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 11
Posted:
06/22/2002
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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 became aware of my surroundings rather quickly. My first thought was to acknowledge the massive headache I currently suffered, my second thought was how my entire body felt restrained, my third was how this had to be James' fault in some way, and my fourth was how Pandora would hear of this from me both vividly and heatedly.
And then I realized the reason for my body feeling restrained was because of the body-binding charm someone had placed upon it. Remembering the last person I had seen, I came to the conclusion this was not James' fault, but was instead the malicious act of Lucius', no doubt revenge for the kick in the ribs so many years ago. Again, I swore Pandora was going to hear of this from me.
It was dark. I could open my eyes and swivel them around, but it was the only part of my entire body that could move. I propped up against the wall with chains wrapped around my upper body and arms. Two figures dressed in black robes stood on either side of me, their sleeves pushed back to reveal a tattoo/burn of a black skull with a snake curling out of its mouth. My mind instantly flashed back to that time I had been snatched by a Death Eater and claimed as a plaything, so many years ago when I was still a gutter rat. I knew I would not escape by biting anyone's hand.
I heard treading footsteps as people brushed back us in the dark. Their voices were fleeting whispers of hurried words, desperate to keep silent and not attract notice. After a long while, someone stepped up to us. His face was covered just as everyone else's was and he wore black robes with silver threading, but I knew from his gait he was Lucius. He snapped his fingers at the Death Eaters standing on either side of me, then pointed at me with his wand. The body-binding spell fell away, but before I could react the two Death Eaters grabbed me by my shoulders.
Lucius walked away, and I was dragged along behind him. With each step, I remained silent though I had to wonder of my fate. Was I to be killed by Voldemort, leaving Pandora with but one grandson? I rejected that theory as quickly as I had produced it; Pandora would not feel indebted to Voldemort for stopping a werewolf's bite if he killed me, so therefore my winding up dead was out of the question.
Was I to be used in Lucius' own personal game? Now, I was hardly surprised with the idea of Lucius as a Death Eater. It suited him. He liked to torture people purely for the sake of seeing them suffer, and joining Voldemort was a good way to assure he would always have someone to torture in some way. I doubted Romono knew, for as arrogant as the man was he would not have allowed a family member to do anything Pandora would have disapproved of, and being a Death Eater certainly qualified for disapproval.
I was dragged through dark corridors, past other masked Death Eaters, to a room lit by a single torch burning in an overhead ring. Seated in the very centre of the room where the shadows twisted and jumped eerily the most, in a large throne-like chair as if he was a king, was Voldemort.
He was no different from any other time I had seen him. He was still dark, twisted, unnatural, and brimming with unaccountable power; still a shadow of his former, handsome self before he sold his soul to the Darker Powers. Lucius stepped to the side of the chair and watched as I was shoved to my knees before Voldemort, close enough for me to lean forward and rest my chin upon his knees. He gazed down at me with his piercing eyes for a long moment, silent. I gazed back, partially enthralled by the strange emptiness I saw in his gaze and partially enamoured with the terrifying effects the shadows seemed to cast over his features. In those moments when he sat still and gazed at me, I felt as I was in the presence of a powerful demon.
When he spoke, my heart seemed to pound in time with the rhythm of his words. "What do I do with you?" he asked as he leaned forward slightly. "What use have I for you? As Pandora's grandson, that would leave you with a great deal of leverage. However, that also makes you almost useless to me." He reached out and swept his hand along my jaw line. "I could just kill you."
Numb as I was from the emptiness in his eyes, I answered that without thinking. "You won't."
The hand on my jaw tightened suddenly, squeezing and pinching my flesh. Voldemort’s eyes hardened. "Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do. I did not grant you sanctuary." I knew I had made a mistake. The look in his eyes told me he would kill me indeed, regardless of my relationship with Pandora. "What should I do with him?" he asked Lucius without looking from me nor drawing his hand from my face.
