Author's Stuff: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters written by J.K. Rowling. This is my portrayal of them and I am not making any money off of this.
Now ... this is my story of Severus Snape. I heart Snapey, he's my absolute favorite character. This chapter might be a one-shot, or I might continue it ... I don't know yet. This is my first attempt at angst/drama and please give me con-crit so I can improve. :) Enjoy!
-------------------------
The two people sat as they always did, facing each other at the left and right of the head of the table. Five empty chairs flanked outward to their right; they were high-backed and made of elegant mahogany, with carved snakes depicted curving around the armrests. A long, forest green tablecloth adorned the exquisitely set table – and each place at the table was set, no matter that most of them were empty, with the finest china positioned perfectly. In the center of the table was a variety of serving trays, bowls, and plates that displayed it's high-quality contents lavishly; steaming chicken, roast vegetables, potatoes, fruit, salad, rolls, sauces, dumplings, soups, and pastries consisted of the spread – a feast fit for a king.
A chandelier with at least two dozen golden arms containing candles hung lowly over the table, the only source of light in the dimly lit room. It illuminated the table decently but let the rest of the room in semi-darkness, shadows bounced and flickered across the walls. The room was long and narrow like the table, with wood-paneled walls such as those in a court of law and a thick, dark green carpet. Various things of value hung on the walls, including a large coat of arms with a serpent as the centerpiece and a few obscure paintings.
The room was completely silent, as if it were empty, except the quiet ticking of a grandfather clock in the back. The atmosphere was one of dark foreboding, the air thick and pressing. Something about the aura caused a twinge of nervous discomfort and a flicker of fear to enter the stomach, and the heart to beat quickly with apprehension. It felt as if something terrible were about to happen at any given second, like a hidden time bomb slowly and softly ticking away the seconds, or a predator hiding away in the shadows until the time came to fall upon it's prey.
There was only one visible exit, a golden-handled door near the back corner. One of the inhabitants of the room, a middle-aged woman, keep twitching her eyes to it nervously. She was tall and thin, looking sickly with sallow skin and an almost skeletal head; the wetness of her sunken brown eyes made easily visible her weak, sniveling personality and her broken spirit. Her eyes wouldn't remain still, either ... flickering from one thing to the next, but always drifting back to that door. Long, black hair was up in an elegant bun in a lattice net at the back of her head. She was dressed in an old-fashion full-length gown of black, with many layers of skirts and bodices, and looking as though she had bathed it in mothballs first. Her delicate arms were placed gently across her lap, but she kept wringing her hands in a fashion that would annoying most people.
The second and final occupant was a young boy of about eleven. He was tall and had the exact same skeletal frame of his mother – looking like a ghost, though, with his chalk-white complexion. His eyes weren't as sunken as his mothers, and they contained a hardness of determination that hers did not ... he wasn't broken yet, but by the deep-rooted anger harbored within them it would be soon that he fell. The boy's nose was also different from his mother's, distinctly hooking and shining slightly with grease. His face was poised grimly and he stared down at his empty plate, refusing to look up. Strands of long, greasy black hair slid from behind his ears to hang past his neck and in front of his face. He, like his mother, was dressed richly. He wore a pitch black suit with a white shirt underneath the jacket and a black bow tie at the base of his neck.
The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder and louder with every passing minute. Suddenly, the chimes rang out, proclaiming it was six o'clock, and the woman looked up quickly. She gave a sharp intake of breath and froze, listening to the soft 'gong' of each hour, counting them until the last of the six reverberated in the stillness. Then her eyes wandered to the door and she began wringing her hands more urgently. After another five drawn-out minutes, she felt a pang of panic as she heard a door slam distantly somewhere in the house. Some more doors opened and closed loudly, each getting nearer. The boy stared with more intensity at his plate, seeming to concentrate on it with all of his being. The woman had tensed like a statue and the whites of her eyes were visible, widened with terror. Steps resounded in the hallway outside of the dining room and her heart drummed; she put her arms on the armrests and clutched them, as if afraid she might jump and run away like a frightened animal. Her timing was perfect – right at that instant the steps stopped and after a very minute pause the door to the dining room was thrown open with an blisteringly loud 'bang.'
Heavy breathing could be heard from the doorway and the clearing of a scratchy throat. A tall, whip-like man stepped inside, his posture slightly bent as cruel, shadowed eyes surveyed the table and its occupants. Long strands of black, greasy hair fell into his face – which was harsh looking and hawk-like with it's hooked nose, sunken eyes, and thin lips twisted into a menacing frown. A black cloak rippled over his thin shoulders. He removed it and attached it to a hat stand in the corner of the room. He wore a simple white button-up shirt with a black vest covering it, and had black slacks; underneath them were a pair of metal-tipped leather boots. Without a word to the others, he stalked to the head of the table and seated himself. The woman remained frozen in fear and the boy continued to stare at his plate.
After wrapping a napkin around his neck, the man reached to serve himself some food. It was at this point that the women seemed to relax just a tiny bit, and after the man was done serving himself she reached out daintily to take a roll. However, she appeared to have no intention of eating it – it sat on her plate while she watched the man lifted his knife and fork to a large breast of juicy chicken.
