkness, one as I sit in my commonroom in a break of work or as I try to read some novel. It will interrupt my moments of peace, right before I slip into slumber, during mealtimes, in a lull of activity while I wait for a plant-combination to seep in Potions. The image is strong -- it grips me in its unrealizable grasp, for it is only a product of my subconscious which is metaphorically representing as the unending rain of my life.

I find myself sitting near windows when it rains -- I find myself standing under the eaves protected from the rain, watching the rain and feeling the wind just as bitingly, with not enough courage to go out and actually stand in it. My subconscious, I start to feel, will never be satisfied.

I am in my last year here. And though I have made plans to go into the world, I know not what it will hold. And so, instead of going with the rest of my House (I believe I am the only one left), I stay. To contemplate. I do not count the 1st and 2nd years. It is one of the days when the vision hits strongly, in the days of March, it is not entirely Spring yet.

I find a window seat -- one of many that are usually occupied by students during nice days. It is empty today, and I take it for myself.

The rain that begins almost immediately after I sit is invigorating, soothing. What I see outside my slice of window is nice. Others usually call it 'ugly'. But the outside perfectly fits my mood. It is like meeting an old friend.

For a moment I consider my classmates who now are traipsing through Hogsmeade caught in the rain. I smile like I have not smiled in a long time at their fear and hatred of 'getting a little wet.' It is just water, I think to myself.

I stood up and left. There were certain pangs of conscious when I crossed the threshold to leave the school, but they disappeared once I got outside.

It felt...liberating. The wind was blowing hard, the rain was beating against my skin. I started walking -- into the moor, toward the lake. Each step was as if in a dream. I glided more than walked across toward the Quidditch pitch, where I could stand at the edge of its immensity; I can hear the echo of the cheering fans, see the frenzy whip of the players on broomsticks, much like the wind is whipping my hair around my face now.

I comb my hair behind my ears and turn to face the castle. The wind now blows from my left, causing wisps of hair to fly into my vision.

There is an isolation here that I have not felt in a long time. Here, among the grass, mountains, and the presence of the ancient building known to so many, I have never felt so alone. It is like meeting my maker, I think. Facing the institution of my life, I, so miniscule, almost being worn to death by the elements, can stand in front of its occupants and say "Behold! This is I."

I turned toward the wind -- to my left, and I have the vision again. This time it is clearer, sharper than ever before. I feel the coldness wrapping around me, suffocating me, squeezing my warmth out. The rain pelts on, I can almost feel the rain dripping off my nose in a steady river. My clothes are effectively soaked now, and the coldness permeates to my bones, making me shiver and chilly.

And yet here it is - right in front of me. The turbulent lake. The desolate tree. And the figure, who, if I am correct, represents either my shadow -- or someone close to me.

My heart starts to beat hard. If it is who I think, the name that remains unspoken, I cannot bear to say it. I ponder -- should I go to him? He looks to be within his own midst of melancholy, even from here, the stern disciplinarian standing in the rain.

I stood in that spot, watching the figure, so familiar to my dreams, yet so alien to confront. I immediately became concerned as to my truant behavior. This became an overbearing drive to me -- suddenly the warmth of the commonroom seemed too alluring.

Before I could do anything, I see the normally stationary figure turn toward the right. Immediately I drop down, hoping against hope that the long moor grass will hide my figure. Through the tan grass, I see the figure turn to face where I was. The movement is sudden, full of suspicion, almost as if he knew someone was watching him.

Untold terrors filled my mind of being caught, for the figure probably already knew who I was, it was entirely possible. And the way he marched up the hill toward the castle, his black robes flying to the side of him due to the wind in a confusing mix of influences, I was sure that he had seen me.

My stomach remained in my throat all the while he walked madly, quickly under the ailments back to the castle. I watched in fear as he got closer to my hiding place, waiting for the inevitable punishment.

For a moment, the pitter patter of the raindrops on my back are the only thing I notice. That, and my communion with the muddy earth, which oozed and wormed its way through my clothing.

Suddenly he stopped, about ten feet from me. His eyes swept around the immediate area, as I try
to sink even deeper into the mud and avoid his penetrating eyes. His face was hidden by the activity of his hair wet from the rain. He paid no heed to the wind whipping his hair around, his muddy wet clothing sagging and heavy doing nothing to stop his ramrod stance. What I did see through the hair was that same profile that I had known for seven years, bleak and unapproachable. For a moment he too stood defiantly, staring upon the castle in a proud manner, in a downright defiant manner, hands clenched in undeniable revolt. I was unmistakably touched -- another being, another shadow, sharing my same secret sin, the need to leave all of them and be purified, if only for a moment, by the cold rain.

