Irrationality
The Story of a Dead Man
I had known when Potter was in the Shack. I always seemed to know when the brat was within my immediate environment and he was ate the moment. Don't really know why though. My past seemed insistent in haunting me. Either through Lily's eyes that he had inherited or James Potter's scruffy looks, the love of my life and my worst enemy. What a lovely combination of bad luck and lack of good karma.
I never really felt that the brat had deserved the sacrifice of my beautiful Lily, for she is mine in my dreams. How could someone of the Potter family deserve such a pure self-less sacrifice whilst they were so clearly arrogant and conceited? How could I not hate the brat that caused my Lily's demise? The fact that Potter senior had tormented me in our youth made a nice cover-up for my hatred towards his brat.
Nobody had ever known of my love towards her, though I suspect that Dumbledore knew. But he'd never know of my fantasies. He'd never think I hadn't moved past my childish. That much is obvious. That wasn't healthy, I knew, but I can not do anything about it. Not as my dying hour is fast approaching. And even if I had lived I would not have changed my ways. I am a very stubborn man and I am set in my ways. I like the way I am and the personality or lack of as people perceive enables me to act the way I want in private without any disturbances. It is easier to avoid fickle people when you are a sarcastic bastard. There is no way an ordinary person dare approach me.
The society's ingrained notions of normality by far exclude me. Most consider me as a sociopath and I prefer it this way. The blatant distrust from the Ministry used to bother me, but I don't give a shit, not anymore. Why should I? Voldemort has just discovered Potter's presence within the Shack and he will strike me with his killing blow soon, most probably within Potter's eyesight. The creature in front of me has twisted fantasies, festering in that insane mind for Merlin knows how long. I can see the murderous glint in his eyes. With his face he is unable to convey emotions; a lipless mouth and a snake nose, pretty impossible to show emotion. But his eyes are redder than ordinary, his hand clutched at his wand and his neck stiff with pent-up anger and betrayal. Another trait the Dark Lord shares with Potter; his total inability to rein in his emotions. If he were able to do so his Death Eaters and I would have gone on without so many Crucio's.
I do share his viewpoint that some people truly do deserve it, but why not save it for those who make stupid mistakes instead of enabling us with the means to build defences against the pain? The sheer stupidity of some people sometime is astounding. Not that it surprises me anymore. I think the naïve and faithful people are not worth my time. And here I find myself, ironically thinking about those people I preach are not worth my consideration, on my dying hour, what a joke. I never spared a thought for the masses and here I am. I really should stop thinking about it. It clearly makes me sound like an old busybody and I'm anything but.
I hear Potter and his little tag-along friend stomping up the old, musty stairs of the Shack. Really, has he learnt no discretion? No wonder he was pursued by Death Eaters every step of his quest. The Dark Lord's snake coiled herself more tightly, as if reacting to her master's anger and preparing for an attack, which makes sense. He is going to kill me with her venom; the same venom that I have used countless times in potions. The very symbol of the Slytherin House, a House that to this day I am proud to have belonged to, even if society put me on the same level as the Dark Lord for simply being in that House. No matter. It is a great honour that my death is brought by such a great animal. I have always loved snakes and the Potter brat certainly didn't deserve his talent for Parseltongue.
I feel the horrified eyes of Granger and Potter behind me as Nagini strikes towards me, her fangs extended and gleaming in the firelight and I relax myself, knowing it will hurt less this way. I release all my masks and wrap my thoughts in a ball to give Potter, on Dumbledore's orders of course, as if I ever wanted the brat to see my memories but he always was an exception. The last of the great Severus Snape is consumed in a small viscous ball of thought, vestige of a generation of a generation, to a man more insane than I with no regret other than not killing James or Harry Potter with my bare hands. I shall join with my precious flower, oh so precious Lily and see what awaits me over the pass.
In the last flicker of consciousness, I see Potter's face up-close, looking into my glazed eyes, seeking answers he won't find. Voldemort must have fled the scene of my death leaving way for the two Grffindors. The blackness of them reveal nothing, he does not possess enough skill or knowledge to decipher the most basic emotions on m face. Not surprising. Granger urges him to do something for me, but he won't be able to save me. He consumes the ball and staggers back from the impact of such an amount of foreign memories. I know no more.
A/N: If the sequence of events in the story has been mistaken then I am really sorry. I wrote this from memory of what happened in DH and I didn't read much of that chapter since Snape dies and he's my favourite character. Though it doesn't show in this story (that he's my favourite character) but I quite liked the turnout it had. Going through difficult things at the moment, this little piece sprang on me and I thought I'd write it out. It was hard for me to do because I can't write angst very well in my opinion…I'm just not an angst person I guess. Anyways if you read drop me a line or two, I appreciate the comments.