I hope you enjoy this, it's quite short, but it looked longer in my notebook (sorry about the date glitch, I've changed it).
To Billow or Not to Billow
Foreword:
I never knew Severus Snape, but I have always been drawn to his name, to his lifestyle, to his history.
My father's library inspired curiosity in all my siblings, but it was not the fabulous volumes on jinxes, curses and defence that attracted me. A collection of thin, leatherbound books always drew my eye. I would spend hours in that room, perusing the spines of the books around them, getting closer by the day. Nevertheless, whenever I attempted to shuffle one off the tall, oak shelves, something stopped me. It was as though the book had some strange power over me, but I could never forget it, never banish the wondrous feeling that did a back flip in my stomach every time I even consider opening one of those dusty books (for I had rarely seen my father read them) and scan my fingers down the lines of words I assumed it contained.
Although my father was often busy, he couldn't help noticing the wonder inspired in his youngest child, when her eyes fell on that line of books, for there were a lot of those thin, leather-bound books. Well, I assumed that he noticed. He never mentioned what they contained. In fact, he never mentioned them at all, and the only time he seemed to even confirm their existence was when, half way through a report for the Ministry, when he walked into the room, where I was curled up reading a book, and pulled one of the volumes off the shelf. He flicked through it, muttering phrases under his breath and rubbing his forehead in concentration, his fingers caressing the curiously shaped scar on his forehead. All I saw on the front of the book was the simple word 'Diary'.
It made sense that one of the leather-bound books was a diary, then the rest of them were too. It want the only diary in the library, but my father never really liked us to look at the part of the room where the other diary was contained (I only know this because my eldest brother once managed to break onto his cabinet and extract this old book. According to th date on the stained cover it was over sixty years old, the inside was empty, but there was a large hole which had found its way through all of the pages, and smelt foul, like death. It was splattered with blue ink, and a dark substance, that smelled of the same foul death that came from the hole. The only other significant feature of the book was something inscribed inside the back cover in neat writing: 'T.'. Neither myself or my siblings could tell you who T. was, but where it fascinated my brothers, it repulsed me. I never shared my desire to read the collection of diaries and, although my brothers weren't stupid, they never really paid attention to the dusty collection of scrawled thoughts, and so didn't notice that I did.
It was on my tenth birthday that I finally mustered up the courage to remove the first diary from the dark wood shelf. As id did this, I felt a rush of exhilaration that I could not exactly place. It was almost as though I was meant to pick up this book, meant to scan its pages, meant to peruse this persons deepest and darkest thoughts. It did not take me long to find out that that diary belonged to Severus Tobias Snape, and it appeared he had started to write this diary on January 9 1969.
Please reveiw. I love reveiws.
