I think, perhaps, that I have been reading too much Edgar Allan Poe lately. I needed to write something dark, and since my other fic refuses to cooperate, I now give you a one-shot look into a day in the life of Severus Snape.
I stumble lurchingly to the door of my manor, somehow managing not to trip over my own unsteady feet in the pitch-dark night of my surroundings. There is a spell, I know, to give me light, but a combination of fatigue and agony has driven the incantation from my mind.
I struggle with the door for a moment, but in the end it successfully opens and I thankfully remember to shut it behind me before continuing my journey. I really would like to simply collapse upon the stony floor and sleep the sleep of eternity, but that would, of course, be of help to no one… not even Potter, much as he probably wants me dead.
If I had the energy, I would laugh at that as I haltingly fumble with my potions cabinets. Besides, why go for the ease of eternity when I can put myself through hell on a regular basis? There's no fun in that…
I must be overtired – my own sarcasm is become excessively amusing to me. Not a good thing – if this keeps up, I may become a narcissist. I actually do manage a feeble laugh at that one, both at the thought of me and narcissism and at the fact that 'narcissism' sounds like Narcissa, the name of Malfoy's wife, and the day I turn myself into her would be the day that I'd ask to be re-sorted to Gryffindor house and adopt Potter as my heir. I shudder at the thought.
Finally, I get the complicated cabinets opened, and begin to look through my potions. This, unfortunately, requires a great deal of concentration, which in its proper form takes a great deal more energy than I can expend on it right now. I concentrate, though, forcing my battered mind to make sense of the various vials because it certainly wouldn't be a good thing if I were to poison myself by accident. Much though Potter and his Gryffindor friends would doubtlessly enjoy it and probably do a celebratory dance on my grave… which, I realize, they may end up doing if I don't find the right concoctions soon. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does not enjoy welcoming traitors back to the fold…
Or, perhaps, he enjoys it too much. I think the last Cruciatus actually did some damage –something that may be irreversible if not remedied quickly.
Sighing at that thought – fifteen years ago I would have been able to take everything Voldemort dished out quite easily. I am no longer young… or perhaps I only took it easily because I was used to it, and fifteen years of relative peace has thrown me off practice.
Either way, the fact remains that I am not in very good shape right now. Selecting several bottles – a pain-killer, a bone regrower, and a wound-mender, to name a few – I then begin to give thought to what order I should take them in. If I do it wrong I might as well just have selected poison, though that undoubtedly would make Potter happy…
I abruptly snap upright, and immediately regret it. My spine… Why does Potter keep entering my thoughts? Why the hell does one abysmally stupid, ungrateful, bigheaded boy without any concept of when to leave well-enough alone keep coming into my brain?
I have a bitter laugh at that. If only he knew what I was doing to keep him safe… Succumbing to a moment's flight of fancy, I allow myself to imagine the look on those Gryffindors' faces if ever they saw what I looked like returning from a visit with the Dark Lord. Ha! The thought is quite entertaining. Ha ha ha! I may have to laugh even more at this.
Just not right now, though, because I'm losing a lot of blood.
And that is it. Short, yes, but I really needed something depressing. Please review! Thank you very much.
