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Snape opened the heavy door to his study and got blasted in the face by a wall of warmth. The heater had cranked up to what felt like 30°C, which just so happened to be the temperature at which he started disliking his layered black robes.
'Ah, Severus,' said a clipped voice. There, sitting on the threadbare couch like he owned the world, was Voldemort. Bald. Pale. And glaring like the concept of winter itself had personally insulted him. 'You're here at last.'
'Hello... my lord.' He set down a steaming mug on the small table between them. 'I wasn't... expecting you to still... be here.'
Voldemort cast him a cold smile. 'Whatever is wrong, Severus? Are you perhaps finding me unwelcome?'
'A little. The heater has been on for ages, I am all but melting.'
'Ah, well, that's a small issue.'
'Is there anything you wish to tell me, my lord? Perhaps why you... have not left the house in days? Have not left this room much, in fact?'
'I refuse to go outside.'
'Why is that, my lord?'
'Why, you see... I have developed a... great dislike... of snow. Of all things cold, in fact. Snow is treacherous. Snow is treasonous. Snow is… evil.'
More evil than you, sir? he wanted to say, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
'Well, take the tea, then. It's hot.' was what he settled on in the end. 'Would you... care to explain why you have an issue with the snow? Unless, of course, you're referring to the... incident... in Potter's first year?' He folded his cloak and took the seat opposite Voldemort, making sure the table stood right between them.
Voldemort scowled at the cup of tea. Since he hadn't grown up on it, Snape supposed it was only natural he doesn't have a particular liking towards... tea. Still, no matter what he threw at him next, he felt it would be worth it just to see his lord choke on leaf-water - especially the way he made it. Black and bitter like his own soul, the perfect reminder that sugar was all it took to separate a good drink from a bad one. 'I simply cannot believe that snow - snow, Severus - managed to defile me so thoroughly.'
'Defile you? In what way?'
He hated winter, Snape knew. He had seen the way Voldemort flinched at frost, how the memory of it seemed to linger like some cursed Poltergeist in his expression. But maybe today he would finally get to hear the reason why. There had been a few theories running around his head like cavemen around a campfire, but... nothing too substantial.
Voldemort shifted slightly, curling his long fingers around the cup - not to drink, just to display ownership. (Despite it being one of his better cups, Snape planned to throw it out the moment his lord left the house.)
The memory hit him like a snowball to the face: Quirrell, trying hard not to sweat under a wobbling turban, passing through a series of corridors and courtyards. Three snowballs kept hitting the back of his head. They hit one after the other, replenishing themselves with snow from the ground every time one broke up - snow that Quirrell's feet had just run through! He shivered, remembering how cold his face had been. The turban had been soaked through with melted snowballs. Not that Quirrell noticed - he felt all the cold for him. His face had been Quirrell's shield.
'You’re trembling,' Snape observed flatly.
'No,' he hissed a little too sharply. 'I’m appreciating the thermal gradient of this room.'
Snape could almost hear the little mental gears grinding in his head. Snow. Children. Turbans. Humiliation. And yet, there was method behind the madness. Voldemort had been calculating trajectories, evaluating the angle of the snowball arcs, mentally noting which child was likely to die first if he intervened. Oh, but how he couldn't. Oh, there had always been a teacher around, no matter where Quirrell went...
'The snow,' Voldemort muttered, voice low, 'it betrayed me. Until that day, snow had been... had been nothing but a mild annoyance at best, but oh, it had been so torturous that day...'
Snape raised an eyebrow. Its's snow.
'Do you understand the betrayal?' Voldemort shot back, tilting his bald head like it might illuminate the point further. His hands gestured wildly, with an economy of motion that suggested he... actually, Snape had no idea what he was trying to say. This was only his second time being a therapist for Voldemort. There was no upside to that, unless you counted being able to hear all the bubbling things his lord kept under the surface. The last time, it had been a fun session for him. Oh, and being able to throw his new title in Bellatrix's face was priceless.
'It’s remarkable, truly,' he said half-heartedly, 'that the most powerful Dark Lord of the century, whose enemies quake at the sound of his name, can be undone by... snowballs.'
'Fix it, Severus,' he hissed. 'Fix this issue of mine.'
Snape glanced at the cup of tea pointedly.
Voldemort took another sip.
'My lord, snow has been coming to England since... long before I was even born. It's not something I can fix with a simple spell -'
Voldemort scowled, though eventually the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, like a war hero reconsidering the concept of civility. 'I forgive you,' he admitted. 'Perhaps.'
'Thank you, my lord,' he murmured. 'Tell me more about it.'
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed in exactly that way that said: Do not mistake this for weakness. I would have destroyed you if you weren't the best therapist in my group of Death Eaters. He straightened in his seat, drawing in a long breath through the two slits on his face. Snape had never gotten over the first time he saw Voldemort. It had been... scary, perhaps. But he remembered how he couldn't help staring at the slits. Bellatrix thought it made him look... hot. Hotter than he already was? Well, maybe, that was a low bar. He, on the other hand, only thought it made him look... funny.
'How do you propose we... remove this... this unfortunate response of mine?' he asked.
Snape considered this carefully. In all honestly, he wanted to say, exposure therapy, if only because it might result in something like trying to give a bath to a cat. That would make a fun memory, he thought. Only problem was, he didn't dare to say it out loud. 'Perhaps... you ought to simply stay here for a bit longer, my lord,' he said after what felt like an eternity of silence. 'I shall get you another cup of tea. I've found it rather... soothes the soul. Then, I suppose... take your time in this... oven.'
'No more tea,' Voldemort said hastily, forcefully swallowing another mouthful of bitter tea, as if that might stop Snape from getting another cup. Soothe the soul? Soothe the soul my as-
'Very well.' He left the room as quickly as he dared to. A smile was starting to break through on his face, and he didn't want to let Voldemort see it.
The moment he left the room, he went upstairs to the safety of his bedroom, sniggering to himself trying to imagine Voldemort sulking at the snow outside.
Merry Christmas, everyone! Hope you enjoyed this piece!
- Atari.