DISCLAIMER: Everything's JKR's, with a few irrelevant exceptions.
----------------------------------------------
For Guilt
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers
Part I: A Sad Neglect
----------------------------------------------
Even before he reached the tender age of five, Severus knew of his parents' lack of affection for him.
It was a cold, hard fact, written in the air as a royal edict carved in stone, and his parents were cold, hard people. Ashur and Drusilla Snape. Model Slytherins, the both of them, and they expected Severus to be the same. Perhaps they thought that coldness was the only way to instill the proper hatred in their son. Perhaps they feared to grow too close to him; having lived through the reign of Grindelwald, they knew of the impermanence of life. Perhaps Severus was merely an unwanted being. Severus suspects it was the latter.
In any case, their concern was for themselves and not their child. They mostly considered their appearance, not only as an upright Pureblooded family, but also their physical looks. It was part of the scheme of things. There were mirrors everywhere in the Snape mansion, so that Ashur would never have a steel-gray hair out of place, and Drusilla could admire the contrast between her fair skin and her robes wherever she went. She always wore dark green and silver. They all did.
Severus was made to wear the same expensive robes as his parents. He hated the formal frivolity of it all, just as he hated seeing his reflection stare back at him from every wall of every room. The long, pale face; the overlarge nose; the limp black hair that hung uncomfortably, having been cut recently. His hair was trimmed every six weeks in the manner of his father's. It would not do for a Snape to look mangy, unkempt. That was the extent of his parents' care.
Severus remembers the day he was weaned of his infantile nightie and placed in proper attire. He, precocious toddler that he was, had immediately run out of doors, glad to be free of one childish tie. The weather had been dreary that day, and no sooner had the little boy stepped outside than it started to rain. Dismally, he trudged back inside, his new robe trailing through mud and water. Ashur beat him for marring the costly fabric, and Severus quickly learned his lesson. He would not give his father cause to punish him again.
With this resolution in mind, Severus took to hiding in the library, where no one ever went except for the house elf who dusted it daily. It was a peaceful, silent place, filled from floor to ceiling with countless volumes. There were no windows and only one mirror.
Severus pored over book after book, pondering over every picture and the shape of every word. He sat on an old wooden chair; Ashur's fine leather armchair, embossed with a serpentine S, posed to forbidding a seat.
Once Severus learned how to read, the library became even more of a haven to him. Books were no longer just sheaves for beautiful pictures; they were inviting worlds were Severus could lose himself. The history of the world and its magic enthralled him, as did the growth of fantastic plants. But mostly, Severus was absorbed into those disciplines he could not practice: potions and the Dark Arts, especially curses. When he was taken over by perverse and unattainable whims, it was such subjects that comforted him. He read of the Furnunculus Curse and thought of his vain mother's face erupting in boils; she would certainly despise the sight of herself and take down those hateful mirrors. The ingredients necessary for a love potion sparked an image of his father falling for a house elf; Ashur considered his elves dirty, contemptible creatures and only kept them as a status symbol.
In spite of all this, however, Severus was desperately trying to stir the affections of his parents. If they knew what a clever and thoroughly Slytherin son they had, would they love him?
That never came to be. Severus looks back on this now and is not surprised, but at the time, he knew it was his own fault. What else could have made him no better than an orphan? Ashur and Drusilla were infallible in his mind, which was still childish despite his wealth of knowledge. The guilt lay with Severus; he was not good enough for his parents. Therefore, he tried all the harder to surpass his previous achievements. He memorized -- memorized! -- every spell and charm and curse, and the recipes for any potion he could find. Whenever he was given leave to speak in his parents' presence, which was not often, he spouted off some obscure and impressive fact. Yet they paid him no more heed than before, and purposeless despair crept upon the boy. All his efforts were a waste. He was a waste.
When he was eleven years old, he received an owl bearing a letter.
"Mr. Severus Snape," it ran. "You have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Here was a chance to prove himself. Here was an escape.
