Tick-Tock, and So It Goes

by Veneficus

I loved to look at his face. Each line told me a story; each scar a nightmarish tale. My friends don't understand my fascination with such an ugly man, even my own family doesn't understand. To me, the face of Severus Snape was one of the most beautiful faces in the world. To them, he is just a childish terror, someone to be certainly respected, but not at all liked. Only my Grandma understands. And now, only my Grandma and I love him.

His hair, so fine and silky, is a mass of greasy strands, oil over ebony, or more like oil over grey now. He has aged so much! When I first saw him, his hair was still a deep black, now years later, it's all a murky greyish color. His hooked nose, now seems bigger than ever, and his black eyes always seem cold and empty (with a few exceptions). The recipients of such warm looks do not include his friends, and not even his own children. But it does include Grandma and me.

The other members of our family claim I'm clearly his little favorite. I won't claim otherwise since I know perfectly well it's the truth. My Dad is wounded when I speak of Severus with pride and love. Although Daddy respects him, I suppose he could never bring himself to truly love Severus as he should. I'm not saying this is not mutual. In fact, I know completely well that this dysfunctional relationship (as all the other ones related to Severus), are completely Severus's fault. His inability to make himself care for others besides Grandma (and it seems me), together with his jealousy created by the minimal things, and his failings in forgetting his past, make him a poor, bitter old man. Alright, they make him an outright bastard. But everything I hear indicates he's always been this way.

Although Grandma claims she never stopped loving him, everybody else doesn't share this opinion. They believe she's just with him because she feels pity. I don't believe it for a second, for an ex-pupil of Severus' will never feel pity for him, not even in the most dire of occasions. If it was so, I suppose Severus' house would be filled with people who weren't able to leave him, for certainly many people had the "pleasure" of seeing Severus in the most pitiful of states. I won't go into it further, because it's no one else's business but Severus'. But I can guarantee, even if my family does not: Severus must have some redeeming qualities, because Grandma certainly loves him, after all these years, even though he's a sodding bastard to all of those around him.

Dad often asks me, what do I find so fascinating in Severus that I could stare at him for hours, even if he glares and insults me nonstop. Although my father doesn't like my answer since he dislikes everything he's unable to understand, I always ask him, how can I not find Severus anything but fascinating? He's mean, yes. But he's kind in is own way. He doesn't give praise, but he does give protection and if you need it enough, comfort. He's cold, but the few moments he warms up, makes these occasions even more special. He's an ugly, lined-face bugger, too mean to die. No, and don't you dare repeat those words for I won't hesitate to hex you, he's simply too content as to keep on living, too smart to let prettiness get in his way, and each line on that pale face, tell me a story of courage, determination, and valor.

I strongly believe Severus has great motives to act the way he acts. I also know, that Grandma understands them, for she wouldn't let her family live under the conditions others sometimes call emotionally abusive. I think Severus does love Grandma, and does love Dad, and does love Aunt Minerva, and his eldest son, my Uncle Lucius. I also think he loves the little dunderheads, which is what he calls my cousins and brothers instead of calling them grandchildren. I don't know why everybody is so bothered by it. After all, Severus calls me silly little girl, and most often than not Infuriating-Know-It-All, and I don't mind it in the last bit. I notice the softening in his eyes when he calls us that, but apparently no one else, besides Grandma and I, does.

I remember once being seated-half wrapped around his legs, looking up at his face, and trying to decipher the tales that his scowling mouth and lined face told. He wasn't paying the last bit of attention to me, and his usual glare was focused on Grandma. I remember that she said she loved him, giving him her soft smile all the while, and his glare just turned even colder. Grandma smiled warmly even more at this, and Severus just scowled. Out of nowhere, he said to her: "Leave me, Hermione". Her response was: "Never my husband". This conversation struck me even then as weird. But the look on each other's faces, was more poignant than any other whispered words of love could hope to be.

So I'll never dare to pretend or even try to understand the puzzle that is my dear Grandfather, Severus Snape. I won't try to mend the rifts between him and his three children (and many grandchildren), and I won't pretend that my Dad is not right. His father IS a great bastard. Severus should probably never fathered those three children, but since I'm proud of being his granddaughter, to that I'll just say 'eh'. My Grandmother loves him, he loves her; I love him, and I'm not sure he loves me, but I'm ever hopeful. His children while not really loving him, like him enough to respect him; and his other grandchildren, the older ones, will respect him, and the younger ones will grow up enough to stop crying every time they see him.

I've been sitting around his legs from the first moment I saw him 10 years ago. I'm now seventeen, and I'm not ashamed to say I still haven't stopped. Until he's still alive I'll never stop. Even if I have grandchildren myself, and if by some dumb luck Severus Snape is still around, I won't stop. His frail hand at the top of my brown colored, bushy-haired hair (I'm the one in the family with such blasted hair, besides Grandmother Hermione) tells me what he with words cannot. When his black eyes look at my brown ones, I sometimes see regret; I'm not sure for what, but I won't ask since I don't dare intrude on his privacy. I look at his creased face, and wonder at the stories they are begging to tell. I ask myself if my Grandfather will ever gather the strength to tell them to me. But then I realize, I don't want those stories to be told! His wrinkled face adds to the mystery of one of the greatest spies of the century(at least to me). I'll never tire myself from looking at him, and finding the man no one else besides another person bothered finding. Even if my Dad or the entire Wizarding world don't understand, it's none of their business anyway. I love my grandfather, I'm proud of who he is, and if my fascination with his wrinkles is slightly weird, well, that's just between me and him.

The End

A/N: I don't know how I came up with the idea for this story. I know even less, how I came up with the title. It just seems to fit somewhere, somehow :). You might find some mistakes, since I didn't have a beta reader and English is not my first language. The story stands as a one-shot for now. Thank you for reading it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling is the great genius who invented Harry Potter, and I'm just playing with the characters.