Lucius smiled, wickedly and perversely. "Play with him," he said. "Let him live with a shattered mind and body."
"Crude and useless," Voldemort replied. Lucius winced. Voldemort brushed back my hair with his other hand, then rested it on the top of my head. "This one is marginally intelligent, which makes him dangerous. However, a knife that could cut our throat can just as easily cut the throat of those who oppose us. Would you," his next words were meant only for me, "join me?"
I blinked, trying to understand the meaning of the words floating through my numb mind. The dragging weight of my arms chained at my sides was strangely all that kept me from sinking into a thick pool of endless darkness. I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood. The pain rushed the numbness away and Voldemort blinked at me. "Join you? Join you?" My gutter rat instincts screamed at me to appear as harmless and defenceless as possible, but my pride balked and revolted. "It would be safer to dance with a hydra."
Voldemort chuckled. I frowned; I amused or enraged him with my words. This was irritating in the least. "But you would be dancing with a snake if you join me."
"Why should I?"
"I could offer you anything you ever wanted." His eyes glittered. "Power, status, importance. You became a Slytherin for a reason."
"Lack of trust," I responded automatically. Voldemort grinned, amused once more from my words. I glared at him. "I could make my way into the world and gain everything you offer me. I don't need your help."
He leaned back into his chair, looking at me coolly. "You will not leave this place alive." Something within me chilled at his words. A glint of madness flashed briefly in his eyes. "Troublesome Aurors," he said almost to himself. "Always meddling and interfering." He looked at Lucius. "Who is that woman James Potter is always so protective of? Lorry?"
"Lily."
"Ah." Voldemort looked at me. He knew Lily's name; he had not needed to be corrected. I felt a spark of fear, knowing that by bringing her into the conversation Voldemort was making a veiled threat against her life. The heavy oppression of the air, weighing down upon me, carried a thick scent of fear. His eyes unnerved me further. The eyes that reached into the depths of a personality and revealed everything of a single aspect saw my fear. He smirked. "James I will not harm," he said softly. "At least not physically. Who knows what emotional harm I could inflict upon him through Lily's demise."
Not death, but demise. That left him with the possibility to keep Lily alive, and prolong what he could inflict upon her for years and years. What could Voldemort inflict? I remembered the twins torn from limb to limb, Oliver sliced to ribbons, and Francis missing with only his spilt blood to inform anyone of what his ill fate had been.
James was a fierce Auror. There were those who would contribute that energy to being Pandora's grandson, but I knew, somewhere within his subconscious, was buried the memory of what Voldemort had done to him in the time between Oliver's death and Voldemort giving James to Pandora. It would not take a great deal of pain to be inflicted upon Lily to hurt James. How would this cripple his ability to fight? Voldemort could easily force James into the same position Pandora was placed into. Fight me, and the most precious person in the world to you will suffer the consequences.
Beneath his piercing gaze, I felt my will to fight against this twisted man wither. For Lily, to keep safe the bright-eyed child who had built sand castles with me long ago . . . Voldemort reached his hand out and touched my face, his fingers splayed across my cheek and the pad of his thumb resting lightly against my chin. "What will it be?" he asked softly. "What do you want most in the world that only I can give you?"
Looking at him, his eyes drilling into mine and seeing my thoughts, I became filled with a burning need to help James destroy Voldemort. This was the man who ruined the lives of everyone, not just Pandora's and James', but the entire European population of wizards and witches. Once the European division of magic fell, the rest of the world, both Muggle and magic, would follow suit. This man could destroy the world as we knew it and I was never truly aware of this until that very moment. The desperation the entire world must have felt filled me. Remembering my brother on his last visit as he grumbled about what he would give to know Voldemort's plans of actions I thought to myself, Would you give me to know? It was time to use one another yet again, as we had as children in the Muggle world.
"For knowledge," I said. "For knowledge, I would become one of yours."
