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- 1971 -
He waits anxiously for his name to be called. Snape is far down the list, he knows, but he’s impatient nonetheless. Excited. He’s dreamed of this day for months, years.
Since his mother had told him, half-heartedly, of this world. She had given it up years ago, magic and all its wonders, and Severus cannot fathom why.
Hogwarts is even more grand than it was in his dreams, and magic is more magnificent than anything he could have ever dreamed up in his mind, more beautiful and rich and entrancing than he could have ever imagined.
He’d spent days up in the dusty attic at home, rummaging through his mother’s old stuff, the yellowed pages of her textbooks, all the notes, the forgotten trinkets, magical and most of them broken, from the world of magic. He’d skipped entire weeks of school - the Muggle school near Lily’s house - to look at the old books, at all the magic.
Magic, a talent he possessed, too. The only thing, the only talent that had ever made him special, different from the other boys on Spinner’s End, who would never get to see this magical world, who would never be wizards.
The moment his mother had told him that he possessed the talent for magic, his dreams to become just like his father when he’d be a grown up - to work at the factory, to play cards on Friday nights with his friends, to go to the pub after his shifts to watch football - had vanished. His father’s life had seemed ridiculous compared to everything possible in the magic world.
His only dream, his only goal, had become to be a real wizard.
A real wizard, powerful, like Merlin from his mother’s books.
Severus watches the professor with the tiny glasses - McGonagall, she had introduced herself earlier - place the speaking hat on top of the girl’s head whose name had started with R.
His own can’t be so far on the list anymore, and he’s almost giddy with excitement, peering over the shoulder of the boy in front of him at the speaking hat, which just now loudly exclaims "Hufflepuff!".
The girl jumps off the small stool and dashes for the table with the students with yellow ties.
Severus had read a lot about Hogwarts and its Houses, and out of the four, only Ravenclaw had really intrigued him.
Ravenclaw, the House that values wisdom the most, knowledge. Knowledge is power, Severus knows, and he desperately wants to have all of it.
He’d shown Lily his mother’s books, Lily, who shares his talents, Lily, his best friend.
They wanted to be sorted into the same House, and Ravenclaw, Lily had said, sounded great.
Severus glances at her, sitting at the table with the people with red ties. Gryffindor, House of the brave. She smiles at him widely, happily, and he forces himself to smile back.
He knows that it wasn’t her decision, but he feels upset nonetheless. All of this is as new for her as it is for him, and they’d sworn each other that they’d explore this world together.
His name is called, and Severus feels a rush of nervousness together with his excitement as he strides forward and up the stairs to the podium to sit on the stool.
At least six hundred pairs of eyes stare at him when he sits down, and Severus feels instantly uncomfortable under so much attention. He’s never been under so much scrutiny as now.
McGonagall places the speaking hat on his head and Severus can’t help the flinch when suddenly, he hears its voice in his head.
"Hmm", it hums in its rumbling voice, "What do we have here?"
Severus doesn’t like the sensation of this voice speaking to him in his head. "Put me in Ravenclaw", he thinks as hard as he can.
The hat hums again, thoughtfully. "Ravenclaw, hmm? Yes, yes, you do have the potential. A clever mind, quick wit, talent…" There is a pause, and Severus nearly shivers with anticipation. The hat doesn’t yet announce his House, though. "You would fit into Ravenclaw but you could prosper in Slytherin."
Severus’ eyes flicker over to the table with the green banners above it, a silver snake on them. His mother had been in Slytherin. The House of the cunning, of ambition. And that’s what he is, isn’t he? Ambitious?
"Slytherin could make you powerful, yes", the hat rumbles in his head, "Plenty of ambition, there."
Severus swallows, and glances at Lily looking up at him expectantly. He knows that Slytherin and Gryffindor are opposing Houses. That they won’t be as close as they were before.
The hat doesn’t hesitate. "Slytherin!", it exclaims, and it’s as loud as a roar in Severus’ ears.
McGonagall lifts the hat away, and Severus glad to be rid of its presence in his thoughts. His head is spinning as he makes his way over to the Slytherin table.
His housemates’ cheering rings in his ears. He sits down, his heart beating in his chest. Lily, when he dares glance at her again, isn’t looking at him anymore and instead at the girl being sorted now. Severus isn’t sure whether she’s aware that they’re now in rivalling Houses.
Someone’s hand pats him on the back and Severus flinches, rearing back in his seat only to peer up at the hand’s owner. An older boy with shoulder-length blonde hair that is so bright that it’s almost white in the hall’s golden light. His eyes are piercing grey, and he smiles coldly at Severus.
He looks so different from anyone Severus has seen before - different from the boys on Spinner’s End or the boys at school, or anyone living in Cokeworth, really.
He’s a wizard, Severus’ mind supplies helpfully. A real wizard.
"Welcome to Slytherin", the boy says. His accent is polished, refined, posh. His voice is haughty, unimpressed, bored. "I’m Lucius Malfoy, a prefect this year. If you need anything, you can ask me or anyone else who has this badge."
He points at the little silver badge on the lapel of his robes, with the Slytherin emblem and the word ‘prefect’ written under it.
Severus nods, unsure what to say. It’s not a very warm welcome to the Wizarding World, but it is a welcome, and Lucius Malfoy seems decent enough, from what he tells Severus over dinner, where there is more food on the table than Severus has ever seen in one place before.
He’s assigned to share a room with someone called Wilkes and someone called Avery, and they both have the same posh accent as Malfoy, and they both don’t look at Severus twice, not even when he tries to talk to them.
It doesn’t matter, he muses, when he lies underneath the soft duvet of his bed, his first night in Hogwarts.
None of it matters because he’ll be a wizard now. He’s sure of it.
He’ll be a real wizard.
Won’t he?
