Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K. Rowling, all except for Hagawthe Malfoy, Abbigale, and Moragona Connely (who also belongs to Sacred Magyck). These are characters I have created, and cannot be used without my permisson.

PG13: Language, sexual humor and thoughts, angst.

Flames are not welcome.



The Origin of Snivellus


PROLOUGE

There is a house partially hidden by two larger homes, never seen by the Muggle eye.

There is a house that is coloured in off- white paint, and I suppose that makes perfect sense. White houses are supposedly dream homes- little picket fences, bright green grass, the beautiful children and the dog. So off- white must mean the opposite.

Especially since the paint is peeling and there is no Welcome rug outside the front door with the broken screen. The broken home.

There is a boy inside the broken screen door, across the shag carpet, cowering in the hallway outside the dirty kitchen. He is very pale and scrawny, with a malnutritioned look about him and chin-length black hair that hangs in his face. He's pressed up against the sick yellow wall, trying to listen, trying to keep himself calm. He bites his lip and cradles himself with the skinny arms, grasping the wall with the grimy fingernails of a child who has not been taken care of. He listens.

"Tell me where I went wrong!" hollers a male voice, deep and very furious.

"You didn't," pleads the voice of a woman, not sounding weak, but very tired.

There comes a sound of a hand striking flesh, a bruising and vicious sound. The woman breathes out quickly, trying to conceal the pain.

The young boy in the hallway squeezes his dark eyes shut and hugs himself so hard he swears he could suffocate himself right then and there.

The man gives a mean laugh. "If I haven't gone wrong, it was you then. Your pitiful genes made those pitiful children what they are. She's a whore, a bloody WHORE!" he shouts. Glass breaks.

"She's seventeen, she's-" the woman begins, but he cuts her off with "Were YOU like that at seventeen?" He pauses, moving, pacing. "I tell you, we've got the worst luck of anyone I know. First that slag, then the boy? I won't have it any longer. I just won't have it. You're not worth staying here- I don't know why I don't just LEAVE."

Why don't you? screams the boy mentally.

The woman doesn't answer.

"You'd like that, would you? Wench!" he spits out. "You are your daughter!"

"I am nothing like her," she declares, nearly as meanly as him. "If Abbigale chooses to live her life like this, it is her own problem."

There comes the sound of fist against flesh once more. "NOT IN MY HOUSE. I will NOT deal with an excuse for a daughter- a disgusting WHORE," he says again. "She's dirt."

"DON'T YOU SPEAK ABOUT HER THAT WAY!" yells the young boy, like a reflex. When he realises he has spoken, he grasps himself even harder. His hands are clenched so hard that the knuckles are a deadly shade of pale.

The man instantly stops speaking to the woman and marches out into the hallway.

"Well, well, well, Severus. Here at your sister's defense again, I see?" He smiles tightly, a cruel smile.

Severus slowly looks up into the man's gaunt eyes. "She doesn't deserve it. She's not a whore. She's not anything you say she is!" Whatever 'whore' means.

"Like you could understand anything," chortles the man.

Severus is wise beyond his years in magic and potions, but how would this man know? How many hours, cooped up in the dark, hot room with nothing but a potions set and thousands of books? Severus does not mind. These things serve as protective shields, and this man does not need to know.

Without warning, Severus is lifted off the ground by the neck of his shirt, his ten year old body dangling awkwardly as he tries not to gasp for breath although it hurts so badly.

The woman makes a face like she wants him to stop it, but she doesn't say. She never ever says.

"Don't speak to me that way. You live in my house, you eat the food I provide, and you should be thankful," snarls the man, and as easily as he lifted the boy, he drops him on the floor. A grotesque thud takes place as the child makes contact with the chipping tile on the floor and gives a small cry of pain.

Severus scrambles backward, ending up a corner. His eyes are wide and sad. He's too young to truly hate the man yet. He feels queasy every time he even thinks those words. He usually just pretends the man and the woman do not exist.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, a quiver claiming his lips. He is frightened of this man, though he'd never want to admit it aloud. How many times has he bitten his nails to forget the pain in his shoulder, his head, his legs? Covered his ears to block out the sounds late at night when they would shout? Punched his own pillow, wondering how the man could do the same to all of them?

Like broken ragdolls.

As though he doesn't hear Severus, the man points his finger at the boy's right shoulder and makes a slicing motion in mid-air.

Severus sobs in absolute pain and clutches the spot, a line of blood showing through his worn long- sleeved shirt. Tears sting in his eyes as he tries to swallow them away. He doesn't want them to show.

"Don't- please, don't! That's enough for tonight!" the woman exclaims, wriging her hands as though she'd like to hug the boy, like to tell him everything will be all right. But she doesn't.

The man is not pleased with this- she gets struck again and again until she screams that she doesn't care what he does.

The young boy won't wait for another beating. He runs out of the room, but seems to forget what he's doing by the time he reaches the middle of the hallway. He can't suppress the tears any longer. Out they come, quietly. He sniffles and watches as the dingy carpet becomes a compete blur.

"There, there," says a soft voice. "Don't cry, they aren't worth all that." She appears by his side, and lifts him up into her arms like he's four years old again.

Abbigale carries him into the bedroom they share, and sits on her bed, hugging him tightly. He feels babyish and stupid, but at the moment, it feels warm and safe. Feelings not often felt. He then begins to cry hard. She sets him asside and he wipes his eyes, long legs dangling over the side of the bed. He stares at her strange, pretty face: the black eyes, the long straight dark hair, the clunky black boots and dark rings around her eyes.

