It had been seven years since Voldemort's death. Severus Snape was sitting in a moth-eaten gray armchair, deep in thought. His brow was scrunched, his eyes distant and not taking anything in. He'd been sitting here in this chair reliving his life for a long, long time.
Snape had been extremely lucky to escape Azkaban once the Ministry began catching up with the Death Eaters. But to his immense surprise, Minerva McGonagall - incidentally, the new Minister of Magic - had ignored him. Why? She knew what he'd done, all those years ago, to Dumbledore, to the world. Perhaps Dumbledore's long-standing trust and protection still ran in his veins, metaphorically of course, even if it was a bit stale. Still, Snape was grateful. He was happy to be in his home. Even if it wasn't the least bit cozy, he much preferred it to a dingy cell in Azkaban.
Snape didn't teach anymore. Of course he didn't. Even if Minerva had kindly ignored him while the Ministry purged Death Eaters from their homes, nobody in their right minds would hire him. Especially not the current headmistress, Nymphadora Tonks. Tonks, though crisply polite, had never trusted him as much as the other members of the Order - namely Dumbledore. It appeared she'd had good reason.
So Snape had just been wasting away in his old home for the past seven years, with no apparent career. He quite enjoyed this quiet lifestyle, leafing through books occasionally, but mostly just thinking. There was a lot to think about. He'd ponder the events of his life, which were many. To his dismay, he regretted most of them. They had been rather traitorous. Like betraying the Potters to Voldemort, even if they had been arrogant jerks. In this act, he had also unjustly secured Dumbledore's trust.
Then all the following years...he'd masqueraded as an aid to Dumbledore, while the whole time he'd been working for Voldemort, feeding him information, becoming a favorite of the Dark Lord. Later on in this charade, he'd become more rebellious, having second thoughts about the whole thing. But the Dark Mark would burn forever. He'd made his choice, and he would stick with it. Of course, it didn't matter now. Voldemort was dead. Killed by Harry Potter.
Harry Potter killed Voldemort. It just wasn't right, thought Snape angrily, not right. Potter was just a boy. Only eighteen years old. Young, fresh out of school, inexperienced. Voldemort was perhaps the greatest sorcerer of all time. How could the boy win? Was it this mysterious love thing Dumbledore had raved about? Well, it shouldn't have been that way.
Of course, thought Snape, reflecting on his life, a Potter had always been his downfall. James Potter, the arrogant idiot from school, still lingered in his memories, though he was long dead. James Potter had made his life miserable through his seven school years. It had almost been a blessing when the Potter boy stumbled into his Potions class. It was Snape's way of revenge on James, crushing Harry's spirit. He smiled. It had been fun docking Gryffindor points, however unjustly.
As Snape's mind arrived at the Potter boy, he remembered other students he'd had. Potter's two best friends, the blood traitor Ron Weasley and the Mudblood Hermione Granger. It had always mystified Snape how the Mudblood was top of every class. Hermione Granger...Ron Weasley. He'd been a nuisance, but now he was dead. Killed by Bellatrix Lestrange shortly before Potter had killed the Dark Lord. All of the Weasleys were nuisances - Molly and Arthur puttering around with Dumbledore, Bill, Charlie, perfect Percy, the troublemakers Fred and George, Ron, and the youngest girl, Ginny.
Snape had had one satisfactory student over the years: Draco Malfoy. He was clever, cunning, pureblood, and in Slytherin. It was natural that he should be Snape's favorite. Snape had despised the other bumbling Slytherin oafs and had never understood why Malfoy had hung out with the idiotic Crabbe and Goyle, who were so thick they couldn't tell a flobberworm from a hippogriff. No, even though Crabbe and Goyle were pureblood Slytherins, they'd lacked any trace of brainpower. Well, it wasn't as if they'd had the greatest gene pool. Their fathers were just as stupid and clumsy as they were.
Other former students' faces popped into Snape's mind. Ernie MacMillan, a rather annoying, pompous Hufflepuff boy...Cho Chang, a pretty Ravenclaw girl...Zacharias Smith, a Hufflepuff boy almost as arrogant as James Potter...Cormac McLaggen, a self-centered, well-connected Gryffindor boy...Luna Lovegood, a strange Ravenclaw girl who had ludicrous ideas...Lavender Brown, a girl who'd seemed attached at the mouth with Ron Weasley for a time.
So, maybe teaching hadn't been Snape's dream job. It had it's ups and its downs. It was satisfying to dock points from other Houses, that was true. But still, being a teacher had gotten annoying. All the kids everywhere. Yuck. And being back at Hogwarts was comparable to an innocent man being sent to Azkaban, released, and then sent back.
Snape had never enjoyed Hogwarts. In fact, he'd hated it. He'd been miserable, and if he wasn't such an ambitious person he'd have dropped out a week in. But he'd stayed, persevered. And for what? Snape glanced around, sighing. It hadn't been worth it. His childhood efforts and sufferings had been in vain.
Dejectedly, Snape leaned back in his chair and sighed. He'd led a wasted life. What good had come of his life? None. What bad? Plenty. Too much. He was a failure. He'd falsely been trusted by the world's greatest wizard ever and it had resulted in his death. He'd helped the most evil sorcerer of all time, resulting in countless deaths. Suddenly Snape was drowning in hot, horrible guilt. His only consolation was that the Potter boy had at last vanquished the Dark Lord, and he'd once saved Harry's life. If he hadn't, Voldemort would still be at large. But Snape knew that saving Potter's life had been repayment to James for saving his own life, nothing more.
Snape passed a hand over his face wearily. He was extremely unhappy, but there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't change the past. Snape carefully combed through his memories, searching for somebody - anybody - to blame his uselessness on besides himself.
And he found someone.
Who had made it so that Snape loathed being at Hogwarts? Whose offspring caused Snape endless annoyance for seven long years? Whose arrogant pranks still caused Snape pain and humiliation? Who still haunted his dreams, laughing at him, teasing him?
James Potter.
Snape sat up straighter. This was why he could never be happy at Hogwarts. Why he couldn't be happy anywhere. The source of all the unhappiness he'd always felt.
It was James's legacy, and it was permanent.
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