A/N: This used to be two chapters, but I combined them into one, seeing as how they were both short and had no point. A plot does unfold later, I promise. I sort of started writing without knowing where I was going, so I just wrote nonsense for two chapters. ...Not in a bad way, though. :-D

R&R!

Snape sat in his office, writing. The only light was a small candle, flickering over his parchment and creating large dancing shadows on the stone walls. It was that time of year again. August 31. He always put his lesson plans to the last minute. Really last minute. He checked the clock on the wall. 2:36 am.

He set down his quill, stretching out his arms and yawning. He stacked his papers, and slid them to a corner of his desk. His desk was plain. It had no pictures on it. No fancy quill holders or organizers. All it had was three stacks of paper. Lesson Plans, Papers Going Out, and Papers Coming In. When school started, there would be two more piles: Graded and Un-graded. What else did you need a desk for?

Snape got up. He would add the finishing touches to his plans tomorrow. Blowing out the candle, he opened the door to leave. The door clicked shut, and Snape walked down the deserted halls of the dungeons to his bed chamber.

Most people would be terrified to walk down here at night. Or in the day, for that matter. It was completely dark, save for Snape's wand, and utterly claustrophobic. Every corridor looked the same, if you didn't know your way. There were no numbers or identifying elements on the doors, and they were all evenly spaced apart. There were picture frames in each corridor, but they looked identical, and the pictures in them liked to switch frames. The dungeons were intended to confuse people. That was why they belonged to Slytherin: The house of the cunning. You found your way by tricking the paintings into telling you, or making deals with them. One of the worst things a Slytherin could do was get on the bad side of one of the dungeon paintings. It was all about connections.

But Snape knew exactly where he was. Years and years of living here caused him to be able to get around these halls in his sleep. The potions classroom was right across from the main steps, which were the largest set of stairs. His office was right next to the classroom. Continuing along to the left, and there were two storage closets and the ingredients room, which was sometimes the third room and sometimes the second. You could always tell which because or the knight statue that stood across from the three doors. His hand would either have two or three fingers touching the sword on his waist, as though ready to unsheathe it.

Snape's bed chambers were deeper under the Lake, down another flight of stairs. They spiraled until they reached a wooden door with a painting hanging from it. It was a portrait of a man. He was rather plump, with a balding head of white hair. His eyes were grey and clouded, as though very tired. He smiled, though, and seemed fairly happy most of the time. Snape had no idea who he was, and had no intention of finding out. The first day Snape had arrived at Hogwarts for the first time to teach, the man in the painting had said, "Just call me Bert." And that was the last time they ever spoke, save for the asking and telling of passwords.

"Password?"

"Lily."

The door opened, and Snape entered. The room was dark, and Snape felt his way to his night table, lighting the tall candle that sat there. Now able to see, Snape walked over to his dresser and lit the candle on top of it. He opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out his night robes. He folded them over his arm and carrying the candle from the dresser, continued over to the bathroom. He dressed and readied for bed, then blew out the candle he was carrying and placed it back on top of the dresser. Then he pulled back the sheets of his bed, slipped in, and blew out his other candle.

It was his routine every night. It worked. And he didn't get a restful night's sleep without it, otherwise he would constantly think he was forgetting something.

The next morning, the entire school was buzzing. Teachers rushed around, preparing the school for the students' arrival; house elves were bustling about, cleaning and dusting; while all of the paintings were gossiping about the upcoming first years.

"I've heard Mullroy's daughter is coming." Snape heard one frame shout to another.

"Ah, a handful, that one. Good luck to the house that gets her." A group of men in the other frame laughed.

"Oh, Stephen Cornfoot is coming." A third fame whispered to his neighbor.

"Who's he?" The woman replied.

"Comes from a family of high class purebloods. Probably going to be in Slytherin…" The man huffed and fixed his jacket.

"He's a very bright boy, though. I wouldn't be so sure." The first frame called to him.

Snape tried to ignore them. All this shouted conversation and hissing whispers were giving him a migraine.

