Chapter 26

Snape had been trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about Sarah for days now, and had decided to use the time she was away to catch up on his reading. This task, in all honesty, was nothing more than procrastination, of putting off the real task: the task of facing the Pensieve. It sat on his desk, large and looming, and he could see it out of the corner of his eye as he turned the pages of his book. He huffed restlessly.

It was late afternoon on Sunday. Usually, he’d be enjoying a glass of wine about now with Sarah, maybe entwined on the sofa, or possibly in the bath, as an aperitif. Snape had no appetite tonight, however. Sarah would be back tomorrow and he had to fill his time constructively until he could next see her. He could still hear Dumbledore’s words, about “tainting the future by not being able to accept the past.” It made him shiver. It was some moments before he realised he’d been reading the same paragraph for about the twelfth time. He huffed again, glaring at the Pensieve, before shutting the book with a snap and tossing it on to the sofa.

“Let’s get this one over with, then,” he muttered to himself, stalking over to his desk and slipping into the high-backed chair. He was surprised to notice he was shaking as he grabbed his wand. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before placing the wand to his temple. He drew away a smoky ribbon with the wand, plucking the thought from his head, and patted the delicate frond gently inside the stone basin, where it swirled and churned within.

Out of all the memories, it was this one that was buried deepest and this one that he feared the most. He was terrified of observing the results of his actions. He was terrified of the feelings it would bring back. And, most of all, he was terrified that he would show no remorse.

He steadied himself for a moment before gripping the side of the bowl and submerging his face in the silvery-grey mist. He was aware of the sensation of tumbling, of flipping head over heels, before his feet landed at once on solid ground.

The mist cleared. He was in a cellar of some kind, and a group of men stood jeering loudly in a circle. He felt his stomach turn to ice as he edged forward. There was Avery, his eyes glowing with delight as a sickly smile stretched over his lightly-sweating face. Next to him was Nott, moustache twitching as he bellowed and brayed. And there he was, Severus Snape, twenty years old and virginal, staring ahead impassively at the wretched woman invisibly bound on the floor. Snape noticed how young he looked, and how little emotion was displayed on his stern features. He remembered how fast his heart was beating at that moment, and how he had refused to look directly at the woman’s face.

The older Snape risked a glance at the woman now. She was young, no older than mid-twenties he supposed, with dark, dishevelled hair and bright brown eyes. Her face was soaked in tears and she was sobbing gently, her sobs drowned out by the cacophony of the leering men. Flashes of pale flesh could be seen underneath the many rips in her clothing. She was trying to struggle under her invisible bonds, but of course, it was no use. Snape felt a stab in his heart of shame, and of pity.

“Go on, Severus, you can have the first ride,” the ruddy-faced, heavy-set blond man known as Mulciber encouraged. “Bet you can’t wait for this, eh, boy?”

Snape watched his younger self approach the woman swiftly, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fly, all the while his face inscrutable, before falling to his knees and covering the woman while the men whooped and cheered. His long, dark hair draped over his face as he brought his mouth close to her ear. Snape remembered with great vividness all of the things he’d said to the woman. He’d known they would be of no comfort to her, but he’d shown her as much mercy as he could under the circumstances. He’d wished he could have explained to her that the experience was just as much as a rape for him as it was for her, forced to lose his virginity in such a way. Instead, he made it brief, faking his orgasm so not to contaminate her with his seed, and trying to spare her as much pain as possible.

Mulciber congratulated the boy and taunted the terrified woman before mounting her himself. Snape felt nauseous as he saw him take her roughly, his chubby hand at her throat as he forced himself on her with violence. Mulciber was taking real pleasure from this. Snape’s eyes flicked once more to the woman’s face, and he saw by her eyes that she was broken; that something inside her had died, some light had gone out. His stomach cramped and he knew he was going to be sick. With great effort, he pulled himself away from the memory and dashed upstairs to the bathroom, retching and heaving with disgust and loathing.