ALEA IACTA EST Chapter 2: Ex Post Facto, a harry potter fanfic

-Ex post facto-

For lateness and slovenly attire from the Heir of Snape Manor: two lashes across the back of the legs. Pain to linger, obedience a blood price. Hours of study to be extended, in Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, Manners and all other aspects of genteel life. Any failures seen as defiance, punished further with lack of food, more work, occasional beatings— even, say quietly, torture.

Parents remote and cold, affection banished under work, work, work. The light of day denied, frequently tested, found wanting– poison in the food, find the antidote, brew it! Quick! Quick! Poison in the air– his brother, the HEIR sacrificed so he could live to serve their Master, the Dark Lord. Poison inside– left behind, the homely intelligent youngest, to fill a role more brutally rewritten than a Chinese torture manual. He couldn't give up–no, merciful gods, denied that release!— he promised, he could not!

The Arts studied, no visiting The Grave of Fraternity, denied, denied. "You killed him, you shall not have the privilege of seeing his final resting place, ungrateful wretch!" Screams. Shouts. Beatings. Wormwood. Acornite. Tarragon, Ashwinders' eggs, a Bezoar. 1966 and then 1967.

1968 and two years elapsed. A cold, silent, watchful THING– childhood extracted like water from a particularly odiferous cheese. Pale, thin, greasy hair— too many poisons, immunity for the distaff ancestor of Slytherin– no one would ever successfully poison or polyjuice a Snape!

A distinct ingrained hesitancy of manners, slightly old-fashioned, even for the Wizarding World, a defense mechanism for the public veneer of tolerance and the silent hatred of his paternity. He was a watcher— a learner by observation and non-participant in the circles of affection that the rest of the world so tirelessly sought for. Affection, in his abode (no home for the stunted too-adult child) was never in question— things, yes, in abundance. Affection? Not a chance!

Emotions, weakness, both anathema; sadness, banished in his early years solely by his brother, a rampaging pest. No more would anyone value him, except as a tool, a thing of use, for his skills and knowledge. The languages he had learned at his brothers side and during his life stood him in good stead now: Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, Gaelic... But these were not enough to earn him acclaim. Even the house elves bullied and mocked him at the orders of their Master.

Snapes were not foolish. They were not weak.

They were afraid.

And alone.

Even after the fact, the pain endured from those two years could never be forgotten, the lessons engraved in blood and hatred and loneliness upon the soul of the not-child, Severus Snape.