Title: My Silver Doe
Summary: Severus Snape reflects on his feelings for Lily Evans and his reasoning for life. Set during Snape's reign as headmaster of Hogwarts, before the final battle.
She was Mother Nature incarnate: her scarlet tresses framing the freckled landscape of her visage, a reminder of her kinship with the Sun god. She was simultaneously the earth beneath and the sun above, and I, Icarus, could never fly close enough to reach her.
She was love at first sight, on last sight, and every sight. Even as a child, she bore the wings of an angel, soaring high off the swings in a graceful arc. She was aware of her natural powers, and used them for natural things, like blossoming flowers and nurturing the soil. Before school, we always met in the midst of nature, a cove of trees, a glittering river, and a rock standing next to a statue. I bought rationality to her unexplainable world by showing her proper, stiff things like school and wizarding class; in return, she bought me gifts of beauty wrapped in magical sparks.
Too short lived was our lonely bliss, and quickly, the rope which lassoed us frayed at the ends. It started with the sorting I suppose, the first symbol of our fundamental incompatibility. My eleven year old self did not know it, indeed, I believe he felt he could salvage it, but our relationship was poisoned by the arbitrary restraints of house and divide. I took joy from the fact that she haughtily turned her slender arms from that insufferable Sirius Black and his guffawing cohort, James Potter; and I did for many years. But still, though she was only on the other side of the Main Hall, the chasm between us opened and swallowed my timid attempts at crossing it, and the veil which dropped between us obscured my sight.
For a short while, my infantile and immature self wrestled with the notion of creating a love potion. It seemed in the realm of possibility, for I could always persuade Slughorn to allow his star pupil an experiment of sorts, and I had no doubt my skill was sufficient. Slughorn, that lecher of talent, had recruited my Lily, so what a punishment it would be if I could steal his prized Lily from that spoilt round man! In my desperation, I imagined the outcomes of a potion so strong that it would chain her to my side for eternity. But alas, I could not entertain the notion for very long, for I realised how melancholy was a caged bird's song. No, I could not clip my Angel's wings so that she would sink in the mud with me. All this, though I could not stop hoping that my earthly goddess could somehow see the prince inside me. What a cruel trick that her name would conjure such reverence, I could see her as a lily-pad, a majestic ship in the spring of life and beauty. That this perfect creation would welcome me, a bloated warty frog, to share in her company was a testimony to her kindest nature. And for as long as I remained in her pond, I hoped one day, a stray flower of hers would bloom a kiss on my slimy cheek, so that I could be the prince she deserved.
My next clearest memory of her started with an argument. On that day, I remember she wore a peacoat of muted green with rusty brass buttons, tied together with a violet scarf around her pale neck – a symbol of her royalty, her majesty – and I stood straight and dark by her side as the noble foot-servant. She was critical about the company I kept, and at that age I could no more see morality in black and white lines, than I could understand the makings of the universe. Lily, her only shortcoming was her absolute and fixed morality; how could she contemplate the use of dark magic in ways other than darkness? She could not see how light could not exist without the contrasting dark. She was blinded by the white light and I stood in her shadow, a grey figure in drab rags, too emotional to be purest black but too cowardly to be crystal white.
I skipped over my most shameful moment. That single utterance, the final snip to the rope of our entangled fates. We had reached the fork in the road and dallied too long…it was a wonder we had not gotten lost before. We parted, and that was that, her last green stare imprinted into my mind, my heart, for all my miserable life.
I joined the Death Eaters, an inevitable outcome given all the circumstances stacked against me. I was a victim of background, though I do not pretend this excused me or justified my terrible actions. I did unspeakable things under the guise of power, or the delusion of purity, but even then I was but an actor following the script of my heritage. Actors must take responsibility for their actions on life's stage, and glory and roses can only come after the wicked play has ended. The Dark Arts, that fickle mistress, hoodwinked me into seeing a darker beauty, the beauty of screams and torture and death. To this day, I maintain a certain lust for the Dark Arts, their poisonous desire still runs through my veins. I could never justify what I did to people, what I saw in their faces, and perhaps it is psychopathic to admit this, but there was always a certain gorgeousness and splendour in the writhing of a suffering body. I am not sadistic, I never was, but merely entranced by the genius of upsetting the establishment and society, that force which had divided me before I had even lost my child voice.
For years, I have wondered why he, the Dark Lord, he who knows all and sees all, had not felt my love for Lily emanating from my every pore. As I sit now in this bronze prison cell, the closed eyes of master wizards and witches adorning the walls, I realise my position. I am a puppet in the strings of fate, made to dance for a master who is trying to cut everyone else's strings. My audience is the wizarding world, who only sees my actions and cannot see the invisible strings. I have made my peace with the idea of anonymity, of falling into the darkest pages of obscurity, of being damned and condemned by all good hardworking folk. All that I ask is you, Lily, with your open heart and understanding, forgive me for my horrendous acts, forgive me for my malicious words, forgive me for angering your son, your only son.
I see your eyes Lily, they follow me everywhere. Was it a joke or a blessing to give them to Potter's son? Such jewels of magnificence wasted on an arrogant face, but I suppose to deprive the world of such clarity would be selfish. When he was younger, I thought your boy had not a clue how to see with them. Now, I am not so sure. To some extent, he, like the rest of the captive audience, cannot see beyond my actions, cannot comprehend my heart, cannot feel my soul. He lacks your intuition Lily, and so he hates me, though I have protected him from more than he could imagine. I will admit, I am not faultless, my jealousy and anger at James has more than clouded my impression of the boy. But still, he does not have the information he needs to accept me for who I truly am. One day Lily, I promise to open his eyes, your eyes, to the workings of my heart because that boy deserves, more than anyone, to know what a beautiful woman you were.