the flakes of autumn sun
"You know, Sev, wouldn't it be nice," Lily grins, red stands slipping past her ear and tumbling freely against her cheek. "if, when we're grown-up, we bought houses next door to each other?"
"Neighbours?" The grass is wet beneath his trousers and the scent of the flowers scattered by their feet linger.
"Yes," His best friend says, matter-of-factly, attempting to tuck the errant strand back behind the shell of her ear. Her lips curl and her eyes light into an expression that's somewhere between cheekiness and bubbling excitement. "We'll be best friends for life, you know, it's only right we stick together!"
Severus feels thrown. The working class boy managing to buy a house next to a middle-class girl, it's absurd, he should say. What ordinary people would say. Instead, he says: "Don't I get a say in that?"
Lily Evans flops to the ground, her hair spills out behind her head like a halo, bright against the grass stalks. "No," Her smile is genuine, though her tone wobbles with contained laughter. "I've decided - and what I say, goes."
He memorises the look on her face, the freckles across her nose and the way her green eyes glitter with mischief. And later, once he's home from the park, and laying on the bed in the darkness of his room, he plays it over in his head. He falls asleep to sound of bottles clinking from downstairs, but the smile remains on his lips.
/
They call him a mudblood-lover in the dungeons. It's not said to his face - no, that would be far too blatant. Instead, it lies in the turn of their noses, the stiffness in their postures, the way nobody leaves a space for him at the table at dinner. His title - mudblood-lover - is one that is scribbled in bright inks over his finished essays, and a nonchalant shove if he passes by them too closely.
"Slytherin" the Hat had called before it had even touched his head. He wishes there had been more time, that the stupid piece of cloth hadn't been so quick to decide, so quick to judge. Maybe he had always been destined for a place amongst the snakes, for where else would he go but in the den of creatures that slithered on their bellies through the rotting undergrowth - but he wishes the Hat had been less certain of it.
But Severus is smart, so sharp that he cuts himself with it sometimes. Sharp enough that before the end of the first week, Lily and he have read through enough books on basic warding that he manages to finally lay his head on his unused bed and sleep. The following morning, Mulciber and Avery shoot furious glances at him, boil on their face as they scurry off to the infirmary. And Severus simply quirks a brow in return.
Mudblood-lover is simply an excuse. He's played the outcast before, many times before. His clothes are too threadbare. His hair is unwashed. His nose is too big. His skin too sallow. Every single pair of eyes that meet his gaze flickers to the side, a shutter-eyed expression of mild disgust, Slytherin or no. It doesn't phase him though, better magical and having the means to bite back, than muggle and weak. It's an expression he's seen all his life; in the face of his father, fists swinging; the face of his mother who turns her back, humming soundlessly; in the faces of Lily's other friends when she leaves them to meet up with him.
She is the one exception, the only.
/
"-oh! Sev! This is -" Lily's eyes are wide, her arms dropping loosely to her side. "You…you created it?"
"…yes, well, I -"
"Amazing! You're absolutely brilliant!" Lily beams at him, "I feel like I don't tell you that enough."
He can feel the ruddy flush rising up his neck, and ducks his head, knowing his cheeks will give him away violently. "Flattery will get you nowhere." He mutters, his wand held loosely in his fingers, once he's sure he no longer looks so volcano-red.
She grins, bumping her hip against his. "I'm just telling the truth, my best friend is crazy good."
They're in an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, practicing spells and well, he's been waiting for her to ask him since he'd made Potter and his gang hang by their ankles in the Great Hall this morning. "Such blatant flattery, you only want me for my brains."
"And your stunning personality." She says, "Is it working? C'mon, Sev! You have to teach it to me!"
The classroom is the only place they can meet up anymore to avoid harassment - from Potter and Black and his fellow Lions, and Mulciber and Avery suddenly all too glad to speak civilly to him, now that he's established himself as one of Slughorn's favourites. He shouldn't teach her his spells, logic dictates, not if he wants to keep the advantages to himself. Not if he wants to stay one step ahead of everyone else. But Severus knows he'll say yes, knew he would to anything she asked of him, no matter what that might be. He doesn't know why he does it, but he says it anyways. "What's in it for me?" Green eyes flicker to him, quick.
"My undying love!" Lily wheedles dramatically, a pout on her lips, and Severus feels his heart stop for a beat.
"Don't say that so lightly." He wants to say, or "It's not a joke to me." He does not flush, instead he feels himself pale because those are the words he wants to hear, but the tone is all wrong and the meaning is all wrong too. It's like the parody of a wisp of a dream, the picture all warped and distorting. He bites back the words he means to say, instead:
"I prefer my payment in galleons, thank you very much." His voice comes out dryly, and casual.
