Chapter Text
Severus Elise Snape.
Elise – pledged to God – such a delicate name to belong to someone like him, silent in its delicacy, its pronunciation almost seeming sacrilegious to speak aloud like a confession made in silence in an empty confessional, just you and the illusion of a greater purpose, a greater good, like the ghost of a child who died too soon, too young, too fast, something that could have been but never was, just there, silent in its importance and invisible in its greater meaning. Elise. He wonders if his mother chose that name since her childhood, a frail little girl dreaming of a prince charming and her enchanted happily ever after, if she had scribbled variations of it on crumpled parchments with the anxious excitement that only a child can have to find the perfect name for her perfect future, he wonders if she still dreams of that perfect future or if the fists of her partner broke them before he was even born.
Elise Or maybe she had chosen it when he was born, a tiny, silent thing, ‘I almost died of worry, you didn't make a sound, you know, not even when the doctor slapped your little bottom’, he remembers his mother telling him this story when he broke his arm and refused to cry, small enough to be cradled in his mother's thin arms, but mature enough to know that crying would only make his father angrier than he already was, ‘isn't it enough that you look like a girl, do you want to behave like one too?’ His father was never the most delicate with his words, much less with his hands. “A man's hands - he would say, while Severus felt his hands burn with the sting of the belt - they're not delicate”. He couldn't understand it when he was little. His hands were just like his mother's, and his mother was the most beautiful, so shouldn't his hands be beautiful too?
‘Dad, look, it's okay, I just look like my mother, there is nothing wrong with me. It's still your Severus, can't you see? I’m still your boy.’
He was a pathetic little creature, begging for the approval of someone who should have given it willingly.
Elise…? But it was probably when she looked at him and saw that he was defective, a magical anomaly that should be put down for his own good, neither man nor woman but something in between, something wrong from birth, a pledge to God, a pledge for what, he wonders, mercy? For her eyes to be deceived and her son to be just that, a son? Was that when a little girl's dreams were shattered, not by the fists of a once kind man but in the bed that was supposed to bring her happiness? When the said man went to hold his long-awaited son in his arms for the first time and was faced with an abomination unnatural to his standards, oh-so-normal and decent.
Elise. He wonders if his mother felt it when it happened, if she could hear the exact moment when everything shattered like a porcelain cup that was not handled with due care, could she see her plans of keeping secret her origins shattering before her eyes? Did she feel the shards of her careful planning sticking into her flesh in the most hateful of betrayals? Did the bitter taste of regret flood her mouth? Or perhaps the smell of resentment burned her nostrils when her child ruined her life without even uttering a first word or taking a first step.
Elise
Elise…?
Elise.
His mother told him it was a family tradition. Boys carried middle names of the women, and girls bore the middle names of the men. He thought it was funny—wizards were strange.
When he noticed at the early age of four that his ears were pointed, his mother kissed them gently, as lovingly as she could in her lucid moments, and told him he looked like his grandmother, a little pointed bat, she called him.
When his teeth fell out and the ones that grew back were larger than the previous ones, pointed and almost fang-like, she smiled, one of the few times she had ever done so, and he could see that his mother had pointed teeth just like his. ‘Did you know that distant relatives of our family consider them a sign of beauty? That means I have the cutest boy.’
His hair always grew uncontrollably. His father hated it.
He tried to shave his head over the years but it never stayed cut for more than half a day, sometimes less, Severus didn't understand his father's dislike of his hair, it was just like his mother's - shiny black and slightly curled when he had enough water to wash it. He still remembers when his mother washed his hair with shampoo once, shampoo! It had been so fragrant and soft for days, he couldn't stop running his fingers through it.
Severus loved his hair when it was long, but his father didn't like it, so he cut it every day, not as short as his father's or the other boys, but shorter than he would have liked. His hair was still long when night fell, he left it that way until the next morning when he woke up earlier than everyone else in the house so he could trim his long strands to shoulder length. He kept the strands, couldn't bring himself to throw them away.
It felt like betrayal, as stupid as that may seem.
Severus always looked like his mother, and he was proud of that for a long time. He liked to look at himself in any reflective surface he passed when he was alone, reminding him that he had more of Eileen in him than Tobias. He still appreciated his appearance when the Marauders humiliated him for it year after year. He never took much care of it, however, as he never had the resources, time, or patience to do so, so his hair became increasingly greasy due to his constant potion-making and consequently straighter, with the slight curls at the ends just a memory of a blue and purple childhood.
He liked his appearance even when he was cursed for it.
Elise
He liked his appearance even when father's fists grew heavier every time that Tobias dared to look him in the eyes.
Elise…?
He liked his appearance even when his mother, the reason he liked how he looked, succumbed more and more to apathy and medications that Severus had no idea where she got the money to buy without a prescription.
Elise.
He loved his face, until the day he saw it lifeless in his parents' bedroom.
