Warning: The following has cases of major profanity, and adult situations.
Viewer discretion is advised.
Something written purely for the love of Snape, and the fact that winter is upon us, [at least for those in the northern hemisphere] and I have no central heating in my house.
The main action takes place in 1986, when Snape has been teaching for approximately five years. Why 1986? Because that's when I was born, silly.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.
Frozen Woe
"He seemed a part of the mute melancholy landscape, an incarnation of its frozen woe, with all that was warm and sentient in him fast bound below the surface..." Ethan Frome
The past.
He always remembered being cold. He found himself wrapping in more and more jackets, scarves, even when it rose to a sultry sixty-two degrees, and his fellow classmates ran around in the sun, playing games. The English winters did not help. He would shiver in the darkened room, not making a fire, or even spending his time in the family room where the only fire he was allowed to be in close contact with in the house was.
He remembered the first time he tried to feel warm during the winter. He was about six, and after waking up to the cold, he remembered the heat of the living room. Hurriedly he dressed, the cold egging him on, numbing his extremities as he tried to put his shoes on the right way or his robe correctly.
He was almost breathless when he finished, the lure of the heated room and the welcome light enough to capture the six year old's fantasy. A last knotted shoelace and the little boy ran out, down the hall to where the heat was -- and stopped.
His father was there, dressed in his shiny black, as the little boy knew it to be. At the sound of the door opening his father looked at him, along with other strange men, all of their piercing black eyes scaring the boy like nothing he had known before. For a moment he stood there, capturing the scene in the locks of memory. It was sudden then when he ran away, closed the door with a snap, and retreated back into his room.
He heard in his room indistinct yelling, some of his father, some of the unknown men, and a little of his mother. He heard the slam of the front door, the thudding of his father's heavy boots, coming to his room.
The cold blows into his room as his father flings open the door. The boy was no doubt afraid; his father is mad, but the little boy knew not why.
The father crossed into the room, ominous and positively terrifying.
"Get up."
To the little boy, the man he knew as his father was very scary. As he stood up, he looked up to his father's displeased, furious face.
"Yes, father?"
"What was so goddamn important that you had to interrupt me?"
The bass voice boded evil tidings. The little boy could see his mother to the side of his father, hiding in the doorway. He wished he could go to her now -- Daddy was getting scary....
"Answer me!"
"I-I was cold, sir."
His father's lips pressed into a very thin line. Suddenly the boy felt a bright burst of pain on his face; he twisted away and fell on the floor, crying.
"Adolphus!"
Through his tears he saw her mother try to get to him, only to be held back first by words, then forcefully by his father.
"Don't touch him."
"But Adolphus--" his mother pleaded.
He rounded on her and whispered savagely -- "He ruined any chances we had! I needed to seal that deal -- they didn't need to know that I had a boy --"
"I am not a boy!"
His father let go of his mother and stared at the boy again, more baneful and evil as ever. The pause before all of them spoke of consequences, because even though he didn't know why, the little boy knew he was not to argue with his father. The father raised his hand to strike the child again; in response the boy shrieked in anticipation and covered his head.
"Put your hands down and stand in front of me like a man!"
Slowly the child put his hands down to his side. The father looked down at his offspring, then at his wife who stood at his side, too scared to speak against him.
"Come, Lucretia," his father said, as he turn quickly and marched out the door. "He wants to be treated like a man -- so we shall let him suffer like one."
With no other words, the door slammed shut, and as a six year old Severus Snape stood in the middle of the room, he heard the door lock.
***
He had spent that day in his room, in one of the coldest days he ever remembered. For the longest time he remembered that day as his toughest trial, to not cry and wail at the door, hoping that his mother would come and rescue him from this six year old hell. Even then he knew in the instinctual mind of the six year old, that his mother would not rescue him, that both he and his mother were trapped under the command of his father. Instead he sat there under his blankets, watching his breath form white clouds of haze which vaporized almost immediately in the room. And he spent that time, not reading, for his hands were cold to the point of the joints locking up, he could not even turn the pages, but thinking, in the unique manner only a six year old could, and wondered if he would survive.
