Petunia and the Little Monster

January 1976 (6)

The first time Severus used a truly dark curse he expected it to fizzle up his blood like an electric shock, to burn his skin and the inside of his skull and leave scars behind, skewered and ugly marks he would never be free of.

Instead it was easy, it was so easy in the first second he'd thought it hadn't even worked, that he did something wrong and the magic leaking from his wand wouldn't do what he had intended.

But then the rat began to shriek. Twisting and squeaking, its small paws grasping at nothing and its tail lashing helplessly. And the boys – vultures, snakes, pale eyes in the darkness, laughing mouths and sharp teeth – had cheered, had clapped him on the shoulder or back, maybe too hard but it was a piece of contact nonetheless.

And Black had been among them, his eyes as clear and unreadable as always and Severus had hated him and hated himself and hated the harpy and Dumbledore, who had forced him into this position in the first place.

Why had it all been so easy? Severus thought it would be difficult to rise in the ranks, to earn some smidgen of respect where before all he had to contend himself with were ambushes and verbal put-downs, starving and showering in the middle of the night so he wouldn't have to turn his naked back on anyone, so he wouldn't be too far from the protection of his wand, stuffed underneath his pillow while he slept fitfully every night, startling awake at the smallest sounds.

But it'd been easy. Just as easy as the unforgivable curse, and why hadn't there been more resistance when he attempted it, why hadn't something in his mind or his magic or his body protested before the spell left his lips? Had he been born for this, just as the stupid hat had assumed all those years ago, was this what he was meant for?

Or was it simply because what should stop wizards from using those curses was not the magic itself but their own heart and determination?

If so, Severus had already lost.

He had lost from the moment he had first approached Mulciber and Avery, the bottomfeeder Slytherins who weren't consigned to that position because of their birth but because of their incompetence, better blood but inferior intellect, forever banished to the fringes of their elite circle, a mob that was useful for mindless cruelty and jeering but not much else.

Severus didn't stay with them long. No matter his muddied heritage, he was too valuable, one of Slughorn's most favoured pupils and able to brew potions far above their curriculum not to mention his spell experimentation, so he rose in the ranks, suddenly sitting next to Rosier or the Carrows – and finally Black.

But the demands made of him rose alongside his status. Instead of simple talk and assurances, he was taken along to secret midnight meetings, instead of simply listening to them brag about all the dark spells they could use, he was forced to try them himself.

And then there was no going back. Severus was one of them. Instead of half-blood, bastard or other slurs he was suddenly addressed as Snape. And when they found out that Snape was the name of his disgusting, muggle parent some of them switched to Prince, his mother's maiden name, a good, pure, wizard name that he should be claiming as his own, now that he had some value.

From Half-blood to Prince. How worthless, how easy – how ridiculous that something like elation rushed through him whenever someone called 'Prince' after him. When instead of starving, they pushed the roasts and mashed potatoes closer to him, no promises of beating them up his throat again should his dirty hands touch them.

And then his appetite vanished. Where before saliva had been pooling in his mouth, where he had been so eager to take just one bite he was now nauseous, looking at all that food, looking at their grinning faces.