Severus Snape took the final drag of his cigarette before putting it out in his coffee cup, the last dregs long gone cold. He turned the page of the Daily Prophet as he continued to read the latest codswallop that went to print, always looking for any story that seemed more unusual than the rest. Voldemort was out there, waiting to take his next jab at Hogwarts and the Boy Who Lived, and the signs always preceded the catastrophe. With Peter Petigrew freshly thrown into the mix, Severus had the uneasy feeling of a calm before an oncoming storm. He had students to protect, afterall. Speaking of which; contrary to popular belief, he didn’t hate his students. Although the lot of them were rather confident he did. He reserved the right to occasionally loathe them, but these last six years had been more taxing on him mentally, the last three physically ever since Harry bloody Potter started his leg at Hogwarts, that he’d ended up making quite the arse out of himself of late. Rather more than usual, which was already more than the average professor to be honest. Even in comparison to the reputations of Quirrell, Lockhart, and Remus fucking Lupin, he’d made a bloody bastard of himself. Alongside this, he’d wondered when exactly he’d begun to feel old. He’d be thirty-five come January, but at the start of term in 1989 before he reached his twenty-ninth birthday, something had changed at Hogwarts. He still hadn’t figured out what it was.
It started at the Sorting Ceremony nearly seven years ago, an unpleasant untethered sort of feeling that made him less than apt to enjoy the start of term feast - to which he rarely actually enjoyed anyways - and remained steadfast ever since. Headaches and migraines came and went with alarming frequency, regardless of the kinds of potions he’d brew up for himself and down at the start of the day, between classes, and even at night. He told no one that his rather simpering mood during one of the weeks of that first year came from being so thoroughly sedated he didn’t even hate himself most hours and not simply because he was ‘having a good week’. Minerva was increasingly invested in his off-duty activities around then having rather convinced herself that he was getting some. She insisted that his ‘disappearances’ most weekends were the times of his secret rendezvous with his lover. She had no clue he’d actually spent most of his time brewing criminal amounts of Anti-Headache Draught, Pepper-Up, Calming Draught, a modified strain of Sleeping Draught, and a potion of his own creation. He very much did hate himself when he was inevitably scrutinised by Albus and put an immediate stop to his indulgences. He let Minerva think his ferocious withdrawal from some of the more addictive potions came from being dumped and not because he had taken Calming Draught and Sleeping Draught every night for weeks to a point he had to up his dosage to a rather fatal level in order to achieve preferable results. Those weeks of withdrawal were hellish for certain, and he’ll continue to feel guilty for causing one of the first year Hufflepuff’s to have nothing short of a hysterical meltdown. Rosie Wilkinson would be starting her seventh year this term, and to no surprise she had not applied to the N.E.W.T. level of Advanced Potions. She hadn’t proved proficient enough in Potions anyway, regardless of his guilt.
He’d gone to Albus on more than one occasion to discuss this ongoing unnerving feeling. That untethered sensation. It was the best way to put it. He swore he felt he was missing something, like he couldn’t remember if he’d left the stove on or not half expecting to return to Spinner’s End and find it had burned to the ground.
‘Anticipation for Harry Potter’s return to the Wizarding World,’ Albus said once. That held a different kind of dread in and of itself. Staring into the underdeveloped face of a baby-James Potter had a sickening effect on him. Now it was more along the lines of ‘Anticipation for Voldemort’s next moves,’ and regardless of that dread, there was something else. As it was, he had since dedicated himself to stalking the halls of Hogwarts late into the night in an effort to tire himself out. Anything to chase off the anxiety that had settled into his chest for the long haul. Some nights it worked, others it only worked in making him more mentally exhausted than he already was. He’d earned himself the suspicion of vampirism. Wouldn’t the Marauders have loved that, the bastards. It did make for getting some of the more unruly students to smarten up. You win some you lose some, he supposed.
Severus sighed. He resigned himself from reading another article regarding the latest from the dunderheads at the Ministry. He tossed the paper aside and reached for his mail instead. He could never read his mail before he’d had his coffee, and some days he could never drink his coffee before he’d had at least one Calming Draught. He preferred a catatonic state when opening any letters marked with the Hogwarts seal. Those always came with a different kind of anxiety, especially since Voldemort’s efforts to get his hands on the Philosopher's Stone in ‘91.
He lit another cigarette with the snap of his fingers and let it hang from his lips as he sat forward to crack open the pile of letters. Most of them were a waste of good parchment. First was a thank you from St. Mungos for his contribution to the development of a counter-curse to a rather nasty hex from some ‘unknown source’. Severus knew exactly the ‘source’, and those kids had gotten the reprimand they deserved from him before their graduation ceremony last year, but the Ministry and other investigative parties didn’t need to know that. The next letter was from the Association for Further Potion Developments, another empty thank you for his creation of an Anti-Migraine Draught. It turned out to be nothing short of a migraine cure when tested. He didn’t tell them it only took the edge off of his migraines, which were a beast of their own making. Poppy Pomfrey would kill him where he stood if she knew. Now, if only these things could earn him some extra bloody Galleons, or - hell - some British Pounds to pay his bills.
Under the next letter was one from Albus, he knew the scrawl of his penmanship. His chest gave an awful thump. Was 11am in the morning too early to drink the Draught of Living-Death? Severus drew out his wand and charmed a fresh mug of coffee to levitate its way into the living room. After taking several energetic puffs of his cigarette - which had already nearly burned down to the butt - he put it out with the previous one and snatched his coffee out of the air. He took a rather aggressive gulp, plunked the mug down on the overcrowded coffee table, then broke the seal on Albus’ letter.
Severus,
I have come across some interesting research regarding the issue you mentioned. We will discuss it during the start of term.
Yours,
Albus Dumbledore
What in Merlin’s beard could he be referring to? Severus had numerous issues, and it was his guess as to what exactly the Headmaster had decided to latch onto. Could it be Potter’s aptitude for getting himself into increasingly disastrous trouble? That didn’t seem to ever bother Albus, even when it involved a werewolf for a professor and the escape of Sirius fucking Black last year. What of the supposed curse on the Defence Against the Dark Arts position (which he will be - again - applying to be next year’s DADA professor regardless of said curse as he will either prove that the curse is rubbish or at least get delightfully Obliviated like Lockhart, or better he taste the sweet release of death)? Or was Albus finally referring to the infuriating sensation he’d been living with every time he stepped foot on the Hogwarts grounds these last six - going on seven come term next week - years? He’d never seemed much interested before.
Although he understood the lack of details, the letter annoyed him more than it had any right to. With a growl, Severus stood from his worn out chair and tossed his opened letters into the coals of his blackened hearth. He’d burn them later, he decided. He padded into the kitchen in his socks, forgetting the fresh coffee he’d summoned, and began to fix himself something to eat.