***
His family got increasingly poorer after that. The boy could not determine what exactly, he could just tell a difference between years. It was never discussed how or why this change occurred -- one among the many taboo'd subjects that would warrant a beating. There was another memory -- the day that his father took his and his mother's wands and left the house. He had returned later, and Severus recalled having a piece of chocolate, his first in a long time. After that though there wasn't even a fire in the living room -- they lost the other source of heat, the wonderful stove, and were forced to adapt a metal ugly monster which only produced a scant amount of heat, and even that was inconstant, using a highly inefficient fuel called 'coal', and limited strictly to preparing food.
Nothing was constant. His mother and father got different jobs -- sometimes living for weeks without a pay check, eating beans and rice -- then just as suddenly going to steak, and having a radio, and even a new jacket once and again. All though this the only thing he could remember being the same was his school, Primary School #34, the blue tint of his darkened room, and his painful hands when it got cold.
There were times when it was good -- brief amusing incidences which warmed him enough for a scant smile, but these were few and far between. His father spent more time away from home, hitting heavily on the alcohol and insults. His mother, while always stating her love for her 'little boy', was weak, unable to hold a job such as secretary work or a seamstress for long. The boy, as he grew up, was forced to prepare food for the family, amuse himself. Books became his companions, his father's library giving him access to a world of activities and subjects that for a while took him away, as long as he returned them before his father came home.
Like all lessons he found out his flaw the first time he discovered the books. His father slapped him again, took away his precious book, barraged the boy with insults to his health, intelligence, lack of tact.
And so the sneaking began. Ways were devised to take books from inconspicuous places -- leave them in places where he could pick them up and retreat with them to his room where he would read for long hours of the night. Day after the day after school the boy (as he should be known now, he is no longer little) stole another book from the library, replacing another one in a system only he knew.
This is the way bookworms are made.
***
When the letter came he had no idea what it meant. He only saw the odd seal on the letter -- his mother saw it too and snatched it up, opening it eagerly.
"What is that, Mum?" he asked, swallowing a spoonful of his breakfast cereal.
She didn't answer and furiously ripped open the letter with energy the boy had not seen in years. She read it, and a glow lit up her hallowed face.
He was more confused when she ran to him and squeezed him. He tried to get out of his mother's embrace.
"Mum -- you made me spill the milk!"
"Oh, that can wait -- you've been accepted!"
"Accepted?" He stopped struggling.
"Into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! -- here --"
She handed her son the letter. Over the spilt remains of his cereal, he read the letter. At age eleven he did not realize the implications of the letter to his future life.
While his mother started humming (an overly new sound to Severus' ears) and cleaned up the milk on the floor, talking about robes and a wand and such, his father entered the kitchen, coat in arm and hat on head. His mother turned at the sound of the door opening and stopped humming immediately.
"What's that you got there?"
"Uh...a letter from Hogwarts, sir...seems I've been accepted..."
His father glared at his mother, who seemed to melt and all her happiness drained away from her face.
"You know we don't have the money to send him away."
"We'll find a way -- I have my inheritance --"
"Yes I know." The tone in his voice made it seem that this hidden pocket of money was to not be discussed. His mother immediately casted her eyes down toward the floor where the milk had began to grow sour.
His father shifted his coat to his other arm. He angrily stared at Severus and barked --
"Get out of here."
Tentatively he left his bowl where it was, scooted his chair out with an abnormal ethereal screech, and left the room. He went to his room, where he could hear the familiar sounds of his parents yelling. He sighed once and the yelling, like so many of the conversations in the house, became little more than background noise. White noise, he had seen it called, in a book of child psychology he had gleeped one particularly rainy Saturday.
He tried not to get up too much hope for leaving home. Though it would probably be a blessed release from the frailty of his mother (as much as she loved him) and the iron will of his father, he would not allow himself to have hope.
