Chapter Text
Severus sat at the High Table already, waiting for the students to return for the new year. The Great Hall felt strangely vast while it was still half-empty, the enchanted ceiling glittering above like indifferent stars.
Minerva sat beside him, speaking quietly to Filius. Why, exactly, had he allowed himself to be talked into coming back here again, after resigning as Headmaster?
“Severus… Horace won’t return,” Minerva said. “He claims he is definitively done with teaching. I need you here to cover Potions.”
There was that familiar glimmer in her eyes, irritatingly reminiscent of Albus. And yet Severus could not deny that he had always had a certain soft spot for her.
She had spoken to him for a long time after the final battle, when he lay recovering in the infirmary, weak and bitterly aware of how close death had come. Devastated, once she had learned the truth about everything… and still relentless as ever.
Pomona stood with the Sorting Hat beside the stool, waiting for the first-years, her hands folded patiently. And Severus sat there waiting. But for what? To be scrutinised after everything?
He had been forced to make hard decisions during his year as Headmaster. He had never truly believed he would survive the war. And it had been a very close call.
The cold ground of the Shrieking Shack still returned to him too easily. The metallic taste of blood. His vision blurring at the edges. Potter above him - pale, gaunt, a haunted look in his eyes.
Those green eyes.
And when Severus had looked into them again, he had known… finally, he had known. As though something long delayed had settled into place.
And no one ever - least of all Harry himself - could be allowed to learn the truth. That Harry Potter and he were soulmates.
His gaze flicked down to his right wrist, where the mark lay hidden beneath a leather bracelet. The paw of a panther, embedded in a sparkling emerald.
The doors opened quietly, and the students crowded in, chatting and laughing despite everything. Everyone seemed happy to be back. Severus spotted many of his Slytherins, calmer, more cautious than the Gryffindor crowd, but still back and confident. Even Draco was among them, pardoned after Potter had spoken for him and his mother at the trials.
And then he saw him - Harry. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, more mature. His cheeks more pronounced, though the mop of unruly hair remained. Severus had been surprised when he learned Harry would return for his last year. He had been offered a place with the Auror Corps, alongside Weasley, yet Potter had told Kingsley he needed a break. A normal year.
And now he was here. Severus’ gut tightened. He did not let on, but his own feelings churned beneath the surface. How did one react to their soulmate, who had no idea - and would never know - that they were soulmates?
He sighed and raised his goblet, letting a sip of juice scratch his dry throat. Potter no longer resembled his father. He was clearly his own man. A broad smile lifted his face, and Severus sighed again - until it hit him.
Damn, why did I think it was a good idea to come back? At least ten students I don’t even know thanked me for my service. Two girls gave me stuffies, their eyes like hearts.
Severus almost choked on the sip. If he had ever needed a last indicator that they were truly soulmates, here it was. Soulmates could hear the thoughts of the other if they wished. Of course Harry could not hear him; the barriers around Severus’ mind were higher than ever, stronger than when he had faced the Dark Lord or served under Dumbledore.
He watched Potter accompany Granger and Weasley to the Gryffindor table and glance at Ginevra Weasley.
Can cheeks hurt from smiling?
Damn, Ginny still ignores me. Like it was my fault our soulmarks don’t match. She has the fucking flame and oak leaf on her wrist.
Severus almost snorted. He saw Miss Weasley throw a murderous look at Harry when he wasn’t paying attention.
I got my soulmark first. And why did no one ever mention that there are soulmates in this world? Like… how does everyone just assume I know everything.
A wave of bitterness hit Severus, vanishing only when Granger spoke to Potter.
When everyone was settled, all eyes turned to Minerva, who began: "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. I am glad so many of you are back - but please let us also think of those who cannot be with us anymore."
A sad silence wavered through the hall.
"I want to encourage each of you: build bridges, seek dialogue, do better than the generations before you," Minerva continued, scanning the room. "And now, let us begin the sorting of our new first-years." She smiled and sat down.
While Harry watched the sorting, Severus watched Harry - not openly, of course, but he always let his gaze sweep over him. Potter looked tired around the eyes and seemed not to pay full attention, clapping automatically.
Were we ever this small, when we arrived here?
Severus scoffed.
At least they have no fucking Dark Lord over their heads anymore.
The sorting moved on.
