A/N : Yay… the long-awaited chapter 2 is finally here! ^_^ I finally put aside my laziness to work on it. :p I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) Review, please… oh yeah, and Snapey rules! ^_^
Disclaimer : I do not own any Harry Potter characters, merchandise, etc. etc. etc. The only thing I own is the plot. So don't steal the plot, or any of J.K. Rowling's stuff, 'cause plagiarism sucks.
Chapter 2 : The Letter
He woke up and blinked a few times. His vision was rather blurry. Slowly things came into sharper focus, and he looked around him. Everything seemed to be white. He must be in a hospital – a Muggle hospital. Then, he heard voices – voices of two people whom he could not see clearly because of the translucent white hangings around his bed.
'How's the kid?'
'Only got a bruise and a cut. Just shocked, I think. He should come around soon.'
'How 'bout his mother?'
'Couldn't save her.'
'Oh.'
There was a pause. His heart was throbbing painfully against his chest.
'But she was so badly wounded, she wouldn't have lived a couple more days even if we did manage to revive her…and it would have been a very painful time for her anyway.'
'So you're saying that we did her a favour.'
'Sort of.'
'Still, I feel really bad for the boy.'
'Yeah. Poor kid.'
'And his dad?'
'Got a pretty lethal concussion on the head, but we saved him. Can't think much, though. Can hardly remember his own son…has to go for treatment twice a month from now on – every week, if it gets worse.'
'I'm sorry for the boy.'
'I know. But at least he's not dead.'
'Blimey, it's better to be dead than alive with a ruined family…all in one night! It just seems so unreal, Nance. I've never felt so bad for a patient before.'
'I understand, and I suppose you're right. We shouldn't tell him about this though. He's too young to understand anyway.'
A crackled voice ran through the loudspeaker system.
'Nurse Rummings and Johnson, please report to Emergency Room 403 immediately… I repeat… Rummings and Johnson, report to Emergency 403 immediately…'
One of the voices spoke again.
'Damn, it's the fifth late-night emergency this week.'
'We'd better get going… we can check on him later.'
Footsteps tinkled on the linoleum floor, slowly fading away, echoing distantly in his ears. He blinked once, twice – his vision had gotten extremely blurry again. He shut his eyes tightly as a tear trickled down his cheek, and willed himself to go back to sleep.
~***~
'Could you get me the newspaper, Sean?'
'It's Severus, Dad.'
'Just get the paper, DAMN IT!'
Severus Snape scrambled to his feet and ran outside to get the Daily Prophet. His face was screwed up in a tight frown, though not because of the gruesome article on the front page. He hated it when his father flew into a rage like that. He hated the way his father would scream at him just because he corrected a trivial mistake. He hated the terrible mood swings that his father had – one moment he would be nice and calm and father-like, and the next he would be swearing and cursing. He hated the way his father was so touchy about the fact that he couldn't remember half the things he had to remember, including his own son's name. First it had been Sam, then Leverus. This time was just one time too many.
His father's shout could be heard even from the doorstep.
'What's taking you so long?! Bloody hell!'
He swiftly went inside, and shoved the paper to his father's hands – so warm and reassuring they once had been, but now they were just menacing tools of terror and torture to him.
Severus seated himself at the dining table at the chair furthest away from his father. He glanced at him. He was still fuming, staring fixedly at the paper and one hand gripping his cup of coffee so hard that it shook.
'I'll be at my bedroom if you need me,' Severus said, leaving the table and walking towards the stairs.
'What, you're not eating breakfast?'
'I'm not hungry.'
It took him less than a minute to walk up the stairs and into his bedroom. When he was finally inside, he shut the door and locked it. He breathed a small sigh of relief.
These four walls concealed what seemed to be his means of escape from the daily dose of torturous reality he had to face – escape from his father, from the other children's taunts about having a mentally-unstable father and no mother, from strangers' pitying, patronising looks… It was only a very small room, but it seemed to contain everything he ever needed to live on, apart from food. On one side was his wardrobe, stacked with Muggle clothing as well as small-sized wizard robes, on another, just next to the windows, was his bed with its light blue bedspread and his journal hidden underneath the pillow. On the bed's left was a little wooden table with a single drawer; on the bed's right was a miniature bookshelf with his favourite books about Quidditch and Gobstones.
He sat on his bed and looked at the photograph on his bedside table. The woman in the picture was blinking and smiling benignly at him. Every once in a while, she would disappear from the photograph, only to return a few seconds later.
