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Burnout I
Life at Hogwarts had always been a bit surreal: children outnumbered adults, a school bell dominated the days, and everything was accompanied by ceremonial pomp and circumstance. In past years, Severus had found the routine and formality soothing. He appreciated the structure, the regular cycle of classes and the hierarchy that tempered relationships.
But lately, life at Hogwarts chafed. He was tired of being surrounded by children, seeing at the same faces across the teachers lounge, fighting the same useless battles with his students and colleagues.
Life outside of Hogwarts--what little of it Severus had--was not much better. For a long time being a Death Eater had given him a definite political and social advantage, but now he no longer had the good word of Lucius Malfoy to balance his unpopularity and cantankerous personality. Many of his former students had positions in the Ministry, and few of them remembered him fondly. So his reputation suffered, professionally and personally.
He had never particularly relished putting in the occasional appearance at Malfoy’s dinners and charity events, and he was surprised to find that he missed being forced into the wider world. He felt trapped and edgy most of the time. The days blurred together, until he hardly noticed them passing.
His ridiculous crush on Potter was doubtless a result of his isolation. His mind had simply latched onto the first attractive man to pay him any attention in years, especially since Potter was the antithesis of the dull, routinized life Severus had grown to dread. The man had a kind of sparkle about him. He somehow seemed more vivid than the rest of the world.
Severus saw no reason not to indulge in fantasies. As a skilled Occlumens, he had no trouble sectioning off the part of his mind that had to deal with Potter professionally from the part that fantasized about pushing Potter against the wall in the staffroom, crushing Potter's lips, sliding his hands down the hard stomach, rubbing the growing bulge between his legs. He wondered what Potter tasted like, what he smelled like when he was aroused.
But by mid October he had to admit that his interest in Potter was bordering on obsession. Worse, he had an awful, sinking suspicion that Potter had begun to catch on. Sometimes he thought he caught the Potter’s eyes on him, an odd, penetrating gaze, and he would tense to keep a shudder from moving through his body. Under those eyes he felt utterly naked. When Potter looked at him something in him responded, despite his best efforts. He would cover the feelings with a cold glare, and later replay the encounter again and again in his mind, wondering if he had given himself away.