A/N:
Apologies for the incredibly long delay in updating. I promised that I would never abandon this story, and I haven't. I just haven't had much time to write this year, and when I did have time, the muse was more generous with respect to my other works in progress. But here you are. I won't promise weekly updates, although I'm confident that the next one won't be quite as long... And I should probably give you an indication of where this is going, to help you decide whether it is worth the wait:
This story will be a Snape / Sinistra romance, but with a critical look at Snape's character. The character of Severus Snape is all about redemption. At this stage, you might argue that he has paid for the sins of his youth, but he is still bitter, cruel, emotionally unavailable, and terribly self-righteous - something that perhaps isn't entirely his fault, but doesn't exactly make him a candidate for a loving husband. So can he redeem himself on that score, and what will it take?
Thanks to everyone who is still following this, and especially to those who provided their encouragement by reviewing!
3 Leaving the Past Behind
A soft pop could be heard on the deserted street lying shrouded in darkness. Had there been anyone around to witness, the event would have been most disturbing indeed, for with that pop, a tall, angular man seemed to appear out of nowhere, and proceeded towards the entrance of a house with purposeful strides. His long black robes, which looked like a costume from some period film, billowed behind him as he walked. His black hair fell over his shoulders in lank strands, framing a gaunt face, which would have been unpleasant even without the grim expression he was wearing.
But fortunately, there weren't many passers-by in this desolate part of town. The majority of the properties appeared unoccupied. They were small, unassuming Victorian houses, squatting beside each other in a terrace, indistinguishable but for their doors painted in different colours. There was an air of neglect about the area, compounded further by the smell of a blocked sewer that hung in the air. The only other living being around was a scruffy looking fox, sniffing hopefully at a crisp wrapper discarded along the gutter. The presence of the stranger appeared to spook the creature, so that it abandoned its chance of a meal to scurry into a bush.
The sullen-looking man entered one of the houses, the door of which must have been unlocked, as he did not use a key to open it. A moment after he had disappeared inside, a faint glow could be seen flickering behind the windows.
The door led straight into a tiny living room, lined with bookshelves covering every inch of wall space. The dim light revealed a thick layer of dust that covered every surface, and filthy cobwebs hanging in the corners of the ceiling. The enigmatic man was Severus Snape, late Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, and – still unbeknown to himself – about to become a hero in the world of British wizardkind, a world he had just left behind for good. He stood in front of the fireplace with his hands resting on the mantelpiece, his head hung between his shoulders, staring into the flames licking at the heavy logs piled up therein.
He hated this place, even though it was technically his home. It was filled with memories of an unhappy childhood, lived in poverty and isolation, watching his parents make life miserable for each other, while getting caught in the crossfire of their disintegrating marriage. The only reason he had come here this time was that he had nowhere else to go. And he resented the person who had put him into this situation. Why could she not have left him to his destiny? His destiny of dying on the battlefield, his last mission accomplished, atoning for his sins while at the same time being released from his wretched life? Why did she have to meddle in his affairs?
Love... He really didn't have the time, or the inclination, of dealing with somebody's misguided infatuation. He had only been in love once, which had been the cause of much pain and humiliation. Over the years, he had learned to shut out such feelings, and he appreciated the sense of control it provided him, the ability to focus solely on his duties and intellectual pursuits. He might have indulged in carnal pleasures once in a while, but that certainly didn't mean he had to endure the company of anybody beyond the satisfaction of his physical needs, nor would he ever allow himself to be that vulnerable again.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of the other inconveniences of being alive. With a contemptuous snort, he tore himself away from the fire, and disappeared through a tiny door between the bookshelves into an even tinier kitchen, which was less inviting still than the living room, as the ubiquitous dust and cobwebs there were added to by grime and a musty smell. He searched through the cupboards, whose hinges creaked accusingly as he opened and shut the doors, but all he found was a mouldy loaf of bread and a pack of biscuits that turned to dust as soon as he touched it. Disgusted, he pulled his face into a grimace. He could have transfigured those things into something more appealing, but certainly wasn't hungry enough for such desperate measures.
