Severus Snape has always taken his solace from the night; more than from these human concepts of good and evil. For him, the night is not a time for sleeping — though he has never had much need for so human a thing as sleep — but for feeling. It is a time for an ancient knowing, one that goes so far beyond mere human knowledge as to be indescribable. And the ancient blood in him wants the night; seeks its comforts as much as the part of him that is only human seeks sustenance.
There are those who would call him monster, merely for his blood. And perhaps he is a monster, for the Darkness brings him as much pleasure as can be had in his life. The power of the kill is as the power of the moonlight; it holds him in thrall.
Is he a monster? Truly? He has some semblance of honour yet, though no creature now living would believe it.
The Son of the Night may well be monstrous; the blood of Teppes may well damn him.
Will it?
Or is he, perhaps, kindred of the eternal Trickster, one who changes his face as he will and gives and takes in equal measure? Well may he be, for he is skilled in the arts of deception and cunning, and he walks through the night as easily as most men walk the day.
Is he, indeed, either of these things? Or is he merely a man with odd blood; one wounded past all reason by the horrors he has known?
Or perhaps he, like some men, simply defies all effort at categorization. Perhaps...perhaps he simply is.