Introspection at 3 in the Morning
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Really. Promise. Cross my heart and all that other stuff.
Author's Note: First story. That I posted anyway. Yes the grammar is that bad on purpose.
Posting old stories instead of working. Oh joy.
It has all been said before. By most poets, by most writers, by most people. Everything that could be said about love has been said. Which made him sound redundant in his own head. He should have taken that sleep potion after all.
It's not like he didn't notice her before. She was always there. He just didn't see her. Or for who she was anyway. He knew her because she knew everything. Or was set on knowing everything. Which didn't make his current job any easier. The teaching one anyway.
So how did it happen? Really. How did he come to care for someone like that. Not that there was anything wrong with her... except the obvious. He was doing it again. Getting off track in his own mind. He was pathetic. Reduced to mumbling under his breath by a girl, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of the opposite fact, she was just a girl.
Well maybe not just a girl. She was brilliant after all. He could appreciate brilliance. He had always loved the beauty of bright burning stars and that's what she was. His bright burning star. His. A few more drinks and he might actually believe...
Enough!
No.. no... Not enough. It was never enough. He could never torture himself enough with thoughts of her. Thoughts of her future. Thoughts of his future. But never their. Therein lay the bitter truth.
He tried to find something at the bottom of the bottle. Truth perhaps? Or just a stopper for the horrible flow of self disgust and affection to the girl with bushy hair. Funny thing that, he loved her hair. It was as much 'her' as his greasy bastardly bat of the dungeons was 'him'. The only difference is that hers was a much better role.
He wasn't the hero of this story. His story was written half way and then crumpled up and burned; the writer who stopped caring about the soul he was writing about rid himself of the rubbish. Good riddance. He tried not to give into the wave of self pity that washed over him. One would think he'd be used to it.
Only once. Only once after the Final Battle has passed, he had allowed himself to weep. He was walking towards the Great Hall when he saw her and her friends. She was glowing, literally glowing, cheeks flushed, hair as fuzzy as ever, and she radiated such warmth... such beauty. He never made it to the feast. Instead he returned to the dungeons and stared at the mirror. For the first time in as many years as he could remember, Snape wished he was beautiful. Wished he could be beautiful so she would look at him, notice him, love him.
He broke the mirror.
He cried for hours then. For his youth. For his life. For his soul. But mostly he cried for her and for them and for what could never be.
Dumbledore found him like that in the morning. Fist covered in half dried blood and his eyes puffy. He was still sitting in front of the mirror. He waited for a reassurance... a comforting word.. something that would give him hope from the one man who was known and loved for his optimism. Dumbledore simply asked him to change and to please come to the staff meeting in the afternoon.
He didn't go.
And here he was now. Drinking. Not crying anymore, thank god, but drinking. A sign of weakness if there ever was.
It has all been said, written, and done before him. People have lived, loved, and died, and now they were being eaten by worms. There was nothing more he could say without sounding redundant to his own head. He should have taken that sleep potion after all.