The Fields of Summer

by genericpseudonyms

His past was bleeding into the present, just as his future was bleeding out of the gaping wound in his neck. And since memories were useless to a dead man, Snape plucked them out of his mind and gave them to The Boy Who Lived. He didn't realize that in so doing, he'd forget her.

Dying was not at all like what Severus Snape had imagined.

He had hoped—perhaps naively, considering his lot in life—that he might die like Albus had: Clear-eyed, with minimal suffering. Here one minute, gone the next in a flash of green.

The last thing he had wanted was to linger.

Still, there were worse ways to go. There was no pain, despite the thick coppery tang of blood filling his mouth, and the horrible wheezing coming from his throat. An ironic benefit of Nagini's poison. It had coursed through his veins like liquid fire until every inch of his skin flushed with fever. Then it had settled, turning his blood to lead as it pinned him to the rotting floorboards of the Shrieking Shack.

Forgive me.

Exactly whose forgiveness he was asking, Snape wasn't entirely sure. No one. Everyone. One person in particular.

He remembered the grass tickling the soles of his bare feet. The sweet, heady scent of asphodel and wormwood in the fields behind his childhood home. The particles of dust waltzing through beams of sunlight filtering in through the library window. The way the light stained her skin gold as the smell of dusty tomes filled his nostrils. The feel of his stomach clenching at the sharp whistle of the Hogwarts Express. The agony of her cool hand cupped around his ear, her warm breath whispering secrets. The pleasant bubbling of a cauldron and the tightness in his chest when he first realized that Amortentia would always smell like her perfume.

His past was bleeding into the present, just as his future was bleeding out of the gaping wound in his neck. If he had breath to spare, Snape would have laughed.

Death, he mused, had a way of bending time to its will. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, or how long he'd have to relive his regrets. His only concept of time was how very little of it was left. But at some point, he realized he was no longer alone. Someone was propping him up, shaking his shoulders gently.

"Professor…"

It was the boy.

All at once, the haze of Nagini's poison lifted. Snape saw himself rushing through the halls, looking for the Boy Who Lived, his chest heavy with the fear that once again, he was too late. And now here he was.

The boy was thinner than when he'd last glimpsed him in the woods. And his eyes—her eyes—were older. Briefly, Snape wondered what Lily would say if she could see her son now.

And what she would say to him for his role in shepherding the boy to his death.

Fisting his fingers in the boy's shirt, Snape forced himself upright. A clever man might have found another way. A braver man would've told the boy everything while he still had the chance.

Snape swallowed. He had never been brave or clever when it counted.

You could be now.

The fields behind the mill—the first place he'd ever laid eyes on her. The thrill of holding her hand that first September on the Hogwarts Express. His humiliation when she refused his apology. Cold, bespectacled gray eyes when he'd begged for their lives on his knees. For the boy's life. The years he spent scraping together whatever dignity he had left. His rage in Albus' office when it all became clear just how useless his efforts had been.

One by one he plucked the shattered fragments from his mind and let them go. He watched the silvery wisps curl through the air, carrying with them the last of his strength.

"My memories," he rasped. "Take them."

For a second, he saw pity in the boy's eyes. Just a few hours ago, that would have irked him.

"Look at me."

The boy's eyes were a brilliant shade of emerald green. He couldn't explain why, but that comforted him. His forgetfulness should have upset him. Instead, Snape felt himself fade into those emerald depths, his soul slipping free of the weight of the past twenty years.

—

The rain fell in thick globs, plastering his hair to his skin. Around them, the air crackled with the promise of thunder. The wind whipped through the tall grass, and jagged white fingers of electricity streaked through a purple-black sky. It was like nature was mocking him.

When he was small, in the days before his father left, his mother used to scoop him up onto her lap during summer storms. They'd sit by the window in the kitchen, tracing old runes into the condensation. He wasn't sure why he'd told her that. Maybe because Fifth Year was looming and this was the only way he knew how to keep her close.

"Do you miss him?"

He shrugged, wiping away his hair—and maybe some tears—with the back of his hand.

"He doesn't miss us."

Her hand found his, her tiny fingers slipping into the spaces between his. Somehow, her skin was still cool despite the rare sticky heat. Though, it could have easily been the blush from his cheeks. Suddenly, he was glad for the rain.

"Well I'll miss you. Even if you are the biggest jerk this side of Manchester."

"You're only going for a week."

"Yeah," she scrunched her nose. Not for the first time, he noticed her freckles reminded him of constellations in the night sky. "But it's a family vacation with Petunia."

