Chapter I- In Which I Nearly Perish Whilst Pondering The Origin
Intermediate Broom-Flying, third class, Mondays and Fridays reads my
schedule, folded and refolded, dirty and spotted with bits of tea, in my top
drawer. I keep thinking 'Why do you keep it? You know it by heart- it's
etched in your notebook!'
And I also keep thinking, 'Why am I here?'
The Answer (more or less):
"Severus," sang damned Professor Runson, the chirpy broom instructor.
"Severus, you need to get involved! Get in shape! Embrace
the light!"
I stared downward, my greasy, ebony locks falling in my face as I tried to
answer. "No," I snapped. "I only embrace the darkness." Well, at least I'm an honest person.
She laughed. Seemed to think I was kidding. Seemed to think I was -what?-
amusing?
She must have been in Hufflepuff.
"Oh, Severus-"
-"Why don't you just call me Snape?" I interjected.
She looked at me, blind to me. "Why, I find that so inhumane!"
"Everyone else does."
She didn't quite know what to say, in her neat and tidy office, filled with
tons of Quidditch awards and plaques. Photographs of former Hogwarts
athletes I didn't have the pleasure of meeting waved from their expensive
frames and did loops on their shiny brooms. Those sad, sick, show-offs!
of aspiration, because next she said," You could have potential, Severus, if
you'd only try!"
I don't think people "can" have potential. I think they just do. I mumbled
that at her, but she'd all ready decided that my goal was to become the next
Quidditch star, because she said," It's going to do you well, Severus.
Believe me."
"Please don't call me Severus," I replied smartly, giving her my tightest
smirk, and left.
So, here I am. Because, obviously Professor Runson thinks that my skinny,
pale body is so pathetic, that I have to spend four hours a week with
sweaty, dim-witted jocks to make up for it.
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to get involved.
I don't want to get in shape.
And most of all, I won't embrace the light.
Even if you make me venture outdoors.
I'll just wear dark glasses and pull a hood over my face to spite you all.
Ha ha ha ha.
Except I don't want to.
Back To Reality (I think)
"Oy, Snape! Where in the hell are you looking?" shouts out Sirius Black.Lethargically, I turn toward his direction, hovering eighty feet up in the
air, not giving a kappa's left fin if I was supposed to guard our goal post
in order for the game to work. Who are rules for, anyway? Well.. Quidditch rules, anyhow.
"I'm really so honoured that you spoke to me, Black," I sneer," but to be completely
honest with you, I'm looking down at the ground where I should be studying
for the History of Magic exam that I have next period. Frankly, that matters
more to me them zooming about like a crazy dunderhead, trying to score
points with Gryffindors and such, attempting to win a game that will in no
way, shape, or form advance me forward in life."
"Snivellus," is his guffawing reply, shaking his head so his cute little
ponytail can shake and shame my hair which sits, numb, and unwilling to
move.
So, maybe I lied in the 'dim- witted jock' quip, because Black really is not a jock. He's more of an "I'm- Too- Cool -For- Anyone- Oh, and- I- Listen- to -Rock -Music!" kind of guy, and he shames the glorious colour of ebony by donning it often.
He grins at me with perfect teeth and perfectly shaped facial features.
Ah, yes, Sirius Black, we are all watching you. You and your perfectly
blue denim jacket, you and your sly smile, you and the way you impress all
of the girls by simply getting one lousy Transfigurations question right.
You.
"Snivellus, after class. Just wait." He nods, and I know that after class
I'll have to skip my shower again, or face the wrath of the Marauders and
their fists.
'Wait. Did you hear anything I said?' I want to scream in his face. 'Are you
so self- absorbed that you can only answer back with some stupid grunt of a
threat? And why, may I ask, do you warn someone that you will be doing something instead of just doing it? Wouldn't you rather be sneaky about it? Maybe it's just because I am a Slytherin, but I really find that pathetic.'
It's not the first time someone has completely ignored my keen choice of
words to evoke a fight. Why can they not leave me in peace?
And what's with the Snivellus? I mean, I'm not surprised. I've been called
that for four years, since I was twelve. And still I wonder 'What does it
mean?'
I don't snivel very often. Sure, I might have cried when I was little
and still fairly oblivious to the fact that no one cares, but hasn't
everyone? I know I'm complaining a lot about the broom flying, but that's
normal for a sport-retarded social outcast, isn't it? And I certainly don't
Snivel you and your friends, Black, if that's what the hell you mean.
Snivellus.
Snivel, us.
Is this a command, perhaps?
Would you like me to Snivel you?
At you?
For you?
To you?
Among you?
Because I know I don't all ready. I do everything in my power to stay away
from you. Why would I ever want to Snivel you?
And how does one go about this so called Snivel? Shall I walk up and sniffle and groan in your face? Should I whine, mutter obnoxiously, and complain? Would you be happy then, damn it? Would you stop telling me Snivel us? Would you-
Wait... What if a snivel is some sort of disgusting thing, like the types of
topics Lucius Malfoy tries to fascinate me with?
"Guess what I found under my brother's bed over holiday!?"
"Please leave me alone! There's a potions test tomorrow; I'm studying. You
should be as well!"
"No, it's really funny! Pretty disgusting, too!"
"Do you ever listen to anyone, or do you just adore annoying the hell out of me?"
"I snuck into Hagawthe's bedroom since he was out with his mates. I was only there to retrieve back this book of mine he happened to be borrowing. Borrowing? Ha! More like keeping for a ransom, I tell you!"
