Severus Snape was a gutter rat rescued from the London slums by Harry Potter's great-grandmother. Years later, he writes a letter to Harry explaining not only his past, but also of Harry's family history and heritage.
Chapter 05
Posted:
05/31/2002
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Author's Note:
Author's notes: I would like to say this follows the canon, but sometimes it meshes, so it would be safer for me to say this is an Alternative Universe of Severus Snape's past. Due to the obscurity of Snape's past, I took a great deal of artisical liberty, but I still like to think that Snape is canonly in-character. If not, I blame it entirely on his past. Or something. (To be read thinking that everything you ever learned in OotP does not exist.)
I heard Pandora approach the bedroom. I sat upright as the bedroom door silently swung open and she entered the room. She faltered upon seeing me huddling in the corner beneath the heavy blanket, but said nothing. Instead, she lifted the blanket from me, folded it, and set it on the foot of the bed. She sat down beside James, who was sprawled over the bed surface, his foot dangling over the edge with his hands flung upwards and the blankets bunched around him. She gave me a devious smile before vigorously rubbing the bottom of his foot. James snickered, kicked free, and then rolled over.
Pandora had a morning ritual of tickling James awake. He was very ticklish; something both Sirius and I took a great delight in, as the only thing we ever agreed on was to ambush James and rake our fingers up his sides and behind his knees. Your father was good-natured about the tickle attacks, something I respected him for because I certainly would not have been as gracious were it me in his position. I never did find out if Pandora ever meant to tickle me awake. I tended to be awake by the time she finished her morning shower.
Having thus awakened James, Pandora dragged the two of us down the kitchen. She made small talk as she wandered about the kitchen preparing sausages and waffles for us. I will not go into detail about the things we did that day together in an effort to familiarize me with my new home. James did try to be polite and cordial, but he soon become bored with showing me everything he had grown up with and took for granted. By the time afternoon had rolled along I already knew where the more important things and places were, and for what they were used. As Pandora set about preparing the evening meal, James ran off to play with Remus and Sirius.
I was fascinated with the family portraits that hung all over the walls everywhere in the cottage, and spent a great deal of time looking at all of them. Very few have anything to do with what I tell you though; merely five. I explain because these are the portraits of those who died long ago, mostly by Voldemort’s hands. They are your family and what I know of their personalities. Through this, you also learn more of your family lineage and their fates wrought by Voldemort’s actions. Your immediate family history, such as it is, is written with the blood Voldemort split.
One was of Francis Potter, your great-grandfather, painted only a few weeks before his untimely demise. He had turquoise-coloured eyes, rumpled blonde hair, and the most abstract expression. He puttered about in his frame, absently tinkering with one thing or another. I watched as he created various machines using only base objects such as straws, hairpins, and rubber bands. He noticed me after I gazed at him for a long while, and inquired as to who I was.
“Severus,” I replied.
He scratched his head in puzzlement as he gazed down at me, his eyes magnified from the thick lenses of his glasses. “Are you one of James’ friends?” I shrugged. I did not know how to answer that, though Pandora had already referred to us a few times that day as brothers. “I have seen you before, yes?” Francis squinted at me over his glasses. “The name is familiar.”
I shrugged again. “Grandmother named me.” Such was what Pandora insisted I call her, but I always preferred her given name, and called her such within my mind. There have been times, over the years, when I would slip and refer to her as Pandora within her presence. It would earn me a stern look, but she never scolded or corrected me.
Francis brightened up. “Ah, you must be a neighbourhood child!” I learned later, as I always did, that everyone under the age of thirty called Pandora grandmother.
“No. I am a gutter rat that Grandmother took in after someone named Riddle attacked my clan.”
A look of worry flashed across Francis’ face as he fiddled thoughtfully with the frames of his glasses. “When did this happen?”
“Last night.”
“Ah.” He sat down then, forgetting about me. He pulled out a thick sheaf of papers and began to furiously write something down upon them, chewing his bottom lip the entire time. This, I later learned too, was what he did with any curious thing he found. He was not a man who believed in the Pensieve. Instead, he wrote down everything he knew and sought the patterns from the missing information.
I once came across Pandora conversing with Francis in the picture, speaking to him about everything that happened. She kept her hand pressed against the picture as she spoke. I understand she did this often with him so he understood present events. But that hand pressed against the frame spoke volumes of how much she longed to speak to him face to face rather than face to portrait.
I would that Remus or Sirius take you to Dinsmore to see all those magnificent family portraits, especially Francis’, but that will never happen. On the eve of your parents’ death, Voldemort burned the place down in rage and sorrow. For what reason I shall explain in due time, for there are four other portraits of important note.
