Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling and various companies. Any others belong to myself. This is written for entertainment purposes only, not for financial gain. No copyright infringement intended.
Note: With so many angsty Snape + someone fics out there, I couldn't help but jump in the fray. Angst plus original character? My favorite words.
Enjoy!
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Old Habits
Chapter 3
Instead of the bath, instead of the dreamless sleep he'd promised himself, Snape sat in front of the blazing fire, staring blankly into the flames. The house elves had brought a bottle of wine from the cellars at his request. He had drunk too many glasses to remember the count. His hand was too unsteady now to pour more.
Clumsily he picked up the photograph again and blearily watched the couple within it. Celeste-in-the-picture took that moment to kiss Snape-in-the-picture soundly on the mouth. Snape-in-the-picture grinned.
As it had many times before, the photograph lazily floated to the floor, no matter how hard he threw it.
So many memories . . . Snape covered his face and pulled his hair in an effort to pull them from his mind. But that tactic refused to work.
. . . a young child, black haired and black eyed, awkward and shy. The sting of bruised ribs as he took each breath. Approached by a neighbor girl as he sat in the garden, kicking at gnomes.
Come over, she asked.
No.
Come on! At least go inside, it's raining and cold.
A shudder passed through him at the thought of returning to his own house, where
it was even colder.
Then you have no choice. Come over. My mom insists.
So he had. Frightened at what may be behind other people's doors, knowing too well the shouting and beatings behind his, he followed her slowly.
What a difference! A Muggle father who collected Muggle record albums and read stories to them, a witch mother who baked and made them drink large glasses of fortified milk for some nutrition with their cookies.
They played, they laughed, they sang along to the funny Muggle songs her father had on the jukebox. They had adventures outside, climbing trees to find bird's nests and following the creek. They acted out the fairy tales read to them.
(Her favorite was Little Red Riding Hood. She, of course, was the girl—what did it matter that her cloak was green instead of red?—and he played the wolf. Several times they pretended it but changed the ending, so the Wolf wasn't split open and he and Little Red Riding Hood lived happily ever after . . .)
She almost always called him 'Big Bad' after that, and always smiled when she said it.
Some times they even played outside in the rain, because deep down inside, he really liked the rain. It was so clean, especially after a thrashing. They came regularly, and in the back of his mind he knew it was because he had fun with her. He decided he didn't care.
He wished it would never end, but like most good things in his life, it did. Her father was transferred to America. She was leaving.
The day before she left he told her in a fevered way he wanted Little Red Riding Hood to be real, the way they made it real, with a happy ending together forever. She grinned fondly at that, and teased that he would have to become a werewolf for the fantasy to be true. He thought if possible, to make it real, he would.
The day she left his father beat him into a concussion. He never saw her go . . .
Snape lifted the wine bottle and stared at the amount left, vaguely wondering if his liver could possibly handle another dose of alcohol. If only another swallow would block the recall his brain insisted on!
Then, he thought, it couldn't hurt.
Another swig burned his throat.
It didn't help.
. . . she wrote to him, an owl at least once every other month. Her letters were full of the strangeness of America, but the excitement she had there too. He rarely wrote in reply: what could he tell her? His beatings were more frequent? He had learned to be silent and sly, to avoid any attention? That with no escape to her home he was slowly but surely being educated in the ways of sarcasm and hate?
Then came the wondrous day of his acceptance to Hogwarts. He had gone straight to the Owl Post and sent a quick note—written in trembling penmanship, he was so ecstatic—to her, to tell her of the miracle.
And her reply, with it's gentle scolding that of course he'd be accepted, what did he expect? and a post script that she'd been accepted too, wasn't that incredible?! They should meet in London to gather school supplies together . . ..
Snape groaned. "But you didn't meet her in London, did you?" a low voice asked in the back of his mind. "Your father saw to that."
"Shut up!" he shouted to the empty room.
. . . his father saw to that. When he caught wind that his son was going to meet that half Muggle girl, he told him once and for all it was beneath a Snape to associate with shit. He would beat that into his boy, or kill him trying.
