Trying | Hogwarts OC student

chapter 3

A Midnight Struggle

Alistair awoke in the dead of night, his heart pounding and his breath coming in ragged gasps. He had been dreaming—no, reliving—a memory he had tried so hard to forget. The image of his father's twisted, angry face loomed large in his mind, and the phantom sting of the belt lingered on his skin.

He sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The familiar sense of panic gripped him, and he knew he couldn't stay in the confines of the Slytherin dormitory. His breathing shallow and erratic, he grabbed his cloak and slipped out of the room, desperate for air and space.

The corridors of Hogwarts were eerily silent, the moonlight casting long shadows that seemed to dance menacingly along the walls. Alistair walked aimlessly, his mind a turbulent storm of fear and confusion. He tried to ground himself, to focus on his surroundings, but the panic was too overwhelming. Every step echoed loudly, the sound amplifying his sense of isolation and despair.

He wandered through the darkened hallways, his pace quickening as the sense of dread intensified. He could feel the walls closing in on him, the memories of his past merging with the present, making it hard to breathe. He stumbled, clutching his chest, gasping for air as he fought against the rising tide of panic.

"Pull yourself together," he muttered to himself, his voice trembling. But the words felt hollow, powerless against the onslaught of his thoughts.

He didn't know how long he had been wandering when he found himself near the Potions classroom. The dungeon's cold, damp air felt suffocating, mirroring the turmoil within him. He leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, his hands gripping his head as he rocked back and forth, trying to find some semblance of control.

"Stop it," he whispered fiercely. "Just stop it."

But the memories wouldn't stop. The pain, the fear, the endless nights of terror—all of it came rushing back, threatening to consume him. He pressed his back against the cold stone wall, feeling its solidity, its reality, trying to anchor himself in the present. But it was no use. He was slipping, losing his grip on reality.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the fog of his mind, cold and sharp.

"Mr. Montrose, what do you think you're doing out of bed at this hour?"

Alistair looked up, his vision blurry with tears. Professor Snape stood before him, his expression a mixture of irritation and curiosity. Alistair tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He could only shake his head, the panic rendering him mute.

Snape's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. For a moment, he seemed at a loss, the sight of the normally composed student in such a state of distress clearly unsettling him. He crouched down, his voice low and controlled.

"Montrose, look at me," Snape commanded. "Focus."

Alistair's eyes met Snape's, and the intensity in the professor's gaze cut through the haze of panic. Snape's voice was firm, but there was a strange note of concern underlying it.

"Deep breaths," Snape instructed. "In and out. Slowly."

Alistair tried to comply, following Snape's lead as he demonstrated the breathing. It was difficult, but slowly, his breaths began to steady, the immediate sense of panic easing enough for him to speak.

"I'm... sorry, Professor," Alistair managed, his voice barely a whisper. "I couldn't... I couldn't stay in the dormitory."

Snape studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stood, extending a hand to help Alistair to his feet.

"Follow me," Snape said, his tone brooking no argument.

Alistair obeyed, his legs unsteady as he followed Snape through the corridors. They walked in silence, the cold air of the dungeons biting at Alistair's skin. Snape led him to a small, seldom-used office, opening the door and gesturing for Alistair to enter.

Once inside, Snape lit a few candles, casting a warm, flickering light across the room. He motioned for Alistair to sit in a chair by the fireplace, then conjured a pot of tea, setting it on a small table.

"Drink," Snape said, pouring a cup and handing it to Alistair.

Alistair took the cup, his hands still shaking, and sipped the tea. The warmth spread through him, helping to calm his nerves. Snape watched him closely, his expression inscrutable.

"Do you care to explain what brought this on?" Snape asked, his voice softer than usual.

Alistair clenched his fists, his earlier fear and panic giving way to anger. How dare Snape act concerned now, after all the disdain and cruelty he had shown?

"It's none of your business, Professor," Alistair snapped, his voice harsh. "You think you know everything, but you don't know anything about me."

Snape's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "Watch your tone, Montrose. You are still a student, and I am still your professor."

Alistair stood, his hands trembling with a mix of rage and adrenaline. "I'm sick of this, sick of you pretending to care when all you've done is treat me like dirt. You don't know what I've been through, and you don't care."

Snape's face remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. He stepped closer, his voice dangerously low.

"You are treading on thin ice, Montrose. Do not mistake this for kindness. I am trying to help you, whether you believe it or not."

Alistair met Snape's gaze, his anger unabated. "Help me? By belittling me in class? By making my life a living hell? If this is your idea of help, I don't want it."

The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Snape took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving Alistair's.

"You may not understand now, but there are things you need to learn, lessons you need to absorb if you are to survive in this world," Snape said, his voice softer but no less intense. "This is not about liking or disliking you. This is about ensuring you do not fall prey to the same mistakes that others have made."

Alistair glared at Snape, his anger a shield against the confusion and pain swirling within him. "I don't need your lessons. I don't need anything from you."

Snape studied him for a long moment, then nodded, a hint of resignation in his eyes. "Very well. Return to your dormitory, Montrose. And remember, the choices you make now will shape your future."

Alistair turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, his mind a whirlwind of anger and defiance. As he made his way back to the Slytherin common room, he couldn't shake the feeling that Snape's words held a deeper truth. But for now, he was too consumed by his own turmoil to care.

He slipped back into his dormitory, his anger slowly giving way to exhaustion. As he lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, he felt a flicker of doubt. Maybe Snape did know more than he let on. Maybe there was a reason for his harshness. But those were thoughts for another time.

For now, Alistair let the weariness pull him into a restless sleep, the shadows of his past still lurking at the edges of his mind.