The Beginning

The Beginning

For an artist, life is about his craft. I've heard someone mention the phrase "starving artist" before, and from the context in which it was spoken, I'd say this person had it all wrong. An artist can live on his work, warm himself with the breath of life he infuses in each piece, fill himself with the fruit of inspiration. I'm not speaking poetically here. It truly feels this way.

His craft can also carry him through the best and worst of what the outside world has to offer.

I began, at the age of ten, to notice the beauty of art. After all, when there is so little of it in your life, it's easy to fall in love with the scraps you are thrown. The bird dropping-covered statue that stood in the square of the mostly British village where I lived. The sketch artist near the village green who'd lost his legs in the war against Grindelwald. The austere paintings in the manors of Father's associates. There was little to be found in my own home, a dismal place with perpetually closed draperies and amplifying charms on the floors and doors. It would never do for the neighbors to see what was going on inside, you see, or for you to sneak up on Father. In later years, I was able to appreciate the stealth those damnable charms had taught me.

Drawn draperies or not, there was little that escaped the attention of the people in the village where we lived--not that they ever cared, of course. This was no place for Wizarding aristocracy. The people who lived there were the hardened, the downtrodden. Outcasts. Indeed, even our small town was outcast, existing in the middle of the Black Forest where good little wizards feared to tread and wandering Muggles met unfortunate ends.

Father's favorite place was The Erlkonig, a place that, thug for thug, surpassed the unsavoriness of the Hog's Head Tavern in Hogsmeade. He was in his element there. Mother and I were thankful for the reprieve; it meant that we could escape his watchful, hate-filled gaze. She'd retreat into the library to write letters to her sister and old schoolmates. I'd make my way to the village green.

"Wotcher, Sev'rus," Pelly would always say. Teeth missing in places, black at the roots of the few still present. His ancient, wooden wheelchair had undergone too many "Reparos" and not enough real repair. The smell coming from the man was enough that none but a small boy with no one else to befriend would dare come too close. Yet for all his physical faults, he could create miracles from his sketchpad and charcoals. I'd watch him for hours as he sketched everything from the ramshackle homes and businesses in the village to people I'd only read about in the history books Father made me read and things I've never seen before in my life. All the while I'd keep one eye out for the front door of The Erlkonig. When I'd finally see the black-haired head of my father, I'd rush out a quick goodbye to Pelly and run home to warn Mother. There was just enough time to take our expected places and wear our "welcome homes' like a mask before he came through the door.

When I started Hogwarts, it was with mixed feelings. I was happy to be rid of the small village of Niflheim, away from my arsehole of a father, but it was hard leaving Mother and Pelly behind. I missed watching Pelly's coals glide over the sketchpad, the feeling of peace settling inside my chest as I looked on. But more than that, I was worried for Mother. Eleven years old, and I was worried my father would finally kill her.

It didn't make for a smooth transition. The other students shunned, me and the ones in my own House were only civil because their fathers were associates of my father. Not friends; a man like Ariston Acacius Snape didn't acquire friends. He acquired business partners and acquaintances from whom he had something to gain. Even the foul wizards who bought him rounds at the pub were more his enemies than anything. It's true what they say about keeping your enemies closer.

I had not a single friend, myself. I was gangly and dark, it was well-known from the students in Slytherin who knew of me through our fathers' associations that I was given regular instruction in the Dark Arts. Father insisted upon it, and I never knew anything different until I came to Hogwarts and found that most wizards and witches found the Dark Arts...troubling. I was alone. Everyone outside my House was afraid of me, and those inside it felt they were beneath me. A noble Wizarding name and pure genes, but no money, no current prestige to claim.

I missed Pelly terribly. I missed the calm I felt as I watched him draw. It was this longing for my one and only friend that drove me to write Mother a short letter a month after start of term. Three weeks later, this was returned by owl:

Dearest Severus,

I trust you are doing well at Hogwarts? I could tell little from your letter, but I cannot imagine a reason that such a bright boy like you wouldn't be doing well. Things are wonderful here. Your father won a prize of five-hundred Galleons last weekend at the pub and has been most amiable! He sends his love and best regards to you.

Since we are on the subject of your father, I feel I shouldn't have to tell you that it would cause him displeasure to find that you're sending personal messages to me. The best time to send an owl would be Wednesday afternoons, after he wakes and before he attends to his business in the village. As for your friend Pelly, I know nothing new of him. Your father has quite considerably taken in a young witch by the name of Estella, who runs all the errands and keeps house, and there is no longer any need for me to leave the house. You see, dearest, he doesn't wish me to tire myself unnecessarily. Isn't that kind?