How will I ever know who is my soulmate? And why is it even important? Why can't I just love someone.
Severus’ breath caught. When his mother had told him there were soulmates in the wizarding world, he had thought it the most wonderful thing. One person who truly belonged to him.
He had asked his mother, "So you and Dad are soulmates?"
His mother had looked sad. "No. I rebelled against your grandparents. While you can have a Muggle as a soulmate, even if it’s rare, your father and I aren’t soulmates."
"Then why do you stay with him, if you are not soulmates and you do not love him?" Severus had asked.
"Some things aren’t that easy to explain," was all she had ever said.
Severus had really hoped he would be that lucky. He had thought of Lily, but they had only ever been good friends, at one point in his life. And after his service, he had never expected to find his soulmate. But, of course, fate had decided it would be amusing to pair him with Harry Potter.
Severus hadn’t paid much attention.
But what if it is someone ugly...
Severus’ breath caught again.
…like Goyle, or unpleasant like Malfoy…
Or someone ugly and horrible, like himself.
Severus was spiralling, his self-disgust and self-loathing never far away. He was old - double Potter’s age - ugly. He could not even bear to look at himself in the mirror; in the bathroom, he avoided his own gaze. His body was thin - wiry, with muscle, yes - but pale, marked with more scars than he could ever count. Not to mention Nagini’s scar at his neck, still faintly tight beneath the skin.
And that was only the outside. He had done and endured things no one ever should.
His hand clenched around his goblet, and only then did he realise the Sorting had ended and Minerva was speaking again.
“I would like to introduce you to some of our new - and old - professors,” she said. “Professor Snape was kind enough to return as Potions Master after Professor Slughorn retired to his well-deserved rest.”
There was little applause. Of course there was not. The students knew him - and hated him. After last year, even more so.
Snape still looks tired… and too thin. I don’t think it’s good for him to be back here.
Severus looked up. Potter’s gaze was fixed on him, brows drawn together. The look hit him low in the gut, sharp and unexpected. His stomach clenched.
But his look is still frightening.
It struck again, clean and merciless.
And this year I have Potions with him again. And no book from the Half-Blood Prince that explains everything. I am so doomed.
Severus knew Potter had possessed his old Potions text in sixth year. Still, there was a faint trace of reluctant admiration in the thought, and it unsettled him more than open fear ever could.
Minerva continued, drawing their attention away. “And welcome Professor Weasley - Bill Weasley, as there are so many - as our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”
The hall erupted into cheers, loudest from the Gryffindor table. Ronald Weasley clapped enthusiastically for his brother.
“And our final addition,” Minerva said, “Professor Clearwater, our new Muggle Studies professor.”
The Ravenclaw table burst into applause; she had once been one of their own.
“A reminder,” Minerva added. “The Forbidden Forest is, as its name states, forbidden. This rule applies to everyone.”
Her gaze lingered on Harry Potter, who merely raised an eyebrow.
Why the hell does she think I want to go into the forest? Already now - after I died there.
The disgust in the thought was sharp, and Severus exhaled slowly.
“And now,” Minerva said, brightening, “let the feast begin. Enjoy.”
Platters appeared - roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, thick gravy, peas. Severus took a small portion of everything. He was not particularly hungry, but if he ate nothing, Minerva would ask questions.
He ate slowly, cutting everything with precise, methodical movements. The last evening before he had to step fully back into his old role as professor.
Severus was already seated in the Great Hall for breakfast. He had slept abnormally badly. His thoughts had spiralled, revisiting every poor decision he had ever made. So he had risen before dawn and prepared himself with precision. Black slacks, a black button-down shirt, and over it a black robe with a high collar and more buttons than he cared to count. He had even prepared the Potions classroom for the first lesson.
He felt Minerva’s gaze on him as he slowly drank his black tea, sweetened with two spoons of sugar - one indulgence he still allowed himself.
“Severus, are you well enough for your first lessons?” she asked.
“Of course. As well as ever,” he scoffed. He ate his toast while reading a book on the theory of underwater plants used in potion-making.
How can Hermione talk this much in the morning? I’m barely awake. If I sleep this little, I’ll fall asleep during class.
Severus looked up and saw Potter entering with his friends. He looked genuinely tired, shoulders slightly slumped. Harry’s gaze met his.