----------------------------------------------
For Guilt
By Kate Lockhart/Meressefers
Part I: A Sad Neglect
----------------------------------------------
Even before he reached the tender age of five, Severus knew of his parents' lack of affection for him.
It was a cold, hard fact, written in the air as a royal edict carved in stone, and his parents were cold, hard people. Ashur and Drusilla Snape. Model Slytherins, the both of them, and they expected Severus to be the same. Perhaps they thought that coldness was the only way to instill the proper hatred in their son. Perhaps they feared to grow too close to him; having lived through the reign of Grindelwald, they knew of the impermanence of life. Perhaps Severus was merely an unwanted being. Severus suspects it was the latter.
In any case, their concern was for themselves and not their child. They mostly considered their appearance, not only as an upright Pureblooded family, but also their physical looks. It was part of the scheme of things. There were mirrors everywhere in the Snape mansion, so that Ashur would never have a steel-gray hair out of place, and Drusilla could admire the contrast between her fair skin and her robes wherever she went. She always wore dark green and silver. They all did.
Severus was made to wear the same expensive robes as his parents. He hated the formal frivolity of it all, just as he hated seeing his reflection stare back at him from every wall of every room. The long, pale face; the overlarge nose; the limp black hair that hung uncomfortably, having been cut recently. His hair was trimmed every six weeks in the manner of his father's. It would not do for a Snape to look mangy, unkempt. That was the extent of his parents' care.
Severus remembers the day he was weaned of his infantile nightie and placed in proper attire. He, precocious toddler that he was, had immediately run out of doors, glad to be free of one childish tie. The weather had been dreary that day, and no sooner had the little boy stepped outside than it started to rain. Dismally, he trudged back inside, his new robe trailing through mud and water. Ashur beat him for marring the costly fabric, and Severus quickly learned his lesson. He would not give his father cause to punish him again.
With this resolution in mind, Severus took to hiding in the library, where no one ever went except for the house elf who dusted it daily. It was a peaceful, silent place, filled from floor to ceiling with countless volumes. There were no windows and only one mirror.
Severus pored over book after book, pondering over every picture and the shape of every word. He sat on an old wooden chair; Ashur's fine leather armchair, embossed with a serpentine S, posed to forbidding a seat.
Once Severus learned how to read, the library became even more of a haven to him. Books were no longer just sheaves for beautiful pictures; they were inviting worlds were Severus could lose himself. The history of the world and its magic enthralled him, as did the growth of fantastic plants. But mostly, Severus was absorbed into those disciplines he could not practice: potions and the Dark Arts, especially curses. When he was taken over by perverse and unattainable whims, it was such subjects that comforted him. He read of the Furnunculus Curse and thought of his vain mother's face erupting in boils; she would certainly despise the sight of herself and take down those hateful mirrors. The ingredients necessary for a love potion sparked an image of his father falling for a house elf; Ashur considered his elves dirty, contemptible creatures and only kept them as a status symbol.
In spite of all this, however, Severus was desperately trying to stir the affections of his parents. If they knew what a clever and thoroughly Slytherin son they had, would they love him?
That never came to be. Severus looks back on this now and is not surprised, but at the time, he knew it was his own fault. What else could have made him no better than an orphan? Ashur and Drusilla were infallible in his mind, which was still childish despite his wealth of knowledge. The guilt lay with Severus; he was not good enough for his parents. Therefore, he tried all the harder to surpass his previous achievements. He memorized -- memorized! -- every spell and charm and curse, and the recipes for any potion he could find. Whenever he was given leave to speak in his parents' presence, which was not often, he spouted off some obscure and impressive fact. Yet they paid him no more heed than before, and purposeless despair crept upon the boy. All his efforts were a waste. He was a waste.
When he was eleven years old, he received an owl bearing a letter.
"Mr. Severus Snape," it ran. "You have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Here was a chance to prove himself. Here was an escape.