It was hard though, for the ten year old, to not imagine of a time where he could walk around without the bulky jackets and scarves, where the girls would not shriek in horror when they touched his cold hand as they passed back books or papers in class. At ten he was still hopeful, still truly hopeful, and finally the will quit and he dreamed of warm fires and food -- enough food to fill his palate and maybe for once not go to bed hungry.
Time passed, and then the door gently opened. By this time in his life Severus has learned to stand up at the command of a door, and when he does he sees his mother.
"Oh, Severus!" She rushes in and hugs her child, and for a moment he is warm. Then she lets go and starts talking non-stop -- excitedly, animated.
"Oh, he's letting you go! We're sending you to Hogwarts; one of the best schools in the county! You'll get to study Charms and Transfiguration and even Quidditch! We'll have to buy you a wand -- and several other things -- they have moving staircases! And the fields are big and expansive, with a huge forest and a lake --"
He stood there, and though it felt as if he was being deceived, he too looked up at his mother with such expectant eyes, and for a moment he was truly ten years old.
"And...books?"
"Yes dear -- so many books -- you'll never be able to read them all!" She laughed a truely happy laugh which sounded much clearer in the cold of the bare room. She hugged Severus again, and they were happy. He didn't even feel the cold.
For a moment after this, his father walks by the open door. He stares at them, glares at their happiness. And no matter what or how he reasoned it out later, then and there Severus felt that he should not have been happy. That glare from his father spoke of contempt, a resonance that only dimmed when he passed out of view and his mother hugged him again.
"So --" she asked him eagerly, "do you want a toad, owl, or rat?"
***
He remembers their faces as he got on the train to Hogwarts that faithful September 1st. He remembered feeling afraid, journeying to a place new and wondrous strange. It sounded like a heavenly place, this Hogwarts did, from what his mother was able to tell him. He was looking forward to all that warmth, where the fires never went out, and the food never ended....
He sat down in an empty cab and stared out the window. His mother caught his eye and started waving frantically, mouthing his name. His father made no move, his face remaining impassive. So as the train started and moved forward, Severus turned to his seat, and prepared for the future.
He had determined several things on the first of seven long rides to his school. He was going to read -- read all those books in the wonderful library. He was going to make some friends -- he hadn't had one yet, one that he really felt connected with. And perhaps the greatest one -- this one cemented with that final glance of his father standing on the sidewalk. He was going to be better than him. He will be successful. He will have money to match his heritage. He will not make the same mistakes as him. And he will, with work and determination, be nice to people.
These were his goals at eleven.
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December 19, 1986. The present. Morning.
He still feels cold. Waking up on a frosty December morning, two days before the students were going on Christmas break, he still feels cold. For a moment he curses the lack of automated fireplace spells that he had requested the Headmaster to install.
He reaches for his wand which laid on his bedside table. He raises his arm from the covers and pointes to the empty fireplace, which, if the House Elves did their job, should have a fresh supply of wood waiting for such an action.
"Ignatius."
He waits for the corresponding flair-up of flame. When none came, he angrily flings back the covers and says his first English words of the day.
"Damn House Elves."
He lays there, meeting the cold, as it causes his skin to rise in defence. He tries to not feel the chills in his muscles as the cold permeates his body, causing the muscles to shudder at command of the cold. This is a game -- has always been a game, to see how long he could withstand the attack. Over the years he has gotten skilled at it, getting to about 30 minutes without diving under the covers for warmth.
Today he does not feel like playing. He jumps up defiantly against the cold, wand with hand, and almost threatened his fireplace with his wand, as if it were a misbehaving student.
"Ignatius!"
No response from the charred remains of his fire. He points again at the wood.
"Ignatius, dammit! IGNATIUS!"
The wood erupts in flame and burned as merrily as if it had been burning for hours on a full chord of wood. He lowers his wand carefully. He looks first toward the door, then up at the ceiling, waiting to see if someone heard him. For a moment he questions what had happened. Why had he responded to lack of wood in such an unrefined manner? There was no use yelling at the wood -- it was not capable of making mistakes.
