Snape's final year at Hogwarts was destined to be more unpleasant than its predecessors.
The boy knew that he would have to give up his friendship with James Potter and Lily Evans. He also understood that he would have to join the Death Eaters to fulfill his promise to Albus Dumbledore. Severus further realized that whatever youthful exuberance he might have once felt (though fleetingly) was now at an end.
This year was indeed the End. For now, he knew his destiny and his path. From this point forward, Severus would be swallowed by the Dark that had always threatened to envelop him completely.
Funny, he thought. Martis Vox and Albus Dumbledore worked so hard to save me, and all for naught.
Of course, he was a boy who had always hidden his feelings because it was a necessary and useful survival skill. And as he settled into the life of a Seventh-Year, Sev realized that it was highly imprudent to dwell upon them. When one planned to jump into the abyss, figuratively speaking, a few potholes in the road leading thereto were scarcely to be looked for.
Snape's classes were more utilitarian than engrossing. He had suppressed a sardonic grin when Professor Wakefield (the latest in a long line of sacked and/or sackable Defense Against the Dark Arts instructors) had railed against the same forbidden works of Dark Wizardry that he had been forced to memorize as a child.
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Currently sitting in his Transfigurations class bored out of his skull, Severus Snape now doodled the names of such ancient tomes on a scrap of parchment he had brought into class with him to relieve the tedium.
Let me see, he thought, writing out the titles in his elaborate yet cramped hand. There was the Comte d'Erlette's Cultes des Goules and the Unaussprechliche Kulten by Friedrich von Junzt. The Cryptomenysis Patefacta by John Falconer. Remigius' Daemonolatreia, published in Lyons in 1595.
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
Giovanni Battista della Porta's De Furtivis Literarum Notis.
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
Joseph Glanvil's Saducismus Triumphatus.
The Witch-Cult in Western Europe by Dr. Margaret Murray, that old cow!
Scribble, scribble, scribble.
There was the granddaddy of grimoires, of course; the Necronomicon by Abdul Alhazred. His father had managed to get his hands on one of Dr. Dee's rare English translations. The nasty old git had probably sold his soul for it.
Soul? What soul? Severus now thought, smirking at the memory of Confutatis Maledictis Snape's late encounter with the Dementors of Azkaban.
"And what on Earth are you doing, Mr. Snape?" cried Minerva McGonagall, snatching at the piece of parchment and jostling his arm. Her fingertips brushed it, but that was all.
Afraid of touches and sudden movements in general, Sev had jerked away from her. An older and wiser wizard would have controlled himself better. An older and wiser wizard also wouldn't have blurted out, "That's mine!" instead of a convincing if insincere apology.
Snape's lack of foresight had altered his transgression in Minerva's mind from simple inattention to the more ominous sin of dwelling upon forbidden tomes during class. HER class, not to put too fine a point upon it. "How dare you?" Minerva shrieked. "We'll have none of that here, Mr. Snape; none of that at all!"
The rest of his classmates turned around (for Snape sat in the back row, as he always did when he had a choice) and stared at him.
"Bet he's been drawing dirty pictures, Moony," Peter Pettigrew chuckled. Probably naked ones of Britty Vox."
"Where?" yelped Remus Lupin, shooting upright in such haste that he strained a muscle in his back.
Sirius Black – who sat only one row ahead of Severus – had turned and sat motionless and silent, drawing in the boy's panic and embarrassment like the bouquet of a fine wine. Black had caught a glance at the parchment before the Slytherin's hand had convulsively crumpled it in his right fist.
"Snivelly, you've done it this time!" he thought to himself with delighted satisfaction.
"Give that parchment to me at once, Mr. Snape!" Professor McGonagall cried.
His heart pounding and his face a nonreadable blank, Severus refused.
"Immediately!" the Transfigurations teacher demanded.
"No," Severus said in his emotionless manner.
Minerva stood rigid and upright, nostrils flaring. With the wave of her wand and muttered charm and in a flash of silvery scales, she turned the recalcitrant boy into a fish. The parchment now fell away cleanly from hand turned flipper. Snatching it, she reversed the charm, leaving Severus lying prone with his forehead touching the ancient wooden planks of the classroom floor.