"Thanks!" She chirps, readying her wand, because she knows he's weak against her.
"Right…" He ignores the way his heart is still stuttering in his chest. "The incantation is levicorpus…"
In the end, the spell does not stay between them. Lily uses it on James Potter during their sixth year at school, temper flaring, and by the end of the month the whole school knows the curse and it's counterspell. Not even six weeks later, Severus will hang by his ankles by his own spell, dizzily, the sound of raucous jeers and laughter loud in his ears.
/
It's unhealthy - he knows - to keep looking. He's a potion's prodigy, he's created spells before he's even left these hallowed halls. He is clever, cunning and sharp. Of tongue and mind. So sharp that he cuts himself sometimes, and those around him too. Lily is no longer the exception, but part of the crowd. Part of those who narrow their eyes and wrinkle their noses when he passes by too close. And yet, his eyes still follow her.
He had tried, tried to reconcile with her. He'd gone looking for her the next day, uncaring of how pitiful he must have looked. He plans his words, unable to sit still long enough to eat, unable to concentrate on his work, not a wink of sleep finds him at night. But every time he had caught a glimpse of her, she would whip in the other direction, McKinnon and MacDonald closing ranks by her side. Finally, his desperation had peaked and he had found himself sitting outside the entrance to Gryffindor Tower begging a first year to tell Lily that he would be outside until she heard him out.
And then, at last, she had stepped out. As beautiful as he had seen her last, but there was something hard like flint in her eyes. She looked at him, not sadly, like she had earlier in the year as she warned him to stay away from his Housemates, but like he was more worthless than pond scum.
"I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just-"
She had interrupted, before he could go on. "Slipped out?" Her voice was icy. "It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and you're precious Death Eater friends…"
No. It wasn't supposed to have ended this way. They were meant to buy houses by each other and live on the same street. She was the one that had suggested it, planted the dream in his mind. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
"You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"
"But…I -" love you. He thinks. And within the same breath: isn't that enough?
"I don't care." She says in a voice that's like standing in the shadow of a mountain, terrible and unmoved and calm and even. "You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."
Her eyes do not flinch away from his face and, oh, the thought reverberates, she knows. And he realises that she is telling the truth. She knew what he had been about to say, perhaps she always knew, and she does not care - not about him, not anymore.
And then she had turned on her heel, like he'd ceased to exist, and disappeared.
Mulciber and Avery are only too glad he's "finally dropped the mudblood bitch." Without Lily by his side, the other Slytherins suddenly face him with open arms and their politicking and cunning smiles lose some of their barbs. His bed is still warded to the nines, but there is no longer any risk of being cursed in his dormitory. People start to take notice of him, as more than just the pathetic half-blood. Avery gifts him a rare potions tome for Yule and Mulciber a crystal stirring rod, there is no present from Lily this Yule - and he's not sure there ever will be again.
Still he finds his eyes lingering on her, something twisting in his chest until it threatens to choke him.
Before the summer holidays Lucius Malfoy approaches him with an invitation, a chance to join the upper echelons.
/
He finds he fits in perfectly among the Death Eaters. There's a drive they share, a vision that calls to them, blood singing in their veins in harmony. They have a purpose, a calling, one that will bring their society to new heights and purge the corruption so that the powerful are delivered to their rightful place.
Severus has a purpose here. Here, he is no longer Severus Snape, son of an alcoholic factory worker and his pathetic dead wife. Here, he is Severus Snape, the Dark Lord's best recruit and he is acknowledged for his power, his cunning, his talents.
He presents the Dark Lord with the spell he had invented in his sixth year and watched as his Lord chuckles sibilantly as the muggle's head rolls across the floor, a streak of blood splattering across the floor.
"Yes," Voldemort's lips curl, one slender hand lifting to cup his cheek softly, and Severus feels a shiver run down his spine, "So young and yet, such talent."
Something in him uncoils and shifts.
"Rise, Severus Snape."
He embraces it.
/
Perhaps, he should be angry - something blistering and burning beneath his skin. After all, the man he hates is living the life he wants, standing where Severus wishes he stands. Across the table, he can feel Bellatrix's eyes watching him with sick glee, probing for any sort of misstep or reaction.
