Sirius Issues (7th July)
Snape prowled around his rooms. Maddening. Absolutely bloody maddening. Draco had wheedled his way into occupying part of Snape's suite the night before last; the most insane letter had arrived from him in the wee small hours of last night, and ever since then, the brat had been nowhere near the rooms he'd been so damn determined to occupy such a short while before.
The sheer impulsive, reckless fickleness of the whelp had Snape fit to spit. It was the sort of behaviour that sentimental twats tended to excuse as 'the foibles of youth'. Except that Snape knew damn well that he himself had never, ever been like that, not even when he'd been a damn sight younger than Draco.
...except, of course, for that one time when he had. He hitched irritably at his inevitable long sleeves, drawing the left one down to cover the flickering tongue of a serpent on his wrist.
It did nothing to improve Snape's temper.
The sheer impulsive, reckless fickleness of the whelp had Snape fit to spit. It was the sort of behaviour that sentimental twats tended to excuse as 'the foibles of youth'. Except that Snape knew damn well that he himself had never, ever been like that, not even when he'd been a damn sight younger than Draco.
...except, of course, for that one time when he had. He hitched irritably at his inevitable long sleeves, drawing the left one down to cover the flickering tongue of a serpent on his wrist.
It did nothing to improve Snape's temper.