"Go at once to the Headmaster's Office, Mr. Snape!" she shrieked. "Wait there until I dismiss class and join you!"
"Fetch the tartar sauce, Wormtail!" Sirius Black whispered gleefully.
"Nah, he was probably just a carp – too skinny and bony to do anyone any good!" Pettigrew then drew his hands up by his ears and widened his eyes, doing a passable impression of a fish in water.
"Glub, glub," Remus tittered. "I think he was a barracuda, myself."
"That fits," concurred Black.
James Potter sat silent.
Their professor hadn't heard the exchange since her own angry blood was yet boiling in her ears. "OUT OF HERE AT ONCE, MR. SNAPE!"
His eyes stinging with humiliation and his face a deep red, Severus Snape scrabbled up his belongings and half-stumbled out of the classroom in his usual jerky manner. Not just anyone had suffered nervous system damage at the hands of his father, after all. He was --
Different.
Always different.
And strange.
Such a person could never hope to fit in.
Sev's shame at being thrown out of class curdled his stomach into agony.
The Headmaster will be angry.
Sev's heart skipped a beat.
Oh yes.
Oh my yes!
Dumbledore will be disappointed in you, you nasty greasy useless git! He will see right through you and toss you into the ash heap just like everybody else!
Unwanted, unloved.
He was --
Forsaken.
The heavy plank doors closed behind Severus Snape with a loud bang.
"Oh, that was grand!" crowed Sirius Black, pumping his fists in mock victory.
"Why don't you shut the hell up, Padfoot?" hissed James Potter. Without another word, the boy scooped up his own books and left the classroom.
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As if he had anticipated James' actions, Snape had darted down an alternative route to Dumbledore's office. He wanted no one to see him with his face red and burning, hot tears scalding his eyes, and shame sickening his soul.
Run, Snivellus! Run, you filthy disgusting greasy Dark wizard!
With a strangled sob, he rounded the corner and pelted away from the one person who had come to his aid.
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The scene in the Headmaster's Office had been predictable.
Minerva McGonagall had railed away at Severus, all but accusing him of practicing the Dark Arts in her classroom. She then reminded the Headmaster that young Snape had conjured multiple demons (and a live dragon, too!) right on Hogwarts grounds. She restated her longstanding conviction that no good would come from such a lad, and that a long string of detentions would only partially provide her with the relief she would most assuredly feel if he were involuntarily transferred to Durmstrang.
Severus had told Dumbledore he'd only been scribbling, and if anyone had wanted to take the trouble they could see for themselves that the volumes in question had been noted in the Seventh Year D.A.D.A. curriculum. Actually, this had not been entirely true. Perhaps a few may have been mentioned in passing, here or there. Severus had felt confident that Minerva would not press the issue, and she hadn't.
Sneaky lying little Slytherin snake!
Oh, you hissing deceitful liar!
Albus had thanked Minerva for her concern with the good of the School. He had also assured her that he would discuss the matter with Slytherin's Head-of-House, Professor Penderdandis. Wishing her good day, the Headmaster had gently closed the door behind her. No sooner had the ancient charmed wards on it rewoven themselves than Snape had burst into horrified tears.
Oh gods.
Now I'm bawling like a damned homesick First-Year!
Idiot!
Worthless piece of –
Before the boy's tormented thoughts had wrapped themselves around another syllable, Albus Dumbledore had put his arms around him. The Slytherin had first tried to jerk away, not wanting to taint the Headmaster with his own Dark ugliness.
"It's all right, Son," the man said quietly, rubbing the boy's back and flooding him with healing energy. "It's all right now. You know that, don't you?" Still paralyzed by his uncontrollable self-loathing, Severus shook his head no. More energy flowed through him like a gentle brook, cleansing even the darkest corners of his tortured soul.
"Easy, Severus. Come and sit with me a while. Come on." Dumbledore led the boy to a sofa and sat him down.
Snape clenched both hands in his lank black hair as hot tears poured down his thin face. "No, I can't – "
"You can and will, my boy." He gently wove his old fingers into the student's clenched fists until they relinquished their grip. Spreading the hands out flat with his thumbs, Albus held them in his own as the boy buried his face in the sleeve of the Headmaster's brocade robe.
