Thanks for reviewing. It made me update. I know I can't spell (like I already said I'm dyslexic). This is me with a spell check!
Day 5.
Snape Family Mansion:
It was quiet when Serverus woke up that day. His father wasn't yelling. His mother wasn't singing to herself. The house elves weren't scurrying about in the kitchens. On getting out of bed he felt dizzy. It took him a while to realise why; that he had hardly eaten in the last week. He decided to go downstairs and find some breakfast. But as he walked past the door to his parent's bedroom he stopped.
He knew that smell. He knew it far too well. Coppery and sickly sweet, like metal and vomit.
'Let her be alright. Please...'
Out of habit, he listened at the door. There was no sound. Slowly he turned the handle. It was silver and shaped like a coiled snake. He pushed the door open. The smell was stronger now. He stepped inside.
He retched and was momenterally glad there was nothing in his stomach.
His mother was lying against the side of the bed. Her head was tilted back, her eyes open, unseeing, dead.
There was blood everywhere, smeared across the carpet, splattered on the walls, spreading out in a wide puddle from her corpse. She looked so pale. She could have been made from snow if it weren't for the bruises and crimson stains. Another wave of nausea swept through him. Why was this happening?
'She was a good person. This isn't fair.'
He reached out to touch her face but drew his hand back before he could. There were tears on his cheeks. The last tears he would ever cry.
He didn't hear the front door open and slam shut. He didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs. He hardly felt the rough hands close around his shoulders and pull him up from where he'd been kneeling on the ground, staring at his dead mother.
"What are you doing here you little shit? Why are you in here?"
His father shook him as he shouted, his face red.
'She's dead.'
Slowly, moving as though he were in a trance, Serverus lifted his head.
Black eyes met grey.
"I hate you."
The teenagers voice was quiet and calm and terrifing.
"I'll be smiling when they put you in the ground."
With an angry roar the older man threw him against the wall. He smacked his head hard and didn't feel it.
'She's dead.'
His father loomed over him.
"You will not tell anyone about this!"
He kicked him visciously in the stomach.
"If you do. I promise I will kill you too."
'Why would I tell? No one ever helps.'
He grabbed hold of his son's long hair and dragged him out onto the hallway. He shoved him up against a wall, pinned him there with an arm across the troath.
"You will say nothing! Do you understand?"
With each word he bashed his son's head off the plaster.
"You. Will. Say. Nothing."
Finally he released his hold, allowing the boy to fall to the wooden floor.
He lay there, flexing the fingers of his broken arm, barely conscious of the shooting agony this movement caused.
'She's dead.'
'Some day I'll see him pay.'
'She's dead...'
Number 12 Grimaland Place:
His mouth was back. But for that small favour he didn't have time to be thankfull.
Both his parents were standing just inside his room.
His mother stepped towards him.
"I warned you not to make a sound. Didn't I?"
She moved closer.
"Kretcher heard you banging your head on the wall. Your disobedience will be sevearly punished this time."
'Isn't it always?'
"Alohorama!"
The chains clanked open, releasing his wrists. Mr. Black stepped forwards, punched him hard in the face, then pushed him up against the wall. The whip lashes on his back re-opened and started to bleed upon hitting the rough stone. He winced. His father puched him again in the face. He did it over and over and over. The boy's head just felt like one shapeless mass of pain. Strong arms flung him to the ground. He heard his mother laugh.
"You're really going to get it now Sirus. Crucio."
The pain was ripping him apart. He was sure of it. He could only dimly feel his fathers boots connecting with his ribs. It was so bad. His thoughts were fragmenting. He was falling down an infinite chasm. He was on fire, his skin cracking and charring. He was being crushed, his bones were being pierced by a million needles. He thought the beating was still going on but couldn't remember what he'd done to bring it on. He couldn't remember his name. Or anything else. Except the pain.