He never made his appointment to meet her in Diagon Alley. On the Hogwarts Express he managed to find an empty compartment. He didn't remove the hood from his head, even alone. He heard the whispers of the other students as he silently pushed passed them, and knew instinctively unpleasant rumors were being spread of him.
Sternly he told himself it didn't matter.
Minutes after the lunch cart passed his compartment another knock, more frantic, rattled the door.
Don't answer and they'll go away.
But the handle turned and she stepped inside.
She was overjoyed to find him, and so worried because he hadn't shown up like he'd promised and why won't he talk or push back the hood? Wasn't he happy to see her?
She sat beside him and squeezed his hand, and insisted that he turn to her. Reluctantly he complied.
She gasped at the black eyes and broken nose. Amazingly, she cried for him. It startled him a bit, her tears; he'd lost the ability to cry ages ago. Her fingers gently stroked his discolored cheeks, and soothed his swollen split lip.
He leaned against her, basking her compassion, and feeling that now, maybe, things would again be good . . .
He sneered at his own naiveté.
. . . she held his hand tightly during the Sorting, until he was called and placed into the Slytherin house . . .
He never told her he'd crossed his fingers when she took the seat, begging silently she'd be placed with him. He never told her about the sharp pang of disappointment as she made her way to the Ravenclaw table.
. . . they had classes together, of course. And they always studied together when the library was mostly empty. And later, in sixth year, when he began to realize she was attractive, they stole quick hungry kisses in dark alcoves.
But by then he had gained many Slytherin traits and knew without a doubt his life would be very difficult if his House learned of his passion for her. It was already brutal enough with those bloody Gryffindor Marauders hating him.
She didn't understand why he became more cautious around her. She declared she didn't care what anyone else thought. He couldn't explain why he was in such a delicate situation. He wanted more than anything to be with her, but to defy Lucius Malfoy was suicide. With many of the Slytherin house joining in support of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, he felt he had little choice.
His choice had been made, in fact, before graduation and the farewell ball. When Lucius had promised him he could have his revenge on the Marauders, on his father, on whomever he chose, he agreed.
The decision wavered while they were dancing. He realized, with a start, it was one of the only times in their seven years they'd been seen in public together. She hadn't lied; she didn't care that people were pointing and gawking at them. She pressed against him comfortably and smiled up at him.
It gave him the strength to tell Lucius no, he changed his mind.
For a few months after leaving Hogwarts they traveled. He was content to simply be with her as she decided to pursue Muggle Studies. They had good times together. He was incredulous he could reach out and touch or hold her whenever he wished . . .
Intoxicated with the wine and fumes from the fire, Snape's thoughts became more tattered. He could almost imagine the feel of her against him, like so many years ago. His throat ached.
. . . she wanted to take a job in America. She had left ahead of him, leaving him to finish their business in Britain . . .
. . .he learned his father was sick, dying; she wanted him to go back. Make amends. Feeling forgiving, he had gone. His father spit in his face.
Then he only felt foolish.
Then Lucius contacted him, reminding him of his earlier agreement. Lucius had whispered he understood the lust for a woman, but men thought so much clearer without their influence. Wondered aloud if he'd reconsidered . . .
. . . still smarting from his father's latest rejection, he agreed . . .
. . . the horror of standing before Voldemort, the agony of the Dark Mark branded into his forearm . . .
. . . the more twisted agony knowing he could never ask her to join them, that he'd lost her . . .
. . . the odd relief that his father had died before he had used the Unforgivable Curse against him as he'd been ordered . . .
. . . the emptiness beside him as he slept . . .
. . . the sweet knowledge she was somewhat safe for now, across the ocean . . .
. . . the painful comprehension that his decision separated them irreparably, that he could never be close to her again . . .
. . . the self-hatred and loathing that consumed him more day by day . . .
The fireplace held almost nothing but embers now. Snape's head throbbed and he was nauseous. The feeling of self-pity was a familiar one but stronger than normal. It was all Celeste's fault. She had to return, and force him to deal with the torturous memories locked in his head. And, as unfathomable as it was, he needed to see her right now.
Unsteadily Snape got to his feet. He stumbled to the door and out into the hall.
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