SNAPE, SEVERUS TOBIAS

[SEVERUS TOBIAS SNAPE]

The Revolution Has Begun

"There's no need to call me sir Professor."



FULL NAME: Severus Tobias Snape
NICKNAMES: git, greasy git, bat, bastard, sev, sir, snivellus
AGE: 42
BIRTHDAY: January 9th
SEXUALIY: Straight
BLOODLINE: Halfblood
HOUSE: Slytherin
YEAR: Graduated
JOB: Hogwarts Potions Master, Slytherin Head of House
SIDE: Double Agent / Order Spy
SPECIES/SPECIAL ABILITIES: Occlumenency & high toxin resistance
CANON: Yes.


"You don't know what I'm capable of, you don't know what I've done!"



GENERAL APPEARANCE: Severus Snape is a tall, long limbed man with a penchant for wearing clothing as dark and austere as his personality. It is often noted that his robes billow out behind him as he walks, which has led to students referring to him as the great bat of the dungeons. All in all he makes for a rather imposing figure, his expression almost always one of the utmost disdain and his soulless black eyes always half a second away from being fixed upon some poor unfortunate soul in a fierce glare.

Creases upon his forehead and lines of displasure have come to mark him over the years, and his eyes are rarely complete without dark circles beneath them, though he seems no worse the wear for any lack of sleep that he may or may not be experiencing. His black hair reaches to his shoulders and seems stringy and in need of a good wash more often than not, though in actuality it is quite soft and its appearance likely has something to do with the potions he brews, some residue perhaps. And let us not forget his most prominent feature and the thing for which he was often teased and bullied as a child, his large, hooked nose.

MOST LIKED FEATURE: None
MOST HATED FEATURE: Nose.
HERITAGE: British
Born to Eileen Prince, a promising young witch from a pureblood family, and her muggle husband Tobias Snape. His heritage and mother's maiden name garnered him the nickname "The Half-Blood Prince" though likely this was used merely for his own personal notes, as none of those questioned who had attended class with him seemed to know anything about it.
ETHNICITY: Caucasian


"The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure."



GENERAL PERSONALITY: Severus Snape is a secretive, solitary man and, as such, very little of his private life is known even to those who would profess to 'know him fairly well.' He retains much of his boyhood respect for the power of silence, speaking only when he deems it absolutely necessary.Instead, he relies upon his considerable presence, something that is much akin to a passing storm. His goal: to inspire fear and loathing in those around him, for experience has taught him that fear and loathing are emotions that he has had plenty time to learn how to properly deal with unlike the softer emotions, love for example. It is often speculated that this particular man will be doomed to a life of perpetual misery and bachelorhood.

To students and faculty alike, Snape is a cold man with a stern streak a mile wide. He isn't the sort to repeat himself and, having little time for dallying or foolish games and questions, he expects those who interact with him to pick up on this sooner rather than later, lest they wish to be on the recieving end of a series of scathing remarks about their conduct, intellect, and so forth. His schooling days, as well as a number of years in the service of the Dark Lord, have taught him that one must be the epitome of strength and reserve in order to remain on top, for the one who showcases any sign of weakness is to be destroyed. So it is that he spends much of his time attempting to impart this crucial life's lesson upon his students, hoping that they will refrain from following in his footsteps and ruining their lives..and, of course, if this method of coping with his own decisions manifests itself as favoritism toward a certain house, then so be it.

If one were ever to bypasss the mental guards and general coldness that he employs to distance others, the masks and insults and so forth, one would find a broken man beneath them. A still burning love for one Lily Potter serves as both one of the main directives and the main problems in his life and, knowing full well that he cannot have her, he has resigned himself to protect both the woman herself and that which is precious to her which, summarily, means ensuring that she is kept at a distance. Needless to say, Severus spends many a private moment reflecting on the wrongs that he has done, the stupidity of his youth, and the years lost that he can neither retrieve nor recreate. Emulating unimaginable cruelty when he stands with the Death Eaters and their like, and stark indifference when standing beside his love and the other members of the order, he is a broken man who both fears and longs for death.
HOBBIES:

• experimenting with new spells
  
• brewing potions
  
• reading
  
• oganizing and categorizing his private stores

DISLIKES:

• James Potter
  
• the majority of the student body
  
• grading
  
• spoiled children (okay...children in general)
  
• fools
  
• werewolves
  
• the marauders
  
• reminders of the past
  
• The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters

LIKES:

• firewhiskey
  
• Lily Potter
  
• solitude
  
• reading
  
• potions
  
• knowledge for the sake of knowledge

FEARS:

• That he will one day be the cause of Lily Potter's demise.
  
