Chapter 2
~ Snape's Living-room ~
Snape's next actions can only be described as being unnaturally fast. In one swift motion, he managed to unclothe his dark robes off from his broad shoulders, and he swung it around the back of the armchair which Lillian had rested on not moments before. In another swift motion, Snape rushed over towards the window and drew back the long green curtains. Everything suddenly became dark. Snape liked the dark, preferred it.
After muttering the spell Colloportus with his wand, reassuring himself that the girl would no longer get back into his house, he drew back an antique chair; sat on it and put his hands flat on top of a small table, which was supported by all his towering book shelves.
His mind seemed to sink in to a sort of trance. For a moment, he wasn't entirely sure why he came home so early.
His fingers began to drum nervously on top of the desk. The room was a little too dark. Snape's slender arm outstretched forward and groped some beads that were lined with string. The room now had a tiny source of illumination. Then he saw them, the yellow parchments.
Everything dawned on Snape. He came home to write a letter to Albus. Why he didn't just apparate home he'll never know. He guessed he needed time to think. That was it, time to think.
"Albus," Severus wrote with his fine feathery quill, and neatly looped handwriting. "You know my reasons for leaving so unexpectedly. My apologies for not warning you in advance. You know what anniversary it is today... Please excuse this weakness; it defies me." Signed, Severus Snape.
Snape stared at the letter for a moment; his hands were shaking.
To prevent the anniversary of her death from sinking in, Snape sealed down a purple stamp. There, he whispered to himself. He knew there was no point in sending the letter because Dumbledore already knew about everything, why Snape left, but he still felt obligated too. And so he sent it.
An owl hooted from outside of the window. Snape trailed his black robes over to the window and, peeling back the curtain and window, he handed his sealed and addressed letter to his owl. He noticed how his owls' motions were unnaturally fast also, like his, for with a simple quirk of its feathery black wings, it was no longer insight.
Closing the window took all Snape had. He wasn't going to get... upset. Only cowards got upset. He wasn't a coward! No! And he wasn't going to get... upset.
This always happened, every year since her death; since Potter's mothers' death. When would it stop? Snape didn't know.
Love, he supposed, never stopped nor did it fade and die, therefore his feelings and emotions wouldn't stop nor would they fade and die.