Five things that were never spoken of between Severus and Lily
1.
It is the summer after fifth year, that year that tore down their walls and exposed every fickle and ugly fibre of them. Their once idyllic palace, ringed by a moat of dirty river and with turrets of forlorn children's play things, now looks ghostly. Lily watches him from her oh-so-suburban window, his hands tangled up in the chains of the rusty swing like a prisoner – and sometimes, he would toss his head back, as if laughing, and search for her face. She averts her eyes and hides her face as if burned – ducking behind her lace curtains as if she were the wrong-doer.
It is the last week of summer when he comes to her door. Her mother knows nothing, she is not the type of mother to pry, and Lily knows that telling her mother would make things real, complete. Severus speaks with his harsh, yet achingly familiar accent, his voice echoing in the hallway, deeper than she remembers – and she is already forgiving him. Her mother notes lightly that he has not visited and goes through all the uninterested questions, but she does not really expect an answer – she has known him since he still relied on her for laundered clothes and he is just as taciturn as ever. Lily watches their subdued comfort from the stairs with a kind of jealousy.
Lily does not take him to her room, as her mother expects, he has not been there since they were still friends, and she has vowed never to break such a tradition. Instead, the grass is dry beneath her bare and vulnerable feet and his too-big, old shoes finally fit. They sit silently – she, enjoying the soft aroma of wilted fruit, and he, staring motionlessly and without flinching into the dusky summer sun.
Only two words come between them and those only promise silence. When it is dark, she sees Severus open his mouth, as if ready to swallow feathers and spit out the bits that are caught in his throat, and she presses her hands over his lips. She turns and flees up the rotting garden path, before she can witness another betrayal.
2.
It is the summer after graduation. Lily is bursting and unsatisfied; James has planned an autumn wedding. She loathes thinking about the future, when the present is so round and full and the fear lingers in every unwary crevasse. She is so tired sometimes – when James is away pursuing whatever foolhardy adventure that he and Sirius has concocted, and the worry settles in her belly. It is then she realises the comfort of old rituals. On Sundays, she starts going to the church she has visited since birth – she was baptised there, and during bleary sermons, she wonders if they would excommunicate her for witchcraft. It is only by chance that Lily sees him, faded into the back pews week after week. Afterwards, the tavern is only, ironically, several metres away, and she realises that alcohol saves as many souls as the average vicar.
"Severus," she dares to call out on one particularly forlorn Sunday, "come have a drink with me – for old times' sake." She does not really expect him to agree (they have not talked for years), and yet he does, she thinks it is just to provoke her.
He is a silent companion, staring vacantly into his glass of water (she remembers when they were fourteen, and he drank whiskey like an art).
"I suppose I am not the only one caught up in traditions, am I? Suppose you've still got that muggle in you. Church and all – I never really understood – but you used to didn't you? Sang hymns and read the bible and wore your Sunday best, huh?" It is one of the few times she remembers seeing his father, and one of the few times he seemed happy without magic.
"Lily," he murmurs like an afterthought, and the lilt of her name hangs in the gloomy air, before he shrugs it away. He drains his glass and reaches for his coat.
"I'm sorry Severus; I used to think you didn't believe anymore. After sixth year, after the funeral," she tries to meet his eyes, but his head is bowed and his hand grazes absently at the bare hollow of his neck. She thinks that was where a cross would have hung.
"I believe in different things now, as you should well know. We believe in different things."
3.
It is the thirtieth day of October and Lily is carving out pumpkins while Harry mutters sleepily in the other room. James is with Remus and Sirius somewhere, planning elaborate pranks and maybe (he hinted) a surprise feast. Lily smiles at the thought and relinquishes dinner duty with no regret. They are in hiding, and Voldemort looms over everything like a malevolent spirit. She carves protective runes into the Halloween pumpkins and layers them with spells. She puts charms on everything, even baby rattles and milk bottles. It is driving her slowing insane – this impossible inertia.
As a child, she had never seen herself as a young mother and wife and a complacently sitting doll. She was a Gryffindor and not without her own streak of bravado. It is almost Halloween and she is tired of being scared. She takes Harry into her arms and meanders aimlessly in the chill wind – the snowfalls would come early this year. The harshness bites her skin – Harry stares at her, and her mirrored eyes are filled with confusion, as if he cannot believe that she would rip him away from his warmth so cruelly.