• The Dark Lord standing victorious over the wizarding world.

SECRETS:

• To live with all that he has done and has still yet to do in order to retain his position as 'one of the faithful,' Severus is often plagued by terrible nightmares that have since led him to dose himself with increasing amounts of dreamless sleep draught over the years.
  
• Severus Snape is still desparately in love with Lily Potter, despite appearances to the contrary.

"I enjoyed the meetings, too. It was like having friends."



GENERAL HISTORY: Tobias Snape had seemed the ideal man, hook-nosed but not revolting, powerful by muggle standards, and fairly well off. However, his union with one Eileen Prince revealed another facet of his personality, a temper stoked by fear that made itself known shortly after she revealed to him that she was pregnant, though it was not until she'd birthed young Severus and the boy was revealed to have inherent magical abilities (something of which Tobias had not been aware of in his wife) that he began drinking and the shouting matches between the two began, leading often to violence.

Right up until the time Severus attended Hogwarts, his mother taught him little snippets, gave him books that would allow him to excel in secret until he could be sent off to learn all that he could..and in that time and the time during Severus' attendance of Hogwarts, Eileen learned obedience and the ability to cower in corners as Tobias became ever more violent, and Severus tried to become indifferent to all that went on around him, taking to ignoring his mother's cries and his father's shouts until one day it all became to much and he ran off. That was the day he met her, Lily Evans. She was a charming girl who shared his peculiarities (magical abilities) and had only kind words for him. They should be friends she told him, and little Severus jumped at the chance. He'd never had a friend before.
-----
Then came Hogwarts, a place of further torment. Nicknamed Snivellus by 'The Marauders' a group of what Severus liked to think of as delinquent Gryffindors led by the Potter/Black duo James and Sirius, he found himself often humiliated and ridiculed. Hexes abounds found their way to him without provocation and Severus himself began creating spells for the sake of self-protection.

During these first years, Lily was his rock, always there for him with a kind word. The two were near inseperable for quite some time, always sitting together when given the chance and pooling their notes and abilities for study sessions. Perhaos that is what attracted the marauders to him, James's need to be the superior man (then boy), to get him out of the picture...and when certain Gryffindors began making a right fool of him in from of Lily, he was mortified and in his panic he uttered the word that ought not be said, that he would never say again. 'Mudblood.' He hadn't meant it then, could never bring himself to say it again afterward. Day after day he sought her out, trying in vain to apologize, finding her guarded by James and his cronies. Day after day he endured their tortures and by night he sat outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower hoping she would respond to one of his owls and come out to have a word with him.

It was some weeks later when she finally allowed him to speak with her, some weeks later when he saw James Potter kissing her and the apologies dried up and died in his troat. T-that...that filthy mudblood. He hadn't meant to say it then either and shorrtly thereafter he learned of despair beyond measure.

His first brush with suicide was to be his last, for as the lank, greasy-haired teen had lain bleeding one night in one of the towers, he was happened upon by Lucius Malfoy, the regaled Prince of Slytherin, who made as to take Severus under his wing, to introduce him to his followers, and who eventually brought about his turn toward the Dark Lord, as well as that of many others. Slytherin, he had found, was a family, and the Dark Lord offered a continuation of that family, a mark that proved to the world that he was a part of something, that he was wanted and accepted by someone.
-----
Years of terror and pain ensued. Torture, rape, more than he'd expected to say the least, and in each muggle brutalized, each slaughtered, he saw his mother, cowering, being beaten again and again by her abusive and domineering husband until he'd beaten the life out of her. He saw the faces of the dead at night, heard their cries and their whispers, endured their damnation as those around him seemed not to, and all the while he continued to pull forth knowledge, to drown in it, to use it as an escape and to make himself useful to the Dark Lord in a way that would not so often lead him into those brutal hunting parties.

