Severus Snape was dying. Not in the way that one normally thinks of as dying, what with the failing of body and mind and so forth. He was barely fifty years old after all, and considering his genetic makeup (recent history notwithstanding, of course, and adjusting for his rather disgusting Muggle father whose blood would no doubt decrease his life span by no less than five years) Severus had at least another seventy-five years left to live. He was in his prime, really, but instead of being on his third glory-seeking wife and seventh trollopy mistress he was stuck inside this school, dying.

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