Chapter Text
The first week of sixth year was, by all academic standards, a dumpster fire inside a larger, more magical dumpster fire.
The Marauders are partly responsible, of course. They always are. Hogwarts could collapse into a sinkhole and James Potter would somehow be at the centre of it, hair perfect, laughing while the ground obligingly swallowed everyone else.
It begins on Monday morning, in a corridor that smells faintly of cabbage and despair. A wand flick, a muttered charm and suddenly Severus’s robes attempt to achieve independent flight. Sirius Black is already laughing before the spell finishes casting, which suggests rehearsal. Potter claps him on the shoulder like a proud director watching opening night.
“Bit of lift on that one, Pads,” Potter says, beaming. “Very theatrical.”
Severus lands badly, dignity scattering across the flagstones in pieces too small to retrieve. A crowd gathers. It always does. Hogwarts students have the same instinct as vultures but worse manners.
"James! Stop it!" Lily Evans cried, her voice ringing with the practiced moral authority of a cathedral bell fully activated. She then immediately turned to James and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She smiles. Not a big smile. Just the sort that says you’re awful but I’ve already forgiven you. Potter grins back like he’s been knighted.
"You’re awful, honestly,” Lily says, but her tone is fond.
She then turns her attention to Severus.
"Severus," she said, though her eyes fixed dreamily on the way the sunlight hit Potter’s messy hair. "Don't escalate. You probably provoked him by…." She hesitated, the correct word briefly unavailable and settled instead on, “You should really be more mature than this.”
Severus, currently vibrating at a frequency that made his teeth ache, looked at her speechless. He files the moment away in the mental cabinet marked Exhibits for Later Breakdown.
The mini Death Eaters corner him not long after, because Hogwarts is very committed to balance. If the Gryffindors punch you in the face, the Slytherins will make sure to kick you while you’re down, purely for symmetry. Tuesday was the ‘Recruitment Seminar’ in the Slytherin Common Room. Mulciber and Avery cornered him to discipline him for missing the summer mixers at Malfoy Manor.
They’re upset he hasn’t attended the summer gatherings. There’s talk of loyalty. Of destiny. Of the Dark Lord’s vision. Someone mentions that Voldemort is very charismatic in person.
"The Dark Lord was displeased, Snape," Mulciber hissed, poking Severus in the chest. "He asked for you. He wants to know why you weren't there to watch him torture that Muggle family."
Severus sighed. "I’ve told you. I did some research. According to everyone who’s seen him, the man has no nose. Two slits, Mulciber. Like a bowling ball."
"He is the most powerful wizard - "
"I don't care," Severus snapped. "How does he wear glasses? How does he sneeze without it being a structural disaster? If I’m going to join a cult, the leader needs a basic nasal bridge. It’s about standards. I have a very large nose; I can’t be expected to follow a man with a deficit in that department. It’s a conflict of interest."
They beat him up for twenty minutes.
On Wednesday, Severus finally snapped because of the latest Marauder nonsense and hexed Sirius Black’s ears into giant, flapping elephant trunks. Naturally, Professor McGonagall appeared within three seconds, having apparently been lurking in a nearby tapestry, as one does.
"Detention, Mr. Snape! For an unprovoked attack!"
"Unprovoked? He was throwing literal dungbombs at my head for three hallways!"
She was already gone.
Slughorn would, in his later appending lecture, sigh like Severus has personally disappointed him by the outrageous action of existing. No one mentions Potter. Or Black. Or Avery’s fist. Or Mulciber’s wand.
Later that same day, Dumbledore summons him, which is always worse than detention because it comes with lemon drops and philosophy.
"Severus, my boy," Dumbledore said later in his office, peering over his half-moon spectacles. The twinkle in his eyes was so bright it was legally a hazard. "To forgive is divine. Have a lemon drop. It’s flavored with the tears of those who seek peace."
"I am literally bleeding from the ear, Headmaster."
"Yes, but have you considered not bleeding? It seems rather aggressive. It’s very eye-for-an-eye, isn't it? Very dark. Let's try to be the bigger person, hm?. Also, you have detention with Mr. Filch for the next month."
Having delivered this judgement, Dumbledore smiles in a way that suggests he’s decided Severus will understand when he’s older, which is deeply insulting because Severus is already tired in a way that feels permanent.
Thursday, the Monday of the week’s back half, was no better. Filch, who treats him like a personal affront, made Severus scrub the Trophy Room using nothing but a toothbrush and a bucket of vinegar.
"I hate youths," Filch wheezed, breathing directly into Severus’s personal space. It’s important to clarify that he used the word “youths” with a hard “th”. His breath smelled like wet cat food and bitterness. "I’ve got chains in the basement, you know. Sometimes I go down there and just rattle them to feel something."
"That’s great, Mr. Filch. Really. Can I go? My hands are chemically peeling." Severus has been scrubbing for an hour and the stairs are objectively cleaner than most hospital wards. He’s ready for this day to be over.
"No. Scrub the Special Award for Services to the School until I can see my own misery reflected in it."
Severus wants to scream. Severus does not scream. He considers it, but decides against it. Screaming implies investment.
Friday morning started fine. Severus was exhausted, bruised and smelling faintly of vinegar, but he was holding it together. He sat down at the Slytherin table for breakfast.
He reached for a piece of toast.
The toast was slightly damp.
Not soaked. Just... humid.
Severus looked at the toast. Then he looked at the Great Hall. He looked at Potter, who was currently trying to swallow a whole orange to impress Lily. He looked at the Slytherins, who were debating whether ‘Pureblood’ meant you had to marry your first or second cousin. He looked at the High Table, where Dumbledore was currently braiding his beard and winking at a spoon.
A single, profound thought echoed through Severus’s mind: I am the only person in this building who isn't a complete moron.
He stood up.
"Snape? Where are you going?" Avery asked. "We’re supposed to go to Potions and pretend we aren't huffing the fumes."
Severus didn't answer.
He walked out of the Great Hall. He passed the moving staircases, which were currently attempting to trap a first-year in a loop. He passed the Fat Lady, who was screaming an off-key aria at someone who had very clearly already fled the scene. He walked straight out the front oak doors and onto the grounds.
It turned out that having most of one’s belongings already packed - small, light and unobtrusive, for reasons that had once seemed paranoid but were now proving merely practical - lent itself quite well to sudden departures.
He stopped at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, pulled out his wand and snapped it over his knee.
"Wait,” he muttered. “I need that for the bus." He taped it back together with some Muggle scotch tape he had in his pocket.
And thus ended Severus Tobias Snape’s Hogwarts career.