His eyes fell onto a dusty green glass bottle left out on the worktop in front of him, still half-full with a dark liquid. As he pulled the cork and sniffed at the opening, the warm, sweet aroma of elf-made wine engulfed his senses. After a brief moment of hesitation, he took a glass from one of the cupboards, casting a cleansing spell on it before he filled it up with the ruby wine. Snape rarely ever drank alcohol. In his mind, it was a contemptible habit that reminded him all too much of his father. But surely, in this situation, having just escaped death by a hair's breadth, a small glass was justifiable, or so he thought as he retreated from the kitchen with his drink.
With a sigh, he let himself sink onto the shabby old sofa in front of the fireplace. The cloud of dust that rose from the threadbare fabric under his weight would have caused almost anybody to sneeze, but, after years of exposure to potions fumes, his nose was used to much worse. Stretching out his legs, he took a large sip of wine, closing his eyes as he felt the liquid run down his throat. It caused a pleasant feeling of warmth to spread out from his stomach, which helped to chase away the chill of death that had crept into his bones.
It was often claimed that being faced with your own mortality gave you a new sense of appreciation for life, but Snape felt nothing but a yawning emptiness. His life had never been enjoyable. In his childhood he had known nothing but deprivation and humiliation, and then, as a young man, there had been a period when he had been consumed by anger, hatred, and fierce ambition, which had only ended up plunging him into an abyss of grief, guilt, and self-loathing, leaving him with a debt that would take a lifetime to repay. Ironically, it had been that very debt that had given his life a sense of purpose and direction for the best part of the last two decades, so much so that now his last duty was fulfilled, he felt completely lost. There was nothing in his life worth living for. He had never known happiness, and very much doubted that he ever would. The thought of possibly having to live up to the sort of age that his predecessor, Albus Dumbledore, had reached, something not at all uncommon for a wizard, with only his own bitterness to keep him company, was enough to tempt him to turn his own wand on himself. But there would have been something decidedly cowardly in that – and a coward was the last thing Snape had ever wanted to be.
After drowning the remainder of the wine, he set the glass down on the rickety low coffee table beside him, where it balanced precariously on top of an impossibly high stack of books. The drink had gone a long way towards assuaging his stomach, but there was something else that bothered him. Running his long fingers through his hair, it still felt somewhat sticky, and he could detect the metallic smell of blood, despite the cleansing spell he had cast on himself earlier. It was one of his greatest annoyances that no spell invented to date could compete with Muggle soap and water as far as personal hygiene went. While many witches and wizards actually enjoyed a bath as much as Muggles did - something to which the existence of a great many potions recipes for magical bath essences bore testimony – Snape would have happily done away with the need to immerse himself in water once in a while. Resigning himself to the fact that, in this situation, it would be unavoidable, he decided to at least get it over and done with quickly. And so it was with a strong feeling of dread that he rose from the sofa, and climbed up the stairs towards the bathroom.
The small room looked just as dreary as he remembered it, with its grimy, broken tiles, the rusty bathtub, and mouldy window frame. The only good thing about it was the mirror above the sink, which had long gone blind, and therefore had the decency not to remind him about how ungenerous nature had been with him as far as physical appearance went.
He vanished what appeared to be a trail of mouse droppings at the bottom of the tub, and turned on the taps. They creaked and gurgled miserably, as if to object to being manipulated in this fashion, but there was no water. As Snape was a wizard, however, it only took a muttered spell to solve that problem.
He undid the many buttons of his clothes with practiced fingers, shedding layer upon layer of garments, before gingerly stepping into his bath. The sensation of the warm water was not entirely unpleasant, and, even though the tub was too small for his long legs to allow him to relax properly, it helped to further restore his life forces. The main objective of this exercise, however, had been to wash his hair. On a small wooden stool beside the bath stood a chipped mug, which had always been used for this purpose. He reached for it, and began to pour water over his head with it until his black mop was thoroughly soaked. Then he used a grey and rather unappealing looking piece of soap from the same stool to work up a lather. It's cheap, aseptic smell was uncomfortably familiar, transporting him back to a time he didn't even know he had memories of.