Then came the attack. Through the years, his love for Lily hadn't lessened, even knowing that she'd married that Potter prat. That, he reasoned, was his own fault, but the attack...he couldn't allow her to die, the thought of her life being snuffed out, of those brilliant green eyes going dark as the life slowly faded from them was a thought that he could not bear. He vowed to protect her then and there, and pledged himself to the order, becoming the a double agent so that he might pass on information to the Order and prepare them for any such future attacks. Lily, of course, could never know of the reason for his cchange of heart, and he refused to allow himself to grow close to her once again. It was best that their split remain. She wouldn't be his, but she would be safe and, for Severus, that would have to be enough.

Of course if was one matter to brush her aside in public and quite another to push her away when she'd come to him for help, so when she ended up on his doorstep one night, his mask slipped and fell away for the first time in years. He invited her inside and the night that followed isn't something that he can put out of his mind with ease. If anything, his barriers where Lily Potter are concerned are now shaky at best, even if Snape himself is loath to admit it, their child being the symbol of what what once was and could be...might have been if he hadn't demanded custody of the child, refusing to relinquish him to a life with James bloody Potter as his father. He has since raised Ethan as his own, keeping secret the other half of the boy's parentage. Still, he wishes that she allowed him to take his daughter as well. The thought of the girl growing up believe that she's James's child is enough to make his blood boil.

FAMILY: Tobias Severus Snape - father, muggle, possibly alive
Eileen Renee Prince - mother, witch, deceased


"Make way for the heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through..."



ROLEPLAY SAMPLE:((okay so it isn't a Snape sample, but I couldn't find any that would suit this AU Snape and I want to get around to roleplaying...so now for something completely different, NAVY MEN! o.o))

Partly drawn curtains shielded Horatio from the few other men currently occupying the sick berth, all with wounds and ailments less than that undertaken by the fifth lieutenant who lay still, his breathing finally coming in slow, rhythmic pulls. Eventually they would be moved aside. The door would be opened. The men would be ordered to return to their respective duties, and Horatio would lay still and silent upon his sickbed, the slow rise and fall of his too thin chest the only sign that life was still yet within him. Though he had now been granted more then two hours rest there in the sick berth, the young lieutenant had yet to stir. Lids fluttered but did not open, the eyes behind them darting wildly to and fro at one at moment and relaxing into an uncanny stillness in the next. Before his mind's eye a series of familiar scenario's played themselves out. He was a boy again. Young and blameless, careless even at times, though his father had not allowed him the liberty of such carelessness for long. He'd never been given the chance to grow into the foolhardy wildness that had taken the other boys up in its arms, lending a spirit of excitement to the most dangerous of tasks. A single, daring exploit in his youth had robbed him of his lust for such wild extremes as that which the local boys often attended, quelling his spirit for a time in that regard and, while it had yet to make him entirely obedient, it did well enough to calm him. Pale, awkward Horatio with his haphazard curls and dragging smock, always under his father's heel, always finding the proper, if somewhat half-hearted scolding for placing himself in the way.

The other boys had been unable to understand his need to put away childish things when his mother had fallen ill. Still running blindly through life with children's hearts an understandings, they had not been able to express more than a single fleeting regret over her eventual passing. Horatio's eyes had then been marked with a certain melancholy, though he did well to hide it from his father, the man having become an absolutely picture of misery without his ever present light beside him. To him, a new man, a man bordering on ruin, Horatio had been little more than an unwanted burden. Once cherished, now regarded with a certain harshness, though his father had always done right by him. A classical education and then the naval academy. It was for the best, or so his father had told him upon finding that the boy absolutely no talent for the mixing of medicines or tending of wounds. A disaster, that's what he' been whenever he' been left in his father's office. A supreme disappointment. Leaving one thing to pasty when tending to a particular mixture and another abandoning another half mixed with half the wrong ingredients stirred into it, a deadly concoction sure to have killed rather than mended had his father not caught it in time, giving him a sharp reprimand for his foolish inattention to detail. But he'd meant it well by it....they both had, and therein had lain the problem. All time after this particular occurrence was spent in reserved study, his wild curls being the only thing sure to be visible over the top of a book held aloft before him. It was a common enough occurrence, after all, to find the boy with his nose buried far into the pages of this or that classic or textbook, something which later lead him to experience a further discomfiture around his fellow midshipman when, at last, he'd been granted first commission.

