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Chapter 1 : Precision
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There's no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping,
A remembrance in one's heart...
-- Parting, Charlotte Bronte
It was the precision, he thought, that got him.
Potions were precise.
Potions were simple.
Potions were easy.
You read instructions, followed them, and then changed them to make them better.
He often wondered why life didn't turn out more like the potions he made, with their delicate wafts of steam and deep, rich colours. Perfection.
Life was like being lost in an apothecary with the wrong ingredients, wrong heat and no instructions.
Cold and alone and sour and awful.
And there was no way to change that.
Because being sallow and gaunt looking and lanky and clumsy isn't good in real life.
Being a big Quidditch hero with an ego to match is.
It was confusing.
There were no rules. People were two things, and two things only.
And that was life.
And if you strayed from the herd too much you were singled out, like that last rotten flobberworm in the potions cupboard that no one wanted to use.
Except the flobberworm didn't care when it was jinxed, or humiliated, or had it's heart ripped out by a girl.
But he did.
And it hurt.
It was a slip, he often reasoned to himself, as the steam from his potion made his lank hair flick up at the ends. She'll come back.
And while he was learning new spells to try, just once, to come off best, he wished.
That she'd come back.
But she didn't.
And he was powerless to bring her back.
Which cut deeper every day.
Until it felt like he would die and rage and scream every time he saw someone.
With red hair or green eyes.
That were never quite the same as those eyes.
That he'd never see again.
So he resolved that never again would he be powerless.
He would reign.
He would be feared.
And he would curse every god forsaken child of Lily Evans and James Potter to the depths of hell.
Because he was Severus Snape, and was not to be pushed around.
He could see him.
He was here.
A mirror image, to his disgust.
He was placed in Gryffindor, of course.
He could see he would be popular already, joking and laughing.
He hated him.
And though a tiny, niggling part of his mind said that he was an eleven year old, that he was an orphan, that it was irrational.
All he could see was James.
Reflected back, arrogant and proud and egotistical and idiotic.
And he hated it.
Because it controlled him.
He was dying.
He knew it by the blood dripping warm and sticky, down his collar.
He knew by the wheezing breath that escaped him.
And he didn't even get the chance to tell him.
That was all he'd ever known.
But then, if conjured, he was there, the mirror image of his father, but with those eyes, his mother's eyes.
With his last ounce of strength, he focused his mind and pushed out his memories.
He would see them.
He would understand.
He grasped the boys robes as he finished capturing his memories.
'Look... at... me...' he managed.
And he got one last look at those eyes.
The ones that had tormented him.
The ones that had nearly killed him.
One last time.
Because that was all he needed.
That had been all he had ever needed.
A/N: So, did this oneshot make any sense to anyone but me? I hope you liked it, as this was just a bit of an experiment for me, and please, drop a review if you have the chance! Oh, I tried my hardest to get the years right, but I might of stuffed up. Please tell me I've made a mistake!
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