Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything to do with it, and I don't make any money from this.

How I Lost My Sanity

By Severus Snape

Harry Potter. The most well-known name in the wizarding world. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. The Savior. The Paragon of the Light. Slayer of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The Man-Who-Conquered. The Brat-With-More-Titles-Than-Albus-Dumbledore.

Our Savior. My Curse.

When the brat started Hogwarts, I was expecting to see James Potter reborn. I soon discovered that I was not that lucky. I should have known better really.

The years that followed showed me a boy of considerable potential who repeatedly refused to rise to it but for when there was mischief to be made. A boy that we were all counting on to defeat the Dark Lord and bring about an era of peace I scarcely believed possible. And though he showed intelligence from time to time, he refused to put it to use when he should. Though he could have been at the top of his class, he gave his studies only enough attention to tread in mediocrity. His fully corporeal patronus at the end of his third year proved how great he could be when he chose to apply himself.

My hatred toward the boy grew with each passing year as his irresponsibility and complete lack of forethought seemed to stretch to new heights. Though he had the potential to lead the masses through power and charisma on a level with Albus Dumbledore, his reluctance to stand at the head of his pack of miscreants made it impossible. Even while the whole world spoke of him in voices of hushed awe, naught but a handful were actually prepared to follow him. In his fifth year, his little defense club managed to endear him to a small percentage of the students, but he remained the ever reluctant leader.

I attempted to push the boy, and I will admit that I took a bit more enjoyment in that than was probably strictly proper, but I've always been comfortable being less than proper.

By his sixth year, I'd all but given up on the boy ever amounting to the savior we so desperately needed. Each new stupidity and reticence he portrayed only made me want to hurt him more for the hurt he was bringing to us all through his arrogant refusal to be what he should have been. Of course, Albus was no help at all, leading the boy by the hand and attempting to preserve his innocence as though any of us could afford such an indulgence.

When Potter vanished that year when the war was at its worst, I no longer thought about him in any terms short of disdain if not outright contempt and loathing. While I fought every day to survive, to preserve the lives and sanity of the children still attending Hogwarts, Potter had vanished. Not that it mattered. I knew that he had no chance of defeating the Dark Lord at that point. He didn't know a fraction of what he'd have needed.

I resigned myself to doing what little I could until I was killed, which seemed like it must be soon. Indeed, I woke each morning with one question paramount in my thoughts. "Will today be the day I die?" And, generally, "how much will I be made to suffer before I am allowed to leave this hell?"

And then the little brat came back. In one day of truly Gryffindor destruction, Potter managed to lay waste to Gringotts and all but bring Hogwarts down around our ears.

The problem was that the Harry Potter who came back to us was not the same that had left. Not the same that I'd watched and loathed for six years. This was the Harry Potter he should have been. Intelligent, driven, determined, and even cunning. For a Gryffindor.

When it became apparent that that was the day I would die, I found myself looking into the impossibly green eyes of our last hope for victory, and I found that I did have hope, for they were not the frightened eyes of a boy out of his depth. They were the eyes of a man who was ready and willing to die fighting. And, impossibly, those eyes actually held regret. For me. For my death. A regret even I could not feel for the event.

When I closed my eyes that day, I did not expect to wake again. I certainly did not expect to wake to those green eyes watching me, this time with relief. And even a smile. Naturally, I wanted to yell at him for having the audacity to sit at my sick bed. Unfortunately, it would be another two weeks before the scarring on my vocal cords allowed me to speak in more than the faintest whisper. And it was a whisper into which I simply could not imbue enough venom to frighten the brat away.

It was two weeks of enduring his almost constant presence. Of course, no one at the hospital would dare apply anything at trite as "visiting hours" to our great savior. They even had the temerity to chastise me when I tried to demand some privacy. The brat, of course, just smiled and ignored me.

It was somewhere in the course of those weeks that I think I truly lost my mind. Despite enduring years in the court of the Dark Lord and surviving the Cruciatus more times than I would ever like to count, in the end, it was Harry Potter who would be my destruction.

The quiet confidence and easy command remained wrapped around him like a fine cloak and would not be dislodged however I tried. He smiled at my sneers and chuckled at my insults, and generally ignored my demands to be left in peace. I should have resented him. I should have loathed the sight of him. I should have given him the mother of all tongue-lashings the moment that I was healed.

I should not have let myself be convinced to stay in his guestroom where I could avoid the quasi notoriety I had earned when I was exposed as a spy after the Final Battle. I should not have allowed myself to discover that the deceptive power behind his quiet companionship could be so pleasant. Had I been in my right mind, I'd have moved to America before admitting to myself that the intensity of his eyes on me made me want to curl up at his feet and never leave.

Had I retained any vestige of sanity, I would have recognized my own susceptibility to the Brat-Who-Saved-The-World and fled to the furthest reaches of society – or beyond.

Alas, I did not. Which is why I find myself, five years after the war, living quite happily in my insanity, content with the knowledge that sanity is highly overrated.

A rich, warm laugh came over Severus' shoulder, and a soft kiss was pressed to the top of his head. "You make me sound like some diabolical incubus preying on innocent potions' masters."

Since Severus had long since given up fighting his insanity, he did not fight the smile that pulled at his lips as he turned his head back toward his lover. "Then I believe I've made my point splendidly."

Those intoxicating green eyes smiled as Harry pressed his lips tenderly onto Severus' forehead. "I quite enjoy your insanity," he whispered before relocating his soft lips to Severus' own.

Severus hummed his pleasure, snaking his arms around the other man's firm waist to pull him into his lap. "Good," he murmured when their lips at last parted. "Because I'm quite content this way."

"I hope you don't mean to publish that," Harry smirked while his talented fingers went to work on the buttons of Severus' shirt.

Severus' raised one eyebrow, smirking maliciously.

Harry glared playfully in return and flicked his wrist. Without word or wand, the parchment burst into flame. It was very quickly reduced to ash without a mark on the desk.

Severus allowed Harry to kiss him and continue with his buttons, uttering not one complaint about the parchment. It was a good thing he'd enchanted it to copy directly to a parchment in his desk drawer while he was writing.

He was insane, yes, but he was still a Slytherin.

A/N: If you liked, don't forget to review. I love reading them, even if it's been years since the fic was posted. And happy writers write more. ;-)

[Edited: 21 May 2014]