I.
It would be easy to hate him for stealing her.
For a long time, he does just that.
II.
She died because of him.
James Potter.
If she hadn't married him ... If she had only ... If things hadn't gone this way ...
III.
No.
That was wrong.
She died because of him.
Severus Snape.
If he hadn't called her that word ... If he had only ... If he hadn't gone down this path ...
IV.
Yet he did and she is dead.
Potter is dead. Long live Potter.
That would make an excellent toast, although he doesn't say so aloud. He knows he's already drunk, can feel Minerva's disapproval burning two holes through him. Can she really blame him? Hogwarts is full of toasts that November, all to the Dark Lord's demise, and he raises his goblet after every one of them, trying to chase away what victory has wrought.
Drinking is easier than dwelling on the past. He intends to have his head full of empty blackness tonight.
V.
Her hair was a beacon in any crowd.
Sometimes in Diagon or Knockturn Alley, he sees a shade so like hers and he turns to it involuntarily, following the colour.
A few seconds always pass before he can shake his memories and remember a fact he will never be rid of, a fact that haunts his days, his nights, and his life: she is dead.
VI.
First love is fierce and hard. She will always be within him.
He could do the dramatic thing, the romantic thing, the very honourable thing, and end himself. But he has debts to pay, and he must see them through. Pride is so often the only thing he has left when all else is lost.
VII.
Yes, it would be easy to hate James Potter for stealing her. So simple. A fairy story of love found and cruelly ripped away.
But he always knew the truth.
Lily gave her heart freely. The evidence of that is before him. He looks down at the register in his hands, the long parchment of names, and sees the one that seems to tug something in his chest, just enough to hurt. There is a long pause before he says it.
'Harry Potter,' he says, drawing out the name.
The pale, skinny boy at the table ahead of him tenses; he has obviously heard of the dreaded Potions Master, the professor who gives no quarter, the raven, the vampire, the vulture.
Better nicknames than Snivellus at any rate. At least he sounds dangerous. Nowhere near as dangerous as he could actually be, but frightening enough to make the homework come in on time. How priorities change.
'Potter here, sir,' the boy says.
'I see that.'
He looks at the parchment again. His second pause is starting to make the students exchange looks. He sees the next iteration of Malfoy smirking and whispering to two large creatures that have poor marks written all over their dull faces. The pickings for Slytherin House have truly gone down the loo since Severus's day, not the least reason being that most alumni of the green and black are in Azkaban or dead, unable to raise another spoiled generation.
He moves on to the next name on the list.
Potter visibly relaxes and a little blood comes back into his face.
When the names are called and the students all accounted for, he goes through the usual speeches for first years. Potions are an art, a science, a mystery. So on and so forth.
He calls on Potter first. It's an unfair question, one that few new students would know at this juncture. But all he can see is the father in his face. The bully.
'I don't know, sir,' the boy says, blinking rapidly. Green eyes.
Her eyes.
She isn't lost after all. Something of her lives on.
That's it, then. All there is to it. His decision is made. He can do this. The past is the past.
'I did not expect you to,' Severus says.
Someone snickers and his gaze darts to find the source. Malfoy, of course. That one is as bigheaded as his father is. Once the prat loses the smile under a glare, Severus continues.
'I expect that very few of you shall have such knowledge. Hogwarts exists for a reason: to teach young witches and wizards magic. You - all of you - will learn in this class. My standards are high, my instructions strict, but what wisdom you will find in here you shall never forget ... unless you wish to see your marks suffer.' Adding a little poison into the mixture always tends to keep his students from growing too arrogant. 'But I doubt any of you will offer me such problems.'
His words have practically ensured that.
The lesson begins without much trouble. Neville Longbottom is a quaking failure, the sort of student that arrives with the expectation that Slithering Snape will cut him into little bits and use him for Potions ingredients. Potter has a different issue; the boy always seems on the edge of dashing out the room if Severus so much as looks his way.
The lesson ends, and he speaks.
'Longbottom. Potter. I wish to speak with the both of you.'
Their housemates freeze.
'Everyone else can move along,' Severus says almost lazily. The other students depart, the last one shuffling out a girl with frizzy hair and an expression as arrogant as Malfoy's planted on her furious face. Bright enough for Ravenclaw, yet it is obvious why she sorted into Gryffindor. The past and the present have too much in common sometimes.