Merlin, if I fall asleep in Potions, Snape will skin me alive and use me as an ingredient.
The corner of Severus’ mouth lifted before he could stop himself. The thought was absurdly amusing. Harry stared at him, eyes widening.
Is that a smile? Why? Snape never smiles.
Severus took a measured sip of his tea to conceal it. He needed to regain control.
At the end of breakfast, the Heads of House distributed the timetables. Severus moved down the rows with efficient precision. Of course, his first lesson would be a combined seventh- and eighth-year Slytherin–Gryffindor class. With so many students choosing not to return, it made practical sense.
Bill Weasley, the new Head of Gryffindor, received loud cheers - and a fair number of groans - as he handed out schedules to his students.
Severus leaned against the desk at the front of the classroom, arms crossed, wand resting loosely in his right hand, and waited for the students to enter. He received a number of surprised glances; usually he arrived only after the class had already settled.
He’s never in the classroom this early.
A disturbance in the natural order.
Severus had not known Potter possessed such a snarky, sarcastic sense of humour. Of course he had not. He had never bothered to learn who Harry Potter truly was.
His gaze swept over the room. As ever, the seating was strictly divided between Gryffindor and Slytherin. His Slytherins looked more reserved; many of the Gryffindors met his eyes with thinly veiled dismissal.
“You are back for your final year at Hogwarts,” Severus drawled. “Only your NEWTs await you now. And many of you will not achieve them.”
A few gasps followed.
Couldn’t he be a little more positive?
Severus scoffed softly. “I will prepare you as well as I am able - but you will be expected to study extensively on your own. No laziness. No rubbish.”
He flicked his wand toward the blackboard, and the recipe for the Draught of Living Death appeared in precise, elegant script.
“Today you will brew the Draught of Living Death. It is a powerful sleeping draught. If brewed incorrectly, it will result in death. It is also highly addictive; therefore, it is not to be taken regularly. Later in the term, you will also brew the antidraught.”
He paused, letting the words sink in.
“You will find the recipe in your textbooks as well. Begin.”
With nothing else to occupy him - it being the first day, with no essays yet to mark - Severus began to walk slowly through the classroom. Students moved to the cupboards, gathering ingredients.
Damn it, Potter, get a grip. You can’t fail Potions. Even if Snape makes you nervous. You’ve faced Voldemort - is’s just a potion.
Severus frowned inwardly. Had Potter always been this tense in his class?
He stopped here and there, peering into cauldrons, but did not comment. Somehow, despite himself, he was drawn toward Potter, who had set up his workspace at the back of the room.
When Severus came closer, he saw Potter gnawing on his lower lip. A full lower lip.
His eyes snapped upward. Concentration, Severus.
He moved in behind Potter and examined the cauldron. Step four of seven - but the draught was slightly off, the surface shimmer just a shade too dull.
Damn it. I need to do better this year. I can’t fail on the very first day. Something’s wrong, but I did exactly what the stupid book says. I wish I had the Half-Blood Prince’s notes - his comments were always so helpful.
Another thought of the Half-Blood Prince. Of him. Why was Potter still thinking about it?
Fuck. And now he’s standing behind me. He’ll probably vanish the whole thing. Or tell me I’m an idiot.
Severus could practically feel the tension radiating from him. He leaned in slightly closer. The scent of the draught hit him first - heavy, bitter - but beneath it lingered something else. A faint herbal note from an eau de toilette. Masculine.
Severus inhaled before realising what he was doing. First day - and already his control was slipping.
He forced his attention back to the potion. Potter’s hands trembled faintly as he chopped the ingredients for the next step.
Should I add another stir? I already did seven clockwise and two counterclockwise. But maybe one more - even if it’s not in the book. The Prince did that all the time. It can’t get worse.
Against his will, Severus felt a flicker of impressed surprise. The instinct was sound.
“You need to add one more stir,” Severus murmured, “counterclockwise.”
Potter gasped softly. “Thank you, sir,” he said, almost under his breath. As Severus moved on, he caught the next thought.
Did Snape just help me? Why? He was even… nice. He’s never nice to me.
Severus sighed inwardly. For all of Potter’s reckless courage, he lacked confidence here - and Severus knew he was not entirely innocent in that. Perhaps Potter had inherited more of Lily’s aptitude for potions than Severus had ever allowed himself to acknowledge.