When he arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast, Snape found that the house banners had been put up, and the four tables were out. Each table had a colored table cloth, running along the middle of it like a long stripe. Snape spotted the Slytherin table on the right end. Completely empty, of course. The entire Great Hall was deserted, save for Snape and a few other teachers, who were eating breakfast as hurriedly as possible. It was a strange feeling, to be in such a huge room and know that within hours, this room would be filled to the max. Like the feeling one gets right before a large party.

Snape took his time to eat. He had no more preparing to do. He had finished his lesson plans, and posted a few notices on the corkboard in the common room. What else was there to do?

He never understood all this anxious frenzy. All the same, though, that excited feeling filled him as much as every other teacher. Only he didn't feel the need to act upon it by decorating his room excessively with flowers, and pictures, and stupid banners that said, "Don't put off till tomorrow what you can do today!" and "You never know until you try!"

The Potions classroom was equipped with everything it needed: Nothing. The students were required to bring their own cauldrons, textbooks, and parchment. The ingredients were supplied, but they were kept in the ingredients room. The classroom had a few rows of tables, and a blank desk in the front of the room, and that was it. No need for stupid banners to motivate the kids, surely Snape's happy disposition would be enough.

The day wore on slowly. Snape had long lengths of free time, interrupted every so often by a so-called "crisis." Usually he just had to mix some antidote for a pixie bite, or get rid of the boggart hiding in a decorative urn on the fourth floor.

The anxious air still milled about the castle, and it only grew as the light began to fade on the horizon. The students would be arriving soon.

"Severus? Oh, Severus, there you are!" Minerva McGonagall rushed up to Snape, who was sitting in the Great Hall, writing. "What are you doing, sitting around idly? The students will be arriving any minute!"

Snape did not look up from his parchment. "I am aware of that, Minerva. All of my preparing was finished around nine o'clock this morning." He lifted his head, making direct eye contact. "Surely the Deputy Headmistress would illustrate the same level of efficiency."

McGonagall heightened her posture and glared at him. "You know as well as I that there has been a lot of last minute emergencies that had to be attended to."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Oh yes, I forgot. What a tragedy, if every picture frame were not hanging at exactly ninety degrees."

McGonagall's face flushed, and she turned on her heel, hurrying down the aisle between tables and shouting, "At least I'm doing something!"

Snape smirked to himself, dipped his quill into some ink, and continued writing. He let out his breath, relieved that Minerva hadn't scanned his parchment. Blackmail material, at the very least, was on this page. Perhaps, then, he shouldn't have been writing in the Great Hall, but he only had this room to himself once or twice a year. He like the way the scratch of his quill echoed off of every wall. He felt as though every word he wrote was being announced to an entire congregation before him.

He wrote as a stress-reliever. He actually had quite a creative mind, though none would guess it. He used to paint, as well. As a young boy, he had painted every wall of his bedroom. It was no distinct picture, just a bunch of swirls and shapes and colors. When he had finished, the room was a beautiful blend of black, green, blue, and gold. They seemed to wave, flowing gently across his walls. It helped him sleep at night, when…

But painting was a thing of the past. As was his past. No need to dwell. He had no time to sit down and paint anymore. It took too long to prepare everything, took too long to paint, and took too long to clean up afterwards. Even with the help of magic.

Writing was much easier to do. And much more secretive. Imagine the laughingstock he would become if someone caught him painting! At least he could pretend he was doing work, or berate a person for being rude if they tried to read his writing. He kept his writing private, locked in his night table drawer, or tucked safely in his robes. Sometimes he wrote in a leather-bound book. Sometimes he wrote something quick on a loose piece of parchment. Sometimes he scrawled on scrap paper, often no longer than the first two knuckles of his pinky finger.

He wrote anything from three-line poems to novellas. They were all about love, loss, and loyalty. Hate, hope, and betrayal. Or any combination thereof.

Snape wrote to escape. He always had. This life was never good enough for him. Full of disappointment. Disappointment in others. Disappointment in himself. Making up new worlds was the best he could do. Worlds without disappointment.

Just then, there was a bustling outside. The teachers all rushed into the Great Hall, sitting down in their seats just as the doors to the Entrance Hall burst open. The familiar loud buzz poured into the castle. It filled every crack and crevice. Hogwarts was alive.

The students had arrived.