Those eyes saw my true intent. Knowledge for Voldemort's actions, not knowledge of the Dark Arts, as Lucius thought and others would think in my lifetime. Knowledge I would give James when I could.
Voldemort smirked. He leaned forward until his lips were almost brushing my ear. "For knowledge," he whispered as his hand clamped upon my lower arm, "I could make you mine, but you will never truly be mine." His other arm circled around my shoulders and drew me closer. The chains that bound me snapped open and fell to the floor. "You will never truly be anyone's, except Pandora Potter's. And for that, I will take you and break you."
That was when he imprinted the Dark Mark upon my arm. His eyes glowed red as, again, his power flooded my entire being, searing me with its essence. It was both glorious and repulsive. He did not draw the power back though. It filled me then pooled within my mind and my arm where his hand gripped me. It was a magic that would ensure a connection with him, as it ensured a connection with everyone to him; one that gave him the ability to summon us from anywhere in the world, or to alert us to his call. It lent strength to perform the Forbidden Curses to those Death Eaters who were otherwise too weak to.
It burned my mind and the mark into my arm, assuring that I was more his than anyone else's, and again I was struck with the fleeting sense I knew something important of what and who Voldemort was. The power was not drawn away from me, so I never lost the sensation. Even now, with the Dark Mark burning as he calls me and I write this, remembering memories that I would rather keep buried, I feel as if there is something about Voldemort that I know and no one else does.
I did not black out from the flood of power, but instead collapsed forward with the upper part of my body strewn across Voldemort's knees in some grotesque fashion of my seeking comfort from him. Hands swept gently through my hair after he finished. Somewhere in my mind, I made a mental note to take a long, soapy bath after all of this being touched. Foolish notion, really. As much as I longed to wash away the feeling of contamination and uncleanness, I would never succeed.
I floated amidst a swirl of agony and delight as my body adjusted to the invasive foreign power. I wondered if James was really worth this, but squashed that idea. I was doing this for myself as well.
I distantly heard Voldemort speak. As he spoke, the foreign magic flowing through my veins pulsed with each syllable he uttered. "It is not often someone brings me such a gift, Malfoy," he said softly. "I shall remember this."
Lucius hissed with pleasure. "Is it a good gift?"
"Oh yes." The hand paused a moment in its sweeping. "It is a good gift." So it was Lucius' idea and not Voldemort's that I was brought to this monster. I would remember that and create my own revenge against the man. He will fall one of these days. When he does fall, Draco will turn his back to him. The boy, whom Lucius pooled his resources, time, and effort into to create his greatest feat, will be thankless. And therein lies my instrument of revenge. How Lucius' pride will be shattered that he would be betrayed so. It is a fitting punishment for the man who believed he was greater than anyone but Voldemort himself.
The hand resumed its petting. "Few will ever understand how valuable this gutter rat is to Pandora. I do. Because I understand the value, I feel a satisfaction in knowing the person she has shown her greatest charity and kindness to would partially become one of my own."
I will destroy you, I thought dimly. In some way, some how, I will tear you apart piece by little piece, until you realize what is happening but is too late to do anything about it. Voldemort stood up and gently pulled me to my feet. I leaned against him, dizzy and nauseous. He held me close, as if understanding my discomfort and consoling me for it.
"Come," he said kindly as he led me down the hall. Lucius fell into step behind us. "There is a Death Eater meeting tonight with plans to discuss, torture methods to approve of, rewards to grant, and punishments to wrought. We will have to dress you in your new robes."
Voldemort is a highly unusual dictator. People--those who did not join Voldemort's side--who remember his last reign of terror would tell you what a cruel, horrible man he is, that his sign was a dreaded sight that meant death and suffering. But Voldemort is no fool. Everything he did was weighted with consideration. He knows there has to be a balance struck; just enough fear to either have people too scared to fight or scared enough to seek his favour.