* * *
- 1972 -
The heat this year is stifling. It’s so hot that even the weeds crawling between the uneven paving of the small, deteriorated backyard are dying.
Severus’ knees hurt from sitting against the hot, coarse surface of the paving, the sun is ruthless, glaring down from the sky. There is not a spot of shade in the backyard and Severus is sure that he’ll have the worst sunburn again, later, when he’s done picking the dry weeds from the ridges between the tiles.
As if his father cared about how his backyard looked. As if the weeds were the worst part of it.
He thinks, listlessly, of Lily and how she’s probably wondering where he is. She had invited him over for lunch, and it’s past noon already, past lunch, and he hasn’t eaten anything.
He’s terribly thirsty, too, and half the backyard isn’t done yet, and he’s sweating in the long-sleeve shirt he put on against the sun.
He looks up to see his father standing behind the kitchen window, watching him. It’s Saturday and he doesn’t usually work on Saturdays.
Severus bends forward to pick more of the weeds out of the ridges closer to the fence. The rubbish bins nearby stink horribly in the heat, and the sharp smell stings in Severus’ eyes, makes his stomach squirm.
He hears the door open behind him. "Come inside", his father’s gruff voice sounds, "Do the rest later, when the sun’s gone."
Severus sits up and wipes the sweat from his brow, glancing at where his father is standing. His shirt is stained in places, and there is a tear in one of the sleeves.
His father’s hand grasps his shoulder before he can walk past him. "Have you learned your lesson?"
Severus nods, and his father’s eyes narrow.
"Next time", he says lowly, "I will not be so lenient."
Severus knows that he means it, every word. Not so lenient means the belt. He shudders. "I won’t do it again", he says, and hopes that he actually won’t.
It’s not like he had intended to levitate the dining table, after all. An accident. Accidental magic, Professor McGonagall had said, is perfectly normal for children Severus’ age.
"See that you don’t", Severus’ father grunts and lets him go.
Inside, it’s just slightly colder but more stuffy than outside, but there is water in the fridge, and Severus gulps it down greedily. The coldness feels good against his parched throat, and he splashes some of it in his overly warm face.
In the mirror by the door, he can see that his face is a bright red, and he just knows that he’ll look ridiculous tomorrow, and that it’s going to hurt horridly for a few days.
His mother is in the living room, watching some quiz show on their newly-acquired telly. It’s old, really, used. Severus’ father had bought it from a colleague at the mill.
She doesn’t look up when Severus enters the room, and she doesn’t even seem to be watching the telly at all, just staring through it.
A half-burned, glimmering fag hangs from between her fingers, smoke trailing to the ceiling. The whole room stinks of it, cold smoke.
"Ma", Severus says quietly. The shutters are pulled down halfway, and if her eyes weren’t open, he’d assume she was sleeping.
The people in the telly cheer. Someone’s won, apparently.
His mother blinks, waking from her trance. She has this, sometimes. Moments when she isn’t quite there. Absent.
"Ma", Severus repeats.
She turns in her armchair to look at him. "What?", she asks. Her voice is hoarse and breathy, from all the smoking. Her teeth are yellow. Some are missing. "Can’t you see that I’m watching this?"
She raises the cigarette to her lips, takes a slow drag.
"Can I go to Lily’s?", he asks hesitantly.
She turns away, looks at the people in the telly. "Be home for dinner."
As if they’re ever having dinner together.
Lily lives in the nice part of Cokeworth. The part where there are two cars on the pavement in front of the houses which have nice, manicured lawns, and flowerboxes at the windows.
Her father works at the mill, too, but he’s an engineer. Studied and such, Severus’ father says.
Funnily, Lily doesn’t live that far away from the hellhole that is Spinner’s End, just a few streets, where everything looks like from a different world, so nice and clean.
Even after the years they’ve been friends, Severus still feels misplaced here.
He rings the doorbell. Mrs Evans opens, and she’s so different from Severus’ mother, it’s astounding.
She’s always smiling, it seems, and she’s always so nice to Severus. She doesn’t mind that he’s wearing his father’s old clothes or that he’s eating way too much when she cooks lunch.
She’s also a Muggle. Severus’ mother isn’t.
"Oh, Severus", she says and she sounds almost relieved to see him.
"Ma’am", he says, and his throat is dry again.
"Come in", she offers and steps aside.
The inside of the house is just as nice as the outside. Clean, for one, and furnished prettily, with matching colours and all that.
They also have a brand new telly, and a radio that can play cassette tapes.
Lily is outside, together with her sister, and the inflatable swimming pool that’s large enough to actually swim in.
"Severus!", she exclaims when she sees him. She’s wearing a bathing suit with white polka dots.
Her sister’s face darkens with a scowl when she sees him. Petunia hates him.
Because he’s a wizard and she’s not. Because he’s special, and she’s not.
"Hey", he says, and she beams at him, "Sorry I didn’t come for lunch."
She shakes her head. "Don’t worry. Mum said that you’re probably eating at home."
He nods and lets himself be pulled onto the lawn and under the parasol installed there. His stomach growls at her words, empty except for the dry toast he’d had this morning.
Lily’s mother brings them ice cream, strawberry and chocolate. His sunburn forgotten, they sit on the grass under the parasol, talking, laughing, transfiguring the daisies growing on the lawn into poppies.
It’s another one of the many reasons why Severus loves going to Lily’s. To be able to do magic tricks without his father exploding with rage.
Petunia watches them enviously for a moment, until she leaves, stomping to the house angrily, her bowl of ice cream abandoned.
He twirls the red poppy between his fingers, watching her go.
Yes, Severus thinks when she slams the door behind her, compared to her, he’s special, if only in one regard.
* * *
- 1973 -
The Dreadful written in red ink glares back at him mockingly from the parchment, and Severus feels his eyes sting with the urge to cry.