Unfortunately, I know nothing of coals and paints and other such things, nor could I send for them if I did. In place of these items you asked for, please find the small bag of Sickles and Galleons attached. I'm sure you can send for the things you need yourself. Your father would be most distressed to find this money has been misplaced, so please say nothing of it in your next owl, which, again, should be on Wednesdays.

Love and best wishes, dearest,

Mother

Despite the usual anger I felt whenever Mother was in her habitual state of denial, and my mistrust for Father's new "servant", I was excited. In my hand I held the means to reclaim a piece of what I'd lost, an opportunity to teach myself the very same craft Pelly had shown me was so valuable. I found the address of Calliope Arts, the sole art supplier of the Wizarding world, and sent them my order.

Oh, how to describe that first, euphoric moment when I was finally in my room alone with my package? It was magnificent. The rows of colorful pastels, the pure black of the charcoals. The possibilities within each box... I was overwhelmed. At the bottom of the box lay a sketchpad. I picked it up with reverence and showed it the same respect as I would show any ancient tome when turning its blank pages.

Blank pages. Blank canvas. Is there anything more seductive?

Using these treasures in the room I shared with three other classmates was out of the question. Then I remembered one of the disused classrooms I'd found in the dungeons, just a corridor beyond dungeon five. It would be perfect. I cleaned it out and set up all my supplies on the largest workbench, careful to keep a Disillusionment charm on the entire unused corridor.

My fledgling efforts granted me all the solace and friendship I needed.

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When term ended for the year, I boarded the Hogwarts Express for the second time in my life. Mother, in her ever-delusional way, sent me an owl before Christmas and Easter expressing how busy I must be and wouldn't it be a good idea to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays and study. Over the summer, however, it was impossible to stay behind. Like it or not, I was coming home.

I dropped my trunk off at home and sought Pelly out straight away.

"Wotcher, Sev'rus!" he called out to me in his usual cheerful way. His oily hair, his unkempt and filthy clothing, his rattling wheelchair were all welcome sights. "Back from school, are you?"

"Yes, just back." I kept an eye out on the door of the Erlkonig, just in case. Old habits are difficult to break.

Pelly noticed. "Looking out for that tosser of a father, are you? Well then, I suppose you haven't heard he's gone to London for the week. Everyone at the pub's been talking about how he took that girl what's been working at your house over to see her dying mum. Pretty little thing, too."

The rest of the evening was spent watching Pelly draw images from The Odyssey by gas lamp. I observed his style, took note of the fact that, unlike most wizards, he didn't use charmed coals unless he was commissioned by a witch or wizard who preferred the added effect. These drawings he made for himself didn't need parlor tricks to make them spectacular, would have made them almost obscene and ridiculous.

Like any good student, I paid attention.

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Father returned that Sunday, just as Pelly promised. The girl who was now in his service was indeed very appealing. I had to wonder if she was out of school by choice or because she was never sent in the first place. Not everyone can afford the tuition, or had the pride of a Snape to gather the money by any questionable means necessary. No son of Ariston Snape's would ever be an ignorant embarrassment to the family. This requirement did not extend, however, to the sixteen year old servant of the house. What did it matter that she couldn't perform spells above the perfunctory household level? What did it matter that she couldn't read when she could blush so prettily and beam with pleasure whenever Father complimented her on the smallest things?

Her presence grated on Mother's nerves, though I doubt anyone besides me noticed the subtle stiffening of her shoulders or the narrowing of her eyes whenever the girl started giggling. Or breathing, for that matter.

I was disgusted with my father. The man never spent a Knut on anything that didn't benefit him entirely, even when he came into his prize money. Bringing a paid servant into the house to do housework charms that had taken mother less than an hour a day was like replacing the entire contents of your wardrobe because you found a hole in a set of robes--an excessive and pointless waste. Father had never been one to spare Mother the trouble of performing any task before, no matter how difficult or unpleasant. It was quite clear what the girl was here for.

It was clear Mother knew, too.

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It was the second week of my summer "break" when I saw the sign in front of the apothecary's shop.

Assistant Wanted

Lycurgus Boswillig never took on shop assistants. I was without means to acquire more art supplies. This was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. And if it took me out of the house for most of the break, well then, that was just fine. I went home and waited for my father to arrive for dinner. In the meantime, I was carefully constructing a way to get him to agree. Coming out and asking permission would never do. Finally, I had an idea.

"Father?" I asked as he helped himself to more of Estella's overcooked steak and kidney pie.

His fork stopped just short of its destination, and he scowled at me when I didn't continue. "Well?"