Voldemort never forgot anything. That man has a mind that retains every single detail of everything he has ever experienced. Everything that happened, from a single breeze to a single look of an eye, he could recall the exact place at the exact time in an instant. When people do things, he remembers, be it for him or against him, and he always pays his due. That is why he had so many followers and still does. Yes, he was cruel; yes, he was vindictive; yes, he inspired fear and terror in others on purpose with his horrid acts. Yet for those who joined his cause, he was the most charming, most generous person in the world. One did him a favour and he repaid it tenfold. He knew, that to keep followers gained, they had to be sufficiently rewarded enough for them to realize their own importance.
Know thy enemy; such wise words. When one knows one's enemy, one understands that enemy's motives. Motivation is a great weak point, because once one realizes that motivation--should it be a very specific reason--one can find something to destroy that motivation and leave the enemy, proverbially, "up the creek without a paddle." But what was Voldemort's motivation?
One day, prowling through the dark halls of the Riddle mansion with that snake of his slithering behind, Voldemort spoke to me. While it was true he spoke to many, there were few that he ever had a casual, one-to-one conversation with about anything besides his plans of dominating the world. "Look at them," he said to me as we paused at one of the mansion's patios, overlooking the village that could be seen in the distance. "Muggles are such destructive creatures. If you view their history, you learn they destroy everything they possibly come across. They have more weapons as inventions than anything else that exists. Why?"
I did not answer. That he had beckoned me to wander with him through these halls, which had not known light other than sunshine since his father's death, puzzled me. I deemed it wisest to remain silent. After a moment, he turned from the window and wandered randomly through the halls again. "Such inadequacy," he said. "They are never truly satisfied with what they have so they must perfect it. They build greater and larger and more powerful objects. Certain special interest parties cry and whine about how the world's natural resources are being depleted; they pound their breasts and cry foul when they receive the very same behaviour they give others. People preach of love and charity and how their god created everyone equal, yet in the same breath will condemn their fellow man for following a different religion or choosing a different lifestyle."
He drew his lips back in a sneer. "Such pathetic, two-faced, hypocritical bastards, the whole lot of them. They coat their poisoned words with sugar and expect people to choke them down." He snorted. "It would have done us all good if they were dead." He was silent for a long while as we roamed the halls together. After a while, Voldemort's snake grew tired of accompanying us and slipped off into the shadows, no doubt to feast upon the mice and rats that bred abundantly within the manor’s walls.
"What was it like on the streets?" Voldemort asked suddenly.
"My lord?"
"You heard me." He glanced quickly over his shoulder at me. "What was it like living on the streets? The Muggles, what sorts of persons were they like there?"
"Horrid. If you ever wish to see the true wickedness of mankind, live on the streets. It will destroy any remaining faith you have in the good of humans. The slums, at least, do not coat the truth. It betrays and it deceives, but it never distorts the truth."
"There was an age," Voldemort began slowly, "where the overall population of people believed mankind was inherently good. That thinking,” he added disdainfully, “was destroyed when mankind decided to modernize itself." Another long silence followed. It was maddening to roam those dark halls, which Voldemort only did when he retreated for a moment of quiet thought. It was supposed to be an honour to accompany him. He rarely allowed people to enter the Riddle manor, even run-down and as mouldy as it smelled.
"People are desperate in the slums," I said. "They look out only for themselves. You don't trust your comrades; you don't trust your leaders. They'd sell each other out for a moment's respite. There is no hope. The people who live there are trapped. It is all the world they know and understand, and everything else is too foreign. The concept of kindness, even if they had heard the word--which I doubt, the people have very limited vocabularies beyond insults--escapes them daily. Nothing is done without the intention to further their own ends."
"Would you say these people are all better off dead?"
I shrugged. "Why not? The upper classes ignore the slums people. They blame us for our fate and say it is our fault we are trapped in the slums, as if we choose to stay there. They do not understand it is all we have, all we know, and how incapable we are in coping with the real world because of the unaccustomed kindness. We have lived a life not trusting, and it cannot be gained by pretty words or flashy deeds. We cannot understand the meaning of simple charity. If those of the upper classes were forced into living what we have lived, they would abandon us in their own attempt to escape."