Potions is his favourite subject. He’s good at it, he knows it, and yet-
He looks up at Slughorn and swallows convulsively against the tears welling up in his eyes. The man looks almost apologetic.
"You were asked to brew the potion from the given recipe", he says, "Not to change the recipe to your liking."
"But the potion- It works like it should, sir, it works even better." Severus hates the way his voice quivers.
Slughorn inclines his head. "Be that as it may", he sighs, "It was not your assignment to change the recipe."
"But sir-"
A strange, grave expression slides on Slughorn’s face. Cold, angry, unfamiliar. Severus clamps his mouth shut.
"Mr Snape", Slughorn says quietly. Some other students are already staring at them, wondering what takes the professor so long to hand the rest of the papers out. "The mark is final."
"Yes, sir", Severus whispers, staring at the Dreadful through a blur of tears, willing himself not to cry like some child half his age.
Slughorn moves on and Lily touches Severus’ arm.
An Outstanding is written on her parchment, with two red lines for emphasis underneath.
"It’s not the end of the world", she says quietly, and behind them, Severus can hear Black and Potter cheer about their Acceptables.
Severus shoves his parchment into his bag and wipes at his eyes. Lily must already think that he’s an idiot for crying over a mark, and he doesn’t want the rest of the class to see. Especially not Black or Potter.
"It worked better than the recipe given", Severus whispers and she nods.
"I know that it did", she says and sounds as apologetic as Slughorn did.
Severus shrugs her hand on his arm off, takes his bag and storms from the classroom the moment the lesson is over.
The second floor bathroom is empty, as it’s lunchtime and most people are at the Great Hall, and he looks at his own red eyes and the flush to his cheeks in the mirror, feeling more pathetic than ever.
Slughorn has always been unfair - has clear favourites among his students, his little club, and gives marks without much consideration, but Severus has never, ever had something worse than an Acceptable, not in Potions and not elsewhere, and he wants to desperately cry.
His academic success is all he has to his name, unlike those with last names that make people like Slughorn fall over themselves in an attempt to bow - Malfoy, Avery, Nott.
Academic success is essential if he wants to be a real wizard, and that is really all he wants.
Bowed over one of the sinks as he is, and wrapped up in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice the door opening until it’s too late.
James Potter is laughing boisterously, Remus Lupin smiles tentatively at whatever he’s laughing about, and Peter Pettigrew giggles like a little girl, as they enter the bathroom. Of all bathrooms in the castle, they enter this one.
Sirius Black’s mouth twists in a malicious smirk when he spots Severus and Severus swallows thickly, suddenly very afraid.
"Look who it is", Black says gleefully, like he’s won a prize.
"If it isn’t Snivellus", Potter laughs, "Have you ever had a Dreadful in Potions, Sirius?"
Black grins widely. "Never, James. Though I know someone who did."
Severus isn’t stupid enough to fall for their taunting. He’s heard it often enough before. About his appearance, his home, his whatever.
He doesn’t even want to know how they found out about the mark, though. He doesn’t dare think that Lily told them, even if Lily is close with Lupin and Black.
"Leave me alone", he says, like he always says when they corner him like this, but this time he can’t even manage to put some bite behind it. He sounds as tired as he feels.
Black tilts his head. The gleam in his eyes is almost sadistic. Severus knows the rumours in the Slytherin common room. That his branch of House Black is so inbred that they’re all screwed in the head.
"What do you think we should do to him today?", Black asks, as if he was choosing something off of a restaurant menu, "Any ideas?"
Potter shrugs, Pettigrew has no opinion anyway, and Lupin looks doubtful but doesn’t say anything.
Black draws his wand. "How about-", he begins.
He doesn’t finish the sentence because he is thrown off his feet and launched against one of the sink, breaking the porcelain with the force of his impact against it, his head slamming into the wall.
Severus didn’t even have to draw his wand.
He gets a month’s worth of detention for damage of school property and for causing bodily harm while Black is coddled by Madam Pomfrey.
No one asks why Severus thought it necessary to slam Black into wall, no one believes him that Black drew his wand first.
It doesn’t matter, not quite. Because wandless magic, especially hexes, are a talent few wizards or witches have, and while the others celebrate Halloween upstairs, Severus sits in Slughorn’s office, alone, and reads book after book on wandless magic under the bench, when he’s supposed to write lines on how bullying others is wrong. His quill is charmed to do it for him.
* * *
- 1974 -
His hands are trembling, and he can’t stop them from doing so. It’s the shock, the nerves.
The beast had been taller than him, larger than a normal wolf. Its teeth had been as long as Severus’ arm, or so he thinks, in his sluggish memory. Its eyes had been red and it had come as close as a hair’s breadth to ripping Severus’ head off his shoulders, or worse, to turn him into a beast, too. He can still smell its pungent breath, can still hear the snarling roar as it had been knocked back into the wall by Potter’s spell.
Severus feels like he can’t breathe anymore when he thinks of Potter, his throat closing up. He can hear his own panicked gasping, pathetic, really, and he can see Pomfrey blurrily through the haze in front of his eyes.
"-breathe, yes, just like that", her voice drones on in his ears, as if through cotton, and her hands are on him, on his chest, holding him upright, and he wants to shake her touch off, "Very good, Mr Snape, calmly-"
He doesn’t feel calm at all. He’d almost died, he’d almost been murdered, and it’s Black’s fault. Black’s, Potter’s and Lupin’s.
Lupin.
Severus tastes the salt of his tears on his lips. Lupin is a werewolf. His suspicions have been confirmed and he’d almost died for them. Lupin had almost killed him.
He still can’t wrap his head around it.
