If a Snape sees his shadow... Feb. 2nd

What they used to call Imbolc (those of us who know the Old Ways still do), people now call Groundhog Day. Ridiculous. So if I, Severus, rather than a groundhog, see my shadow on Feb. 2nd, will there be six more weeks of winter? In the world of Snape, it is always winter. And I... I am the shadow.

Salazar Slytherin walked here.

Upward of a thousand years ago, the home of one of Hogwarts' founders stood here, in the middle of this quiet fen – an idyllic location for a wizard who enjoyed his solitude and the company of Nature's secrets. I stand amidst this peaceful, stark landscape, and there is the perfect balance of sound: enough silence to hear the serpents that once spoke to their Master (though not to hear their language), mixed with occasional birdsong.



Artists would describe it as having "a limited palette". Others would find it outright bleak, even creepy. Plenty of today's dunder-headed youth would call it "dull as sh*t", mainly if they had no cannabis or Firewhisky to share away from adult eyes.

Slytherin Fen is not everyone's idea of a nice place. In winter, especially, the land is asleep, and the colors of the landscape are subdued. Along the banks, suckholes and grass-covered wash-tunnels wait to trap the unwary legs of folks less observant than a keen-eyed Potions Master. But I find it a place of deep serenity, of most precious, welcome peace.

I blend in with the scenery, like merely another broken snag, a black stump, a shadow amid the many shadows of this place, laden as it is already with tree trunks and logs. And when I stand still, not only my body but my spirit merges with the stoic, quiet spirit of the Fen.



Here I can stretch myself upon the bank in the sun, with no students to bother me, no Albus to Floo me with the overly friendly news of a staff meeting, and most of all, no Boy-Who-Lived to vex me. In that rare window of blessed isolation, only the Dark Mark remains as that which can yank me ruthlessly back to my caged life, and it is tied to that part of my brain that is ever, without fail, on alert and dreads the need to take action. But the rest of me, for the most part, is at last able to take its ease.


Even in winter, the Fen yields its secrets to those who seek. Rare potions ingredients lurk beneath the bowing grass, cling to logs, hang on trees, and are usually within reach of a Summoning spell or long fingers: lichens, feathers, wild herbs, frogs, toads, snakes, swamp leeches, mud nippers... The sundry bits find a place in any of several hidden pockets within the folds of black.

This place may appear dead to some, but it is pulsing with life. Even in a moment of silence, the air hums with its presence. At other times, tiny creatures flit past me on their various missions, and the grass rustles briefly. Across a broad waterway, a committee of Red Wing Blackbirds converse brightly – almost too brightly for my tastes – and announce their insistent, metric measurements:

"One-millili-i-i-i-iter!"
"Thirty-one-li-i-i-i-iters!!"

At last, the sun begins to set over Slytherin Fen, tinting the sky with a delicious brew of lemon and peach and melon and cream, soft blue and grey, and finally a rich range of pinks. I take my leave, refreshed – if only somewhat – in body and soul, content... and glad, once again, that I have come.

If today there shall be six more weeks of winter because a Snape saw his shadow in the Fen, then so be it. This day has been worth it.


Happy Imbolc!
Imbolc (or Oimelc, later Candlemas) is one of the original Witches' sabbats in Europe and, especially, the Celtic lands. Its patron Goddess is Brighid, or Bride, later called St. Brigid by some. It is a holiday for celebrating the first returning of the Sun, the new life of spring, as embodied by the light of candles, and the symbology of Brigid as the bringer of flame. At this time of year, the land in the British Isles, especially farther north, is still pretty dead. In ancient times, stored food was running real low by now, and your family would be feeling the strain. Spring was greatly welcomed and anticipated. In the Pacific Northwest, the first, merest stirrings of life can be seen right now – trees with sticky, resinous buds, early blades of grass, velvety pussy willows, and those sweet cherry blossoms.

So what is a "fen"?!?! It's a wetland, a swamp, fed by running streams more than rain (a bog is fed mainly by rain). In the Harry Potter series, sneaky, snake-loving Salazar Slytherin is stated (via the Hat!) as having lived in a fen. In these pictures, "Slytherin Fen" is actually Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge, which does rise and fall a bit with the rain, but also has live, slow streams running through it. This summer I had a truly magical experience there, in which a small snake came up to my feet and curled about them briefly before making her way off into the grasses again. And aside from the well-used jogging trail populated by cell-phone wielding dunderheads, yes, it is a place of serenity (all the more reason to nip off to one side, out of sight, and poke around for potions ingredients). Hundreds of birds, muskrats, and plenty of other critters call this home. I try to venture out to this spot on a regular basis... however, I respect its status as a refuge and, in fact, do not kill or take away any critters for potions. I get 'em elsewhere instead.