Black Brooding
Professor Severus Snape sat in his study, idly tapping one of his long fingers on his desk. He wasn't much given to idle activity, but he couldn't seem to help himself, couldn't seem to shake this anxiety. He was pondering the new school year and all it seemed to bring. Dumbledore, the Headmaster, saw new students to grace the hallowed halls, new minds to impart the noble art magic to. However, all Snape could look forward to were new headaches and new annoyances. New dunderheads to trespass upon his precious time and ruin his experiments with their usual lack of propriety.
Even his summer vacation away from the castle had not dulled his vehemence towards the students. Dumbledore had suggested that he take a brief holiday to "clear his head" and sort out his feelings of recent events. To his surprise, the death of Sirius Black had hit him hard. Snape had, of course, not been present, but he had heard the account of his hated schoolmate's demise and he had been shocked to find that instead of a vindictive pleasure, he felt remorse. He couldn't fathom the reason of his reaction at first and had walked around the empty castle in a state of shock for several days before the Headmaster cornered him and gave him his suggestion of a vacation.
"It will be good for you to get some fresh air." The crazy old man had said, winking at Snape from across the desk in his office. "You only go outside for Quidditch during the term and never in the summer. You might be surprised at the good a little sunlight will do for you."
And, so, Snape had packed his small luggage bag, caught a portkey from the Office of International Wizard Travels in the Ministry and spent three miserable weeks in the country of southern France. Dumbledore had sent him to the secluded countryside, saying that he, himself, often went there to think. He had a modest but comfortable cabin set in the hills and surrounded by a plethora of wildflowers. The whole sight had made Snape sick upon arriving (both physiologically and physically for he had discovered a small, yet persistent allergy to pollen) and he left in a worse mood than when he had arrived without the slightest break-through on his emotions towards that mangy Black cur.
Now he was back to haunting his dungeons, wasting time (something he usually did not condone) until the start-of-the-year feast. Even from where he sat three floors down, he could hear the patter of the little beasts'—er—childrens' feet coming in the entrance hall. The feast usually helped to cheer him up—not that he could ever let anyone know—but he doubted even that would help. He wasn't very hungry these days, but there was something that was bothering him more than his lack of appetite: Harry Potter would be at the feast, a living reminder of his dead Gryffindor rival. Of course, Harry mostly reminded him of James, but he had had time to put that behind him. However, a small part of Harry was reminiscent of Sirius Black—his daring, charm, certain disregard of school rule all served to make him a mirror reflection of his late godfather. And how Snape hated it.
Thinking he had better start making his way upstairs, he shoved back his desk chair and rose in a flurry of pitch black robes and pale skin. He pushed back a few whisps of his long, lank hair and started towards the door of his office. Snape really had no desire to enter the Great Hall, but he knew that Dumbledore would notice his absence and question him about it later. That, and the little brats would take it upon themselves to invent ludicrous excuses for his lack of attendance. Better to make an appearance and just hope he could avoid any and all contact with the Boy Who Lived.