This chapter deals strongly with issues such as cutting.
Again, circumstances have been tweaked to my liking for this story, but that's the license that fanfiction gives to one!
Thank you to JTBJAB for her beta-ing and damn good suggestions.
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Chapter Two – The Memories
Long after Hermione Granger, know-it-all and snoop had left his office; Severus Snape sat at his desk, holding his sleeve back and for the first time in a while, he examined the scars that made their way up his arm. The scars from cuts, he had made time and time again, the scars that held memories that had become blurred by time and effort.
He had been most surprised to come across Granger in the corridor, especially since she was cowering on the floor, holding her arm so tightly and with tears pouring down her cheeks. He had seen Draco Malfoy running down the hall moments before, but had assumed that he was attempting to make his way back to the Slytherin Common Room before curfew came into effect. Snape had only made a motion for the boy to slow down, and then had continued on his way.
The moment he had seen the girl, he had known that Draco had had some part in this act, that he had done something. But to discover what he had, to see the blood; his own mind faulted. Surely there was no way that Draco would slit the wrists of another student. Then again, following in his father's footsteps, Draco Malfoy was known to be incredibly cruel to the students of other Houses, especially ones that he deemed to be below him.
Using one long finger, he traced the line of one of his scars, the reminder of the first time he had ever felt glass slice his skin, the first time he had watched the blood seep from his wound. It was his father's fault. He and his mother had been fighting as usual. It was the Christmas Holidays of Snape's fourth year.
It had been days before his birthday, and his mother had wanted to buy him something. Was it a broom? He didn't know, he wasn't meant to. It was obvious by the shouting that whatever it was, he wasn't going to be getting it. That wasn't a surprise; he hardly got anything worthwhile for Christmas that wasn't a book on the Dark Arts. And he would bet his last book that his father, his Muggle father, didn't know about these books.
His father just preferred to give him Muggle things. He preferred to forgot that his wife was a witch, and that his son a wizard. He believed that Eileen had never told him that she was a witch, and any children they had would be magical until Severus was five and had begun displaying the signs of being magical.
Severus could still remember the fight that had occurred when his letter from Hogwarts had come. His father had been adamant that he would not be attending, that he was not to be brought up in such a strange way. That was the first time that Severus remembered seeing his father hit his mother. He could do nothing but cry when he saw it. He didn't have the courage to fight for his mother until that year when they were arguing about his present.
When he had heard the sound of his father starting to beat his mother, something he had not seen in two years, Severus had been unable to help himself; something inside him had snapped. With a roar, he had charged into the room.
"Get off of her you, you filthy Muggle!" he had screamed, lunging at his father before he could stop himself. His father was holding her mother with one hand, another raised to strike her again.
At his scream, his father had dropped his mother, turning around to face Severus. The adrenaline that had been pumping through Severus' veins had made him stand his ground
"What did you call me, boy?" his father snarled, advancing on him.
"Leave her alone!" Severus had shouted. His mother was lying haphazardly on the ground, looking broken. It was something he had seen far too many times to just let it pass.
"You've got no right!" his father had roared, grabbing Severus by the collar of his fading black shirt and shaking him. "Don't you dare tell me what to do!" This was the first time his father had hit him, and the blow had left Severus feeling dazed, but determined.
"You've got no right to hit her!" he had yelled back, spit flying from his mouth. Blood was what he spat next as his father's fist connected with his face again.
After that, there had been no other words, only the feeling of a fist smacking him back and forth across his face, one hitting his stomach. Finally, his father had given up when he stopped screaming, and thrown his across the room. He landed just to the side of the only window in the small lounge room, and one of his hands actually went through the window at the impact, causing the glass to shatter and fall upon his wrist.
Severus had sat there for a moment; watching his father advance on his mother, pick her up and drag her off. Severus had seen the dejected look in his mother's eyes and knew what was coming for her. Knowing that it was partly his fault for what was going to happen to his mother, Severus was unable to move, and instead hung his head, pulling his arms around himself tight.
It was as he did so that he saw the blood that was seeping out from the edge of the glass that was embedded in his arm. The glass from the window had sliced right into his skin. Instead of pulling it out, Severus sat and looked at it, feeling the pain as some wondrous instead of something awful. Finally, he pulled the glass from his flesh, but instead of throwing it away, he brought it back to his skin, using the sharp edge to cut into himself again and again.