"We should probably go back inside."

"Aw, Sev. We're leaving tomorrow and I won't see you until school starts." She poked him in the rib. Despite his best efforts, he felt the corner of his lip quirk and was rewarded with the sound of her laughter. "Besides, a bit of rain never hurt anybody."

—

He woke up to his forehead smacking against the window of the Hogwarts Express. He supposed he had fallen asleep that way, curled up with his head against the cool glass, his neck bent at an odd angle.

The train was strangely quiet. In all his years, he'd never been able to sleep on the ride home. Students chattering about summer plans, promising to send owls or make arrangements for trips to buy school supplies at Diagon Alley. The air had always been thick with conversations that had no room for him.

But what really kept him up was the dread of returning home—a place with no friends, no magic, and nothing to distract him from the truth of his circumstances.

The ride home after seventh year had been the happiest. He'd left behind nothing in that rickety house, and now that he was a grown wizard, he had no reason to return. He had already found a flat with his friends, and finding a job was unnecessary because...

Snape blinked.

He hadn't been a student in over twenty years. Glancing out the window, Snape furrowed his brows. Outside, there was no British countryside with its rolling hills and gray skies. There was only the dark walls and bloodstained floorboards of the Shrieking Shack. In the middle of the room stood the boy, Weasley and Granger, their eyes wide with shock at the body on the floor.

His body.

Snape's hand flew to his neck. He remembered the sting of fangs sinking into his skin, the gush of blood oozing from the wound. But when he pulled his fingers away they were clean.

"It can be a bit of a shock at first."

He swallowed. There, sitting across from him, was Albus Dumbledore in all his glory. His white beard; eyes that crinkled at the corners; half-moon glasses with dirty lenses. Everything was just as he remembered—all, except the hand that should have been charred black. Dumbledore followed his gaze and chuckled.

"I don't understand," he said. His voice sounded hollow, almost as if it didn't belong to him. "You're dead."

"So are you, Severus."

"I know, but…" he paused. There were so many things he had to ask. Had they won? Did time flow the same here as there? If he was dead, why was he on the Hogwarts Express? Could he go back and watch over the living? (Not that he had any desire to).

What came next?

Was this all there was?

"I don't have many answers, Severus. As much as I'd like otherwise, that's not how it works here."

"I don't—"

"Understand. Yes, I know." Albus said, leaning back into the seat. "These trains never were all that comfortable, were they?"

Snape swallowed and chanced a look out the window. The boy and his friends were gone, but to their credit—and his surprise—they had folded his arms and clasped his hands over his navel. He was still lying in a puddle of his own blood, but whoever came to collect his body would see that he'd been moved. Laid to rest, so to speak.

"Albus," he whispered.

"Yes, Severus?"

"What are we doing here?"

Dumbledore laced his fingers neatly over his lap. As far as Snape could recall, he only ever did that when there were no satisfactory answers. The silence stretched between them for one heartbeat, then two, and finally three before Dumbledore spoke.

"I've been dead a while longer than you, my friend, but you must understand, death…is not…" Dumbledore paused, his lips pursed as he searched for the right word. "Whatever this is, it does not belong to you. There are things we must do before we are allowed to rest."

"Things?"

"Talking with people mostly. They come and go. Sometimes they help you, other times you help them. Every once in a while, you help each other."

"You must be terribly busy then," Snape muttered. To his credit, Dumbledore chuckled.

"It has been rather eventful. But I am glad to see you, if only to thank you. I imagine it's been an unpleasant year."

Snape grimaced. He had attained everything he'd ever dreamed of—a position of power, influence, and fame—but it had been nothing like he wanted. Most days, he had woken up wishing he could go back to his cauldrons, back to the days where he had the begrudging respect of his peers and an uneventful life. The worst part was he'd died before he got the chance to see it through.

"If the boy failed, does any of it matter?"

Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm certain she would think so."

Blinking, Snape stared blankly at Dumbledore. "She?"

There was something that unnerved him about the way the amused twinkle faded from Dumbledore's eyes. Snape fidgeted in his seat. He'd revealed himself lacking—in what way exactly, he wasn't sure, but lacking nonetheless.

"Severus." Dumbledore's eyes flickered down to Snape's neck. His voice was calm and quiet. Almost as if he were speaking to a skittish creature that might scurry away at the slightest provocation. "How did you tell Harry what he needed to do?"

Snape opened his mouth to answer, but the words died on his tongue. Thankfully, the train slowing as it pulled into its destination saved him the agony of having to remember.