Longbottom jumps as the door shuts with an echoing sound. 'H-have we done something, s-sir?'
Braver than he looks. Not many would ask something like that of the monster in the dungeons on their first day.
'Not precisely, no,' Severus says. He sits behind his desk. Standing is intimidating and he has no need of that now. 'Yet it did not escape my notice that you, Longbottom, were too nervous to hold a ladle properly.'
'He's scared of you,' Potter says.
For an instant, despite the voice being different, it is like hearing his mother. The intonation is nearly the same. Surely, he picked it up from his aunt, Petunia, the very person who raised him. (No matter how shrill that beastly woman became, she still had her voice in common with Lily.)
Severus ignores this response, though he can't get the thought out of his head that Harry Potter has more than his mother's eyes; he has her spirit. The idea stirs his memories and makes his chest ache. He clears his throat. The professor looks at Longbottom when he speaks. 'Your grandmother, Augusta, she has the finest gardens and greenhouses in the north, does she not?'
The chubby-faced boy nods.
'Has she allowed you to study Herbology before school?'
'Y-yes. It's all I'm good at. Planting.' Longbottom shuffles his feet. 'Gran says I'm ... she says I've got to work on other things, but I like the gardens.'
'So you have skill at it, then? Good.'
This word surprises both students. They stare at him hard, as if trying to discern whatever trick he has planned.
Severus says, 'Herbology is an overlooked field, and yet necessary for any wizard learning Potions or dealing with magical flora. If you have skill there, it will likely translate to some competency in my class, Longbottom. Your father had a knack for plants, if I recall correctly, and your mother did very well in Potions.' Well enough for him to notice and remember the fact, at any rate.
The boy has such delight on his face that it's painful.
Longbottom's parents don't do anything well these days, considering they're housed in the long term ward at St. Mungo's Hospital.
Clearing his throat, the professor adds, 'And despite the rumours, I have yet to use any student in a potion no matter how poorly they do in Potions, so you can stop fretting about that.'
The boys smile at that, though they are still uneasy.
'As for you, Potter,' Severus says, 'you are no fool. Lily, your mother, was as nearly talented at Potions as I am. Your father was also ... he too earned decent marks in many of his subjects.' That didn't hurt to say aloud. Much. 'Though you have not had a chance to be surrounded by magic at your aunt's, I am certain you will pick things up quickly here.'
'Are you sure, Professor Snape?' Potter says. He stares at his hands briefly before meeting his teacher's gaze. 'I was never ... I didn't even know magic existed until my letter came.'
'Is that so?' Severus hears the malicious note in his voice though it is too late to stop it.
'But I promise I'll study, sir. I won't disappoint you.'
'Forgive me. I think you misunderstand. I am not angry with you, Mr Potter. It is your ... aunt that I have great dissatisfaction with at the moment.' Leaning forward, he says, voice low and confidential, 'She was always quite the shrew.'
That wins the boy over and confirms Severus's suspicions about Petunia. Not everyone can give up a grudge.
'Now, I have one last thing to say before you two are dismissed,' the professor says. And here it is, the thing that he always wished someone had instilled in four certain bullies in his day, the advice that he himself should have heard so long ago. 'Kindness is the secret trait of every House. Remember it well.'
The students are perplexed at that. They are eleven and his words are somewhat esoteric for that age. Their goodbyes are polite and prompt.
Severus rises from his desk after they leave. He hopes they mull over what he said. He wants them to puzzle it out for years, to understand it, to grow into the benevolence they already (and so obviously) have. Regaining a conscience is a much harder task.
God knows he speaks from experience.
And like that, he lets Lily go. She slips to the back of his mind with a thousand other memories, some good, some bad, and others mundane. Her presence no longer overwhelms him, though it has helped mould him. One debt has loosened its grasp ever so slightly from Severus Snape. There is still a mountain left behind, but he is getting closer to chipping it down to nothing, day by day.
He doesn't think he can be kind. Not now. The advice he gave the students is beyond him. Yet he can strive for goodness, to be better.
It is the best he can do for a lost friend.
He locks the door. In that empty classroom, he raises his wand. The incantation is one he has not used for many years, not because he is incapable of it, but because he could not bear to see the results.
'Expecto Patronum.'
In silver light, he sees the new shape of his soul.
~FIN~