Not many people ever got to know the man who was Severus Snape. Fewer were there to witness the boy become the man. And almost no one ever knew what drove the boy to become one of the greatest potioneers of his age. In fact, Severus himself could have counted using less than one hand how many people ever knew his greatest ambition. Most who remember him from his time at Hogwarts would tell you that it was to become a name spread farther than all things. Some would remember the whispers and could tell you that his innermost desire was to take the hand of Lily Evans' as his own, and to love her dearly. Other might suggest that Severus Snape was a boy who never became a man - someone who simply aged, well, unlike fine wine. They would be the kind of people who did nothing to know him, that would speculate that, as he once was a Death Eater, his greatest joy would to be to embrace the Dark and all that it entailed.
But all of these reasons, these suggestions and theories, would not hold a candle to the poor boy who fell so deeply in love with something - not many could ever think of Severus as a "pure" person, one unblemished by evils or free from the weight of thousand heartbreaks. Severus Snape, like many children, once dreamed. He dreamed more than any other because he dared; he dreamed, because in his dreams, he found love. Love that he could not find anywhere else - not in any form of companionship within the confines of reality. Love that he wanted to find at every corner of his life; and because he dreamed, he told himself one day that he would find love.
It started when Severus could barely read; he had learned his lessons like all good girls and boys, figuring out how to separate "A" from "V" and "M" from "N," learning that "W" was not "Double U", and things of that nature. And like in his dreams, he realized that words were a world of their own. They had power - tremendous, great, mighty, awful, power. Power that not even his father could take away. And so he embraced it; no, he ran towards words, grabbed them with eager, nimble fingers and keen eyes. He was hungry, but his stomach satisfied itself because he lost himself so often in words that he forgot how hungry he was supposed to be - words could make him forget that he had not eaten in nearly two days, stories could make him forget that his room was not an open field for hours, and biographies would make him stumble into a gathering of history's greatest minds.
It was not long before Severus Snape's attentions took him to different sorts of texts; after all, Severus was nothing if not an avid reader and willing student. The day began as usual; with sobs wracking the house and a sombre quietness that was now his rooster's call, and then his daily attendance at primary. He was a little older than before, with nearly a year and a half under his belt, he was nearing nine. It was by chance that his mind took him to the direction of the cupboard under the stairs when he got home. He had carefully pried open the front door, breathing silently as he could, and for some reason, he was staring at the stairs as he walked in. He blinked as his brain brought back the image of his broken mother hastily stuffing her old possessions under the stairs, locking it with speed and dexterity he had never known from her. He had remembered that so vividly, because it was one of the few moments that, despite his mum's fear, she was determined to do something.
Before he knew what he was doing, his fingers marched towards the small door. He blinked. Once. Twice. His fingers were absentmindedly caressing the two locks that adorned the tiny shield. He frowned as he wished he had keys to open the door, and his eyes widened when the locks began to undo themselves. His breath hitched. Was the door not really locked after all, he thought. He paid it little and even less mind however, as he gently opened the cupboard. His eyes squinted as they stared at the stack of books before him. He pried one from the top and dusted it off. It read: Potion's - A Beginner's Guide. His brow creased. Potions? What were those? Why would his mum keep something like this, hidden but never thrown out? Cautiously, he began to rifle through the first few pages. By the twenty-ninth page, he knew he had to finish this book. He glanced about, realizing he had never moved from his spot next to the cupboard. He swallowed as he stared back at the remaining pile of books and knew what he had to do.
The click of the locks being supposedly back in place made him feel oddly proud and satisfied. He walked up the stairs quickly, after realizing the his father was not home. He hid in his room and locked the door, grateful that his "room" had that much. His legs carried him to his small cot and he sat down, again flipping through the pages. It was over four hours before he was even close to halfway finished with the book, but he felt so thrilled in reading it. This book was not just some recipe index. It talked about this… this "brewing" process so authentically, so intricately, so richly, that he could not doubt its existence. It made him, a boy of nearly nine, smile so widely that no one could doubt his boyishness.
Half a year passed and he had long since finished that book and the others that remained under the stairs. Not all of them were about potions, but quite a few of them were, which showed him that his mother was fond of them. He also learned many other things. That of course, magic was very, very real. And that it was very, very unnatural. It was too good to be true, and yet it was. Therefore, it was freaky. And freakishness was not tolerated. Severus Snape was one of those in the world who lived a boy but walked a man; he was one of those who had to see his mother, thin and weak, covered in draping sleeves and baggy sweats, desperately pretending that her son did not know the blacks and blues of every bruise that ached her limbs and skin. He was of the sort that felt pained but kept quiet, and he realized that his mum did not know that he knew - not that she was beaten, but it was because she was special that she received her treatment.