Outside, the scene of his lifeless body had disappeared. The dreary walls of the Shrieking Shack had faded into a lush, verdant hill by a babbling creek. In the distance he spied an old mill, the kind that sputtered dark plumes of smoke at all hours of the day. It was an odd, but familiar sight. He'd spent a lot of time in fields like this—back when he was still a lonely child waiting for his Hogwarts letter.

It was then that Snape noticed the train had stopped. The door to the compartment slid open, and before he had time to think, Dumbledore was already out of his seat stretching his long arms and knees.

"Well I suppose this is your stop, Severus."

"My stop?"

"Surely you didn't think you'd spend the rest of eternity on the Hogwarts Express." Dumbledore chuckled. "It appears we've reached the end of our time together."

Snape licked his lips, his gut churning at the finality in Dumbledore's voice. "The end?"

"It depends. Sometimes you spend days with a person. Other times only a few minutes. However long is needed."

"For what?"

Dumbledore's lips curled into a slow, mysterious smile."Your guess is as good as mine."

And in an instant, he was gone.

—

She was crying and he didn't know what to do. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to be like those men on the covers of those absurd muggle novels she read when she thought no one was looking. The ones with the strong arms that a weeping woman could fall into and feel safe.

But if he tried that, she'd probably punch him.

"She's stupid, obviously."

"Sev!" Her hand whipped out and thwacked him soundly on the shoulder. "That's my best friend you're talking about."

He tried not to wince as he rubbed his arm. He'd seen her hit James Potter a million times. Potter had never flinched.

"I thought I was your best friend."

"My best girl friend, stupid." She kicked him. "What are you, jealous?"

Yes, he thought.

"No," he said. "I don't see what you're so upset about. It's just a party."

"She literally invited everybody in our year! Every. Body. Except. Me!"

"I guess the owl with my invitation just got lost then."

Flushing, she dropped her gaze to the grass. "That's not what I meant—"

"I know." He breathed in sharply through his nostrils and fought the urge to rip out all the daisies blooming around them. "Have some pity. You're the cleverest, prettiest witch in our year and she has a crush on James Potter. Let her have this party." His lip curled. "After all, Potter'll be mooning over you all Fourth Year."

"Blergh. Don't remind me." She pretended to gag. "What does she see in him?"

His heart skipped.

"Who knows."

—

Time was an affliction for the living.

Snape couldn't say how long it'd been since Dumbledore and the Hogwarts Express had vanished, or even how long he'd been on the train in the first place. He wasn't even sure how he'd got to be standing in the field. He didn't recall standing up from his seat or getting off the train. The truth of it was that one minute he was there, and the next he was here.

Life after death, he mused, had a dreamy quality to it: Everything felt real when he was in the moment, but it all slipped away once it was over.

He had the distinct feeling that he was waiting for someone. Who, he couldn't say. Someone important. The thought made his stomach flip, so he took to exploring the field around him.

He headed north where he could still make out the smoke from the mills. Where there were factories, he reasoned, there were people. And where there were people, there was information.

He walked aimlessly, past small white flowers and patches of mud until he reached the creek. He could have apparated across, but for some reason, he opted to take off his shoes and peel off his socks. The water felt cool against his skin, the stones at the bottom slick and slimy. He might have spent more time wading, if he had been inclined. But Snape was unused to idling so he trudged onward. He did, however, leave his shoes and socks next to some cattails by the bank. He had forgotten the feeling of grass underneath his feet and whatever else had been said about him over the years, Severus Snape was not a man who denied himself the occasional small pleasure.

He walked until he passed a second creek, and then a third. But it wasn't until he passed a fourth and then a fifth creek, that Snape began to feel suspicious. Surely, he'd been walking for hours now and the mill wasn't any closer. And then, after wading through the water a sixth time, his eyes fell upon a familiar pair of shoes.

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd notice."

A chill ran up Snape's spine. It had been twenty years since he'd heard that voice. Twenty years of building a name for himself, of shedding the skin of the gangly boy so hungry for control. And yet here he was again, feet wet in the grass, walking aimlessly in circles, waiting to be humiliated.

"I don't really wanna be here either but the least you could do is turn around."

"How disappointing," Snape snapped. "And here I was hoping death might be peaceful."

His tormentor fell silent, which struck Snape as strange. In life, James Potter would have seized any and every opportunity to spew insults and quips that weren't nearly as clever as he imagined. Behind him, Snape could hear Potter suck in a deep breath through his teeth.

"Would you…just turn around?" Silence suffocated the air between them, but Snape just imagined his feet sinking into the ground, his toes extending into earth like roots. He was prepared to stay there, until he heard a long shuddering sigh. "Please?"

