Unspoken
It must have been a beautiful house.
It had been almost completely destroyed, but traces of its former splendour still remained among the ruins: a blackened french window frame, a few shards of china and glittering glass, a single daisy sprouting miraculously from the debris. There was no colour here anymore. Every thing alive and bright had been burnt into various shades of grey, contrasting with the fierce blue sky. This sky obstinately refused to mourn the inhabitants, refused to add to the gloom.
An owl swooped over the ashes, dropping a letter on top of the ruins.
It is unopened, and no one is there to open it. It will never be read. But that does not mean it contains nothing. On the contrary, the single creamy page filled with tight, small scrawl means more to the person who wrote it than anything else in the world.
It is impossible to know what the person it was written for thought of it, because it was never received. And now it is too late, far too late…
Lily Evans.
This is how it starts. The page is filled with words scratched and blotted out, but the name has stayed.
I won't tell you who I am until the end, because I did, I fear you would throw this letter out. If you've guessed by now, but are still reading, then please, for the love of God, keep reading. Just one last time, one last favour.
He's coming for you, Evans. He's going to kill you all. You should leave Potter and go into hiding. Get away. Go somewhere safe.
Evans, you are a filthy mudblood who had no right to live.
But I'm telling you this anyway.
I'm evil Evans, don't you EVER forget that. If I see you I'll kill you, I swear it on the grave of my mother. I have not an ounce of feeling, not a glimmer of goodness in my soul. Potter can go to hell. I'm not writing this letter for him.
I am writing it because you are good.
It is too late for me. If I die, I will go straight down. But I will always remember how good you were. You were so spirited so uncaring about what others thought. You defended me, even though you could have sided with those airhead Marauders instead. You could see beauty in everything, even in a greasy haired teenager with a blackened heart. A lily in every sense of the word, Evans.
That reminds me. Not Evans anymore. Potter. He doesn't deserve you, no one deserves you. You should be placed on a golden pedestal, so that the world may marvel.
But no, you never wanted to be gawked at. You were never vain, Evans…Potter.
I can't call you Potter. It doesn't feel right to me, it doesn't flow from my quill. I will just have to call you Lily.
Lily Lily Lily Lily…
You won't pay attention to this letter. I already know that. Gryffindor Lily will never run away. She is never a coward.
But I'll send this anyway. Just in case you've finally learned that hiding may be cowardly, but it saves your neck.
The wind whispers through the ashes, stirring up rustling voices unheard. Too late...too late...
There is a name at the bottom of the page, small and cramped, as if reluctant to see the light of day. The sky suddenly seems to change its mind, and clouds collect in a mass of greyness. The rain falls down, soaking the parchment, so that the ink runs in rivers and the writing slowly becomes illegible. The last words to blur and smear form the hesitant name that will never be read:
Severus Snape
A/N: This is my first Lily/Snape fiction, and it just came off the top of my head. I do not really read Lily/Snape fictions, but have always considered it an interesting ship, because it is possible that in the Harry Potter books Snape had a crush on Lily...Thanks to all those who R&R!
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K Rowling, I only own the partial plot.