He places his wand on the desk and proceeds getting dressed. All through the process he mutters heated insults against the competency of House Elves, their lack of skill, tact, and adequate syntax. People wonder, he thinks, as he sits on his bed and ties his shoes, why House Elves are servants in the first place. It is obvious that they are destined to serve the populace of those superior to them.
But when such a simple job is botched up.... He looks to the fire, a product of his own frustration rather than any skill or talent, and thinks:
"I only needed one piece of wood -- just one. Then I could make my own fire and there would be nothing more to discuss. Yet, because of some lower life form, whom I must rely upon my daily feed and warmth, neglects his task, I am forced to lower myself to such inferior actions which belittle myself and my race. If anything, this is a sign to the collective majority that House Elves should be stamped out!"
He rubs his hands together, greeting the pain which came from them like an old familiar friend. Today he is going to introduce the distillation apparatus to the 2nd years, and he needs his hands for the meticulous handling of the device. His hands feel cold to him, as they always have. He cups one hand in the other, feeling in the general transfer of heat from cold, to cool, to even hot. For a moment he tries to remember if he ever had warm hands.
It is the glimpse of a stack of essays on his desk, waiting to be graded, that stops his wishful remembrance. He shall grade them during his planning period, he decides. He stands up, takes his wand, and quickly puts out the fire in the fireplace. He slips the wand into his pocket, putting on his customary overcoat, and, muttering about mutinous House Elves, leaves his chamber.
***
Once he is out of his chamber, his job begins. This is the way he thinks of it -- forming the leaders of tomorrow under a steady, disciplined hand. To approach it any other way would be unprofessional.
He is still cold going through the drafty halls of Hogwarts, though his speed makes the nearest heat source, the staff room, appear all the more quicker. He is watching for anything suspicious, any students who are not supposed to be out before eight A.M. He almost looks for them; the single movement, the flash of someone hiding behind a column. This is his hobby now, at least outside of his room, watching for mistakes.
His sense of others around him is profound. They are like beeps on a radar, little flames of beings who are, usually, unlike him.
So when he opens the staffroom door, he comes upon talking, socializing among the teachers. He closes the door gently behind him and makes his way to the tea table. Several wish him good morning, and he responds in like. He gets his tea, maybe a biscuit or two from the table next to it, and the paper and sits.
From his chair, a little bit distant from the others, for he enjoys his solitude in the morning, he catches phrases of conversations. They are, to Severus, far more interesting than any of the wizard-interest stories the Daily Prophet is always printing. He does not know why, but after reading the main headlines (not the articles) and maybe the editorials, he sits the paper down and listens. He has learned much about his students from such listening excursions, for as teachers who live at this school 10 months out of the year, they talk much more about the students as they would like to admit.
He does not hear any complaints about lack of wood in their fireplaces -- he starts to suppose that he was the only one without wood this morning. This made him even more irritable, considering it was always he, it seems, that was being left out of the workings of the world. As if he wasn't even important enough to be remembered for a log of wood!
He sits mutely, listening to the remains of the conversations that were not finished the night before, or are results of sleep. He hears today the rehashing of the adventures of one 3rd year who almost got eaten by a plant during Herbology -- Sprout continually cited that story as evidence of her value to the insitution.
Then Filius complained about his sore back, after being thrown out of the tower yesterday during a charm gone wrong. He was now asking the teachers at large what he should do.
"I mean, Suzy didn't mean it -- she merely flicked her wand at the wrong time and sent me sailing out the window!" He laughed heartily. "If I hadn't thrown down a cushioning charm, I wouldn't be here right now!"
"Filius, though she did commit a mistake, she should be disciplined," comes the voice of Minerva, whose back is to Severus as she speaks. "Miss Harper has lax wand work -- she needs to be corrected of it immediately, or else she might throw someone out a window that can't cast a cushioning charm."
Severus finds himself standing up and getting closer to the conversation, under the pretext of getting more tea, though he didn't really want it.
