I'm obviously doing a horrible job of hiding my condition. Two people in one day. Of course, it was much worse with Albus than with Draco...yes, Draco and I had our little meeting, in my office this morning. He did want to speak about careers, as predicted, but we didn't talk on it for very long. I was tense, on edge, preoccupied with meaningless drivel dredged up from my past...yes, exactly. Draco also didn't appear to be in the best of moods, but at least he was focused.
"Professor Snape, I...I'm still thinking about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. It sounds fantastic, but..."
"But what? There should be no buts. It would be spectacular for such a young man to have a teaching position at Hogwarts."
"Well, um...my father..."
"Draco, your father is stuck in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life for committing multiple unspeakable crimes. If there was ever a reason to disregard someone's opinion..."
"And my mother...she'd be..."
"Your mother is almost as awful as your father. I know from personal experience."
"She is not awful." A few seconds after that comment, I snapped back into the present. I had been somewhere else entirely, mentally.
"What was that?"
"I said, my mother's not awful."
"Whatever you want to think, Draco...you're still maintaining that Lucius was a good father, are you not?" He sneered at me. I loathe that little sneer.
"It's the truth." I felt it necessary to change the subject, because we'd go nowhere with that one. I'd seen him terrorizing a couple Second Years in the hallway earlier that morning for no apparent reason. While I'm not exactly a shining example in that regard, there's something about bullying that...obvious reasons.
"Draco, about your bullying. I saw you with those Second Years the morning. Second Years? And Hufflepuff Second Years, no less! Whatever could they have done to you?"
"They...I'm sorry."
"Oh, no you're not."
"No, uh, I really am. I guess I shouldn't have...right." In my erratic mental state, Draco rather resembled James, which I simply couldn't deal with. In retrospect, I felt a bit bad about snapping at him, but once I get started I've got to go through with it. "Malfoy, I know how you've been taught, but...you simply can't do these sorts of things. You think those Second Years don't matter? In your world, they don't, but you matter in theirs. They're thinking about it right now, and they're pretending that it didn't matter, but...save your venom for people that matter, people that deserve it. Give me your word on that, it's a horrible habit."
"I...okay, I guess. I'll work on...that." He wasn't sneering anymore, but I still didn't feel particularly good about that little speech.
"Draco, don't go trumping that all up, I simply...how's that essay coming along?"
"Well..." He let it trail off into oblivion.
"Hm. That sounds somewhat less than promising. Keep working on it until it is perfect, you understand me? This is the highest level I teach, you need to keep up."
"I meant very well..."
"Oh, all right...but still, er, I demand perfection." Poor Draco, getting caught in the way of my predisposition towards conflict. If there's one boy who doesn't need conflict, it's Draco.
"Professor?"
"Yes?"
"Are you, er...I realize that this is probably not my place, but...are you feeling well, sir? You seem a bit off." I'd obviously given myself away with my uncharacteristic lack of tact and self-control, and I hadn't even considered the possibility. What a complete moron I can be.
"And what makes you say that, Malfoy?"
"Oh, I don't know...there's a flu bug going around among the students, and I hope you haven't caught it."
"Well, I'm not feeling under the weather at all, but I do appreciate your concern." I stood up. "I've got some preparation to do before my next class, so I must be off. Think some more about that position, will you? And remember what you promised. And, work on that essay. I don't want to see it a second early or a second late."
"Of course. Goodbye, Professor. Thank you." We left the office and went our separate ways.
Later that day, I'm sitting in my office with the door firmly closed attempting to focus on some potion samples when I hear an awful banging on the door. I ignore it, and it continues. Simply in order to stop the noise, I open the door and there's Albus. Does that man ever do his damn job?
"Severus! Did I wake you?"
"I have better things to do than nap, Albus. What is the problem?"
"No problem...Minerva, Poppy, and I are going out to dinner tonight in Hogsmeade, and we were wondering if you'd like to join us." I stared at him in disbelief. Him and Minerva—I'm convinced they're sleeping together, and the old bags deserve each other. Two horrifically boring, stunningly ancient Gryffindors having pathetically uninteresting missionary sex every Tuesday after Exploding Snap or whatever it is the elderly do for amusement. At any rate, Albus hasn't said anything interesting in the last seven years, and Minerva can kill any conversation just by glaring. While Poppy Pomfrey is, from my assessment, a good human being, I have serious doubts in her conversation skills. And besides, I'm simply not up for social engagements, and I generally avoid them even when I'm feeling well.
"Albus, I'm not interested in your little dinner party now, and I wasn't interested the last six times you informed me about a similar event, and I believe I've established enough of a pattern by now for it to not be necessary for me to beat you over the head with the simple idea that I am not interested. Now, was that all?" Albus sighed. God, does that man love to sigh.
"Severus, how have you been lately?"
"Well, Albus, other than the slow descent into utter madness, I've been doing well."
"Severus, I really mean it. Are you all right?"
"As a matter of fact I'm perfectly fine, but even if I were running through the halls of Hogwarts doing cartwheels my motivations would not be any of your business." We were still standing in my doorway, and there wasn't a convenient way for me to exit the situation.
"Are you still having problems with insomnia?" That took me entirely aback.
"Excuse me, I don't recall informing you about that."
"You wander the halls at night, Severus."
"And you don't?"
"Severus, you know, if you ever wanted to take a few days off that could easily be arranged..."
"I'm not in the least bit interested, Albus...what exactly are you getting at here? I have neither the time nor the patience for this."
"May I come in and sit down? It's awkward simply standing here."
"Hm. I believe that is the intended purpose." He smiled. Bastard.
"Severus, if this is not a good time for you, may we meet later?"
"Say what you mean now, Albus, and then let us both get on with our lives."
"All right, Severus...you've been in an awful mood lately, and if you'd like to get something off your chest there are many venues available to you."
"Such as yourself?"
"I doubt you would be open to that, Severus... I specifically mean a mental health professional of some type." I stood there a few seconds, completely uncomprehending as to how Albus could ask that without feeling entirely foolish.
"I'm perfectly fine, Albus...good day. Make your departure."
"Severus, I want you to consider it..."
"Get out of my office!" He slinked away, and that was that. A shrink. God. How needlessly horrible that would be. Sitting in a room with a complete stranger, dredging up memories...catharsis is a joke, an absolute joke, an implausible idea cooked up by lazy people who liked to hear the sound of their own voice. There simply aren't any viable options for me. I've accepted that, or at least I tell myself that I have. All I can do is manage to the best of my ability. Which, occasionally, betrays me. Such as now—it's all slipping out of my control. Maybe this really is descent into madness...sometimes I think I feel a hand gripping my shoulder or—even worse—caressing my cheek. Figments of a disturbed imagination, as they say. I try to tell myself that this all will pass—rationally, I know it—but it's so goddamn difficult to tell myself anything vaguely rational.
The duties of my job take it all out of me, and here, in the middle of the night, I can't control the memories. This one I can write down, I think, it wasn't horribly traumatic. He's beating me now, that's what I'm fixated on—I see my mother at the top of the stairs, she vanishes, a weak, sad ghost of a woman who never wanted a son. I can't imagine that woman feeding me as an infant, holding me, singing to me. She had a nanny do it all, I'm sure. Maybe that's why I'm such a wreck—mommy issues. Ugh, all this whining is sickening me, I need to quit immediately.