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He loved his face until he saw it hanging above the floor with large, black eyes now bulging and opaque, as only death can show itself to the living, the bare, delicate feet of his creator now resting millimeters above the dusty floor like the ghosts of the magical world made from the memories of the living for the comfort of the dead, the old nightgown that Severus would think had once been white in its prime but now framed his mother's body perfectly in its worn transparency.
"My sweet, sharp-tongued boy, help your mother count, will you?"
He could feel the vomit burning his throat.
Ichi
He remembers taking a step towards his mother, his legs trembling, but he hadn't fully absorbed the situation yet, maybe it was all just another one of his delusions and Eileen was sleeping peacefully on the thin mattress.
Èr
The patched sheet was long enough to sway in the breeze created by the open window. The dull light that seemed to take hold of Cokeworth penetrated the inert room like a bad omen. His second step was shaking enough to almost knock him to the floor.
sam
The third step was enough for him to reach the vision in the small room, his heart beating at such a rapid pace that he was beginning to feel dizzy with his blood pumping at an above-normal rate – he felt feverish.
Дөрөв
A silent cutting spell on the cloth was all it took for the body to fall to the floor like a rag doll, limbs twisted into something Severus doubted had ever been human, unnatural and hideous in its abnormality.
пять
A grotesque sound came from the tangle of human flesh and reverberated through the room like the cry of a wounded animal — sharp, loud and desperate. Severus almost looked around the small room in search of said animal, and only refrained from doing so because his eyes were fixed on the scene in front of him.
ستة
His legs couldn't withstand the flood of emotions that was leaking through his Occlumency shields, so Severus fell to the floor like a puppet without strings, he held his stomach as he emptied his bowels onto the dusty floor. When the nausea finally subsided, he sat on his heels properly, as his mother had taught him, right in front of it, he turned his face to the side when he felt his stomach churn and bile rise, he started to counter, changing language at every number, the ritual was nailed in his marrow as if it had been carved in stone — he was distracting himself and he knew it.
sieben
He tried to control his breathing as he had taught himself years ago: inhale, hold for three seconds, then exhale, repeat. However, he was unable to do so; his lungs were not cooperating. He was unable to control his thoughts, much less his emotions. His breath had turned cold, he could see ice crystals forming with each rapid exhalation that came out of his pale mouth, and if he had been able to see anything beyond a few inches in front of his face, he would have noticed that ice had also formed beneath him and was spreading at an alarming speed throughout the room.
huit
He doesn't know how long he stood there in silence next to that thing. It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. He didn't know. He just stood there, trapped in a limbo of cowardice and fear, so much fear. He didn't look, he didn't feel, he breathed the stale air. He just existed in that place, frozen in almost-completed actions and almost-made decisions.
There, nothingness was the reason for everything that happened.
nove
Severus didn't hear his father arrive, he didn't hear the front door slam, and he didn't hear his angry shout calling for Eileen. All he heard was the abnormal silence of the place beside him, of that motionless thing near him haunting his thoughts. He closed his eyes and imagined his mother's face, so beautiful in its uniqueness, so apathetic even in her happiest moments, with large dark sad eyes and long eyelashes like a fan that seemed to know everything and never tell anything, that face identical to his, down to the smallest details.
And then he opened his eyes to that thing — and saw that same face staring back at him.
δέκα! Ο γλυκός μου Severus, καλύτερος από την ίδια του τη μητέρα - πόσο τολμηρός!
…
Severus woke up without fussing, tense muscles and a racing heart were the only signs of his less than pleasant dreams. In the darkness of the dormitory, his heartbeat was all he could hear, he blinked a few times to disconnect himself from the unwanted memory, Wilkes's snoring was the only sound in the room, that almost brought an amusing twist on his lips ,that was the key word here, almost.
With soft steps, he sneaked into the shared bathroom and locked the door behind him. Severus went to the sink to try to wash the bitter taste of memories he would rather forget from his mouth with the cold water from the tap, letting it get full until the sink almost flooded. He stuck his head under the water to try to cool down, his now wet hair immediately sticking uncomfortably to his skin and soaking his thin nightshirt.
He stayed there until his lungs burned and his eyes filled with tears, then stayed a little longer, until black spots flooded his vision and he felt like he was going to pass out. That's when he got out from under the tap, leaning on the edges of the sink. Severus looked up and found his reflection staring back at him in the dim light, large dark eyes with long eyelashes.
Bulging and opaque – lifeless.
His heart skipped a beat and he noticed the reflection wide its already abnormally large eyes, black, he reminded himself, his eyes were black, one could argue the “lifeless” part, however. He had been told that he had empty eyes like those of a doll. He looked away from the image in front of him. No matter how much time passed, Severus couldn't look at himself without smelling death on his tongue and hearing the sound of flesh hitting the floor.
