Disclaimer: As you know, I do not own this character; I'm simply expanding him. He is not my own creation, though I wish he were.
A/N: A one shot fic. Enjoy.
A man sits at his desk staring at the stone floor. His greasy black hair frames his face, casting a dark shadow over it; masking the pallid skin. Glancing up again at the pewter cauldron sitting over a dormant flame, he sees his past. He quickly redirects his gaze to the corner, but he cannot escape. For his past lies there too, in that corner, and in that cauldron, at that desk, and in that floor.
Eight years old, no more, the boy sitting in the dark corner of the Snape manor. Tears leaked down his face and he plunged his fingers in his ears to stop the screams. They wouldn't leave. He tried to keep himself from looking at the reflection of the man and woman fighting in the suit of armor, for he knew it could only lead to more tears. That was the last thing he wanted, more tears. If there was anything that caused his father to brandish his wand, it was tears, yet they came. The small boy removed the fingers from his ears to push the smooth black hair away from his face, and he heard it.
"Crucio," Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he pretended not to hear it, until he heard it again, and realized that it was not the usual voice that uttered the curse. He ran his tongue across his lip, tasting the metallic flavor of blood, and stood to see the man, who had the nerve to call himself a father, lying on the ground, shaking and screaming haplessly. His mother held an oak wand in her right hand, and pressed her left hand to her cheek that had most likely been hit again. She dropped the wand when she noticed her son watching and stared scornfully at him, not seeing him as a person, but as a beast, as she often commented.
The boy was in shock. Never before had his mother rebelled, and he wasn't sure what kept him standing there to see his father regain his composure. Whatever was going to happen wasn't going to be good, he could feel it lurching inside his uneasy stomach, but he was too scared speak, and too naïve to hide. Surprisingly enough, after a good ten minutes of lying on the marble floor, staring at a moving portrait of the first Snape, the boy's father stood up without anger. In fact, there was very little emotion at all. That is, until he spotted his son.
"Severus" He hated the way his father said his name with a soft hiss. He hated watching the devious smirk form on his father's lips every time his name was mentioned. Severus stood, unmoving as his father approached silently. His father towered over him when he was finally close enough to touch, and Severus dreaded looking up at the malevolent black eyes that were drilling holes in the top of his head.
"Severus, you haven't been…crying…have you?" Severus kept his eyes glued to the stone floor of the corridor. Yes, he had been crying, but if he admitted it, he would be punished. If he denied it, he would be punished. And if he just stood there, saying nothing like a mute fool, he would most definitely be punished, for his father already knew the answer to his own question. Now it was all a matter of which punishment would be less severe.
"Yes. I have been crying, Father." Severus looked up into the dark eyes of his father, his own eyes full of shame. Embarrassment was etched into every deep line on the elder Snape's face.
"How…" Snape paused, trying to find the words, "quaint." With sarcasm practically dripping from his tongue, he grabbed his son by the arm and began to drag him down the corridor past moving portraits and outstandingly ornate columns carved to look like dragons had curled around them.
Door. Door. Door. One. Two. Three. Four. Severus counted the doors, partially to figure out where he was being dragged, partially to keep his mind off the pain in his arm, but mostly trying to keep his mind from thinking about his punishment. Then, as the foul aroma of ginger and blood filled his nostrils, he realized what he was going to have to do.
His father pushed open a heavy dogwood door that creaked and let everyone in the manor know that it was being opened. Severus recognized this as the room that his father spent fourteen hours a day in, the potions room. Bottles filled with every kind of liquid and unidentifiable material lined seemingly endless shelves around the room. Severus counted at least fifteen cauldrons that were currently being used to brew God knows what.
The only thing Severus knew about potions was, he hated them. He couldn't stand the smell. He couldn't stand the taste. He couldn't stand that his father forced him to practice and take notes until his hands bled, but the Snape's were famous for their potion making, and if Severus's father lived up to one thing, it was his family name.
Snape dragged his son further in the room, not seeing that Severus was nearly ready to faint from breathing the fumes, and threw him down in a woven chair that sat in front of a chipped and burned desk. On the desk sat a pewter cauldron with a dormant flame underneath. Two dead bats, a rusty knife and four ginger roots sat to the right of the cauldron, and an old wand sat on the left. Severus flinched when he saw the bats, and then looked to his father.
"Please, Father, no." Severus eyed the bats again, then the knife, then his father who was snickering evilly under his breath.
"Please, Father, no." Snape mocked his son, seeing the dread on his face. "How about. 'Yes, Father. I would love to milk these bats, and even if I didn't want to I'm going to do it anyway or be CURSED FOR BEING A LITTLE GIRL" Snape raised his voice when he started the string of insults. "OR CURSED FOR EVEN BEING ALIVE YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF DRAGON DROPPINGS! DO IT! NOW!"
Severus could feel the tears welling up behind his eyes as he looked back to the bats. Obviously his father could too. He brandished his wand and pointed it at his son's chest. "Don't you cry Severus. Don't you cry," and he didn't. It took every bit of his strength to hold the tears behind his eyes as he picked up the knife and sliced clean through the bat's neck, separating its head from its body. It took even more strength to keep them from spilling over his lids as he held the body of the bat over the cauldron and squeezed, allowing thick crimson to stream into the cauldron. Severus didn't look away from the blood spilling into the cauldron, and as he sat the first bat back down, and reached for the next, he could hold it in no longer. A single tear dropped from the corner of his eye, and hung stagnant on his hooked nose. He did not wipe it away, surprisingly enough, but just continued with his work, being careful not to shake the tear off. He wanted his father to see, see that he wasn't ashamed of crying…or not yet.
As Severus finished mixing the ingredients of his potion, the elder Snape burst into sudden, purely malicious laughter. Severus crossed his eyes, and it was still there, the single tear, and he noticed, he wasn't the only one eyeing it.
The last thing he remembered was hearing the voice of his father again, "THIS'LL TEACH YOU NOT TO CRY, BOY! CRUCIO!" And that laugh. That laugh…
The now grown Severus looks up from the floor and eyes the cauldron, the two dead bats, and the rusted and dull knife sitting on his desktop. Seeing that it was almost time for the poor fool serving detention with him tonight to arrive, he realizes what he has become. He looks in the mirror, and jerks his wand from where it is resting at his hip. Pointing it at his own chest, he whispers, "Don't you cry, Severus. Don't you cry."