A Break In Routine

The boy had always been a bit small for his age. He was thin and his frame slight. His father told him he was scrawny looking, girly. He was staring determinedly out the window above his bed, he could see a slit of sky, a scattering of stars like chips of broken glass… they did not look friendly tonight. There were the long fingers of his old friend the thick hazel and blackthorn hedgerow made a spiny lower border for the view from small upstairs window.

He flinched as a snippet of the argument downstairs raised above its steady unintelligible mutter.

"Don't you tell me—"

It was his da shouting, the low rumble was familiar, but no less unsettling as it drifted up through the vents into his little upstairs bedroom. He felt his stomach twist uncomfortably as his mother's higher quicker pitch made a retort. It was not like this every night… usually only two or three times a week, more often as of late. He didn't like it. It made him feel queasy, like he would be sick… it was a break in routine, even they had a routine. Friday nights, all through the weekend and usually Wednesday his father came home too drunk to do more than fall into bed, that meant they only argued Mondays, usually about how much he'd spent drinking or Fridays and Thursdays about the fact he would be going out drinking.

As usual, they were speaking at such a volume that his mind could trick itself into putting words to the cadence of the sound… but listening harder he knew he was imagining half of what he heard.

Still, the disquieting scraps drifted upward and washed over his ears a dull roar of sound, his gut tightened uncomfortably.

"The boy—" his father, the deep timbre at its usual roar.

"TOBIAS—"

Snape shuddered. His mother never raised her voice. Her customary low, soothing murmur was raised to a piercing shriek of disdain that made him curl instinctively into a ball. His warm, scratchy woolens were cocooned tightly around his body, despite the heat of the summer night oozing in over the open sill. The worn fibers did little to hamper the adult voices below.

"Hogwash! The lot of it!"

"—going, no matter what you say."

"Head of—" Snape heard a distinct thump and hoped it was his father knocking another dent in their thin grey drywall, and not the alternative, "He'll do what I say he'll do."

"NO!" again, that furious screech, he clapped both small hands over his ears staring blindly out over the night haze of hedgerows and leaning, dilapidated homes and broken stars in a grey clouded sky.

His back ached from his curled position, but he dared not move… it seemed more secure somehow… as if he were protected this way from the horrible things being said below.

Only… only he really wasn't. He felt sick. every word was like cold sharp stone settling on his belly, pressing in past his skin prickling at his stomach. They were fighting over him. It was awful. They fought enough, why should they have to fight over him too?

He vowed to be better tomorrow. Tomorrow he wouldn't run or play too loud and disturb mother. He would help her with dinner and clean up the yard. He would stay quiet when father got home. It felt like a drinking night, so he would just have to stay out of the way for an hour or so… maybe he would go to the park. Da didn't like him to be around for dinner. He ate after, mum kept a plate for him in the oven.

He'd messed up today. He'd only been trying to help. Mum was still trying to plate up dinner and the table was still dirty from lunch… he'd heard da at the door…

He only wanted to help… but the table was too high for him to reach, he was small for his age, five and he couldn't see over the table top… he wouldn't have broken a single dish if da hadn't gotten him by the ear… one of the plates he'd been hovering over to the sink had shattered.

Now the hot ache of his rear end from da's belt was nothing to the roiling nausea in his gut. He would be good tomorrow.

He heard his father bellow something unintelligible before there was a crash… it was really quiet after that and Severus stuffed his pillow between his teeth to muffle his sobs. Mum didn't need to be worrying about him to.

He would be good tomorrow.

He shivered, it was cold out. He could feel the snap of frost on his pale cheeks as the sun went down and his breath was warm fog over his frozen nose and blued lips.

The downstairs light was still on. If he went in before father stumbled to bed, he would get the belt. Even if he didn't do anything more than toe off his shoes and sneak upstairs. He waved his hand impatiently warming the air around him minutely as he huddled down against the thorny hedge. He was getting too big to fit up under the hedge without getting scratches all along the back of his neck and arms… if he ripped his shirt he'd get a hiding…

He was getting good at fixing the little tears. It probably wouldn't be a problem.

As the chill of night grew on he waited staring at the wavering gas light. After what seemed ages, and his toes had become numb, it flickered on then off then on again. Unfolding from his tight space beneath the blackthorn he muffled a groan as his knees and shoulders and back protested moving after perhaps an hour's stillness.

The routine was fine… except that it was getting darker and colder earlier every evening, and father returning home later. He suspected a less hardy child than he would have died of pneumonia by now. He was also beginning to suspect that this might be the intention.

