TRIGGER WARNING : apologia and abuse of alcohol

Chapter 22 :

Harry was scared. He didn't care what the other Gryffindors thought about him. He didn't care that the school would probably make him a pariah again, like in second year. The only thing that could truly affect him, truly break him, was what his best friends would say.

Sooner than he wanted, he was in front of his dormitory, about to face his Fate. Hermione patted his shoulder. She might have been trying to encourage him, but it felt like a death sentence. Gathering his guts, he followed her inside.

"Dammit !" Shouted Ron, violently throwing a pillow against the wall.

The dormitory was in a poor state, feathers from his dorm-mates beddings covering every inch of the carpets and furnitures. It was obvious that it wasn't the first pillow Ron damaged in his fury. Harry took a step back, letting out a gasp. Attracted by the sound, his red head friend turned abruptly toward him and walked to him with a purpose. The young Potter closed his eyes, waiting for the hit he knew to be coming- only to feel gentle arms strongly wrap around him. His eyes widened in surprise.

"It's okay, mate." Mumbled the Weasley boy in his neck. "Everything will be fine. We'll find a way, I promise."

"Yes" confirmed Hermione, joining the unexpected hug. "We'll go through this unscathed, together, even if I have to burn down the whole Library to find how !"

"You- you're not mad...!?" Stuttered Harry.

He was begging, he knew it but he didn't care. If they were really mad- if they really blamed him- !

"Of course we're mad !" Retorted Ron, snarling before ending slowly. "But not at you. Never at you."

Harry couldn't help it, he cried. There, safely snuggled in both his best friends arms, he released all his fear and frustration in the form of rivers of tears. They believed in him. They, whom he loved more than anyone, truly believed in him.

What a relief...

Snape was disgruntled. He blasted away his sofa in a sharp movement of his wand, not minding that it exploded against the wall. His face contorting in an ugly sneer of barely contained rage, he opened the trapdoor where his sofa once sat and took out his whole crate of Nuclear Vodka.

The crystal pure beverage had a highly illegal percentage of alcohol. It had a clarity and a shine unlike any other, perfectly distilled despite it's low water content. The faint scent of cereal, that only a well educated and reasonably enlightened aficionado could perceive, was the divine touch that created a Miracle. It was a drink that deserved to be worshipped, to have its very essence savored in its entire apotheosis.

Never one to insult such a core ingredient to the most valued concoction in his life, Snape took out a bottle of homemade vermouth -a recipe his father Tobias inherited from his Grandma, may they both rot in Hell- and a whole pack of green olives. He nearly threw out the olives out of spite, for they dared to be green -Lily's green was brighter...- but Mixologist, like Potioneer, was a craft that required exactitude. His Vodkatini would never be the same without the olives. Neglecting them would be like shaking the cocktail instead of stirring it : an utter atrocity.

Once he had prepared a whole bucket of Vodka Martini, Snape sat with it on the now poorly shaped sofa, and tried to drink his anguish away.

Potter had Lily's eyes. A Potter had the same green shine as his Lily. He couldn't bear it. It hurt like nothing else before. Even the Dark Lord's Cruciatus was a pallid iteration of pain in comparison. He would never be able to look into the Potter's eyes ever again now that they reminded him of Lily's. Not as a threat. Not as an intimidation. And certainly not for Legilimency.

Sadness, grief, self-hatred... Those eyes opened a wound that had never been able to heal. No magic could ease the ache of mourning his loved one. And decades later it still held true : the torment was as fresh as ever.

But then, again, what could hurt more than a displaced heart ? Than the loss of your very core, gone to warm up another ? It had felt like betrayal at the time and yet it had been his own fault. He had looked into his chest and found himself emptied, his lungs caved in and his ribs with nothing to protect. What pulse kept him alive ? What purpose kept him standing ? In the end she died for a Potter, by his own fault once again. And now he could do nothing more than pettily bully her son -her last legacy- and drown his guilt and sorrow in alcohol. Snape was bitter failure, a poor excuse of a man, and somehow... he doubted the entire crate of Vodka would be enough.

AN: I won't be updating for some time because of writer block but I just couldn't let you end the year on a cliffhanger.

Also, Snape and drinking is... yeah. I don't drink alcohol myself so I don't know if what I wrote is accurate but... he's in a bad place right now.