I've often heard the rumor whispered behind my back that during my first year at Hogwart's I knew more curses and hexes than any student before or since. If it is true, I owe nothing to careful hours of study and practice. I knew them – each and every one of them – because they had already been used on me. Perhaps, it is an advantage, as you wave that slender wand, to know what pain and humiliation is inflicted on your enemies. I think the burden of the knowledge has made me cautious. I know it has made my magic more effective in not only the dark arts, but in defense against them. I have lived on both sides, and found both wanting. Neither one could save Valeria. Neither one could truly save me. There is no true return from the darkness, only the appropriation of a little bit of stolen light. If black and white have dueled over my soul, it is only to leave me bleeding in shades of grey.
My youth at Hogwart's progressed as slowly as my years at home. I was small, bookish, and uncoordinated, and as such, a perfect target. There was humiliation enough in those games, but very rarely the type of pain I had grown accustomed to at home. I bore it as stoically as I was able. If I occasionally fought back against their attacks, I can assure you, it was never with the full strength of my ability. I did, however, acquire an unobtrusive protector who looked after me during my education. His name was Albus Dumbledore, and I think at first he pitied me. He knew my father, of course, as a generous benefactor of the school. There were three classrooms named in honor of the house of Snape at that time; I had them all changed when I became the last heir of that once great house. But Dumbledore soon learned that his pity was neither wanted nor required. Ugly thing, pity. It serves only to further disgrace the object of pity, and perpetuate the cycle of disdain. As much as I may hate to admit it, I am nothing, if not proud. I remember Dumbledore catching site of a scar upon my left wrist. My father had slit to the vein and held it open with his fingers while I bled out. I think he had been trying to scare me; instead he nearly killed me. But he was truly handy with that healing wand of his. Of course he was, when he was given so many chances to practice on my mangled flesh. Dumbledore had offered me a potion to fade the scare in a matter of weeks. I think we finally understood each other when I told him that I'd no sooner lose my scars than I would lose my limbs. They were, after all, a part of me.
My parents wrote to me seldom, and visited even less. When a letter did come my chest would seize as I quickly skimmed the text for mention of Valeria. Each time when I learned that she was still missing, I felt a wave of relief flow over me. I could lay aside any guilt that I felt for leaving and going off to Hogwart's. She was safe, still, and I was out from under my father's brutal hands. But time never stands completely still, and I knew that soon I'd have to return to my ancestral home. I watched the days fall away with an increasing sensation of dread.
When a social engagement brought my parents close to the school, they felt the only proprietary thing to do was plan a visit. I was called into Dumbledore's office, and gave my parents a stiff bow. I still don't know how he managed it, but Dumbledore was sly as a fox even then. Most likely he catered to my parents pride, and made me seem a grand student and a credit to the school. Perhaps he even called in an old favor or debt. All I know is that when my parents spoke to me, it was to tell me I'd be spending the summer at Hogwart's as Dumbledore's personal assistant. He had fed them some rubbish about a particularly delicate potion, and his need for young eyes and steady hands. To this day he maintains that he truly needed the help, but I've always known otherwise. He kept me safe that year, and the next, and again the next. We grew to be a very efficient team, able to understand each other's gestures and moods at first glance. I was not a carefree and jovial student, like so many that he loved at Hogwart's but I was diligent and hardworking. He understood there was a darkness ingrained in me through breeding and rearing that rendered me incapable of the light-hearted ways of so many popular schoolboys. He watched me rather like a falconer watches his falcon; a fierce and noble creature who, while they might never be loved, might one day be thoroughly trusted. It is to his credit that he chose me not because he enjoyed my company, but because he knew I needed refuge from my life. If I have never given voice to my gratitude, I have shown it to him in a thousand ways.
I learned, I progressed, and my magic grew stronger. My fourth year, I did return home briefly, but was able to commence with assisting Dumbledore before the week was out. My mother had died and I had to attend her funeral. How she died, I was never quite certain. I remember something about her neck being snapped, but if it was from a fall, or my father's hands I cannot tell you. She wandered around in an absinthe haze so often, that either explanation seems entirely plausible. She was buried in an ebony coffin with the Snape family crest emblemized on the lid. I cast a simple but effective charm to produce the expected tears. All the while, I scanned the attendees for a hint of Valeria, but found none. Wherever she had run to ground, she had hidden well, and I was glad for it. The night I spent in my childhood room, I slept fitfully. My father entertained a large group of men in one of the banquet rooms, and from the upper floor I would hear occasional hushed references to a magnificent wizard that would purge the mudbloods from their midst. When I finally drifted into slumber, I dreamt of broken fingers, of cuts, and bruises. I was never more happy to leave that place the next morning.
My fifth year was fairly uneventful, expect for a Qudditch match injury that left me with a minor concussion curtsey of one Sirius Black. Likewise, I divided my sixth year between my accelerated studies, and the warm familiarity of Dumbledore's office. I think in his heart of hearts he had hoped to be a father figure to me; I could never relegate him to such a hateful position. Instead we settled into the rarest of all relationships: Mutual respect. But my last year at Hogwart's, and the year that followed would test that bond, and push it to the limits of its endurance. The darkness in me had been pacified by Dumbledore's gentle guidance. When it threatened to flare up at a classmate's slight, or cruel word, his hand on my back calmed me and brought me back to myself. He had thought to redeem me, and perhaps, had I been left to his teaching and counsel, I never would have come to know my dark side so keenly. But hate can be nurtured even more easily than love, and the seeds of discord lay dormant in my heart until they could be properly cultivated and grown. For a time, they would threaten to choke of the tender samplings of love that Valeria had planted and Dumbledore tended. They would have succeeded too, I think, if Dumbledore hadn't been there to pull me back from the brink on that fateful night. Funny how waging war against the Death Eaters almost turned my heart as black as theirs. I'd laugh if I remembered how.