As he continued his slow circuit between the workstations, Severus paused here and there, eyes flicking briefly into cauldrons.
“Thomas,” he barked. “Your potion is abysmal. Start again.”
With a sharp flick of his wand, the contents of Thomas’ cauldron vanished, leaving the boy staring down at it, open-mouthed.
“Parkinson,” Severus continued coolly, “after seven years, one would expect you to know how to dice an ingredient properly.”
“Yes, Professor,” came the clipped reply.
There was no reason to coddle his Slytherins any longer.
Severus returned to his desk at the front of the room, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest, watching his students work.
…I just can’t understand him…
The thought brushed against his mind, faint but persistent. From time to time, Severus tried to shut Potter’s thoughts out entirely. But it was… difficult. Too easy to let them slip through. Too tempting, even if it was an overstep.
He had done far worse things in his life. And this - this was only a glimpse of what might have been, had he been a different man. Had he been permitted to speak the truth aloud. Had he been allowed to claim what fate had bound to him.
He felt Potter’s gaze flick toward him more than once as the boy continued brewing. Then Miss Weasley passed behind Potter on her way to the cupboard and hissed something in his ear.
Harry stiffened, lips pressing thin, jaw tightening. Why can’t she just leave it? We could still be friends - not enemies. It’s not my fault.
The bitterness in the thought struck hard. Severus’ gut clenched. He did not like it.
“Miss Weasley,” Severus cut in smoothly, “perhaps you would care to explain your commentary? Or shall you share it with the entire class?”
He leaned forward slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“No - no, Professor. I’m sorry,” Miss Weasley said quickly, colour rising in her cheeks.
“Five points from Gryffindor,” Severus said evenly, “for impertinent behaviour.”
Petty? Certainly.
Unavoidable? Also certainly.
“Finish up,” he continued. “You have five minutes. Label your vials and place them on my desk.”
He’s strange lately. That’s not the Snape I used to know…
Severus exhaled slowly. No. He was precisely the same as ever.
He simply found - to his own irritation - that he could not help being marginally kinder to his soulmate.
“Time is up. Your homework is an essay of one and a half to two feet on the applications and dangers of the Draught of Living Death,” Severus said.
He punished himself with such assignments as much as he punished the students; he would have to read and evaluate them, and most were - inevitably - abysmal.
The class hurried to bottle their draughts, place them on his desk, and clean up. No one lingered. Potter was among the last to approach. Severus saw at once that the potion was flawless.
“You should trust your instincts more,” Severus said quietly, already reaching for the next vial.
Potter blinked at him, clearly taken aback, but said nothing - likely too stunned.
Maybe he’s trying to drive me mad. If so, he’s doing a remarkably good job.
Severus suppressed a scoff as Potter left the room. Granger’s potion was very good, but not perfect. She was an exceptional student, but too rigid; she followed books when she ought to listen to the potion itself. He marked an E beside her name.
When he uncorked Potter’s vial and inhaled, it was exactly as he had expected.
Cheating? Perhaps. But strangely enough, it gave him a small pleasure. Potter had been moving in the right direction already.
Severus marked an O beside his name.
He rose and passed through the door into his private office, moving to the bookshelf. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled out an old Potions text - his own seventh-year book. Like the others, it was dense with notes and marginalia. He sighed. His thoughts had been darker then; the spells he invented more lethal.
He slid the book back into place. Nothing he would ever show Potter.
Returning to the classroom, Severus set about preparing the room for the next lesson, his movements precise, his expression composed - as though nothing at all had unsettled him. As though he had not allowed himself a single, dangerous indulgence.
When Harry stepped out of the Potions classroom, he hurried to catch up with Ron and Hermione.
“Hermione - Hermione,” he hissed.
“Harry? What happened? Did Snape do something?” Hermione asked at once, concern written all over her face.
Ron raised his eyebrows.
“No… and that’s the strange part,” Harry said.
“What do you mean?” Ron asked, slipping an arm around Hermione.
“He was actually… nice,” Harry said slowly. “As nice as Snape can be, anyway.”
Hermione blinked. Ron stared.
“He told me I should trust my instincts,” Harry added.
“That’s not bad advice,” Hermione said after a moment.
