OK… I know I was gone forever… I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. My life just kind of moved on without fan fiction for a while. However, I'm back, and ready for action now! Woohoo!
On a personal note, I really want to thank all of the people who reviewed this story. I want you all to know that you are what brought me back from the painful depths of not-writing-things. Just seeing how people appreciated what I had to say made me make another attempt at finishing this. Even though it is NOWHERE near complete… Oh boy… We have a ways to go yet. Anyways, enjoy!
Finale Fatale
If there was anything that Snape hated more then angsty teen poetry, it was angsty teen poetry that he was unable to stop reading. He had tried all right, and had returned to his bed repeatedly, however he somehow always found himself back in his armchair, squinting at the small writing in the torchlight. Even when he had his meeting with Dumbledore, all he could think about was the sinful book pressed in his pocket. It felt heavy, and the weight of it taunted him, begging to have its secrets revealed.
Of course, Snape didn't really care about anything that Hermione Granger had to rant about in her little diary… Except for that poem. He truly hoped that the example of teen lust that he had found in his trash can was a passing fancy, a literary exploration of poetic talent, of you will. However, the desperation of it discouraged him from getting his hopes up. This was good, because a quick skimming over the contents of the little black book soon crushed the modest hope that had dared form in the pit that was Snape's heart.
He sighed as he stopped to take a slower look at some of the pages. His name wasn't mentioned on every page, but it was there much more then it should have been. He shook his head, frustrated. His name shouldn't have been there at all. And even if it was there, even if it had been scrawled over every page in a pink pen with hearts surrounding it, he shouldn't have cared in the least.
But, for some reason, sleep eluded Severus that night, and he was incessantly draw back to the book, and the desperate world of pain, confusion, apathy and desperation that lay within. There was an astounding amount of talent in the poetry, but it was overshadowed by the raw emotion that resounded through each sentence. He was amused by the fact that in many cases, her legendary intelligence and composure deserted her inside the pages, and she was often reduced to using brutal insults and curses to describe herself and those around her. Her letter to Ron, cursing him with seven years of built up resentment and anger actually made him laugh out loud, and he took some sick satisfaction in realizing that no such letter was written about him.
As the night crawled on, he read though each poem, quote and letter quickly, then attempted to return to his bed. But when he realized that the hours seemed to crawl a lot slower when you are lying alone in an empty bedroom, he returned to his armchair once again, and magically began copying the best poetry from the book, as well as anything that made reference to him, or her adoration of him. It was a long process, and by the time he had gone through the entire book a second time, the sun had just begun to tint the walls of the Great Hall.
Severus knew this, of course, seeing as he had en excellent perception of the passage of time. However, before he went up to the Great Hall for an early breakfast, he paused to read one the last poems that he had copied out of the book. Resting back in the chair, he allowed him imagination to flow with the words and emotion in the text.
Finale Fatale
He recited a poem,
Of Blood sex and violence
And she fell to her knees,
Begging for silence
He never liked the idea,
But he had his orders,
The master was quietly intent
But demanding in his desires
Prerequisite? Depression
Future outlook? Suicide
The angsty unloved teenage girl
Was thought to be the perfect 'bride'
She ignored all her pain,
For the first time in her life,
There was sweet passion in the dark of night
And during the day she was his wife
She never saw it coming,
Her torture lasted months,
Bound, naked, violated, drowning in her own filth,
She wondered how she could have lost her way
She hated them,
But him most of all…
They had no right to do this,
And she would one day make them suffer
But when he finished the poem,
Of blood, sex and violence,
She collapsed on the floor,
Cursing the silence.
On the bottom left had corner of that page, a note had been made which read;
Why is it that we desire that which is unattainable? Are we truly so perverted that we covet the thought of chaos to satisfy brief lust and a painful curiosity to know if more was possible? If love was possible?
And more importantly, WHY CAN'T I SEEM TO STOP!
However, Severus was unable to ponder that particular mystery, because before he had reached the last line of the poem, he slipped back onto his chair and let oblivion envelope him.