Blinking, Snape felt the tension seep out of his body. In seven years at Hogwarts, 'please' was a word Snape had never heard fall from James Potter's lips. Curiosity scratched at the back of his mind, but another part of him relished the fact that for once, he held all the power.

"Look, Severus. I get it. I do. But we can spend the next thousand years standing right here, with you ignoring me, or you can turn around and we can both move on to whatever's next."

Snape paused, his stomach lurching as Dumbledore's cryptic farewell on the train echoed in his ears. Sometimes you spend days with a person. Other times only a few minutes. However long is needed.

Lips curling into a sneer, Snape slowly turned. He was stubborn, yes, but he hadn't died a miserable death to spend a thousand years with James Potter.

"Was that really so hard?"

"Yes."

Death had been unfairly kind to James Potter. (But what else had Snape expected? Life had been exceptionally kind to Potter.) Standing on the other side of the creek, Potter looked exactly the same—tall, young, and handsome. A bit lanky, sure, but with thick black hair that fell in charming waves and dark eyes the color of the ocean.

The perks of dying young, Snape mused bitterly, was never having to watch yourself grow old. And James Potter would forever retain the bloom of his youth. While he…

Snape blinked at his reflection in the water. He was an awkward, gangly young man again. In an instant, twenty years of hard-earned confidence had melted away into scrawny limbs, slumped shoulders, and the distinct feeling he was too small for his body. He didn't have to look in a mirror to know he had yet to grow into his wide-set eyes, long nose, and too-big ears.

"Well," he said, gritting his teeth. "I've turned around."

James's lips tightened into a grim line. "Why do you always have to make it so hard?"

Snape had no answer for that. It was a question he'd asked himself a million times since… Well, he couldn't remember a time he hadn't asked himself that. He could have picked a side and stuck to it, regardless of the consequences. It would have been easier. Instead, he had made his bed living on the edge between the light and the dark. And what had that gotten him? An unheralded death, a life missed by none, and a legacy that everyone would do their best to erase from the history books. A lifetime of sacrifice, and he couldn't even remember why.

It wasn't until Potter cleared his throat that Snape realized he had been waiting for an answer.

"I don't know." Snape grimaced and stared at the grass poking up between his toes. Why was it always his shortcomings? "Why do you?"

"I don't know either." Potter's breath left his chest in a heavy whoosh. "I s'pose we always did bring out the worst in each other."

Snape grit his teeth. Under his skin, he could feel years of silent injustices bubbling in his veins. How typical of Potter to paint over his sins with the brush of mutual blame. To fail to acknowledge how he, the Boy Who Had Everything, had spent every waking moment trying to humiliate the Boy Who Had Nothing. How he had taken the only thing Snape had ever wanted, just because he could.

"You're really not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

Snape seethed. "Heaven forbid that you work for anything."

"Merlin's beard," Potter ran a hand through his hair before closing his eyes. "If I hadn't promised her…"

"Promised who?"

"You know who."

"The Dark Lord is not a woman."

"Well obviously not him." Potter narrowed his eyes. "Who do you think I'm talking about?"

"I haven't the slightest clue, nor do I care."

At that, Potter finally closed his mouth. When he was younger (and alive), Snape would have relished stealing the last word. But any sweetness from his victory turned sour as Potter's eyes softened. He knew that look. Had seen it on Albus's face a million times over the years.

"You don't remember her, do you?"

For a brief moment, Snape could see the achingly familiar silhouette of a woman behind Potter. But then he blinked and she was gone.

"No," he admitted quietly. He wiggled his toes and tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted. "And I'm not sure I want to."

He didn't have to look at Potter's face to know he'd find a mix of guilt and pity. The thing was, if Snape were honest with himself, Potter had tried after the Whomping Willow. He had gone from being his primary tormenter to a bystander on the sidelines. And Snape had known that if he had just made an effort to swallow his pride, things might have been different. But by then, his hate had been a balm to the chaos raging inside him. If things weren't going his way—and they never did—then at least he could blame everything on James Potter.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I can't say it much better than that. I know…I know you had every right to hate me. And what you've done for my family—I'm not sure I could have done the same. I like to think that I would have, but…" A shuddering sigh escaped Potter's lips, as if he realized that his rambling was falling on deaf ears. Swallowing, Potter clamped his hand right over his heart. "Thank you for protecting my son."

