Severus Snape had never been a man for photos. Such displays of sentiment and nostalgia seemed foolish to him, a man who had lived all his life with his thoughts hidden from the world. Why show your grief and joys to the world, who would only use them against you? No, memories were private, and should remain so.
And so, as he watched old classmates and colleagues accumulate photos of loved ones and happy memories, good times and lost days, he merely snorted in disapproval. One should live in the present, not the past, he would say upon sight of pictures of the marauders, all long deceased, studiously ignoring the decades he had continued to do a job he despised for a man long dead.
Severus Snape paid no attention to the pitied looks he received from his colleagues – having no real friends to speak of – and even the parents of his students, the whole wizarding world now knowing his role. Though fifty years had passed since the conclusion of the last wizarding war, its heroes were still remembered and praised. Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, Ronald Weasley, Alastor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, Luna Lovegood… the list of deceased went on, with Severus one of so few survivors.
And Harry Potter, of course, the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He was the embodiment of everything a wizard should be – brave, intelligent, loyal, cunning, determined, trustworthy, merciful yet not gullible; the sum of all the four houses, now finally respected equally. That, Severus felt, was primarily due to the sacrifices of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, now respected as any other war hero.
And if Severus Snape drank a little harder when subjected to tales of the Boy-Who-Lived's perfection, no one saw any harm. Everybody knew he had disliked the boy, though no one comprehended it, but he had saved him anyway. And everyone had their flaws.
Well, everyone but Harry Potter.
As Severus Snape stumbled into his chambers at midnight, the smell of alcohol on his breath, he almost found himself cursing, despite his pureblooded upbringing. Instead, he hurled an empty glass vial at the stony wall, smiling slightly in satisfaction at the sound of the tinkling fragments.
Collapsing exhaustedly into his favourite chair, worn from overuse, he stared despondently into the brightly flickering flames, warming his rooms despite the freezing outside air. His old bones could no longer handle the chill of the dungeons in winter, to his shame – for all that his mind remained sharp, he could feel his body giving away on him. Though only ninety, his body had never fully recovered from the Dark Lord's abuse.
As he stared into the maelstrom of reds and oranges, he found his mind turning to the Boy Who Lived. The perfect hero, who did no wrong and was loved by all, the world conveniently forgetting the long-distant times when he was looked upon with scorn and pity. Though, to be fair (which he sometimes was now, his hate mellowing with age and freedom), he cared equally little for remembering his own mistreatment of the boy.
Yes, the boy. Studiously ignoring the slight trembling of his hands as they grasped the bottle of firewhiskey, Severus recalled the face of the boy who was once his student. Black hair had been grown out by the end and, though never tidy, he managed to keep it out of his face. Though the wizarding world portrayed him as an Adonis, his full growth had barely reached 5'8", shorter than many fifteen year olds and, though strong and fit, he never had visible muscle development, both of which Severus attributed to his foul relatives, also long dead. There was a slight quirk in his soft pink lips, as if he no longer took the world seriously, but a shadowed look to his jade eyes and a weariness in his step unfitted to a nineteen year old.
Only nineteen, thought Severus, so very, very young. He remembered their conversations, back before Harry lost all hope. The boy had been full of life then, discussing a future in which the pair of them would discover the world, exploring foreign countries and strange food and getting lost. Harry would never have stood for the admiration heaped on him now, Severus was sure, for all that he once would have said the opposite.
"He was just a boy!" Severus exclaimed to the empty room and unfeeling walls. A sweet, brave, beautiful boy, who could speak to snakes and do so-called dark magics and was almost slytherin, who made mistakes and couldn't always fix them, who was full of fears and doubts and anger and despair. A boy who despised Fudge and hated Lestrange and loved werewolves and centaurs, a boy who hurt others and got hurt in return, and couldn't always say the things he wanted to. A lonely, angry teenager with the world on his shoulders, who had never wanted to be a hero.
Just nineteen. Just a boy.
Sometimes it seemed to Severus that the world had forgotten Harry. Oh, for sure, they remembered Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and probably always would. They remembered the way he saved the cowering fools twice, the second time costing him his life. But no one remembered Harry. Even Hermione Granger, the surviving member of the trio, remembered only the good times, as if to keep the sad memories from driving her insane.
