Portraits of a Boy
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I claim rights to any of the affiliated characters.
Warnings/Notes: Snape reflects on his dealings with Harry.
I.
Harry Potter speaks in afterthoughts: chasing every sentence with please and thank you, sir and ma'am.
For all his quidditch team triumphs and acts of bravery, he walks with the shyness of a boy much younger than eleven. He plays nervously with his hands while Weasley goes on about O.W.L.s , and his eyes flicker from place to place, unfocused.
Only strong enough to come out fighting in a crowd, young Potter wilts at hard looks and firm tones. When scolded, his hands quiver with more than anger. Confrontation, surprisingly, comes about as naturally to him as brewing potions.
Through the cockiness of James, there is the concern of Lily, ever present, always mindful. Snape wonders why he is so quick to accept responsibility for everything. To admit to the impossible mistakes of Neville Longbottom directly, as though the potion's master is completely oblivious to the reality of the situation. The boy owns these faults as if they are his: as if to do so is not to lie.
He scowls at the thought that trademark 'Potter truth' knows no bounds. The sickening conceit of his father will follow the boy the rest of his pampered, coddled life. Repeated endangerment of his own life is proof enough, Snape thinks, but the involvement of his friends has set it in stone.
His laughter fills the great hall at the claiming of the cup, even as his scar glows, inflamed as the banner of his house. The mark that sealed so many fates.
Sacrifice means nothing to the boy.
II.
Harry Potter stares listlessly at the wall above his head. His hands shake with burdens that are not his own – Snape fights the urge to scoff through the gurgle of blood in his throat – haven't they always? Even as the child stammers with his father's haughty mouth, those mirrors of pleading emerald, so desperate, meet his own.
"Take them." He says as the tears leak from his eyes.
Anger stirs even then, in the face of all the boy has lost and still stands to lose. He wonders absently if it will ever be enough.
You've already taken them. He thinks, but not of his moisture trailing faintly on his skin.
The boy obliges.
A child of eleven years, who feels impossibly smaller, is before his eyes, silently asking what to do. Instructions fall from his mouth before he can taste them, and he knows they cannot be the last words that pass between them.
He stares at the picture of James and at last does not see the elder in Harry's place, dangling Lily on his arm.
As the corners of his world darken, he can feel his hand rise instinctively to the one that still trembles against his cheek.
"Look at me." He says.
Somewhere in all this he realizes that he and Potter are not so different.
"You have your mother's eyes."
He never asked to be a hero.