Title: The Prince of Midnight
Prologue
Summary: My take on one of the tortured teachers of Hogwarts. Through years of endless ridicule and cruel pranks, the future Head of House survives his school years and becomes an incredibely intelligent wizard. He's quick-witted and intimidating, his mind is sharper than most, but how damaged is his heart?
Pairings: As of right now, I plan to make James and Lily a couple, and I'm considering SS/RL. But, in the prologue there isn't any, so no worries. I'll cross this bridge when I get to it.
For the first time of that summer, the weather was not black and rainy. The clouds had moved westward, leaving behind giant puddles and a muggy atmosphere. The children living in Berkshire were forced out of their houses and were advised to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted.
Jasper's Circle, one of the oldest and poorest streets in Berkshire, held only a handful of houses. The rest of the land was overgrown with weeds and consumed by woods. There was only one child who lived on the street, and he was the only boy who did not jump for joy at the chance to play hide and seek with his friends.
Shortly after noon on that day, a small barn owl appeared at the window of the boy's home. The child, who's father was nowhere to be found, entered the kitchen and let slip a smirk. It was the first in many years. Hastily, he threw open the window and untied the piece of parchment on the owl's leg. He knew it was only a matter of time. August was creeping to a close and there wasn't much time left to purchase books and robes.
The boy almost tore the parchment to pieces in the process of opening it. But he didn't seem to mind, all he needed to see was the title, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" before sprinting out of the room in persuit of his mother.
After sweeping the living room and dining room several times, the adolescent discovered his mother sitting outside on the porch, staring at the woods next door.
"M-mother," he stuttered, one hand clutched to the piece of parchment. "I think you should read these." He handed the acceptance letter over, reluctant to give it up.
"Oh! Finally! Finally. My son, the Hogwarts...Oh, and I was beginning to think it'd never arrive. All these years...so many years spent in fear that you were...Oh! You're going to Hogwarts!"
The boy listened silently as the prematurely aged woman wept for joy. He wanted her to take him to Diagon Alley right then. He wanted to enter the wizarding universe as soon as possible. He had just built up the courage to suggest he retrieve the Floo Powder, when the woman's crying ceased, and she looked at her son with her silvery eyes, horrorstricken.
"Son!" Her anxiety deflated all the cheery feelings the boy had developed in the past five minutes. He had a suspicion of what the woman was about to say, but hoped dearly it was wrong.
"When your father gets back from the pub, you must go straight to your room. I-I will handle telling him. Quick! He'll be back any minute now. Go in my old trunk, the one that's in my closet, and see if you can find any of these books in there. It will save us some Galleons if we do."
The boy grabbed the paper that had brought him so much excitement and anticipation and stormed back into the house. Slamming the front door as hard as he could, he began to shake with rage. Nearby, a lamp flickered for a moment, then burst into a thousand pieces.
He didn't care. Kicking the hall wall, the eleven year old burst into his miniscule bedroom and fell unto his bed. He wanted to punch something, slam something into a rock, break something fragile. Glancing at his bookstand in the corner, the boy's eyes swept through the titles on the spines.
He already owned all the books on his list.
But that was no surprise, really. He had long since stolen all his mother's old textbooks, and, when the oppurtunity arose, he never went into Flourish and Blotts without purchasing some old book of potions or spells.
Still seething, the child began to pace his room, his long hair falling in front of his eyes as if it were a curtain. The room, containing only a single bed, the bookstand, and a rather large closet, was no hiding spot for his father's wrath. The man was a vile monster, leaving his family with nothing more than embarrasement and bruises. The boy dreamed of the day he'd be whisked away to Hogwarts, never having to worry about the creature called his father for several long and glorious months.
Night had fallen outside the boy's room early and with it came the all familiar rain. It pounded on the roof and fell in gigantic drops onto the grass in swift motions. It was almost as if it were reflecting the kid's mood.
The boy did not have to be warned his father had returned. He heard the front door fly open and the slurred greeting to his mother. It took all the boy's strength not to escape through his window and flee. The voices of the two floated to the child's ears. The walls in the house were thin and unable to hold any secrets. The fast, slightly raspy, voice of his mother began to tell the deeper, slower voice, of her husband about their son's news, and before anyone was expecting it, the boy heard his mother hit the floor.
The silence that followed was almost deafening. The boy knew in a matter of seconds he'd be next. His father would burst into his room, his face red with fury, and demand to know if it was true. If he was, in fact, just like his mother.
A freak. The boy thought to himself. His father had tried to deny it throughout his entire life. He told his only son that he was normal. That despite his intelligence for everything magical, despite his already large collection of herbs and and potions, he was not like his mother.
The boy was pulled out of his terrible memories by the appearence of his dad. Cowering on his bed, the man seemed to tower over him. His dark hair, so similar to his son's, hung limply on his head, unclean and unkept. The dark eyes, which were misted over, bore down on the shivering figure and glared.
