Cloak of Ice

He wraps himself up carefully, layer by layer, like putting on winter clothes. First the regret, then resentment, then self-loathing, then anger and finally, the outer cloak of frost. But this outfit of his has no warmth, no familiarity. It is discarded each day for a different set, each new one as bitterly cold as the last.

As thick clothing conceals the warmth of the flesh, his layers too conceal something precious. His coverings hide it well; hide it from the penetration of the ice. Only though the eyes, a perceptive person can perhaps see a glimmer of what once was, what may yet someday be again.

His voice is lined with chill as he addresses the boy. He never looks down, never meets the frightened eyes of the child, never reveals the weakness of the cloak clasp.

The child moves suddenly and he can see the boy running away though the snow towards his peers. Laughter drifts back, and he sees the boy pointing to him. Merriment romps around, as he stands there, alone. His cloak still tightly wrapped around his body.

He can remember brighter days, but choses not to. The memory is still tinged too much with pain. A sliver of sunlight pierces the clouds and illuminates his face. He bows his head. The intensity is painful for him. A stark reminder of when he was alive.

He tilts his head and looks up. The clouds are parting, the sun coming through them, smiling as she did when he was still living. A fine winter day.

A trickle of ghostly sweat comes down his face. He is surprised to feel a tinge of warmth tiptoe through him. Slowly, his hand comes up and loosens the outer cloak. But the warmth seems to spread, into his torso, arms, hands, legs, feet, all are filled with this new-found heat. The layers of frost, anger, self-loathing, resentment and finally regret slowly fall to the ground, forgotten about.

He smiles and slowly floats upwards, revelling in this sunshine. He floats past the children who zip past him on broomsticks, he floats past the cheering crowd, he floats gradually until suddenly he finds himself inside the castle. The face of an old man regards him from below, a kindly smile on the wrinkled lips.

"Welcome back," the old man says, holding out his hands. The words are strange, yet their meaning strikes deep within him. He is back.

Slowly, he floats down, considering. The layers are gone now, and he misses their comfort. Without them, he feels free, but it is a frightening freedom. He feels giddy with the power of his liberty. He can now feel the cold creeping back.

"Please," the old man says softly, "Remain here. Resist the urge to return to the familiarity of ice. Feel the warmth flow through you."

The voice is like a lifeline as he feels himself being drawn back into the warmth. He opens his eyes and sees the world anew.

"Thank you," he says in a whisper.

That afternoon, the people of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry see the strangest sight. Their Headmaster and the Slytherin ghost, are walking together, talking together and laughing together. And the low laugh of Dumbledore mixes with the resonant and warm laugh of the Bloody Baron.