"Severus! Look at you, you're all dirty! Quick! Get in the bath! Your father will be home any minute..."
The small dark haired boy wanted to protest. He was hungry, and would rather have eaten dinner first, but one look at his mother told him that resistance would be futile. And so he followed her up to the bathroom, and watched as she filled the tub.
"What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off and jump in!"
As he obeyed, he watched her clean his discarded clothes with her wand, wondering why she couldn't do the same with him, whether she just did it to punish him, and whether she knew he had been down to the river again, where he wasn't supposed to play. He hated bathing, especially having his hair washed, mainly because his mother was always in a hurry, not taking care whether the soap got into his eyes nor making much of an effort to be gentle.
As he was sitting in the tub, stoically bearing his ordeal with his eyes squeezed shut, the door suddenly flew open, and his mother, who had been vigorously scrubbing his scalp, froze. Severus opened his eyes a little bit, despite the danger of the soap stinging them. His father stood in the doorway, a strange look in his eyes. The same foul, fermented smell wafted off him that always told Severus to stay well out of his way. But now he was trapped in the bath. He could tell that his mother was scared.
"There you are, you slut, hiding from me," his father slurred.
"Please, Tobias, not now, the boy..."she pleaded.
But his father didn't seem to have heard her at all. He grabbed her arm, and pulled her up from where she'd been kneeling beside the bath, shoving her out of the door. She gave her son a panicked look over her shoulder.
"Severus, just finish your bath, okay?"
Her voice trembled as she said it, and didn't seem to fit with her words at all. A moment later, he could hear the sound of the door to the adjoining room, his parents' bedroom, then a thud, a muffled cry, a slap, and another one. Then it sounded as if his mother was crying, and he heard some strange grunting noises. He stuck his fingers into his ears as hard as he could, he didn't want to hear. He was afraid. He didn't know exactly what he was afraid of, but he could tell something was not right. Foam was running down his face, so that he had to squeeze his eyes shut to avoid it stinging. He sat there, surrounded by darkness and the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, the only sensations the sharp smell of the soap, and that of the water getting colder and colder. He started to shiver, hoping his mother would come back to get him out of the bath, but she never came.
Eventually, he realised that he would have to spend the night in the cold water, unless he made a move, and took care of things himself. Bending over, he tried submerging his head under water, using his hands to wash away the soap from his face and hair. Finally he could open his eyes again. He climbed out of the bath, his teeth chattering, and dried himself off with the old, rough family towel, before slipping back into his same clothes still lying beside the tub, now freshly laundered.
The house was dark and quiet as he sneaked down the stairs towards the kitchen. His stomach was now so empty that it was almost hurting. There at the kitchen table sat his mum, her head resting in her hands. She looked sad, but he couldn't tell whether she was crying. When she heard him approach, she looked up and smiled, a smile that didn't look as happy as a smile should. He wanted to ask her if everything was alright, but didn't know how to touch on the subject.
"Severus, time for dinner," she said chirpily, as if nothing had happened, and proceeded to open and close cupboards, collecting a plate and some bread, while he sat down at the table.
When she finally placed his meal in front of him, he was thrilled. This was a much better dinner than usual, as the customary stale bread was accompanied by a piece of cheese, and there was even an apple. She watched him as he hungrily gobbled down his food. He wondered if this treat was a sign that she loved him, but there was a sorrowful look on her face, and he couldn't be sure.
"Off to bed with you," she said as soon as he had finished.
He wanted to hug her good night, but she looked so distant, he didn't know whether it was a good idea to do so. So instead, he trudged back up the stairs without a word, crawled into his bed, and pulled the covers up to his ears.
