They didn't look. They didn't see. How could they? He didn't let them.
He couldn't let them see; see what it did to him. Because it wasn't over yet. This hateful war, his life risking pain inducing, endless dance for his life and the lives already lost to him. It was a vicious cycle that never ended, twisting him further into this plot he'd never even asked to become involved in. Every step he'd made only had dug him in further, more deeply entwined and unable to escape, his very thoughts to be monitored, not even safe in his own mind. It was only in the deepest darkest corners that he could truly be himself, let himself feel. Feel it all, the bitterness born and grown over 2 decades of fear and pain and anger and hate.
It always came back to it. Deep, burning hate for the Dark Lord, his twisted evil that burned his arm and destroyed the world he might have won, if the only kind and worthy soul in it hadn't been blown out like a candle. All had been lost, the very same night he'd gotten the beginning of 14 years minor respite. And for the man that had kept him going, even after all he'd cared for had gone, the man who even after his death left him no peace, with a portrait who was twice as infuriating as his likeness. For the twisted sick and evil, for the sickeningly sweet and stubborn children who refused to see their place: seen and not heard. Hadn't he had that lesson beaten into him at an early age?
And above all of this, what burned him to the very core, was the despise for his very self. For failing every single time where it truly mattered, and paying the price for the entirety of his life. For feeling sickened by the horrors occurring around him, the horrors he allowed to happen, with the only way to find release was to commit more acts of the same - hating himself even more when he found he enjoyed it. Loathing for those who sneered at him, looked at him with open fury, and knowing they had every reason to do so, for he despised himself as well. The black-robed, hooked-nosed man was nothing more than an older, darker and more skillful version of the scowling boy he once was, still the coward. A coward, to whom death yawns every day invitingly, a place of rest he longed to take, but was too much of a coward to do so. Too much so to leave, abandon this nightmare to others, one he'd been part of since Lucius had approached him in his 5th year.
So much fury, bitter pain and loathing himself every single day, for staying, for putting himself through hell every day willingly, unwillingly. What was willing? Was willing the boy with her eyes and his face, who ran so predictably into the face of danger that both his enemies and Dumbledore used it against him? Was willing the brat who should have been chosen, him and his hulking hufflepuff friend, standing to take their place under the whip? Merely pawns in this game, knights and rooks and endless expendable pawns, he could see it clearly, as all was played out along the bloody chessboard that Dumbledore had set up long ago, still manipulating from beyond his grave.
And yet, still as he saw the system he'd been trapped in, woven in with worthless promises, he could not break out. He knew that, as well as he knew himself, that he could never, ever escape.
Resentful and alone, Severus Snape resigned himself to the part he had been forced to play, and donned his customary black robe. He scowled up at the portrait of the sleeping previous headmaster, wishing he could take a knife to the canvas and be done with it.
But in truth, it would do no good. For the person he truly longed to take a knife to was himself.