Pomfrey finally lets go of him and breathing works a little easier now, and he’s going to make sure that they all get expelled, thrown out of Hogwarts and out of the Wizarding World, and out of his life.
He’s never hated anyone as much as he hates Potter and Black and especially Lupin, all of them.
Severus glances up at the door opening and at Dumbledore striding into the hospital wing, clad in ridiculous red robes. It’s the middle of the night and Severus has almost died and the man looks like Santa Claus and it’s almost ridiculous enough to be funny.
"Ah, Mr Snape", Dumbledore says and pulls a chair over to sit by Severus’ bed.
"Lupin is a werewolf", Severus bursts out stupidly, as if it was somehow possible that no one had yet told Dumbledore what had happened, "Lupin is-"
Dumbledore raises a placating hand, nodding. "I am aware, Mr Snape."
Severus shudders. "Black tried to kill me", he says, voice hitching, "He tried to kill me-"
Dumbledore tilts his head thoughtfully. "No one tried to kill you, Mr Snape", he says placidly, like he was talking to a very small or very stupid child, and Severus feels himself cry, hears himself sob, but can’t make it stop.
He buries his face in his hands, and he’s struggling for breath so much it hurts.
"He sent me to a werewolf", he says laboriously between his sobs, "on a full moon. He tried to kill me. He wanted to kill me-"
Dumbledore sighs. "An ill-mannered prank", he says and Severus can’t quite believe his ears, "He did not expect you to follow his instructions."
"He did not-", Severus repeats disbelievingly, staring at the man with wide eyes.
"Severus", Dumbledore says emphatically, "I hope I may call you Severus? You did go out well after curfew, which you should not have done."
"I-", Severus brings out, "No, I-"
"You violated the school rules just as much as Mr Black and Mr Potter did", Dumbledore goes on, unperturbed, "And you are lucky that Mr Potter was quick-witted enough to realise what was happening. Had he not followed you, I am not sure whether we would be sitting here now. You owe him your life, Severus."
Severus can’t bear to look at the man any longer. "Black tried to kill me", he forces out, "And Potter only went after me because he didn’t want Black and Lupin" - he hates the way his voice quivers on the name - "to become murderers. He doesn’t give a shit about whether I live or not or-"
"You still owe him your life", Dumbledore says calmly.
"No", Severus snarls, suddenly viciously angry, "I owe him shit and I’ll not-"
"Mind your language", the headmaster admonishes, "Of course, they will be punished, too, for their behaviour. Mr Black is suspended for the rest of term-"
"Suspended", Severus interrupts him. For the rest of term. The term has three weeks left. "Are you being serious? He attempted murder and you suspend him? He should be expelled at best! What about the fucking werewolf? Are you going to give him detention, make him write lines?"
Dumbledore’s eyes narrow a little. "Mr Lupin is here for the same reason as you are, Severus. To learn. To become a wizard. He was not a threat to anyone until you chose to sneak out at night to seek him out on a full moon."
Severus nearly chokes. "You knew", he whispers, horrible nausea hitting him like a punch to the gut, "You knew that he was a werewolf. You let a werewolf live inside a goddamn school for years, you let a werewolf live among children, you let him transform on school grounds-" Normally, he would be ashamed for the way his voice is cracking, but he’s hysterical enough, shocked enough, disturbed enough, to not care.
Dumbledore sighs softly. "Yes. I believe that everyone should be given a chance in life. It is not Mr Lupin’s fault that he has lycanthropy, and it is your own fault that he even became a danger to you."
There is not enough air in the room. "It’s gonna be all over the papers tomorrow", Severus hisses, "Everyone will know and you will not be headmaster of this school for a day longer. No one in their right mind would let you lead a school for another day, and I hope they throw you and Black and Lupin into Azkaban until the end of fucking time for this-"
Dumbledore sighs gravely, as if he had heard all of it before. "Oh, Severus", he says, "If life was so easy. You are an intelligent young man, aren’t you? What do you imagine would happen if I followed your wish to expel the three of them?"
Severus is silent, staring at him.
"I would, of course, have to expel you, too", Dumbledore says, "If they have broken the school rules, then so have you, with your sneaking out after curfew."
"No", Severus chokes, "Don’t you understand? Black told me to-"
"I know that Black told you to go to the Shrieking Shack", Dumbledore sighs and the placating tone is back that makes Severus feel like a stupid child, "It doesn’t change the fact that you left your bed after curfew, a crime that, in your mind, seems to be punishable by expulsion, as you want Potter expelled for it."
"No", Severus repeats, "They tried to kill me-"
The headmaster leans forward a little on his chair. "So, Severus, would it satisfy you if I expelled all of you? You would leave me no other choice, as you are threatening me with going to the press."
The nausea makes it hard to think. Severus wonders where Pomfrey has disappeared to. "This is blackmail", he whispers, "You can’t-"
"It’s not", Dumbledore says lightly, "I am merely presenting all the options you have to you. What would you do if you were, indeed, expelled? Other wizarding schools are only very reluctant to take on expelled students, and without a graduation certificate, you will not be able to work a job in the Wizarding World. But, in your case, it does not matter much, does it? You are, after all, already accustomed to the Muggle world, too, so it should be easy for you to find-"
"Stop", Severus chokes, "No."
Dumbledore leans back in his seat. "Do we have an agreement, then? I shall not expel any of you and you won’t tell anyone of this incident tonight? For both your and Mr Lupin’s sake?"
Severus can only nod. His throat feels too tight to speak.
All of this is wrong. Injustice.
But he can’t be expelled. He can’t lose all he has because of Black and Potter and Lupin. He can’t give up on his dream.
He watches Dumbledore go, shivering, nauseous.
In his mother’s books, the man had always been portrayed as wise and just and good.
Severus turns his face into the pillow that smells clinical, and lets himself sob.