Digging his toes into the dirt was all Snape could do to keep himself upright. His heart thudded against his ribs and something inside of him twisted and finally snapped. He could hear James babbling and if he listened carefully, he could hear the faintest echo of a woman's voice. Snape squeezed his eyes shut.

She knows what you've done.

This isn't want he wanted, he thought as he covered his ears. Saving the boy had never been about James Potter. It hadn't been about Voldemort, Albus, or even the boy himself—it hadn't been about any of them.

And while she's sad you don't remember her…

When Snape opened his eyes again, it was dark and he was alone in the Shrieking Shack. The field was gone, the grass beneath his feet replaced by rotting floorboards and a wet copper stain, the scent of summer lingering his nostrils.

She'll be waiting when you're ready.

—

She was already waiting for him underneath the oak tree, wearing a green summer dress with a white floral print. Her feet were bare and he could see she'd painted her toenails the color of ripe strawberries. In her lap were the books for Third Year because, that's right, she'd gotten them last week with her parents during a trip to London.

Snape pinched himself as he approached. He was used to her in cutoff jeans, old T-shirts with grass stains, and beat-up trainers. He was comfortable with her in diaphanous Hogwarts robes.

Reaching up, he ran a hand through his hair, hoping that it would make him look neater and possibly make his ears look smaller. He straightened his shoulders and the hem of his threadbare shirt.

It was summer and they were thirteen, standing on the precipice of something big.

—

The days blurred together until the field seemed more and more like a dream.

Not for the first time, Snape clutched his knees to his chest as he lay on the dingy old mattress that once served a young Remus Lupin. In death, there was no such thing as hunger or sleep to break up the days. Instead, people came and they went. Or sometimes he was the one that went—to London, Hogwarts, or someplace he'd never been. Depending on the person, he grew old or he became young. But always, he ended up right back here.

He was no closer to figuring out how Death worked. There was no rhyme or reason to the people he met and when, but it was a distraction. Sometimes, it could even be pleasant and that took the edge off waiting. But when he couldn't drift off, he remembered Dumbledore's voice echoing above the rumble of train tracks.

"Whatever this is, it does not belong to you. There are things we must do before we are allowed to rest."

It wasn't all meaningless. He'd gleaned a few things from his time in limbo. Not too long ago he'd opened his eyes to find himself in Narcissa Malfoy's library. She'd been much older than when he'd seen her last, her hair more steely silver than white gold. There were crows feet around her eyes that crinkled when she smiled at him.

She had died peacefully in her sleep, which told Snape the Boy Who Lived had prevailed. And her voice had swelled with pride when she talked about Draco's son, Scorpio, who had just graduated from Hogwarts.

Which meant he'd been dead for at least seventeen years.

He'd learned other things, too. Like how the Boy and Weasley had become Aurors, That they'd installed a portrait of him as Headmaster at Hogwarts. That absurdly, there was a boy named Albus Severus Potter. They told him these things as if it would please him, and somehow Snape managed to smile, if only because it was expected of him. Inside, he knew that he was waiting for The Boy Who Lived. The thought turned his stomach.

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

Still the Shrieking Shack.

For the millionth time, he reminded himself that his death did not belong to him, and there were things he must do before he was allowed to rest.

Snape sighed. It was a long afterlife.

—

"Sev, can you believe first year is already over?"

He shrugged. They were sitting along the bank, dipping their feet into creek. The water soothed his pinched feet—his mother had promised a new pair of shoes weeks ago, but he was beginning to think she'd forgotten—even if the pebbles at the bottom felt slimy against his soles. He tried curling his toes around a flat stone, but despite his best efforts it kept slipping.

"Sev—"

"I s'pose."

She furrowed her brows, nose scrunching like it always did when he said something she didn't like. Which, since he'd been sorted into Slytherin, happened more often than he liked.

"Is something the matter?"

He dug his toes below the stone until it balanced on the top of his left foot. If he couldn't pick it up with his toes, maybe he could lift it.

"Is it stuff…" she paused. From the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers digging into a patch of grass. "Is it stuff at home?"

He was being sullen and if he kept it up, she'd eventually get tired of him. Here, he had her all to himself. Here, he didn't have to share her with the rest of the school and he was wasting it.

"I just wish House stuff wasn't so important." He chanced a glance in her direction. "You're my friend too."

She let go of the grass and slipped her hand into his, squeezing lightly. Her eyes were soft and it made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure if he craved that gentleness or hated it.

"We're always going to be friends, Sev. I promise."

—

He was old again. He could feel it in the straightness of his back and the weariness in his bones. The days had come and gone—so many that he'd long since lost count. But now that he was here, standing in the Hogwarts dungeons where he had taught hundreds of children the beauty of a simmering potion, Snape found himself wondering exactly how long he had been dead.