“I know,” Harry replied. “And if it came from McGonagall, Hagrid, or Flitwick, I wouldn’t think twice. But it’s Snape. What’s he planning?”
“Maybe he really changed after the war,” Hermione suggested.
“I doubt it,” Ron said. “He took points from Ginny.”
“She deserved it,” Harry said, irritation flickering. “After what she said to me.”
Hermione sighed. “You two really should try to sort this out.”
“It’s not me causing the problem,” Harry said sharply. “I can’t do anything about my soulmark.”
Ron and Hermione exchanged a look and sighed.
“I know, Harry,” Hermione said gently. “We’ll figure something out.”
They headed toward their next class, but Harry’s thoughts lingered behind. Snape was strange. And… nice.
Too much like the Half-Blood Prince. And that was dangerous - because Harry had truly liked the Half-Blood Prince. Harry sighed again.
When Severus sat down for dinner at the High Table, he was exhausted. He had told Minerva he was back to full health, but perhaps that had not been the entire truth. He would never admit it now; Minerva would only give him that knowing look and tut softly, as though he were an errant student.
So when she asked how the day had been, he merely replied, “As expected.”
It was a wonderfully meaningless answer, and Minerva knew it. He cut his meat with precise, economical movements, pretending not to notice the noise of the hall. He had blocked Potter out after a brief pang of guilt. One could, he had found, get used to that.
Still, he had been debating with himself for several minutes. And because he was weak - or perhaps merely human - he allowed himself a single glimpse. He nearly choked on his next bite.
…I really shouldn’t keep calling him the Half-Blood Prince. It’s Snape, for fuck’s sake. My tormentor for seven years.
Severus took a measured sip of pumpkin juice.
But he’s also one of the most intelligent people I know. I mean - he invented his own spells. That’s… admirable.
Severus suppressed another cough as Minerva glanced at him sharply.
I need to stop thinking about him. But what am I supposed to do? Go to the Prophet? Let Skeeter write an article? “The Golden Boy searches for his soulmate.” Brilliant. I could just-
The thought broke off abruptly - Granger had interrupted Potter, Severus realised, her voice pulling him away. The echo of it left Severus momentarily speechless. Harry Potter admired him.
No - not him, precisely. The Half-Blood Prince. But Severus was the Half-Blood Prince.
Realistically, the knowledge led nowhere. It changed nothing. It solved nothing. And yet-
Still.
Severus had sought refuge in routine the moment he returned to his quarters. He’d retreated to the small, shadowed sanctuary of his private laboratory and lost himself for several hours in the precise, unforgiving rhythm of potion-making - measuring, stirring, watching liquids shift from sullen crimson to cool silver. It was the only thing that ever came close to silencing his mind.
But now even that refuge had failed him.
After a perfunctory shower he crawled into bed wearing nothing but an old, faded Slytherin house shirt, the cotton worn thin at the seams, and a pair of long pajama trousers. The sheets were cool against his overheated skin. He extinguished the lamps with a curt flick of his wand and lay rigid on his back, willing sleep to claim him.
Sleep, predictably, refused.
Instead his traitor mind replayed the fragment of Harry's thoughts he had glimpsed. Bright and unguarded. Of his admiration for the half-blood Prince.
When he cllosed his eyes, Severus saw vivid green eyes. That eternally disobedient black hair that refused to lie flat no matter how often impatient fingers raked through it. High, elegant cheekbones that caught the light like cut glass. A mouth that - Merlin help him - had curved into the smallest, most private smile.
Something low and hot fluttered hard in Severus’s gut. He closed his eyes tightly. Breathed through his nose. Tried to force calm. It didn’t help.
Heat pooled low in his belly, insistent, shameful. He felt himself thicken beneath the loose fabric of his pyjamas, the traitor organ already half-hard from nothing more than the memory of green eyes and a fleeting, fond thought.
This was wrong. Harry didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Severus had no right to this. No right to let his mind travel where it so clearly wanted to go.
And yet. His hand moved almost without permission, sliding down over the front of his trousers, pressing the heel of his palm against the growing length. He sucked in a sharp breath at the contact. Just that - fabric and pressure - was enough to make his hips twitch.
He told himself he would stop. He didn’t stop. Instead his fingers curled, massaging slowly through the cotton, feeling the way his cock jerked and swelled under the touch. A low, broken sound escaped his throat. He hated how needy it sounded. Hated how much he wanted.
