Disclaimer: Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with any and all other references to Harry Potter-related material, are not mine, have never been mine, and most certainly never will belong to me!
A/N: Well, here I am again with another semi-random, semi-angsty oneshot drudged up from some demented corner of my mind...Mmm, I don't really have any comments on it, except for that I'd like to clarify one point: yes, the story refers to Dumbledore in the present tense, but as this little reminiscence of his can really have happened at any time during his life (well, post Snape returning to the side of the good and prior to the events of Half-Blood Prince), it really isn't necessarily me going off on a silly AU tangent :) But yeah, just wanted to make sure no one was confused on that account...and now, without further ado – enjoy!
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CATALYST OF DREAMS
Albus Dumbledore has always been a great advocate of second chances – of change, and of forgiveness, and above all, of redemption.
Over and over again, his trust is challenged by those who do not understand. And over and over again, Albus Dumbledore resists the urge to justify himself, vaguely claiming only that 'he has his reasons'.
Oh, he does have his reasons. After all, it was not too many years ago, that day: when Dumbledore watched from the High Table as a scrawny, dark-haired, hook-nosed boy sat upon a stool on the First of September, hidden beneath the brim of the Sorting Hat for a longer time than any other child had ever waited before.
After all, Severus Snape was not always the man he has grown up to become.
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He was born into a long line of Slytherins – his mother's side, anyway. His father was a Muggle, and maybe, in a different world, under vastly different circumstances, Severus would not have cared.
He did care. He hated his father, and his father was a Muggle, and so Severus Snape cared.
Severus hailed from a family of Slytherins, but that was something about which he did not particularly care. He cared very little for the Houses, or for their distinctive qualities, or for their notions of right and wrong.
What Severus Snape cared about, more than anything else in the world, was learning.
He was smart, he knew it; no, he was brilliant, and he knew things, Severus Snape knew things, he knew things, HE KNEW THINGS –
He wanted to know more. He wanted to learn. For that purpose, and for that purpose only, Severus Snape cared about Hogwarts.
As a small child, quietly, secretly, in that hidden corner of his mind, Severus Snape fancied himself a Ravenclaw. Oh, he could have Slytherin, if he liked – Severus knew he could easily mold himself to the slick, cunning nature that was a hallmark to the House of his forebears. But Severus Snape did not care, not so much, for games of manipulation and pursuit of a prize – no, Severus Snape cared only for learning. So he was a Ravenclaw, at least in his thoughts – and at that time, what was in his thoughts still mattered.
Once, only once, he had even dared to imagine himself as a Gryffindor.
It was a summer day, balmy warm, faintly breezy – a perfect day for the outdoors. Once, long ago, there was a time when Severus Snape enjoyed the outdoors – enjoyed it more than he did the cold, harsh stillness of the stone dungeon that he so came to relish later in his life.
He had been walking, that day, and he had heard a soft cheeping-crying, and a few minutes later he had seen it: a baby bird with a broken wing, caught high in a tree and far out of a small child's reach.
As a child, Severus Snape was afraid of heights.
He had climbed the tree.
He had rescued the bird. And for the whole walk home, with the struggling creature held carefully in his trembling hands, Severus Snape had wondered if that was an act Gryffindor bravery.
He had shown his father the bird – beamed a little, smiled a little, even, because he had done a good thing and shouldn't his father be proud?
The unspoken question had been answered in the form of an empty Firewhiskey bottle hurtling towards his face and bursting across his skull, shattering along with any last traces of faith or conviction.
From then on, Severus Snape did not think of Houses, or of bravery, or even of learning.
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Eleven years old could not come soon enough – not because Severus Snape was thinking of learning, not anymore, but now because all he could think of was getting away. That fateful September First rolled and sulked along the edges of his mind, a target for emotions gone horribly wrong: because excitement had long since turned to desperation, and anticipation had long since twisted into a sickening kind of hunger, and impatience had long since become distress.
But at long, beautiful last, that awaited day came.
A whirlwind of need swept Severus Snape up and away from Platform Nine and Three Quarters, along the journey of the Hogwarts Express, across the lake and under the castle and up the steps and through the double doors until finally, finally he found himself there – there, in the Great Hall, in a last concentration of hopes and nightmares and longings and fears and wants and pains and deep, terrible wishes reaching up from the very bottommost corners of his soul.
He nearly died, waiting for his name to be called by the stern witch with the tight bun and the firm lips pursed into a thin, thin line. The years of his existence had all, ultimately, lead up to this one deciding moment: and everything he had ever known, everything he had ever felt, everything there was to be about Severus Snape – all of it was poured without a second thought into this critical juncture of his life, this catalyst of all his dreams.
The 'S' of his name had barely left the witch's mouth before Severus was pushing forward, throwing himself onto the stool, thrusting the ragged Sorting Hat atop his head. Long minutes – or was it hours, maybe days? who knew? – passed as the boy, breathing heavily, his face scrunched up and his eyes squeezed tight, waited. Severus Snape waited, and he waited, and he waited – waited while the Sorting Hat raked his brain for the key, the key to the locked and sunken soul of a boy who had long since buried his aspirations with a broken glass bottle and the body of a bird.
"What is it that you want?" the hat at last whispered fiercely, wordlessly into his mind. "What is it that you really want, more than anything else in the world?"
What did he want? He wanted to learn things. More than anything else in the world, Severus Snape wanted to learn things. He wanted to learn – he wanted to learn – HE WANTED TO LEARN –
But that was not enough to save him.
Because deep down inside the pit of his belly, fostered by lifelong folds of destruction and neglect, there was a small part of him, a very small, very vicious part of him, that wanted to hurt people.
It had not always been there. And when the Sorting Hat finally screamed out "SLYTHERIN!", an ancient, silver-beared wizard blinked blue eyes that were strangely devoid of their usual sparkling, twinkling gleam – and the wizard wondered, quietly, secretly, in that hidden corner of his mind, if maybe one day that small, vicious part of the boy would go away again.