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The season of the dead was coming to a slow close. The snow was melting away, turning the dirt to mud. The icicles were rhythmically dripping from the ledges of the castle, falling atop the heads of the students as they walked out to the grounds. I saw a few Hufflepuff boys a couple of days previous, mouths wide open and trying to catch the sustenance. Morbidly, I imagined the entire spear crashing down, impaling their throats, and their blood spurting and staining the pure, white snow.
I am a sick, sick man.
It was February… February fourteenth - the day that graced me with that awful day: St. Valentine's Day. I had a yearly ritual on St. Valentine's Day. That ritual included drinking myself into a stupor and barely avoiding choking on my own vomit in the morning. I knew that every year the students noted my curious odor, but of course they would never say anything. I think they realize that after a night of drinking, I would rip them to shreds and not give it a second thought.
The current year, for some reason, was far worse than the previous thirty-five. Perhaps I could rest the blame on Harry, but I would never do that. Harry was my sweet, sweet Prince. Harry was the last shove in the birth of spring.
I just knew that I had grown sluggish, and that my strides had slowed. My usually dramatic exits had lost their infamous flourish – my billowing black robes no longer came to a billow, but a small flow. It was as if as I exited, a meager gust of wind had just enough push to ruffle them.
But enough about my depression…there are real problems to attend to.
After my outburst in the Great Hall in January, the children had become suspicious of my relationship with Harry. They all knew that he was rooming with me, of course - that was a hard thing to keep quiet as Hogwarts had more rumors flowing than a Muggle preteen magazine. However, I believe that they had thought that Harry was under constant torture, that perhaps he was cleaning my rooms or writing extensive essays. The most humorous thing I had heard was "I bet he's testing all of his sarcastic remarks on Harry to see which ones will make us cry in class." The Slytherins, I knew, were under the impression that I was turning Harry Dark. I had created that rumor myself. I was rather proud of myself.
But now – now they had no idea what to think. Professor Snape, Death Eater, had called out for Harry Potter, The Idol of Light, in panic-stricken concern. Whatever did this mean? I'm sure they fancied some vulgar sexual escapade in the dungeons. Teenagers were so perverse.
Of course, that was better than them thinking that I actually liked Harry Potter. That could lead to horrendous mishaps, like my bloody limbs spread all over the Great Hall with a pleasant note of apology from The Fecal Lord himself; or even worse – the ruin of my bad-arse reputation.
"Professor Snape! Crabbe's potion exploded!"
I snapped my head around to glare at Granger.
"Why, thank you, Miss Granger. I surely could have observed that for myself, but I know you just could not pass up the opportunity to be absolutely pretentious." Granger shrugged and glared back. I sent the four soaked students to the hospital wing and spent the rest of the class period dressing down those that remained because that was what I always did, and I knew that it was best to stick to routine.
Lately, routine is all that has been keeping me together.
Since I've housed Harry, I've discovered that life has its "ups" and "downs". An "up" would be Harry doing something ridiculous, like believing in Santa Clause. A "down" would be something irritatingly obnoxious, like Weasley's simple existence.
There are "downs" and then there are "devastations". "Devastations" occur when Harry is bleeding.
"Professor, I really do think…" Granger went off on a rant about something or other, but I couldn't bear to listen. Granger's rants could easily be described as a "down", even if she was saying something intellectually stimulating.
I noticed my "up" standing behind her, looking quite upset and shifting from one foot to the other. Ronald Weasley stood beside him, with a rather nervous expression.
"Okay. What did you do?" I cut Granger off, looking at Harry for an explanation. The boy shrugged, but flinched when I stood up.
"No, no," he said hastily. "You have to sit down for this."
Of course I had to sit down for it. It was always better to take a "down" while you were already sitting down. It was an everyday survival skill.
"What did you do?" I repeated sharply.
"Nothing!" Harry replied. "I didn't do anything. This isn't a confession."
That was new.
"Then what is it? I don't have all day to sit and listen to your adolescent trivialities."