"What if there were a chemical fire in Potions? Would you listen to us if we yelled at you to get out of the room? Or would you sit there blathering on to yourself and fry?"
-" So I figured since he wasn't there, I could take a peek around, right?"
"..guess I know the answer to that question!"
"Well, I'm looking under his bed and there's this box, and I simply had to look, right, because- well, wouldn't you? So I opened up the top, and you WILL NOT believe this, Snape, this is the nasty bit-"
"Three full cups of rodent hearts, eight legs of spider, a sprig of
Wolvesvine... Not listening, not listening..."
NO, Sirius Black, I would definitely NOT like to Snivel you. Lucius' brother
just might, judging by the things he keeps underneath his bed, so why don't
you tell him Snivel us?
I shake my head to myself, head swarming with inquiries for Siriusly An Asshole and his mates.
And this is the time in which I get hit on the nose with a Quaffle.
I'd like to say nothing happened- that I mysteriously didn't feel a thing
and everyone in my Flying class regarded me from then on as a hero who was
untouched by Quaffles.
But, I don't feel like lying.
It hit me straight in the nose. Have you ever had that happen to you? The
pressure was so hard that I, obviously, was propelled backward from the
force, slamming my curved back against my old broomstick. The broomstick I've been assigned to this semester has character, and a temper. It doesn't like being slammed against.
So is it any surprise to say that in an instant I was sailing through the
air backward, and woke up in the hospital wing a little bit later with
blood matted in my hair and drying on my face like some bizarre war paint
applied whilst performing Gothic rituals? Gothic rituals: Ever so fun, by
the way, but that isn't the point.
This state was bad, but what was absolutely worse was that my entire class
was crowded around the hospital bed, dear Runson in front, wringing her
hands.
"You're awake!" she squeaks, and then calms herself by saying firmly,"
You're all right. Ready to get back out there and score some
points for your team!?"
I moaned nonsensically.
"Professor," Sirius begins haughtily, snorting," Snivee wasn't watching our goalpost- I
told you that! He doesn't give a damn whether or not we go on! We told you he
doesn't care! Let's go back without him. We've got about a half an hour of good playing time
left!"
"Well said, Pad," James Potter puts in. James Potter is, without fail,
always worse than Black- and that's not a good thing. He's vainer, jockier,
and more obsessed with tormenting me. "Snivellus is such a nerd that he can't
even keep a Quaffle out of a goal! How sad is that!? Snivelly, the only
use for you is Bludger practice! Besides, I want all of you to see the new moves I practised yesterday. They're bloody rad."
"Ah, thank you, Potter! How refreshing that you can always come up with
something so completely brainless that it is actually entertaining!" I manage to get out.
"Get stuffed, Snivellus!" Sirius growls, as James says," He can't! That's his problem!"
Hee hee hee. Ha ha ha.
Oh, how marvelous. Simply delightful.
Potter, of course, is the leader of this little club-type thing, the Marauders. I'm not certain if I grasp the point of the Ma-FRAUD-ers (as Lucius and I dubbed them in third year), but what I've figured out is that I really hate them.
For club activities, they dawdle around, annoying innocent people and trying to get
girls to flirt with them. Except for Remus Lupin, who is kind of queer (not
that there is anything wrong with that!) and just tags along to smile at
Black hopefully and offer advice that no one really listens to. But the most
pathetic of the group is Peter Pettigrew, a blond little mouse-faced drip
with the charm and personality of a pulverized piece of lunch meat. More
girls don't flirt with him than they don't flirt with me, and that's bad,
considering I've never really been flirted with. (Does it count if a girl
asks for a quill, and then comments on how it's a bit defective? What? Of
course it does, what do you mean?)
Back to reality again. Wait. Is this reality? Because it's hard to tell anymore. This whole thing could be one looong nightmare, and one of these mornings, I'll wake up in a mansion with parents who have plastered-on smiles, saying things like "You're the son we always wanted, Severus."
Yes, right. Another false hope.
Professor Runson is still wringing her hands. She agrees with them, as does
the rest of the class (laughing and distributing High Five's), but she
doesn't want to show that she does. I wish she would. Covering it makes it
worse.
"Go on," I manage to get out confidently. "I don't think I could continue."
"Wusssssy," Potter calls shrilly. "A bit of blood can't hurt anyone, eh? 'Specially a vampire like you!"
"Get away from me or I'll drain your blood," I hiss. Might as well play along.
"Now, now, Severus," Runson shakes her finger.
"It's SNAPE."
Finally, the lot of them shuffle off to finish their game, Black whispering
some insult before going off, Potter shoving his hand through his hair and
laughing at me.
So, here I am, alone. And my book bag's down by the Quidditch pitch, so I
guess I can't study for my quiz. Damn them. Damn them all.
I twitch my toes to see if they work. Sing a little Led Zeppelin, to prove everyone that Siriusly Lacking In Intelligence is not the only one who knows a little rock. Oh, and with air
guitar.
"Bum, bum, bum, dum, dum, dum, bum! Tweak, tweak!
Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true!"
Stop.
Realise what I'm doing.
Try to sensibly go over the four ages of the nymph and goblin rebellion.
It's hard to do without notes.
There's nothing to think about, really.
Except the origin of Snivellus.
And I decide, in the dark of the hospital wing, waiting for Mistress
Pomfrey to arrive and scold me, that if a Snivel meant a violent punch or
kick to the face or knees, I'd gladly Snivel you, Marauders.