Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I don't own any of the characters. I don't own anything.

Review (yes singular.):

Miss Daisy I don't want an ass apple. That was Stephen.

AN: After reading this I read it over and over again and I know that there's something wrong with it, but I can't figure out what. Please help by telling me how I can improve it! I apologise for the use of the word 'faggot'. I'm sorry if I offend anyone and I would never use it myself.

The portrayal of Snape is based on my limited knowledge of the symptoms of Paranoid Personality disorder, Antisocial Personality disorder and Codependency personality disorder. If you know more about it than I do please feel free to correct me and I'll try to put it right.

Chapter 2: Different

There was nothing wrong with Severus, he was just one of those kids. He was a child with a runny nose and scabby knees, he was a teenager with greasy hair and scars on his wrists, and by adulthood it was too late to save him.

He was 'different'. He drew attention to himself by being quiet and was picked on for being strange. Weird things happened around him. He tripped and fell on a rusty nail, yet by the time the teachers had gotten him to hospital all there was to show for it was a small white scar; a ball narrowly missed his nose by travelling twenty metres into the air and ending up on the roof; Jimmy Charles' finger broke after an hour of prodding him in the back. He said it felt like it was being squeezed, tighter and tighter, until he heard it crack and white pain shot up to his elbow.

He was intelligent, surprising teachers no matter how old he got, yet he couldn't fit in. He didn't understand how. He didn't smile, he didn't cry, if he was told a joke he nodded, to show that he understood why it was funny, yet he didn't laugh. He stayed inside to read instead of joining the others outside. He would read all day if allowed, escaping from his own life.

The other children bullied him constantly. They were just children, and they did what everyone does when they're afraid. A teacher once found him sitting in a dark corner of the playground, alone, his legs drawn up and his head resting on his knees. When she touched his shoulder he flinched and looked up. His nose was bleeding and there was a bruise on his eye. He'd bitten at his lip and there was still blood on his teeth, yet there were no traces of tears on his pale face. She looked into his eyes and she was scared too. But not of him, for him. They were amazing, darker than black and seeming to shift under the surface, like a phantom mist. They held none of the innocence the others in the class did. Instead, they carried a sadness too heavy for a child of seven. They screamed in confusion and desperation of a woe too vivid to miss, shouting for help louder than any voice could. She felt tears prick her eyes and looked away.

She helped him inside, cleaned his cuts and sent him home, and that was the extent of the help she gave him. She convinced herself that he'd started a fight. He'd been in fights before and he was always found guilty of being the aggressor. All the kids said so.

He was a troublemaker, and he told lies. He'd once told everybody that his father was helping free slaves in America so he couldn't come to parents evening. Nobody believed him. They all knew that he didn't know his father, that his father didn't want him. Just like everyone else.

Nobody tried to help him until his year four teacher, whom Severus pushed away. Maybe even then it was too late.

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The only time he'd felt anything like happiness was when he thought of going to Hogwarts. He was going to be around others like him. He wouldn't be thought of as strange, he wouldn't be bullied. Maybe he'd even have a friend.

When the first day of first year arrived, Severus stood shaking at the back of the Great Hall. He'd never seen so many people in one place at the same time. He felt butterflies dancing around in his stomach. Surely more people meant a bigger chance that someone would like him.

Sadly, it doesn't always work that way. More people just meant more people to dislike you. Severus wouldn't be that naïve again for a very long time.

He got so caught up in his plans to make friends, that he didn't notice that he was already alone. All the first years beside him stood in two's or three's. Survival of the fittest doesn't just apply to animals.

James Potter stood at the centre of a large group. He hadn't wasted any time on becoming well acquainted with his peers. He knew that it was hard to make friends once the popular people point you out as 'different'. He'd done it enough times. However, he also knew how fickle these types of 'friends' were, and he was aware that if he didn't make sure that he was at the top of the social ladder straight away that someone (looking around it seemed that Lucius was a likely bet) would beat him to it.

James crept up behind Severus and sat down on the floor, the rest of the class in silent anticipation. Severus stood still, hooked onto every word the headmaster said.

He watched as most of his year group stepped anxiously to the sorting hat. He didn't hear any of the whispered remarks behind his back. A boy with unruly black hair even smiled at him.

Then came his turn. He started to walk when he was jolted back and there was a moment of weightless confusion before he felt his head knock sharply across the concrete floor. He sat up and stared down at his feet, his shoelaces tied together in a neat bow. He struggled to untie them before stumbling blindly to the sorting hat, warm blood dripping from his nose.

The sorting hat drooped over his eyes and he struggled to keep back tears. He felt coppery blood seep into his mouth when he bit his lip, yet promised that he wouldn't cry. His mother always told him that nobody respects criers. She said that she'd never cried, and everyone respected her. When he was younger he'd believed her, but now he knew that they were just afraid of her. He didn't cry, he couldn't.

Sybil watched as he crashed and burned in a world that had held every hope for him, and she cried instead.

After the sorting hat he was taken straight to the hospital wing, then to bed. No welcome feast for the likes of him.

After that things got worse. By third year he was put into his own room, away from everyone else. The fights were getting more frequent and the injuries more severe. When he walked into a room people already there left; people spat at him in the corridors; a constant torrent of abuse followed him everywhere- Snivellous, anti-christ, greasy git, bastard, prick, Goth, faggot… It never ended.

He fell deeper into depression, and by forth year everyone had seen the deep cuts on his arms. They pushed notes under his door asking if he was still alive or if he'd managed to take the hint and die. They hid razors in his books. They didn't just dislike him. They hated him.

Sybil was different too, but everyone ignored her. She watched Severus and she cried for him when he hurt, because he didn't know how. She'd loved him since the moment she saw him smothering his emotions when he was eleven years old. She loved him when he ignored her, when he used her. She loved him when he killed her.

Sorry if anyone was upset by that. I read it over and I didn't feel anything but a lot of people are more sensitive than me.