Disclaimer: Anything you can recognize isn't mine - it's JKR's.
A/N: Okay, I made this up to explain why Snape chooses not to eat meals at Number Twelve. SPOILERS WARNING!! (though by now, I'm pretty sure everyone's finished the book.) I know that this is AU and a little bit OOC, but it was fun to write. Please review!!
~X~X~X~
"Snape never eats meals here," Ron told Harry quietly. "Thank God."
~X~X~X~
I arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place for the very first time on the sunny, painfully humid morning of July thirty-first.
Potter's birthday. Splendid.
As the particular holiday never failed to remind - another year of torture was in store for me, without a doubt. Seeing the Black hound dog in frequency outside of school was punishment enough, but seeing, day after agonizing day, the painfully hormone-driven, holier-than-thou, egotistical, pint-sized drama queen they call the Boy Who Lived is something no man should be condemned to. Fifth year is always said to be the worst, and I had a nagging feeling Potter was destined to make it all the more dreadful.
Of course, I could say that the boy's not matured one day since he first step foot in Hogwarts' hallowed halls.
But that would be a lie.
As much as I loath to admit it - and I certainly do - Potter's grown up over these past few years. Not much in manner - he's always been too cheeky for his own good, playing the tragic hero card far too often- but I cannot deny that he's dealt with much more than any other wizard has in his lifetime. And perhaps he's grown up too fast. Albus certainly fears so. But... it's better this way. James and Lily did not grow up fast enough.
Nor did Black. He has yet to accept fate's deciding -- that Harry is not his father.
That James is dead.
And one would think that he rather misses those midnight romps to the Willow, the foolish games and mischievous schemes -- so much, in fact, that he encourages his young charge to break rules in the very same manner, for which I am eternally annoyed.
But Harry is not his father. Not completely anyway.
I arrive for the fourth time at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place on August the eighth. Potter is said to be brought here today. Shame I won't have time to grace him with my presence...
As I carefully step in the doorway, I can't help but cringe at the thought of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix taking place in this dark, dank, disgusting sort of manor. But I suppose it suits the man who resides in it. He himself being dark, dank, disgusting.
I know Albus trusts Black, just as Albus trusts me. But the animosity Black and I have for each other stretches back to years of torment and anguish, humiliation and pain beyond anything imaginable.
Of course, it's not as if we cannot be relatively civil to each other.
But I'd rather not test the situation.
And I've been invited to stay for meals many times before by Molly Weasley, but have always declined her generous offer.
Why is that?
Most would think that it's because of Black - plain and simple. They'd be partly correct, but... there's something else as well.
Though I'd never dare admit it aloud, mostly due to the fact that these walls do, in fact, talk...
Granger.
The way she lays her knowing brown eyes upon me, gazing at me in awe as though I were some sort of... hero.
I'm not.
Potter's her hero. Not me.
But sometimes, I can't help but wonder. I find that listening in on her rowdy conversations with the brothers Weasley is rather unavoidable, as the feuds often result in booming voices echoing down the corridors.
Their arguments are always the same.
"Shut UP, Ron, he's on our side now!"
"I don't care, Hermione, he's a greasy git! What if he's double-teaming us?"
"Dumbledore trusts him."
"Hermione..."
"I trust him."
I barely have time to hear anymore as Madame Black's shrieks fill the dimly lit halls, and Molly comes rushing out to hush her.
But through the commotion, I cannot help but think that I've achieved something. If one young woman can trust me so blindly, have faith in me so sincerely, maybe I really am helping the Order.
And every time she emerges from her bedroom and I risk a glance in her direction, she is watching me. Watching me in a way that suggests she's -looking- for something, as if she's trying to find some means to justify her unyielding devotion to the belief of my loyalty to the Order. She dissects me with her innocent gaze, taking me apart piece by piece and evaluating me.
And it's unnerving.
Unnerving to finally know that you're reaching someone.
But the facade will not wear away, and the cold Slytherin exterior shields my gratefulness with a sneer.
"Ron, he's on our side now," she explains stubbornly.
"Doesn't stop him being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us..."
As she comes out onto the landing, I nod my head in her direction, and glare coldly at the towering redhead beside her. Weasley, you will never appreciate the convenience of a bad reputation.
I don't eat meals at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
I can't.
Not when -she- is there.
Watching me.
A/N: Whatdya think?? I made up the dates, because I honestly don't know when Snape was actually at Number Twelve. It's probably somewhere in the book, but I was too damn lazy to look it up. PLEASE REVIEW!!! (NO flames, only constructive criticism, please.) And if you want me to continue, please let me know, because I actually am considering it. Thanks!