He leaned his back against the tile wall next to the sink and slid down to the cold, damp bathroom floor, bending his knees until they touched his chest, his pale, almost delicate arms rising to surround them, and with weary limpness his neck bent forward to nestle in the space created, his hair now long enough to touch the floor, surrounding his face like a dark curtain – his Occlumency shields were worn thin, and so he had spent his nights more awake than at rest, memories and feelings of no importance that had been masterfully suppressed during the day flooded his dreams and stained his only moments of silence, his peace so eagerly pursued and his solitude so hard-won, ruined by mere lapses of vain sentimentality.
A wandless time spell was whispered in the oppressive silence of those damp walls, it was almost five in the morning, he had gone to sleep at three, correcting notes on chemical variables in healing potions and altering the components of said potions to something he could find in the forbidden forest without having to pay hundreds of galleons for something mediocre at best, never harvested, extracted, cut, or handled with the precision and skill necessary for the preparation of potions of the quality that Severus had set as his standards years ago.
Severus remembered when he started making and selling potions for a small pittance, almost for free, to his housemates, and now the cheapest batch gave him at least ten galleons, minus Filch's. Severus did not know how much that man was paid, but he doubted he could afford the batch of potions that was delivered to him weekly without him or Severus having to interact, just potions carefully placed next to the caretaker's bedroom door and the bag of coins picked up from the same place.
He decided to get ready for the day, It was Tuesday, which meant that his first class was Charms with the Hufflepuffs. Severus had already completed the five-foot-long argumentative essay on the benefits and harms of the Obliviate spell in extreme cases that Flitwick had so kindly decided should be of utmost importance for Severus' already busy week, as if he didn't participate in all the electives that this school could offer him, so he could have even the slightest moment of peace away from everyone.
‘At least’, he couldn't help thinking as he stood up and moved to the shower, turning on the shower, ‘he was the one gaining with diluted ecstasy potions and mediocre work.’
Cold.
The water was so cold that a chill made him shiver for a few seconds, his teeth chattering and a loud yawn breaking the silence along with the water hitting his back, he didn't like hot water, always opting for cold or even ice-cold showers. Severus stood there enjoying the feeling of the water running down his skin, he broke out of his inertia to run his fingers through his hair, he could feel how long it was — just below his knees, smooth, heavy and now wet.
He took the liquid soap from the soap dish, wisteria with honey and milk. He makes them in large quantities every month with ingredients taken from the kitchen. He tends to mix ingredients that are not so harsh on the hair or skin since he uses it all over his body, but because of this, his hair will never be completely free of the oils trapped in it. His skin, however, is so soft that it is almost uncomfortable, as if he had fallen into a bottle of conditioner and stayed there marinating for an indefinite amount of time, which led him to have a few pimples — He was still working on it.
"Век живи — век учись.” As his mother used to say.
For him, bathing was almost like a ritual, always starting with his hands, scrubbing under his nails till his fingers tips where pink on each side with a small brush, washing between all his fingers twice, then moving up to his forearms and methodically scrubbing up to his neck, without missing a single spot of skin as he spread the soap, now the other side
Scrub well and move on to the hips, missing the pelvic, that part and his face he usually leaves for last, then his thighs, one at a time, he has to bend over to reach further down his legs and feet, between his toes and on the soles.
He hex a small towel to scrub his back while he straightens up to wash the face.
“Spread the soap over your hand twice, first on your cheeks, using your fingers to clean your nose, the palm of your hand for your forehead, two fingers of each hand for your eyes, two hands for your neck, and wash your chin on the way.” Severus mumbled to himself quietly at each step.
Clean behind the ears and inside superficially as well, his hair comes next, fill his hand with the soap and rub all over the hair roots, the water is more than enough to clean the rest. Now his pelvic, a new soap is squeezed into his hand, he still produces this one, but its composition is only for this specific area — unscented and neutral, he always starts with his member and testicles, cleaning the area and spreading soap all over the skin until he feels completely clean, same with his bottom, the other part comes last, more soap is placed in his hand to clean between his thighs, he gently cleans between his lips and folds, now it's just a matter of rinsing everything off, he always repeats this same order in all his baths, it was…meditative on its on way.
Leaving the shower, he does not grab a towel, not immediately. He likes the feeling of walking without any fabric covering his skin in the privacy of the closed room, where there was no one to see, no one to talk or laugh about something he could not control, such as his appearance. A flick of the wrist positioned the towels so that they covered all the mirrors in the bathroom, a silent Lumus cast a small, soft light in the room once illuminated only by the dark waters of the black lake. Severus didn't know if putting such large windows in a bathroom was a stupid idea or not. On one hand, it was a bathroom after all, on the other the Slytherin common room is on the uninhabited side of the lake and many metres below the depth that anyone could dive and come out alive without the help of the giant squid, so he can only assume that Salazar Slytherin was a pompous pure blood who valued aesthetics over decency.
Much like some other pure bloods he knew, Severus thought, as his mind flashed images of silver hair and lips twisted in scorn.
All pure bloods are the same – he had learned that years ago, the only difference being what he called divergence in his mind, a nice word for not calling it hypocrisy, he thought cynically as he turned back to the sink, now with the mirror covered, and picked up his toothbrush, he covers it with the herbal and mint paste that he had made, Severus always starts brushing his teeth by the right side. He divides them into two categories.
