Where Do I Go From Here?

Blackness stared back at him, blurry at first, but then slowly coming in focus as he blinked several times. Merlin, did his head ache, but the migranes were common now, and he seriously considered the possibility that he had developed chronic headaches over the past several weeks.

The longer he stood there, aimlessly staring himself down, he wondered how he ever had the gall to look himself in the eyes anymore. Seeing the fragile face of a murderer staring back at him was, well, not something any man with any small amount of morals would want to live with.

His hair now hung several inches past his shoulders, matted and greasier than ever, and his eyes were nothing but hollow sockets in a gaunt face, his cheekbones sticking out severly. Were it not for his black robes covering his body, one would have quickly thought him to be malnourished. The ashen look of his skin only added to the disarray of his outer appearance, which was certainly no disillusion for what lay beneathe.

Judging by the amount of sunlight coming through the grimy window, Snape figured it was already late afternoon. He had wasted away yet another atrocious day, wondering when might finally come the day when he wouldn't have to open his eyes any longer. So far, he had not been granted that blessing. Casting himself one last filthy look, he turned on himself and exited the austere room with a slam of the door.

He had been moving from place to place, trying to keep a low profile, and perhaps, in some small, unknown way, be of some use to the side of Light, even though they would never have believed so. Summons from the Dark Lord had been few and far between, but for the simple sake of keeping up appearances, he had attended several raids. In all this, he had to keep questioning himself: Was sacrificing a few lives, including that of his late friend, professor, and master, worth the greater good?

Snape spat into the corner of the hallway at the very thought of it, answering that question.

Now, he was holed up in some small town, the name of which he couldn't recall in his half-drunken state. Living off alcohol and pure adrenaline, he sentenced himself to his own malicious misery and persistent punishment.

Seating himself haphazardly at the bar, he scowled at the others nearby. Only a couple of grubby men managed to pass dark looks at him, but they were here with their own sets of problems, drinking their own pathetic lives away, and their petty problems didn't concern Snape in the least.

Heh! Problems indeed! he thought sarcastically.

The barmaid, however, did not seem put off by his demeanor. Leaning over the counter, in a calculated position which made her cleavage very conveniently noticeable, she asked, "Whatcha havin', m'lad?"

Snape's most primal instincts kicked into full gear in that moment. He could have blamed it on any number of reasons, from the ill effects of the alcohol, to sleep-deprivation, to the desperation, to the borderline insanity, but swallowing down his Adam's apple, he croaked hoarsely, "Just a shot of whiskey would suffice, thank you."

"Sure thing," she said with a wink.

Trying to clear his head back into a sensical state, Snape wondered what she was playing at. Did she see something in him that others failed to observe? He just as quickly dismissed such a notion as complete and utter rubbish. She was nothing but a tramp who probably played her show for all the blokes who came through this miserable pub.

A moment later, she placed the drink down in front of him, cradling it with her hands, leaning on the counter again, the glass nearly clutched between her well-endowed womanliness.

"Uh... th-thank you," Snape managed, suddenly feeling quite a bit warmer. Tugging at his collar, he loosened it, which she seemed to notice.

Smiling saccharinely at him, she practically purred, "Hot?"

He didn't say anything, and when she finally relented, Snape heaved a sigh of relief and downed the drink. Moments later, she was back and just as soon offered him another drink.

And another.

And another.

And another.

He was now thoroughly piss-drunk, and the barmaid seemed to have eyes only for him. Most of the other patrons had left.

"You lonely?" she ventured softly.

"Mmm-hmm."

She did her trick again, but this time, she was leaning so far over, her face was a mere two inches from his own. "Rough times, these are. Maybe you need somethin' to ease your sorrows? Forget the pain, if only for a lil' while?"

Her words like sugar, temptingly sweet, evoked a longing that had gone unsatisfied for years. He was no longer aware so much of what he was doing as he followed her to a back room, clearly awaiting something pleasurable to placate the long-suffering pain; speaking of which, a throbbing type of pain had begun in his groin.

Then, before his stupered eyes, the barmaid began to change. If it was true that women were supposed to become more attractive with more drinks, then Snape didn't know what the hell was the backward reasoning for what he was witnessing. In front of him, she wrinkled and greyed, aging an insane number of years, and to make matters worse and more disturbing, the lovely lass sprouted a long beard.

"What the hell?" Snape asked, every word slurred.

He tried to make for the door, but his reflexes were harshly and heavily impaired, and he felt a stinging in his right hand as his wand was taken from him, which he now just realized he had reached for when she began her transformation.

Stepping toward the unnerved, vexed Snape, the old man who was now alone in the room with him said harshly, "Thought you'd be getting pleasure, eh, Snape? No, for you, it's only pain."

As those steely blue eyes penetrated his being, Snape wanted to scream.