The dungeons were very quiet, as if they were really not a part of all the paraphernalia going on at the rest of the school. It was past midnight when he got back from the greenhouse, slightly wetted by a fresh torrent of rain, bringing in a rich dusky smell from the grounds. Inside, his desk was exactly as he had left it. Frowning, slightly exasperated with himself, Snape reached into his pocket and took out the main reason he visited Sprout in the first place – a tiny packet of roots, and flung it on the desk. Upon doing it, something fell out that caught his hand from the deeper corner of his pocket – the old photo again.

Mrs. Eileen Snape was still spinning round and round, like a merry go round. Severus picked it up and held it in front of him. His mother was not beautiful. As a matter of fact he had known and seen a lot of witches more beautiful than her (and he ignored them). Most of the time Mrs. Snape had this dull, sullen look about her, yet Severus, at that moment, realized why he had kept this photo with him all these years, and how precious it was: his mother was smiling.

Slightly surprised with himself at how quickly melancholy had caught up to him, Snape drew out his wand, muttered an incantation and the messy desk flew back in order with a clutter. Crossing over his desk, he took the pensieve down from the topmost shelf and placed it back on the desk. Coming around from the other side, he took the brass cauldron and tipped it over beside the pensieve.

He carefully extracted a thin film of thought from his head with his wand and let it fall upon the shallow stone basin, surveying its contents quickly.

Mrs. Snape appeared. She was laughing – surrounded by hundreds of cheering witches and wizards with young Severus beside her. They were watching the Quidditch World Cup.

Snape blinked and flew back to the present. His eyes fell upon the old and faded, dead snitch on his desk, and remembered in an instant how his mother had spent nearly three-fourths of her month's salary for the tickets; and buying that snitch from the winning team for him.

Pursing his lips, Snape extracted a second wisp of memory from behind his greasy black locks and allowed it to fall gently.

This time, he was preparing for his Transfiguration O.W.L.s. James Potter had jinked fifteen year-old Severus's quill, making it squirt ink all over his face.

Adult Snape's eyes widened slightly as a little scene formed upon the pensieve right before him - a picture of a pretty girl with red hair with an eagle feather quill.

Snape's eyes now trailed towards the eagle-feather quill lying a few inches away from his curled fingers. He did not remember how, but it had snapped in half.

He breathed deeply and opened the drawer of his desk. Out rolled a new bottle of firewhiskey, which he uncorked with a zap from his wand, and drank with another gulp. The warmth of the liquid trailing down his insides lingered as the little scene inside the pensieve slowly faded like a cloud.

His mother had been very excited the day he passed his O.W.L.s with flying colours; remembered Snape. He also remembered her smiles fading when his father, Mr. Snape returned and insulted her by declaring it nothing more than a "friggin' nonsense".

He breathed deeply as flashes of subsequent events came back upon his own memory, flashes he'd rather not put inside the pensieve.

Mrs. Snape pleaded to Mr. Snape that her son was not a worthless, lazy little git as her husband called him so many uncountable times. Mr. Snape said he was; like all the friggin' rest of them. Severus could remember how his mother cried till morning, how she had refused to use her wand to hex Mr. Snape … how she had come between Severus and his father when he, Severus; tried to hex the old muggle himself; telling him with tears streaming down her face that it was not a "nice thing to do".

Snape frowned, put his wand up to his temple, and extracted another strand of memory.

"Mustn't hurt daddy-" came a little voice from the pensieve as he blinked. Mrs. Snape's face was swollen. Her hair was all loose and tangled. "Put – put that wand away, Severus darling," she pleaded.

Snape's sight began to blur as he extracted another wisp of memory from his temple, settling it down upon the pensieve on top of the others, prodding it with his wand until it became crystal-clear.

Images were forming as Snape took another swig of firewhiskey.

Mrs. Snape was playing gobstones with her little five year-old son. He was laughing excitedly when one of the stones squirted goo all over his mother's face. Mrs. Snape was screaming with laughter as she chased him all around the house, trying to kiss him. She caught him on the kitchen, fell over him on the floor and smothered him with slimy kisses.

Snape breathed deeply as he replaced the memories back inside his head. He blinked his foggy vision away, stood and paced around the table, picking the items on his desk as he went – reminisces of his better past, as he now knew and put then. He remembered clearly now why they were there, even though it dated back decades ago, back to a simpler time. It was a strangely melancholic young Severus Snape who had took those little things and stored them away for safe keeping. It was now a fully grown, adult Severus Snape who realized that they were the only truly happy memories within his conscious perception hidden at the far corner of his mind, so well preserved that no one may break into them again, except by accident that is; as he had so thoroughly learned from that night's happenings. They had faded through wear and tear all throughout his Death-Eater days. At some point, his outlook on them might have changed as well, as what he thought to be happy memories got replaced; and the replacements turning out to be nothing more than mere ambitions. Those ambitions – being a powerful wizard instead of a slimy little git; or being a defence against the Dark Arts teacher and what not – met with disappointments, losses and failures; made him bitter, made him cold; made him who he is today. But still, these memories – they were his best. They showed his mother smiling when there was rarely a time she had ever did.

His continuous swigs of firewhiskey began to make him a little light headed when he finally left his office in darkness, slipped on his faded grey nightrobe and climbed to his old four-poster bed. Even then, he was in for a sleepless night, he knew. Hundreds of unseen memories were dancing inside his head – some truly horrible ones from his more terrible past that were safe and secure. But those little reminiscences, now hidden in the most secret corner of his office and protected with every form of spell and magic; will be there, always – his simpler side; his happiest of days.

As Snape turned in his bed nearly an hour later, with a deep, long breath he mused upon Potter again. He had to give Potter the cold shoulder now, for breaking into his worst memory. What treatment would he give, had he accidentally broken into his best?


There you have it: My first complete Harry Potter fanfic, folks. So what is your verdict? Please review!