The Unsent Letters of Severus Snape
Of course, not mine. But I like to think he would have sent these if he could.
A note to readers: I had a frustrating time posting this, as the humor (such as it is) depends to a large extent on certain words and sentences being crossed out (our Potions Master really is trying not to be as snarky as usual). It is easy to cross out words in Word; when I first submitted the story, however, this site wiped out all the cross-through lines but not the words themselves, of course making everything very confusing. I know it's not as effective, but I wanted to get the story up, and so I have placed slash marks (/) around the parts that should be crossed out (try to imagine the lines through these words instead). I'd love to fix the problem, should anyone know how.
Even if the site hasn't been as cooperative as I'd have liked, though, I hope you enjoy the story. The idea's been knocking around my head for some time now—I believe it's even several years-and I'm relieved to get it out at last.
Letter 1
Dear Miss Granger:
Please accept my apologies for the unconscionable remark I made today about your teeth. After thirteen years in the classroom, even a teacher so insensitive as myself cannot help but be aware how cruelly such words would wound a teenage girl. I was, of course, not speaking the truth: there is an obvious difference between the way your teeth normally look /(prominent though they are)/ and how they look when they are growing past your collarbone.
I wish I could tell you why I pretended not to notice that Mr. Malfoy had hexed you. Unfortunately, I can only write the reason here, in a letter you will never read, but let me record it nonetheless: my position as Dumbledore's spy among the resurgent Death Eaters means that I can never be fair to Gryffindors, and that, in addition, I must often overlook the failings of Slytherins. Or appear to do so: you would doubtless be delighted—could you but know—that later this evening the Bloody Baron will instruct Peeves to drop an ink bottle on Draco's head. Arrogant little berk.
Since you will never know I wish to apologize, I can only hope you are taking comfort in the fact that I am scarcely one to talk about unsightly teeth. Like presumably every student I have ever taught, you must have noticed that my teeth look dreadful. /My parents were too poor / Dental treatment was not available to me in my childhood, and it would be a little late to wear braces now, though I can only imagine the collective glee were I to do so.
In the surely futile hope that you can guess how sorry I am, your teacher, Severus Snape
(Incendio.)
Letter 2
To Mr. Lucius Malfoy
Lucius:
You are, of course, too bigoted to have ever watched Muggle TV, and are thus unfamiliar with the sketch by the comic troupe Monty Python entitled "Upper-Class Twits." Too bad; were you to see it, you would know exactly what I think of you.
More sincerely than you will, alas, ever know, Severus Snape
(Incendio.)
Letter 3
Dear "Dark Lord," AKA Tom Riddle, Jr. (Maybe I should just call you "Junior"? You'd love that.):
You think I am on your side.
You think you are such a powerful Legilimens that you know what is going on in my head.
You think I really mean it when I bow and grovel to you like the others.
You think I don't care that you murdered the person I loved most in the world.
As it turns out: You're wrong.
Joke's on you, Snakeface.
(If only I could send this one. If only. Incendio.)
Letter 4
Dear /Upper-Class Twit, Junior/ Draco:
I have failed you. And it haunts me. More than you will probably ever know.
Because of my position as double agent, I cannot teach you what you most need to learn, namely, that you have been brought up to believe utter tripe. Just because you are rich does not make you better than anyone else. Just because you are a pureblood does not make you special. Just because you are a bully does not make you right.
I've heard you say those horrible words, call students—Miss Granger in particular—"Filthy little Mudblood." And I have not been able to object, at least not openly. How could a supposed Death-Eater do so?
And yet I would like to tell you that saying those same words cost me my best friend. I would like to warn you that at the rate you are going you will ruin your life, as I did. I would like to say all this, but I cannot. It is a cruel price of my redemption, and my ability to save others' lives, that my lips are sealed when it comes to your errors. I can only hope that you learn the needed lessons yourself—and fear that you will not, or at least not in time.
Rather dispairingly, Severus Snape
(Incendio.)
Letter 5
Dear /Mr. Longbottom/ Neville:
What can I say?
What could possibly serve? "I'm sorry I've been an utter git. I'm sorry I've bullied you for years. I'm sorry I did this even though the thugs I once hung out with tortured your parents into insanity, and if I had any shame I'd treat you with compassion and respect."
What good could it do? But of course it would do some good. Of course I should say it. Of course the opportunity will probably never arise. That is why I am torturing myself by writing this letter which you will never read.
There is a reason, beside your /incompetency/ difficulties with Potions, why I have treated you the way I have, though it scarcely redounds to my credit. Every time I see you, I am reminded that the Dark Lord could have chosen to believe Sybil Trelawney's prophecy was about you, not Harry Potter, and that in that case Lily Potter would possibly still be alive.
Again, these thoughts do not reflect well on me, as they imply I would have been indifferent to the fate of a baby so long as his mother was not Lily. Would that have indeed been the case? I cannot say. I hope not; I would hope that my too-long dormant conscience would have awoken once I placed any infant in danger. But I cannot say for sure, and that torments me. So when I see you, I endure two types of torture: not only do I imagine a scenario in which Lily might still be alive, but I hate myself for imagining her survival under such circumstances.
Ah, guilt. Such a potent brew, more so than any I assign in my classes. The intricacies of all this must confuse you, as they do me. But what am I saying? You will never read this letter, so you will never be confused about anything to do with me. To you I will always be, simply, a greasy bullying git. An evil, betraying, greasy bullying git, too, once I have to pretend to be a Death Eater openly once again.