He glanced sideways at me. I realized I had been referring to myself as one of the slums people. It is easy, too easy, to slip back into that mindset. "Would you say that is common to Muggles?" he asked.
"I would say it is common to anyone or anything whose survival instincts are larger than their maternal instincts. Without the need to protect, trust never forms."
He grinned. "And you? Do you trust me though I do not protect you?"
I contemplated that. When I did not answer, he stopped walking and looked directly at me. His eyes were filled with amusement and cunning, as if he would learn an important truth about me when I answered, but he could care less whether I told the truth or not. I took confidence in that to be honest. "To a point." He cocked his head to the side, interested in an explanation. "You have no one to sell me out to, so I know you will not betray me."
"And if I wanted to destroy you?"
I was more careful with my reply this time. "I believe my lord would not do so without a good reason."
He smiled and shook a finger at me before resuming his wandering. "I do not believe in waste, Severus," he said. "Waste is deplorable. That which may be used should be, and to destroy you without a good reason is to waste what a precious thing you are. That you are Pandora's son assures that you will be used with only a proper purpose in mind. But Muggles have no use and are certainly not precious. For whatever reason, they taint all that they touch. They only know destruction, for everything must give way before their onslaught of productivity. They are like a disease that will destroy us all. They wish to populate the stars; will they move onward after first destroying this world? They either care to preserve what they have and sacrifice the future for that, or they care to create the future and sacrifice history to do so."
"Wizards do the same," I said softly.
He glanced quickly over his shoulder at me. "Yes," he said. "Wizards do the same, but not all. Do you think I am like a disease?"
"I cannot say."
"You cannot . . . Or will not?”
"Wizards are destructive forces, in and of themselves. We are capable of great destruction and, often, we do employ such force. Yet we have never been known to decimate entire countries, such as Japan or Germany in the war, through sheer massive destruction that destroys the land as well as the population."
Voldemort snorted. "Ah yes, Germany." He hissed softly as he remembered an unpleasant memory. "More people died after the war in that country than those who died fighting in the war, because the Muggles deemed their being left to pick up the pieces, not caring for the destruction wrought upon the land, a suitable punishment for being Hitler's home country. I can remember visiting the land after leaving Dinsmore and seeing the scattered dead bodies." He sighed, and then said almost too softly for my being able to hear, "I will not do that."
"If you wish to purge the world of its evil, you're a fine example of what to get rid of," I grumbled.
He laughed at that. "Oh, Severus," he said, falling back into step with me and throwing a comrade-like arm around my shoulders. "You are refreshingly not like the others! While they grovel and plead for attention, I may always count on your honesty. It may be because you never give yourself completely to anyone, let alone myself, so you hasten to compensate by giving your unbridled opinion." He chuckled. "True, I make a good example. But the best way to expose corruption for what it truly exists as is by reflecting it in such a way that it forces people to think."
Voldemort confuses me, Harry; he really and truly does. This is the man who destroys the wizarding world, piece by piece, so he can rebuild it into an ideal empire. This is the man who burns with the desire to harness power and gather together all the knowledge of the world. This is the man who wants his name to be known and feared throughout the entire world--both Muggle and magic.
And, yet, this is the man who wants to purify the world of all the vermin and disease that was wrecking it, slowly but surely. This was the man who wants to save us from destroying ourselves.
What sort of man is he? He is, without a doubt, the most cunning man I have ever known.
Do you understand the difference between brilliance and cunning, Harry? Francis, brilliant genius he was, asked the how of things. Pandora, cunning, asked the why of things. Combine the how with the why and Voldemort would have been brought to his heels when the questions were answered. When Pandora understood the why, she did not seek the how. Francis, ever curious, would have sought the how. In those years she was gone, Pandora decided it was time to start thinking like the duo that would have threatened Voldemort from the start had Francis lived.
