I've always sensed that my life was different, though I can't quite pinpoint when I first realized it. Maybe it was the way people whispered my father's name—Severus Snape—with a mix of fear and disdain. Or perhaps it was the oppressive silence that clung to our home in Spinner's End. Maybe it was the absence of my mother, a ghostly void that filled every corner of my childhood.
Living with my father wasn't easy. Severus Snape was a man of guarded affection, his love hidden behind walls of stoicism and sharp words. He rarely spoke of my mother, Evelyn Grace, but I'd pieced together that she had been everything my father wasn't: warm, kind, and full of light. A Muggle-born witch with a quick wit and a talent for Charms, my mother had softened my father's bitterness—until her untimely death.
She passed away when I was just three years old, leaving my father a widower. My memories of her are fragmented: the scent of lavender, a gentle laugh, and charmed toys dancing across the floor. But those fleeting moments are always overshadowed by the weight of my father's grief.
Despite his cold demeanor, I know my father cares. He shows it in the smallest ways—brewing my favorite hot chocolate on cold winter nights or stitching my Hogwarts robes with meticulous precision. Though he never says the words "I love you," I feel it in his protective gestures.
When my eleventh birthday arrived, it was quiet, just as all my birthdays had been. I didn't expect gifts or celebration, but when my Hogwarts letter arrived, it filled me with a hope I hadn't felt in years. My father, reading the letter with his usual stoicism, promised to take me to Diagon Alley for my supplies.
The train ride to Hogwarts was uneventful. I found solace in an empty compartment, my nose buried in Hogwarts: A History. I've always preferred solitude, having learned early on to keep my head down and avoid drawing attention to myself.
Hogwarts was both intimidating and awe-inspiring. The ancient halls seemed alive with history. When the Sorting Hat was placed on my head, it barely hesitated. "Ah, a keen mind and a quiet ambition. Slytherin will suit you well," it said. The decision felt natural yet heavy, a reflection of my father's legacy.
Joining the Slytherin table, I blended into the sea of green and silver, quietly observing my housemates. My father had always emphasized the importance of loyalty to our house, and I was determined to live up to the Snape name.
I've never sought fame, but I couldn't help noticing Harry Potter, the boy who seemed to draw attention wherever he went. I watched him struggle in Potions class, torn between the urge to help him and the fear of drawing attention to myself. From the shadows, I realized that while I avoided the spotlight, I was always quietly observing.
During the Mountain Troll attack, every instinct I had told me to stay out of the way. But when Hermione Granger ran into danger, I couldn't ignore the crash of the troll's club or the flicker of duty that surged within me. I cast a spell to weaken the troll, giving Harry and Ron the chance to save Hermione. I stayed in the background, admiring their bravery from afar.
One night, curiosity about the Mirror of Erised got the better of me. Sneaking away, I expected little, but when I looked into the mirror, I saw my mother standing beside me, smiling warmly. The sight was both beautiful and painful, a reminder of my loss that left me longing for something I couldn't reach.
As my first year ended, I couldn't ignore the whispers about what had happened with the Philosopher's Stone. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had faced unimaginable dangers to protect it, uncovering a hidden world beneath Hogwarts. The rumors swirled about trolls, enchanted chessboards, and Harry's final confrontation with Professor Quirrell—and something far darker.
I couldn't help but admire their courage, even as I questioned whether I would have been able to do the same. Their bravery made me realize that there was more to life than staying invisible, more to Hogwarts than simply living up to my father's expectations. As I packed my trunk, I made a silent promise to myself: I would find my own way to make a difference, to prove that even in the shadows, I could shape my own story.