Harry Potter His Ten Knuts Worth: Severus Snape's Life

An Explanation for this being written and to set a few things straight ... 

Family. You'd think the way I acted I didn't have one, stalking around the dungeons like some sort of dark creature, striking fear into the hearts of small innocent children.

Yes, people like me don't have families, we are spawned from Satan himself and I didn't have a childhood either. I came into this world fully grown without having to go through the ravages of puberty, nor did my voice break and testicles drop, none of these embarrassing teenage phenomenons happened to me!

This is why, unlike other teachers I have no sympathy for hormonal teenagers because, being an inhuman creature I never experienced these things.

I'm assured most students who are not in Syltherin house use this excuse without knowing it, because it's harder to understand why I am such a complete bastard without dehumanizing me. Odd, the way people look at things isn't it? Some of the more intelligent students think I'm this way because I'm a lonely and emotionally scared man.

I am Woe. Oh Woe is _me_.

So I lash out at the cruel world because I'm really hurting and need to be sympathized with. I need understanding and love. Oh, please somebody give me a hug!

Sadly enough, this other theory is about to be discredited. No -sorry- I'm not an emotional wreck full of wounds that need to be tended by a gentle hand.

I am quite able to take care of myself, thank you very much.

That was aimed at you, overly romantic female students who look at me with sympathy in their eyes as if I were to collapse from an extreme of Gitism. Watching me and sighing audibly as I continue to bully another student, like I had committed another act that had re-enforced the fact that I was in need of saving.

Yes, intelligent they may be but emotionally, they followed their Fills and Broon romance novels as a guide of how to understand all males.

Completely and _utterly_ pathetic, it was hard to grade these idiot girls' potion essays without feeling the need to be bias and give them a D for no good reason. This feeling was indulged quite a few times and broke many a hopeful heart.

Can you blame me for being so cynical? Surrounded by such Imbecilic students it's hard not to develop this constant feeling of annoyance, students who **never** learn, who **never** put enough effort into their education.

Honestly, you are all idiots with out the slightest inclination about anything that seems to waft past your pathetic excuse for brain. Why do I even bother?

Yes, that is a good question, why **am** I bothering with all of you?

Why should I, an extremely intelligent human being try to explain to all you imbeciles about myself? Yes, I am human and I did have parents and a family, Merlin forbid. Even friends! Oh yes, I actually had conversations with another human being that did not involve a single sarcastic comment, yes that's right, not one!

It's quite a shock to the system, isn't it?

But, that still doesn't answer the question of why I am writing this, putting down my meager life on parchment for the likes of you. I must remind myself **why** I am doing this again, for my own sense of sanity.

Well, if you must know, although it is not my pleasure to inform you that my life has suddenly become at risk, even more then it already was. I mean having to teach Longbottom for four consecutive years is **definitely** life threatening.

That boy is a danger to everyone's lives when he comes near a cauldron, even muggles who live a hundred miles away could probably hear one of his abysmal potion explode.

Giving Potter a wand was a pretty stupid idea, also letting him attend Hogwarts was another thought that had need not occurred. He continues, as a living, breathing entity to put my life in danger and that of his friends, housemates and most of all the school itself!

Honestly, you would think people would stop rewarding him for his headstrong and foolish attitude by now.

But, alas I seem to be the only sane one in this entire school that does not think the sun shines out of Precious Potter's arse.

Returning to why my life has suddenly become in extreme danger, because once I get on to the subject of Potter and other fellow students whom I dislike I can write for quite some time about their idiocy.

So, the Dark Lord decided it would be a good idea to come back to full power and call all those loyal and not-so-loyal Death Eaters back to his side, reuniting his happy, little muggle-hating family all over again.

For the rest of us not terribly keen on the world being ruled by narrow-mined, sadistic pureblood, dunder-heads this was not good news.

To say the least.

This means that, unknown to most of you that I must resume my place as the Order's spy and on a daily basis, putting my life at risk for all of you ungrateful little shits. Excuse my colourful language but you know how it goes, when on gets passionate, ones tongue tends to slip.

Another revelation to all those having strong beliefs about me being the incarnate of the devil, I am actually doing something that is, going by the Norm, actually _good_.

Now, now don't start to get excited or in other cases doubt that I am telling the truth.

I am still a horrible human being and still deserve to be castrated but yes, every now and then I do the right thing.

There it goes again, Severus Snape and the word 'right' being said in the same sentence. I am expecting most of your jaws to be on the ground right now, so please if you could, pick them up and place them back in the correct position and continue to read.

So, the Dark Lord has returned and I have moral tendencies. The world is becoming a strange and unpredictable place to live in and right now and most of you will tend to agree with that statement. Although, I gather that my Sytherin students will be disappointed that their head of house is doing something that would be considered appropriate for their Gryffindor house mates, not _their_ esteemed Professor.

