I remember the wallpaper first.
That sickly green with the pattern that never quite matched at the corners. It peeled near the ceiling, curled like old skin. My mother used to smooth it down with the back of her hand, muttering charms that never worked, they never did, not since she broke her wand.
The house always smelled of damp and smoke and gin.
He'd come home late always late the sound of his boots echoing down the hall before he even opened the door. I used to count those echoes. One, two, three... by the fourth, I knew if it was going to be a quiet night or a loud one.
That night was loud.
My mother was at the stove, stirring something thin and gray in a dented pot. She looked up when he came in, her hands already trembling. I remember her hair sticking to her forehead, the shine of sweat at her temples.
Mother spoke first. She always tried. "You're home."
Her voice was soft, too soft it made her sound smaller than she was.
He didn't answer. Just tossed his coat at the wall and missed. The bottle in his hand clinked when it hit the floorboards.
The stove hissed. She stirred again, quick, nervous. "Dinner's ready."
"Dinner," he repeated, like it was an insult. "What is it this time? More of your-"
Then the words started the same ones, every time. About money. About "your kind." About "freak tricks" and "useless mouths."
I didn't understand all of it then. But I understood enough.
I was sitting at the table, pretending to read. The book wasn't even open. My hands were flat on the wood. I could feel the vibrations every time his voice rose
He called her names I still can't repeat.
And she didn't shout back. She never did. She just stood there, thin shoulders shaking, lips pressed tight. That quiet made him angrier than anything.
There was the sound of the ladle clattering against the pot. Then silence.
That was the worst sound nothing at all. Because nothing meant something was about to happen.
Mother said his name, quiet. "Tobias…"
Just that. Like a plea.
"Always muttering, you are," he snapped. "Think I don't hear you? Think your whispering makes it better?"
Her voice broke on the next word. "Please"
He hit the wall first. Always the wall. As if that made it better.
I pressed my hands against my ears. It didn't help, my mouth opened, but no words came out. The sound in my head was too loud my own heartbeat, pounding loud and louder.
Mother moved between us then, quick, desperate. She said my name like it was a spell a soft, trembling sound that almost made me vanish.
"Severus, go upstairs."
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Her voice cracked. "Now."
Words failed him, reason slipped away, and in that heartbeat of rage he hit her.
I didn't think I just moved.
Small feet, bare on cold wood, crossing the kitchen before I even knew I'd stood up. I grabbed his arm. Stupid, really. He barely felt it. He turned on me like I'd burned him.
His hand came down so fast I didn't even see it. Just the sound a crack, sharp, like splitting wood and the sting across my face. My head hit the table edge on the way down.
The world went white, then gray.
I remember my mother's scream. Thin, strangled. Then silence.
When I opened my eyes, I was on the floor. The room tilted, swimming. My cheek was wet. I don't know if it was blood or tears. Maybe both.
He'd gone. I heard the back door slam.
My mother knelt beside me. Her hands fluttered, hesitant afraid to touch. Her voice trembled when she spoke my name.
"Severus, it's all right. It's all right now."
It wasn't. We both knew it.
I looked at her really looked. The bruise blooming across her jaw. The cut on her lip. The way her eyes refused to meet mine.
And I understood something that night.
Magic couldn't fix everything.
Years passed. The world changed, and so did I or perhaps I only learned to hide myself better.
Sometimes I wake in a cold room that isn't Spinner's End, and for a moment I can't tell which life I'm in the boy with the bruised cheek or the man who learned to hide behind them.
I became good at cages. Built them out of duty, out of promises, out of fear. Brick by brick. I told myself it was purpose that I'd chosen this path. But I know better. I didn't choose it. I just kept walking until the walls closed in.
And then came another night. Another scream. Another plea.
Those same green eyes, wide with terror, meeting mine through the ruin I helped create.
I told myself it wasn't my fault. That I didn't choose this. That I was only doing what I must.
But the truth is simpler.
I'm still that boy on the kitchen floor, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, wishing for a kind of magic that could make it stop.