Sitting in his office now, Snape remembered how good the pain had felt moving through his system as he first heard his mother start screaming.
That was the start of something for Snape. The pain had felt so delicious, made him feel alive and in control of something; where as his life had seemed completely out of control. School was a nightmare, and so was home. Anywhere he went, he was teased and taunted, shoved aside and made to feel as though he didn't belong anywhere, that he was nothing but an annoyance. It had been too much for him to deal with.
But the pain! He felt as though his problems were dripping away with the blood that was falling from his arm. It had taken him a few moments to register that he should pull the glass from his arm, that he should stop the bleeding. As he did so, the pain was heightened and only served to make him feel better about it, his breath coming out in a hiss.
Over a few weeks, the cuts had healed over. Snape had been careful to hide the cuts during that time, which wasn't hard. He always kept his sleeves well over his arms, so no one thought to question why he continued to do so.
As exams approached and pressure was starting to build from all sides again, Snape often remembered the pleasure he had felt in his pain when he had his wrist cut by the glass. He wondered if it would feel as good to do it himself, to use a knife or something to draw across his skin and bring blood.
The night before his Potions exam, he gave in to the urge. Black and Potter were at him again, teasing him and making snide comments that they made sure he heard. They started hexing him at every turn, and no one bothered to ever help him. But the few times that Snape bothered to retaliate, everyone was quick to point the finger at him, claiming that it was Snape's fault, he was the one who had started it. Only one person seemed to not take the claims seriously, and that was Professor Dumbledore. Still though, Snape kept quiet for all the times that they attacked without warning, without provocation.
That day, they had hit him with a particularly nasty jelly legs curse. Not willing to hang around and take their crap, he had quite literally wobbled away amid the laughs of those around him. Not one person was willing to help. It made him think of his mother, and all the times she had never had anyone there to help.
Before bed that night, he took his knife from his potions kit, sliding it until his pillow until he retired. And when he did…
Even now, he could still remember the pleasure he was felt as he drew the blade across his skin, slicing right through it and watching the blood swell and begin to drip down. He was in control of his pain this time, it was him who was creating it and it was he who had the power to stop it. It felt incredible for him; it was the release he needed so badly.
He made sure he did it on the same wrist as the previous scars, his right wrist. Being left handed, another thing his father believed him to be inferior for, he made sure that his cuts couldn't hinder anything, and no one would notice a thing. Sitting in his office, his finger traced the three cuts he had made that night. Those, along with the first few he made with the glass, were really the only the only cuts he could distinctly remember creating. With every time after that, the cuts blended, rendering it impossible to tell apart what he did and when.
Every time he did it, he knew that he was wrong, something he shouldn't be doing. But he couldn't help himself and continued. When things were out of control, it was the only way he could stop feeling so helpless. He knew it was horrible, and that he should stop it, but sometimes, the need was just too great.
In his Seventh-Year, he remembered, he had been finally able to break the habit. He was seventeen, and that was the year he left home, leaving behind his disgusting father, and his weak mother. By the stage, he was finally able to see her for what she was. Weak. She could have left his father, left his abuse, but she didn't. She stayed with him, and for that, he wanted to forget her. He knew that it broke her heart to see him go, but he found it even disgusting that she hadn't fought him; that she'd just let him walk out the door.
He felt stronger then he had in his whole life, and the need to cut himself faded to a dull memory, despite the many scars that lined his arm. That was, until his graduation.
He actually managed to get a date for the ball, a fellow Slytherin that he had bedded weeks before out of the sheer need to bed someone. She was known as fairly easy amongst Slytherin House, but that didn't stop him. He decided it was worth it. He had asked her to the ball and she had accepted.
The ball, he remembered, had gotten off to a fairly good start. He had not been troubled by Black or Potter for a few weeks now, and tonight, he no longer cared about that. He was leaving Hogwarts and was determined that nothing was doing to stop him from doing so. Even when he had seen them whispering and looking at him. The sickened look on Black's face was enough to think that he was almost safe. But he was wrong.
He had danced a few dances, even some with other females. Most wouldn't touch him, but then again, most had seen him without his underwear on thanks to the antics of Potter and Black. Still, the few dances he had were enjoyable. But the last, the last dance of the night had been the best for him. He remembered he had pulled his date close, and had somehow gained the guts to press his lips against hers in a kiss. And she had kissed him back, and he felt wonderful.
