On Monday, he brought her flowers.
Severus Snape watched from behind the prickle berry bush as she picked them up – white roses, her favourite – and smelled them, a delighted but confused smile playing on her lips. She stood in the doorway and looked around, as though the gift-giver would be standing in the driveway.
Which he was, but he wasn't about to reveal that.
When her green eyes could find no one, she gave a careless little shrug and closed the door. He pictured her inside the house, filling a vase with water and placing the flowers in the centre of the table. Or perhaps dancing around the house, holding them, sniffing them…
… dancing around the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, laughing delightfully.
"Oh Severus," she exclaimed, and his heart seemed to burst with her wide smile. The wind blew gently through the strands of her red hair, and there was just a hint of the smell of rain lingering in the air… but there would be no rain now. It was as though the sky, and whole world, in fact, held its breath in the face of Lily's joy.
But he couldn't help but asking. "Why white roses? Why not red?"
She clutched the bunch protectively. "Becauuuuse…" she drew out. And then she launched into the explanation. "I think white… it means something stronger. It means love lost… or maybe it means love yet to blossom. It symbolises…" but she couldn't seemed to find the right words, so she fell silent.
"Something promising?" asked Severus. He blushed as soon as he said it, and turned away, a curtain of greasy hair hiding his face.
"I guess," Lily replied with a little frown, and he could tell it wasn't the word she was looking for. But it didn't matter all the same. All that mattered was that she liked the flowers – that he had given.
He hadn't known then, of course, the two years from then James Potter would woo her with red roses – blood red, with an unfurling centre and petals like tears. He remembered steeling himself at the sound of her laughter… it was the ultimate betrayal, being with Potter, the bully who had tortured him since he had stepped into the school. Potter had, he liked to imagine, i stolen /i Lily from him.
But that, of course, was not true. He had managed to lose Lily all on his own.
On Tuesday, he brought her fruit. Apples, to be exact. Green skinned and polished, with firm white flesh and a sharp, sweet scent, left in a woven basket on her doorstep.
He hid behind the oak tree on the nature strip outside her house, and watched as she opened the door to collect the milk bottles – heard her exclamation of pure delight as she looked into the basket and found the flawless apples, and, the picture of perfect innocence, bit into one, without even thinking about checking for poison or spells.
Or perhaps deep down, Lily knew it was him.
She was a fussy eater, and definitely not a morning person. She flat out refused any bacon, eggs, toast… anything except apples, green ones, like the ones that had grown in her orchid back home. She confessed to him once that they reminded her of happy days, when she and Petunia would pick them carefully off the trees and help their mother make apple pie.
He watched her from his lonely place at the Slytherin table, as she chattered loudly with her friends. Although he had tried to conform with the other Slytherins, he had had always felt like he had one foot in and one foot out – never i Slytherin /i enough, and yet, obviously not Gryffindor enough.
And then, away from the strictly categorised atmosphere of Hogwarts, where Slytherins did not speak to Gryffindors and Potters did not befriend Malfoys… and a pureblood, or half-blood, at that, certainly didn't contemplate kissing a Mudblood…
Away, then, far, far away, to hazy summer days where he and Lily lay in the dry grass of the orchid, chewing heartily the sweet, juicy apples, while exchanging stories.
But he remembered still, with sharp clarity, the summer in Seventh Year when he had come to see Lily lying in the grass (their grass) with none other than Potter, a lazy smile gracing her face. Both their clothing was mussed, and her lips in particular were swollen from kissing. Potter edged his arm gently up her shirt and she swotted him playfully away.
He hadn't been able to watch them together. He didn't want to know what would happen next. Without making his presence known, he turned on his heel and walked away without looking back once.
On Wednesday he left her little coloured tiles, fragments of broken glass that glinted in the sunlight. He watched from behind the side fence as she opened the door and found them – an arrangement of tiles; shaped into a single, glistening tear drop, lay on her doorstep.
She looked around, before drawing her wand and levitating the arrangement inside the house. He thought he saw her bite her lip before the door closed.
In the beginning of Fifth Year she took a liking to mosaic – Muggle glass tiling. Severus scoffed but inwardly he smiled. It was such an original, Lily-ish pastime… and he watched as she created piece after piece… birds, dolphins, dogs… she even made a piece featuring him, Severus Snape, although she thought he didn't notice.
It almost was starting to become an obsession.
There were dark rings under her eyes, from staying up late nights gently fitting together the glass fragments without magic. Her art was starting to become more important to her than her schooling – she began to talk about becoming an artist.
He liked watching her work. The way she made the fragments that had no connection fit together so perfectly.
She chewed her lip absent-mindedly while she worked, creating a fantasia from nothingness.
The day it happened was the same. She had been making a single tear drop – Severus marvelled at all the different shades of blue and green she managed to fit into a single drop. She met his eyes while she worked – green boring into black… soul meeting soul…. and suddenly, without warning, a particularly large fragment cut a large gash on her perfect, white arm.
He gazed in horror at the blood seeping – so slowly! – from the wound, stickying the glass fragments with deep red blood.
He couldn't tear his gaze away from her eyes. She looked so deliberate. Her gaze was transfixed by her blood, and he saw her eyes were shining from suppressed tears, although he doubted that it was from the pain.
"It's who I am, Sev. Is this what you see me as? Mud?"
"No, no, no…" he wanted to draw her into his arms, but suddenly he was too afraid. "Who…" he trailed away.