Breathing in sharply through his nose, Snape knew he had forgotten many things since dying, but it always surprised him how much of his memories relied on things. Things like the feel of a well-worn pewter cauldron, or the medicinal smell of herbs mixing with damp wet stones. How many hours of his life had he spent here? And yet, it had all vanished the minute he died.

"Professor?"

The Boy Who Lived looked better than when he last saw him. Like he'd had a proper meal and a good night's sleep. His hair was tamer, less unruly, but the rest of him remained the same. The mirror image of his father, except for those eyes. Those green orbs pierced through him, just as they had that fateful first day in this very dungeon all those years ago.

For the first time in a long while, Snape thought of summer fields.

"Mr. Potter."

"It's…" Potter's son raked a hand through his hair and Snape almost rolled his eyes. Like father, like son."It's been a long time, Professor."

"So I've heard." He drummed his fingers against his thigh as The Boy Who Lived bit back a sharp laugh.

"You never did let me off easy, did you?"

"Your father said something similar." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. Potter's eyes widened, though not in the way Snape would have preferred. Surprise, anger, shock. Those emotions he could have accepted—respected even. Instead, his skin crawled at the way Potter's emerald gaze softened.

"I-I know. He said they'd seen you. I think that's why I'm here, actually."

Snape narrowed his eyes. The Potter he remembered was slightly dopey, always a step behind Hermione Granger. The Boy Who Lived had always been disappointingly and exceptionally average in all things except flying—another trait he shared with his father. So for Potter to know something he didn't?

"Out with it. I've already spent enough of my life making sure you stayed alive. Am I to spend the rest of eternity doting on you as well?"

To his indignation, Potter smiled.

"Do you remember the last time we were here? You were teaching me occlumency."

"Trying to teach you, more like." Snape grimaced. He forgot the exact reason why those lessons failed. Potter had crossed a line, that much he knew. Not for the first time, Snape wondered why he seemed to remember so much less than everyone else.

"It's where I learned about the Pensieve," Potter said slowly, his eyes fixed on Snape's face, watching for his reaction. "I saw something I shouldn't have. Do you remember?"

He did. Snape remembered how his blood had turned to ice and the violent twist of his heart—how he had so quickly gone from dreading another mediocre lesson to absolute terror at the sight of Potter's head submerged within the Pensieve. But for the life of him, he couldn't recall what it was he hadn't wanted him to see.

This was exactly how he'd felt right before he'd gone to beg Dumbledore for his help. The same feeling he'd had all those days curled up in the Shrieking Shack, staring at a pool of what he knew to be his own blood.

"I've forgotten someone," he said slowly. "Someone important."

Potter nodded, biting his lip. "That night. The night you died in the Shrieking Shack, we didn't find you time. You couldn't speak, so—"

"I gave you my memories."

"Yes."

"And you're here to give them back."

"Yes."

"What if I don't want them?"

Despite the endless monotony of his death, despite how often his inability to remember frustrated him, his body remembered how heavily life had weighed on his shoulders. Forgetting let him stand straighter than he had in years. It lightened his step. And while Snape was keenly aware of the ever-present hollowness in his chest, he found that most days he didn't mind it.

Potter gaped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. A small, petty part of Snape reveled in his surprise. Dumbledore wouldn't have approved. In fact, Snape was sure Albus would have reprimanded him for being childish.

The silence stretched between them, and Snape's only regret was that the Powers That Be could be incredibly high-handed. What was the point of forcing him and Potter together? Why did he have to meet with a seemingly endless stream of people who'd made his already miserable life difficult? Why force him to live in a cage of half-drawn memories at all?

"You know, Ron asked me once if I wasn't lionizing you after the fact. Naming my son after you, lobbying to put your portrait up at Hogwarts, making sure your name was cleared in the papers. There's a card of you now. My daughter found one in her Chocolate Frog. And you might be surprised, but that made me happy."

"For once," Snape drawled, "Weasley may have had a point."

"But," Potter said sharply, pointedly ignoring him, "I didn't stop hating you until you gave me these."

He watched as Potter pulled a small vial from his pocket and set it on the very desk he'd sat at as an 11 year-old first year. Swirling inside the glass was the familiar silvery smoke of memory. His memory.

"You don't have take them back…but they don't belong to me. They're yours. And hers."

"Hers?"

"My mother."

