A Collection Of Sketches Motivated By The Question "what If The Abuse Happens But Touya Stays?"

Severus Snape woke early that day, as if his body instinctively knew the internal clock was marking something different, something dreaded. The faint light of dawn barely filtered through the tattered curtains of his bedroom in Spinner’s End. Outside, the January wind moaned softly, dragging dry leaves and memories he would rather not have. There was nothing special about this day, at least not in the way others celebrated birthdays. For Severus, the 9th of January was just another reminder of everything he had lost and all he would never have.

He rose from the bed, and as his feet touched the cold floor, a shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to see the reflection of time in the mirror. He knew his face was a mixture of invisible scars and shadows accumulated over years of internal and external battles. He moved towards the kitchen, where silence was his only companion, save for the creaking of the wood beneath his feet. He prepared a strong cup of tea, without sugar, without milk, just as he preferred, and sat by the window.

From there, he could observe the grey-tinted river, moving slowly, almost as if it too were trapped in an inescapable routine. In the distance, the factory chimneys exhaled their columns of smoke, as if they were the only ones who deigned to sigh for him on this day. The aroma of the tea rose in a fleeting cloud, a brief caress that dissolved before it could be fully enjoyed.

Severus took the first sip slowly, letting the warmth of the liquid spread through his chest. In his mind, memories slid in with a persistence he hadn’t invited. He couldn’t help but return to the days of his childhood, when birthdays were ignored at home, or worse, were days when violence seemed more prone to erupt. His father, Tobias, had never congratulated him, and his mother, Eileen, only cast him a look of pity mixed with exhaustion. Those days taught him that expecting something special was folly.

The clock on the wall struck nine, and Severus stood, leaving the tea half-finished. There was no reason to prolong this inertia. He wrapped himself in his black cloak and stepped outside, where the cold air bit his skin like a reminder that he was alive, though that sensation brought no comfort. He walked aimlessly, letting his steps take him through the deserted streets, past houses that seemed to have surrendered to winter.

He stopped in a small park where he used to play as a child. The metal structures were rusted, and the frost-covered ground crunched under his feet. He sat on a bench and observed the surroundings, almost expecting to see the ghost of his younger self running among the trees, chasing dreams that never came true. Nostalgia tangled in his throat, but there were no tears, only a void that seemed to grow with each passing year.

Around him, the world kept turning, ignorant of his suffering. People came and went, immersed in their own lives, while he, as always, remained on the sidelines, observing but never participating. He wondered if anyone, somewhere, would remember his birthday. Probably not. Even at Hogwarts, his students feared him more than they appreciated him. He wasn’t a man who inspired affection, and he knew that well.

The minutes slipped away like sand through his fingers, and when the sun reached its zenith, Severus stood, feeling he had completed his melancholy ritual. He returned to his house, where the dimness awaited him like an old friend. He removed his cloak and returned to the window, where the river continued its unchanging course.

The day would pass, like all the others, and in the end, the 9th of January would be just another number on the calendar. But, although Severus hated his birthday, he recognised it was part of him, an indelible mark that defined him. He couldn’t escape himself, but neither did he want to. In his pain, he had found a sort of solace, a bitter acceptance that his life was like the river: constant, cold, and always moving, even when it seemed stagnant.

Severus sighed, the sound breaking the silence like a dry leaf underfoot. And then, with a determination he barely understood, he decided that perhaps, just perhaps, next year the day wouldn’t be so grey. But that was a thought for another time. For now, he simply existed, and in his existence, he found a kind of peace.

Old huntlow / TOH art

the gang’s all here we’re like so fucking back

ONE DAY

Hello Zukki Nation, please let me in

About your last post. Canon.

MK can easily climb Wukong like baby monkey and their mom💕

They are so father-son coded I just can’t-

using reblogs as my reposts

School days

James Potter stans will really look at a privileged boy with a loving family and close group of friends, torment and torture another kid because he finds it funny, and write it off as "oh it's just teenagers being teenagers".

And at the same time, see a boy who was relentlessly abused for his whole childhood, was never safe or protected, was vulnerable enough to be taken in by a cult and carried his trauma-based anger into adulthood because he never had the space or support to heal, and they'll act like he's the devil incarnate.

Make it make sense. There's nothing "Oh just teenagers" about what James and co did to Severus. He chose cruelty for cruelties sake and there's no indication that that attitude ever changed. Severus on the other hand, with everything he'd been through, still tried. He recognised the mistakes he made, he carried that guilt and he fought for years, through anger and fear, to make it right.