Severus flicked a sheaf of hair out of his eyes, and for the space of one heartbeat, fixed the Dark Lord with a gaze that could only be described as murderous. It was  your  incompetence, his own pride recklessly screamed. Over and over, a child has beaten you. Over and over, you have been outsmarted at every turn by a teenaged boy and his idiotic companions. Failure. Miserable. Worthless.  Weak. If Voldemort had pierced his mental barriers at that moment, he would have found a vile, swirling mass of hatred that had bubbled slowly for twenty years. The kind of hatred that only thickened over a low, slow fire of rage.