Disclaimer: Not mine! All characters the creation of J.K. Rowling, in addition to quotations from the book in this particular part.

Note: written for fleria, in an effort to cheer her up in the loss of Good Sevvie. Post-HBP, obviously, so SPOILERS. A very quick drabble I scratched out. Not edited in any way.

"Disgust"

"Severus," Dumbledore's white and ragged head rose an inch, but it was unclear if he registered the fact that Snape had roughly made his way towards him. "Severus... Please..."

Severus stood right next to Dumbledore's prostrated body; the sheer difference of height made Snape see his own crooked nose in his vision as his gaze moved downwards, ultimately resting distastefully on Alb – Dumbledore.

He would be lying (Severus smirked cynically; lying: his specialty) if he denied the fact that he indeed disliked Albus, perhaps even despised him. He could feel the all-too familiar sneer of hatred and disgust and revulsion marring his features. The muscles pulling his the corners of his mouth tightly towards his sharp chin, throat constricting so he was unable to swallow, his brows furrowing.

It was the same look, Severus now knew, that he had seen on – his eyes narrowed at this thought – Draco's face a few months ago, when he had nearly collided with the boy, who was running at a sprint away from the old girls' bathroom.

Disgust and hatred. Revulsion and disgust. From denial to anger to hatred to disgust. Disgust and revulsion,Severus knew, was in a way more the antithesis to love than hate: Disgust was a far more detached emotion, related not only to hatred but to indifference. A strikingly dangerous combination, hate without passion. Detached hatred. Was there such a thing, really?

Or was he so twisted, so convoluted, as to hate without feeling?

For a moment, Severus' heart stopped. His arm, and wand, were now raised in a commanding and fatal position above the Wizard-Who-Fell. It seemed to have risen of its own volition. Like Macbeth, almost: the ghastly dagger leading Macbeth's hand towards his lethal work, as if Macbeth himself had no control over his actions.

Ridiculous, really, that Muggle-bor – Mudblood writer. Shakespeare, that's it.

Severus refused himself the luxury of admitting his errors in proper semantics. Not Albus; Dumbledore. Or better yet, Muggle-lover, no! Mudblood-lover. Always Mudblood, never Muggle-born. Always Mudblood, never Muggle-born. Always Mudblood, never Muggle-born. Severus' mantra.

It disgusted – that word – Severus that he had to consciously and conscientiously correct himself in thinking. He disgusted himself. The frown already on his face deepened exponentially. He disgusted himself.

Draco... Just like Draco.

Numbness traveling through his body and interacted with his feelings of hatred in such violent convulsions that it made Severus nauseated.

There was a fleeting movement of his throat and Adam's apple that Severus dearly hoped none noticed.

Suppressing his gag reflex.

"Avada Kedavra."

Cookies if you review. I know this is OOC (sigh), but I'm just in the process of moving from denial to acceptance. Let's see... denial... bargaining... anger...