AS A RULE, Severus Snape enjoyed Quidditch matches as much as having a Blast-Ended Skrewt for a pillow, even more so when the sun was glaring in an offensively blue sky. Oh, joy - of course Lupin should appear, heralded by some mixture of tired footsteps, the scrape of a cane against the wooden planks, and the faint scent of damp wool and tea leaves, just as he had finally and painstakingly carved out a small corner of solitude amidst the ruckus of the juvenile crowd. As if Snapeβs solitude were something to be merely overruled. The infuriatingly placid tone and almost martyred demeanour Lupin carried with him did nothing to improve his already sour mood, and it took a good measure of will power not to openly sneer at the audacity. He did not bother to turn his head - the mere act of acknowledging Lupinβs presence felt like an undue concession, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, the man insisted on speaking. For a spell, Snape remained silent, slender fingers steepled before him in something like thought, though in reality, his thoughts were very much occupied with the barely restrained compulsion of leaving.
When he finally decided to turn, it was in a slow and calculated motion, meant to convey exactly how much effort it took to tolerate this intrusion. He exhaled through his large nose, taking a deep, measured breath, his patience hanging by a thread finer than spun silk as a the beginnings of a migraine started to rattle around in his head - soon to pound to the rhythm of the many feet against the stands, courtesy of the shrill, unrelenting assault of Quidditch on his senses. It was a wonder anyone left these spectacles with their hearing - or their dignity - intact.
The wolf looked ragged today. Though he did not comment on it, no detail escaped the keen scrutiny of his dark eyes: the slight slump in Lupinβs shoulders, the ever-present ghost of exhaustion behind his eyes. How unfortunate that Snape did not possess even an ounce of sympathy to spare.
Snapeβs glittering gaze slid sideways as the other man poured himself a cup. "It may have escaped your notice, but it is my duty as a member of staff to preside over these ... spectacles." his voice was silk over steel, a low drawl curling around the words like smoke from a waning fire. There were few things in his life not dictated by obligation, and this - this exercise in patience - was no exception. There was always some burden he had to bear, some unseen chain binding him to places he did not wish to be. And the green-eyed reason sat high above them on a broomstick, reckless and oblivious.
As the crowd howled and the players started their gaudy display of reckless aerobics, he suddenly found that he was longing for the first match of the season, when when thunder had rattled the stands and the Dementors had swarmed the pitch like carrion birds. No such convenient excuse for an early departure today.
He had intended to let his words slice through the conversation and leave it bleeding at his feet. But something about Lupinβs refusal to take offence, his infuriating way of making himself comfortable in places he had no right to be made Snapeβs petty irritation coil ever tighter. "Not everyone enjoys watching children chase after enchanted balls." some of us prefer to occupy their time with other pursuits, is what was left unsaid, possibly followed by, a quiet evening brooding in the comfort of the dungeons and a bottle of old odgen's, where the only voices he had to suffer were those of his own bitter thoughts.
