It would never be enough.
He was stretched thin, far too busy to catch a moment to himself, and he was feeling the effects of it. He was more than just tired, he was a sort of weary that ran bone-deep and caused his fingers to tremble as he gripped a cup of coffee in too-tight fingers, listening to the droning of voices around him.
He blinked, tried to focus on what the speaker was saying.
He had been up all night, had potions to brew for the infirmary, had dimly lit castle corridors to wander and double-check. He had ventured out too early, had a staff meeting to sit through and a prefect’s meeting to run straight after. He didn’t have time to rest today; he had classes stacked on top of each other, had homework to grade and papers to read. He had a new book, sitting untouched on his kitchen table, and a longing in his chest to read it, but he just didn’t have the time.
He couldn’t read this evening, couldn’t sit down and pretend for just five minutes that he had control of his life, that he could allow his defenses to come down. No, he had to teach Harry Potter Occlumency again this evening if they wanted to give him a chance to survive, to shut his mind and the connection he shared with the Dark Lord, to keep their secrets safe, his sanity intact.
He couldn’t call it an early night, he knew he would be summoned tonight.
He knew he could not be just another Death Eater, so casual and careless like all the rest. He had a part to play, a performance to put on that would bleed him dry for yet another night. He had information to gather and he had to do his best to convince the Dark Lord that he was valuable enough to be allowed to return home. He had to report to Dumbledore, to the Order of the Phoenix.
And the day after that? It all repeated itself.
He was a spy, a double agent, a Death Eater, an Order member. He was a professor, a Head of House, a potions master, a private tutor.
He was just a man.
There was not enough of him, but there had to be.
He had to be enough; too much depended on him being able to play every part of him perfectly. Too many lives depended on every facet of his existence.
Too much, there was just too much he had to do and failure was unacceptable; mistakes were far too costly to allow them to happen. He was carrying a weight on his shoulders that seemed to only grow heavier every time the hospital wing ran out of a certain potion, every time Harry Potter refused to listen and close his mind against the Dark Lord’s very thoughts, every time a student had an issue a prefect could not solve, every time Dumbledore tried to ask one more thing of him, just one more thing, Severus.
His chest ached.
He just wanted to read that blasted book, just wanted to feel the warmth of the fireplace, just wanted to pretend for five minutes that he didn’t feel anxiety and a dread towards existence swirling through him every. second. of the. day.
He couldn’t hold back a yawn.
Trembling fingers gripped tightly at the cup of coffee in his hands as he listened to the droning of voices around him. He was exhausted, but too much depended on him. He had too many things to do and he would be damn sure to do them all.
He wasn’t just a man.
Too much depended on him, for him to be just a man.`