The fire was burning low in Snape's study. He thought briefly of throwing another piece of wood onto it, but made no effort to get out of the armchair. The half-darkness suited his current state of mind and, because the only window in the room faced north, no sunlight ever penetrated the dusty window-panes. Not that there would have been any light today anyway -- black clouds were hanging overhead, threatening rain but bringing only an oppressive weight of gloom. No candles were lit either. Snape didn't think he could tolerate even their feeble light. He stared morosely at the glowing embers in the grate, waiting.
For three days now he had spent most of his time in this room, sat hunched in his chair, occasionally scratching at his dark mark, waiting for the his master's summons. Dirty plates and mugs were piled on the floor around the legs of his chair. An uneaten sandwich lay on the hearth, the crusts curling in the heat. His hands were grey with dirt - what was the point in washing? There would be time enough for that, after ... Well, there would be time. Or there wouldn't be.
His mission with the Lestranges had been a success. They had questioned more than a dozen different Muggles, and had received several identical answers. There could be no doubt that they had found the exact hiding-place of the Longbottoms. Rodolphus had informed their master at once. And then 0- nothing. Why had Lord Voldemort made no move yet?
Snape had received a short message from Dumbledore, via phoenix-feather, letting him know that they were ready and would put the plan into action on his word. But still nothing had happened. How long was everyone prepared to wait? How long was he prepared to wait?
A spark soared up the chimney, out of sight. Seeing it, Snape saw the parallel with his own hope -- something that flared into life, and was gone. He prodded the fire with the poker, stirring more sparks out of the charring wood. Hopes, dreams, ambitions -- all gone.
Looking back on the decisions he had made, especially since meeting Lucius Malfoy at Hogwarts, Snape couldn't help but feel angry. It was ridiculous that the mess he was in now, the ruin that his adult life had become, should have been decided by an eleven-year-old boy -- no matter that the child was himself, more than a decade ago. The world should be better organised than that. He pushed the ashes in the fire around once more and watched with a melancholic satisfaction as the sparks disappeared.
The chill in the room was too much, though. He needed to stay alert, so that he would be able to move at a moment's notice. Another log was thrown carelessly onto the fire. The few flames that had been flickering over the remains of the fire were immediately extinguished. Snape sat in the shadows. He knew that the light would return, once the fire had taken hold of the fresh wood.
Was it wise, to dwell so much on past mistakes? He didn't think he could stop himself, even if he wanted to. And besides, what better time was there than this, the end of the Old Year? It seemed very fitting to Snape that he should contemplate the direction his life had taken in the last twelve months, now, on the day that the Old Year died. The eve of a new year. Hallowe'en.