The boy glared at me. "You weren't even teaching us during class, yet you haven't got the time to listen?"
"Don't speak to me in that tone, Harry." He had the grace to look chastised. "Now, what in the bloody hell are you on about?"
Yes…sitting down while receiving a "down" is always the best way to go. And this was about as low as "down" could go. If you're up while hearing such absurdity, the messenger will most likely end up in "devastation".
"Repeat that," I spoke through gritted teeth.
"I don't think you want to hear it again," Harry replied uneasily. "We're going to leave you now. We don't want to be around while you're livid." The Golden Gryffindor Trio scampered out of the classroom, as to give my rage time to fester.
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In times of abasement, I find that raw fury restores my dramatic enthusiasm. My robes had that extra "oomph" (if you will) as I strode purposefully towards the Astronomy Tower; my lips set in a tight, thin line, my teeth gritted, and my eyes surely flashing death at anyone who dared to cross me.
In the Astronomy Tower, was the degrading creation that would surely be my ruin; a ridiculous prank concocted by foolhardy students who underestimated my murderous capabilities. Of course, Albus would never allow me to slice the throats of schoolchildren, but he had no reason to know. I could hide their bodies in my closets. Harry wouldn't squeal – he adored me far too much. He'd hum to himself and attempt to breathe through his mouth, so as not to inhale the stench of decay wafting through the chambers.
I stared numbly at the brainchild of teenaged malice. It was so incredibly…baneful. It hurt, really, to think how much villainous effort had been taken to create such a perversity.
I gnawed at my tongue, contemplating how to go through with my retaliation. Perhaps I would cut out one of their hearts and send it to the other in a heart-shaped box. The note would read: Would you like some chocolate, dear? After all, hearts and chocolates were symbols and products of love. Not only would I be cruel, I would be clever. As I was Slytherin, I would have it no other way.
Happy Valentines Day, love from Professor Snape.
Yes, I was brilliant.
Unfortunately, not even my brilliance could have prevented the wall-sized evidence of Valentines Day, 1977 – a photograph that indicated that unlike my fellow classmates, my one true love was myself.
I'm not quite sure what the children were trying to prove, however. To my understanding, masturbation was one of those well-accepted acts of need, with one hundred percent pleasure and zero consequence. Their shallow attempt to belittle their most-hated teacher only resulted in puzzlement. It was well-known that I could never find…love! Such a distasteful word! I'd rather drink curdled milk than be susceptible to such imbecility.
The 1977 Severus Snape grinned dazedly at me.
As an adolescent, my narcissism was up to the sky. I suppose that's what happens when people oppose you with ridiculous acts of atrocity…at least I did myself some good, anyway.
But how did this picture come to be? Who would take a picture of me wanking? And even more importantly, how did it end up the hands of a student?
"Kids are cruel."
Harry sounded distant.
"Ignorant," I told him. "Cruelty and ignorance are two separate things that go hand in hand. Then there's just idiocy, which produced this particular endearment." I watched my frenzied ejaculation with a small sense of nostalgia before burning the picture from the wall. "It doesn't show enough promise to be labeled as cruelty."
"Are you upset?"
"Slightly."
He smiled. "I think the plan backfired a little. All the girls are talking about how…what's the word?" He paused thoughtfully. "Oh right. How alluring you were." I smirked. "Hermione told Ron you looked really passionate and said she found that 'fetching'. Needless to say, Ron went ballistic and snatched up the closest dictionary to see if fetching had a second, negative connotation."
My smirk threatened a smile.
"Do you know who did it?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "I don't. I don't even know what they're trying to say. Every bloke this side of the Atlantic has been jerking himself since he was twelve, anyway. Hypocritical dunderheads."
The smile escaped. "Too true."
Life is composed of "ups" and "downs"; and though masturbating is a definite "up", a blackmail picture of a particular session just might be a "down".
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Author's Notes: It's going somewhere…I promise. It's just taking a while to get there…