I am no Gryffindor, I don't like even saying the name of the house. But, whoever said that Slytherin house could not be moral was lying. In rare and uncanny moments we can show kindness to others who are not like our own. I must emphasize the word rare because this doesn't happen very often, by nature Slytherins are selfish creatures but that doesn't make us evil.

We are not all Dark Wizards, bent on the destruction of Muggles. Most of us are made that way by the homes we live in, our families form and shape our opinions on life as do out friends

So can you blame Syltherin house becoming the 'bad egg' of the Hogwarts four? I certainly can't.

But enough about the esteemed house of Slytherin, this is about my life, not that of the physiological formations of children's minds.

I believe I am avoiding starting this, so without further Ado I give you the life of Severus Snape.

I won't tell you my middle name because, sadly enough, my parents didn't feel the need to bless me with one.

The beginning 

My life began on November 13th 1960, my Mother told me it was a cold day, she said that the wind whipped the windows and the sky trembled with the heaviest, blackest clouds she had ever seen.

As you can gather my Mother was a dramatic women. Most mothers would tell their offspring that they were born on a cold day and leave it at that.

No wide eyes and trembling voice and completely devoid of _any_ prancing.

Yes, my Mother was a very odd woman.

She would tell my sister and I stories fuelled by fantasy and her own imagination and would even act out the parts. The pitch of her voice would change from a growling dragon to a squeaking fairy, us children completely engrossed wouldn't have even noticed if a civil war had started in our back garden when Mother told us her stories.

The stories ended when I was about six, because my Father became more militant then he already was for unknown reasons and my fun-filled extremely _happy_ childhood ended precisely on July 5th 1966 after a huge fight between my Mother and Father and the magnificent tales that my Mother told were never told nor mentioned again.

All this talk of me having a family is getting rather frightening. Well, just to take this terror to a new level I think it's high time I told you who they are. Although meager they may be, they still are family and deserve _some_ recognition.

I have one sibling, an older sister. She married a rich Australian and moved down under to pursue a career in drinking wine and buying expensive clothing. I haven't seen her in years; we were never close for those who share DNA.

I am glad that I never see her, because to be quite blunt she has not one scrupulous bone in her _entire_ body. She has a rare gift of being one-sided. You would think that most people who have an extremely evil nature would have another side to them that was slightly human, but not her!

She is and still remains and utterly horrible excuse for a human being. Her incessant sharp tongue ruined every moment that could have been a happy one in my early youth.

But later on I became much better at it then her and managed to make her late teenage years quite a horrible and emotionally trying time.

Her name, if I forgot to mention it is Elata. I never did like her name; it means a highborn, lofty woman, which she was in way. When I discovered this I was quite disappointed because I thought vindictive, ugly cow would have suited her _so_ much better.

My father was nothing unusual, he was quite like most of his kind. Those born of noble blood demand respect from everyone, not even your own family could get away with insubordination.

You wife was the least tolerated; she was supposed to take anything you could give. Never could she complain about anything you did, you were perfect in her eyes.

Alas, my Father was not blessed with this. He married lower and to him at the time, it seemed like a good idea. Even though his family did not agree with the marriage, which made it somewhat difficult for him to get hold of his inheritance, as you can gather that caused my father to get rather annoyed.

My Mother _did _complain and my Father would have none of it. Even if I am over-estimating your intelligence, you can guess the rest.

Where was I? Ah, my Mother. Clemintina Snape, she came from a lower-class family of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. She was the first Slytherin in her family. I am making a huge under-statement when I say that her Family were not pleased with the Sorting Hat's decision.

She was not a pureblood either -well- close enough but her mother was a half-blood, which still, in the illustrious house of Slytherin would make it very difficult for you to make friends.

This made the marriage between my Father and Mother very difficult. To this day, I still don't understand _why_ my father married her when the complications that arose from this union were so great. The down side would be that I would have not been conceived but nether the less it still made me wonder.

Where my family lived was in a place called- no lets see if you can see if you can guess the name. It starts with an S and ends with an E. Thinking hard? Your small, pathetic excuse for a brain becoming a _tad_ bit strained?

I lived in a place called Snape. Yes, my name is Severus Snape and I live in Snape. It made learning my Address when I was a child rather easy as you can imagine. The house that I grew up in was situated on the edge of the town. Because a large population of muggles occupied Snape, our house was guarded by very old wards that kept any curious muggles off the property.

Until my Father and Mother came to Snape it had been over a hundred years since an actual Snape had lived here because in Britain there are two towns called Snape and the one which I resided was the older, crappier one which none of the other Snapes would live in. We were quite alone in our slice of Yorkshire; this suited everyone quite well since my Father's side of the family didn't like us very much, they especially detested my Mother who's dirty blood had ruined their perfect pure linage.

