(young Snape)

He had had enough. Simple as that. When you can't win you can still prevent others from winning against you. That's what Severus was going to do. He was a successful person. He knew he was, but everyone else was determined to prevent it from being a victory, from being success. It was success only in his mind, and what good did success do you if no one else saw it as such? What good was success when everyone sought to deprive you of every good feeling you gained from it? Filthy dementors. He lived in a society of dementors, dementors whose favorite diet was Severus. Well, even if he couldn't win in this game between him and the others, he'd prevent THEM from winning against him ever again. They would never win again…
Hate bubbled up in the back of his throat in the form of acidic stomach juices, burning the delicate, unprotected tissue of his esophagus. He barely managed to keep it at that level. He was so fed up and pissed off that he just wanted to vomit out here in the snow. It's not like anyone would care anyway.
There wasn't a word in existence that could convey how much Severus loathed Potter and his other three minions, nor how much he despised everyone else who had ever laughed at him, teased him, or did anything else equally as stupid. He wouldn't take it anymore; they couldn't force him and he was going to make it so that they could never bother him again.
A humorless smile plastered across his face. No one could stop him, no one would stop him, and they'd all lose the game. Out in the snow and howling wind he was trekking to a place that would make this ambition a reality. It was a safe haven that would allow him to not win the game exactly but keep the others from winning it. He was rather frozen, but he didn't care. It didn't matter. Everyone was either inside or at Hogsmade though, so no one would see him.
The Forbidden Forest. Finally. Severus made it to the outskirts of the forest and plunged into the trees, not planning on going very far. When he stopped, he could still see the grounds clearly through the trees. Severus reached into his pocket and felt his wand. He brushed it aside and grasped for the heavier object. A smile that was mingled with relief spread across his face. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was his father's knife. How he hated his father. He'd never win again either. Never.
He unsheathed the blade and gazed at it, so sharp, so long. This would end the game. Forever. Trembling in the cold, he pulled up his sleeves and gazed down at his thin, pale arms. It wouldn't take long before they were truly as white as the snow, though he doubted the surrounding snow would stay white for long. Breath becoming shaky and body becoming only a modicum warmer with anticipation, he lifted his arm and his knife out in front of him. The blade pressed into the flesh of one pale, vulnerable wrist. A small sound escaped him. This was it. He'd end it forever. He would die.

A slow Muggle death.

Pain just made you feel more alive. It made you aware of what was real. He jerked the blade swiftly across his wrist and winced, clenching his teeth against the cold-heightened pain. The frosty air made the cut scream as black red blood spurted and bubbled up, a surprising hotness against the blue iciness of his skin. Shaking badly, he switched hands and made a jagged and even deeper incision in the other wrist. This time he couldn't suppress a cry. That was okay. No one would hear him anyway. The knife tumbled from his hands crunching stiffly down on the snow. His hands fell limply to his sides and he fell back heavily against a tree. He felt the blood pour out of his wounds, bathing his hands and soaking his sleeves. He gazed down at the snow and indeed red spread quickly on either side of him.

It wasn't long before he registered that he was beginning to lose feeling. He no longer felt a startling heat, he no longer felt the thick flow down his hands and, as he slumped further down the tree, he was feeling awfully cold. A vision of his mother entered his mind's eye. She was the only one that didn't try to win against him. He never lost against her, but she never lost either. The only one.
Even on the verge of death he refused to utter last words. The love he felt for his mother, remaining unstated, and the love he felt for Lily like a rust-infected wound was locked deep inside his heart.
Even in death peace eluded him. The sound of voices made his stomach turn and he saw two butt-ugly familiar faces come to fix their eyes upon him. There were two others following farther behind. He shuddered and mustered a hateful smirk. "Black. I should have known you'd come to watch me die. Can't resist bothering me even in death? This will be your last victory." His voice was hoarse, weak, but he managed. He suddenly felt extremely light-headed and fell hard to his knees. He heard them talking and he brought his wrists up so he could look at the black gashes. Yes, he heard their voices, but he couldn't process what they were saying. "I can't hear you, Black," he said with a very faint hint of singsong in his tone. With that, his vision went black and a cold unconsciousness set in.