𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥

I hate you too

Tw: sexual content

Mirrors weren't Severus' favorite objects: truthfully, he evaded them as much as possible, as they made him uncomfortable. Every time he looked at his reflection, a weird, unsettling sentiment sank into his chest, and he felt the need to avert his eyes from his own image: he didn't recognize the man he saw, as if it was a stranger looking back at him; yet, he knew him as no other, and that thought made him feel even worse.

Blanche's eyes, from the first moment, had given him a weirdly similar feeling, except he couldn't avoid their dark gaze. She irritated him to no end. Every time she looked at him, he felt cornered like a hunted creature; and then, even if he knew that irrationality was getting the best of his discernment, he couldn't help but feel a rush of pure, unfiltered vexation filling his soul.

"Don't forget your books."

He had articulated those words carefully. Nothing else had come to his mind as he felt her unsustainable, forthright stare stinging his skin. The reason why he had stopped her eluded logic; there was no sensible reason to do so, but he didn't want to let her go just yet.

She had voiced his exact concerns.

How is it possible?

Many inconsistent thoughs flooded his mind while he silently examined her earnest expression. Most of the time, the woman made him tense, yet he felt unusually relaxed in her presence. He felt watched, irritated, but comfortable; a weird, stinging sensation invaded his chest as he was carefully studying her countenance.

What is she thinking?

Severus couldn't comprehend why she had told him how she felt regarding her own life, but what eluded him the most was the motive behind her unsought honesty. What could she possibly want from him?

He was the last person on earth that could be of any use to her: he had already played his part, investing his life in carrying out an interminable row of tragedies; and the final one, as he had found out, would be his own. He knew he was walking on thin ice, with Narcissa's interest being the only thing standing between him and a well-deserved fate: he was living on borrowed time, which he was wasting on meaningless, distracting, petty trifles. The days came and went, month after month, in a consistent blur; everything was just a distraction to him while he waited, as he had done for most of his life.

He couldn't understand why she would be so open; but what he wondered even more was where she found the audacity to do so. How dared she throw her existential troubles at him, as if his life wasn't miserable enough?

Severus was once again tangled in a web of messy knots, which he couldn't untie nor loosen, while the ghost of an unclear purpose tormented his every waking moment. He had chosen to sacrifice everything on the altar of Magic history, driven mad by a guilty conscience; and now, he was yet again a prisoner, as well as the one to blame for the circumstances he had, indeed, contributed to create. He had nothing.

If he had freedom, he wouldn't know what to do with it: there wasn't a better life waiting for him anywhere, nor could he picture one. His only friend had been Minerva, who had accepted his constraint with a fine discretion he esteemed, and her place was at the head of Hogwarts. That school had been the only constant in his life, trapping and sheltering him when he needed it the most, but he couldn't find a satisfying meaning in it. His job had been a secondary occupation for so many years it couldn't fulfill his restless mind, nor eliminate the ghosts who haunted him in his nightmares.

Discordant feelings were agitating in his chest while he was looking at Blanche, still hesitantly standing in front of him: he wished he could soothe her, but at the same time what he truly, deeply desired was to slaughter her with his bare hands. He couldn't explain why, but he felt drawn to her by a violent impulse that filled him to the brim with pure anger.
Blanche enraged him just by standing there, looking at him with an uncertain expression. Her Occlumens had been restored far too well for his taste, making her unreadable.

Severus briefly wondered what her neck would feel like if he were to tweak its soft, white skin in an unyielding grasp. He envisioned the last, haunting stare she would give him while slowly vanishing; her final, sharp breath running under his fingers. Just imagining such a sensation sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't want her dead, but for some reason, in that precise moment he wanted her at his mercy; however, he had not a single drop of mercy remaining in his soul.

His hands were tingling with the rush of a sudden, ardent urge to reach for her face and roughly feel her lineaments under his palms, to greedily gouge out her arrogant eyeballs with his bare fingers, and to watch. He needed to witness what they hid behind their dark barrier, he needed to invade her mind and outrageously handle its content with no discretion nor decency, to finally learn of its most profound nature as if it was his.
The desire to see what she would look like abandoning her decorous composure was all-devouring: her distraught face coming undone was all he could think of, feeling drawn, no, dragged to her by an unfamiliar, relentless pull.

This unreasonable craving filled every fiber of his being while her eyes wandered on his neck, lingering on the mark left by her wand.

He imagined how her lips would feel under his touch as he ripped them apart to see that stupidly self-important tongue of hers. That simple concept made his hands tremble. He clenched his jaw, taking a sharp breath.

Neither moved nor said a word until Blanche, carefully raising her cutting gaze, broke the silence with a murmur.

"I hate you too."