"It's just that all my friends at school have lessons to occupy them over the break. I was hoping I might be able to take on the apothecary's assistant job at Boswillig's. It would be a wonderful opportunity to hone my skills in Potions when I'm not here learning from you." I said this last with great reverence in my voice, head slightly bowed in consideration of the greatness of my father and his teachings. Rather than the scathing rebuke I expected, and regardless of my little act, he threw his head back and laughed.

"Boy, if old Boswillig will take you on, you have my compliments and my permission."

Half the battle had been won. Now the only thing left to do was to convince a man of questionable character, who'd never taken on an assistant, to accept a child into his employ.

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Boswillig's was an ill-lit place where barrels of unpleasant potions ingredients sat at the foot of shelves upon shelves of jar-crammed displays. All manner of dead beasts under stasis hung from the ceilings amidst drying flora and herbs. The stench was overpowering. It was not unlike Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, except for the fact that one could find any number of illicit ingredients in Boswillig's shop, the sort of things a more reputable apothecary would never consent to sell.

Lycurgus Boswillig hobbled out from the back room and took his place behind the counter as soon as the door bell tinkled.

"What's this, then?" He barked. "Come to steal from me, is that it?"

I was taken aback, head shaking in mute protest.

"Well?" He accentuated his demand with a thump of his cane on the wooden floor. His eyes narrowed. "Eh, I know you. You're that Snape boy, aren't you? Well, tell your good-for-nothing father he's not to set foot in this store unless it's to pay his account off." He looked me up and down. "And that goes for you, too."

"Please, sir, I've come to inquire about the assistant's job."

The old man glared at me, quaking with anger. "Get out," he hissed.

I ran. Humiliation beat down on me hotter than the sun which streamed though the massive trees of the forest. Why would he have given me a job anyway? Father's reputation preceded me. I'd just missed my only opportunity to salvage this summer.

"Sev'rus!" Pelly called from his usual spot. I was shaking with fear and self-disgust by the time I reached him.

"What are you running from, lad?" he asked.

"Mr. Boswillig. I was going for the job advertised in the window, but he just told me to get out."

Pelly scratched his stubbly beard with one, charcoal-covered finger. "He did, did he?"

"Yes."

"Let me tell you something about that old sod, Sev'rus. He's never been friendly to anyone in his life, so if you're expecting peppermint humbugs and a smile, you're going to the wrong place. But if you're serious about wanting the job, you have to go in there and show him you're serious."

I thought about this. Hadn't I already blown it by running away? Surely he'd never see me as anything but a frightened child now. But I took one look at the piece of charcoal Pelly was sharpening with his knife and I knew I had to try again.

"Thanks, Pelly," I told him, and headed back to Boswillig's.

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The place was more intimidating this time, if that was even possible.

"Back again?" the old man asked in a gruff voice.

"Yes, sir. I'd like you to reconsider hiring me as your assistant."

He glowered at me from his position behind the scuffed counter. "Yeah, well I thought I told you to get lost. I've no time for little tossers like you, coming in here like you know what's the what."

I looked around the shop, seeing that his search for an assistant was long overdue. "Please, sir, your Abyssinian shrivelfig is just about to go off and this barrelful of daisy roots you have here has molded."

Boswillig peered around me to look at the ingredients in question. He grunted in irritation. "What do you know about potions ingredients, boy?"

"Enough to know that if you don't get these ashwinder eggs into a stasis solution soon, they're going to be just as useless as those Jobberknoll feathers over there."

I started immediately that afternoon.

Mr. Boswillig told me that since I was half the size of a regular assistant, I'd get half the wages. I was delighted, all the same. By the end of the day I was sore from all the wandless lifting and cleaning, but I was earning money with every creak of my young limbs. I was also learning things as I went along each day, things I'd read about but never seen firsthand. The world of potions, always of interest to me, was like a mysterious universe I wanted to explore, to conquer. I was finding Mr. Boswillig to be a most fascinating, if not reluctant, teacher. I knew many of the ingredients from helping Father brew and my own experience from Potions class and reading, but Mr. Boswillig was quick to correct me about the more exotic ingredients and what they're used for. Well, he didn't want me to ruin his precious revenue, did he?

"Boy! Mind those willyneeter petals, would you? No one's going to want them in their Loving Death potion if you've gone and bruised them. Damnable, incompetent little tosspot," he mumbled the last, along with a litany about my parentage, appearance and intellect. Just another day at Boswillig's.

But it was all worth it that Friday, when he handed me my first wages. I walked home, coins shifting in my pocket with a satisfactory "clink" at every step. My legs ached and the stench of the shop was all over my body, in my hair, but none of this mattered. I had the well-thumbed catalogue of Calliope Arts memorized in my head, and now I could finally get some of the things I'd had my eye on for the last four months.

