Un beta para mí

The characters aren’t mine, I'm not much given to necrophilia.


He had virtually no time to thought, it was better like this. He doubted (how not to?), but he did it. Just a few seconds and it was over.

The funny thing was that now that all ended, he did not found the meaning of anything anymore. Everything seemed so... superficial and meaningless.

He assumed that such thoughts were, in part, by the fact that he had received compliments later. The cacophony of the laughter that was no longer human flooding the room.

"I had misjudged you, Severus."

The congratulating hissing voice, receiving faked praises from his fellows companions, as if he was an idiot. All of them, but the snake with legs, were hating him a little more. He had taken the 'pleasure' of being the one to receive the congratulations.

But it didn’t matter, it no longer made sense.

He had this same feeling before, years ago, when the first war ended. The feeling of having fulfilled a cycle, having done what was expected of him.

Shortly after his release, thanks to Dumbledore had said he was a spy, he had been dragged by the wizard at Hogwarts, saying he could be a professor there.

"I'm old, Severus" the manipulative smile on his lips ... but he had not fallen so easily, he agreed to go to Hogwarts, but he didn’t intend to stay.

Too bad that old busybody had found him before he could leave.

"I don’t think that's the right thing to do”, so handy to say that, it was so ironic now that Dumbledore basically had 'committed suicide'.

"My potions, my life," he had replied, obviously annoyed. He had been discovered with the potion in his hands, completely painless and his own creation.

A simple potion to end it all, without suffering. Who would take it will end in a dreamy state as their blood slowly disappeared from their body.

He had even worried that, when he fall asleep, his last dream would be nice.

"Don’t you think it’s not fair?" Dumbledore had told him "Ironical, perhaps? You love potions, Severus, don’t do 'they' kill you."

One of his best creations ... and he had finished pulling it down the drain.

Ironic ... Now, here in his damn house, sitting in one of the old chairs, it was clear.

Albus had been right, but he was wrong the same.

The potions had been part of his life, had become his life. It wasn’t ironic, but cruel to 'them'. Kill himself with one would have been cruel.

Ironic ... irony was this: to see how the chair was becoming more smearing with the blood coming from his wrists. Irony was that he had used an old muggle knife, a simple and old knife.

”This is irony, Albus” murmured as he felt his eyes close, to die for one of the things he hated most ...

That definitely would be the first thing he would say to Dumbledore as soon as he saw him.

A little sigh and for the first time in years, a quiet smile on his lips.

The cycle was closed... definitely.