Oil and Water
spec fic by Faber Wolffe
Rating R, because this just does not seem like a good thing to risk a PG-13 rating (rather safe than sorry!)
Disclaimer: Do you honestly think I own this? I mean, first off, this is fanfiction.net is it not? Secondly do you really think I would have done what JK did in book 5 if I did? (note if JK is actually reading this, although I did cry after reading it as the character was probably one of my absolute favorites, I can see why it happened, and agree. You couldn't change it. You just had to write it, no matter how tragically pointless it was.) So yea, don't own a thing.
Summary: A lovely little angst piece (as if you didn't have enough in Chp. 28 of OotP) about Snape. A random idea that explains his greasy hair. Not for the weak of heart.
Severus worked tirelessly, absorbed in his own world, meticulously measuring the proper ingredients, knowing that the slightest miscalculation could result in a potentially fatal concoction rather than Veritaserum. The fumes and steam rose from the gurgling cauldron, sticking to his hair, skin, robes, depositing Hell only knew what else to the surfaces, making his hair even more limp. He had been working for several hours past midnight, and by now his hair was getting close to being sopping wet. But he either did not notice the passage of time or did not care, so centered was he upon the task at hand, taking a certain pride in the fact that most could never dream of creating such a brew, and he, he could do it without ever looking at a recipe.
He did however notice that it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain a good grip the glass bottles. The concern did not lie in shattering the containers; they were equipped with an Unbreakable Charm. The problem was that the ingredients could spill if he slipped, either on his own hands, the floor, or into the cauldron he had been working on.
Pausing he pulled his wand from were he had tucked it in his belt and directing at himself muttered a quick drying spell. Replacing the wand back to his belt he continued with the potion, distractedly sweeping his hand through his hair, trying to get it out of his face so that he could see what he was doing.
He smiled sardonically to himself, although something in the back of his mind told him he should be disgusted. The locks stayed out of his face, oil and grease having built up to the point that when he brushed it back, it simply stuck there. Stuck there long enough for him to finish what he needed to complete for this day's work on the new batch of Veritaserum.
Having concluded this task, he retreated back to his own rooms, only just down the hall from the empty dungeon classroom he had been using.
Muttering another spell at his fireplace, flames erupted, giving an eerie light to his quarters. Collapsing into a high-backed dark green armchair he stared into the fire. The same little part of his mind reminded him that he should probably wash his hair.
He ignored it. His hair had always been a bit oilier than others. Only a long shower once a day could make it presentable; cleaning charms just didn't seem to do the trick. But he had not patience to deal with such vain fuss. He hated water. Hated it, hated it, hated it. Whatever Dumbledore hinted at about it being invigorating, Lupin saying it was calming, and, his lip curled into a snarl unconsciously, to Hell with Lockhart and his "best-selling line of fabulous hair products guaranteed to work wonders!".
Water was none of those things, none of them at all, he thought, slipping into exhausted sleep.
The man glared at his son, barely five, tears streaming out of his black eyes, staring in horror at his unconscious mother on the floor, but voice silent in fear. When the man could no longer torture his wife he always turned on the son, knowing there would be nothing to protect the boy now.
"Come on," the man snarled roughly, gripping the thin child by the arm, causing him to utter a stifled whimper of pain.
He whirled, the man's hooked nose barely a centimeter away from his son's, alchohol drenched breath reeking everywhere. "Did you say something?"
They boy's eyes were wide, and he shook his head. "N-no," he answered shrilly.
"You weren't about to cry were you?"
"N-n-no," he said, failing miserably at hiding his shaking voice.
"Shut up!" the man yelled, the boy flinching. "You need to toughen up! Are you listening to me, Severus?! Are you listening to me?!"
"Y-yes, Fa-a-ather…"
"That's yes, sir, do you hear me?!"
"Yes-s, s-sir."
"Now come on," the man said nearly dragging the boy after him, pitifully running trying to keep up, his arm angled painfully in his father's grasp.
The two entered the bathroom, the father running water, steam rising, hot water, far too hot as the boy tried to disrobe himself, the man ripping the cloth as he sped the process.
"Get in," the man hissed.
The boy lowered a foot in, withdrawing it quickly. "It's too hot…"
Sparks flew in the man's eyes. "Get in!" he shouted, roughly picking the child up dropping him in.
The boy tried to keep the tears in. It… it was as bad is could be, he could get used to it, he told himself even as his pale skin screamed in protest, turning red.
"Wash your hair! Can't you do anything without being told?!"
The boy shakily began to put the shampoo into his dark hair, washing it, without further reprimand.
"Sir? May I get out?" he asked, then adding as a plaintive after thought, "Please?"
The father glared, putting his flask back onto his belt.
As he walked toward him, the boy instinctively began to recoil, to no avail however. The man grabbed him by the hair pulling his face close even as the boy whimpered again. Taking one of his hands out of the hair, he shoved it into his son's face, suds clinging to it.
"What's this?"
The boy sobbed, finally beginning to give into to despair.
"What's this?!"
"S-shamp-poo."
"That's right! You need to rinse it out!" he said still holding the boy's hair with his hands, and then giving as smile, or snarl, or whatever it was, it was horrible. But the child had no time to react as his head was shoved under the water. Soap stinging his eyes, water flooding his mouth as he tried to scream.
He was pulled out of the water. The man still with that look plastered across his face. "You need to get the shampoo out of your hair, Severus. Keeping up appearances is one of the most important things to remember."
And he was pushed under the water again, terrified that this time, at only five years old, he might never come back up.
Snape jerked awake, black eyes wildly taking in the room around him, breathing fast. In a matter of seconds he knew what had happened, and shakily whispered to himself.
"Just a dream… just a dream… just a memory… he's dead… everything's fine…"
Running a hand back through his hair again he tried taking a few deep breaths, slowing the adrenaline.
His hair stuck.
A/N: Wow… I'm evil aren't I? I actually had an idea for another scene, involving Snape at his first year of school (this involves a near-drowning incident at the lake), but for right now this seems like enough angst… If anyone thinks I should write the other scene I'll consider it, but I want several people to be interested in it if I'm going to take the trouble. If you think its fine as is, let me know that too (then I can work on a nice revenge fic in which I will rip apart Lestrange for killing my Siri-baby!!)