And that was also the age when Severus began to keep secrets. Because he saw, he also knew. And he was afraid. Afraid of the world without his many books and things, afraid of all those things being burnt up and ripped apart by the hands of a "man" whose only concerns were the night's alcohol and bed. He became afraid of instances of magic, and so he learned to harness it. To control it. To guide it in his hands that he would only use it for better deeds and purposes small but powerful. He would not let his world fall apart.
But, he never had to. Even though it had been going on for about a year and Severus was almost ten, his father did find out. The man found out that his son, too, was so very much like his mother. That he was an abomination; the very first thing the man did when he realized his own flesh and blood was the very thing he hated was spit on him and vomit all over the child. The next thing he did was to tear at the child until his wife turned his rage onto herself by throwing her in front of him. And Severus realized that his world never fell apart because the worlds he imagined were just that. Imaginary.
Even though magic was real, it was useless. Because it did nothing to cure his mother of a broken heart, his father of a broken soul, and himself of a crumpled spirit. He swallowed frantically as he looked on, and not even a minute into his father's frenzy, he screamed his throat hoarse and pushed the elder male. He stumbled on the next step and Tobias seized the chance by the proverbial throat, slamming his son against his bedroom door. It rattled against its hinges but it stood firm. It was fifteen minutes before Tobias decided he had enough and left the house.
Severus stank of urine, blood, and fear, but he did not care for all the hurts he suffered because he believed he did something right. And then he turned to Eileen, whose face was covered in tears as she looked at him. His vision dazed as he fell onto his aching back, eyes sore and puffy, closing from exhaustion. He remembers, though, the emptiness of the eyes he saw before his own turned to black.
When he woke, he lay on his cot. Wincing as he sat up, he surveyed his room. And as he feared, everything he cared for was thrown all over his floor, some of the texts completely torn and others missing many pages. Some were luckily untouched, but he noted sourly that those were all books that had nothing to do with his natural unnaturalness. A lone tear made its salty streak down one cheek and he curled up, his arms on his knees and his head behind them, not caring for the pain of moving his muscles.
He could not recall how long he sat like that, but he does remember how he stopped. He had run out of tears and sniffles but he never ran out of thoughts. Many of them started with the word "Why" and most of them ended with silence. But one thought struck him and it gnawed at him; it ate at him so harshly that he choked in nervous laughter thinking about it. He didn't even know why he could think of this after what has just transpired. But he did. His thoughts turned towards his mother. And Tobias. Maybe, he thought to himself, what they needed was love.
And so he made sure to love them as he had learned from them. Severus was not, as most people know him, brilliant at potions. At least not initially. He was, however, unlike most others. He had a rabid fascination, a near insane obsession with learning the art of potions. He strove to brew them in whatever he could find, in whatever place he could. Because he always knew that one cup of love would solve the world's problems, at least for a day, or at least for an hour.
Severus Snape vowed that he would make a way for his mother to be okay and to find a way to control his father, in the only way he knew how. From all the books he had acquired and all the knowledge he retained, he knew that potions was different. They were the symbolic icon in the mundane world of things concerning wizardry, but in the world of wizardry, they were the most mundane. Severus Snape, at the young age of ten, learned that potions were the one pass-time he had that connected him to things magical, without him needing the magic. Potions was an art that did not require its artist to be connected to the ethereal element, and so, he continued to brew.
He was determined to make his dreams come true. Because despite all the innocence lost and all the naivete torn away, Severus Snape was still a dreamer. And he loved his dreams dearly. He dreamed as he loved, and loved what he dreamed; he could not conjure a reality he wanted, but he could make one if he wanted. He began to fully invest himself in his chosen art, and he would have no equal; no, not one. He swore on his life and future and all his possible descendants.
Because Severus wanted to live a life filled with love; every evening he would slip his mum a mug of freshly brewed Replenishers. To the man that birthed him, he would provide a daily dose of something - anything - that he could reasonably make and pray that the man would not break out of the shell he was forced to live as.
By the time Severus was eleven, he had gotten very good at making his potions. But it was still not enough, despite his Professor's proclamations. By the time he was thirteen, it did not matter that he was better than most, if not all, his peers. He was still not there. Not yet. It was when he was nearly sixteen when he was there. Most people lauded him. Many of them, even those that despised him, grudgingly admitted talent when they saw it. But, that was the "talent" he had to show. None of them knew that his greatest talent was to be a dreamer. And to be a lover. When he was seventeen, he was where he wanted to be. His name reached far, they told him. He shook his head and smiled one of his rare, genuine smiles. His name could be everywhere, he told them. But his name meant nothing.
He had become a certified Master of his art, but that was not his goal. He did not need some words on a piece of paper to tell him who he was, though he did long ago. He did not care about his name at all. He told them, but they would not listen. He had not done this for anyone, and only Lily ever understood. He never said a word, not to anyone else, not even to the Dark Lord. Severus Snape had done as he did because he loved, and he lovely more deeply than anyone thought he could. They were his messenger birds to his mother. Potions were the only way he could show that he still cared. Potions, he whispered to her closed eyes and cold body, were the only form of love I could give you.