Pretencion and transparency.
Pretencion, is what people like Potter and Black have — pure bloods in flesh and blood who claim to be of the light and preach speeches about equality among wizards and love for Muggle culture and customs to all those with ears to hear, while enjoying the power and superiority that their names carry like a cloak of honour, as if the Potter family did not marry only the purest blood that could be found, as if the fact that marriage in their family takes place with wizards around the globe and not between close families made them more open-minded and could change the fact that no Potter in history has even a drop of Muggle blood in their veins.
How Saint James Potter idolises light magic and abhors anything in the remotely grey area of magic as if it were not just that, magic, neither good nor evil, just a tool in the hands of its user, as if his perfect and untouchable friend Sirius Black were not forged in grey and sharp edges, but Severus cannot help thinking that Potter is also made of the same material, just moulded differently, a different cut of the same gemstone, a different number of the the same equation.
Or the Perfect Sirius Black — Black. That name alone carries the power to make people stop and listen to what will be said without further explanation than the fact that it is a Black who is speaking. Severus would like to know what it is like to be exempt from responsibility just because his relatives decided to procreate with their own cousins and nephews and who knows what else that cursed family does behind closed doors – because they are cursed , ‘Black madness’, as they call it. He called it the result of recurring incest in the family line.
Severus wonders if in a few years the Blacks will be talked about as the Gaunts now are — with hurried whispers and shameful judgement. After all, they had already been what the Blacks are today, hadn't they? A large family of undeniable influence and, more importantly, proud and egocentricity blood supremacists who value magical purity above all else, to the point of marrying each other with their own family members. Isn't that what the Blacks are doing? He would like to be alive when that happens, so he can enjoy watching that House fall apart because of its pride and self-centredness.
This is the “Pretension” he speaks of, those who at the end of the day lie down with pride and comfort in the bed made by the ideals they claim to repudiate so much.
Repugnant in their hypocrisy.
Then we have “Transparency”, transparency is like Malfoy or Avery, secure in their superiority – even if mistaken in Severus' opinion – and transparent in their intentions and ideals, they revel in the power granted by their names and money without reservations or false pretences of morality and noble ideals, just pure egocentricity of blood dipped in noble education and silver tongue.
The Malfoys are a family that, Severus had to admit, were one of the most intelligent in maintaining their status in the upper class while still remaining “pure”, with political marriages within the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but when they realised that the descendants of such copulation were dwindling, they would go somewhere in Europe to find a family with enough influence and blood status to procreate, like stud horses in a well-kept stable, their purpose solely to reproduce, yet so certain that their lifestyle was the right one.
With his teeth properly brushed, it was now time to take care of his hair. He picked up his brush and began combing — slowly and methodically, from bottom to top.
While the Averys, lost in the soothing rhythm of slow combing he reflected, fell on the more tragic side of luck, with all their firstborns cursed with a grotesque and painful blood curse that only allowed them to grow old enough to father their own firstborns before they took their own lives to escape the pain that followed them like a parasite. Severus was actually trying to reverse this, with his Avery taking daily potions made by Severus with his own recipes and not that rubbish given by St. Mungus, which haven't changed their preparation method since the creation of said potions more than four hundred years ago and yet they are expected to solve something that is constantly changing and evolving like a blood curse.
With this curse in scene many families refuse to taint their lineage with such a defect, and so the Avery family is increasingly in decline. With Edmund as the last heir, it is hoped that he will have at least one son to carry on the family name, a burden that Severus sees weighing heavier and heavier on his colleague's shoulders every day, and so he is trying to cure the curse that has lasted for centuries in order to ease that burden – And even so Edmund is as proud as always of his title and whatever comes with it.
These people are pitiful in their self-delusions of superiority as they deteriorate from the inside out.
Severus wonders if one day magic will fade away like dust because of superfluous ideals of greatness.
'But,' Severus put down the brush and reached for the scissors he had left in the sink for this very moment, measured the length to his shoulder, thought for a moment and decided to be a little indulgent with himself for a day and changed it to just below his shoulders, 'wasn't that what humans did when they found something precious? They exploited it to the last drop and then wondered why there was no more?
Really tasteless.
Cut.
...
The walk to the music room was silent. It was still early enough that he was alone in the corridors, but the habit of sneaking around was ingrained in him, his daily life shaped by fear and intuition developed over years, his senses had never failed him, no matter how absurd some of his paranoia had been, like that time in second year when he linked the phases of the moon to Lupin's mood and monthly ‘illnesses’ only to have his suspicions confirmed in the worst possible way years later, If he had known that keeping his mouth shut would result in his near-death, Severus would have told Malfoy by correspondence and let the blond have his fun causing chaos at the Ministry. But on second thought, Lucius would come out as the hero of the century in the newspapers for ‘saving defenceless children from such a creature of darkness,’ and Severus doesn't think he wants to give any more room for that man's already absurd ego to grow.