* * *
- 1975 -
If Potter and Black teach him one lesson, then it is that life is not fair.
Life is full of injustice, and if the werewolf incident was the beginning, the injustice only mounts afterward.
It turns public, their feud, and because it’s four against one, it’s never fair.
Potter, especially, seems to enjoy it to humiliate Severus in front of others, contrary to the sadistic fun Black has when he hexes Severus with spells that border on Dark.
It’s not like Severus isn’t giving them as good as he can when they are fighting, but, because it is four against one, he’d be stupid to start a fight with them.
It doesn’t matter, though, what he tells the teachers that inevitably always have to break up their fights. It doesn’t matter that Black started it, or that Potter started it, or that Severus had been hung upside down on a tree with his pants for the whole school to see.
If it was anyone else, Severus is sure, Dumbledore would have already punished Black, Lupin, Potter and goddamn Peter Pettigrew with a detention that would have them scrubbing cauldrons till graduation.
Life isn’t fair, and Severus supposes he should be grateful for Potter and Black, for teaching him such a valuable lesson.
He doesn’t mean to say it, not quite.
It slips out, which doesn’t make it excusable.
Mudblood. A word he uses sometimes - maybe more than sometimes. Not for Lily, though. Never for Lily.
It’s as normal as breathing, that word, in Slytherin House. It’s used liberally, and Severus knows that it’s a slur and that Lily is as much a witch as he is a wizard, but he’s angry, and he’s humiliated, and the entire fifth year is laughing at him, and it slips out.
He regrets it the moment he says it, and the moment that the light in Lily’s eyes dulls, he really hates himself for it.
Their friendship had stopped being the same as it was a long time ago, Severus isn’t even sure when, exactly. Perhaps the day they had been sorted apart. Perhaps they had never been fated to be together.
Still, it’s him who ruins what is left of it, and he doesn’t ever forgive himself for it.
He doesn’t use the word - Mudblood - again.
It’s obvious, though, in Slytherin House, and he’s never liked attention.
So he uses other words, instead. It makes him feel better about himself.
* * *
- 1976 -
It’s raining and he’s cold, and his old, worn coat isn’t thick enough to keep out the December rain.
He’s shivering by the time he reaches the Tesco on his way home, and he’ll probably be sick again, because his hair is soaked wet, and he feels disgusting.
Muggles stare at him expressionlessly. They see just another boy, just another Muggle.
He shivers and pulls out the list his mother had given him for the Christmas groceries. It’s crumpled and his mother’s hand is barely readable.
Muggle Christmas music blares from the speakers, and the garish decorations, Santa in his red cloak, trees with ugly red baubles, make Severus even less thrilled for Christmas.
What he wouldn’t have given to stay at Hogwarts over the break.
His fingers are numb as he picks a loaf of bread packaged in plastic off the shelf, and a Muggle woman frowns at him, eyes him with disdain as if her worn coat is better than his, as if her teeth weren’t rotting in her mouth and as if she wasn’t just as pathetic as him.
He stares at the list in his hand. He’d have sold his soul to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas.
His jumper is soaked, underneath the coat, and the wool is itchy, and he suddenly feels the overwhelming urge to cry.
The plastic shopping basket in his hand with the bread seems to weigh a ton.
He grabs a packet of tea off the shelf, unsure whether it’s even on the list.
The Muggle woman from before stares at him, expressionless like everyone else, from across the aisle. Her thoughts, displayed brightly in her unguarded mind, accessible with a glance, seem to mock him, laugh at him.
He wanders among the aisles without aim, without picking anything off the shelves.
He doesn’t want to go home. It’s already six in the evening, probably past six, and it’s dark outside but he can’t yet go home.
His stomach still hurts from yesterday, when his father had been angry enough to hit him as if he was still a child, and his mother’s list crinkles in his hand. He can’t see through the blur of tears, suddenly, and distantly, he’s aware of how pathetic this is, that he’s going insane.
He wants to scream, or to kick something.
He’s frozen to the spot.
"Severus?", someone asks, next to him, a woman’s voice, familiar.
He turns to look at her, automatically. His first instinct is to reach for his wand but his wand is at home, safely hidden behind the lose brick behind his bed where his father can’t find it.
He’s looking at Mrs Evans, through a blur of tears. He blinks and she has a look of concern on her face, one he knows all too well.
Mrs Evans. Lily’s mother.
He shivers, involuntarily. Lily.
Lily’s mother, speaking to him, in this store. It has been a year and a half since-
"Are you alright?", she asks, and Severus hates how genuine the concern on her face is, concern he doesn’t deserve from her, not after what he’d done to her daughter, what he’d said-
"Yes", he says, curtly, and blinks again. His voice is surprisingly steady, and he tries to conjure some of the Occlumency tricks he’d read about, "I was just-"
Her brows knit together in even more concern. "You seemed unwell."
He swallows. She knows. This woman knows all about him, his horrid home, his father- Everything. "I’m fine", he says and manages to sound at least slightly less hollow than he feels, thanks to the feeble Occlumency he’s attempting.
She nods, and smiles gently. He remembers that smile, that awfully kind smile that she shouldn’t give him of all people. "I just wanted to make sure...", she says and trails off, "You know that you are always welcome, Severus."
He fights down the sickness welling up in him.
Always welcome. Lily hasn’t told her what he said to her, hasn’t told her that they aren’t anything like friends anymore.
Lily didn’t deem it important enough, his mind supplies bitterly.
"Thanks", he croaks. Unease takes him, the familiar tug in his belly, his subconscious screaming at him to run, "I’ve really got to go. Thanks, Mrs Evans."
He barely looks at her as he rushes down the aisles to the register. He only has bread and tea, and not anything from his mother’s list but he feels ill, like he’ll be sick if he doesn’t leave this store soon.
