Severus Snape, the tortured soul, was a man full of angst. He lusted after the pretty girls who wouldn't give him the time of day because he was just so damn ordinary. A man who just wanted to belong in a world that found him unnecessary. He was mildly competent in potions, but who wasn't, after all? A couple of eleven year olds could brew an effective polyjuice potion in a girls' bathroom. Big deal.
How he dreamed of being wanted. To be revered. Alas, poor Severus, the wizarding world would never idolize you. He needed to be famous; to be adorned.
Ah, the wizarding world would never appreciate the great. Severus. Snape.
But, open mike night at The Beat, a 60's beatnik night club in the heart of the underground; that was another story. He was soulful, and sexy, and mysterious as his angst poetry about the cruelty of life and lost love filled the hearts of the lonely, plain women.
He was Sev, the poet.
He walked on stage to the sighs and adulation of the crowd. When the spotlight hit him and reflected off his greasy hair, it wasn't derision he heard, he was an idol; a god. In the hushed silence of apprehension, he rewarded them with an arrogant smile. They had come to see him and they would not be disappointed.
"Love is dead.
Love is death.
Fly. Fly away. You prudent soul.
Foul. Cry foul. You broke my heart, you heartless bitch.
"Life is dead.
Life is cold.
Skewer me and let me drown.
Foul, your heartless bitch. You broke my heart."
They were on their feet, snapping their approval. Women were weeping, mourning for the tortured soul who yearned for love. Each one desperate to be the one to repair his broken heart, pressing their phone numbers into his hands.
Sev, the poet. Got more tail than DiCaprio.