However, even Severus can admit in his mind that he exaggerates at times, such as when he feels eyes scanning his skin at the most inappropriate and absurd moments, such as in empty corridors, classrooms where the only presence is him and his experiments, even in his dormitory, which he knows is protected from any evil other than his sometimes cruel classmates — except now that many of them depend on him to keep things running. And once, certainly memorable while showering. He didn't know what it was, but he's sure he almost heard breathing near him when he was in the shower, but the frankly ridiculous amount of detection spells came back empty only told him that his paranoia was beginning to take over his mind. He remembers going back to his shower as if he hadn't played dumb to the still air, but he could still remember that the invisible eyes remained on him until he fell asleep.
As distracted as he was by his memories, Severus only realised he had reached the music room when he almost bumped into the door. When Severus decided that he would took every elective possible, it wasn't an exaggeration, he opened the door and found the room empty, was almost like a hobby at this point.
Every morning he came to this room and practised one of the many instruments he had learned to play during his years at Hogwarts. He had a clear preference for East Asian instruments due to his mother's influence, but that did not prevent him from mastering other types that he became interested in over time. The guqin, however, Severus moved over to his cupboard at the back of the open room, held a special place in his heart.
His cupboard was locked with a spell of his own creation, so with a light touch of his wand, he heard the lock click and the sliding door slide to the side. His cupboard was practically a small room, he had to admit. The instruments he had received from his teacher were, 'of low quality, my darling’, according to Lucius, so now the small room was filled with the most elegant instruments that the money can buy, along with their protective covers and maintenance materials. Every maintenance materials was replaced monthly, and Severus allowed it with little to no damage to his pride, simply because Lucius Malfoy is richer than the Gods themselves and has a strange obsession with spending ridiculous amounts of money on him. Severus is almost certain that this snake of a man is up to no good, but he doesn't have enough evidence to say anything, and even if he did, he wouldn't say anything, because his bank account is what fund Severus' beloved hobbies.
Severus stood there trying to decide which instrument to play that day. He wasn't much of a fan of superstitions, but he had discovered that the right instrument chosen in the morning could dictate how the rest of his day would go.
He usually chose between the Dizi and the guqin in the morning, but his eyes were drawn to the shamisen as if magnetised. He had a love-hate relationship with that instrument. On the one hand, it was one of his favourites, high and clear in tone with a sharp, clean sound that he found captivating. On the other hand, every time he played it in the morning, something more than exhausting happened during the day. He remembered playing it the day he got home and saw his mother for the last time, when he was almost killed by a werewolf, in the lake incident and when he got lost in the Forbidden Forest, even though he had followed the exact path he had taken for years, and spent half the afternoon and the whole night wandering, only managing to return to the castle in the middle of the following morning.
That was certainly an event.
So he chose the koto – nothing like the shamisen really – but it also did not bring him good omens when played in the morning, only less tragic than the other, so his weirdness would be appeased, or so he thought when he left the closet and returned to the living room with the instruments floating behind him, sitting in front of an unprotected parapet, he began to play an slow and calm melody, the sound reverberated through the open tower like a gentle breeze. He continued like this for a few long minutes until he couldn't take it anymore, his hands itched and his hair stood on end like a cat's.
He marched back to the cupboard with the koto floating behind him. When he carefully placed it in its designated spot, Severus picked up the shamisen delicately. Just because his day was bound to be bad didn't mean his instrument needed to be treated carelessly.
Severus stood in the same place now with the shamisen in his hands. The first note was high-pitched and fast, as were the following ones. The sound reverberated on the high walls. Severus closed his eyes as he imagined the sound of the instrument caressing the open tower. He could almost see the large round ceiling above him, the large arches of the balcony high enough to reach the ceiling and as wide as twelve students lined up side by side. This room was the place that reminded him that Hogwarts is a castle at the end of the day, its large structure open on all sides giving him a perfect view of everything above the school and the intoxicating feeling of freedom.
He could climb onto the balcony in front of him and just lean over, and everything would just disappear. Just a few steps and he would be able to taste the rest he so longed for, but he didn't and wouldn't, he wouldn't meet the same end that befell his creator, a forgotten grave with no one to remember him, having done nothing, achieved nothing, he would be someone, even if only a footnote in a forgotten story, his name would be there.
As if guided by his dark thoughts, the melody became more tense, aggressive like a battle in a snow-covered forest. Severus could smell the fresh blood on the still snow, the rustling of fabric scratched his ears, his fingers became faster, Severus didn’t hesitate to move the bachi as fast as he could, behind his eyes the scene was one of horror.