As it happened, Father came out of the pub at the same time I was making my way back to our dismal little house. He sneered at me and snatched my bag by the string, which hung out of my pockets. Once he was finished rummaging through its contents, taking what he wanted, he tossed the bag back to me.

"It isn't as though you took the job for the money, is it? After all, you're only working to further your education." He snorted and strode off before me. I seethed all the way home, glaring at his back the entire time journey, not for the first time, wishing a most foul and untimely death on him. I looked into the grubby little bag which had contained the fruits of my labors. Three Sickles and a handful of Knuts were all that remained. At this rate I'd never get that deluxe set of pastels I'd been looking at.

From that day on I learned to filter out some of my wages and hide them in my boot before leaving the shop. If Mr. Boswillig noticed, he didn't say anything.

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The little free time I had between lessons in the Dark Arts with Father and working at Boswillig's, I spent watching Pelly in the square. By midsummer, I finally had my coveted set of pastels and was content to dawdle away the precious hours I found here and there just playing with the colors.

It was one of the mildest days of the season when Pelly looked over at my sketchpad, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"What have you got there, Sev'rus?"

I don't think he really noticed what I was doing next to him all those days, or if he did, he never acknowledged it until that day. I showed him the picture I was drawing of the town's one and only attempt at art, the statue in the square, complete with moss and bird-droppings.

"It's looking good," he told me. The praise couldn't have meant more to me if came from the Minister of Magic. "Let me show you something..."

I absorbed the techniques he had to teach like a greedy sponge. The days became milder. It was almost time to go back to Hogwarts. In many ways, I was sadder than ever to go.

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The past follows us like a starving dog trails a child with a tipping bag of sweets. We don't have to love the dog to accept its presence, nor do we need to reach down and encourage it with pats on the head. I choose to block out my past. There is little good to be found there. Yet sometimes it's impossible to ignore that dog any longer. Sometimes that dog sinks its teeth into your leg and forces you to pay attention.

Whenever my past bares its teeth, I escape into my studio.

I've pulled all the Hermione paintings out of hiding, looking at them all in the order in which they were painted. Hermione's Emergence was the first piece featuring my unfortunate obsession. I'd been keyed up after that first Order meeting she attended, the one just before start of term. I couldn't get her out of my mind, that earnest expression on her face in the sitting room as she explained her decision regarding Head Girl. The vision of her in that slip of a Muggle sundress, bare feet with toenails painted wine. I lay awake that night, thinking the sort of thoughts meant for the darkness of one's bedchambers, the sort of thoughts one should never give away to another soul. Forbidden, lustful thoughts. Horror co-mingled with blissful forbiddance, propelling me into climax.

I remember waking well before dawn the next morning, prepared to put the whole incident out of my mind. I'm a man, after all, and these things do happen. In the apex of Voldemort's attempt to reign over the Wizarding world, there were more things to fret over than getting turned on by a nubile, young girl. Besides, what's a little stress relief in the privacy of your own bedchambers?

This was a lie. Of course, it was true that in the grand scheme of things, my suddenly dirty mind was low on the list of offenses. The problem was that it offended me. I've never touched a student, never even thought about the little simpletons in such a manner. After two decades of attempting to redeem myself for past discretions, was this what I'd been reduced to?

Apparently so.

I didn't sleep that night. My mind was consumed with thoughts of her, my hands aching to prepare the oils. I could hear the scratch/pound of my paintbrush, could smell the turpentine and fresh paint. I was desperate to get to my studio, commit the image of her curled up in that chair in Headquarters to canvas. Anything, dear gods, anything to get the picture, the need, out of my head. I was haunted in the daylight hours and tormented at night.

I sat at my desk the evening before term, words on the lesson plan swimming on its ream and a bottle of Firewhiskey at my side. Drinking straight from the bottle, wishing it was next year already so I could have that girl out of my life forever. Doodles on a spare bit of parchment began to take shape, my traitorous hands sketching the outline of a woman. Unruly hair, delicate features.

I couldn't stop. I pushed the lesson plans to the side, not caring when they fell off the edge of the desk. Every detail was true to the image of her that night at the Order meeting, right down to the garish tapestry behind the chair where she sat and the moth-eaten rug beneath her. I dropped the quill and pushed away from the desk. My eyes felt as though they were too wide open, too surprised by what I'd done. Firewhiskey abandoned, rational thoughts–gone.

