Foreword : It was a One-Shot that I wrote over ten years ago and managed to retrieve the original text from an old hard drive. For your information, a slightly different version is published on my old ffnet account 'crapule' (of which I no longer have access) in French under the title 'Quelques éclats de verre'. I'm sharing it here because I was quite pleased with this text at the time (one of the very first fics I wrote when I was 13 years old: it makes me feel pretty old xD) and because I'm "always" a fan of the character Severus Snape - the greatest tragic and romantic hero of children's literature - years after the end of the Harry Potter saga. Happy reading ;)
Severus quickened his pace. At this hour, the streets were not exactly safe. It was one of those poor suburbs: gray and sinister. Almost as if, by its gloominess, it wanted to echo the apparent and perpetual despair of its inhabitants.
The streets were dirty. The asphalt, blackish and uneven. The walls of the houses and some scattered shops, originally chalky, had been rendered dull and ashy by dust and dirt. Severus didn't like the dull appearance of these shabby shacks that lined up, creating a miserable atmosphere.
There were always a few men talking – or rather shouting – a bit too loudly as they exited the shabby pub on Lilac Street, always a few poorly dressed and vulgarly made-up women chattering happily, exchanging the latest gossip at the corners of the alleys, always a few unkempt children playing noisily in the middle of the paths.
Severus didn't like all these poor people who, just because he and his family were a little more in need than them, and his clothes seemed even more worn and ridiculous, felt entitled to look down on him with a disdainful air, sometimes sneering as he passed by.
Severus liked these poor people even less who, when he walked through the wealthier neighborhoods to go to school, stared at him either with barely concealed disapproval – as if he had deliberately chosen to be poor! – or, on the contrary, with an exaggerated, almost nauseating compassion that often made him want to scream. He didn't need their disgust. Even less their pathetic pity.
Severus didn't like people much, and they reciprocated the feeling. Honestly.
The people in his neighborhood were simple, ordinary, similar in many respects to their counterparts living in the affluent areas, if one overlooked the poignant impression of poverty that they perpetually carried.
Yes, it was a suburb, quite ordinary after all. A poor suburb. An ordinary suburb for an equally ordinary poverty.
The only thing somewhat deviating from the dreary normality of the neighborhood at that moment was him, the strange little boy walking briskly, crossing the infamous alleys, dressed in clothes so oversized and mismatched that it was grotesque, a serious expression fixed on his face.
It was in this miserable and gloomy setting that Severus evolved and lived daily.
Severus Snape.
Severus was six years old – soon to be seven – and was currently hurrying at the corner of Rouet Alley, unconsciously tightening his grip on the precious package he was carrying.
Severus was not beautiful. At least not in the innocent way most kids were. He didn't have rosy cheeks to testify to his good health, nor cute dimples to brighten his face, nor blonde curls, nor eyes shining with joy or excitement, and even less a mischievous smile playing on his thin lips.
He had a pale complexion, very pale, almost unhealthy, a slightly too long nose, ink-black hair cascading over his shoulders that sharply contrasted with the whitish color of his skin, intriguing eyes: a pair of fascinating misty, almost black eyes that constantly wore a strangely painful expression, and the rare smiles that stretched his thin lips always seemed forced, tense, or simply a bit too sad. He was rather tall for his age and way too thin.
No, Severus Snape was not beautiful, and he knew it perfectly well. And deep down, he didn't care much. Really.
In truth, Severus looked a lot like his father, and it was probably for that reason, he sometimes thought with a feeling he couldn't precisely define but turned out to be bitterness, that his mother despised him so passionately.
Yes, his mother despised him.
She had made it clear to him the previous year.
"You disgust me."
It hadn't surprised him much. Deep down, he already knew.
It was just like an implacable truth she had wanted to thrust upon him.
An implacable truth she had wanted to thrust upon him.
He already knew. But, at the time, it had stung a little. Just a little.
Now, he didn't care. Totally.