"I-I cannot believe you would do this to me. You, my only child, would choose this?!" the elder male pointed to the bookstand, "Over me? You would rather go off to some...nutter school and play with your, your chemistry set? End up just like your mother? A worthless sack of dung who does nothing but sit around writing letters and talking to faces in the fire? That is what you want?! That?!" The man took a step closer to the bed, causing the child to close his eyes momentarily.
"It's what I'm supposed to do," he replied, staring at his bedsheets.
His father took a minute to answer. But when he did, the coldness in his voice froze the boy's blood in his veins. "What you're supposed to do...And what, praytale son, am I supposed to tell everybody else when you disappear. Surely the neighbors and your old classmates will want to know what happened."
"Nobody will notice."
"Nobody will notice?" The boy watched in fear as his father grinned maliciously. "Well, it is true that, because of your mother's decision to homeschool you, the few friends you used to have, have long since abandoned you. And even Mrs. Griffith down the street cannot stand your cheeky little attitude. She says it's a wonder you haven't curled up and died yet."
"I chose not to be friends with those muggles."
"No, no, dear son," the grin was still pasted onto his father's evil face. "The reason you don't step foot outside this house is because they are the ones who hate you. They don't want to be seen with some crazy kid who keeps his nose stuck inside those satanic books and uses blades of grass in some absurd concoction. They don't want to be seen with a boy who's eyes light up every time one of those damn owls comes to our house. And they most certainly don't want to be seen with a boy who looks for broomsticks in the sky!"
The boy wished he could vanish into the headboard he was resting on. He feared the man standing in front of him just as much as he hated him. And to say something back to his hurtful remarks would only earn him another bruise or welt.
"You know," the man sat down on the end of the bed, suddenly calm. "When your mum told me she had suspicions 'bout you, I told her she was going crazy. You were my son. And my son would never do that to me. But even as an infant you showed signs of being one of them. You broke glass with your cries, you turned the radio dials when you were hungry, and that attitude...oh, I should have known. That haughtiness you're so fond of displaying...that only comes from your mother's side."
"Well, it shouldn't come as a shock to you, then. We all knew I was going to go," still shaking, the boy sat up, his arms wrapped in a firm grasp around his legs.
"You know if I had my way I'd rip that paper up and you'd never catch one glimpse of that place!" Standing up, the elder had regained his fury. "But your mother would never allow that. She wants you to be the best...the best student of your time. Well, so be it! You have been a disappointement to me since you were young, so why should I expect this to be any different?"
And with unexpected swiftness the man turned on the child and hit him with such a force it sent him rolling to the other side of his bed.
"Stop! Stop it! I've told you a million times! You can hurt me as much as you want, but don't you dare lay a finger on my boy!" Before the boy had regained his senses, his mother was leaning on his doorframe. Rushing over to him, she pulled out her wand, a ten inch piece of willow wood, and stopped the flow of blood that was running out of the child's nose.
Speaking in barely above a whisper, she said, "Don't worry, my child, we are going to Ollivanders tomorrow, and you'll be fit to go."
"Put that away! You know how much I despise it!"
"How much you fear it, you mean?" The boy watched as his mother began cleaning her wand on her clothes.
"Just put it away. It's bad enough that I learn my son is going to have one of them, I don't need you whisking yours out on the spur of the moment."
The gray of the woman's eyes met the blackness of the man's. "Promise you'll stop hurting him. It's not his fault he's going to Hogwarts. We don't chose to be what we are, dear, it's just life. Besides, you should be proud. It's going to be your son who'll be the smartest of his class. He already knows more than most third years."
"And I wonder who's to blame for that?" The man sneered. "If he wasn't sitting at home all day, reading through your old books, he might've chosen not to go."
"Tobe, I'll only say this once more. Leave. Him. Alone." The boy looked on in awe as his mother faced the other male. He had never seen his mother stand up for herself, or him, in his entire life. Around her husband, she lost all nerve and obeyed his every command, no matter how cruel the task was. It was one of the reasons he looked down on his mom. She was weak. She couldn't defend herself against her own husband, even when her son's well-being was at risk.
But here she had taken a stand. She was ensuring her son's enrollement in the wizarding world, even at the cost of her life. The petrified woman that had spent so many years crouched in a corner, begging for mercy, had departed and was replaced by something worthy of the title of a mother. It was one of the few good memories the boy would have concerning his mom.
"I am going to put on some tea. If you'd like me to cook you something, I'd be more than happy to, but only if you let the boy enjoy his last few days at home in peace."
The man, just as shocked as his son by his wife's new bravery, stood silent, thunderstruck. He waited for more threats, or even a jinx, but none came. Instead, the woman replaced her wand in her pocket and walked briskly out of the room. Turning his attention back to the boy, he hissed, "You always have to cause trouble, don't you? You can't, for one minute, appreciate all that I've given you and your mother. I hope you're happy. You've made my life a living hell. I've fathered you for eleven years, and all I get in return is a wizard for a son who's biggest ambition in life is to shoot spells at people. Oh, thank you, son."
And without waiting for an answer, Tobias Snape shuffled out of the room, the wine he had consumed at the pub completely worn off.