A/N: Yay. This is a sequel to my fic "Accidents". It's not going to be a series or anything; I just thought it would be cool to do another one from Snape's perspective.


The door closed softly behind the Granger girl, and the hinges groaned with delight, glad not to be slammed shut for once. Severus stared at the door, listening to the ever-so-faint sound of her smart loafers slapping the slick stone . . . fading away into nothing no, and leaving him alone in the silence.

He sighed into the desolate ambience, breath cooling immediately upon hitting the icy air. He sunk back into his chair, the most relaxed pose he'd been able to manage all day. Unthinkingly, a stray hand tugged gently at the sleeve of his left arm, pulling it loose. White fingers upon the same white skin, pursuing further up, up, up. . . .

His fingers paused, brushing over some imperfection. A small raise in the skin, the first in a series of disfigured flesh that ran from his forearm to his shoulder. Scar tissue. He could feel every inch of it, every vacant memory embedded in his flesh. The only place above his wrist that wasn't marred was the patch of skin emblazoned with the infamous skull and serpent . . . but that was a special kind of scar in itself.

A discontented noise came from the depths of his throat, not quite a sigh, but close enough. He continued tracing the patterns, mind drifting uncharacteristically.

Easy. Too easy. Every slice, every deed, every mistake he was punished for— it had all been too damn easy. The pain— it was nothing. What little emotional trauma he had started with was taken over by the physical; and even now, that hardly resurrected more than a shudder from him, despite the absolute grotesqueness of some of his tortures . . . self inflicted or otherwise.

It wasn't out of any sense of courage that he'd done it; nor cowardice, for that matter. Not a need to feel alive. No, he didn't need that. He was dead, and he knew it, had known it since the day he got his mark. He was an empty shell. Truth be told, he couldn't exactly remember why he'd done it.

Sighing, he replaced his sleeve, once again staring at the door out which she'd left. So he couldn't remember. It didn't matter. Pain didn't matter. Pain was irrelevant. Easily dealt with.

It was reaching out to people that confounded him.