He pays with a tattered ten pound note and leaves the store before Lily’s mother can see him again, clutching the paper bag to his chest against the pouring rain.
His Occlumency crumbles like a cardboard house as soon as he’s standing on the street, and he bites his lip, hard enough to taste blood to stop from crying like a child.
He doesn’t want to go home.
He’s a wizard, he tells himself as he walks down the wet street, the water soaking through his boots into his socks.
Everything itches, his jumper and his socks and his wet jeans.
He’ll be a real wizard in a few weeks, when he turns seventeen, and then he’ll be free.
He reaches Spinner’s End, the street barely even lit by streetlights, the rubbish in the drains blocking the water on the pavement.
There is shouting from upstairs, he hears it as soon as he enters the cold, dark house. His mother and father fighting again.
Something shatters with a loud bang and a rattling and Severus dumps the bread and the tea onto the counter in the kitchen.
"-filthy witch!", his father is yelling, "-stealing from me-"
Maybe, he thinks, he should run away. Hogwarts be damned, everything be damned.
He should run, when he’s finally seventeen, and a true wizard. He could live well, alone, with magic, far away from this.
He wouldn’t ever need to go back to Hogwarts, from one hell, his personal hell at home, to another one, the torment at Potter’s and Black’s hands, the humiliation, Lily.
Something gives a loud thud, and his mother shrieks, and Severus winces, torn from his musings. A door slams and the stairs creak as his father comes downstairs, and Severus prays that he won’t enter the kitchen.
He’s lucky and hears the front door slam into its lock a moment later, his father’s figures throwing long shadows in the dim light of the street lantern outside the kitchen window.
The house is silent, and Severus finds his mother upstairs, in the bedroom, sitting slumped against a wall, her face buried in her hands.
He lingers in the doorway, watching her silently, and when she doesn’t look up, he cautiously approaches her.
He knows that it’s petty and childish to hate her for this, to hate someone with her mental health for their poor judgement. But he does hate her, in a way, as much as she hates him for ruining her life.
"Ma", he says quietly, crouching down by her side.
She lifts her head. Severus is quite sure that the bruise around her right eye will look even darker tomorrow, for the Christmas mass. Perhaps tomorrow, his father will allow her to cover it up with a quick charm, because a black eye does not look all too good for church and reputation is important, even in a place like Cokeworth.
"Is he gone?", she whispers. It’s dark in the room and the sliver of light from the door leaves half her face plunged in shadow.
Severus nods. She gives a little sigh and drops her head back into her hands.
He later finds her sitting in an armchair in the living room, smoking a cigarette, her pallid face deathly white except for the bruise around her eye.
It’s always been like this, and she’s always been like this, and Severus is sure that she’ll never change.
He fishes his wand from behind his bed and casts the weakest locking charm he knows on his bedroom door, to not alert the Ministry and its law for underage magic and to keep out his father who is sure to return later, drunk out of his mind.
At first, he doesn’t notice the owl which sits perched in front of his window, a majestic animal, with elegant grey plumage and a letter tied to its foot. It looks misplaced in front of the background of the desolate backyard below.
Severus doesn’t need to see the open the letter to know that it is from Lucius Malfoy. The owl, the heavy, expensive parchment and the dark green ribbon are enough for him to recognise it right away.
He’s not sure why Malfoy does it, but he sends him a letter every year for Christmas, like it’s an odd tradition or as if they’re anything like friends, which they aren’t.
At school, Malfoy had been the only one in Slytherin, really, who had treated him like another human being, but not much more.
They hadn’t been friends, not like Lily and him had been, because of their age difference alone, and because of all the other all too glaringly obvious differences between them, too.
Malfoy, for all his modest, humble posturing, is richer than god, and Severus isn’t fooled by his put-on kindness and charity that just thinly veils his disdain for people like Severus. Halfbloods, with a Muggle parent, and poor.
It’s the same letter, the very same text, every year; Merry Christmas, enjoy your holidays.
Severus wonders if Malfoy even writes these letters himself or whether he had his secretary do it.
This time, though, when he does unroll the parchment, the text is different than usual.
It’s also written in different lettering than usual, which confirms Severus’ suspicion about the secretary.
Malfoy’s own handwriting is more looping than his secretary’s, and smaller. It’s not so much the writing, though, that makes Severus nearly drop the letter in surprise.
It’s the contents. An invitation for tomorrow, to Malfoy’s Wiltshire estate. For Christmas dinner.
Severus stares at the text blankly for a moment, uncomprehending.
Then, he feels a strange feeling of anticipation bubble up inside of him. Excitement, glee. No one’s ever invited him for anything, and the excitement blends out the rationality that tells Severus that Malfoy has different intentions than just having Christmas dinner with him.
Still, it feels good to know that he has captured the attention of someone like Malfoy.
A real wizard.
* * *
Lucius Malfoy smiles at Severus benevolently when he steps from the fireplace in Malfoy Manor’s sitting room.
He’d spent half the day on the train to London to use one of the public Floo systems. He’d left early enough for his parents not to notice, and he’d left a note on the counter and he just knows that his father is beyond furious.
It doesn’t matter, not when he can be here, in this sitting room of Malfoy Manor. It’s decorated festively, green and gold, and Severus feels like he’s stepping into heaven.
It’s beyond anything that he could have ever wished for himself, realistically - the marble floor and the tall windows with the gardens, the richly adorned Christmas tree that rakes to the stucco ceiling, and the crystal chandeliers.
But it’s what a real wizard’s house should look like, and it’s everything that Severus’ home isn’t.
Malfoy is dressed like the people in the fashion magazines the girls in the Slytherin common room read, in dark green robes with silver cufflinks and a black cravat.
Severus feels shabby in his Muggle dress shirt and trousers that he usually wears for church, crinkled from sitting on the train for hours.