It is only a moment, but it seems an eternity to one who is laying in the mud, but the man starts his frenzied rush toward the castle doors. I wait until he is at the doors when I get up. The mud is sagging -- I feel the grit irritate my senses, weighting my clothing down. Dimly I wonder how I am going to get my clothes clean without anyone knowing what I was doing.

I can only stare at the doors of the castle, where I know the man now is retreating to his private quarters, perhaps to change, maybe to just sit in front of his personal fire. I simply felt that he lived in a depth of moral isolation too remote for casual access, and I had the sense that his loneliness was not merely the result of personal plight, tragic as I had guessed that to be, but had in it the profound accumulated cold of many English rains.

I made my way around the back, past the greenhouses, past the Whomping Willow, through the courtyard and back inside. My heart was beating heavily, and when I enter the castle again, I gently close the door.

"Miss Easty."

I jump around, brace against the door, as I see the only person who could make this worse.

"Professor Snape!"

He is cleaner, I notice. I see no traces of the dirt or rain from his excursion in the rain.

"What were you doing outside, Miss Easty?"

"I just...wanted to....see the rain...professor. That's all."

"And could you not see the rain from a window, Miss Easty?"

I opened my mouth to explain and couldn't. I was not about to explain secret urges of my soul to Snape.

"I..." I managed to hammer out, "I wanted to...feel the rain. On -- on my face. So I went into the courtyard."

I was very aware of my mud-soaked clothing, the heavy cloak dripping mud even now onto the floor. I saw him trace the mud dripping from my hair down my clothes into an untidy mess on the floor. And I knew it. He knew. He knew I was watching him. I hung my head and waited for the punishment. Last time I indulge in subconscious desires, I thought.

"You'll catch your death, Miss Easty, if you go about 'feeling' the rain. Did you try to communicate with the mud also?"

The pause seemed to last forever. I looked down and saw the ugly pile of mud at my feet. Snape smirked.

"No sir. I fell sir -- tripped on my shoelace."

He scrutinized me again, indescribable physiogamy, knowing that I was lying.

"I am sorry sir," I said.

"Ten points from Slytherin," he said, "and be grateful it isn't more."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir."

He started to walk away, but stopped in mid-stride and turned back to me.

"Miss Easty?"

I raised my head up. "Yes sir?"

Snape walked over to the opposite side of the hall, where there was a window looking out beyond the Qudditch pitch. He looked out of it for a moment, then turned to me.

"Next time you have the urge to be 'one with nature'," he said with dripping sarcasm, "please avail yourself to one of these --"

He extended his arm, gesturing magnificently toward the window. I could smell the sarcasm and contempt from here.

"In Spanish it is called a ventana; in French a fenetre, in German, a fenstat; and in Old Norse a vindrauga. But a window is still a window."

He drew back his hand and glared at me.

"Madame Pomfrey is already overburdened by an outbreak of spattergroit -- I doubt that she would be pleased to have an additional patient on account of a sudden urge to go au naturel."

He caustic speech made me want to repress any further wild activities.

"I'm sorry sir," I said again.

"Now go. I shall make Mr. Filch aware of this...mess. Good day."

He turned and started walking. I turn and walk to the nearest bathroom, so I can at least get to my commonroom without making a mess.

I slowly passed my wand over my clothing, every so often wiping off the accumulating mud. My mind continued to process what I had seen, the brooding, melancholic man staring into the endless sea of his troubles, troubles I didn't even know really existed. It had always seemed to me that a man with such behavior could not be happy. I had suspected it, ever since second year. And today's episode seemed to cement it. Snape, the unfeeling bastard who ruled the dungeons with an iron fist -- who is he to have feelings? Why on earth was he out there -- waiting for someone? Something? That unknown being that he could not say the name of, even if he wanted to? Perhaps, maybe, he was watching his own shadow figure, lost in his own vision.

Fin.

A\N: There's moody for you! The paragraph "I simply felt that he lived....many English rains." is from Ethan Frome. I modified it a bit, but I feel it works perfectly.