On his plate is the Daily Prophet, the headline splashed over the cover in heavy-handed font about the most recent raid but that's not where his eyes fall and not why the fanatic bitch has thrown it at him. No, it's not the headline, but a small notice in the society column, reading:
THE DAILY PROPHET WOULD LIKE TO OFFER OUR SINCEREST CONGRATULATIONS TO THE POTTER FAMILY ON THE MARRIAGE OF HEIR JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER TO LILY J. EVANS, MEDAL OF MAGICAL MERIT 1978.
Something bitter does rise then. How ironic that Lily Evans had spent five years of her seven at Hogwarts proclaiming her husband an 'bullying, arrogant toerag' and then in the space of one moment, told them both they were as bad as each other and she wouldn't date his bully even if the only other option was the giant squid.
His fingertips feel numb, and then his face and finally his heart. And he can't decide if it's better that there is no accompanying wedding picture, or not. Perhaps, he should be angry - except he has always known it would never be him, not for someone like Lily; but anyone, anyone, would have been better than James Potter. Maybe he will be angry, furious, later.
But.
But, not right now. It strangely does not hurt - not because he no longer agonises in it - but that the wound is already too deep, festering and infected. And Lily Evans marrying Potter is less a dagger into raw flesh and more akin to a hot poker sealing the injury shut, so that perhaps he will no longer bleed out quite as fast.
Carefully, mindful of the eyes of the madwoman before him and his compatriots who would step on his corpse if it advanced them higher in their Lord's graces, he says, slow and measured. "Ah, yes, the raid in Anglesea…" He trails off, allowing his eyes to flick up to pin Bellatrix Lestrange's snarling countenance. "Auror Lestrange, first on scene quotes…" His slow steady chuckle fills the room, and her eyes flicker in surprise, lips curling back to bare her teeth in full. "How inefficient, couldn't even finish the job on time."
In a flash, she lunges for him with a shrieking "Crucio!"
How quaint. His lips twist like a knife and he readies his wand.
Let her go - the notice crumples in his mind's eye.
And in the same breath - No.
/
He dreams of her sometimes. He doesn't know why. His strongest Occulomency shields do nothing to keep them at bay. In his dreams, sunlight bathes her in golden light, setting her hair aflame. They are never memories, or if they are he has forgotten them, something distantly pleasant but warm. Like a split-second, frozen in time, intangible and ephemeral and yet he dreams vividly.
Will it forever feel this way?
Like his whole life is defined upon her very existence - before her, with her, after her.
/
The stone is dark grey and sanded impossibly smooth. There are no imperfections in the stone, no discolouration, no cracks. The face carved upon it is featureless, all the features of a face etched there but the eyes are empty, the smile doesn't dimple at the corners.
Severus has seen statues before, like the Petrified muggles in Greater Hangleton, and their human faces frozen in fear, mouths so wide they must have choked on their tongues, jaw distended. He doesn't dwell on what has happened to them now.
Lily's face has been carved from stone. Her gaze is on the babe in her lap. Her head is tilted towards the figure beside her. And fear, it had translated well on those statues. Love, if that is indeed what the crafter had intended for the memorial, does not.
The look nothing like they did when they lived. Washed out and empty.
Dumbledore thinks its love that spurs him onward. Yet Severus, who's own father has hated him since he opened his eyes upon the world; whose mother had closed her eyes and pretended not to see; who had no friends, no lovers, no family in this world - he isn't so sure such a thing exists. The concept is so… so alien, like a blossom unfurling to become a rabbit or watching the rain dance upwards until it merges with stars.
He isn't capable of such a thing, he knows. He is clever, and smart, and sharp and Slytherin so he knows that there is give and there is take. And since he had been a child he had been taking, greedy and starved, his hands forever outstretched.
There is nothing to reach for now.
Instead, thorny fingers are grasping back and they will render the flesh from his body and pick his bones clean until he has nothing more to give, nothing more for it to take.
Perhaps that will be repentance enough.
/
Brother, sister, flick your tongue
And taste the flakes of autumn sun.
Use these last few hours of gold
To travel, travel towards the cold.
Before your coils grow stiff and dull,
Your heartbeat slows to winter's lull,
Seek the sink of sheltered stones,
That safely cradle sleeping bones.
Brother, sister, find the ways
Back to the deep and tranquil bays,
And 'round each other twist and fold
To weave a heavy cloak of cold.
- Joyce Sidman, Snake's Lullaby
A/N: thanks for reading! feel free to drop any comments down below! It's a bit of an attempt at a closer look at how Snape looks at Lily. He's one of, if not the most, pivotal characters in the series. Most events and their reasonings can be led back to this man, so I thought I'd look at the most pivotal character in Snape's life through his eyes.