Even before his mother had passed into the world beyond, Horatio had always found him ill at ease and out of place. A sense of failure had pervaded him and he'd always wanted nothing more than to dive into the sea and lie there among the waves in uninterrupted solitude. It had been an odd manner of thought for a boy to have, and he'd been distantly aware of the fact at the time, choosing to pay it no mind, but the other boys had eventually taken to noticing. They'd teased him about it mercilessly after he'd let his grander dreams slip in front of them one day. He wanted to become something great, to do a duty worth doing, to find himself a place out at sea. A doctor's son looking for glory out amongst the waves. It was near to being unthinkable. "And what about Nelson? What about Horatio Nelson?" He'd snapped at them in a high, warbling boy's voice, untouched by the deepenings of tone brought on by adulthood. At the time he'd been unimaginably angry, little fists clenched tightly at his sides, nails biting into his palms to form little crescents as his knuckles pulled and paled against bone. Spitting out his own name with no small amount of pride and a surprising deal of force behind it, he'd succeeding in quieting them for a time. Though in the end their laughter had found him, redoubled, wounding a growing pride. He wasn't sure he' recovered, even when they'd all ceased their mockery and name calling and gone back to being mates the very next day, trading blows with sticks in the schoolyard and calling it sport or game, spending on the day. The schoolyard games and backyard brawls were not things in which he'd tried to take part. Being small, mousy, and, for all intents and purposes, nearly as weak as a babe, he'd not been the type inclined to trading blows, but instead had taken to books and the more tedious tasks of schooling in much the same fluid and natural manner as a fish took to water, gliding effortlessly through his studies, especially mathematics, as though he'd been born to live the scholar's life. He had fast become the solitary little boy whose shyness knew few bounds, whose ship was a pig-trough, and whose ocean was the vast emptiness populated with fields and buildings rather than people. But his father had always had high hopes for the boy, had known of the little journal that Horatio kept tucked under his pillow (effectively hidden away from prying eyes - or so he'd always believed). It was childish, to pen one's secrets in an unsteady scrawl and believe that none would come across them and, by the time he'd found himself in the naval academy, he'd resolved to put away such childish dealings. In a manner of speaking, he'd succeeding in doing just that.

Though he hadn't made anything of himself to start with, had instead come aboard his first commission, the Justinian, with a pale countenance that had fast taken on a sickly green tinge, his stomach threatening to empty it's contents upon the deck after every meal (which it had - to his misfortune - done a time or two before his fellow midshipman), he'd held to the hope that he might do a job worth commending. Simpson, the eldest of the midshipman amongst them, had a min to make it otherwise, to transform his life into a living hell. So Horatio had faced the dizzying punishment that was suspension in the riggings, sea salt clinging to his clothing in ever increasing amount whenever the spray of a wave crashing against the ship's hull managed to reach him. By the end he'd sworn that he could taste the sea and that he himself likely tasted more of sea salt than of sweat. of course, proper form did not allow for him to ask another to test his half-cracked theory, leaving the boy, then 17 (far too old for the starting of such a commission). As ever, he was marked as the one falling just behind and had resolved that it would not be so forever. Though there was many a time when both that resolve and his always hastily retrieved courage ha nearly failed him entirely. Many a time aboard the Justinian, under Simpson's threatening gaze, had he been ever so close to giving up all of his boyish hopes and dreams, abandoning those last few scraps of childish innocence that clung to him as Simpson so wished him to do. He thought that it might have been better to die on the inside whilst providing the face of a strong countenance, an outer shell much like a hull that was not to be breached under any circumstance. But breached it had been, and it had been Mr.Clayton, a fellow midshipman, who had found him in a most unbecoming state. Staring forward into the distance, his expression fixedly morose and nor did the other ask it of him. Instead they merely stood together in companionable silence, staring out at the mist rising slowly around them, blanketing the night with a thick fog. An what had he done? He'd told the man that he'd been thinking on death...his own, and had been surprise when the either had not spared him the expected mocking or standard ridicule, but had laid an understanding hand upon his shoulder.

