Into the Pensieve: Snape
*Disclaimer*
This belongs to J.K. Not to me.
He had stared skeptically at the stone basin. Professor Dumbledore– although he had been told to call him Albus, he could
never see himself actually doing it– had given it to him with little explanation, except that he provided all the teachers
with one on their first day. It was a Pensive, the Headmaster had explained, to contain all your excess thoughts,
memories, and emotions. He had accepted it hesitantly, and now he was even more hesitant to use it; it was frightening
to think of what his own memories could do if they fell into the wrong hands. However, he took a deep breath and brushed
his wand to his temple, drawing out a silvery string that he placed in the basin where it swirled delicately. A memory.
******************************************
The boy was old enough to read, but young enough to still not comprehend much of what he read. Now, he was absorbed in a
book describing the flora and fauna of Brazil, fighting his way through the words as one might fight through a jungle
without a machete. The aid of his forefinger assisted him somewhat, but the book would have been difficult enough to
discourage even the most aged man. He liked the pictures, though, pictures of carnivorous flowers and of great snakes
called boa constrictors. He had learned to love the books because they took him away from the dismal world he lived in
and into a wonderful new one, with much less yelling and shouting.
A portion of this yelling and shouting was drifting up the staircase at that very moment, distracting the small boy from
his reading. He frowned, an expression he would use often later in life, and kept reading, occasionally sounding out the
most difficult words aloud. He was careful, however, to keep his voice softer than the softest whisper; if he made much
noise, the yelling would soon be directed at him instead of his mother.
The thought of his mother made the boy's face darken considerably. His father had come home from a spectacular raid,
covered in blood and bone fragments and who-knows-what-else, and his mother had been sitting in the kitchen, staring out
the window as she did so often nowadays. Unfortunately for her, his father had enjoyed Grindelwald's latest raid far too
much and was in a state of mad drunkenness– as much from the reek of death and decay as from the liquor he had consumed.
Fortunately for young Severus Snape, his mother had served as enough of a distraction that he had been able to escape to
his secret hiding place and his beloved books. He felt sorry for her, especially when she winced every time she moved,
but he had learned long ago that sentimentality only gets you bruises.
The crashes and bangs of his father throwing their china at the kitchen walls did not make the boy look up. His brow
still furrowed, he puzzled over the word "pomegranate" and payed no heed. However, when heavy footsteps began to ascend
the stairs, he shoved his book into the corner of his secret hiding place and covered it and himself with a pile of old
rags he kept there specially for that purpose.
From the darkness of the rag heap, he could only hear the muffled groan of the door hinge and held his breath, praying
that it was his mother coming to tell him that he could come out, that everything was all right. He was wrong. A rough
hand shot down through the rag pile and grabbed his collar, pulling him to the surface. For a moment, he saw his father's
face, covered in the red, sticky stains of his mother's blood. Then, a fist rushed at his head and everything was black
for quite some time.
~~~~~~~~~Next Memory~~~~~~~~~~
The boy standing alone on the Hogwarts platform looked very much that: alone. He in no way fit in with any of the other
robust, happy youngsters running gleefully around the platform. Clutching tightly to a trunk filled with books, as opposed
to their pranks, he stared at the ground, letting his lank black hair fall in his alabaster face but still watching the
other children through curious, coal-black eyes. Dark bruises still covered his back from his father's last rage and he
wondered at the agility of the other youths; it amazed him that anyone could move that freely without suffering acute
pain. In fact, he was so distracted by his peers that he didn't see the one running directly at him.
The collision was most painful as the taller boy tripped over Severus's foot and went flying into the air, his hands
accidentally smacking ribs that were probably broken already. Severus crumpled slightly, tears of pain springing to his
eyes, while the other boy sprawled onto the platform, scraping his palms slightly on the rough surface. Severus managed
to straighten back up and even offered a hand to the fallen lad.
"I apologize for causing you pain," Snape said formally, trying to surreptitiously mop the tears from his eyes while
remembering that, in books, apologies always followed accidents. He wasn't really sure if this was appropriate in the
real world or not– his father had certainly never apologized after the beatings– but it seemed a useful gesture at the
moment. Instead of accepting his help, however, the other boy punched Severus in the jaw. It felt like nothing compared
to the strength of his father, so he said only, "I suppose we are even now, aren't we?"
"You talk like a textbook and your nose is running," laughed the other boy spitefully. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Severus Snape."
"Hey, Potter," called the taller boy. A boy more the height of Severus joined them. "This is Severus Snape. He tripped
me."
"And he's crying," snickered the boy called Potter.
"He needs a nickname..." muttered the tall boy. Suddenly, he exclaimed, "Hey! I've got it! How about... Snivellus?"
The two dissolved in whoops of laughter.
"See you around, Snivellus!" cackled the taller boy, as the two disappeared into the crowd. Severus decided that he didn't
much like other children, if Potter and the tall boy had been any example. He frowned, and this time there was a harsh,
haunted hollowness to his eyes. It was the look of someone whose dreams have just been shattered.
~~~~~~~Next Memory~~~~~~~~~
The young man was frowning ferociously– not knowing whether to be happy or sad about leaving Hogwarts, he chose simply
to be angry. Leaving the other children would be wonderful, but to what was he returning? He hadn't heard from his
mother since his second year, and he wasn't entirely sure if she was dead or alive. It might have seemed strange that
he had no sentimental attachment to her, but the years of torment had produced a man void of almost any emotion, barely
capable of loving anything. He cared none for his professors, aside from Professor Dumbledore, to whom he showed something
akin to respect, and his feelings about other children had not changed since that first day on the platform. But at home
waited fists and broken bones, most certainly, though he was not sure that any physical pain could be worse than the
emotional pain he had suffered.
His trunk that he dragged across the sun-bathed grass still contained books; however, the books were no longer fairy tales
or geography, and the book on Brazil had long since been abandoned. Now, the words were still difficult, but the pages
depicted men with extra sets of arms sprouting from their heads and faces contorted with pain. He attacked books with
the same intensity that he did everything else– they were no longer the enjoyable escape from the world that they once
had been.
The train whistle blew, signaling the official end of his education at Hogwarts. I'll never walk on this lawn again, he
thought passively. He loaded his trunk automatically into the cargo compartment, then took a seat by himself. He did not
watch the castle disappearing into the distance. He no longer cared.
****************************************
He stood at the stone basin. Professor Dumbledore– although he had been told to call him Albus, he had never actually
done it– had given it to him with little explanation, except that he provided all the teachers with one on their first
day. It was a Pensive, the Headmaster had explained, to contain all your excess thoughts, memories, and emotions. He had
accepted it hesitantly, but now used it frequently, though cautiously; it was frightening to think of what his own
memories could do if they fell into the wrong hands. He took a deep breath and brushed his wand to his temple, drawing
out a silvery string that he placed in the basin where it swirled delicately. A memory.