Meddling

A/N It\'s short, but it demanded to be left alone there. Hope you like it

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They say there are six kinds of tears
Joy, Sorrow, Anger, Pain, Fear and Regret
And my love, I have spilt each of those over you

Joy at having known you, for you being in my life no matter how small a part you choose to play

Sorrow at the knowledge that what I feel for you will never be shared, between us or with anyone

Anger at the way you often treat me, though I know it is merely the same as everyone else, although surely I am not the same?

Pain at the times you’ve hurt me, with your barbed tongue wrapped in the velvet voice I’ve always loved

Fear at what might happen if you ever knew, and at the thought of ‘what if…?’ when you never will

Regret at the understanding that this is how it must be, a series of hidden letters written for you but never to reach your eyes


Severus sat in his pondering chair by the fire, a half-empty pint glass of Kilkenny in his hand. He preferred ales to spirits, they were for special occasions only. He sipped, deep in reflection, his dark gaze never leaving the piece of ruled parchment in his other hand. He had found it that afternoon in the old storage room. It had been too damp to keep dried herbs or rootstock in so most things had been moved to a new, larger room four years ago.

The white envelope had been sitting in a box of pickled curiosities owned by the previous Potions Master who had also been Snapes’ Head of House back in the day. He had always hated them, even as a boy, and so had not touched the boxes from wher had had left them when he first took the position upon the old mans death. Today he had been asked to track down a preserved and dissected dragon’s egg by Albus for some demonstration he wanted to do. He hadn’t found it yet, the new… or would it be old?… note had distracted him.

It was again unmarked, written on ordinary school parchment by a non-distinctive hand. It smelt faintly of damp and formaline. He had tried comparing it to the first, but other then that they were both written in slightly luminescent black ink by the same person he had no clues. Both had been left somewhere to do with his line of work, and also looking at the descriptions he presumed (and actually rather hoped) that they were for him. He guessed they had been left around the same time, and that means between seven and four years ago, from when he had last allowed the house elves to clean in the classroom (he now relied solely on his own magic ad the occasional student with detention, and it had never extended to dusting) and when the storage cupboard had last been able to be accessed by anyone other then himself.

He tapped the sheets of paper against the arm of the chair several times, then stood up and drained his glass. His brain needed far more lubrication for this, to attempt a puzzle with no clues completely sober would, quite frankly, be cruel.

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