In his sleep, Horatio shrugged, trying to rid himself of both the hand and the sympathetic image of the man attached to it. This wasn't something from which he was meant to bounce back. This wasn't a mere bout of teenage depression borne of a simple mistreatment by Simpson. That much he had been able to force himself to endure. If Archie had been able to do as much after the horrors that had befallen him at Simpson's hands - the hushed words of such force and deeds shaking Horatio's faith in humanity for a time (or it would have had Archie not been at his side, speaking to him in a low voice full of a forgiveness for mankind that Horatio wouldn't have possessed in his position.) But Archie had always been the better man. Horatio was bitter, inwardly set on a path toward self-destruction and, at last, it seemed tht he had achieved it. Reckless deeds finally failing to go unheeded..for once he'd chosen a none too careful route, and had found his will unequal to the task of traversing it. This time he faced the music. He hated music for all its discordant jangling. It grated on his nerves as his own failure to do his duty to the utmost of his ability grated upon his soul. In his sleep he shifted, arms curling closer toward his head, the one pillowed under it shifting ever so slightly, leaving his head to sink deeper into the small pillow that had earlier beens et under it. His wild curls, now unbound from the neat queue into which they'd been forcibly bound, now spilled freely out over the pillow, framing his face in such a way that his features, though pale and drawn, appeared all the more childlike and innocent. Unfit to bear the burden that he had recently been forced to bear in the service of the crown. The boy who'd fled the church as soon as his father had turned a blind eye to him, disallowing himself to believe in such fanciful notions as the existence of some all powerful being who spent his time watching over the lot of them, judging and condemning on a whim. He was a damned soul at last, he'd gained his just words for failing his own person god. An angel fallen from grace, it's wings torn asunder, it's body battered, broken, and bruised, it's mind all a shambles, longing to spend an eternity lost in places of the past instead of waking from the dream and continuing along on the path of life.

It was funny how the mind played tricks on a man during his final hours. Not that Horatio had any way of knowing that he would be forced into wakefulness rather than delivered into the arms of the almighty. Forced to meet his failure head on before the very man whom he had tried his utmost to keep from disappointment. A soft murmur escaped from between barely parted lips and the pattern of small swells and valleys that made up the strikingly visible outline of young man's ribs rose and fell more quickly as Horatio was pulled once more toward the world of the living. Back to duty. Damned duty. Which he had no right partaking in. Which he could not give effort enough to partake in successfully. A cough jerked him announcing the presence of his returned mind before his eyes slitted open, threatening to close again against the onslaught of dim light given off by nearby oil lamps. Head pounding time to a score written for rather formidable war drums, Horatio's eyes slipped shut again and he let out a pain groan, breath hitching painfully at the end at which point he began coughing. Well that's a new development,' his mind remarked in an off-handed sort of way, as though entirely detached from his current predicament and deplorable state of weakness. The failure of a lieutenant slit his eyes open carefully against the light once more, allowing him a field of vision just broad enough to reveal a figure at his bedside sitting in a chair that looked marvelously uncomfortable.

