By Rune Scriptor

Disclaimer: not mine. JKR holds the reins and the rights.

Summary: At Hogwarts, a boy faces his pain and bitterness in the only way he knows how.

A.N.: the lyrics snippet is from Everclear's "Why I Don't Believe in God."

Feedback is always appreciated.

The boy licked the tips of his long, crimson-coated fingers, tongue moving slowly over cold, soft skin.

He stared out the window into the dark, oppressive sky penetrated with thin rays of grey light.

On a table next to him was a small, tear-shaped vial. Against it lay a silver pocket watch.

His voice was harsh against the silence as he parted broken, bloodstained lips to speak. "Three…two…one."

The pain hit him abruptly, knifing through his chest, tearing blood and veins apart in a plunge towards his vitals.

He clutched the table, his knuckles white, face twisted in mute agony. His eyes narrowed to slits, then squeezed shut in pain. His mouth, still red with poison, moved wordlessly.

The boy doubled over, body convulsing, but refused to fall.

Slowly, he forced his eyes open: first one, then the other. Tears spilled down the sides of his face, leaking from the corners of his eyes.

The scream that was building in his chest was forced violently back as he wrestled the poison for control.

His hands unclenched themselves from where they had been gripping the splintered table edge and stretched, shaking, towards the vial.

His slender fingers wrapped around the bottle and he forced himself to hold it until the liquid no longer sloshed against the glass with his trembling.

His eyes flicked over to regard the silver watch.

He had less than thirteen seconds left to live.

His bitter, wounded black eyes sought out the vial in his hand.

Eleven

The boy forced his legs to move, taking one unsteady step after the other, every motion jaded with pain. He drew in a sharp breath as the poison sliced its way through his bloodstream.

Nine

The room began to darken and the sky outside to blur. He reeled forward as if drunk.

Eight

The boy stood with one arm reaching toward the grey horizon, his thin, tortured body silhouetted in the window. 'should i? should i?'

Six

He leaned his weight against the window, face pressed against the cool, unyielding glass. He thought he saw the faces of his classmates and his professors before him. They cried as they laughed, their tears splattering against his window. The boy stared at them all until he saw himself in the glass.

Five

'you. you.' With a final, stabbing pain, his legs gave out and he fell, knocking over the wooden table. It landed behind him, breaking in half; the silver pocket watch smashed against the wall. With a cry that he was unable to hold back, the boy fell backwards onto a bed of splinters. The vial slid out of his fingers.

Four

The door to his room suddenly burst open, bringing with it a biting wind. "Severus…" The voice that spoke through the throbbing pain in his head was soft and very sad.

A hand reached for the vial and eased out the cork.

Two

The boy's lips were gently parted and he felt cool liquid stream down his throat.

The same quiet, troubled voice spoke near his ear. "What has life done to you, child?"

He felt himself being lifted out of the pile of splintered wood and wrapped in the warm folds of a cloak. He didn't feel any pain when the fabric pressed against his open wounds. Somewhere above him, he could hear the soft splashing of rain against the window.

He was lowered back onto the floor, his head resting in someone's lap. Fingers gently ran through his sweaty, oily hair.

The boy forced his eyes open. The old man with the kind face was staring down at him, sadness marring the familiar twinkle in his eyes. "Severus…" the old man repeated softly as a tear slid down his cheek. "Why?"

A surge of shame and guilt welled up in the boy's chest, burning his throat as he uttered a low moan.

Unable to answer, he turned his face away and cried into his bloodied hands.