"I don't know what you want me to do about it, you fucking bitch!" Tobias screamed, "If the kid doesn't have clothes then it's his fault. He can run around fucking naked for all I care!"
"He needs clothes," Eileen spat back, though not as venomously, "We are his parents. When his clothes are falling off for all their wholes or are three sizes too small it's our job to fix it."
Severus watched through tear-glazed eyes as his parents screamed at each other yet again. He could hardly see them through the extreme dimness of the living room beyond the tiny closet he sought refuge in. The sliver crack between the door and it's frame was just enough to let his frail mother into view. Her hair was lanky and oily, blending perfectly with the shadows she danced in and out of, hoping to avoid the inevitable blow. Though shadowed, her pale face was still seen. She was not an older woman, not nearly, but her face was streaked with the far too many cares she had to bare and the occasional green or yellow tinge. Soon red and purple would also invade her sallow skin.
"Really?" Tobias boomed, "You are the one that had the little son-of-a-bitch! You take care of him. If it was my way I'd just smash his head under the damn car tire!"
Severus recoiled in the closet, wrapping his arms around his trembling body.
Eileen shrieked, "Don't say that! You know he can hear you!" "Don't tell me what the fuck I can say!"
For an instant their son caught a glimpse of his brutal father; he was a burly man with dark hair and a large crooked nose. Both parents left his view in a whirl of blood and fists, accompanied by Eileen's screams.
Horrified, though he had known what was coming, Severus sank to the floor and wrapped his arms around his bony legs. Much like his mother, he was scrawny and unusually pale. His straggly, ebony hair was as shinning as hers and his eyes just as dark, though usually swollen or adverted to the floor. Though he hated his appearance, is nose, in particular, he really despised; it was just like his father's. Large though it surly was, he wondered if his nose was naturally crooked of if it had just been broken too many times to heal no matter what spell his mother tried.
Another scream. Another thud.
Severus flinched as though he had just been pounded into the ground. The common trembling that had taken over his body was almost painful, especially on his bruised chest. He hated Summer, hated being home, even if school meant being tormented by that good-for-nothing Potter, his minion Black, and that fat weasel Petegrew.
No matter how many times he begged his mom to just stay away from Tobias she still spoke to him, asked him, the filthy muggle, for things. Severus pleaded with her to leave and hide; it wouldn't have been that hard. She was a witch after all. Yet still she turned a deaf ear to her son. It was infuriating!
Something large hit the closest door. He let out an involuntary squeak. The door flew open, and a sticky had grabbed him above the elbow and jerked him out into the further darkening room. Eileen was stumbling to her feet, grabbing the back of the decrepit couch for balance. She caught sight of her boy fighting the ridiculously strong hand that held him. He wanted away and to his mom. He knew she was injured, and he also knew she would probably try to free or defend Severus, which would leave her nearly unconscious. He wanted to be thrown to the ground like always before and scramble away.
"Tobias, let him go," she commanded strongly, blood running down her chin, "You'll hurt him. He hasn't done anything!"
"I don't give shit what he's done. He's just like you!" "And proud of it!" Severus yelled up at the man that continued to restrain him, earning him a powerful blow to his stomach.
Finally he was thrown to the floor and kicked in the side. His eyes showed him only black speckled with light dots as he waited for the immediate pain to subside. Gentler hands touch his shoulder, but he pulled away. When he felt like he could stand to open his eyes, his mother, face freshly puffy, was at his side.
A grunt and a loudly slammed door told him the man was gone.
"I wish the asshole would just drink himself to death and die," Severus said towards the carpet.
A hand streaked out and slapped him.
Of all the grotesque and demeaning things his father did to him, none of them hurt as much as his mom slapping him. She didn't do it terribly often, but it wasn't rare. As much as he wanted her to be the kind, caring mother he needed, she was far from it. True, she did usually stick for him and heal him when time permitted. To him it was like she took care of him because she was the only one she thought should be able to hit him. However, he knew all too well she could do much worse things to him than just a slap.
"Go to bed," she told him coldly and marched off to the door behind the couch.
More tears fought their way from his eyes to land on the carpet with the steady dripping of blood from his now broken nose.
"Enough!"
Harry stumbled back and into the slimy jars that lined Professor Snape's office as his spell was forcibly broken. Harry stared at his teacher. The modern day Snape looked the same as the child one with the exceptions of his now broadened shoulders, two and a half feet of height, and the fact that now Snape was not busied, bleeding, or crying.
Wow, and I thought the Dursley's were bad.
