Eternal Damnation:
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling holds full possession of Harry Potter.
A/N: Macabre, masochistic. Just like me.
King of the DAMNED.
Yes, that is who I am
Once a renowned dork known as Snivellus, former Death Eater, and now Potions Master extraordinaire and Head of Slytherin House. No, I AM NOT A VAMPIRE. Although I admit there are many times I think drinking blood of humans would be better than my state. I am guilty of murder. I did not kill thousands, but the mere fact that I killed FOR HIM is enough to make me bitter. Or should I say, even more bitter. To kill for the taste of blood is the cursed nature of a vampire; they have no choice but to do as they do, but I had a choice.
And I had chosen to kill.
That had been long ago, yet it still takes a great amount of effort for me not to look at Albus in the eye to confess my dread about the simple truth that the Dark Lord has returned. Instead, I gather my wits, if only to repay the Headmaster for all that he has done for me, and once again I live a double life.
Now more than ever, I drape the protection only Occlumency can bring around my mind like a shielding shawl. For to allow certain thoughts to flow freely into my mind is to put up a grand show for the Dark Lord, and that will ultimately end my existence.
Not that I want to live all that much. I only need to wait for all this to be over…
and now I press my right forearm onto my forehead as lie in bed, and push away the thought that it might never end.
Potter thinks he has suffered so much; the thought of his godfather dead pains him to no end, does it?
I shake my head impatiently. Pain is no excuse. I am all too sure Black's recklessness will now be passed on to Harry Potter. Oh yes, his wonderful canine legacy will continue to haunt the wizarding world.
Sirius Black had felt trapped in that house, had he?
Grimly I think his situation had been better.
He had been trapped in that house. I am trapped in my mind. Each thought I possess must not be more than what a professor and a faithful Death Eater should be pondering about.
It is true. I believe that wallowing in sad memories is a sign of weakness…and yet there are times when I find myself wishing I could recall a few memories…just a few…my mind is so tired of the uniformity I have to mold it into each day. Whether I am surrounded by soldiers of the Dark Lord of whose appearance and stance I must assume, or by little dunderheads otherwise known as children, I must have no semblance whatsoever that I am part of two sides, fighting more than one enemy.
So you see, (and contrary to popular belief), I have no time to relish the death of Black with much gusto. There are certain nights when nightmares penetrate my mind despite Occlumency, but I know they are not sending from the Dark Lord. During those enjoyable moments of dwelling in my latest phantasma, I thrash in my sleep, murmuring, pleading for a way out and finding it way too late.
And when I awake to find the reality that is not so far from my nightmare, and the sweat drips from my face to my neck, a fierce rush of memories stronger than the flow of a waterfall fills not my mind but my heart.
Yes, I have a heart, thatoh-so-wonderful organ that pumps blood through the body. Just because I do not let my emotions rule me does not mean I have none.
I press my hands to my eyes, sitting up. It is only 2:30 AM, and yet I gather I will get no sleep no matter how hard I try.
There are too many of them now, in my heart. Memories.
'—a hook-nosed man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner…'[1]
I never knew why. That was just the way things were. They never got along, and I never knew why. Another reason to question my existence. Why in hell am I even here on this earth? How did I even come about, when my own parents could not even agree in the smallest of things? It's just one of those issues that make me such a damned man. I should have known then that such a god-forsaken CHILDHOOD, if you could even call it that, would only lead to an even more painful life in the future.
Until this day, I know nothing useful about the man I called Father. Not once did anyone come up to men to tell me I was like him, and I am not sure I would find that pleasing now. As far as I am concerned, I might as well be a bastard, and I am quite certain many have opted to call me that.
The woman I called Mother was not much better. She fed me and took care of me, yes, but with such an air that said she was doing so out of responsibility and fear of my Father, rather than love.
That is something I never had, and never will have.
Dork.
Death Eater.
Murderer.
Spy.
People like me are forbidden it. After all, we have no use for it.
[1] Taken from "Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix", Chapter 26, Seen and Unforeseen, p. 592
The storm of emotion and dark melodrama shall continue next time. Haha. Don't forget to review, tell me if there are certain parts/aspects of Snape you want me to focus on or something. Kalasin
Special thanks to Eres and Adonna, who posted this for me because of the UNTIMELY technical difficulties my computer is currently experiencing. Damn machinery. See you!