Snape was draped across his four poster bed in a despairing fashion, his hair lank against the pillow and his skin even more sallow than usual in the guttering candlelight.
Of course the candlelight had to gutter. It was part of the effect.
It had taken a lot of preparation: hours spent melting wax to create extra-dribbly candles, liberally applying dust to the top of his desk, setting loose spiders when none of his dorm mates were around, and ordering Eau de Dungeon at Zonko's to spray across his clothes and pillow. But now he had a perfect setting for his dark brooding.
A tall, blonde Slytherin with sharp eyes strode towards Snape, stopping to pick up a pile of parchment that had crossed some invisible boundary line, and then dumping it on top of the prone boy.
"Keep your weird shit to yourself," he said sternly.
Snape sat up, black eyes flashing with cold rage and dramatic self-loathing.
"Do not dare sully my cursed parchment," he threatened the other boy. The blonde rolled his eyes, and exited the dormitory without a backwards glance, eager to leave his questionable roommate behind.
Snape threw himself backwards against the sheets once more.
"Parchment cursed with my FEELINGS," he moaned.
For each sheaf of parchment was covered in his spidery scrawl, the words a painful reminder of his daily suffering. The suffering that came with being him, and being in love with her.
He lifted one, looking over his heartfelt words, clutching the chest of his robes in agony as he read.
Oh my love is like a red, red potion
Brewed in a dungeon room.
Oh my love is like a dark arts curse
That sends me to my doom.
He let his hand fall to his side, the piece of parchment slipping from his grasp and fluttering to the stone floor. He sighed, putting all of his longing into that noise, and letting his eyes roll back into his head.
After a few moments, he sat up, and scratched at his skull, before leafing through the pile of parchment once more. Perhaps he had a better one. One more likely to draw a solitary tear of anguish from the reader, if read at his death bed. Then all would know how much he had loved and longed for the infinitely beautiful red-head.
Shall I compare thee to double Potions;
Thou art so lovely, and oddly pungent.
Bewitch my mind and give me odd notions,
And take me off on another tangent.
He felt a flash of irritation. He tossed the poem carelessly aside to join its fellow on Snape's unsurprisingly unhygienic floor.
Oh my heart's in your hands, my heart is not here.
No room left for feelings, no room left for fear.
Lord Voldy is horrid and keeps me on task
So e'en if I want you, I no longer can ask.
His brow furrowed, highlighting the sheer size of his obnoxious nose as he considered the merit of his masterpiece. He modestly discarded his poem, and rose in a stately fashion from his bed to sweep towards his desk. He only once stubbed a toe on the journey across the room.
Taking a seat, he dipped his quill in ink, and drew another piece of parchment towards himself. He needed to find words to express the twisting pain he felt inside. There was no other way to find release from his torment; on desperately seeking the advice of Madam Pomfrey on the matter, he had been issued only with a laxative.
Perhaps, he considered, a haiku. He scratched at the parchment, wet ink marking the page like his tears did his cheeks.
A love so pure it
Is the only thing that keeps
Me from the darkness.
He hesitated. No, this was no true reflection. A true reflection of the torture inflicted on his heart would most definitely have to rhyme.
There once was a Mudblood called Lily
Whose reaction to Dark Arts was silly
He howled, grabbing at the poem and screwing it between his clawlike fingers. He threw the parchment to join the pile on his floor with contempt. Not one did his emotions justice!
He raised his wand, aimed it at the offending pile of parchment, and cried: "Incendio!" Promptly, his attempts at the literary expression of his soul caught ablaze, and shrivelled to a crisp. Like his heart.
He let himself fall back once more against his pillows, and sighed deeply. Perhaps, next time, he should try painting. It was a much more expressive medium, after all, and far superior to poetry.