The fight was at its peak. Kijo's intriguing laughter almost sounded like a scream in the silent forest. The weight of the blade in his hands was comforting, the sound of it clashing against another not so much, his feet were freezing, his breath fogging his vision. Severus was now just a vessel — the music told a long forgotten story. A swing of the blade was followed by a spurt of blood. Whose was it? He couldn't say, he couldn't remember, it had been so long, but he knew how this story ended, as if following a long-written script, the laughing Kijo disappeared, one moment she was there with a big smile on her hideous face and sharp claws, the next only trees covered in white occupied his vision. The music was now quiet, expectant. He didn't feel it at first; it was only the sight that made him realise the hand piercing his sternum, something still pulsing between her fingers, his heart. It was his last thought before the silent nothingness. The melody then ended as abruptly as his life.
Severus took a deep breath as if he were suffocating, tears streaming down his face like melting snow. He didn't remember starting to cry.
His day was going to be shit.
...
Spells was one of his favourite subjects, second only to potions by a narrow margin. If Severus thought potions were the purest form of magic, spells were his favourite conduit.
Magic was not an animal bound to the wizard's command; if that were the case, wands would not turn against their owners and all spells and curses would be masterfully cast by everyone, but that was not the case. Casting spells was a partnership between the wizard and the magic itself, an trusting relationship. The wizard trusted that the spell would be cast, and the magic met those expectations, you had to trust and you would be rewarded for that trust. Severus never had the best track record of trusting in the first place, which is perhaps why during his first year he was terrible at spells and transfiguration – truly pitiful. Surprisingly, it was advice from Lucius Malfoy that helped him get through that shameful phase of stagnation.
‘If you believe you will fail even before raising your wand, you will fail, mon petit. You are the one controlling the magic, even if unconsciously. It simply reacts to your belief. Believe that you will succeed, and you will.’ Severus should have known that the attention from such an influential person wouldn't be for free, but he was a naive child in hope of finding a place for himself.
“Mon petit”. He used to hate that degrading nickname with fiery enthusiasm, but now it was just something he catalogued in the recesses of his mind as “ pureblood oddities” after he stopped trying to understand those fickle creatures. His life may not have improved, but it certainly made his already scarce social interactions easier.
However suspicious he was of the older man's less than philanthropic intentions, Severus followed the advice and believed — and it was magnificent. The tingling sensation that ran through his body was extraordinary. He remembers being able to feel his magic reacting to the wand. It was complementary, like two pieces that had been separated for a long time were finally brought together. He now feels it everywhere. That moment was a door opening to a new world. His magic reacts to everything around him and everything he does. It is in his drawings, his notes, his instruments, his voice, the magic, he noticed, a little boy eager for knowledge, too many ambitions for such a small body to contain, It was in everything, from the air he breathed to the atoms of a molecule. If Severus concentrated, he could feel his blood pulsing with life, his body functioning, and his magic feeding his core while giving him life and purpose.
The class itself was not the most stimulating.
Severus had already mastered the spells in the class repertoire, although he had to admit that remembering the existence of the anti-Alohomora charm was certainly useful. The charm was not one of the most powerful, as its name suggested, it was an anti-Alohomora charm, and there are many other ways to break a lock other than the Alohomora spell.
However, if modified correctly, it could be made impenetrable against a wider variety of invasive spells. Perhaps if he added the combination he had created from the runes Algiz, Thurisaz, and Eihwaz during the incantation, it would become unbreakable and alert him to any attempts at intrusion. He visualise the movement he would have to make to cast the spell, positioned his wand in front of the lock given to him by Flitwick and cast the enchantment, followed by Alohomora.
The lock remained unchanged.
Good, it was working. The hufflepuff, at his side, was in a very tense competition with his lock. From what Severus could see, the poor fellow had managed to transform his lock into a butterfly, a pink cup, and a hairy pear, in that order. Severus had transformed them back to their original form every time without saying a word, less out of generosity of heart and more for the entertainment generated by each failed attempt.
“Excellent, Mr. Snape! Perfect execution as always. Mr. Humert... you are certainly casting spells, that's for sure. Please continue practising the movements I demonstrated at the beginning of the lesson.” Flitwick said as he walked past the desks evaluating each student's results.
Severus noticed that Mulciber on the other side of the room was balancing his lock on the tip of his wand and next to him Rosier was trying to get it with his on wand. Honestly, he thought with weary amusement, they were the Slytherin version of a Gryffindor when the two of them where together, it was almost hilarious.
When the class came to an end at eleven o'clock, Flitwick cleared his throat from his place on the raised platform.
"Leave your essays on the benefits and drawbacks of the Obliviate spell on my desk, and write your names down so that I know who wrote each essay. Yes, Mr. Humert, I'm talking to you! And I want a research paper on the Alohomora spell and its variations for next class. You may choose the length of the parchment, as long as it is more than ten lines, Mr. Rosier!"
Severus witnessed his housemate's smile fade, and couldn't help but chuckle quietly behind his hand. He had never seen anyone look so much like a kicked dog in his life, as if he had super hearing, Rosier turned his eyes to him like an eagle's. How someone could look so focused after almost pouting, he did not know. He stopped laughing immediately, not out of fear but out of something worse, like...