Three were your great-aunts and grandfather, Pandora’s and Francis’ three children. Anastasia and Edwina were twins, the first to be born. Both entered Ravenclaw as they had inherited a hint of their mother’s cunning, a hint of their father’s genius, and, unfortunately, a great deal of Slytherin sarcasm. Their portraits sat side by side, and were it not for the nametags at the bottom of the frames I never would have been able to tell them apart. Indeed, they often switched frames to deliberately confuse me. James and Pandora both had little trouble telling them apart. For myself, I never learned who was really who.
I gave them a passing glance as I wandered down the hall, staring with awe at all the other frames. When I heard giggling, I turned and looked at them. They both hid their mouths behind hands and exchanged glances.
It should be noted here that Snapes tended to have black hair, blue eyes, and be short with compact bodies. I have seen, through the family portraits scattered throughout the entire house, there were very few exceptions. Pandora, in her young woman hood, was not a beautiful woman. Nonetheless, she was striking because of the dignity and confidence she emulated. Her colourings were that of the Snapes and her children inherited this, as did you but for those green eyes. Gone, it seemed, when the short and compact bodies as the Snape bloodline emerged with the Potter name. The children and grandchildren inherited Francis’ height and lean structure. Harry, it would appear that you have your great-grandfather’s leanness, but your great-grandmother’s shortness.
But the twins, as I said, had a great dose of Slytherin sarcasm and could be almost cruel in their teasing.
“Oh look!” whispered Anastasia excitedly, or so proclaimed the portrait's name label, “it’s a little rug rat!”
“No, it is not,” replied Edwina loudly, “it’s the rat Mum rescued from the gutter.”
Anastasia shrugged. “Should there be a difference between the two? A rat is a rat is a rat. Unless it's a mouse. But one merely uses different sized traps for them.”
“And bait,” Edwina added. “Do not forget the bait.”
I was curious about them; enough that my curiosity overrode my desire to flee the area. I approached them slowly, and, as I did, they fell silent and watched me. It is difficult to be suspicious of portraits. Though I was then not familiar with portraits, and was still trying to understand the magic that captured a reflection and echo of the soul before transporting it onto canvas, I thought them to be magnificent.
Anastasia giggled. “You’re a handsome lad,” she said in the same tone of voice any matron of any family would use before she pinched the cheek of the family member she was cooing over. She is the only person in my entire life to ever call me handsome.
Edwina sighed. “Be nice, sister,” she said, “can’t you see how you intimidate the little mousy rat?”
I bristled at that. “She doesn’t!”
“It speaks!” Edwina gasped in mock astonishment. “And here I thought the cat had snatched his tongue!"
I, being the ever-helpful lad I was, stuck my tongue out at them. It was only to prove the cat had not gotten it. Edwina stared at it for a moment, then crossed her eyes and stuck her own tongue out at me.
Anastasia did not seem to notice. “We never had a cat,” she said. “Although I would have to say I would have very much liked a cat. Mum wouldn’t because she said she didn’t want to learn how it had eaten little Oliver’s pet raven.” After a moment, she twisted about to see Edwina and me making faces at one another, trying to out-do each other in absurdity. She reached over into the other frame to poke Edwina. Her sister jumped at the contact. “The least you can do find out what the rat’s name is.”
“Don’t call me that,” I said. The twins gave me measured looks. I shuffled my feet in James’ shoes. “I don’t like being called a rat. My name is Severus.”
“He’s certainly a severe little snapdragon,” Edwina said suddenly. The twins giggled again. I was trying to think of a witty retort when Francis popped his head into Anastasia’s frame.
“Girls, I have something to s--oh, hello young man!” Francis gave me a smile. I scowled at him. Upon seeing my unhappy expression, he glanced at the twins. They looked away with knowing smirks. He frowned. “Have we not said you are not to disturb the visitors of the household?” he inquired. I decided to leave. As I hurried away, all three of them called goodbye to me. I never lost that nickname. The twins always referred to me as their severe little snapdragon after Pandora adopted me under the Snape name (you do this and I shall place a very nasty hex on your broom). I carefully kept away from them whenever Sirius was about Dinsmore. I did not care for the idea of him calling me a severe little snapdragon as well. Pandora found it amusing, as did Francis, but neither, thankfully, referred me as such either.
The fourth portrait is that of your grandfather, Oliver. He had the Snape complexion and hair, but Francis’ turquoise eyes. They were unusual eyes for they darkened dramatically at times when his emotion ran high. He was not like the twins in the least.