My youth at Hogwart's progressed as slowly as my years at home. I was small, bookish, and uncoordinated, and as such, a perfect target. There was humiliation enough in those games, but very rarely the type of pain I had grown accustomed to at home. I bore it as stoically as I was able. If I occasionally fought back against their attacks, I can assure you, it was never with the full strength of my ability. I did, however, acquire an unobtrusive protector who looked after me during my education. His name was Albus Dumbledore, and I think at first he pitied me. He knew my father, of course, as a generous benefactor of the school. There were three classrooms named in honor of the house of Snape at that time; I had them all changed when I became the last heir of that once great house. But Dumbledore soon learned that his pity was neither wanted nor required. Ugly thing, pity. It serves only to further disgrace the object of pity, and perpetuate the cycle of disdain. As much as I may hate to admit it, I am nothing, if not proud. I remember Dumbledore catching site of a scar upon my left wrist. My father had slit to the vein and held it open with his fingers while I bled out. I think he had been trying to scare me; instead he nearly killed me. But he was truly handy with that healing wand of his. Of course he was, when he was given so many chances to practice on my mangled flesh. Dumbledore had offered me a potion to fade the scare in a matter of weeks. I think we finally understood each other when I told him that I'd no sooner lose my scars than I would lose my limbs. They were, after all, a part of me.
My parents wrote to me seldom, and visited even less. When a letter did come my chest would seize as I quickly skimmed the text for mention of Valeria. Each time when I learned that she was still missing, I felt a wave of relief flow over me. I could lay aside any guilt that I felt for leaving and going off to Hogwart's. She was safe, still, and I was out from under my father's brutal hands. But time never stands completely still, and I knew that soon I'd have to return to my ancestral home. I watched the days fall away with an increasing sensation of dread.
When a social engagement brought my parents close to the school, they felt the only proprietary thing to do was plan a visit. I was called into Dumbledore's office, and gave my parents a stiff bow. I still don't know how he managed it, but Dumbledore was sly as a fox even then. Most likely he catered to my parents pride, and made me seem a grand student and a credit to the school. Perhaps he even called in an old favor or debt. All I know is that when my parents spoke to me, it was to tell me I'd be spending the summer at Hogwart's as Dumbledore's personal assistant. He had fed them some rubbish about a particularly delicate potion, and his need for young eyes and steady hands. To this day he maintains that he truly needed the help, but I've always known otherwise. He kept me safe that year, and the next, and again the next. We grew to be a very efficient team, able to understand each other's gestures and moods at first glance. I was not a carefree and jovial student, like so many that he loved at Hogwart's but I was diligent and hardworking. He understood there was a darkness ingrained in me through breeding and rearing that rendered me incapable of the light-hearted ways of so many popular schoolboys. He watched me rather like a falconer watches his falcon; a fierce and noble creature who, while they might never be loved, might one day be thoroughly trusted. It is to his credit that he chose me not because he enjoyed my company, but because he knew I needed refuge from my life. If I have never given voice to my gratitude, I have shown it to him in a thousand ways.
I learned, I progressed, and my magic grew stronger. My fourth year, I did return home briefly, but was able to commence with assisting Dumbledore before the week was out. My mother had died and I had to attend her funeral. How she died, I was never quite certain. I remember something about her neck being snapped, but if it was from a fall, or my father's hands I cannot tell you. She wandered around in an absinthe haze so often, that either explanation seems entirely plausible. She was buried in an ebony coffin with the Snape family crest emblemized on the lid. I cast a simple but effective charm to produce the expected tears. All the while, I scanned the attendees for a hint of Valeria, but found none. Wherever she had run to ground, she had hidden well, and I was glad for it. The night I spent in my childhood room, I slept fitfully. My father entertained a large group of men in one of the banquet rooms, and from the upper floor I would hear occasional hushed references to a magnificent wizard that would purge the mudbloods from their midst. When I finally drifted into slumber, I dreamt of broken fingers, of cuts, and bruises. I was never more happy to leave that place the next morning.
My fifth year was fairly uneventful, expect for a Qudditch match injury that left me with a minor concussion curtsey of one Sirius Black. Likewise, I divided my sixth year between my accelerated studies, and the warm familiarity of Dumbledore's office. I think in his heart of hearts he had hoped to be a father figure to me; I could never relegate him to such a hateful position. Instead we settled into the rarest of all relationships: Mutual respect. But my last year at Hogwart's, and the year that followed would test that bond, and push it to the limits of its endurance. The darkness in me had been pacified by Dumbledore's gentle guidance. When it threatened to flare up at a classmate's slight, or cruel word, his hand on my back calmed me and brought me back to myself. He had thought to redeem me, and perhaps, had I been left to his teaching and counsel, I never would have come to know my dark side so keenly. But hate can be nurtured even more easily than love, and the seeds of discord lay dormant in my heart until they could be properly cultivated and grown. For a time, they would threaten to choke of the tender samplings of love that Valeria had planted and Dumbledore tended. They would have succeeded too, I think, if Dumbledore hadn't been there to pull me back from the brink on that fateful night. Funny how waging war against the Death Eaters almost turned my heart as black as theirs. I'd laugh if I remembered how.