“Little Severus! If it isn't my favourite half-blood,” Rosier exclaimed, putting a long arm around his shoulder. He was so close that Severus could smell the minty freshness of his breath, and he knew from past experience that when the other boy let go, the expensive cologne Rosier wore would stick to his clothes for the rest of the day.
Nauseating.
“I'm the only half-blood you know, Rosier.” Severus tried to pull away but was cornered by Mulciber on the other side, a hand now resting on his back. He almost let out a tired sigh, but it wasn't worth showing any emotion to these two. They were like sharks, ‘worse than them, only Avery’, he couldn't help thinking.
“Calm down, bambina, walk with us to the next class. I'll be gentlemanly enough to carry your bag.” Mulciber didn't give him the choice to accept or not, he just grabbed his bag, and with him on one side and Rosier on the other, Severus could only follow.
The joke about diminutive adjectives began when Severus used his wand for the first time in the dormitory for something insignificant he no longer even remembers the reason, and his classmates noticed its appearance, still long but more compact than the others, twenty centimetres, elder wood with a horned serpent core – inflexible, and this was only exacerbated by the fact that he was not exactly an example of wizarding height — which for some reason are all ridiculously tall. In comparison, Severus was the height of an average witch. He was now many centimetres shorter than his father but slightly taller than his mother.
Now, the fact that Mulciber referred to him in the feminine was simply a childish tease about him having used the wrong word in Italian four years ago. Who cares that he once referred to a boy as “ragazza”? It was a slip of the tongue, for Merlin's sake, and he corrected himself immediately afterwards, and besides, Italian is not even the second, third or fourth language Severus speaks. If anyone should correct the pronunciation of others, it should be him, not that it matters to Mulciber, who since then has flatly refused to refer to him in the masculine when speaking in his second language.
Snobbish Inbred.
Next was potions class with the Gryffindors, he was tired just thinking about spending two classes in a row in the same room as the beast and the mutt. The fantasy of throwing himself out the nearest window had never been as appealing as it was now. The path from the third floor to the dungeons – which was usually taken through the comforting dark corners that Severus was deeply accustomed to – now seemed torturously long when travelled sandwiched between the two executioners he called colleagues, one arm on his shoulders, the other on his back, and the eyes of the students passing through the corridors suffocating him.
He was not used to walking down the middle of the castle corridor and just expecting people to get out of the way, because they did, no matter the colour of the emblem on the robes of those in the way, everyone simply made way for Mulciber and Rosier — And Severus by extension. People like him did not walk in the light, were not the center of attention, let alone respect, even if invoked by fear.
It was moments like these that he understood his place at the bottom of society, the lowest rank, and it was not even because of his blood status, but because he was Severus Snape.
“We saw your last duel with the elder Black, impressive, if Potter hadn't disarmed you, you would have won,” says Rosier, as complimentary as his words were, his face was unreadable.
“We need someone like you in our cause. I never believed that people were simply born with a gift to be better than others until I met you, Snape.” “Born with a gift”, my arse. It was hard work and dedication. “And despite your dirty blood, you're worth more than many pure bloods I know. Look over there, Charity Burbage, comes from a traditional and pure lineage only to become a blood traitor the moment she had the opportunity,” Rozier continues.
“A shame indeed.” Mulciber, who had been silent throughout the journey, made himself heard with the comment, his hand pressing Severus's back, “So much potential wasted on rotten fruit, I'm sure you won't bring such disgrace to the name Malfoy has thoughtfully put on the line for you.”
’Thoughtfully.’
Ha!
More as he put a target on his back and waited for thanks, after all no one refuses the Dark Lord .
At the sight of the door of the room of potions he can not but feel relieved, potions was his refuge and now more than ever his chance to escape, because even Mulciber and Rosier could not walk with someone like him without their respective reputations suffer a little, then when they reached the door and Severus was still being held he started to get tense, when they entered the room no slytherin looked, there was nothing dramatic as Severus expected, only dirty and confused glares from the gryffindors, Severus couldn't stop the relieved sigh this time.
"Is this where we leave you Sev, think about what we said yes?" said Rosier clenching his chin delicately between the thumb and moving away.
Mulciber squeezed his nape lightly before putting the worn bag back in his hands to follow Rosier into the middle of the room.
Severus was already used to hiding his discomfort with the unwanted touches so he just shook off the nausea and went to his place in the back of the room. ‘Not unwanted’, he thought settling down on his bench, ‘overwhelming' was more suitable, as a hungry man who ran into a feast and does not know if he is allowed to eat even if his stomach is devouring itself
He observed Professor Slughorn rise from his chair and sniff inaudibly – the students paid little attention.
Black was sitting on top of the bench that Severus doubted to be his while laughing like a lunatic at something Potter had said, Wilkes was in an apparently very touching conversation with a picture at the back of the room, when he noticed Severus looking towards him, his face that before showed deep sadness turned into a mischievous grimace when the eyes of the portrait turned away from him, winked and made a sign for Severus to keep silent — what he would do anyway Severus had no intention of starting to gossip through the halls in the near future.
