if it's just a game, what are we crying for?
Severus wondered, sometimes, why the universe hated him.
He hadn't quite adequately dealt with the blow dealt to him after learning of the deaths of Faramir and Andrej. Then again, he still hadn't dealt with the disappearances of Annabelle or Lucius (or any of the others who have come in and out of his life), or with the nagging fear in the back of his head that Voldemort was going to escape and come after him. He hadn't dealt with the death of Albus yet, and that wasn't something that he thought he would ever wholly be able to cope with. Hell, he still was burying anger from his own mother's death, so many years ago.
Coping skills, apparently, do not work well with this man.
And then, of course, winter came to an abrupt end, with no warning, and now he was back to trying to find ways to thwart the clothes box to produce summery clothes that were not hideous.
And then he woke up to a neatly wrapped present at the foot of his bed, from no one apparently: a Muggle herbal kit, which, while highly useful in theory, only brought up feelings of anger and frustration at not having his magic, at having to resort to typical Muggle means to create.
And then he woke up, and it was his birthday. He hated birthdays. It was his second one on the island, though he hadn't even realized when the first one had passed. Not to mention that it was June in his world when he arrived, but based on his calculations, it was some time in November Island-Time, and apparently he was the only one bothered by the fact that approximately five months of his life had disappeared.
He wasn't sure if this birthday made him 39 or 40 or somewhere in between.
All he knew was that he hated it.
And so today he sat, miserable as always, at a small patch of sand by the sea, with his misguided gift in front of him.
It wasn't a good day. But for Snape, it was never a good day.
[emotastic! but don't let that stop you. ]
He hadn't quite adequately dealt with the blow dealt to him after learning of the deaths of Faramir and Andrej. Then again, he still hadn't dealt with the disappearances of Annabelle or Lucius (or any of the others who have come in and out of his life), or with the nagging fear in the back of his head that Voldemort was going to escape and come after him. He hadn't dealt with the death of Albus yet, and that wasn't something that he thought he would ever wholly be able to cope with. Hell, he still was burying anger from his own mother's death, so many years ago.
Coping skills, apparently, do not work well with this man.
And then, of course, winter came to an abrupt end, with no warning, and now he was back to trying to find ways to thwart the clothes box to produce summery clothes that were not hideous.
And then he woke up to a neatly wrapped present at the foot of his bed, from no one apparently: a Muggle herbal kit, which, while highly useful in theory, only brought up feelings of anger and frustration at not having his magic, at having to resort to typical Muggle means to create.
And then he woke up, and it was his birthday. He hated birthdays. It was his second one on the island, though he hadn't even realized when the first one had passed. Not to mention that it was June in his world when he arrived, but based on his calculations, it was some time in November Island-Time, and apparently he was the only one bothered by the fact that approximately five months of his life had disappeared.
He wasn't sure if this birthday made him 39 or 40 or somewhere in between.
All he knew was that he hated it.
And so today he sat, miserable as always, at a small patch of sand by the sea, with his misguided gift in front of him.
It wasn't a good day. But for Snape, it was never a good day.
[emotastic! but don't let that stop you. ]