It was like Harry didn't exist, had never existed.
But Harry had existed to him. Once, Severus had only seen Potter, and after the death of his mentor, was sure that it was all he would ever see. But then, somehow, the boy tracked him down – Severus assumed Dumbledore had left something for the boy, as he had for him – and then, instead of attacking like Severus had resigned himself, he asked him what had happened.
He asked him! Months had passed, and no one had cared to hear his side before. And Severus was so lonely and so guilty and so lost without his mentor's guidance that, to his everlasting shame, he broke down. And Harry, the foolish, trusting, wonderful boy, stayed there and listened, and didn't judge, or question, or rebuke. He just held Severus as he let the grief-laden tears fall for the first time, and let him be.
After that, Harry was never Potter again.
Severus smiled wistfully, as he remembered how determined he was to hide from Harry, so as to never face his shame and discomposure. But Harry kept seeking him out, and talking to him; passing his information to the order, but more, asking how he was, worried about him, like no person he had ever known before. And as the boy slowly made his way inside Severus' walls, Severus found that he couldn't resist those pleading green eyes.
Was it any wonder, after holding and comforting and talking for so long, that Severus would begin to fall for the boy, faults and all?
Their romance was strange and unique, hidden from the eyes of the world. They would kiss, ever so tentatively, both strangers to love, but it never went any further. They had agreed, when Harry first surprised Severus by returning his feelings, that they would wait until after the war, until after everything was over. They were each so stressed, so focused, that it couldn't mean what they wanted it to, and Harry was only nineteen to Severus' thirty-nine years.
Surprisingly, Severus didn't regret that decision. What they had was wonderful: a relationship of trust, and shared emotions, and comfort, and discussions, a relationship that was more than the physical passion Severus always expected entailed a relationship. He missed Harry for who he was, what they planned, rather than for any fleeting sensations of lust, neither of them being the most attractive of people.
Sometimes, Severus felt that Harry knew he was going to die. A foolish thought, perhaps – why would any teenage boy want to die a virgin? But it was there in the way that Harry was always touching him, making sure they were both still there, the way Harry told Severus everything, including the polyjuice and the hippogriff, the way Severus sometimes caught him with a sad, almost longing look in his eyes, though it was soon replaced the love that only Severus ever saw.
It was two days before Harry's twentieth birthday when he died, breaking the priori incantatum but taking the curse to Severus' shocked horror and dismay. For all Severus tried to get to him, to push him away, the boy was long dead before he arrived, with only a faint smile on his face. Voldemort, he later learned, had died at the same time, the combination of the avada kedavra and the destruction of the final horcrux finally killing him forever.
It was weeks before Severus understood that Harry was the final horcrux, tainted by the Dark Lord's magic, though the public would never know, for fear they would turn on him. Not that Severus cared – all the public would turn on would be a simulacrum, a shadow, a figment of their imagination. The real Harry was a stranger to them.
After the war, Severus and Harry had planned to announce their engagement, leave together on a tour of Europe, muggle and magic. And at Harry's wish, Severus took that trip, though every step reminded him of the boy he had lost. Severus knew that he could have still announced it, that Harry might even have wanted him to, but he preferred to keep his memories to himself.
Sometimes, Severus talked to Harry, though never where anyone could hear him. He would ask him what he thought of the new defence professor – Neville Longbottom, to the surprise of all who knew him as a child – or the latest Quidditch match, or Hagrid's latest pet, the half-giant still remaining strong despite his advanced age. He even imagined that the boy spoke back to him, though he knew it was only his imagination; the crackling of the flames, the whistling air.
And in his mind, he saw a boy of nineteen, who would put his hand over Severus' and smile warmly, all trace of anguish and pain gone, but still intrinsically him, with all his faults and glories. Harry Potter may be the wizarding world's Hero and Saviour, but the real Harry would live in his heart, and Severus would never forget him.
He looked up at a single muggle photo, hung carefully above the fireplace, and smiled sadly at the boy who looked back, scarred and dirty and sad, but irrepressibly human. "I love you, Harry."
Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
Although you died back in 1916
To that loyal heart, are you forever nineteen?
-No Man's Land, Eric Bogle