He then began to pack his belongings on the bench, his black tin cauldron as already on the bench – trust the elves to do all the work efficiently – feathers and worn scrolls were arranged so that they stayed away from the cauldron but still in their reach along with his notebook and textbooks.
He turned his eyes forward and studied the sweaty face of Slughorn, sincerely as someone who can not control a class became a teacher is beyond him, was a familiar voice made him turn towards the other side of the room, Potter was now sitting with Lilian on the bench in front of him, laughing at something said by the idiot, Severus felt a small sharp sting in his chest — not because of any romantic feelings that anyone claims Severus to have, and more because of Potter in general, but Severus would not be hypocritical, after all at the end of the day it was he who slept and ate next to blood supremacists.
But that didn’t matter anymore, they were no longer friends and Lilian’s life did not concern him, Severus thought as he looked away, Potter as if he felt his attention turned towards him, Lilian was distracted by something spoken by Mckinnon, Severus swears that he saw the eyes of the bastard shine when he noticed Severus looking in his direction, he noticed Potter lips open just enough to show a little bit of teeth, his torso expanding because of the deep inspired air — it was almost as if that beast was tasting his scent in the air, a grin that Severus can only describe as shit-eater crossed Potter face, he them raised a hand as if he wanted Severus to pay attention to it, and of course Severus did – for years never managed not to go straight into a fight or argument with Potter – when Potter realized that he had Severus attention, he put his hand on Evans’s knee and smoothed and stroked her skin up to the thigh, Severus didn’t know what expression he was doing but it was probably one that represented the disgust he was feeling 'because Potter started laughing hard enough to fell out of his chair.
Wild beast.
"Good morning my students! today’s class will be the continuation of the preparation of potion polyjuice, you are already in the last step to finish the potion - now go into the pantry and take the lacewings and be sure to add the hair of the person who gave him permission for this - I do not want any exchange of ingredients in such a delicate preparation!" Here Slughorn faced Black who studied Severus with a predatory smirk on his lips, when he noticed the attention of the teacher, the dog settled in the chair with the most false innocent smile that ever existed - Not that Slughorn has noticed, with his face melting from his frown..
"Err- ahem - And be careful when picking up the ingredients in the pantry and no commotion please, we don’t want any incidents like last time."
Commotion, right, as if Pettigrew had not enchanted his shoes to stick to the ground while he argued with the dog and Potter took the opportunity to push him towards the potion rack, he still got detention because he held the two idiots and dragged them with him during the fall
Severus was sitting while the class went to the dispensary, bodies touching, loud laughter and pushing were not his favorite way of being when dealing with things as delicate as potions ingredients. So he waited when everyone had returned, and some cauldrons were even already lit – a ridiculous mistake indeed – it was when he got up to get his ingredients.
When he noticed everyone had returned to their seats, he made his way to the pantry. The hair he was going to use was Avery's. The other boy was strangely tense when he offered the lock to Severus. If Avery hadn't cut the tuft in front of him, Severus wouldn't have accepted it — simply because of the taller boy's strangeness.
Returning to the counter, Severus wondered why he thought his day would be quiet — Potter and Black were standing in front of his cauldron with two bottles each in their hands and identical grins directed at him. With a weary sigh, Severus resigned himself to an unwanted social interaction.
"Snivellus, what a surprise to find you here!" Black exclaimed with feigned surprise, his mouth open in a wide smile that showed his white teeth and sharp canines. The boy was loud, annoyingly loud if anyone asked him.
"This is my desk, Black. If we’re talking about surprises, your presence and his—" he pointed condescendingly at Potter, who was watching the interaction with amusement, "—are the only surprises I see, unwanted ones I might add."
"It's not like we want to be in your presence either, Snivy. Slughorn sent us to deliver this to you." Potter grabbed the ones in Black' hand and pushed the cylindrical bottles into his hand.
It could be said that he was more than sceptical about opening the damn thing, but when he looked at Slughorn and found him staring at him with barely contained excitement, Severus put his suspicions aside.
They were Naga scales.
Fucking Naga scales.
His surprise must have shown on his face because the two boys in front of him tried unsuccessfully to peek at the contents of the vial, with Severus quickly closing the lid and raising a cynical eyebrow.
"I believe your presence here is no longer necessary? Or perhaps you are waiting for me to throw a ball for you to chase?"
The retaliation that Severus was sure would happen later would be worth the price of seeing Black practically growl and Potter's face turn two shades darker at the provocation, the two brainless idiots probably thinking he was talking about Lupin and his hairy problem and not the fact that Severus knew about the animagus spell.
When Lupin turned on the bench to stare at him with pathetically sad eyes, Severus realised that stupidity was contagious, apparently.
"Prongs, we need to finish our potion, mate." Lupin called, still looking at him as if Severus had stepped on his paw or something.