When Lightning Strikes
When you're young, anything is possible. Or at least, the young always think it is. 150 words, Angst/General, G
Ready... ready... wait for it...
Flash.
Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating everything; bright as day. He admires the lightning's brute force, it's strength, it's undeniable power. Stone crumbles before it. Water, too, flounders in the face of Zeus, turned from it's normal state to one of liquid fire. People run inside their homes, perhaps watching the storm unfold from the safety of their parlors or cowering fearfully in their beds. Not him. He stands under the rain: chin up, arms out, daring the lightning to make a move. Stupid, he knew - dangerous even, for he could not win against such a force. But every storm outside he goes. Tempting fate. Offering his mind, body, and soul to the brilliant bolts. He loves them. He lives for them. The heart-stopping exhilaration, the mind-numbing awe.
He never goes out to watch the storms anymore, and every time he hears the crack of thunder he remembers a time when he was not confined to these four walls. He drinks scotch to numb the pain. He drinks until he can laugh bitterly as he recounts those years. A time when he didn't see, didn't understand the true way of nature. Cause and effect. Throw a stone into water and the water ripples. No matter how strong the lighting bolt, thunder always has the last laugh. He drinks scotch and laughs at the man he was, and the man he has become.
Snape doesn't hate Harry for his father. He hates him because every time he sees that bolt of lightning, he remembers.