But this letter is not supposed to be about me, but about you, and the way I reenact the bullying that happened to me every time I taunt you and make you feel inferior. I truly am sorry: even though I wish you would be /less of an idiot and just once not melt a cauldron in my class/ a bit more skilled at Potions, I know that my cruelty makes it harder for you to learn.
Wishing he could be kinder, Severus Snape
(Sigh. Incendio.)
Letter 6
To My Students, Past and Present:
I know what you think of me. Even most Slytherins don't like me. And yes, I've heard the rumor I'm a vampire. I am sorry to tell you it's not true.
I know I am not a good teacher. Oh, I know my subject, in fact (why hide behind false modesty?), I know that I am brilliant. My students routinely exceed expectations, if not better, on their Potions O.W. L.s and N.E.W.T.s But I am not a good teacher when it comes to patiently explaining the material to /dunderheads/ those who do not already understand it.
True, I was never taught how to be a teacher, a deficiency in wizarding institutions where there is no concept (as there is in the Muggle world) of teacher training. But there is something else which makes it hard for me to like my students.
You see, none of you has a Dark Mark. Unhappily, some of you Slytherins may acquire one all too soon, perhaps even while you are still in school; some of your parents, after all, are Death Eaters. But in the main, brainwashed though some of you may be by their beliefs, you are still innocent. I, however, cannot wash away the evidence of my guilt, a guilt burned into my very skin for all that the brand is hidden beneath my black, bat-wing sleeves. I am to blame for this, not you, but this does not prevent me from snapping at you, particularly if you happen to be from families that were on the Good Guy side in the last wizarding war. I envy your clear consciences, your ability to sleep at night, and I realize that I can never be like you, no matter how much I try to redeem myself. Indeed, in my case redemption has taken the form of pretending to still be a Bad Guy, an irony which, I like to think, would put anyone in a foul mood.
Sincerely, not that you will, of course, ever know, your teacher, Severus Snape
(Incendio.)
Letter 7
Dear /Potter—I mean, Mr. Potter/—no, make that Dear Harry: (ha! I would love to see your face were you to read that salutation!):
I find myself even more at a loss than I was with Mr. Longbottom.
The fact that you will never read this letter is the only thing that makes it possible for me to write it. Very well, then; let me try.
I loved your mother.
Actually, that was not the way I intended to begin. /(Though I must admit the vision of you falling out of your chair after reading that line is rather amusing.)/ But perhaps, after all, it is the best place to start.
Please do not think that the love I had for your mother was solely romantic, though the attraction on my side was certainly there. But, in a much larger sense, Lily Evans was my friend, and she was loyal to me, and kind, until the day I called her a Mudblood, and she realized that I was not about to reject the warped beliefs of the Death Eaters. So she went her way, and I went mine, until my way placed her in terrible danger of being killed, and finally brought me to my senses.
I will not ask your forgiveness for having relayed Professor Trelawney's prophecy to Voldemort, not because I am not sorry—anything but—but because it is hard to imagine you forgiving me. I will say at least something in my defense, that having placed your parents and yourself in danger I did my best to protect, and save, you all—yes, even your /swine of a/ father. You were not, finally, betrayed by me, though this does not much mitigate my own part in your parents' tragedy. By the way, I know that you and /the werewolf/ Professor Lupin believed I was only intent on handing Sirius Black to the dementors because of a schoolboy grudge. This was not the case: though I can no more claim to have liked Black than I liked your father, I still believed him at the time of his escape from the dementors' kiss to have been the one who betrayed you and your parents. (If you recall, I missed the charming Mr. Pettigrew's reappearance because you and your /idiot/ friends had knocked me cold.)
I know that I have been unfair to you, and that I have not hesitated to wound you with words. Again, I should have looked at you and seen your mother's eyes, not your father's looks. But it is so easy to feel resentful—and feeling resentful is one of my talents—because 1) if not for you Lily might still be alive; 2) if I had not ruined my life I might have had a son myself, possibly even with Lily; and 3) I swore to Dumbledore to protect you from harm even though it hurts me even to look at you. All that, you can imagine, makes me very resentful indeed. /(Though it's true that you might not feel so wonderful yourself after reading that bit about my wishing I'd had a son with your mother.)/
In any event, have no fear: I will go on protecting your life at the risk of my own, despite your being the living image of James Potter. I may very well end up giving my life to save you. Such are the ironies of life, and, particularly, of redemption.
Your teacher (perhaps not so very hateful after all?), Severus Snape
P. S. I had not a chance to burn this letter, as is my usual custom, before Albus Dumbledore informed me that you will have to die too if the Dark Lord is to perish. Another reason it's good you are not reading this: it gives you a few more months, or years, of blessed ignorance of your fate before I (!) have to tell you what it is.
How do I feel, having heard this? Angry, of course. Angry at Dumbledore for not telling me sooner, for allowing me to believe for so long that I could actually save Lily's son; angrier still at the damned Dark Lord, for mooring himself to his wretched existence so firmly as to make your death necessary if he is to bite the dust; and angry in some strange way at you, and myself. Though there are many reasons for me to be angry with myself, for putting you in danger in the first place, for once I have no idea why I should be angry with you. It's not your fault (amazing, the things I am saying in this letter!). So why am I angry at you?
But is it anger at you? Or is it anger for you, on your behalf, that you should have to die so young? Could Dumbledore have been right that maybe I have come to care for you after all?
Have no illusions I will try to answer this last question. Time to forget that I asked it, and that I even wrote this last, most difficult letter of all those I wish I could send. Time to do what I should have done last night, before leaving this missive on my desk. Oh, it was heavily spelled against discovery, true, but it was too much of a chance, really, and I must not allow myself to take chances now, of all times.
(Incendio. Incendio. Incendio. Damn.)