For several moments Horatio stared at the familiar and wholly unexpected figure. Commodore Edward Pellew sat watching him, hands folded in his lap a manner that bespoke of an urgent worry needing to be quelled before it was discovered. But no, he must have been mistaken about that much of it, must have been playing upon his own fanciful wishes, for the man's usual sternness had settled in almost immediately. Surely the man wondered only what had become of him in so short a time. Such great heights he had planned to ascend to, had being the operative word as his gaze unfocused, pushing past Pellew's straight-backed form. The man's presence was, as ever, impressive, even in the cramped sick berth with its dizzying aroma of dirty bodies and dried sweat mixed with sea salt and the unmistakable tang of blood...likely his own. This too Horatio remarked upon from that distant place reserved for man who had fallen so far as not to care, and yet even as he forced himself to believe that he was one more bygone man meant to be tossed over the ship's side, his heart ached with the knowledge that he had given up so easily, that he could not find in himself the strength to go on, withdrawn, Horatio had not greeted the other man as, perhaps, he should have, as proper etiquette demanded he do, but to fight back against Sawyer and his maddened tyranny any longer. That he had let such a vile man claim victory was inexcusable, and it was this more than anything that gouged him more deeply that had the bullet which had lodged itself into his shoulder some two weeks prior. His shoulder ached as he immediately pushed himself into a sitting position, swaying back and forth unsteadily like a buoy out on the open sea. "Commodore Pellew, Sir, I...." Horatio trailed off, aware, not for the first time, that no excuse would be forthcoming this time around, that nothing could justify his actions. Passed out on deck before the senior officers, not to mention a Captain whom he held in the highest regard. he felt a fool for even thinking to try reaching for an excuse and felt his cheeks flush. It was the first color that they had seen in them since his stint in the riggings and was refreshing to see, even if the color was one born of potent mixture of embarrassment and shame. Tongue now effectively stilled, Horatio's shoulders slumped, his posture and expression both suddenly displaying his feelings of abject defeat. He'd been in far too many situations where due expediency of the tongue was required for the sake of their continued existence among the waves, and thus could not long stay the verbal proof of his failure that threatened to make itself known. "I can offer neither reason nor excuse for my dishonorable behavior this evening." 'And Sir, I do hope that you'll not ask it of me...because I can't give it, I just...I can't....I've failed his majesty and I've failed you.' As per usual, Horatio had both easily and willingly placed all the weight of blame upon himself, as though he believed himself born for the lone purpose of struggling beneath it and failing as he must. His mind was a treacherous thing, threatening, as he spoke, to transfigure his hard set jaw and averted gaze into a new brand of wretchedness, one that came with tears and trembling.

He struggled to find an adequate phrasing, something more, something to convey his feelings on the matter, his supreme regret, but found that, as seemed customary, in so far as those others aboard the Renown were concerned, he had not the happy talent for verbal prose that the other officers possessed. Archie, Bush, and Pellew himself possessed the gilded tongues that drew men to a stilled silence whenever they chose to speak on a matter, be it in censure or praise, friendship or enmity. Even an excuse felled from their lips turned into an absolute truth, pure and simple and easy to swallow down. He, on the other hand had not lost his boyish awkwardness. Long gangly limbs that seemed so out of place upon his body were not the only left over hindrances from his youth. His inability to express himself still clung to him, a certain cloying shyness still fixing itself upon him, words finding themselves caught up in his throat whenever conveying them was of the utmost moment. They choked him, robbed him of reason, and left him feeling the fool. That blurting out of the truth had done him in, to be sure, but he had no other to cover it at present and could not seem to fashion anything from the air with any haste as another officer might have done when left in close quarters of such dangerous shoals. He was a fool indeed. His cheeks flamed a more visible rouge and he bowed his head under the unbearable weight of his shame, no longer feeling that he had the right to meet Pellew's stern gaze.

"And I know that I cannot hope to expect your forgiveness." A single hot tear blazed itself a trail down his cheek, leaving the tang of saline in its wake, and Horatio bowed his head further to hide it from view, hoping against hope itself that Pellew would not first catch sight of it and use it to further compound the evidence against him. His breath hitched a moment on forgiveness, as though the act of saying it alone would grant him all of that which it entailed, as though that word alone could prove to be his salvation when it came time to step forth from the sick berth to face the storm of rage that was the ship's captain, knowing full well that their next confrontation would likely be their last if he were to resume his duties in his current state of mind, and that the overall victory would most assuredly not be his own.


"Reading between the lines, I’d say she thinks you’re a bit conceited, mate."



NAME: Seri
AGE: 20
GENDER: Female
YEARS ROLEPLAYING: A lot (translation:8+)
LOCATION: Everywhere
HOW DID YOU FIND US: I followed a rainbow to its end.

[LILY JANE POTTER]

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