Yet as he was leaving, with her on his arm, planning on taking him back to his dorm and ordering the rest out for the evening, he heard the whispers of Potter and Black.
"Pay up, you saw it, Snivellus got a kiss," Potter had whispered, his hand held out.
"What a fucking joke, do you reckon she knows?" Black asked, laughing.
"I don't think so, we only found out this afternoon." Potter grinned, and Snape got the impression they didn't actually know he was listening. But then again, Snape didn't even realize that his date was listening. "I still think we should have announced it to the whole school." Potter continued.
Black laughed. "I still can't believe it – Snivellus, the half-blood." For a moment, Snape was afraid they had discovered the name he had fashioned for himself – the Half-Blood Prince. But he didn't have time to think on that when he felt his date snatch her arm away from his.
"Half-blood?" She had shrieked, there in the middle of the Great Hall. All around them, people stopped to stare at them. "You're a…. half-blood!"
"That's right, babe." Black had sidled up to them. "Great Snivellus, the half-blood." He was smirking as the whole of the Hall seemed shocked. Snape had been careful to hide his parentage, especially within Slytherin House. It seemed that everyone in Slytherin was a pure-blood, and if they weren't, you were to hide it well.
His date had recoiled from him, as did most people. "You, filthy, disgusting liar!" she gaped at him. "How dare you look at me, let alone touch me! How dare you call yourself a Slytherin, you disgusting, greasy bastard!"
Those taunts had been the first of many, he remembered, tipping his head back and letting his arm drop into his lap. He had not been allowed back into the Slytherin Common Room that night, instead having his trunk thrown at him, and told to leave. 'Half-Bloods were not welcome', that message has been made clear.
He had left Hogwarts that night for what he had then hoped for the last time, renting a room in the Hogs Head. As he had lain on the lumpy, most likely infested bed, he had listening to the taunts over and over in his head until he felt as though he was being crushed under the weight of it. So he gave in, bringing the a knife to wrist for the first time in a while, telling himself that it was just one more time, and then he would stop, he just needed to do it one more time.
But when he went back, he couldn't escape, he couldn't resist. He tried again and again to stop what he was doing, especially after he joined the ranks of the Dark Lord. Even though the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had heard of Snape's blood, the Dark Lord had needed him to brew potions that there was no one else willing to.
From there, the "accidents" started. Snape told himself repeatedly that he wouldn't cut anymore, and that by tripping over that loose plank and putting his hand through a window was really not his fault. That the way his knife had slipped and sliced through his skin had been a complete accident. The falling onto a broken phial was really an unforeseen event.
Just as Granger had claimed earlier in the evening - that it was an 'accident'.
Eventually, he had been able to break the habit. It was Dumbledore that helped him to do it. The old fool had found Snape in his rooms one day, lying on his bed and letting the blood flow freely. It was just after he had first betrayed the Dark Lord by relaying information to the Order, and he felt guilty enough that he was afraid it would consume his entire being. That night was the first time for a long time that he meant to take the blade to his wrist, had cut himself repeatedly until he could no longer see straight and had decided just to let himself die. Dumbledore had found him, barely breathing, one arm crimson and swollen, and the other clear, apart from the Dark Mark that graced his arm. It was the last time he ever cut.
Dumbledore had saved him, no matter how he hated the wizard for days after. He had told Snape that it wasn't worth it, cutting himself to pieces like that. Snape had not believed him, until Dumbledore showed him just what the result of him working against the Death Eaters was. The good he was doing, the lives he was saving.
At the time, long ago, it had felt so good to cut himself in such a fashion. But now, so many years later, he could still feel the pain he caused himself, and this time, he truly felt it as pain, not pleasure.
Looking down his arm, he remembered the way Granger had looked, crouched in that corner, holding her arm so tightly. It was then he realized that she had not lied, that it had been an accident. The cutting he had done had been pleasurable, not at like the pain she was experiencing. Still, he decided that he had better talk to her. The stupid know-it-all had seen his scars; the scars he chose to pretend didn't exist anymore. No one had seen those scars in a long time, and all he needed now, was for Potter and Weasley to find out about them.
The problem was; he just wasn't sure what he should say to her.