He felt his stomach tighten. It had been so long…more than two years. It had been more than two years since the incident. It had left such a deep mark in him that he had begun thinking of it in capital letters – The Incident. The Incident. He looked at his left arm. There was a short, dark red slit across it – the scar. He didn't understand how he had escaped the attack with only a cut, while his father had damaged his brain permanently, and his mother had gotten a very deep and large wound around her abdomen. If only – if only they hadn't been rushed to a Muggle hospital…if only they had been taken straight to St Mungo's, they would probably have been healed back to their normal state in no time, and his mother would have had more chances of surviving.
It was their fault – those Muggles' fault. Muggles had attacked his family that night, Muggles had taken them to the Muggle hospital, and Muggle doctors didn't stand a chance of reviving his mother, even with their gadgets and thing-a-magicks. And as for his father – no form of treatment (counselling, Muggles call it) could ever return the memories into his permanently damaged lump of greymatter.
There were other photographs – old pictures stuffed in the drawer of his bedside table. Some of them were pictures of him, his mother and father, all smiling happily; some were of his mother and father together, and some were of either his father or mother, hugging him tightly and grinning all the while.
Now they were only broken fragments of memories that only existed in his mind's eye. They would have held true, if only –
Tap. Tap.
Someone was knocking on his bedroom door very softly. He walked cautiously towards it, fearing that it might be his father. No doubt that his father had cooled off, but it would only take him two seconds to get angry again.
He opened the door, very slowly and warily. A withered old woman was standing before him, smiling kindly.
'Hello, Severus,' she said.
'Hello,' Severus replied, his mouth slowly curling into a smile. It felt rather strange; he wondered when was the last time he had worked his cheek and mouth muscles to smile. Then he asked her, 'What are you doing here?'
'I heard your father shouting.'
'Oh.'
He looked up at the twinkling greyish blue eyes that belonged to the only person he could confide in. In fact, he realised, Mrs Morris was probably the only person he had managed to get along with ever since The Incident.
'May I come in, then?' she asked.
'Sure,' he answered, gesturing her inside and closing the door behind her.
They both sat down at Severus's bed and looked at each other.
'Do you want to tell me anything? Anything troubling you at all?' Mrs Morris gave him a penetrating look. 'Any worries about your father, or –'
'Well…' He considered it for a moment. 'I – I was thinking about my mother.'
Mrs Morris put an arm around his shoulder. 'There's nothing you can do about it, dear. You know it. We've talked about this many times.'
'I know that you know that I know it. But I still can't help it. I –'
He didn't think he could bring himself to say that he had been having murderous thoughts about Muggles. He shuffled his feet uneasily.
'What's wrong?'
'Nothing – never mind.'
She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could pursue the subject, she was completely distracted by what happened next.
A tawny owl soared through the open window and landed on the window sill. It clicked its beak impatiently, waiting for the addressee to untie the envelope from its legs.
Severus and his old neighbour exchanged surprised and bewildered looks, as he never received any letter from anyone before. He walked over to unattach the envelope, and the owl flew off immediately as he did so. He now looked at the thick envelope in his hands curiously. It bore a seal of what looked like a lion, a snake, a badger and an eagle surrounding a large letter "H".
'Ah, you've got an acceptance letter from Hogwarts!' Mrs Morris exclaimed, looking pleased and delighted. 'Your father will be proud!'
Severus's heart thudded with excitement. He had heard of Hogwarts before. It was one of the best wizarding schools in the world. Eagerly, he opened the envelope and took out a piece of parchment. There was the school crest at the top of it, followed by a few lines written in green ink :
Headmaster:
Albus Dumbledore
(Order of
Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International
Confed. Of Wizards)
Dear Mr Snape,
We are pleased to inform you
that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Enclosed is a list of necessary books and equipment.
We await your presence on 1
September.
Yours Sincerely,
Magdalene Holswright
Deputy Headmistress
There was another piece of parchment inside the envelope, which contained the list of supplies needed. He scanned it, although his mind wasn't concentrating on it at all. He almost jumped for joy as he worked out what it all meant : he would be going to Hogwarts in just a few weeks, he would be away for one whole glorious year – away from his father, away from everything, and he would only see this godforsaken place again next summer.
Mrs Morris was smiling at him, and he grinned back. Nothing could put down his high spirits now, not even the rumble of footsteps at the stairs that meant that his father was coming up to his room.
