John received his acceptance letter from Hogwarts when he was eleven.
He left that gray house.
He joined Slytherin.
Because he longed to prove himself.
Longed for power.
Longed to be respected.
Longed never to hear his father say, "You're the fucking same, you little freak," again.
He displayed an astonishing talent for potions at school.
What ran in his blood could not be hidden.
But he was scrawny and silent, dressed in ill-fitting old robes.
His hair was always greasy, because he had washed it with nothing but water at home since he was little; there was no shampoo in the house.
He was mocked.
Shunned.
Treated as a source of amusement by several older students.
He had no friends.
Except one.
A girl.
Her name was-Snape's quill stopped.
He crossed out that line.
Then crossed it out again.
Very hard.
He nearly tore through the parchment.
He did not write the girl's name.
He wrote only one sentence.
"He once met someone warm. But he did not know how to hold on to that warmth, because he had never learned."
Then he skipped all the details in between.
And went straight to the ending.
After graduating, John joined a Dark Wizard organization.
Not out of belief.
But because that organization told him, "Here, no one cares what you wear or who your father is. All we care about is your power."
He believed them.
He gave all his talents to that organization.
Until one day, he realized that everything the organization had given him-belonging, power, worth-was a lie.
But it was too late.
He had already done too many things that could not be undone.
He spent the rest of his life atoning.
Alone.
Quietly.
Behind a desk in a basement.
Marking students' perpetually poor assignments.
Snape