The Mark of Severus Snape
No, I cannot say I’m surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised. If the Dark Lord had figured out a way to lodge himself in the back of Quirrell’s head, I trust that he knows how to call his most faithful back to him. As of yet, we’ve received no formal summon. He is merely making his presence known. Discolouration there, a burn here. I am certain he will choose to summon us when we are all sleep-deprived and off-guard. Correction: I am always on guard. I am also always sleep-deprived.
Igor Karkaroff, the world’s greatest snitch, may as well have asked me to the Yule Ball with as much of my time as he demanded at the event. ‘Oh, but look,’ he’d whimpered, lifting his sleeve for a millisecond. ‘Yes, I know,’ I’d responded endlessly. It was that rotten part of goodness in me that led me to offer to explain his absence at what I am now calling our upcoming meeting. What am I going to say, you ask? I am going to say his self-imposed exile ought to be double the length of time everyone has served in Azkaban due to his words. I can only hope that my own wit and ‘loyalty’ will prevent our Lord from giving formal orders to kill Karkaroff. You and I both know that will not prevent others from pursuing independent revenge.
You question my indifference to the upcoming war.
If either side wins or loses, I still lose. I am defined by loss. I cannot win back time.
I know how much you want me to make some show of fear. Is it because you want proof I am still human? I need not fear; I perfectly understand the gravity of the situation. But I am more ‘clever’ than ‘human,’ Headmaster.