Author's Note: These characters and situations are all the property of J.K. Rowling, thus I own absolutely nothing.
Today is Severus Snape's birthday, and Lily Evans is sitting in her study, her quill poised on the blank parchment.
She tries several sentences, scratching them out one after the other.
Dear Severus.
Happy birthday. I must be the only one to wish you that since your friends
I hope you're having a good birthday, even though
It's me, Lily. I just wanted to say that I miss
I'm getting married.
None of them fit. None of them remotely, at all, fit.
She places the quill down, because lately she's been thinking about her childhood friend more than usual, and although she doesn't quite miss him – she is the one wronged, not him, and because of that, she is still a little bit righteously angry and cannot quite bring herself to feel sorry – she wonders what he's doing on his birthday. Up until their friendship shattered into pieces, they had celebrated their birthdays together.
It is strange that this year should affect her so, but she when she considers it, she thinks it is just the right time – not far enough for her to have forgotten, but not close enough to have it be too painful. And she's desperately determined to write something, anything.
Because she knows what he is, and she thinks that maybe she can change him, maybe the childhood friend that she carries around in her mind like a talisman, a warning sign of what happens when good people get influenced by bad ones.
Do you remember that we used to celebrate our birthdays together? Well I was thinking about that
I know what you are, and I
I hate you because you're a Death Eater
I love you because you're my friend
I pity you
Please
I wish that you could
I wish that I could
Why did you
I don't know what to write.
And the last one seems to miraculously work, and she's proud of herself for simply being honest, penning out what is on her mind, but in the midst of her internal celebration she remembers that she has the rest of the letter to write.
She hasn't told James of this; Severus has always been a please don't talk about him subject between them, and he has respected that. She loves James, in the way that she's never loved a man before, but she cannot forget her ten-year-old self saying "I think I might love you" to Severus when he was asleep, his dark greasy hair spread around over his eyes, and she reached out and pushed it away, and planted a kiss on his lips. She thought she saw him smile then, in his sleep, and she knew on a subconscious level that he might have been dreaming about her. But she was only a girl and didn't know anything about love and so she hadn't acted on it at all.
She has the opening, but the middle is harder. She pens several possibilities before deciding on one.
Happy birthday; I hope it's a good one. I'm writing this letter because
I really want to talk to you
Do you ever think about me?
I've been thinking about you a lot lately
This is awkward, I know
It's been a long time
It never used to be this way between us
How are you?
She decides that the second to last option is the best, and decides to use that one. She examines the parchment briefly: it is a collector's edition of scribbles, of crossed-out sentiments that are both true and false at the same time. She starts on a new sheet of parchment, and now the sentences are fluid, rolling off of her quill like water. She doesn't have to try, she just writes. Maybe this is the payoff of her previous hard work.
I don't know what to write. It never used to be this way between us; sentences just rolled off of our tongues and we were perfectly unguarded with each other in a way that we weren't with anyone else. Well, maybe you were, but I'll confess that I wasn't.
I'm not here to offer forgiveness, because these cuts are a little too deep for that. I just want to wish you a happy birthday, because I think that everyone needs something to celebrate in these times. It's all so dark, Severus, and I can't see my way ahead anymore. It used to be clear – I knew just what I wanted. I wanted to be a lawyer like my father, and help those in need, and live happily in the Muggle world. Things change, I suppose. You and I are evidence of that, no?
I'm getting married to James, Severus. We're scared and in love and we want to enjoy our time together, because we might die tomorrow and we want to have truly lived. I wish you could see James now. Maybe you'd be you and still hate him, but maybe you'd surprise me and acknowledge he's changed.
I miss us. Not enough to go back, because we can't go back now, but I do miss us. And I was remembering our birthday tradition, and it made me sad and angry and wistful all at once. Why did you have to change things? It wasn't my fault, it was yours. You have only yourself to blame.
So how are you? I know you're a Death Eater, and I should probably hate you for that, and I think maybe I do. I don't want to imagine you a killer, because I just can't see that. But I think you can change, Severus. I think you have the potential. I don't know if I'll be able to walk by your side when you change, but I do have hopes for you. Know that. I'm disappointed in the path that you've taken, but maybe you can still turn back.
Despite everything, I do hope you have a lovely birthday,
Lily Evans.
She looks over the letter, reads and re-reads every word, condemning or wistful or loving, and then inevitably remembers the word Mudblood sliding off of his tongue just as easily as she described earlier in her letter. She remembers her own harsh words, not as offensive but just as cutting, and then crumples the letter and tosses it away.