A note, from the journal of Nymphadora Tonks
“Ye gods, but you look like my mother,” Severus says, and I smile. It’s true; Dumbledore patterned the face off of the Lady Snape. Said the boy needs some comfort, if only subconsciously.
Severus flinches, and I gasp. He snorts and I make the slightest moue of distaste. He dons his mask and I sigh.
“It’s bad enough that you look like her,” he says, “without actually acting out the part.”
“Take heed when facing the monster,” I reply, and even I don’t know which one of us I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t get it.
Severus Augustus Snape, Potions Master, Cloistered Intellectual, Archetype, doesn’t know Nietzsche. Maybe if Voldemort doesn’t kill him, Irony will.
I’m beginning to suspect he may even be human.
Severus flinches, and I gasp. He snorts and I make the slightest moue of distaste. He dons his mask and I sigh.
“It’s bad enough that you look like her,” he says, “without actually acting out the part.”
“Take heed when facing the monster,” I reply, and even I don’t know which one of us I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t get it.
Severus Augustus Snape, Potions Master, Cloistered Intellectual, Archetype, doesn’t know Nietzsche. Maybe if Voldemort doesn’t kill him, Irony will.
I’m beginning to suspect he may even be human.