Fic: Bitterness and Rough Edges
Title: Bitterness and Rough Edges
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For Book 7
Word count: 460
Summary: "When the end finally came, and he was leaking secrets and confessions like silver thread and staring into a pair of emerald green eyes, it didn't feel like he was dying." A short character study of Severus Snape.
Warnings: Canonical Character Death
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit
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He never really stopped believing in miracles. After all, saying he stopped would imply that he had actually believed miraculous things were possible at one point. The closest thing he had ever seen to a miracle was Lily. And even then, back when they were whispering secrets and sharing smiles, he had known she was too good to be true. So when she left him the first time he had been devastated, but not surprised. Then when she left again, forever beyond the reach of himself or anyone else, he had felt like his whole life had shattered into pieces so small nothing was left, but he still hadn’t been surprised. Not really.
He became bitter after she left, like the taste of wormwood on his tongue. And even when she was here he was bitter angry that everyone got everything he had ever wanted while his own hands were left empty. He stewed in the unfairness of life, steeped in his bitterness like tea leaves, until he was dark, dark, dark, trying to keep any light from reflecting off again. And it never occurred to him that life hadn’t been keeping things out of his grasp, he just wasn’t stretching his arms far enough out to reach.
With Lily gone he was alone, always alone, but never lonely. Or, at least that’s what he told himself. He continued forward, keeping everything in boxes and straight lines, never noticing that elsewhere life was being lived in the spaces between. And even if he did notice, it never changed anything, as he continued forward down the straight line in front of him. He was all rough edges, beaten and battered, left to snag and catch on every passing moment. So he had built something like a life out of smooth contours, and never thought to look for some else whose rough edges might match his own.
He found himself unable to count the parts that made him up. Teacher, spy, Death Eater, greasy git, he had more roles than he could keep track of, yet he played them all the same. He could have acted them out separately, given himself a different character for every day of the week. Instead, though, he preferred to treat his life like it was one size fits all. That way he could mechanically go about his day and the same things were expected no matter who he was at the moment. If he even knew what role he was playing in the first place.
When the end finally came, and he was leaking secrets and confessions like silver thread and staring into a pair of emerald green eyes, it didn’t feel like he was dying. After all, he hardly felt alive in the first place.