Severus lay in a patch of thawed, ashen grass in the shadow of the castle, under a high window of a seemingly empty classroom. The grass wasn't dead, but it certainly wasn't alive. It was more than partially shrouded in a blanket of decaying leaves that had been laid to rest by winter’s lethal hand. Severus found the dead foliage comforting.
The Slytherin boy’s head, coal-colored hair covering an anemically pallid face, rested against his dark winter cloak, which had been made into a makeshift pillow. His long sleeves, though not particularly thick, prevented him from being miserable. Not that misery was unbecoming for such a character.