I hurried to my studio, snatched a half-finished and pointless painting off the easel and placed a new canvas on the wooden frame. The lure, the desire, was indescribable. My hands shook; it was useless resisting. I mixed the media quickly and let my mind slip into that place where it goes whenever I'm painting. Sweetly blushed cheeks, tanned legs. She'd had sun this summer. Hemp necklace with shells around her neck, a gift from her parents vacationing in Jamaica, I believe I overheard her say to the Weasley girl. Her hair as untamed as ever, and a thought came to my mind: such unruliness from such a reserved girl–it's as if some part of her is desperate to break free, some nuance of her soul needs to rebel.

The painting changed as I thought about this. A swirled, rusty background streaked with hues of crimson replaced the tapestry. She still sat in the same chair, legs folded to the side and one foot digging into the cushion. But the sundress slipped down a smooth shoulder, her head tilted seductively to one side as the tops of her breasts were bared. Her eyes held mysteries. Her expression made promises a girl her age should never make.

Amazing.

It was almost time for the Welcoming Feast by the time I was finished. Stepping back from the easel, I was caught by surprise by my own work. It had taken on a life of its own, as though I was nothing but a vessel to immortalize this young girl's emergence into a woman. I still remember the mingled guilt and satisfaction I felt when the students began pouring in and I watched her take her seat. More than anything, I was exhilarated. I hadn't slept in over 36 hours yet my heart beat wildly in my chest, and I ached to get back to my studio and begin another painting.

"My, don't the children look fresh and rested!" Albus said to me, then stood to give his annual start-of-term speech. Iciness spread in my chest. Children. A student.

I didn't pick up a brush again until after the Dark Lord's final confrontation four weeks later.

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There are six painting in total, but my eyes rest on the one painting that stands out above all the rest. War Omits Peace. Black Death Eater robes blotch the dimly lit Death Chamber room in the Department of Mysteries like stains on a weak shadow. A tattered curtain hangs on an infamous crumbling archway, seeming to move with life on its own. Aurors and Order members clash with their enemies; Death Eaters defend their master with zeal. Adults who have lived lifetimes step back to allow three mere children to take their necessary place in battle. As ever, these children do not disappoint.

It is the pinnacle of Voldemort's fall. The professors from Hogwarts have separated the Death Eaters from the Dark Lord, leaving him exposed to Potter. Miss Granger and Ron Weasley form a semi-circle facing him, with Potter in the middle. They cast hexes with impunity as they push in on the dark wizard, whose back is to the archway. I've captured the moment I've savored since that day in September, the moment when comprehension blossoms on Voldemort's face that these children are driving him backward, to his death. The moment just before Potter finally blasts him through the veil with a powerful spell. If he is indeed immortal, let him be so in a place where there is no hope of escape.

Yes, this painting is indeed very different from the others. Yet even though there are many subjects in the tableau and the theme is one of war, the eye is still drawn to Hermione. The fluid sensuality of her stance, the fierceness on her face as she fires off another curse. The curve of her wand arm poised to fight, the slope of her neck, the wild curl of her hair. She's an avenging angel, and she burns.

Without realizing it, I'd even made this painting about her. After Hermione's Emergence, I'd vowed not to fixate on Hermione Granger ever again.

My vow was broken.

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A/N: First of all, I wanted to thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I was floored, honestly. Now for a few tidbits about this chapter:

The Erlkonig: I've heard a couple of conflicting stories behind this name, but the one I favor means Elf King. For some reason I always think of it as the king of the dark elves. How appropriate for a pub where nasty little wizards gather. Of course, it's also the title of a poem by Goethe--one of my favorites, actually.

Niflheim is one of the nine Norse worlds. It's the world of the dead, a land of icy darkness. I thought it was fitting.

Ariston, Severus' father's first name, is derived from ancient Greek, meaning "the best." Acacius , his middle name, also comes from ancient Greek and means "innocent" or "not evil." It was also the name of three early saints, two of whom were martyred. I couldn't bear to choose between the two (Ariston has a nice ring to it, but Acacius holds delicious irony), so I present you with both.

Dungeon five: I don't read much about it in fanfic, which is strange since it's in canon. It suited my purposes, so here it is.

And last, Lycurgus Boswillig the apothecary. Boswillig, German, roughly translates to "willingly nasty." Appropriate?

Sorry to ramble. I don't really like long author's notes because I think they take away from the story, but I couldn't pass up a chance to explain the names I've chosen. Hopefully they enhance rather than detract.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank SusanDara and Southern_Witch_69 for enlightening me about how to use HTML tags. I'm a hopeless case when it comes to computers. You two saved this story from being lost on my hard drive and never posted.