Harry had known Snape's parents were not the greatest from the previous year. After last time Harry had fully expected to never see anything like that again. That too had been information unveiled in Occlumency lessons. With Dumbledore gone, Harry had to, temporarily, continue his lessons with Snape, which never had the excitement as the ones with Dumbledore, other than the constant threats of being hexed or Gryffindor permanently bare of house points.
A look of slight shock and surprising sympathy waved over his face.
"I do not need your pity, Potter," Snape spat, turning on his heal in a swoosh of his cloak to sit behind his desk, "I see that Dumbledore has somehow found a way to get you to take arming your feeble mind seriously, even if it is quite an unorthodox branch of magic he had found it in."
Part of Harry hardly registered what he said. Harry was too busy frowning at his teacher. Maybe that's why the bat-like Potions' Master always wore so many tight layers of the same, fine black robe; he had scars, not like Harry's, but deep, brutal, shameful ones that told of his childhood.
"What happened to them, Sir?" Harry asked politely, surprising himself.
"That's not really any of your business is it, Potter? You need to concentrate on subjects and matters that are of your concern. Leave. We are done."
Snape went back to pointedly grading dreadful essays, as he had been doing before Potter showed up, when he heard his door finally close. The quill slipped from his fingers, leaving a large blob of ink upon the parchment he was grading. He set his face in his palms.
He knew he should remove those memories, but Dumbledore's Pensieve was in use, and his own was full. After several years of searching for his own Pensieve, he finally found one from a customer of Borgin and Burkes, no less. It was black with cerated edges that made his liquefied memories stand out even more than they usually would against the dark surrounding. Now, after last time, it was hidden in a private storage cupboard. Never would he let anyone, least of all Potter, see what it held tight in its depths.
Harry walked swiftly by the Tranfiguration room, hoping if he moved fast enough Peeves wouldn't notice him.
That hope didn't last long.
"What is Potty doing out of bed so late?" the poltergeist asked in his annoying, nasally voice, floating around Harry in tight circles so fast Harry was getting dizzy, "Naughty, naughty Potty can't ever seem to follow the rules."
Just when Harry was about to make an extremely rude retort, a light but stern voice said, "I believe you have other matters to concern yourself with, Peeves."
Turning around and nearly loosing his balance, Harry saw Albus Dumbledore standing in the middle of the corridor, his normally kind blue eyes glaring at Peeves.
"So sorry, Professor Head, Sir, just having fun," Peeves told him a little more timidly than usual before drifting up through the ceiling.
"Sir," Harry said right away, hoping to avoid getting into trouble, "You're back. When did you get here?"
"Only a few moments ago," Dumbledore replied, striding up beside Harry as they both continued down the corridor, "I was on my way to visit Professor Snape when I heard Peeves. If he doesn't wish to get into trouble he should really learn to keep his voice down, you know."
Harry nodded offhandedly and said, "I wouldn't go see Snape now. He's not in the greatest mood."
"Any time spent with you does not make his mood great, as I am sure it does for you spending time with him. You did not go into the Pensieve again?"
"No, Sir," Harry answered at once under Dumbledore's suspicious stare, "I broke into his mind with his spell and saw him and his parents."
"Oh dear," said Dumbledore, stopping abruptly, "What exactly did this memory consist of?" "His dad beating the crap out of his mom, punching him, and his mom slapping him." Dumbledore seemed to relax.
He told Harry, "There are many memories Professor Snape has of his parents. You were fortunate enough to see one of the milder ones. You did not inquire about it, I hope?"
"I asked him what happened to them," Harry said, now feeling slightly ashamed.
Dumbledore looked into Harry's green eyes and told him softer, "Eileen was beaten to death by her husband in front of Professor Snape when he was sixteen. Tobias' location is unknown, and I believe Professor Snape prefers it that way. I must ask you to tell no one about this, and not to inquire anymore about those two people."
"I promise, Professor," Harry told him, stunned for the moment.
"Good," sighed Dumbledore, "Now off to bed with you. Good night, Harry." "'Night, Professor."
Harry had many thoughts burning his brain, all of which were unpleasant. He always imagined parents to be like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, so to have a father that spoke of killing you and a mother who's slap was more like a punch on top of everything else was unthinkable. Even Lucius Malfoy loved his son.
Harry rolled over in his four-poster to stare at the side hangings of his bed. He had seen death: Cedric, Sirius, various Death Eaters at Voldemort's hand in his vision-link dreams. He had heard his parents' last moments. It twisted his heart and haunted his un-Voldemort-ed dreams, but to see it...?