"They say," she whispered, her green eyes flashing… "they all say… Dolohov, Malfoy… they won't leave me alone. They call me Mudblood. They keep… using… spells…"
Snape's heart clenched. He was sick with guilt. He knew it was he who inspired the continuous attacks on Lily – after being accused of spending too much time with a Mudblood, he had chosen to spring to his own defence like the coward he was… curling his lip into a sneer and informing them all of how filthy her blood was.
"Shhh…" he whispered, drawing his wand, leaning over and placing the tip gently against the open wound. The wound sealed itself, skin melding into skin, until once again it was all flawless symmetry.
"Why are you friends with them?" Lily persisted. "I'm your friend – isn't that enough?"
He looked at her sadly. It wasn't enough. She couldn't be there with him all the time – he had to face the taunting alone. And he couldn't even begin to explain the darkness that crept up on him when she looked the other way.
It was the only way to describe it. She kept the darkness at bay.
On Thursday, he left her a little bottle of firewhiskey. He didn't stay to see her reaction, but instead Apparated away to his home on Spinner's End, where he sank into a worn armchair and absorbed the dank atmosphere, absent-mindedly sipping his own little bottle of firewhiskey.
It happened during the middle of Seventh Year. Lily was Potter's, and they were no longer speaking.
He had been sitting on a windowsill, scribbling furious notes in his worn Potions book, when she had sashayed up to him, a sultry smile on her lips.
"Sev…" she rolled out, and he realised, his eyes were almost popping out of his head at her… was that a seductive tone?
"Lily," he said, he heart pounding.
"I misssss you…" she slurred, and he realised with a start she was drunk.
He felt an unexpected surge of hatred towards Potter for doing this to her – letting her do this to herself and then taking no responsibility for the consequences. He knew that when Lily woke up the next moment her first thoughts would be that of shame.
She stumbled towards him, almost tripping over a loose stone in the darkened corridor, and he held out an arm to steady her, suddenly feeling an increased awkwardness at her touch.
She leaned in towards him, and he could detect the subtle hint of firewhiskey on her breath – a disgusting scent, one that brought back sharp memories of his mother, succumbing to the solace of the bottle after his father had left.
"You have to go back to your Common Room," he said, but she paid no heed to his words, instead leaning in towards him and pressing her wet lips to his.
He'd many times fantasised this moment, but when he finally came to his senses and realised that Lily was kissing him – kissing i him /i … the most he could bring himself to feel was shock… and disgust.
She was drunk, and Potter's girlfriend, and yet here she was, pressing her sweet little mouth to his. This wasn't the Lily he had grown up with. This wasn't the Lily he knew.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way.
He pushed her off him, even as her eyes flared, almost as though in anger, indignantly… but he told himself this was the right thing to do. He would never, never take advantage of her.
Without looked back once, he walked away, leaving her clutching the windowsill for support as she stared after him with deep green eyes.
Sometimes he liked to think… what would have happened if he had succumbed to her touch? Perhaps they would've found themselves entering something deeper. Or perhaps she would look back and be ashamed.
Either way, he had made his choice. He would never know.
On Friday, he left her a book – but not one imprinted with runny black ink, blurred with the knowledge it contained… but rather an empty book, waiting for her to write in it… to write her own history.
He was tired in living in the memories.
On its leather-bound cover were the words printed in stamped, golden letters: Lily.
She opened the door and picked up the book, as though it was as fragile as glass, and that's when he caught the sound – the muffled wailing of a baby.
His heart turned to stone, pounding… a baby? He hadn't even known…
She had a family now. A whole new life now. Hell, he'd known she was married… but… a family? A baby?
For the first time he found himself questioning his intentions. What was he doing? Why was he leaving her all these… gifts?
The answer was simple. He still loved her, although he could never be sure she had ever returned his feelings.
"You can tell me anything, Sev. You know that." Her voice floated back to him from all those years ago, and he willed himself the courage to say it to her, but he was such a coward… he couldn't bring himself to… how would she react?
She had a baby.
On Sunday he walked up the driveway to her door. It took twenty-two steps from the walk to her doorstep. He counted.
He knocked softly, half praying she wouldn't answer the door, but she did.
He stood there looking at her, taking in the sight of her… savouring her… the flushed face and bright green eyes and fiery red curls that flowed to her waist…
"It was you," she said. Her voice held a tone of finality to it, of resignation.
"It was me," he concluded, suddenly feeling foolish and awkward.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. When he didn't respond, she added, "you make your choice, Severus."
"I…"
"You're one of them, aren't you?" she asked.
"Lily…" the word died on his lips as he realised he couldn't explain. There was simply no reason good enough, that would impress her as much as he wanted to. He couldn't explain the darkness within him, which he struggled to keep at bay.
But, then, who was he kidding? He hadn't kept the darkness at bay after all. He had let it consume him, destroy him… had let it infiltrate every pore of his body. He could see it in her eyes.
He could hear the baby wailing in the background. She bit her lip.
"I have to go," she said quietly, but she stood there, waiting for him to say something, anything. He couldn't move his mouth, couldn't speak.
Gently, she took hold of the door and swung it shut, just as he parted his dry lips.
"I love you," he said to the closed door.
Twenty-two steps he took then, out of the driveway and out of her life.
On Monday he brought her flowers. White roses, love lost, left in the soft dirt beside her grave.