This little piece was created as a response to a challenge by Agnus Castus. Hope you enjoy it!
Feel free to challenge me with more character study/analysis. Suggest a character + one word working title!
ANGER
Severus Snape was pacing his office restlessly, gnashing his teeth. His blood was boiling with rage in his throbbing veins like a cauldron left unattended over a scorching fire.
He had been screaming. Shouting and yelling and shrieking like a madman. In the presence of the Headmaster and the Minister himself no less! It had been a long time since he lost control like that.
He could have done it, he could have killed the bloody traitor with his bare hands; rip his filthy tongue out of his filthy mouth! He had been so close... It was infuriating to think...
WHY hadn't he seized the chance? The thought was maddening! He could have done it, he could, oh yes he could! He could kill him without regret, destroy him, render him to dust, make him scream, make him feel sorry for what he did, make him beg! He could have done all those things. It would be a delight to his eyes and music to his ears.
He was sure he would have done it if he had found him on his own, all alone, with no witnesses. He would not hesitate. He had seen it done before. He knew how it was done. It would not feel any different had the spell come from his wand. There would have been no remorse afterward, no guilt, only sick satisfaction after achieving a long-desired revenge. He would be only ridding the world of a cold-blooded murderer. Black showed that tendency at an early age and he knew all too well about it. Black was trying to kill Potter and it was his duty to protect the little imbecile at all costs. Everything justified the deed, so why didn't he do it when he had the chance? He wanted to see Black suffer under the Dementor's Kiss, that's why. It was worse than death, and it meant he would only need to observe and not raise a finger. That was why he chose that option. He could avoid having blood on his hands again. He was good at that. He cursed himself and his weakness. He should have just killed him on the spot. He clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. His fingernails dig deep into his palm. His whole body was tense, every muscle strained. His hands were itching with the rush of blood; he had to do something with them.
He let out an animal-like roar, sending books, parchment rolls and quills off his desk with a passion. It did not help. His heart was still pounding in his ears, and he was breathing heavily as if he just ran up the seven staircases to the tallest tower. His nostrils were flaring. If anyone saw him in this state, they would run for their lives.
He had to do something, something... But what?
Why was it so hot in here? Dungeons were always cold, bitter and damp, so why were his forehead and upper lip all clammy? His collar and necktie seemed to tighten themselves around his throat on their own.
He grabbed his wand. It instantly let out a shower of angry silver sparks. He stared wide-eyed at them, seeing them even brighter than they really were with his black adrenalin-dilated pupils.
NO! He will not let his feelings dominate him. He will not lose control like he did before. He was not weak. Spontaneous, uncontrolled fits of anger were not his trait, were they? He had a great self-monitoring capacity, did he not? Oh yes, he did. Even the pickled animals in large glistening jars along the shelves of his office could nod in confirmation, had their eyes not been put out. Oh yes, he was a deterrent example of self-control.
What could he possibly do? Black was on the run again. His narrow escape seemed unfeasible moments ago, yet the devious bastard managed to evade his end once more. Oh, he had help – that was sure and certain. All he could do was waiting until the rotten pervert would make another mistake. And he will wait for as long as it takes. And he will enjoy every moment of his recapture and every moment of the Dementor's feast. Or he will kill him the moment he lays his eyes on him.
For one glorious moment he had thought he had him. He dreamt so long of it. Oh how he wished he would be the one to catch him! Both of them traitors. Black and Lupin. Then that little brat... He and his little sidekick friends dared to attack him while he was trying to aid them! They should be thanking him, kissing the ground beneath his feet! They were Confunded no doubt, but that was no excuse for what they did. His head was still throbbing with pain where it hit the wall, irritating him even further. He will make them pay for that.
Why didn't Dumbledore listen to him? The muscle in his jaw started pulsating with ferocity. The old fool, always seeing the best in people...
"You should know that better than anyone," he reminded himself. Oh yes, he knew perfectly well how easily Dumbledore trusted people...
The little brat! He knew he had something to do with Black's disappearance, he just knew it! He had the map, he had the cloak, he knew of secret passages not even Filch knew about... It was him, he was sure.
He could just strangle him, squeeze so hard that his eyes popped out! No... no no no... not those eyes... don't think of it...
He heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed on the chair in front of his desk feeling all spent and sunken and helpless. How could the spoiled brat be so stupid to believe... The sneaky bastard betrayed his parents! Lily died because her brainless husband's little friend was a two-faced traitor! It was because of him, all because of Potter and his thick brains, not able to see behind the mask his little friend Black was wearing. The little brat obviously inherited that trait.
"You played a part in it as well, don't forget it," a small sly voice inside his head reminded him.
"Yes, but I did not know who the prophecy was about. I had no idea of the monstrosity I was committing. I did everything I could to rectify my deed. Black however knew perfectly well who he was betraying," the other voice retorted smartly.
It just wasn't possible. The little story Black fed to the dim-witted kids was beyond idiotic. Pettigrew alive? No, that was just a filthy lie. There was proof, there were witnesses. Pettigrew did not have the brains nor the skills required to pull it off. The though itself was ludicrous. Madness. Pure madness!
He guessed it was fairly easy for Potter to believe Black. Firstly he was stupid and naive enough to fall for the old trick of 'I was your old man's best friend'. Secondly he did not appreciate his mother's sacrifice; otherwise he wouldn't have been so reckless to risk his life whenever the possibility presented itself. He did not even remember his parents. He did not remember seeing her mother's eyes, her lovely smile, her dark red hair fanning behind her, carried on the lightest of breeze, even though, as her son, he was on the receiving end of all her caresses. Oh, the irony...
He, though he never had her, could never forget.