Malfoy smiles at him but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Severus pretends not to notice and smiles back.
"Severus!", Malfoy exclaims jovially and makes an inviting gesture, "Welcome! I’m glad you could make it, despite the short notice."
"Of course", Severus answers, "I- Well, thank you for the invitation." He feels his face warm in embarrassment at the stuttering.
Malfoy ignores it courteously. "I haven’t heard from you for quite a while", he says, inviting Severus to sit on one of the plush settees by the crackling fireplace, "How are things at Hogwarts?"
Severus swallows and tries to relax in his seat. Malfoy’s mind is guarded well, and his eyes hold the same fabricated, insincere sparkle as Dumbledore’s. "It’s alright", he says and curses himself for letting his accent bleed through, the harsh Northern drawl that took years to get out of his speech. It must be the nervousness that prompts it, despite the fact that Malfoy doesn’t do anything, really, to provoke it.
"Does Potter’s little band of miscreants still terrorise you?", Malfoy asks bluntly, tilting his head.
His hair is longer than Severus remembers, past his shoulders, and looks more silky and groomed than Severus’ own ever has.
"Ah, yes, I suppose", Severus manages and for a second, he’s tempted to tell Malfoy about the werewolf incident in fourth year. How they had almost killed him, how Lupin had almost ripped him to shreds, and how they had got away with it.
How Dumbledore had made him swear to never tell a soul.
Malfoy hums thoughtfully. "After all this time, I’d have guessed that they would have grown out of it", he drawls, and fixes Severus with his icy-grey eyes, "I do hope that you still know how to defend yourself as… effectively as you used to."
Severus nods. Malfoy, back when they’d been in school together, had been the only one who’d ever dared to say anything against Potter or Black, and while it had not been effective against Dumbledore’s judgement, Severus does remember it.
Malfoy snaps his fingers, summoning a small, quivering house elf, and orders it to bring them drinks.
Mulled wine in intricate silver cups that are charmed to stay cold to the holder’s touch. Severus doesn’t like alcohol much, seeing what it did to his mother’s health, but the wine is spiced expertly, and its warmth is calming against his anxiety.
"Now, do you still write spells?", Malfoy asks, leaning forward in interest - feigned or not, Severus can’t tell.
"Yes", Severus says, and the corners of Malfoy’s mouth tilt up a little in a half-smile that could, strangely, even be called triumphant.
"What kind?", Malfoy asks and this time, his interest can’t quite be feigned, not with the way his eyes light up in genuine curiosity.
Severus tells him. Because why shouldn’t he? That excitement from earlier has returned, that someone is actually interested in him and in what he does.
With his every word, Malfoy’s eyes seem to burn brighter with intrigue, and with his every word, Severus feels more and more appreciated.
"The Dark Arts?", Malfoy asks, sipping his wine, "Truly? Under Dumbledore’s watchful eye?"
Severus shrugs. "It’s not too hard to get into the Restricted Section."
Malfoy chuckles. "No, I suppose it’s not", he says and his voice holds a strange tone, amusement but also something else Severus can’t decipher.
Before he can say anything else, though, the house elf from earlier returns to tell them that dinner is ready.
Malfoy leads Severus through a corridor that could’ve fit the entirety of the house on Spinner’s End, and into a dining room that looks like it was cut out of a page from a history book with its lavishness.
Narcissa Black - Malfoy, now - is standing by one of the large windows, holding a glass of champagne.
Severus stares at her for too long, embarrassingly, but he remembers her from Hogwarts, too, a year younger than Malfoy himself, and beyond beautiful, the one girl who had probably turned the head of every single boy inside Hogwarts.
She’s even more beautiful now, it seems, with her long blonde hair that’s almost as bright as Malfoy’s, and the lavish dress she’s wearing.
Her red-painted lips quirk into an indulgent smile when she notices Severus staring, and he feels himself flush to the roots of his hair, quickly averting his eyes.
"Hello, Severus", she says lightly, quirking a brow at him.
"Hello", he replies weakly and wishes he hadn’t left the rest of his mulled wine in the sitting room.
Dinner is a lengthy affair. Several courses, foods Severus has never eaten before, caviar and venison and all kinds of fish, and it’s probably the best meal he’s ever had, for Christmas or otherwise.
Narcissa Malfoy turns out to be less cold than she appears, and like her husband, she asks him about Hogwarts and his spells and about potions.
They talk about everything and anything, Quidditch and travelling to America - which Severus has never done - and about the latest broom models and Severus is surprised to find that he actually has fun talking to these two people who have nothing in common with him, but somehow do.
By the time dessert is served, Severus gets the feeling that he knows both of them for years already, like they’re old friends, and he’s startled at the way Lucius’ joviality suddenly vanishes to be replaced by a strange seriousness.
Narcissa, too, seems taken aback, but only for a moment, and Severus thinks he sees resignation on her face before she hides it.
"Now, Severus", Lucius says in a sombre tone, "Have you heard of the Dark Lord?"
Severus blinks at him, not understanding, until he does, in fact, understand.
The Dark Lord.
It’s what this is, then. Severus doesn’t know whether he should be terrified or flattered.
Everyone knows what the Dark Lord does, who he is, even if he is only ever spoken about in secrecy. Voldemort, the name itself never spoken aloud.
His ideas, blood purity, superiority, the hatred against everything and everyone Muggle, are well known.
Severus thinks of Avery boasting about his brother joining the Dark Lord’s circle last month, his mocking smile when Severus had listened, too. "It’s not for you", Avery had laughed.
Lucius, evidently, thinks otherwise.
Severus swallows against the bile rising up in his throat. The sweet chocolate from the soufflé tastes bitter all of a sudden. "I-", he says stupidly, staring at Lucius, "Yes."