What is it about twins, by the by? It seems they are always the most troublesome pairs of persons. Double the trouble and all that, but I often find myself wondering if being a twin is a genetic thing which immediately guarantees the two persons to be the most obnoxious beings within existence. No? Then consider the Weasley twins, and then you may understand what I mean. While perhaps the Weasleys are the extreme, to be sure, but all twins I have met are deliberately troublesome.
While Francis was absent-minded, Pandora cunning, the twins sarcastic and playful, and James carefree but brutally honest, Oliver was exceedingly quiet and thoughtful. I always believed it odd how different each member of the family was in comparison with one other and each other, but every member was commonly found to be intelligent and dependable. Oliver and Pandora were the only quiet members of the family, but it was clear when Pandora was thinking deeply or not, whereas Oliver was always quiet and seemed he was, at all times, contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
I think of all the dead people in the portraits, Oliver is my favourite. He always regarded me with solemn eyes and spoke with a great care. I often wonder how James would have turned out if Oliver had lived. He was a year younger than the twins, and was only a year behind them in Ravenclaw.
I saw him four weeks after meeting the twins. He was such a quiet person that I overlooked him several times before realizing he moved as all the other portraits did. The other times before, he was always seated at his desk, elbow propped upward with his chin resting on a fist, staring off into the distance. It was that day when Pandora announced she had to see wizard lawyers about adoption methods and drawing up legal papers for my name.
All the other times before, James tried to be nice. Indeed, he went so far as to introduce me to the neighbourhood children, such as Frank Longbottom, Alice Hollin (Neville’s future mother), Remus, and Sirius. At first, I did get along with Remus. Remus and I understood each other up to the point where Remus followed Sirius in his pranks.
Sirius decided I would make a great victim for pranks and, as the butt of his jokes and shenanigans for years, I resented everything he did to me. I, being frank and forthright, told him I could not stand this behaviour and wished he would leave me alone. He thought it most delightful and continued his mischief.
Why on earth did Remus, a quiet and studious lad, follow Sirius like a sheep off a cliff? This question plagued me for many years, but I think now it may have been because Remus admired Sirius and James for their lack of concern towards any one person’s opinions. I admit both Sirius and James had a strength that would not allow themselves to be swayed by popular opinion. Through this did they become Aurors to defy Voldemort. Remus, from his early years, drew upon their strength to create his own self-support.
I decided on my second day at Dinsmore that, if I had to be James’ brother, I would be his older brother. James was brash and careless, as I said before, and brutally honest without a care towards anyone’s opinions except those who were selfish cowards. For some odd reason, he took them under his wing and nurtured their pride and self-esteem (Peter Pettigrew . . . Another one of the Sorting Hat's jokes, I'm sure). I shall never ever understand that of him. As his older brother, I tried to keep him out of trouble, to guide him along the paths that, well, were not as troublesome. He did not quite care for it and I never quite succeeded.
On the day Pandora had left to see the legal system for adoption, James and Sirius, as a joke, ran off with a platter of strawberry tarts that Kate Longbottom (Frank’s mother and Neville’s grandmother, a dominating woman who even intimidated Pandora and that alone says a great deal) had baked. I tried to make them listen to me and take the tarts back. They would not, and both Frank and I received a mighty tongue lashing from Mrs. Longbottom as she suspected us for taking them.
Upset with James and his taste in friends, I went directly to Dinsmore, hoping Pandora would be there. I found her presence comforting even if I would not tell her all that happened. She saw well enough, with those penetrating blue eyes of hers, what took place between James and myself. She did nothing, however, as she did not know how to handle two young boys who had no dominant living male guidance. She could handle mischievous daughters by putting them to work with female tasks in hopes of diminishing tomboyish habits. In handling boys, however, Pandora floundered helplessly. Francis certainly did not know how to handle us as he had been an only child and his own son could hardly be considered rambunctious. Even as a portrait, Oliver had problems reconciling with being a father and dead at the same time, something both Anastasia and Edwina found highly amusing.
So Pandora allowed James and me to run amuck with little discipline, believing we would learn well enough from mistakes rather than lectures that would merely enter one ear and leave out the other in a single instant.
Unable to find Pandora and realizing she was not back yet, I wandered the cottage and stared at all the moving portraits. The Snapes were noble and haughty, and usually did not care to speak with me upon learning I was a gutter rat. The one exception to this was Pandora’s father, Severus Snape, but I will speak of him in but a moment. There is still Oliver to write about.
I had never noticed Oliver before because he never before caught my attention. If he had been a gutter rat, the rest of us would have worshipped him for his ability to not attract attention. This was a man who could melt into the background and was so capable of going unnoticed that those history books, which should have acknowledged the Potter family, would have overlooked him.
