Work Text:
A young boy sat near a dirty stream, carding his fingers loosely through its weak current. This young boy was a lad of the name of Severus Snape of Cokeworth. Cokeworth was were he was sat now, as he had been his entire life. The little creek near his small house in his little town was much like the town itself: hidden, dirty and neglected. The rocks on the pond were worn down and smooth from the green water running over them for the last hundred years.
Severus wondered if this place was ever important. What ancient battles and lost loves lay in that polluted water? Were there ever other little boys staring lost into the rocks like him? He hoped so, just so he didn’t feel so alone. You see, he was always alone. His Dad worked in the Mill, and his Mum was always doing house work or sleeping. His parent didn’t have time for him anymore. It wasn’t always that way. They used to be a normal family. A nice one. Now not so much. His Dad doesn’t much like him anymore it seemed, he was always acting tired or angry with him when he saw him. So, Severus’s solution was always to run away or hide. Like he’s doing now.
The cold ground was starting to numb his bottom, so he decided to continue his trail onwards. Maybe Mrs.McDonald will have something for him to do, she always needed someone to watch her cats or put out the laundry. Maybe Joni at the chip shop will have a snack for him. Maybe Mum and Dad will have stopped fighting so he could go home. Well, he doesn’t know… Maybe he’s wrong. Better to stay in the woods. The woods were nice, he was alone,-alone, but he didn’t feel lonely there. The wind whirled around him in the October afternoon. One day, he’’l build himself a little fort out here. Maybe his Dad would help, but probably not. One day he’d make his own hideaway where he never had to be cold. Peering over the twig filled sky he saw blue turn to a purple pink. Looks like it was only getting colder.
He’d read from a book at the library about camping and survival, like stranded soldiers had to do before they were saved in war times. They always said that you should build a fire. Fire and shelter.
He looked around at the sparse twigs and sticks that littered the woodland floor and wondered if that rock trick would work like it did in the film from his class. Maybe… He looked around for something to get a spark with. Hunching over to inspect the floor he made his way along the winding creek.
Coming to a halt, his eyes found a dark flat stone- Flint! Yes, now all he needed was a rock! He pocketed the precious flint and made his way to gather as much tinder and kindle his little arms could carry. Finding a broken off stump to make his work table, he sets down his supplies and gets to action. He arranges his twigs in a carefully tipi shape and stuffs his dry grass in the heart of it, surrounding the small twigs with bigger sticks. He takes his handful of white tree bark and sets out to make a spark. Grasping the flint in his tiny fist he furiously strikes it down at the tinder. Strike after strike he still can’t get a spark. Fine. Time to get creative. Switching his grip he tries a different angle, a different rock, a different hand, anything! Nothing works.
His hopes of his little fire were lost in his face, draining all the determination away. He closed his eyes and sighed. He needs to keep trying, Rome wan’t built in a day and all that. He huddles over his tinder and places his hands over it. He takes a clam deep breath and concentrates as hard as he can to visualize his fire. Tiny but there, red hot and full of life. His hands begin to shake as his arms quiver with his intensity. Around him the wind starts to pick up, swirling debris and fallen leaves around him. He straightens and breaths again before resuming his stance.
Hunched over almost completely how, hands still cupped around the tinder and hands pulled inwards to rest on his heart he try again. He sees the fire, red hot and flickering. He smells the carbon smoke. He hears the gentle crackle and pop. He tastes the char of wood. He feels the heat in his mind. Then his hands. His hands are warm. Theres a slight rustle of leaves as he brings up his head and look into his hands. A soft light and a warm sting and a spark. Shocked he jumps back as the lit tinder falls from him. He did it. He made his own fire.
His dirty face was illuminated by his little feat of magic. Startled he scoops up the small fire and nestles it isn his tipi, watching as the small flame grows into a small fire. He watches in quiet triumph of his own magic. His magic. Him. A wizard. Wizards don’t sleep in the woods cold. They bask in the warmth of magic and they bend the elements to their will. No wizard is ever truly powerless with magic in their hands.
Severus curled up around his fire, watching it burn quietly in the safety of his little domain. These woods weren’t loved very much but they were good, and they were his. His woods were never scary, and never made any noise other than a gentle whoosh of air. The warmth of the fire warmed his face and body enough to make him drowsy. Taking off his large worn peacoat he played it on the leaves and dirt and wrapped his mothers sweater tight around him. He didn’t want to wake up cold, so he decided to push the rest of his sticks on top of the fire, and moving a bigger log to the centre. He curled up in the borrowed clothes and put both of his hands under his head, falling into a silent sleep. Things would be better in the morning. They always were.