Severus Snape

October 24, 1975. The quiet rustle of autumn leaves, the dim golden rays of the sun hidden under soft, snow-white clouds. The silence was oppressive. Some were practicing Quidditch in their free time, others were doing homework. But Severus Snape, a quiet, secretive Slytherin boy, was sitting in the library. He held a heavy, dusty library book in his hands. The title was unreadable, but it was immediately clear it had something to do with the Dark Arts. James Potter had long since spread rumors that he would be the next Death Eater. Snape occasionally spent time with other Slytherins, but he enjoyed talking most with Lily Evans. A beautiful, red-haired beauty. Could she really be friends with such a freak? Snape flipped through the pages, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt collar, feeling an unknown surge of anger or fatigue. Twenty minutes ago, he'd been caught by marauders; they'd tripped him and placed a pie under his face to leave some kind of mark on it. He'd had to wash his face, but now he looked neater... almost. Greasy black shoulder-length hair, eerily pale and thin, and a hooked nose to boot. A real ugly man! It would be fine if he washed his hair properly and washed it more often, preferably if he thought about his physical fitness and went outside, but he refused. Snape closed the heavy book when he finished reading and then put it back on the low shelf. The fifth-year student tiredly ruffled his hair, feeling strangely tired. He'd probably slept poorly because of his classes. Exams weren't that soon, but for Snape, this was practically a disaster. He constantly pored over these books, as if in five minutes he'd be forced to write not OWL, but TOAD. People called him different names: "upstart, know-it-all, Snotty," and some even called him a chick or a monster. Although he didn't pay attention, the resentment was still there. But he didn't remain silent. He spat venom.