The only reason why I did notice Oliver at all was by seeing Francis in a portrait, conversing with a person. Their words were quiet as their heads bowed together. I stared in surprise, not realizing whom the portrait’s occupant was until I looked at the name beneath the picture frame. When it read “Oliver Potter,” I knew it had to be Pandora’s and Francis’ one son and James’ father.
I admit I was angry at the time. I felt resentful towards James for his selfish carelessness. When Francis departed from the picture without noticing me, I cleared my throat. Oliver looked at me and I was suddenly struck with the sorrow in his eyes. I felt my anger wither and die as Oliver thoughtfully cocked his head to one side and studied me closely.
“You are the boy Mum took in.” It was a neutral statement, a testing of how I would react to his speaking as I had already snapped and yelled at the twins several times over for what they would say whenever I chanced to wander past their portraits. His voice was soft and surprisingly melodious. He wore his black hair long and tied at the nape of his neck.
“You’re James’ father,” I replied. A look of nervousness overcame Oliver and he blushed slightly. Thoughtful and quiet he might have been, Oliver was the shy one of the family and easily embarrassed. I frowned at seeing the blush. “He’s horrid,” I said upon whim with every bit of resentment I felt towards James.
“Well,” Oliver nervously fiddled with his sleeve, “he is a boy. Little boys do tend to be somewhat horrid.” He sighed. “I tried to be, but it never seemed to suit me. Being horrid, that is."
“He got me into trouble,” I added sullenly.
Oliver frowned. “Did he now? How?”
I explained the situation to him. Oliver nodded now and then as I spoke, but volunteered nothing. When I finished and lapsed into silence, Oliver crossed his arms before him and looked thoughtful once more. I stared at him, wondering if he would say something, but he did not. As I turned away to walk, he called out to me.
“Severus.” I stopped and looked at Oliver. The sorrow appeared in his eyes again. “I am sorry for James being horrid but there is naught either you or I may do, as he is what he is. You cannot push him where he does not want to go. He may be carefully coaxed with gentleness, but you are not gentle, and thus you will not succeed. You can only live with what he is. But,” he added hastily as I scowled at him, “for what it is worth, I shall speak to him and Mum. And, well, if you ever need to speak to me about anything, I am here to listen.”
That is something even Pandora did not offer me. Neither Francis nor the twins said I could come and speak with them about anything if I so desired or needed, nor did I feel I could confide with any of the neighbourhood children, especially James and his closest friends. I took advantage of that offer though. I came often to speak to Oliver; many times over did I seek him out to speak about my troubles with James, Sirius, and anything else. Were it not for your grandfather, I would have grown into a bitter and morose person.
All right, so I did become bitter and morose, but I could have been much worse! I know Oliver grieved for the actions of his son, but the portrait had been painted when he was eighteen, and thus his nature at eighteen had been captured. James would not see Oliver and I believe this pained him. Oliver would have loved to know more about James, but James hurt too much at seeing Oliver.
Pandora had two vices that were easily manipulated. The first being curiosity, for such was her Slytherin cunning and Snape pride that she would not allow herself to question unknown variables; she had to understand. The second being children, as Pandora had a very large soft spot for children, rightly believing they were the future. Standing above all others in this softness, ranking in importance greater than any living person including myself, was James. He was Pandora’s ultimate weakness.
Voldemort, knowing full well the danger Pandora alone represented even after Francis’ end, sought to control Pandora. Pandora would not join him in his quest for domination over wizards and his desire to annihilate those who would threaten his plans. For whatever reason, Voldemort never tried to kill Pandora. To the best of my knowledge, he never directly fought against any member of the first class of Order of Merlin. They were always unknown variables, able to access forbidden and/or ancient information even Voldemort could never hope to learn.
When Oliver was twenty-one, he married Anne Sullivan, a witch from Ireland. They had two children by the time he was twenty-three. When he was three, James was a year older than his younger brother, Jonathan. That was when Voldemort struck at Pandora’s children and grandchildren, using them as an example to others of what he would do to any who opposed him. He used Dark Arts I have no name for--not the Forbidden Curses, but darker spells that gave him the ability to manipulate non-living material in violent ways.
I will not state the full extent of the damage he administered to everyone. It is too horrific to describe. He killed all three of Pandora's children. The twins were torn limb from limb as if they had been attacked by wild monsters; Oliver and Anne were sliced into ribbons with sharp objects, and of Jonathon only his head was found. James was not found in the aftermath, as he had disappeared.
Two days after learning of the slaughter Voldemort waged against her family, Pandora sat in a Muggles park, watching the children play. I believe she may have found it comforting to know other people were enjoying their children's pleasure and delight, even as it was a painful reminder of what she had lost to someone she herself had trained in the Dark Arts.