A/N: Okay, I made this up to explain why Snape chooses not to eat meals at Number Twelve. SPOILERS WARNING!! (though by now, I'm pretty sure everyone's finished the book.) I know that this is AU and a little bit OOC, but it was fun to write. Please review!!
~X~X~X~
"Snape never eats meals here," Ron told Harry quietly. "Thank God."
~X~X~X~
I arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place for the very first time on the sunny, painfully humid morning of July thirty-first.
Potter's birthday. Splendid.
As the particular holiday never failed to remind - another year of torture was in store for me, without a doubt. Seeing the Black hound dog in frequency outside of school was punishment enough, but seeing, day after agonizing day, the painfully hormone-driven, holier-than-thou, egotistical, pint-sized drama queen they call the Boy Who Lived is something no man should be condemned to. Fifth year is always said to be the worst, and I had a nagging feeling Potter was destined to make it all the more dreadful.
Of course, I could say that the boy's not matured one day since he first step foot in Hogwarts' hallowed halls.
But that would be a lie.
As much as I loath to admit it - and I certainly do - Potter's grown up over these past few years. Not much in manner - he's always been too cheeky for his own good, playing the tragic hero card far too often- but I cannot deny that he's dealt with much more than any other wizard has in his lifetime. And perhaps he's grown up too fast. Albus certainly fears so. But... it's better this way. James and Lily did not grow up fast enough.
Nor did Black. He has yet to accept fate's deciding -- that Harry is not his father.
That James is dead.
And one would think that he rather misses those midnight romps to the Willow, the foolish games and mischievous schemes -- so much, in fact, that he encourages his young charge to break rules in the very same manner, for which I am eternally annoyed.
But Harry is not his father. Not completely anyway.
I arrive for the fourth time at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place on August the eighth. Potter is said to be brought here today. Shame I won't have time to grace him with my presence...
As I carefully step in the doorway, I can't help but cringe at the thought of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix taking place in this dark, dank, disgusting sort of manor. But I suppose it suits the man who resides in it. He himself being dark, dank, disgusting.
I know Albus trusts Black, just as Albus trusts me. But the animosity Black and I have for each other stretches back to years of torment and anguish, humiliation and pain beyond anything imaginable.
Of course, it's not as if we cannot be relatively civil to each other.
But I'd rather not test the situation.
And I've been invited to stay for meals many times before by Molly Weasley, but have always declined her generous offer.
Why is that?
Most would think that it's because of Black - plain and simple. They'd be partly correct, but... there's something else as well.
Though I'd never dare admit it aloud, mostly due to the fact that these walls do, in fact, talk...
Granger.
The way she lays her knowing brown eyes upon me, gazing at me in awe as though I were some sort of... hero.
I'm not.
Potter's her hero. Not me.
But sometimes, I can't help but wonder. I find that listening in on her rowdy conversations with the brothers Weasley is rather unavoidable, as the feuds often result in booming voices echoing down the corridors.
Their arguments are always the same.
"Shut UP, Ron, he's on our side now!"
"I don't care, Hermione, he's a greasy git! What if he's double-teaming us?"
"Dumbledore trusts him."
"Hermione..."
"I trust him."
I barely have time to hear anymore as Madame Black's shrieks fill the dimly lit halls, and Molly comes rushing out to hush her.
But through the commotion, I cannot help but think that I've achieved something. If one young woman can trust me so blindly, have faith in me so sincerely, maybe I really am helping the Order.
And every time she emerges from her bedroom and I risk a glance in her direction, she is watching me. Watching me in a way that suggests she's -looking- for something, as if she's trying to find some means to justify her unyielding devotion to the belief of my loyalty to the Order. She dissects me with her innocent gaze, taking me apart piece by piece and evaluating me.
And it's unnerving.
Unnerving to finally know that you're reaching someone.
But the facade will not wear away, and the cold Slytherin exterior shields my gratefulness with a sneer.
"Ron, he's on our side now," she explains stubbornly.
"Doesn't stop him being a git. The way he looks at us when he sees us..."
As she comes out onto the landing, I nod my head in her direction, and glare coldly at the towering redhead beside her. Weasley, you will never appreciate the convenience of a bad reputation.
I don't eat meals at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.
I can't.
Not when -she- is there.
Watching me.
A/N: Whatdya think?? I made up the dates, because I honestly don't know when Snape was actually at Number Twelve. It's probably somewhere in the book, but I was too damn lazy to look it up. PLEASE REVIEW!!! (NO flames, only constructive criticism, please.) And if you want me to continue, please let me know, because I actually am considering it. Thanks!