He found her disdain stupid. He hadn't asked to be born, and he certainly hadn't wished to be born with features so similar to his father's. No, he hadn't asked for anything.
From anyone. Really.
On his part, his father hated him. Literally. Literally and profoundly.
He had never told him or shown it in any way, but Severus felt it. In the cold indifference he showed him every day. Saw it. In every glance he gave him.
His father, he hated him because he was like his mother. Surprising, isn't it?
Yes, Severus was indeed like his mother.
Like his mother: a wizard.
And he found his hatred unfair. Unfair and infuriating. And, again, he felt like shouting that it wasn't his fault, that he hadn't asked for anything. Asked for nothing.
But he didn't care. Completely.
Severus continued to advance quickly through the maze of streets, inexorably approaching the Dead End.
Today was Father's Day. The teacher had insisted long and heavily that he prepare a gift for his father. Irritated and running out of arguments, the usually smiling old woman had accused him of being an ungrateful child who didn't want to make an effort, even knowing that his efforts would please his parents.
And, just as he was about to send her away again, he suddenly fell silent. A strange feeling of discomfort settling uncomfortably in his chest, painfully compressing his heart.
He shuddered.
And what if he had been wrong after all?
If he had been wrong all this time.
If, in the end, his parents' resentment towards him was indeed due to his own attitude?
Maybe he was the one who had been mistaken.
Maybe he hadn't tried hard enough. Tried to be loved.
Maybe if he did his best, everything would work out.
Maybe...
So, Severus had done something unusual for him.
Because he was only six years old and, like any child of that age, still full of illusions. Because, no matter how many times he asserted it, he didn't really not care.
Because being alone hurt, because one couldn't be alone all one's life.
Because, even if his parents couldn't love him... who could?
Parents should, inevitably, love their child.
Right?
So Severus did it. He hoped. Just a little.
And under the half-soft, half-exasperated and satisfied gaze of his teacher, he carefully began to create his gift.
Severus was now reaching a shack that looked particularly miserable, located at the very end of the Weaver's Dead End, the last house in the Dead End. The dilapidated hovel had its walls painted in an indefinable color that might have once, perhaps, been called white, seemed ready to collapse at any moment, and was undoubtedly one of the most pitiful dwellings in the vicinity.
There he was. He was back home.
The door was never locked.
Severus pushed it gently and silently entered the building. He made sure not to be spotted by his mother or father and stealthily slipped upstairs, conscientiously starting to search through the old attic trunk.
After a few minutes of struggling with spiders and surrounding odds and ends, he pulled an object from the chest, a slight victorious smile appearing on his thin lips.
It was perfect.
He took his gift out of its rudimentary wrapping, made some adjustments with the object he had found, and observed the whole thing with a rather satisfied air.
Quite nervous, he walked tremblingly towards the living room, holding the gift firmly behind his back.
It would certainly please him.
And then, he would love him...
And then, his mother would surely stop despising him.
It would work. It had to.
And if it didn't work, too bad.
After all, he didn't care.
His father was sitting on the sofa, looking slightly dazed, a bottle – as too often – placed by his side.
He stared at his son with his piercing gaze, and Severus felt his anxiety increase even more.
Severus took a deep breath and approached his father abruptly.
"Dad..." he began softly.
He stumbled into the whiskey bottle, and it broke with a dull sound.
Severus, mortified, was about to lift his head when he was suddenly struck by a sudden slap, thrown to the floor much more violently.
He raised his eyes to meet those so similar to his father's. They were filled with anger.
Severus trembled again as Tobias Snape left in large, staggering strides, an angry expression on his face.
Severus got up slowly and noticed that the glass of the frame had broken during his fall.
The frame he had painted the edges in a beautiful emerald color streaked with silver decorations and in which he had inserted one of the few photographs of him with his parents. Some silent tears mingled with the amber liquid spilled on the floor.
The pieces of glass blended with those of the bottle.
Severus began to pick them up.
It was okay.
He didn't care.
...
Just a few shards of glass.
Notes : I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to leave me comments. I will be happy to answer you ;)