Alas, this meant that we would not inherit the large, expensive Snape Mansion when our dear Grandfather died. We were bequeathed with the run-down, damp ridden, ancient house that no one would go near even if you offered them a million galleons. Sadly, for us we had to live in this unstable, dangerous house that if you walked with a little too much force your foot would fall through the floor.

I wasn't alive when my Parents moved into that house, my Father managed to fix it but there were certain areas that you wouldn't dare walk on, especially in the top level which was littered with weak spots that my Father had unintentionally forgotten to do, if you ask me I think he left them up their so he would know if we had tried to get into the attic.

The attic housed many artifacts that were extremely dangerous and some things my Father wouldn't like anyone to see, especially my Mother.

He was a secretive man. There are many things about him that I still do not know and the attic, to this day remains locked, its forgotten secrets festering amongst the damp and mould, waiting for someone to uncover them.

In my early youth I cannot remember precisely what my Father did for a living but what I _do _recall that he would come home everyday with a sour look on his face and only a large glass of some foul-smelling alcohol would quell his distaste. Although, sometimes when a drink didn't make him feel better he would turn to my Mother for release. He would try and start and argument with her, pushing and pushing until she would say something just as rude and spiteful back, this was his cue for the physical violence to begin.

One of my earliest memories is of him practically screaming at my Mother and she, trying to shield herself from the blows she knew she would soon feel. I can't remember what I was doing at the time but I don't remember what happened next.

Although, I do recall a repeat of this incident many times through my childhood and early teenage years until my Mothers kindness turned into something black and bitter that grew steadily worse until her death in my 7th year. I can just see your eyes forming an expression of sympathy for me and I'll give you prior warning. I don't _need_ sympathy and I especially don't need yours. This is what happened and I have dealt with it long ago so please don't let this information establish your belief that I need help and –god forbid- love. I can take care of myself thank you very much.

I am not writing this as some kind of way to gain peoples pity, so if you don't mind, wipe that look off your face and continue reading without getting emotionally attached to _my_ life story.

As I was saying, my earliest memories are incomplete, blending in with one another until they create something that resembles my very early childhood. I suspect that my three-year-old mind blocked out many things because I could not handle them. Sadly enough, this leaves me little to work with, but this small amount is more then enough to satisfy your need to know what I was like when I was three and sorry to disappoint, I was not a cute child. I was very quiet and only really spoke when I really needed something, like food or when Elata had attached something pointy and sharp to my flesh. My Mother told me that I always had this look of furious concentration on my face when I played with toys, as if this were something that could not be done with enjoyment, this was an _extremely_ serious endeavor that I had taken on

I think I listened more then I spoke in those days, My Mother being the dramatic woman that she was would imitate me, her eyes would grow wide and dark brows furrowed in concentration, her agile features mimicking my own. Alas, this display of humour did not make me erupt into childish giggles, but instead I would stare straight back until she stopped. Then, as if nothing had happened I went back to playing with my toys.

The only thing that really did make me laugh was when my older sister threw a tantrum when my Mother refused to let her have the first muffin, but these were no ordinary muffins but _strawberry_ muffins which happened to be dear sisters favorite flavor and when she realized that she wasn't entitled to the first one fresh out of the oven she began to turn slightly red.

The next second a scream that brought my Mothers hands to her ears in alarm ripped itself out of my sister's small frame. I was only about four at the time and watching her yell at that volume was somewhat –well- entertaining. I began to giggle, then erupted into hiccupping, high-pitched laughter. This did not quell my sisters screaming but made her become angrier. Before my Mother could stop her, she grabbed the hot, metal muffin tray off my Mother and slammed it into my laughing face. All I remember after that is a white-hot pain and darkness.

They told me that a had the imprint of the muffin tray singed onto my face for three weeks, my Mother tried desperately to remove it with various potions but alas nothing seemed to work, although my Mother's skill with Potions left much to be desired and at the time, my Fathers firm belief in discipline led him to refrain from helping my Mother. So, for longer then was necessary I had a huge, black singed imprint of a muffin tray on my face. This, as you can imagine left rather a _large_ dent on an easily moldable three-year olds mind.

I suppose this is enough for a chapter, I have spoken of my childhood in a rough sense but there is more to cover I fear. We branch on to the uncomfortable topic of me having friends, I know its difficult for you to grasp but do try or you won't the find the next chapter very enjoyable, not that it bothers me or anything I just thought I'd be kind for a moment but the feeling fades and now I won't nothing more then you to put the book down and leave.

Well, then. What are you waiting for? A sign from the heavens? I told you to **leave**!

A/N: Hmmm interesting to write. Was it interesting to read?


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