Narcissa is methodically eating her dessert, not looking up. The look on her face is pinched.
"Let me speak plainly, Severus", Lucius says quietly, putting down his silverware, "Your talents are vast. Few people can actually do half of what you told me tonight. But, Severus, they will never be encouraged by the likes of Dumbledore. The Dark Arts are not reputable, despite their power."
It’s true, and Severus shivers as he thinks of the time he got caught by Potter with one of the books he’d snitched from the Restricted Section.
"The Dark Lord is a powerful man, who encourages the Dark Arts and their practice", Lucius says softly, "And he is the only one who stands against people like Potter and Black." Something sharp flashes in his eyes, viciously. "And Muggles. You don’t like Muggles, do you, Severus?"
He can’t possibly know, Severus thinks, not really. He can’t know how his father is or how his mother is, or how awful everything is. He didn’t tell him, but he supposes it isn’t hard to guess, not for someone like Malfoy who reads people like books.
He thinks of Lily, but only briefly. She had not considered him important enough to even inform her mother about what had happened between them.
"No", Severus says. His throat feels dry.
Malfoy leans back in his seat. "No", he repeats, satisfaction rich in the word, "He wants to see you, Severus. In the new year."
Severus supposes he should feel betrayed that Malfoy didn’t invite him for dinner because of the good of his heart. He’s not really surprised, though. His chest feels hollow, still.
The allure of the power promised, of the knowledge, of the magic is too hard to resist, though. "When?", he croaks.
Narcissa’s fork clatters against her plate. She raises her glass to her lips, eyes studiously averted.
Malfoy lifts his eyebrows. "How about the ninth of January?", he asks.
His birthday. Seventeen.
A real wizard. Severus is well aware of what they say in the common room. Seventeen is the only requirement. Seventeen, and pure blood, of course.
"Yes", Severus whispers.
Narcissa puts her glass down. Her eyes, when she does look at him, hold resignation, like she’s seen all of this before.
Malfoy smiles at Severus benevolently.
* * *
- 1977 -
It’s the ninth of January and it’s frigidly cold.
Malfoy’s hand is gentle, but still firm, on Severus’ shoulder, guiding him through the long hallways of the manorhouse.
Severus feels an odd mix of elation and fear, and it’s dizzying.
A man who looks like Malfoy, the same hair, the same stern, silver eyes, waits for them by a tall double door that is closed.
Abraxas Malfoy, Severus supposes, Malfoy’s father.
They look like mirror images of one another. The man’s smile, even, is like Malfoy’s. Gleeful, victorious.
"Severus Snape", he drawls in that same self-satisfied tone that his son uses so frequently.
Severus’ hands are clammy. He unwittingly thinks of a tiger stalking its prey, poised to strike, at the man’s sharp eyes scanning him like he’s some exotic exhibit in a museum to be examined.
"Sir", he manages to say, unsure how to even address someone like Abraxas Malfoy. Another thing that he has in common with his son, it seems, is the ability to make Severus beyond nervous.
The man laughs softly, and Severus feels ridiculous. The same feeling as when Potter or Black laugh at him.
"Well done, Lucius", Malfoy adds with a smile, and with a wave of his hand, the double doors swing open.
"Relax, Severus", Lucius’ voice mutters, lowly, as if he was afraid for his father to hear, "He asked for you. You should feel honoured. He doesn’t ask for anyone often."
Severus is well aware that usually, people come to Voldemort on their own. Not him, though. For him, it had been Malfoy. The promise of knowledge. Of revenge against Potter and Black.
The room behind the double doors is vast and dark, like everything in this house, and Voldemort’s eyes are red and eerie and his lips curl up, pleased.
Severus supposes he should be scared, but strangely, Voldemort is less intimidating than Malfoy was.
His power seems to fill the room, echo off the walls, and Severus is drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
Knowledge is power, and the Dark Arts are power, and Voldemort holds all of it.
He’ll become a real wizard, now, he’s sure of it.
"You may leave us, Lucius", the Dark Lord says. His voice is high and breathy, and Severus barely notices Malfoy drop his hand off his shoulder to leave the room.
The Dark Lord beckons him forward, and Severus goes, crosses the room in measured steps.
"A prodigy, Lucius says", the Dark Lord murmurs, and he’s shorter than Severus, a good few inches. "They all tell me of it. Your talent. Are you talented, Severus?"
Severus bows his head in a futile attempt to make himself seem shorter. "I suppose so, my lord", he says.
Voldemort laughs. It’s different from Malfoy’s laughter, warmer, truly amused instead of mocking. "Humility does not suit someone of your skill, Severus." His touch is shockingly cold when he tilts Severus’ chin up, gently. "You should be lauded for it, awarded. I’ve seen it myself, the excellency of your potions, the spells you create. Lucius has so graciously shown me."
Severus knows, from a glance in the Dark Lord’s eyes alone, that he’s skilled at Legilimency. He still can’t manage to be scared of him, like he should be. He has nothing to hide, after all.
"But they don’t appreciate it, do they? Your talents, they shun you for them. The spells you write, they forbid them", Voldemort murmurs.
Severus finds himself nodding.
"No more", the Dark Lord drawls, "Has Lucius told you about what I can give you in exchange for your loyalty?"
"Yes", Severus whispers.
The Dark Lord smiles slowly. "Yes? The Dark Arts can even make you immortal. There is little that you will not be able to do under my tutelage. Do you want to be really, truly powerful?"
Severus swallows thickly. His throat is dry. This feels final. Like he won’t be able to reverse it, ever again.
"Yes, my lord", he whispers, and it’s his fate sealed.
But, he thinks, as the Dark Lord’s wand presses into his arm, forcing his mark under his skin, he’ll be a real wizard now.
Won’t he?