1966

Summary: One-Shot on Snape's past, told from the POV of his childhood friend, pre-hogwarts.

Rating: R, language, implied abuse, implied sexual situations, implied drug use.

There was this boy I use to know, he lived just round the corner from me. Shaun came from a rough home, the type of place with car parts scattered across the front lawn and pieces of this and scraps of that on the front veranda, a testament of his elder brother's incomplete projects. We came from one of the most impoverished parts of the United Kingdom, so I guess we all came from rough homes. But he, I reckon, had it worst.

Things went on in that house that you just didn't talk about back then. A drug dependant mother that liked to sell her body to inject that crap into her arm. I suppose it wouldn't have mattered a great deal, if she didn't bring clients home, if her children didn't have to sit on the front step until the sleazy man of the hour walked out the front door, winking at the kids as he left. He had no father, or at least one that played a significant role in his life. Walked out when he was a baby, his mother said, usually blaming it all on him. My Mam said his father could have been half of England. Not to me, of cause. It was one of those conversations I wasn't supposed to hear.

There were 5 kids in that family, and he was the youngest. Most of the kids in that neighbourhood wore second hand clothes and their families lived on pensions, sometimes they had the luxury of having another form of income. Legal or otherwise. But when we started school, our parents would try to get us a relatively new uniform, or on our birthdays, we'd get something nice. But his Mam would forget about his birthday, or forget he needed to go to school. I'm sure she forgot she even had that little boy sometimes.

I'd see him sometimes, with bruises on his arms. Hand prints, as though someone had held him down. Cuts down his legs, burns and other marks that, had they been seen today, The Department of Community Services would be knocking down the door to that run down hut, demanding they see the child. But you just didn't talk about it back then.

I have to wonder now, if that's what we saw, what happened that we didn't? While I have no doubt his elder siblings helped to give him the endless supply of scars, looking back, I realise his mother's frequent male visitors probably did more.

Yet, for the terrible cards fate had handed him, he managed to rise above it and break all the stereotypes and expectations placed on 'our kind'.

We had been friends since before I could remember. We just stuck by one and other, running a riot through the neighbourhood with Billy and Paul. We'd do stupid things, we'd set things on fire, and we'd steal things from the shop in the next town. I remember, he was the best at that, stealing things, the sneaky little bugger. But what he was better at was bullshitting his way out on any trouble we landed in. He was so believable, the stories he'd cook up, that I had myself believing them half the time. Cunning, he was.

And clever. There was a reason nobody made much of themselves in our town – not because we lacked intelligence, although most did – but because we were told we did. It was drummed into us from an early age that we were the bottom rung of society and that's were we would remain.

But he was intelligent beyond the rest of us. I wonder if he ever realised that? Teachers would tell him, our parents would tell him, we would tell him. I don't think he ever cared, he just wanted a job and to be free of his family.

He spent a lot of time at my house. I didn't have the best family situation, but all I had to do was look at his family to realise how good I had it. He told me he loved his time at my house, that he wished his mother was like my Mam. At the time, having a woman jump on you every second for stepping a foot out of line, I thought he was crazy and told him so. Now, well I guess I agree with him.

I never really saw him scared or really angry, but I know it was there, underneath his cool demeanour.

There was once though, when I really saw him shaken.

There wasn't much to do round our place, so we'd make do with what he had, and had started playing 'chicken' on the train lines that we passed on the way to school. Stupid thing, all started as a dare.

The 4 of us would all stand on the line the steam trains used. The line that ran parallel was used by the electric trains, which we knew would kill us if we jumped on them. So we'd all stand on the track, as a train approached. First to jump was chicken, the last was the winner.

This one day, the four of us stood on the tracks as the train approached, Billy and I jumped, then Shaun and Paul. But, for some reason, Paul jumped the wrong way. Fear, perhaps? I remember seeing the fear on Shaun's face that day, starting at the train. As soon as it passed, we saw Paul, lying on the live electric rails, smoke rising from his body. We knew he was dead, but we had no idea what to do.

I saw Shaun's head jerk up, and in seconds, an electric train coming towards Paul's body. Shaun started waving franticly, trying to get the driver to stop. I turned and saw Billy, frozen, staring at his best friend, slain on the tracks. I turned back, the look of horror passing over the drivers face as he noticed Paul on the tracks. An almighty screech sounded as he slammed the brakes, but it was too late.

I don't know if I fainted or went into shock, but the next thing I remember is police and ambulance surrounding us. Billy was wrapped in blankets, obviously in more shock than I. But Shaun, the look on his face will haunt me forever. There was the horror I felt, the fear and anger at our own stupidity. But there was more, as though it was not the first time he'd seen something so traumatic. Looking back, I realise he'd probably endured more than I'll ever know.

Then I turned to the tracks, and the sight of my friend scattered across the line as police picked up pieces of him will never leave me. The blood, the gore, the utter horror.

We never played chicken again.

We were all eight.

About 2 weeks after that, a man claiming to be Shaun's uncle turned up in our town. Septimus Snape, he said his name was. I remember making fun of Shaun about it, saying he had a stupid name, just like his middle name, Severus. He'd just roll his eyes and tell me to sod off.

The next day, he disappeared. My Mam tried to get answers from Shaun's mother, but she was too off her face to say anything intelligent.

I always wonder what happened to him. Mam got a letter the next year, assuring her she was safe. At a boarding school – offered a scholarship due to his natural intelligence.

She thought it was codswallop. But she had no choice but to believe it, she had no idea where he was, or how to find him.

But as I sit here, with an acceptance letter for a school I've never heard of, let alone applied for, inviting my second child to attended in September. Telling me about Wands and Cauldrons and Diagon Alley. I wish he was here, he'd tell me what nonsense it was, that there's no such thing as magic, if you can't see it, feel it, or touch it, it doesn't exist. Then he'd probably say what I stupid git I was for naming my eldest son Shaun after him.

But he's not, and that little voice of reason that normally deals with these problems (and ironically, has his voice) isn't there this time.

I really could use your voice of reason now, Shaun.

But it's not there. My son, his older sister, my wife, they all seem keen on the idea of having a wizard in the family. It looks like we're on our way to find this 'Diagon Alley'

If you were here Shaun, you'd be pissing yourself laughing at me, wouldn't you?

Of cause you would, you stupid git.

Might continue with a story of Shaun at Hogwarts, but I highly doubt it. It was more of a one-shot at a Snape past. If you have any questions (being done how it is, It doesn't explain everything) feel free to email me and I'll answer. Reviews are nice, kids!!