Disclaimer: Oh, dear Lord, come on! FAN-FICTION dot com. They should get some universal disclaimer. –coughing fit– Erm, yes, I do not own the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-a-Pain-Up-Severus'-Arse, nor do I wish to. I just like stealing Rowling's work and twisting it to my own evil plot-bunnies.
Author's Note: Revised, re-posted, revised, re-posted, revised... oh, yes, lengthened. I do believe that's about it. On with the story, then, shall we?
Don't forget to review! I take ideas into consideration, 'cause that's how nice I am. –waves around cookies–
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Severus sighed tiredly. He was hunched over yet another student's essay, eyes burning with the strain these days at Hogwarts fed him, his intelligent mind sure he would have serious neck problems in a few years' time. The essay in question was nothing but complete gibberish, the hand-writing overly-loopy and possessing no flow whatsoever. And if that wasn't enough for the exhausted Potions Master, the grammatical structure was poor, spelling mistakes and incorrect answers dotting the parchment like a daily occurrence. He cursed softly. Would this torture never end? The days were terribly long and the nights were, if possible, even longer, nightmare after nightmare after nightmare signaling his... well, lack of subsistence, shall we say? Lack of respite... lack of peace. Sniveling students and manipulative professors weren't quite what he wished to bestow his barely-existing love upon.
In all fairness, it had been his choice to become a teacher, but it had been a choice made purely out of need. If you had any love of self-preservation, of course. Dumbledore had offered him protection – nay, he had granted it – and the only way Severus would profit from such an action was to come here, and become a teacher. People would become suspicious if he were nothing other than a resident caretaker. They already had Argus Filch for that.
Taking out an elegant eagle-feather quill, Severus dipped the tip into a green-coloured ink pot and marked large an 'F' upon it, not even bothering to notice whether the student was Slytherin or Gryffindor. With such a poor essay, it hardly even mattered. Who would care? Certainly not he.
Setting aside the paper with a mild sense of disgust – Those incompetent fools of parents obviously did little to school their children the first ten or so years of their lives – he walked over to one of the armchairs that adourned his sitting room and carelessly summoned a bottle of brandy. Really, his life was just one useless day after the next, just a crumpled piece of paper in a pile of them. It didn't matter to anyone whether he lived or died. It didn't matter if he committed suicide. All that mattered was that Hogwarts had a Potions Master, the Bat of the Dungeons. It was a common name used for him, as he had heard countless times, whispered (and sometimes not-so-quietly spoken) by students, but hardly an endearment. If anything, it was a mark of the disrespect he earned from students whose lives were a mere folly when they couldn't even realise the pain, suffering and hatred others went through. What had he done to deserve this?
Today, more than other days, Severus was in a foul mood. He, for reasons unknown to himself, had been reflecting on his life since the crack of dawn and couldn't seem to clear his mind of all the worries and troubles and mistakes that plagued him. What was happening to him? Was he losing his touch, his last ounces of self-control slipping, only more-so aided by the lowering quantity of the alcohol?
And to make matters worse, the last person he wanted to see at this rank moment knocked on his door: the headmaster of all of fucking Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.
"Severus, stop wallowing in your self-pity and open up this door. I have an important matter to discuss with you."
His voice was muffled and Severus rolled his eyes. If only I could fire those disgusting lemon drops up your arse, old man. Pointing his wand at the door disdainfully, he allowed his superior, his boss, to walk into the room.
"Really, Albus," he drawled, sneering up at the renowned wizard, "When you let yourself in like this is your home all the time, you hardly need ask. I know you'll come in either way."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled for a moment as his gaze shifted from Severus' face to the bottle of brandy. He noted that his Potions Master's speech was slightly slurred and quickly took the bottle out of his hand. He needed his full attention right now.
But quite as suddenly as the small smile had appeared, Dumbledore's face changed from that merry, jovial expression Severus detested and had grown so used to, to a sad, worn look that had the air of a wilted flower. He studied Severus carefully through his half-moon spectacles.
"Voldemort has learned of Headquarters," he said slowly, still wearing that horrible look. Something seemed to cling at Severus' mildly hazy mind. It was not right; the headmaster should not look like this. It was as if he were using a rather ugly mask, one that set everyone on edge, even at the most frightening revel...
His mind snapped back to the matter at hand when he heard the sharpening of his superior's voice, his brain still functioning, if a bit slow on the up-take.
"Death Eaters attacked and stormed the place a few minutes ago. Thankfully, we had reinforcements at hand, but more Death Eaters will soon come. I need to know whom to trust and who not to, as someone has obviously discovered a way to break the Fidelius charm."
Severus' eyes widened in shock as the full force of what Dumbledore was insinuating hit him.
"You think I betrayed you!" he shouted, outraged, immediately regretting it as his head swam. Gaining control of himself once again, a habit attained through years of Occlumency, he stilled the puddle and felt the fury rapidly sink in. After all these years of service, after everything... this was what it came down to?
"I did not say that, Severus," Dumbledore replied in a quiet voice. "I am merely stating facts. Someone has betrayed the Order and I want to find out who could have done such a horrible deed. Rest assured I questioned not only you, but many noted others. But I know you certainly have the intelligence to find a counter-hex for such a complicated spell." Specific implications stood on the words "certainly" and "intelligence" that did not pass by Severus' very slightly intoxicated wit.
Professor Snape was numb with shock. They didn't trust him. Of course, he thought bitterly. What could he have expected? Of course, they didn't trust him. None of them ever had, but he had believed that Dumbledore, at least, may have...
He knew this was the end. Dumbledore was sending him off. And it was necessary. Even if the old man did trust him, the others didn't, and as leader, it was his job to listen to the whims of his followers. It had been an age-old habit, since the days of ancient monarchy, and it would not end with one hated man that no one would listen to.
Well, he thought, might as well make an exit worthy of remembrance.
With a last look of farewell, he left the room, robes billowing behind him. It would be the last time he saw Dumbledore, the last time he saw Hogwarts. It was time.