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He stared in the mirror hanging just above his yellowing sink, stained from years of throw-up and insufficient cleaning products, and felt something in him finally break. Hate flooded through him at the visage he was greeted by: hair- riddled with grease and thick with oil- hanging limp and clumped; thin, light eyebrows that were barely visible at first glance; hooded eyes that couldn’t be referred to as symmetrical in the least, a downturn that wouldn’t appear as obviously when his eyes would narrow in a sneer ;an abnormally large nose – unappealing and ugly, something a Jewish person would have in Nazi propaganda-only made even more unappetising by the bend in the cartilage, the result of a particularly bad beating that ended without a hospital visit.
Oh, how he hated his lump of a nose, how he wished he could transfigure it. How hard he studied- to learn of the skills needed for that level of transfiguration- for McGonagall to break his hopes, shatter them, as if they were made of china and she was a bull. He shouldn’t have had high hopes, after all when have good things ever happened to him? Well…he did have Lily as a friend.
Didn’t he?
That was one good thing. He couldn’t be so sure now though, could he? That absolute prat of a pureblood, he had been trying to woo Lily for the better part of 3 years now and now Snape had to admit that Potter was almost succeeding in having Lily’s heart warm. It was clear that she -while proclaiming that Potter was a wanker and that she would never warm to someone who so obviously was a bully- wasn’t as faithful to her morals and wiles as he’d like to believe. He saw her snort at one of his stupid, idiotic, brainless jokes and… and he saw how her cheeks blushed. How her right eye slightly crinkled and her cheeks slightly deepened.
He raised his hand up to touch the side of his face, feather-light fingers grazed his sallow face, he could’ve appreciated his high cheekbones if he had a bit more meat on his face, if his cheeks weren’t so thin that they resembled a Tim Burton character, if his face had a little more harmony. If he was more charismatic, if his lips weren’t so thin, if they were a little larger, fuller, hydrated. He wished he had more money, money for personal-hygiene products, for food, maybe even so he could go to the gym. Or buy more books, or potion ingredients, that would be more likely than a gym membership. Shampoo, bodywash, hell he’d kill for a bar of soap. If only his father – a lump of a man, an alcoholic violent man- would put down that damn drink once in a while. Then he wouldn’t be subject to the abuse he’d receive at Hogwarts, a useless sentiment for sure, as if that would stop the marauders.
He felt his stomach tighten and throat grow dry; a maelstrom of emotions stormed his body, thrashing his rationality, destroying his mind. Anger. Insecurity. An overwhelming sense of dread, guilt. Unfound helplessness. Hate
He hated Tobias. He hated those boys that jeered at him in his youth. He hated himself. Dumbledore. Lily… He hated Lily sometimes, and he hated himself for that. He couldn’t blame her for smiling at James, for allowing his behaviour when he flirted, for not protecting him. Lily was her own person, he couldn’t assume that she would say something to James, to dispel Snape’s worries that she’d leave him. To appease James, admit that she and Snape weren’t dating, re-iterate that Snape didn’t fancy her. That he wasn’t a creep, a pervert. That he doesn’t steal underwear -male or female- or sniff chairs when girls move out of their spaces.
The boy sneered at the idea, brushing long ,wavy locks of hair from his face -an act that would’ve had girls fainting-and turned his head towards his friends. “ I wonder what else Snivellus needs that massive canyon of a nose for, he probably sniffs the sofa after the girls play exploding snap. Hell, he probably steals girls’ knickers with how often he’s sneaking about. Maybe he’s stealing your stuff Prongs, Eh?” Black spoke louder than necessary, drawing the attention of other students , during Potions. A select few students gasped in shock, incredulous,and the majority laughed like simpering buffoons, guffawed, giggled.
“I most certainly would not, nor would I ever, you simpering buffoon.” Snape growled out, an animalistic growl and shout of indignation carried through the class, cutting whatever Potter was going to say off. “Who’s to say that you’re not a pervert, Black? After all, you do sound knowledgeable in this subject. Quite frankly, you speak of others’ undergarments far too often -Mine and Potter’s in particular-for it to be normal.”
“How dare you!” Sirius practically lunged across the desks dividing the two boys, attempting to grab the Slytherin’s tie. “Just what the hell do you think you’re trying to say you bastard?” A hand grabbed onto his shoulder, a grounding touch, an iron weight.
“Pads” James soothed placatingly, although he glared at the cheek of the green-clothed boy facing him. He turned towards the black-eyed boy and leaned in close, practically snarling “Just wait for when we find you later”
He sighed and rubbed his face roughly with one bony hand, squeezing the bent bridge of his nose, hoping to ground himself a little. He shouldn’t dwell on the past, focus on the now, let sleeping dogs lie. Bullshit. What absolute bullshit Dumbledore spewed, how a man could grow so old and garner so much public adoration, he wouldn’t know. Nor would he ever want to, he was a fraud. He wasn’t a headmaster, he was just a bottom-feeder with a penchant for mental games and manipulation.’My boy, it is but a few boys making jokes with one another. You are much to sensitive Severus, do try to make friends’. Hippogriff shit. If wizards weren’t safe from dementia -impossible to get under the age of 80- he would’ve assumed that the aging man was afflicted.
“Don’t…”The boy wiped at his face as he felt a tear fall, slipping over the barrier of his eyelid without his permission, a desperate plea in his voice. How could he be so weak as to cry, over the unchangeable past, over memories. No point crying over spilt milk, what a useless saying. He bent over, curling in on himself, he couldn’t stand to see his reflection in that god damn mirror. I need to take down all the mirrors in this damn house, fuck, I hate my nose, eyes and my mouth. I’ll just keep spiralling. A weak mewling came from him, a pathetic sound, like a dying pup, and he just froze. His throat tightened and he felt his temples throb -nostrils contracting as he attempted to keep his tears at bay. But for once, he let himself cry. Why should he deprive himself of anything when he’s already disadvantaged enough? He cried, sobbed, really. Face contorting with anguish, he mewled into the air, too devastated to find himself caring about acting like a sodding toddler. He fell back on the floor and slung an arm over his eyes, crying into the crack of his elbow. He really did feel like a snivelling boy, a pathetic lanky boy, much too large in stature to feel so…..fragile, so small.