There was a long bout of silence again while the man lifted the chicken to his lips and ate it. Then, suddenly, he turned his attentions to the boy. It was the first time he had acknowledged his presence. After swallowing, he cleared his throat again. "Well, boy, I hear you've been invited to attend Hogwarts." He said loudly and severely. The boy did not answer, merely stared at his plate intently. The man continued talking. "Shame it wasn't Durmstrang. That Dumbledore's the poorest excuse of a Headmaster I've seen, even by Hogwarts standards; but Karkaroff ... now there's a man who has his head on right." He said with a sudden evil glint in his eye. The woman murmured softly in agreement but once again, the boy said nothing.
The man took another bite of his chicken. "I suppose you'll want to be put into Slytherin, just like your grandfathers. The only house that churns out half-decent wizards." He said. "Eh, boy?"
The boy's cheek twitched ever so slightly. "No." He said suddenly and softly, his eyes narrowing as he watched the plate.
The man heard this and rose to his feet. "What did you say, boy?" He growled.
The boy didn't respond again, but as he stared at the plate the rage that was building up in his eyes was visible and almost tangible. He shook slightly as he tried to contain his anger. Suddenly, the table began to shake very slightly, the china rattling as it bounced a little bit. A soft rumbling could be heard, like that of an oncoming earthquake. The boy felt his anger continue to mount, and the table began to shake a tinge more vigorously.
The woman gasped and rose to her feet, stepping away from the table and staring at it in surprise and horror. The chairs began to shake as well and the floor vibrated beneath their feet. The soft rumbling slowly and steadily deepened. The man ignored all of this, stepping towards the boy. "What did you say?" He growled again, eyes glaring through the boy.
The table gave a violent jolt and a bowl fell to the floor, smashing into bits. The boy looked up to meet the man's glare with his own one of equal severity. "I said 'no.'" He said, his voice shaking with anger at first but growing more and more confident with every word. "I said no; I don't want to be in Slytherin, I don't want to go to Hogwarts, and I don't want to be like my grandfathers. But most of all ... I don't want to be like you."
The man's eyes seemed to want to burst with anger. "Why, you little brat ... I gave you everything you ever wanted ... to think, my son ..." He started, but the boy interrupted him.
"Shut up. I'm not your son!" The boy hollered, jumping to his feet. "And you're not my father!"
"NO!!" The woman shrieked, for at this point the man was striding over to the boy with his arm poised to strike and a look of intense hate contorting his features. The woman ran over to the man, attaching her frail body to his upraised arm and clinging to it. "Stop, please! Don't hurt him!" She pleaded.
"GET OFF OF ME, YOU STUPID WOMAN!" The man bellowed, throwing his arm out and effectively dislodging her. She was tossed aside like a rag dog and landed on the floor with a thud. Quickly, she got up on hands and knees and crawled over to the man, wrapping her arms around his leg and weeping into it. "Please, Servont, please ..." She begged desperately, lifting her tear-filled eyes to him in total subordination as her gowned body lay sprawled on the floor.
"I said ... GET OFF OF ME!" He roared again, and this time landed a violent kick to the woman. She yelped like a hurt dog, but it was barely heard.
For when the man turned around, his own eyes widened in fright. The table's shaking was now extremely violent and the roaring had crescendoed. Then, with the ear splitting sound of thunder, the table exploded into dozens of long splinters that hovered mid-air. The boy was shaking with as much violence as the table once was, his hands clenched into fists and his eyes boring holes into the man. There was a very small pause, and then the boy said quietly and defiantly, "This is for all the people you've ever hurt ... including mother. Rot in hell." His cheek below his eye twitched and in a rush the enormous splinters were flying towards the man.
It all happened very quickly. Immediately, the man was pinned to the back wall by long splinters nailed through the center of his wrists. More splinters pierced his stomach ... the last one was driven into his heart. His eyes were wide with shock and his mouth opened, issuing only a few last ragged gasps of pain before his head drooped. He died with his face frozen in this petrified position, staring in surprise at the boy. The boy stared back at him, still shaking – but this time, the boy was not shaking in anger, but more of fear. What had he done?
Suddenly, the woman seemed to gather her wits and let out a horrified scream as she rolled over and crawled away from the man's suspended body. Long trails of blood trickled from him down the wall to the floor, where it pooled.
"I-I'm sorry." The boy stammered, feeling tears of fright creep into his eyes and shock threaten to cause him to faint. "Momma, please ... don't hate me, I'm sorry!" He cried, tearing his eyes away from the man and casting them to the woman. He started to walk towards her, hands outstretched for help. He no longer was the angry person of a few minutes ago; now he appeared helpless, like the child he really was.
The woman, however, scrambled away from him in terror. "GET AWAY FROM ME!" She shrieked hysterically.
Tears were now streaming down the boy's face. "Please momma, please ..." He whimpered, hands reaching out for her. "I didn't mean it, I'm sorry ... I swear." The boy cried desperately as he approached her.
The woman felt around in her robes and withdrew her wand, jabbing it at the boy in her shaking arm. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" She screamed again.
The boy needed no more warning. Taking one last look at her, he turned around and fled out of the door. The woman could hear him running through the house. When his footsteps were gone, she dropped her wand and crumpled into a sobbing heap at the foot of the man; his blood continued to the soak the floor, and his bugling eyes remained staring forward in horror.
