Chapter Two:
Solitude And Solace... Maybe
Severus Snape took great pleasure in leering -- quite menacingly, too -- at the first years, from his vantage point at the Head Table. Another batch of imbeciles, he cruelly thought. Most certainly not Hogwarts material. But than again, was he, Death Eater, Hogwarts material? His dark eyebrow raised of its own accord but the self-pitying thought was quickly washed away by the incoming tide of bitterness.
He, Potions Master, would have to be teaching these sniveling dunces and while he couldn't bring himself to act politely, was quite surprised at his control to not hit the students. Sure, he was mean and cold ... but at least he curbed the desire to smack at hands, destroying precious potions and prick the ears of daydreaming boys and girls.
He certainly wasn't that dense during his time at the magical school -- he had been studious and hardworking. Yet he was ridiculed while the dolts thrived. Yes, Snape was afflicted with these memories of past ... one could even say ... acrid because of them. Or perhaps fault wasn't only in the actions of others....
With a final scowl to the young ones and a terse "excuse me" to the other teachers, Severus left the Great Hall and in his wake was the midnight of his billowing robes. As he stalked, as quiet as a shadow, down the changing hallways of the school, he subtlety rubbed his left forearm, before muttering, "Eclipse," at the stone wall, that opened to reveal his chambers.
Sitting down slowly -- tired age was his -- on the black, satiny sheet that covered his sofa, he clutched in his tapered fingers a self-made drink of bourbon. He grasped his leathery soft wand in his other hand, whispering, "Incendio," to the gaping darkness of something passing as a fireplace. Feeble blue flames shot up momentarily, only to be quickly extinguished by the dank atmosphere of Snape's lair. For every night, he had tried to conjure up the warmth, and each time he failed miserably. Glowing embers just didn't belong in the dim-lit and sad space, that pretended to be a home.
Snape sneered at the dying fire and took a sip of the strong drink. Surrounded by darkness that kept the shadows molded together, he went over, in his head, the lesson plans for all the classes he would have to teach and frowned each time his mind stopped at a grief-giving name. More specifically, Potter (that arrogant hero) ... Weasley (that insufferable stutterer) ... and Granger (that annoying know-it-all). Those three names were enough to make him cringe, visibly, and wish he was still kissing the Dark Lord's evil hands.
Quickly expelling that thought, he made his way to his antiquated bedroom, with heavy burgundy curtains, shunning the light and the lush silver, yet bland, sheet adorning his bed. He sharply unbuttoned all the tiny black knobs, winding down the front of his jacket and did quick work of the rest of his clothes, levitating them to the armoire, with a hasty, "Wingardium Leviosa."
Severus eased himself into the glacial smoothness he knew he would find underneath his blanket and would've turned off the lights, had there been any "on." Resting his greasy head on the scratchy pillow, he remained awake, stroking the Dark Mark on his arm and not looking forward to what would surely be another unappreciative year for the most hated (and dangerous) teacher Hogwarts ever had the displeasure of housing.
Solitude And Solace... Maybe
Severus Snape took great pleasure in leering -- quite menacingly, too -- at the first years, from his vantage point at the Head Table. Another batch of imbeciles, he cruelly thought. Most certainly not Hogwarts material. But than again, was he, Death Eater, Hogwarts material? His dark eyebrow raised of its own accord but the self-pitying thought was quickly washed away by the incoming tide of bitterness.
He, Potions Master, would have to be teaching these sniveling dunces and while he couldn't bring himself to act politely, was quite surprised at his control to not hit the students. Sure, he was mean and cold ... but at least he curbed the desire to smack at hands, destroying precious potions and prick the ears of daydreaming boys and girls.
He certainly wasn't that dense during his time at the magical school -- he had been studious and hardworking. Yet he was ridiculed while the dolts thrived. Yes, Snape was afflicted with these memories of past ... one could even say ... acrid because of them. Or perhaps fault wasn't only in the actions of others....
With a final scowl to the young ones and a terse "excuse me" to the other teachers, Severus left the Great Hall and in his wake was the midnight of his billowing robes. As he stalked, as quiet as a shadow, down the changing hallways of the school, he subtlety rubbed his left forearm, before muttering, "Eclipse," at the stone wall, that opened to reveal his chambers.
Sitting down slowly -- tired age was his -- on the black, satiny sheet that covered his sofa, he clutched in his tapered fingers a self-made drink of bourbon. He grasped his leathery soft wand in his other hand, whispering, "Incendio," to the gaping darkness of something passing as a fireplace. Feeble blue flames shot up momentarily, only to be quickly extinguished by the dank atmosphere of Snape's lair. For every night, he had tried to conjure up the warmth, and each time he failed miserably. Glowing embers just didn't belong in the dim-lit and sad space, that pretended to be a home.
Snape sneered at the dying fire and took a sip of the strong drink. Surrounded by darkness that kept the shadows molded together, he went over, in his head, the lesson plans for all the classes he would have to teach and frowned each time his mind stopped at a grief-giving name. More specifically, Potter (that arrogant hero) ... Weasley (that insufferable stutterer) ... and Granger (that annoying know-it-all). Those three names were enough to make him cringe, visibly, and wish he was still kissing the Dark Lord's evil hands.
Quickly expelling that thought, he made his way to his antiquated bedroom, with heavy burgundy curtains, shunning the light and the lush silver, yet bland, sheet adorning his bed. He sharply unbuttoned all the tiny black knobs, winding down the front of his jacket and did quick work of the rest of his clothes, levitating them to the armoire, with a hasty, "Wingardium Leviosa."
Severus eased himself into the glacial smoothness he knew he would find underneath his blanket and would've turned off the lights, had there been any "on." Resting his greasy head on the scratchy pillow, he remained awake, stroking the Dark Mark on his arm and not looking forward to what would surely be another unappreciative year for the most hated (and dangerous) teacher Hogwarts ever had the displeasure of housing.