Severus stood in front of Albus Dumbledore's desk, his eyes downcast and focusing on the designs made by the inlaid wood grain. Albus sat behind his desk, his fingers arched and resting against his chin, as he waited patiently for the Potions Master to speak.
"I've failed you," Severus stated simply, in a voice that sounded strangely hollow in his own ears.
"No, no Severus," Albus replied soothingly, "We knew there was the possibility that Voldemort would know that you were no longer aligned with him." The headmaster shook his head and sighed. "We had to try at any rate. I'm just sorry that we placed you at such risk-"
"No," Severus interrupted curtly; "I knew the risks. I brought this all upon myself when I decided to join the Death Eaters in the first place."
He growled in frustration and began to pace around the room like a restless panther. Fawkes, Albus' phoenix, ruffled its feather's nervously as Severus' robes whipped past.
"I'm useless to you now," Severus voice was dripping with self-loathing.
Albus gave him a sharp look. "That's a load of Codswallop and you know it."
Severus' head shot up; surprised by the headmaster's tone.
Albus sighed, "I'm sorry Severus, but you know as well as I that you are one of the best Potions Masters we have." He shook his head, looking very tired. " Severus, maybe we should continue this conversation tomorrow.. After the both of us have had some rest."
Severus mumbled in agreement and stalked out of the office. He made his way down empty hallways towards his quarters, which were located near his classroom in the dungeons. As he listened to his own footsteps echo back at him, he was greatly relieved that there was still at least another month left of the summer holidays. No pestering students to get underfoot. The numbness that he had felt in his mouth earlier had spread throughout his entire body, but his emotions were still there, raw and painful. He had failed, yet again, no matter what Dumbledore had said. Severus snarled and pounded his fist against the roughly hewed stonewall, and managed to cut up his knuckles. He couldn't feel any pain, but he stopped to watch blood ooze out of his wounds with morbid fascination. He shuddered slightly and shook himself out of his reverie. He entered his private quarters, resolving to continue his attempt to drink himself into a drunken stupor.
After rummaging about several cabinets he managed to find a bottle of very old cognac. He pulled out the cork with his teeth and proceeded to drink large gulps straight from the bottle. The alcohol took almost immediate effect, due to the fact he was still under the influence of the absinthe. He wandered into the potions classroom, the bottle hanging limply in his hand, and collapsed into a nearby stool. He rested his head against the scared surface of the worktable and was about to slip into an inebriated slumber, when a sharp pain struck him in his left arm. The shock of pain sent the half empty bottle crashing onto the floor. Severus snarled as he tore off his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark, which was burning in all of its perverted glory.
"God Dammit!" he roared in anger as he stumbled towards a nearby sink. He turned on the faucet and let cool water run over the burning tattoo, but to no avail. It still burned as if it had been freshly branded into his flesh. His eye caught upon a piece of steel wool sitting on the edge of the sink. He grabbed it and began to scrub furiously at the mark, rubbing his skin raw and bloody. But the Mark was still there, mocking him. He let out an inarticulate roar and took out his frustrations on several beakers and flasks that were lined up near the sink, sending them shattering into the wall.
Then as he was about to take his anger out on more helpless glassware, he saw a sharpened bolline, which he used for cutting herbs for potions, sitting on his desk. He grabbed the curved blade, held it just above the Mark and began to slice into his flesh, attempting to cut Voldemort's sign off of his arm. He felt no pain as he cut down to the bone, severing muscle, tendons and flesh. The chuck of skin spattered onto the floor, with a gush of blood. To Severus' horror the mark was still there, burned into bone and muscle. He dropped the bolline to the floor and began to chuckle darkly. Even if he tried to cut his arm off, the Mark would probably show up somewhere else on him. Maybe on his face next time, so everyone could see his sin.
He began laughing madly now, finding the whole situation ironically funny, as he sat here drenched in his own blood. Lightheadedness began to overtake him, and his laughter turned into soft chuckles as he felt himself slip into unconsciousness from the blood loss. He willingly let himself slip into the peaceful oblivion.