Voldemort appeared in full daylight. He approached Pandora and stood before her with James in his arms. Pandora had told me it was odd how Voldemort held James with such tenderness, as if mocking the ghastly deaths he had already wrought. He said, and I quote the exact words Pandora told me time and time again, “This is the only remaining descendant of both the Potter name and the Snape bloodline. Should you ever wage a direct assault or lead an attack against me, I shall play with him as I play with nothing else, and he shall be as immortal as myself, never to die and escape that which I can inflict upon him. The Potter name will cease to exist, and the Snape blood will never flow in another's veins.” With that, he gently gave James to Pandora and left.
Pandora was frightened that Voldemort had done something to James to strip him of his wits and senses. For many months afterwards, James remained emotionless and dumb. It was Sirius, newly arrived with his family at the base of Dinsmore in a woodcutter’s cottage, who drew James out of his shell. Perhaps it was only shock that made James such a puppet. James refused to ever say anything of the matter though, but I saw barely-masked pain in his eyes whenever Pandora spoke of the incident.
James and Voldemort are the only ones who know what happened in those two days he was gone. James may or may not have witnessed the deaths of his family; if he did, it would explain why he was in such shock. He was only three years old when it happened, and who knows what psychological damage was inflicted just from his being that young. But for whatever reason, he never sought out the portrait of his father.
With that one exception almost twenty years after Voldemort warned her, Pandora never did attack Voldemort, nor would she participate in plans to defeat him. Others knew she could not, for all she had left in the world was James. Pandora’s mother died when she was in her fifth year at Hogwarts, and her father, Severus Snape, died shortly after her marriage with Francis. Still and all, as a member of the Order of Merlin, she was a powerful witch and one who put stops to Voldemort's attacks whenever she could.
Now, I liked Severus Snape. Of all the Snapes, he was the only one who spoke to me upon learning I was Pandora’s adopted gutter rat. He was one of the most open-minded persons I have ever known, even if his portrait was painted shortly before he met his wife. It was for this reason he freely gave Pandora his blessings to marry the Muggle-born Francis Potter, something many of the other Snapes disapproved of. They were an old family, well established as being one of the top five prominent wizard families of Great Britain. Severus was a charming man, dashingly handsome with the Snape family’s appearance but for the very dark blue eyes he had inherited from his mother. Pandora and James both affectionately referred to him as Da.
Like Oliver, I overlooked Severus’ portrait. This was not because Severus was as quiet as Oliver, but because I had already learned the Snapes would ignore me. On a bright sunny day a mere week after meeting Oliver, the sort of day meant for mischief (which was the reason why I was wandering Dinsmore; Sirius was looking for his new-found favourite victim--me), I passed beneath Severus’ portrait, looking at the empty portraits as the other Snapes went about their usual thing of gathering to the portrait closest to the window to enjoy the sunshine.
“Psst. Boy!”
I looked over my shoulder to the direction of the unfamiliar voice and saw Severus. Pandora looked like him but for her eyes and square jaw. I squinted at him, looked about, and then pointed at myself. He nodded. “Yes, you. Come here.” He pointed at the floor directly before him. I walked over to the spot, puzzled as to why a Snape was speaking with me. He bent over so his eyes were nearly equal to mine and said, “I have not as of yet seen my new namesake. Tilt your head. More. No, more, more.”
I glared at him. “Why? If I crane my neck anymore, my head shall fall off.”
Severus shook his head. “Nonsense, the only way your head will fall off is if Pandora knocks you across the back of your neck! And,” he winked at me, “regardless of whatever you do, she will never smack you.”
“She stares at you,” I replied.
Severus looked at me, puzzled as to what I meant. He shook himself slightly, and then brightened. “Is this the stare that says she thinks you are an idiot?” I nodded, and he shivered. “It’s amazing what that girl could make you feel even at the age of five years old.”
I tried to imagine Pandora as a five year old. Except for her own portrait painted shortly after she received her master's in Defence Against Dark Arts, she was no more different then than now but for her hair fading from black to grey; I could not imagine her at five. “What was she like at five?” I asked.
“A terror,” Severus pouted. “Oh, she was a wretched brat, spoiled to the core and apple of her parents’ eyes. All she had to do was give us that look, and to escape the guilt she conflicted upon us, we would give her everything she wanted.”
“It sounds like the relationship between James and Pandora.”
He nodded in agreement. “That boy is a terror too, one who needs a good pop on the bottom for discipline.”
I fell in love with that man at that very moment. And because of this love for him did I choose my surname.