At Any Moment

Ozratbag2

Rating:                        R

DISCLAIMER:        This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Severus I

I feel the world, as I knew it closing in on me. The precipice seems intent on urging me to its edge and I have yet to work out why that does not leave me with unbridled terror. Were I to rationalise my feelings, though many think them absent within my very soul, I doubt I would be penning such ramblings. I would be… well I'm not entirely sure what I'd be doing, but idling scraping ink across parchment surely would fit low on my list. Well at least I hope it would. So why am I doing this, whatever this is, if in my rational thoughts I see no sense to it?

I don't honestly know.

For some obscure reason writing my fears, longings and trepidation at the turn of events in my corner of the world, suddenly seems the most pressing priority of many thousands that haunt both sleep and waking hours.

I've never been one to keep a journal of musings. Seems like an utter waste of time and effort to dissect the day into a neat little story, seeking only to demote importance and promote mediocrity. Much like my teaching hours in effect.

My teaching, now there's a joke – at my expense no less. To seek the tiniest grain of intelligence amongst the swill of…well swill actually. Longbottom. The bane of my existence and an irksome trick on the part of the Fates to give me no respite at all. He proves the adage of not needing brains to breathe, each and every day. How he has not managed to blow the castle from its foundations never ceases to amaze me and yet, the fact that the castle still rests upon its rock at least offers some quaint comfort. He not Voldemort will be the death of me.

I can hear the Fates laughing from here.

And if they would laugh at such a droll joke, then the next will have them reaching for…

I still don't know why I'm writing in this stupid book. I can see no relevance or how this suddenly makes me a better person. I've turned into a rambling pathetic fool.

I've had enough of this nonsense!

Two days later…

I am an idiot. I threw the last contrivance of my pathetic life in the fire, then satisfyingly threw this journal across the room. I dented the brass edges and the leather cover looks more scraped, but that could have been when I stood on it and tried to grind it into the stonework.

It could be, but I'm not sure. If I piss myself off again I may find out the answer.

I thought Longbottom was the bane of my existence, but I was lying. She is. She is just so infuriatingly bright – it's scary really. She makes me want to scream, shout, applaud and murder her, all in the one breath.

I hate her, understand her, dare I say – like her and given half a chance I'd cheerfully fuck her too.

I still can't believe I'm writing this down. I'm not just pathetic. I'm a pathetic old pervert with delusions of grandeur and I don't care.

There! I've written it down. Are you satisfied now?

You aren't, are you? You won't be, dare I say it – happy, until I root out and write down every particle of my pathetic non-existence.

I'm a puppet, controlled, cajoled and led astray by two master puppeteers. I'm not even entirely sure which one is good and which is evil anymore. I'm hedging in the belief that that they are the polar opposites of each other. They are my angel and my devil and I haven't a clue, which is which.

It's long past the hour I should be abed. I won't continue with this exercise. It was interesting in a morose sort of way. No grand ideas, not witty repartee, no fucking idea really.

I've pissed myself off again.

So – should I continue? Reviews, comments and helpful advice are most welcome. I know this could do with a beta tidying up the rough edges – any volunteers?