She knew the why; she just had to seek the how. It took me years to understand this. I still do not know the how of Voldemort's undeterminable power. Pandora decided it was the only way to stop him. To destroy a power, the source of it had to be cut off. To understand what the source of it and how it existed was what had to be discovered.
It is hard to destroy the motivation of a man who has mixed agendas, some greedy and some good. The next best way to bring about an enemy's ends is to destroy that enemy's foundation, little by little, until everything collapses and he possesses no capability in which to repair the damage. This was my original goal when I became a Death Eater. For knowledge I became one of his own. He would give me the knowledge of how he would create his ideal empire, and I would use that knowledge to destroy him.
But how could I get James to understand this? James was not stupid. He may not have possessed Francis' brilliance, Pandora's sharp cunning, or Oliver's ponderous thoughtfulness, but he was shrewd. For several months he paid his once or twice weekly visits and I did not approach him with what I had become. We spent most of our time with my staring at him like he was an idiot while he prattled on about nothing in particular. I measured his reactions and emotions when he would replay his memories of fighting against Death Eaters. He would not like my being a turncoat to Voldemort, though not as much as learning that I had joined Voldemort's leagues.
James was noble. He would not care for my being a spy. He would think that was cheap, dirty, underhanded, and sneaky. It balked with his honourable Gryffindor nature; the nature that demanded fights to be direct and open, and it was to this nature I would then appeal to. I could only be direct with my brother if I wanted to tell him anything.
One evening, alone without his usual companions, after a rather particular long ranting fest about how he would personally tear Voldemort apart with his bare hands and relish the moment, I handed James a large mug of hot chocolate, sat down across the table from him, and sipped my own. He looked at me suspiciously. I had not shared a mug of hot chocolate with him since our fourth year at Hogwarts, and I only did so when we had something serious to discuss (usually it had been about potential careers, Sirius' pranks, a student I was going to refuse to tutor henceforth, Sirius in general, and Lucius' rumours).
"What is it?" he asked after a long moment of silence. I shoved my hot chocolate away and crossed my arms before myself.
"I have something very important to tell you," I began. He sat upright, eyes wide with fear.
"Is it about Grandmother? Have you received bad news from her?"
I shook my head. "No." He visibly relaxed and I fixed him with a dark gaze. "But she would be disappointed with me."
The eyes narrowed suspiciously again. I almost decided to drop the entire matter, so frightened was I with the uncertainty of how he would react. "What did you do?"
I leaned forward. "James, I have never asked much from you. I ask now that you hear everything I have to say, without interruption, and without making judgments, until I say I have nothing more to say in defence and in reasoning for my actions. Please." He covered his face with his hands.
"What did--"
"No. I'm not done. I know that Grandmother tried to get us to be good brothers, but it never quite worked. I never had the trust capable of asking you to trust me. It would never work for that. Now I am asking for your trust, and believe me, it is much harder to speak to you than it was doing what I did. Hear me out, please, before I begin to babble incoherently.”
He dropped his hands and stared at me with a shattered look in his eyes. I wondered briefly how much worse it would be after I explained to him my predicament. "For you," he said hoarsely. "For the ties that make us family, for Grandmother, and for the sake of our being together makes us strong whereas our being separated makes us weak."
I smiled weakly at him. "Thank you. No interruptions?"
He nodded. "No interruptions."
I sighed. "It all starts with this." I shoved my sleeve back and showed him the Dark Mark. At the sight of Voldemort's sign, James leapt to his feet, his hand flailing for a wand he was (thankfully) currently not carrying. He froze as he heard his chair clatter to the kitchen floor. After a long, silent debate with himself, he righted his chair.
"I'm going to need something a bit stronger than hot chocolate," he said with a forced calm. "Where does Grandmother keep the vodka?"