"You're right," she whispers softly, and runs to retrieve a carved pumpkin before apparating.
Spinner's End is as cold and uninviting as she remembers, but there is a glow in the window and a flicker of movement behind thick curtains. She clutches Harry close to her chest and leaves the pumpkin on the doorstep. She rings the old fashioned bell and disappears. Lily is not there to hear him breathe "thank you".
4.
It is the Christmas of their second year, and Lily has opted out of two weeks with over-inquisitive relations to spend the holiday with Severus, at Hogwarts. They hide in the library as Madam Pince locks up the room and scan the shelves with her piercing eyes. It was the thrill of it that made them do it; but when she had gone, the library seemed such an empty and hungry place that both of them forgot immediately what exactly they had wanted to do, and were left staring vacantly at the looming shelves.
Lily thinks that if they were muggles still, she would have tried to scare him with ghost stories and how easy it would be just to laugh it off. But this world is much more dangerous, and ghosts aren't nearly as frightening as what these simple library books could contain. Severus stares longingly at the shelves and caresses the tomes lovingly – "Lily, can you imagine the power in these books?"
She recognises the look in his eyes from when he was a smaller boy, back at the swings by the river. "The spells are powerful, but only a witch or wizard makes them real," she gushes in his ear. Lily can feel him, turning his head away – and she seizes his slender hands in her own.
Severus looks at her, as if she was his anchor. "You are right, of course Lily. Imagine what these will do to the muggles – they could not save themselves against this."
She crushes his hand as if it was tissue paper, and makes him look her in the eyes. She is about to open her mouth, when he suddenly says, as if simply to placate her, "In theory only of course." And he tips his face just a little more, "I would give up the theory of the universe for you – my friend." His tongue lingers against his lips at the last word, and he spins away suddenly, wrenching his hand from hers with a snap of bone and flesh.
5.
It is spring, and the murky river shines like a spit-polished pebble. Lily scampers about bare foot because Severus has stolen her shoes, and somehow, strung them over the middle of the river. It is the first time she is truly angry with him, after that incident with Petunia. She yells, and her face gets flushed, and he looks sullenly at the ground and murmurs, "I could just as easily get this sort of yelling at home, you know, Lily."
She pauses, startled into silence by his quiet remark. "Well, why did you do it then? They were my only good pair, you twit."
"Okay, Lily, okay. Please stop yelling and, I'm sorry." She could tell he was.
"You left my shoes there, why don't you get it for me? You know mum is going to be mad if I lose those." Lily adds reasonably, "You're forgiven by the way, even after that pathetic apology." She knew he very rarely apologised for even the smallest transgressions, and she didn't expect anything more.
Severus looks at the water apprehensively. He doesn't know how to swim, and the rocks look awfully sharp and the water is muddy and sluggish. It was much easier to throw her shoes away than to get them back. These were the times he wishes he already had his wand, he had even remembered the incantation for the summoning charm. "Accio," he whispered under his breath. The shoes did not twitch.
"Come on, Severus! The spells aren't going to work without a wand – you said so yourself." Lily shifted from foot to foot impatiently.
"Alright, alright," he removes his shoes and socks and rolls up his too big trousers.
Lily watches as he does it, she doesn't know that he can't swim but she believes that her friend is strong.
"I will cross the river for you. I was the cause and now I will make it better, Lily, you have to believe in me, because I don't know what I'm doing."
Lily wraps her arms around his neck, and his limbs feel frail against hers. She doesn't say 'thank you', she says: "We'll do it together."
Eulogy
Severus is startled by the wreaths around Lily Potter's grave. It shouldn't surprise him, Lily was always popular and beautiful and everything he was not. Yet it somehow feels odd to stand amidst red and yellow and green and white, and weep. The bright cacophony of colours is everything Lily was not – tangled and incoherent, wilted and struggling. Lily had always been light, just light – like storm clouds falling open; in death she had ignited him, and burnt away the dark net that blinded him. She is different in death – he worships her memory like he would a heathen idol. He bows his head as if in prayer, and sets the flower wreaths ablaze, leaving behind only a fine sheen of silvery grey at her grave.