I OWN NOTHING! i love Severus Snape, he has such a depressing life and i had this story pop into my mind... sorry if i offend anyone... PS this will continue on to be more graphic in later chapters so beware! :)
He couldn't exactly pinpoint when this habit developed.
If given a timeline the date would remain a mystery.
Maybe it was when he was five and felt the first signs of hunger that gnarled at his inside like ravenous wolves.
Maybe when it was when he was six and he first saw his drunken father beat his mother forcing the once proud witch to be nothing more then a begging pile of weakness.
Maybe it was when he was seven and he first felt the wrath of his father's fist.
Maybe it was when he was 8 and he was beaten bloody after his father grew tired if his sniveling.
Maybe it was when he was nine and he felt his grandfather's cane. He was unconscious for two days; he distinctly recalled the far away look in his mother's eyes when she treated his wound. The shaking hands hushing him quiet when he began to cry. The beating from his father when the whining disturbed the man's drunken slumber. The sadistic chuckle when he was whipped nine times as a present.
It was his birthday that day.
Maybe it was when he was 11 and his only friend was sorted in a rival house.
Maybe it was in first year when he became the main entertainment for Potter and Black's golden gang.
Maybe it was when he received his first nickname.
Maybe it was the summer of first year when after a daily beating he saw his mother look away.
Maybe it was when his mother lost herself and found a remote island in her mind to ignore the blood or bruises on her only child at the hands of her husband.
Maybe it was in second year when his noise broke from Black's hex and the teachers looked away.
Maybe it was in the summer of second year when his grandfather first touched him in order to learn how to be a man.
Maybe it was when he was beaten unconscious for a week when he said no.
Maybe it was in third year when Potter hexed his pants off in front if the school.
He got ten points taken away that day for not following the school dress code.
Maybe it was in third year when his only friend abandoned him for one mistake.
Maybe it was in the summer of third year when his mother walked in on one of his session with Grandfather Snape.
She walked away while he felt the brutal pain of the cane when he allow a tear to escape.
Maybe it was in fourth year when he almost died by Black and the marauders.
He was forced into silence. Potter got a reward.
Maybe it was any of these reasons or maybe it was a continuous process.
All he did knew was that when it started it became addicting. It was an unquenchable thirst that caused his hands to twist in need.
A daily comfort. A sweet relief.
He doesn't know when it started but it did.
The answer as to why he began his hobby was just as a blurred as the date.
The crimson line when first drawn felt like a drug. An intoxicating rush.
When the thoughts became too loud and the memories too quick the drawings made it go away. The bombarding realities gone, the anger and hate that burned his core faded into a mute background where all he could focus on was his drawing.
It was becoming quite extensive now.
He could feel his rapid heart beat as he escaped. Maybe for minutes or maybe for days, it was always hard to keep time when he drew. Escaped the pain. The torment. The cane. The touch. The names. The silence. Escape it all as the crimson drops produced his anguish into something tangible.
The crimson paint looked strikingly bright in contrast to the pale white canvas.
Once he worried he used too much. He foolishly worried and tried to stop. Tried so desperately to prevent himself to draw.
The names were louder that day. So loud that he couldn't block himself from the taunts.
Sometimes he envied his mother, when the pain became too much she could ignore the world. Lock herself in a tall tower blockading is from a daily assault.
That day his roommates asked him about the paint. He cursed himself, sometimes he could be so messy. His palms got clammy and his breath quicken when he realized they would discover his secret. They would find his paintings.
He didn't have many belongings. As his muggle father was a poor man who spend most of his checks on alcohol while his mother stayed at home and mutely obeyed a cruel tyrant.
So as his home had little to no money he did not have the toys as other children his age did.
Everything he owned was once used and broken.
So when he finally had something of his own, he was possessive.
The secret was his and only his.
Looking them in the eye he summoned his Slytherin mask of aloofness and shrugged carelessly, smirking in relief when they lost interest in their scrawny and weak roommate.
He tried to stop his paintings that day. Locked his paintbrush away and swore to himself that he wouldn't paint anymore.
He forgot how weak he was.
Potter reminded him that. They cornered him in front of his peers who watched on with hungry anticipation. Devouring his weakness. He remembered seeing the shock of red hair watching him with disinterest. Remembered seeing amber eyes look at him in guilt as Potter raised his wand.