Snape froze. Of course, on some level he knew Harry Potter hadn't sprung up from James Potter himself. And everyone knew the legend. That she'd sacrificed herself for him. That her love had repelled the Dark Lord's killing curse. Snape knew he should have known who she was. That at one point, he had.

"I don't…I can't…"

Potter nodded, his head bobbing wordlessly as his eyes scanned every inch of the room. His breath was ragged from holding back a sigh. "It's understandable," he said. "I don't think you intended things to turn out the way they did. I blame myself for that. I didn't see. I didn't want to see."

Snape could have said anything. A few retorts flitted across his mind. Easy retorts meant to make Potter seethe. Cutting remarks that would make him bleed.

"I did what I had to," Snape said simply. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"But—"

"Thank you for returning them." He curled his fingers around the vial and slipped it into his pocket. The glass was cool but he could feel his memories pulsating inside. "And for keeping them all these years."

Potter's mouth hung open. In life, the sight might've made Snape sneer. In death, his stomach sank as if it were made of lead. Of course James's son would find it surprising that the awkward, dour Potions Master could be gracious. What else could be expected of him?

"I…I'm sorry for being such a prat in your classes."

Snape blinked.

In six years of trying to teach Harry Potter, years spent hiding his misery and guilt behind bubbling cauldrons and sarcastic quips, he'd never expected an apology. It was right for James Potter's son to hate him. It made protecting him easier.

It struck him then that Harry had wrinkles that James never did. Creases around the corners of his mouth. Crows feet around his eyes. And if he squinted, Harry's hair was peppered with silver near the temples. He'd lived longer than both Snape and his father. Seen more of the world than either of them.

"Professor? Are you alright?"

"Did you at least make the most of your life?"

Harry smiled.

The dungeon grew hazy around the edges, shimmering like the edges of a Pensieve before fading into the next memory. For a brief moment, Snape hoped it meant he would finally be allowed to rest.

—

"Sev, are you nervous?"

It was August 31st. At the edge of the horizon, the sky was already starting fade from vibrant pinks and reds to a deep purple. The crickets were chirping their sad songs, and in that moment, an 11-year-old Snape wondered if she could hear how fast his heart thudded against his ribs.

"No."

"Not even a little bit?"

He turned to look at her. She'd pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs as she curled up into the trunk of the tree.

"Why would I be?"

"I dunno. It's the first day. At Hogwarts."

"I know."

She bit her lip. "What if it goes all wrong?"

"It won't. We're going to be the greatest wizard and witch Hogwarts has ever seen."

"But how can you be so sure?"

He swallowed. Because it had to be better. Anything would be compared to staying home for another year. Another year of his parents fighting. Of his mother crying alone in the bathroom when she thought everyone was sleeping. Of his father stumbling home drunk in the dark.

Tomorrow was the first day of the rest of his life. His real life.

"Trust me. When we're big, everyone is going to remember who we are."

She scrunched her face.

"If you say so."

—

When he awoke, the world was awash with sunlight. Shielding his eyes, Snape could see dozens of daisies and dandelions dotting the verdant hills like stars in the night sky. In the distance, he could make out the silhouette of smoke stacks and plumes of smoke.

Snape sighed. The Powers That Be were insufferable.

Pursing his lips, he chucked off his shoes and stalked off in the direction of the creek. As he walked, he could feel the vial tapping against his thigh.

The narrative was clear. He'd read enough of those pulpy swashbucklers as a child to know what the hero did next. The sooner he did it, the sooner he—and, the Potters—could get on with their afterlives.

Then again, he'd never been the hero. Not even in his own story.

As he reached the banks, the water felt cool against his feet, the stones slimy under his toes. He flexed them a few times, reveling in the dappled pattern of sunlight through water. He'd done this often as a boy—mostly when the silence at the dinner table was too thick, or as an escape on the days his mother couldn't force herself to pretend.

He hadn't seen her. Not once. Through the endless days, he sometimes thought he caught a whiff of her perfume. Other times, he saw a passing shadow bearing her resemblance out the corner of his eye. He supposed that was just as well. In life, his mother never had much to say to him. Why should death have been any different?

And not for the first time, Snape imagined a world where his parents never met. He'd found a photo after his mother died, buried away in an old album. She'd been sitting at this very same creek, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders as her nimble fingers wove a crown made of daisies. She looked young, her skin smooth and her lips slightly upturned as if she was trying not to laugh at a terrible joke.

He imagined she would have stayed that way. Free of the lines around her mouth from frowning every time his father came home stinking of gin. She would have stood tall, her back straight instead of slightly hunched. She would have married a respectable man from a good wizarding family. She wouldn't flinch when people spoke to her. She would have greeted the world with a cool, confident smile.

