𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙰𝙿𝙾𝙽𝚄𝙼 » 𝚂𝚂/𝚁𝙻

𝙸𝚅 >> 𝙰 𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙼 𝚄𝙽𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴

< 1 WEEK, 6 DAYS >

Throughout his entire life, Severus Snape has only ever apologized twice.

He learned at a young age that it was often best not to, predominantly in the environment he lived in. Because apologizing only secures the notion in place that you've done wrong and you're fully aware of it, giving any perpetrator further drive and reason for punishment and discipline and devastating castigation. And, when you get beaten for doing wrong things, you learn to avoid the phrase as a survival mechanism. Escapism, naturally, has become a strong suit of his. In any given climate, it's common nature to adapt. This is merely his personal take on transmutation.

On various occasions as a child, he'd take refuge in the cupboard under the bathroom sink. He'd cross his legs and close the small door behind him, leaning as far back into the corner as possible and moving various cleaning supplies in front of him, just in case it was tenable at all that they would help dissemble his figure from view. He'd sit there and cover his ears with his small, breakable hands as his father vociferated out and his mother screamed back. Spasmodically, something would whack thunderously against the wall or something in the kitchen would shatter, and his mother would scream again, or she wouldn't, and then things would be quiet for a long time.

Then booming footsteps would rumble through the floor, causing Severus to shrivel back in terror and quiver uncontrollably as the cupboard door was thrown open and he was yelled at and dragged out of the closet by the neck of his sweater and thrown onto the hard tile floor with a deafening crack and he'd be kicked and smacked and beat and beat and beat until all he could hear was an unrelenting, never-ending, excruciatingly eternal—

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Snape wakes up against his desk.

His limbs weak with the trauma of resting on the hard floor and his back aching with the discomfort of nine hours sleeping upright against furnishings, he sweeps his hair out of his eyes and turns to give a squinting glimpse at his door.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Grabbing the edge of his desk, he prises himself to his feet and lopes unyieldingly to the door, his shoulder feeling almost too irritated to open it. But it gives easily, oscillating agape to show Albus Dumbledore standing uncomplainingly outside.

"Good morning," Albus nods amicably. "My apologies for waking you."

My apologies.

My mistake.

I'm sorry.

Severus blinks the flash of his father opening the cupboard away from his eyes. He pretends he doesn't hear himself screaming the words: I'm sorry. He tells himself he doesn't feel his steel-toed boot on his cheek.

Come here, boy. You'll know what sorry really feels like—

"I thought you might be up already," Dumbledore subsists. "We have some things to discuss, you know, considering your, um, employment."

Severus steps to the side, allowing leeway for him to step in. His eye twitches. He still feels his father's leather belt.

I'm sorry! I'm sorry. Please—

He shakes the evocation away, impelling the echoes out of his skull. Albus is pacing slowly around the room now, eyeing the empty shelves, reputedly collating them with how they appeared when full.