"I'm no good," Snape gasped, still trembling in shock and dismay.
"Nonsense," came the Headmaster's calm voice. He flowed more soothing energy over the boy's shattered nerves. "You were and are a fine young man, and I will go to my grave thinking so!"
This only exacerbated Snape's sobs; but Albus had expected that. He waited until Severus had calmed down, and then wiped his face and nose with a clean pocket-handkerchief.
It took several minutes for Sev to stop his painful breathing, and several more before he was able to release the tension in his rigid shoulders. Dumbledore wisely waited until the boy was ready to speak.
"I'm so sorry," Severus Snape whispered.
"I believe that our Professor McGonagall might have overreacted just a wee bit, Son," the Headmaster said.
"Aren't you going to report me to Professor Penderdandis?" Sev asked, his face still hidden in the shoulder of Dumbledore's robe.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Albus replied. "How about some ice cream -- or some fudge, perhaps?"
Sev finally raised his head, face still splotched with red but eyes finally dry. "Why is it that whenever I have a crisis, you're ready with the sugar?"
The kind face of the old man beamed. "Because life is sweeter with it, my dear child! Now, then. Ice cream or fudge?"
"Both," Severus sighed.
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Three of the four Marauders had amused themselves for nearly the entire afternoon of the following day by tossing pebbles into the lake. The cooler days of autumn were almost upon them, and soon the students of Hogwarts School would retire to the Great Hall or their respective House sitting rooms to pass the time. As it was, however, the sun still shown with its lesser warmth, and it felt good against young faces and backs.
"McGonagall gave Snivelly four detentions," Sirius Black said. "She found out that Dumbledore didn't even tell Penderdandis what had happened."
Remus Lupin's eyes grew large. "How did you manage to find that out, Padfoot?"
"I was nearby when they got into their little professorial shouting-match. It was pretty good. Most impressive, in fact. McGonagall accused him of harboring Dark wizards and he told her that he could mind his own House without her interference."
"Hah," Pettigrew barked with a grin. "Sorry I missed it." He lay back and closed his eyes.
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Fifteen minutes later, nearby shouting jolted him out of his drowsy reverie. Peter's eyes flew open, revealing the sight of Padfoot and Slitherus Snapped, their angry faces nearly touching. It looked like they had perhaps been fighting as well. He watched Remus Lupin jump up to try to push the two boys apart. It appeared that the other students had escaped the deepening shade of the late afternoon for the brightness and warmth of indoors.
And then, Pettigrew had followed his eye to something on the ground.
It was almost too good to be true.
Peter looked over and saw a wand lying in the grass.
It was Snivelly's wand.
Shrieking in triumph, Pettigrew launched himself over and on top of it. In an instant, both boys saw what had happened; Snape was just a wee bit slower than Black, however. Jerking his own wand out of his sleeve, the handsome Gryffindor murmured a few words and swung his arm forward like a pendulum, catching Snape under the chin and yanking him bodily off the ground. The boy flew backward in an arc, landing somewhere near the very center of the lake, now as dark grey as the sky it reflected. Pettigrew heard Black's shout of triumph and an answering cry of alarm from Lupin. Peter couldn't quite hear all the conversation in the ensuing confusion.
"– can't swim, Padfoot – "
"Oh, who the hell cares?" Sirius Black snarled back, his harsh tone causing Moony to blink in disbelief. "I'm going inside to eat. You'll either join me, or – you won't." He balefully fixed Lupin with his dark eye. Peter Pettigrew sprang up onto his feet at once, of course, and now playfully punched the athlete's hard bicep in jest.
"Are you coming or not, Moony?" Black hissed.
With an uncomfortable memory flashing him back to when he'd taken on Black to save Snape once before, Remus Lupin stood stock-still, wavering between wanting to help that Slytherin freak and wanting to keep the best friends he'd ever had.
"He's a fish, isn't he?" Black argued.
Reluctantly, Lupin picked up his things and followed Black and Pettigrew into the Great Hall.
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