Unseen Wings

Chapter 1. Pain and Hope

Spinner's End, Snape House

Pain was never an unfamiliar feeling for Severus Snape.

Ever since he was young, it was clear from the start that life had no intention of being kind to him. His earliest memories were a blur of shadows, sharp words, and colder nights. He remembered the first time his father's hand had met his face — the stinging shock, the burning humiliation — but most of all, he remembered his mother's gaze, impassive and distant, as if she were a spectator to someone else's misery.

He learned quickly that tears solved nothing, that crying only made things worse. Pain became a constant, like an old friend, the only one he could count on. He knew pain was reliable, that it never failed to remind him of who he was: nothing. Nothing special, nothing wanted, nothing but a mistake that both his parents regretted. The scars on his back — two long, deep lines that cut across his thin shoulders — had appeared mysteriously when he was only three. He could not recall the exact moment, just the aftermath: the blood, the confusion, the questions he never dared to ask. His mother had offered no comfort, only a cold cloth and a muttered incantation to stop the bleeding. "Be still," she had hissed, her voice filled with annoyance more than concern. "Stop squirming, boy."

The scars never faded, never healed completely. They were always there, like silent witnesses to a crime he did not remember committing.

The worst part wasn't explaining his scars to the neighbors or trying to choke back his tears. It was knowing that his parents, in their own twisted way, actually loved each other.

His father was a violent and abusive man, but his mother was no less vicious. She matched his cruelty blow for blow, word for word. The hits, the screams, the breaking of glass — it was their routine, their dark dance.

As a child, Severus had thought they despised each other, that their hatred was the cause of all the chaos. But he remembered a moment that shattered that illusion — his parents sitting side by side on their bed, tourniquets wrapped tightly around their arms, taking turns plunging needles into their veins. He watched as their expressions softened, almost tender, in the dull haze of addiction, while four-year-old Severus stood starving in the doorway, forgotten.

He had been so small then, his tiny hands clutching the fabric of his oversized shirt, which hung on him like a sack. His stomach had twisted with hunger, but even more with confusion. How could they be so gentle with each other after all the screaming, all the fights? He'd watched his mother's trembling hands carefully tie the strip of cloth around his father's arm, his father murmuring something almost soft in return, their eyes meeting in some shared, secret understanding. It was the only time they ever looked at each other like that.

Severus had waited, hoping for a glance, a word, some sign they remembered he existed. But they were lost in their own world, bound together by a need he couldn't understand. The sweet, sickly smell filled the room, and his mother's voice slurred as she laughed, a sound that was foreign and unsettling to his ears. His father's rough hand brushed her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes, the tension in her face melting away.

Severus's stomach growled loudly, but still, they didn't notice. He had stood there, watching, as they fell deeper into their stupor, their bodies sinking into the stained mattress, their hands entwined like they were sharing some dark, twisted secret only they could understand.

His mother's head lolled back, eyes half-closed, and she whispered something Severus couldn't make out, something soft and sweet. And his father, that cruel, hardened man, had smiled — an expression so alien on his face that it made Severus's skin crawl. They were at peace, for once. United in their shared escape from the misery they had built around them.