Severus Snape's life haggled on keeping his head under pressure.
When he was way too young to be thinking about survival with his father.
When he was supposed to be safe in Hogwarts with the Marauders.
When he was full of anger and hungry for power with the Dark Lord.
When he was humiliated and prostrated on Dumbledore's feet.
Basically, for his entire existence, Severus Snape was walking on a tightrope, sky high, with no safety net. The wrong burst of wind could make him plummet into an abyss. So, he became proficient in looking at death in the face and not reacting.
He wasn't always successful; he would admit it – even if only to himself. His temper was something he never had a good grasp on, and his patience level was as deep as a puddle.
Which was the way he found himself, stalking the halls of Hogwarts that night, a scowl etched on his face, the shadows on the castle making him look like a cursed gargoyle. He was tired. And exasperated. And downright furious. He felt like he was about to burst with the idiocy around him and he couldn't handle being around anyone at the moment.
Albus Dumbledore, in all his infinite wisdom, decided to, once again, ignore his advice. Granted, he wasn't the best professor in the school, and, with maybe a handful of exceptions, he couldn't care less about what happened to the apparently infinite number of dunderheads that plagued his life. But that just meant he didn't want them around him, not that he wanted to see them being hunted and killed.
He was a Dark Arts Master on top of being a Potion Master. The youngest of the century too. So, he went to the Headmaster with a plan of action to deal with the Slytherin's Beast. That's what he did, that's where he thrived. Under pressure. In battle. He stalked and learned as much as he could about the situation while plotting. Weeks of work and research to be met with: "That's alright, my boy. I have everything under control."
If he was honest with himself – and he tried to make a point of being so – he wasn't sure what frustrated him the most. The utter dismissal of his work and expertise or being constantly called 'my boy' but the old man. And sure, Dumbledore was old enough to have been a part of the Industrial Revolution, but it was just downright demeaning to be treated like a child. A gifted child, but a child no less.
With less than ten words, weeks of research and careful planning were tossed into the fire – quite literary, too. He would've jumped across the table and strangled the old coot, if not for Minerva's staying hand on his shoulder – even if he did have copies of everything-. She had been on his side, bless her soul, but nobody could take any action about the matter without the Headmaster's word. And he seemed perfectly content with sitting on his wrinkled arse playing Russian Roulette with the lives of the children they were all sworn to protect.
Which was why he made the decision of stalking the corridors of the castle to get some fresh air and cool his temper. Alone. At night. With a murderous beast on the loose.
Not his wisest decision, he'll admit.
Not his stupidest either, so.
So caught up in his thoughts as he was, it took Severus Snape a moment to notice it, as he took a turn on the second-floor corridor. A moment too long.
He stopped dead in his trackers at the sight of Hermione Granger, frozen in the middle of the corridor, eyes wide in horror, staring inside the forever out-of-order bathroom. Whatever was inside, still hidden, but its shadow was visible, frozen in mid-strike.
Silence.
There was no noise, of any kind. No birds outside. No wind rustling the leaves of trees. No light crackle from the torches on the walls. It felt like the entire castle had stopped and was holding its breath for a moment.
Then a noise. He wasn't sure where from. From the terrified girl. From the monster. From himself. It didn't matter. Because the moment was broken. And the shadow moved.