He opened the door soundlessly and eased into the narrow atrium toeing cold leather off his feet and padding in worn woolen socks into the dim kitchen. Mum was sitting at the table. Across from her, in its usual place was his plate.

The woman looked old, her cheeks tight and pinched. Her inky black hair was graying at the temples and a few peppered strands had escaped the low bun and lay clinging to her cheeks, like old spider webs to bone. She smiled, but it only emphasized her skeletal thinness.

Sliding into his seat Severus silently set about his meal. His motions were mechanical, and he barely stopped to chew the steamed carrots and potatoes. Mum would worry if he neglected his veggies. He ate about half of the slice of meatloaf before setting his fork aside and sliding the plate across the table toward the skeletal woman who shared his hair, eyes, and eggshell pale skin.

"I'm full, mum, sorry. Will you finish?" he asked.

She smiled faintly, "Severus, a growing boy needs to eat."

He scrunched up his nose, "I ate the veggies like you like."

She sighed, "Alright, you go on up to bed."

The gaunt child, older than seven but younger than ten, rose from his seat just as silently as he had come. He dropped a dry peck on his mother's upturned cheek, the skin cool and papery feeling to his lips and tiptoed on worn wool clad feet to the stairs. Snape waited at the bottom until his mother began to absently finish off the meatloaf on his plate.

She'd been raised a catholic. She absolutely could not leave food on a plate. But lately, she was always too nervous to eat otherwise. The neighbor ladies whispered in voices just a little too loud strange, meaningless words like "nervous tension" and "depression". Severus didn't like those words. He had a better one, fear.

He'd met a girl at the park today. She had the most brilliant red hair. It was lovely and bright. Much lovelier than other red things, like blood on whiskey bottle glass, and hedgerow thorns, it was cleaner than most other red things, like mum's old scarf and the ball he vaguely remembered playing catch with his Father with once when he was very small.

She was nice.

Maybe, tomorrow she would stay at the park late and he would have somebody to play with while he waited for Father to pass out.

That would be a nice break in the routine.

He'd showed the red girl, Lily. He'd showed her one of his little tricks.

Oh how scared he'd been. Father got so angry to see such "devil's tricks" but the Lily liked them. Lily smiled and laughed and it sounded even lovelier than her cardinal hair looked. He'd showed her a floating ring of daisies and sugar maple helicopters that never stopped spinning. He'd made her smile.

It was even better when she'd showed him a cloud of dandelion fluff that made shapes. She'd made a bunny rabbit, a kitten, and a chick. The chick had made cheeping noises, it made him laugh.

It had taken a long time for him to be able to do the same. It was easy to move one or two things, it was rather difficult to manipulate a whole cloud of dandelion seeds. He'd made a fish and a little fat mouse, for her kitten to eat. It made her laugh. He liked it when she laughed.

Severus had never seen his mum and father really fight till his letter came. He supposed father never really thought it was going to happen. It was much easier to ignore your wife, when she made excuses for her demonic son, then a signed and sealed letter delivered by a great horned owl to your front porch.

He'd gotten the belt for no reason at all and been sent upstairs. Agitated he paced the worn carpet flooring listening to the shouting downstairs.

He preferred the shouting. It meant everyone was whole enough to shout. It was concerning when it got quiet. Quiet meant one of two things, father had passed out from the drink… or mother had. Severus was unsure what was worse, when the tension got to her and she fainted, or father lost his patience…

He shuddered as his mother shouted obscenities he'd never heard even father use.

He sunk down against the edge of his bed resting his head on the mattress. The smell of wool and mustiness had almost been banished by the greenness of summer. He closed his eyes. He couldn't stand it.

Why did it make father so furious? It wasn't an evil thing. Lily could do it to, and she wasn't evil. Lily was nice. Apparently there was a whole school full of kids who did odd things like him. Wasn't that a good thing? Then Severus wouldn't need to be here, always underfoot, being seen and infuriating him.

If he weren't here father and mum would have much less to argue about. If he weren't here, mum wouldn't worry about him, she wouldn't have to stay up late for him to eat. She wouldn't have to stand up to father for him and she wouldn't get hurt.

He cringed as the argument rose to a crescendo pitch each word painfully clear.

His father's roars, his mum screaming her rebuttal, more lively now than she has been in months.

He covered his ears and pulled his blanket over his head. It made little difference.

Drop a review... If you're inclined. I wasn't actually going for angst here... rather the unstable, teetering on the cliff feeling a child gets when the stability of a family is eroding out from under them.