"They were talking again about- about you," he gets out, wiping his nose upon his sleeve.

"When aren't they? Honestly, Severus. When are you going to learn? They'll never shut up about me- ever! He won't at least, and she'll go along with him." She stares at the door, the barrier. "THEY MAKE ME SICK," she screams suddenly. "I hate the way they treat you. Me, I don't care what they say. But you? They're seriously warped." Her eyes fall upon the blood. "Is- oh my fucking Salazaar, I swear, I would kill that man if the thought of Azkaban didn't scare me so badly." She slams her fist on the hard mattress, and then gets up to search through the numerous concoctions in bottles around the room.

"S'over there," Severus says quietly, slowly rocking himself back and forth.

She helps him heal the wound by placing a drop over the thin cut, but as always, there's a scar. Some things never wash away.

In a moment of silence between them, yelling is heard once more from the living room. This time, it is about Severus. Abbigale kicks her dresser with so much force, it bangs back into the wall. Plaster falls from the ceiling.

"This shithole!" Abbigale declares, then kicks open the closet, taking out an old suitcase.

Severus sits up staight, excitedly. "Are we running away?"

She bites her lip, staring at the suitcase as though it's the most interesting thing in the world. "I am," she states boldly.

"You can't! Why?" Severus inquires quietly, his insides filling with dread.

"I know my magic, Sev. I-"

"You'll miss seventh year!"

"I know enough, all right? If I leave her, I can make it on my own. I can get a job and provide for myself without sitting her and being fed, after being treated like a nothing and being forced t-" she breaks off the sentence. "Life will be so much better, Sev. Grades won't matter anymore, and I can do what I want!"

Severus folds his arms, trying not to look too concerned. "Why can't you take me along? I don't understand why you're leaving alone." He bites his lip again.

"You've been accepted at Hogwarts, Severus! You'll have ten months a year without them. Besides, you can learn so much there. It just wasn't for me, but I know you'll do an excellent job. You're a brain, Sevy," she teases.

He usually loathes it when she calls him that, but now, he keeps remembering all the times they've had together and how he took all of it for granted.

She's staring at the door. "I'll put this by the window. I think I'd better leave tonight, after I put you to bed." Her eyes say,'I'm sorry.'

"I'll stay up all night, then!" he declares, knowing he's being very stupid.

She laughs. "No, you won't. It's nearly ten thirty. You should probably get in your pajamas now."

He doesn't want her to ever leave, but he obeys, removing the clothing and dressing in his old dim pajamas with the grey stripes. She's positioned at the end of his bed, and he slips into the unmade sheets, staring at the wall. This is so much like every other night that he really is forgetting that she's going to leave for a better life. He pretends that she's staying forever.

"I'll tell you a story about Severus Snape, the grooviest bloke Hogwarts has ever seen," she grins, tickling his foot.

He sniggers, kicking at her, but listens as she makes up a crazy story in which he is the hero and saves everyone from a disaster in class. He believes it- he can imagine it perfectly. She tells stories so vividly that even the wildest things possible seem like they could be true.

Severus recalls finally falling asleep with her voice still tellling the tale.

He awakes a few hours later, feeling strangely cold. His eyes grow used to the dark and he realises why- the window is open. As he stirs to open it, he finds out why he awoke. The man is standing over his sister's bed, as if she'll return any moment. Severus has awoken to him standing there many times before, and never questioned it. This time is like the others. He rolls over to his side, when he remembers that she's gone.

Gone.

The only one who truly cared for him. She was out alone, and even though he knows she's strong, he still worries for her, naturally.

If only I hadn't cried. If only I had been in the room with her, not spying on them. Then she would have had no reason to get so angry again. She would have stayed longer.

Flipping over restlessly, this thought weighs Severus down horribly. The man whips around, staring at the form of the boy for a moment before deciding he's asleep. He leaves.

Severus wraps the sheet around himself tighter and wishes she would come back home.

He'll never see her again.

From then on, things were different. Severus was completely dependant upon himself. He spent day after day pretending he was the only one in the house. When he had to leave his room, he did so quietly.

When school started, he was not at all surprised that Abbigale's tale was one of pure fiction. If anything, the opposite occured. Severus was different- he'd rather study and keep himself occupied then hang out with the other children.

He was put into Slytherin, and the man said that it was the only thing he'd ever done right. First year was pointless. Severus all ready knew most of the spells. It was too easy for him. The hard part was the social aspect of Hogwarts. He never really fit in.

Along the course of the next few years, he became friends with a Lucius Malfoy, but they grew apart. Severus could never become close to anyone. It wasn't in his nature. The people at school made him feel this way. They made him feel like they could not be trusted.

The name-calling and hexes grew more serious, until fifth year, when they reached a peak. Things were growing worse. Severus was unpopular and he could never forget it. He had given up completely. He resorted to ignoring everyone. They didn't matter anyway.

Until sixth year, when one of them mattered.

The boy had a strange feeling that this year would be different than the others, and he was correct. Madame Zabini did say he had a bit of psychic energy about him.

Are you wondering how I know this?


How I know the house he lives in?

How I know the screen door?

How I know the bruise on his arm, the cut on his shoulder, and the burn on his chest?

How I know the man and the woman and Abbigale?

How I know the young boy so well?

It's really quite simple.

I am the boy.

I am Severus Snape.

And now, it is my sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Care to join me?