The need to draw made him forget to react in time and he soon found himself covered in painful boils. The pain was momentarily distracting.
Shaggy black hair in glasses smirked deviously, "you're so pathetic Snevelus. So weak." The disgust in his peers eyes so vividly like his own that he gave into temptation.
The shame was a sticky cloak on his skin. The shame and disgust tainted him. A permanent mark of his weakness that no matter how hard he scrubbed his skin. No matter if he left his skin raw and bleeding, he couldn't wipe off the filth. He felt the pounding hate for everyone and especially for himself tear him inside.
Though through this he tried to keep strong and not paint.
However the memories flashed by fast. The sticky residue clamped over his pale form. The residue would never leave his skin. He tried to wash it away when he had his first session with Grandfather Snape.
He gave up after a month of weekly lessons.
Though the shame and the hate still covered him like a woolen sweater in summer. Leaving him sweltering and in need for air.
Once he cowered away in a hospital bed the mediwitch impatiently handed him a potion for the pain, disgust evident in her eyes. He once longed to have eyes look at him with kindness. That wished was destroyed when he saw brilliant green eyes look at his sickly form with revulsion.
When he finally retreated to his room he followed the siren call obediently. With shaking hand he grasped his paintbrush reverently and painted. Each crimson dot singing his shame.
Looking at his painting he allowed the crimson to cry for him, as his onyx eyes were wet with weakness.
He painted a long time that day.
Each droplet a weakness. Each droplet a memory. Each droplet a face. Each droplet a hex. Each droplet a name. Each droplet was his pain.
He was proud of his art. It was intricate and eye-catching. Each painting a spontaneous line that curled to each other. Each painting a friend in comfort. A brother in arms.
They sang to him during the day. Constant reminders that soon he would be able escape the shame.
It was a ritual cleansing that momentarily washed him of his filth until the next bath was due.
At the deepest of night, when the world was a shade covering the truth he would trace each painting shivering at the remembrance of the feel.
Severus Snape was never a handsome boy. Never thought of as attractive or desirable. While this fact might have caused others sadness, to Severus it was nothing more than the passing weather. An observation that held no real importance to him. Sure, some days the weather could interfere with the day's plans, but overall it held no real effect.
Some days he would look at himself closely, tracing every imperfection with his eyes. There were a lot of imperfections.
During these inspections he would recall a faint voice of his mother's, bright and proud, praising him of his features. Though when that voice appeared he knew it was just a dream that once awoken, would not be remembered.
There was a time when his looks caused him sadness. This was a time when there was vibrant red in his days that he so wanted to impress.
Though when the green trees died and their protective shade left Severus alone he knew that his looks would be of no importance.
He substituted vibrant red with dark crimson. And dark crimson was a constant friend that never left.
His noise was too large. His cheeks were hallowed from lack of appetite. His skin was an unhealthy pale. His limbs too long and gangly. His lips were thin and pale. His chin and cheeks were pointy causing him to have a resemblance of a skeleton. His eyes were uncolored black dots of ink. And his hair was a limp and strangled greasy curtain for his unfortunate face.
While he might not be attractive his paintings were gorgeous.
There were only two things in Severus' life that he was proud of.
One, being his above average intellect. Especially in Potions, a class were he was worthy.
And two, his drawings.
When he drew and brewed he was an artist. Not a hook noise greasy git but a conductor of a beautiful symphony.
He wasn't inferior or subordinate to his peers, the teachers, his family.
No, when he held the paintbrush or stirred the spoon, he was the ruler. He was valued. Powerful.
That rush of power, even if minutely, was intoxicating.
In the quiet Slytherin room a chuckle could be heard coming from a pale boy admiring his art collection. He could contemplate for hours on his drawings. Start a long internal monologue on his life but right now sitting in his bed and hidden from the world, Severus Snape just wanted to draw with crimson.
NEW CHAPTER COMING UP... WE MEET THE FAMILY AND MARAUDERS! OH and for this Severus Snape i see him looking like Miles Mcmillian (search him up he is GORGEOUS! and yes he might be too pretty but honestly i think Severus Snape is gorgeous inside AND out and this is how i pictured him!)