The dim light of dawn was already filtering through the dirty window pane when Severus Snape resurfaced from his gloomy reverie. It had been years since he had last thought of his mother. He didn't quite know how he felt about her. She was largely to blame for his unhappy lot in life - she, and her poor choice of a husband - but at the same time she had been a victim herself, and falling in love with the wrong man seemed to be a trait most women shared. Remembering the latest example of such foolishness with his face pulled into a sneer, he climbed out of the bath, and cast a drying spell on himself.
As he dressed, he became aware of a small, rounded object in the chest pocket of his robes. He retrieved it, and when he saw what it was, his sneer deepened further. Felix Felicis – or liquid luck, as it was also called, was a potion Snape enjoyed making for the challenge it represented, but one he would never dream of using himself, except perhaps in the most desperate circumstances. He had never relied on luck, and that was a good thing, because he had never had any. Luck was something fools believed in. He, on the other hand, had achieved everything in life on skill, cleverness, and hard work alone. Starting from the most unfavourable conditions, he had even made it to Headmaster of Hogwarts, a position he had been more proud of than he cared to admit. His portrait would have joined those of the great and mighty in the Headmaster's Office, where he would have been remembered and respected for all time, if it hadn't been for that same love-sick fool to whom he owed the little bottle in his hand.
He spun around angrily, drawing his wand to vanish the water in the tub along with the potion. But then he saw it and froze. Was it possible that there had been so much blood still in his hair? The water was red.
The water was red. It was blood, there was blood everywhere, smeared across the tiles, droplets on the floor. A moment ago, he had wandered through the quiet house looking for his mother, eager to tell her about his NEWT results. Seven NEWTs, all Outstanding, with the exception of an 'E' in Ancient Runes, he really should have done her and Slytherin House proud. But the very person he had been looking for was lying lifelessly in the tub, her head dropped to the side, her hair falling lankly onto the floor.
No. Not another trip down memory lane. He pushed those unwelcome images back to the back of his mind where they belonged, but he felt almost physically sick, and was actually glad for the fact that his stomach was empty. He had to get out. He could not bear to be in this house for a moment longer.
He rushed down the stairs, but he had to get all the way out. The front door shut behind him with a thud as he walked onto the street with long, ground covering strides. Outside, the new day had broken, the air was crisp and cool, and the sun was peeping up over the derelict factory buildings in the distance. It was a glorious morning, but Snape had no eyes for it. He was angry. His whole life had been a shambles, and it had all started here – born into poverty, neglected and abused by his own parents, shunned by his arrogant wizard relatives, constantly teased and humiliated by his Hogwarts class mates, ignored by his Head of House and teachers despite his academic excellence - was it any surprise that he had been drawn to the only people ever to give him a sense of recognition? The very people he should have stayed well away from? Even after he had turned his back on the Dark side, he had only been used and manipulated by his so-called allies, while he had never received anything but scorn and ingratitude from those he had risked his life to protect. He had always known that life was not fair, but it was as if the whole world had conspired against him, and he was sick of it, sick of always drawing the shortest straw. He allowed his anger to rise, to engulf all his senses, to focus and amplify through his extended arm and into his wand. As he let go, there was a mighty blow that made the ground tremble under his feet. Brick and mortar could not withstand such magical force, such ill-tempered power. They were torn apart, thrown up in the air in an explosion that could still be heard miles way.
As the dust settled, Snape stood there motionless, staring at the ruins of his childhood home with a sudden feeling of calm. This time, everything would be different. He still held one ace in his hand. And didn't the fact that he had brewed the potion himself make him the architect of his own fortune? That thought alone made its use seem more acceptable to him. In the distance, he could hear the sirens of the Muggle fire brigade approaching. They were coming because of what he had just done, but he would not give them the opportunity to question him. With sudden determination, he pulled the cork off the little bottle in his left, downed its content, and was gone with nothing but a soft pop.
A/N: Still interested? Please take a moment to review and let me know what you think! It might help to make me write faster, too!