Seven Sins of Severus Snape

Chapter 2 (Sloth)

He awakes with a start and a breathless choke to a partially darkened room. Sweat drips from his forehead and pools in the creases of his nose, the furrow of his brow and the corners of his lips. He can taste the salt of his own tears as he licks his parched lips reawakening the moisture he’s sucked dry during the night. Blinking twice he wipes at the sleep in his eyes, before reaching to scrape the straggly lengths of inky black hair back into their untidy tie. He can already feel the heat of the day, and the pinpricks of light shining in through the moth eaten curtains tell already of the painfully bright sun. With a repressed sigh he stands up and slides on his silk robe. There might have been a time when he’d have given a damn about appearance but around here no one seems to notice anyway. Out of habit he collects the 13-½ inches of oak that have kept him alive these last 35 years and stows it securely in the fold of his robe before quietly padding out of the room.

Following the well worn corridor floors he listens to the chaos of breakfast down below. No one should be as chirpy in the morning as those he shares this house with, and certainly not after the night he’s had. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs as two fiery red flashes of hair come flying past him, closely followed by a younger much angrier red head. They swear at each other as they disappear into the lounge. Had he the energy he might mutter an obscenity of his own but he can’t be bothered.

All conversation ceases as he enters the kitchen, all eyes trained on him as he shuffles as dignified as possible into the room. He doesn’t bother to look up from the lino floor as he makes his way over to the pot of fresh tea hovering over the stove. He knows they heard him last night, saw the trails of his blood this morning on the living room floor beside the fireplace. They probably heard his screams of terror in the night unhindered like they should have been, had he enough energy left to erect the wards around his room. Yet he doesn’t care. Let them hear his pain, let them see what they’ve reduced him to, let them know his time is nearly up. Reaching for the teapot his shaking hand is stopped by another kindly one that easily pours a large cup of the steaming liquid without comment. While he does not look up from the floor, in the reflection of the metal teapot he can see a face. The pale sickly complexion of the boy stares back at him in the shiny surface. No doubt the boy’s had just as tough a time of it in the night as he himself but he will not offer sympathy just as he does no expect it in return.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed Severus.” How he hates that voice. Just as in his nightmares the constantly merry tone grates on his nerves. No one with as cunning and manipulative a mind as Albus Dumbledore should be able to act with such mirth all the time. This time he spares the elder wizard a glare over his shoulder as he cups the large mug of tea in his hands, taking comfort in its warmth. The glare is all that is needed to silence any further comment. Shuffling in pain he makes for the back door, nudging it open with his bruised hip accompanying it with a wince. Squinting in the obnoxiously bright sunshine he hobbles over to the padded garden chair and sits down. He knows he’s been followed but that was inevitable. There is only one in this house that would dare interrupt his solitude and just like his mother he’s damn irritating presence will linger ever after he’s gone.

“I won’t let you go again.” The young, unbroken voice struggles with volume as the boy attempts a determined growl.

“I do not recall what authority you have over my behavior Mr. Potter?” Acid as always, his tongue is sharp and cutting. The boy doesn’t flinch though, too immune to the barb like comments he’s known for. He sighs a little in pain but sips from the warming liquid in the cup clutched in his hands. This morning he does not want company, especially not from the boy. This forced interaction is grating his already shredded nervous, he has not the patience for this.

“He will kill you.” That statement is old, he’s heard it before from more mouths than just the boy’s. Perhaps he should have taken notice of the threat when it had first been uttered, but that was years ago and he’s in too deep now to retreat. A spike of pain jars his back as he reaches forward to put his cup aside. He hisses and closes his eyes. The boy is there, on his knees by his side in an instant. Those emerald green eyes stare up at him mirroring the pain he can see on the face before him. “Please.” It is a pitiful plea, so weak, so pleading. He opens his eyes, and he knows it’s a mistake. Staring into those bottle green windows on the boy’s face, will bring him to his death. Just as he was unable to resist his mother he crumbles under the weight, the pressure, the guilt too much. He shakes his head tightly, the action forced from his body by the strength of power behind those green eyes. The pull is stronger now than it’s been in weeks, and he leans forward towards the boy. This was not supposed to happen, this was not how he imagined living his life. Those thin, slightly chapped lips part in front of him, the boy’s eyes fluttering closed automatically as he closes the gap. He should not do it, should not give in to such sin when the shadow of Lily lingers still in his mind but he is powerless under the spell of those emerald eyes.

“Harry, Ron’s looking for you.” He pulls back abruptly at the sound of the child’s godfather hovering in the doorway. The abrupt reaction sends spirals of pain through his entire being, wrenching an agonizing scream from his broken, abused body. He convulses in the chair, gasping for breath as the shadows of the pain his master inflicted on him the night before return to continue their damage. Hands splay over his body to try and calm his private agony, the soft fingertips of the boy reverently sooth over his bruised, hollowed cheeks. The pain passes far quickly than it should leaving him weakly slumped in the chair, the boy pressed fearfully against his heaving chest. Had he the energy he would push him away, cast himself free of his presence if only to find his miserable solitude. Why he does not make the effort to move him when his godfather still hovers above is not a concern. Perhaps it is just laziness that he cannot be bothered or maybe something else. Either way he knows it will be pointless; the boy is his life and his death…

TBC>>>>

A/N Did you really think I'd kill off Snape in the first chapter, please give me some credit, It'll take at least a couple of chapters of dark slashy goodness before he meets his maker....*winks knowingly*