"True, true. I was thinking 10 points from Hufflepuff would be sufficient."
"You can't do that!" (Edith) Sprout protests from the couch across McGonagall. "She didn't do any harm -- just give her a stern warning!"
"Edith," spoke the rather deep voice of Aradeus Vector. "You're being biased. You can't show favouritism toward your own House. We must uphold the rules, and I believe it is against the rules to defenestrate a teacher, is it not?"
The circle of teachers laughs, though Severus stops pouring his tea. He did not like feeling this way, vulnerable, with his back to a group of his colleagues. Something irrational stirs in him, something older than his conscious self, and he makes his way around the table, so that he could face the group. This is unconscious on his part, but when he is in a better position to see the group, he feels relieved.
He keeps his head down as he carefully turned the cart of biscuits, acting as if he iscarefully selecting one, but really listening to the group's conversation.
"Besides, Aradeus," Sprout says, after downing the remnants of her tea, "I don't show favouritism toward my Hufflepuffs."
"Yes you do!" says Aradeus, and Edith throws an exaggerated astonished look.
"No I do not!"
Here Mattie Hooch interjects, pointing to Edith with her biscuit. "Dear, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you favour your house. You're worse than Severus -- isn't she, Severus?"
The group looks up in expectation to Severus, who admits he is caught unawares. It is not often that he is directly addressed -- he had made a living out of fading into the background. But he lifts his head, looks at the group, then Mattie, and says, quite ambiguously, "I wouldn't know."
"See?" Edith points to Severus, which causes his second shock of warmth toward the group this morning. "He agrees with me!"
"Actually," Minerva says rather smugly, stirring her tea, "Severus is worse than Edith." She looks at him, drawing him into the conversation, wanting a mini war of wit before going to class.
Severus finds himself straightening himself up and responding, "We're discussed the issue enough times, Minerva, and it has lead nowhere. "
"Oh, I know that, Severus," she says, almost smiling coyly. "You have the right to control your Slytherins in the manner you see fit and I have the right to control my Gryffindors in the matter that I see fit."
Severus saw some of the staff exchange looks. These discussions -- which was what they were on the surface, but he was completely aware of the connotations of each comment. It was a vicious circle, he thought. A circle he and Minerva performed every time they met. It was his cool approach to everything and defensive tactics that caused them mirth, he saw. A free show.
He did not feel like performing for them, so he slowly goes around the table so that the table is behind him. He feels their life energy burring, adding to a collective pot of humanity. It is strangely...seductive.
"Would you like a seat, Severus? There's some room over here," Mattie offers, patting the seat next to her.
"No thank you, " he says automatically, and immediately he is separated. Besides, he did not feel like their equal. Not after five years, still not equal enough to sit with them. Instead he places both hands behind him on the table.
"If I recall correctly," he starts, casting a look toward Minerva, "the topic was a choice of punishment for Miss Harper."
"What would you suggest, then, Severus?" McGonagall replies. He did not want to be provoked like this -- he wished secretly that he had never stumbled upon their conversation, but now that he had frozen himself in this place under his colleague's eyes, he had to respond.
"Should Miss Harper had attempted such a stunt in my class, be it accidental or not, she would still be responsible for her actions. I would recommend a week's worth of detentions, as well as a fifty point deduction from her house. "
He watches McGonagall nod her head in agreement, while Flitwick looks astonished.
"I couldn't do that, Severus!" Flitwick protests. "Maybe if I had been harmed, but I'm fine! Just fine! See?"
He jumps off his stool and did a little jig. The scattering of applause leaves Severus dazed and confused. It is like their energy and life is pulling him in, and the more he wants to stay and continue the conversation (it was two minutes to 8 am) the more he wants to leave.
"Even so, Filus," Severus continues in his dry manner, "my opinion was requested, and I have fulfilled my obligation."
Almost on cue, the grandfather clock rang for eight A.M., and breakfast to be served.
Severus is the first one out the door.
Continue in Part Two.