Your Fading light
The afternoon sky had darkened to a dull, wintry grey by the time the Quidditch match had come to its unceremonious halt. Snape, more from a sense of duty than enjoyment, was on the sidelines of the match as usual. He watched Potter claim the Snitch with the usual careful sneer in place on his face, ensuring that no one could see exactly how much the boy's success irritated him; reminded him. When the Bludger hit the boy in the back, Snape didn't even wince.
The boy was so much like his father Although the physical resemblance no longer shocked him, Snape couldn't help the bile that seemed to rise automatically in his throat when he encountered him. If he saw Potter unawares in the corridor, the turn of his head, the untidy mess of his unkempt hair, was enough to give Snape a jolt; take him back, suddenly, to his own days as a student. His discomfort was easily kept at bay when he was forced to endure the boy in his classroom, but every so often, when the sight of Potter caught him by surprise, the anger would rise.
Of course, that anger was infected with something else, too. So long as Potter didn't look at him, meet his gaze, Snape could keep his calm. So long as Potter didn't raise his head from the increasingly complex work that Snape set him, Snape could maintain his façade. So long as Potter remained the image of his father, and didn't show him those eyes, the mirror image of hers, Snape could contain his emotions.
Containment was what it was all about; he knew that. Wasn't that what he had been doing for fourteen years? Fourteen years of hiding his true thoughts, building a wall around his emotions, hiding his actual purpose from those who sought to destroy him; all for the spectral shadow of a ghost from the past. But what choice did he have? Masking his emotions was the reason he was useful; it was second nature to him these days.
These were the thoughts that kept him occupied during the irritating necessity that was watching Quidditch, the game that had made his own enemies at school so popular and part of the reason he was an outcast. He'd never been good with a broom, and even now he preferred other methods of transport. Brooding on his own thoughts, his own ideas, even planning lessons, clapping politely when necessary, avoiding small talk with the other Heads of House, all stopped him from getting too involved. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the glut of students leaving the game at its conclusion, he probably would have avoided the conflict on the pitch. But there was something about the tone of voice of the students that caught his attention.
"Or perhaps," he heard Malfoy say, leering as he backed away from the Gryffindor team, "you can remember what your mother's house stank like, Potter, and Weasley's pigsty reminds you of it-"
Snape watched as the scene he knew would occur played out before his eyes. Potter and one of the older Weasley boys launched themselves at Malfoy and began to pummel him, all thoughts of using magic apparently lost in the desire to inflict immediate physical pain with their own hands. There was something curious in watching them brawling, Snape thought; something both incredibly vulgar and yet strangely vital. He knew, as Head of Slytherin, he should intercede, but something stopped him. Just for a moment, he felt Potter's outrage at the boy Malfoy's words, his hurt at the smear on her.
In moments, Madam Hooch the Quidditch teacher had intercepted the fight with a jinx and it was, in its uncontrolled ferocity, over. She sent them to the offices of their Heads of House, which was when Snape knew he should move.
Barely beating the Malfoy boy to it, Snape remained standing when Malfoy opened the door to the Slytherin office. His face was bloody and there was a bruise rapidly turning purple under his right eye.
"Explain yourself," Snape said softly, without preamble.
"They attacked me for no reason!" Malfoy said in a rather nasal voice. "You must have seen it, Sir!"
Snape looked down at Malfoy's blond, arrogant head, the boy's chin still tilted upwards in a gesture of defiance as he spoke.
"No reason?" Snape replied, his voice heavy with irony. "Malfoy, even you are not so odious, so unspeakably unpalatable that two Gryffindor boys would see cause to physically attack you for nothing."
Malfoy looked confused at the words, which was as Snape had intended. "I swear sir. Tell my father, he'll tell Dumbledore to have them expelled."
Snape drew breath, pausing for a moment to elicit the maximum discomfort from the student in front of him. "You will not tell your father." He said simply.
"But sir, they attacked me!" Malfoy looked aghast.
"You will not tell your father, Malfoy, because if you do, you will have far more to deal with than my displeasure." Snape repeated. "Your father is…shall we say, rather too busy with other matters to be troubled by reports of a schoolboy brawl." Snape moved a fraction closer to Malfoy as he said this.
Malfoy paled a little. "How do you know, Sir?" He whispered.
"That is not your concern," Snape replied, businesslike once more. "But know this, Malfoy. Should you discuss this with anyone outside of this school, you will come to regret it. There are some things that should not be said." He seized the scruff of Malfoy's robes firmly, just enough to reinforce the point. He saw his own balled fist by the boy's neck, and just as abruptly dropped it once again.
"Y-yes Sir," Malfoy replied.
"Get yourself to the infirmary," Snape said, by way of dismissal. Malfoy scuttled from the office at his words.
As the boy left, Snape sank into the armchair that stood by the fireplace. Just for a moment he considered whether he'd gone too far in berating the boy. He replayed their conversation in his head. He'd contained all traces of the irrational, blinding fury he'd felt when he heard the boy's words to Potter and Weasley. He'd managed to conceal the hopeless, momentarily uncontrollable anger he'd experienced at the thought of her memory being besmirched. Grabbing Malfoy's collar might have seemed a bit excessive, but he knew full well that Minerva McGonagall had had cause to eject students from her office by their robes on more than one occasion, so he considered that to be no great threat. He felt sure he was safe.
Snape exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. He'd built a wall around all of the emotions he associated with her¸ that seemed at times so at odds with the feelings he had about her son. She might be gone, but there were moments when she still dominated his mind, so much so that he feared even occlumency wouldn't work to protect him. Just as the Potter boy's eyes caught him unawares when he didn't prepare himself, so did the grief he still felt for her. No matter how much protection he built up around his thoughts, no matter how many walls he erected around his emotions, sometimes, the mention of her, even from that foul mouthed, blond haired Malfoy child, jolted him, and he feared it always would. Slowly he stood up again, knowing his presence was required in the Great Hall for dinner. It was at times such as these that he felt truly exhausted by the burden he alone had to carry.