Severus had never truly understood… or perhaps, deep down, he understood all too well why he was always the centerpiece for the Marauders’ twisted diversions.

He often wondered about the distorted fixation they held for him. Why him, when the wizarding world was teeming with others? But then the bitter realization would strike: he was the perfect target. Solitary, eccentric, and utterly devoid of an ally. In the end, Severus Snape was nothing more than a cheap toy for them to mold, a perennial punchline for the collective stress-relief of all Hogwarts.

This was how Severus found himself sprawled in a puddle of icy water, the Highland winter chill seeping through his frayed robes and biting deep into his marrow. James Fleamont Potter had seized his lank, sodden hair with brutal force, wrenching it backward. The yank was so violent it made the vertebrae in his neck creak, forcing his face upward in a posture of agonizing humiliation.

"Oh, sorry Snivellus, we just wondered if you’d like to purify yourself a bit this morning."

James erupted into a triumphant roar of laughter, the sound echoing through the corridor like a victory march. Standing beside him, Sirius Black took a languid drag from a cigarette before flicking the glowing ember onto Severus’s drenched hair with a gesture of pure disdain. Students passing by slowed to watch, yet not a single hand was offered. There were sycophantic snickers, cold and curious stares, and the heavy, complicit silence of those who chose to look away.

In that moment, Severus simply squeezed his eyes shut, surrendering to the biting cold and the suffocating shame, wishing only for this nightmare to shatter and end, once and for all…