No one would ever know, he told himself. No one but him. And he had spent a lifetime judging himself far more harshly than anyone else ever could.
He pushed the waistband of his pyjamas down just far enough. His cock sprang free, already slick at the tip. He wrapped long fingers around himself and gave one slow, experimental stroke.
The groan that tore out of him was ragged. He imagined - couldn’t stop himself from imagining - Harry’s hand instead of his own. Callused from a wand and a broom and too many battles. Curious. Careful at first, then bolder. Those bright eyes looking up at him, wide with hunger and something dangerously close to trust. Severus’s breath hitched.
He cupped his balls with his other hand, rolling them gently, tugging just enough to make pleasure spike sharp and bright behind his eyes. More precum leaked steadily now, slicking the way as he stroked faster.
Would Harry use his mouth? The thought nearly undid him.
He pictured it - those soft, slightly chapped lips parting, the wet heat, the tentative flick of tongue. The way Harry would probably hesitate for half a heartbeat before committing fully, the way he always did when something mattered. The scent of him. The taste. Severus’s hips jerked up into his fist.
He imagined them tangled together in these very sheets. Harry beneath him, above him, astride him - any way at all, it didn’t matter. Skin against skin. Breath against breath. Those long legs wrapped around his waist. That maddening mouth gasping his name - not Potter’s sneering drawl of Snape, but something softer, wrecked, intimate. Severus.
It was too much. His rhythm faltered, grew erratic. His balls drew up tight. Pleasure coiled unbearably low and bright.
He came with a choked, almost silent cry, spilling hot and thick over his fingers, streaking across his stomach. The release hit so hard it whited out his vision for a long second.
And then - silence. And then the familiar, suffocating wave of disgust. He lay there panting, chest heaving, staring up at the shadowed canopy of his bed while shame crawled over his skin like damp rot.
A single flick of his wand later, the mess was gone. His clothing was straightened. The evidence erased.
He rolled onto his side, curled in on himself, and pressed his mouth into the crook of his elbow as though he could smother the taste of his own weakness.
Never again, he swore to the darkness.
Never again.
Even he didn’t believe it.
Severus had slept poorly. Even if his body was satisfied, his mind was wide awake. He loathed himself for his weakness, and when he walked stiffly toward the Great Hall, his barriers were ironclad, Harry Potter shut out entirely.
He could not endure even a single thought.
Not even if part of him wanted it.
Not even if part of him needed it.
He had been weak the night before. He had indulged himself in sick behaviour - dwelling on a young man for whom the world lay open. A man who could have anything. A young man who had sacrificed everything to destroy the Dark Lord, to save the wizarding world.
And this was his reward. To be burdened with an old, ugly, horrible man. Severus pressed his lips thin, back rigid. Many eyes followed him as he took his seat at the High Table.
“Good morning, Severus,” Minerva said.
He merely nodded.
“I see your mood is not… good,” she added gently.
Not good, he scoffed inwardly. That was a gross understatement. His mood was abysmal.
He took a sip of tea, glanced at his toast, and finally forced himself to take a bite, chewing with distaste. When he looked up, emerald green eyes were fixed on him, brows drawn together in concern.
His jaw clenched until his cheeks ached. When he finished, he vanished the remnants of his breakfast and stood abruptly. “I have classes to prepare,” he said curtly to Minerva.
He had almost reached the doors when a voice stopped him.
“Professor Snape.”
Severus halted. His hands curled into fists, his face a perfect mask.
“I wanted to ask if I might inquire about asphodel and its use in the Draught of Living Death,” Potter said.
Severus’ gaze swept over the young man’s face. There was a three-day beard along his jaw; it suited him far too well. Something stirred unpleasantly in Severus’ gut - and then memory struck, sharp and merciless. Guilt followed. Disgust close behind.
“There are more than enough books in the library for you to consult,” Severus snapped. “Do not waste my time with foolish questions.”
Potter’s eyes widened.
“I’m sorry, sir. I won’t bother you again,” he said quietly, his expression falling.
Severus turned away sharply. He could not bear the look - and worse, he knew he had caused it. Stupid. Idiotic. Pathetic.
The words followed him as he walked away, each step a punishment he had fully earned.