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Chapter 1: the gloaming.
‘He hates being so full of hate that he repeats a hate in his mental list of things to hate.’
-Jaida and Rave, The Shoebox Project
Boys in leather jackets, smoking, slouching on cheap chairs in cheap houses. And he's one of them, now, though he is alone in the cheap house on the cheap chair smoking cheap Muggle fags in his cheap fake Muggle leather jacket that he'd bought from that primitive Muggle place (Camden Market) for no real reason (lies: one of those rich boys has one, doesn’t he?), the fag's seductive acrid taste on his tongue and the jacket scratching like McGonagall at his neckwristswaistshoulders.
Fuck this, he thinks.
He's got a book open in his hands and he's staring at the cheap print of the letters spelling out theoretical wonders, and he doesn't care. He's used to theoretical wonders; they so rarely occur in reality. His thoughts continue: fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck this fuck this.
He tosses the book carelessly aside, high-minded ideas and snide little jibes alike. And he tries to daydream - a rare luxury in a world like his - about his desire.
Desire is easier than love. He does not fall in love. He is not that type. Fuck this fuck this fuck this, he thinks, again, because it’s familiar.
Still, though, anyone - anyone like him, as if actual humans like him exist - anyone would. Desire like he does, that is. Desire the victory roar of a spirit, that fire, pure white creamy skin and that hair and those eyes.
That hair and those eyes. He's wanked to the thought of them a lot, but he is not doing so now. He can’t be arsed. He doesn't have the energy, so instead he repeats in his mind fuck this fuck this fuck this, his mantra for everything. He stops thinking of the desire, for a moment.
There's the yellow sort of light of early evening streaming through the curtainless windows, bathing the scene in incongruously heavenly light. He hates it. He hates it more than anything in the world at this moment in time. He resolves to cover the windows with foil, to block the moon, to block the sun, to block this fucking yellow light.
Piss-soaked. That's what this light is, he thinks only half-sarcastically, piss-soaked. Someone has pissed on the light, in the light, just to make my life that bit more miserable. Fuck this.
Outside, there are voices. The airheaded chattering of a tribe of Muggle teenage girls, to be precise. (He does not consider himself to be misogynistic.) Out of the ennui gained by repeating fuck this until the words don’t mean anything anymore, he listens more closely, and can discern his desire's voice among the mindless twittering – his desire’s voice, jovial, like it had been for him once, and sublime, like it will be for him always.
He stands suddenly, removing the stupid fucking Muggle jacket and discarding the cigarette, and waits for the idiots outside to pass.
They do. His desire is with them. He leaves his cheap stupid fucking Muggle house behind, following the female zoo, going unnoticed. His desire. That Mudblood. (Not that he’s much better now, even though he’s abandoned his cheap stupid fucking Muggle trappings. He needs to work on that.) His desire.
Fuck this, he thinks one last time, when it’s eleven at night and he’s following his desire home. Fuck this.
A/N: Yes, the protagonist is our dear friend Severus Snape. (If there’s anyone who managed to recognise that from the epigraph, please tell me so, I will love you forever.) This was a very interesting one to do because, quite frankly, I can’t stand Severus in the slightest, and I think of him as an extremely creepy infatuated teenage boy. Regardless, please tell me what you think of him in that lovely box just below – I’m sort of terrified about this one.