And in that world, her son might have been someone worth noticing. Handsome, charming, accomplished, and admired by everyone who met him.

Someone more like James Potter.

"I thought I'd find you here."

He knew that voice. Had dreamt of it all those lonely nights after she died. And for the first time in years, he remembered his favorite thing about Lily's voice was how it reminded him of clear, running water.

Swallowing, Snape reached a hand into his pocket only to find it empty. He supposed she learned that trick from one of Potter's friends. (Sirius Black, most likely.)

"In my defense, you were taking an awfully long time."

Behind him, he could hear her kicking off her shoes. He didn't have to look to know she'd taken off the left first, then the right before tossing them carelessly over her shoulder.

"I missed this, you know. I only came back once after fifth year. Just before Harry was born. You were already gone by then, who knows where. I sat here all by myself for a whole afternoon but it wasn't the same."

He could see her in his peripheral now. Parts of her at least. Her feet were pale next to his, though her toenails were painted a bright shade of shamrock green. Snape fixed his gaze on a misshapen rock near his big toe. It worked for the most part, though every once in a while he could see a wisp of red hair when the breeze picked up.

"Sev—"

"Don't call me that."

"Oh, he can speak."

Alive, he'd imagined this moment so many times. In the early years, he'd wrapped himself in his guilt until it became his armor. He pictured her as stone-faced as the night she'd rejected his apology. In his dreams, he'd reach out for her hand. He'd try to explain himself and she would always turn away without a word.

Later, he allowed himself the fantasy that she'd greet him with open arms. She'd shower him with forgiveness and gratitude for selflessly sacrificing himself for her son. He never got much further than that. His sense of reality and disgust with himself usually won out.

But somehow, in the 17 years after her death, Snape had forgotten just how annoying she could be.

"What do you want me to say?" he said between gritted teeth.

"A 'Hello' would do. 'Long time no see.' Something along those lines would've been fine. James said you'd been difficult. I hoped he'd been exaggerating."

"Ah yes, James." Snape's lip curled. "And I'd hoped dying meant I'd finally heard the last of him."

"Really? This is how we're starting off?" Lily's voice pitched. When they were children, this was the part where she'd stomp across the fields back to her house. He'd watch her go, too stubborn to apologize, but desperate for her to at least look back. She never did. "You're absolutely unbelievable."

"Perhaps. But this?" He gestured to the air between them, but kept his eyes fixed on the water lapping at his ankles. "Whatever this is, I'm done with it. You should go now."

Beside him, he could hear Lily sputtering. If he looked, Snape was certain her mouth would be hanging open, her brows furrowed and her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"We both know that's not how this works."

Ah yes. His death did not belong to him, just as Lily's death did not belong to her. They both had things to do before they would be allowed to rest. Neither of them would be permitted to leave until the Powers That Be deemed them worthy. Snape grit his teeth.

"You're the one who started things off the on the wrong foot."

"Me? What did I do?"

"You had no right. Those were my memories."
"I had every right." Lily's voice was steely. "Those memories belonged to me, just as much as they belonged to you. What was I supposed to do? Wait another twenty, thirty years for you to feel ready?"

"Oh, so the seventeen years after you died. All that pain and suffering. Those belonged to you too?" Snape grimaced. "Did you ever think for a moment that maybe I wanted to forget?"

That shut her up. Briefly.

"It's not my fault you beat yourself up for seventeen years. Unnecessarily, might I add. I didn't ask you to do that, Sev. I never wanted you to do that."

He swallowed. She had that magical talent of twisting his words against him. Of reflecting back to him just how selfish and narcissistic he could be. Of making him feel so incredibly beneath her, unworthy of her company. And despite his infinite shortcomings, even a young Snape had known deep down it wouldn't last. They'd both picked over every scab until their friendship was infected by doubt.

Every time he'd seen James Potter make her laugh, it'd felt like something cold squeezed its fingers around his heart. The next time he'd see her, instead of being a friend he'd say something rude. Something unkind. And he'd watch, his stomach sinking, as the warmth in her eyes cooled.

The noble thing would have been to be honest with her. But despite what Albus had said, Snape would've never been sorted into Gryffindor. What he'd done for Harry had been easy. Courage borne from guilt wasn't anything special. But now, after all these years, even though he knew that she knew, he would've rather wasted away for an eternity rather than tell her face-to-face.

"You had no right," he whispered.

"Would you at least look at me?" After a few beats, she added, "Please."

This was it. The moment he'd dreamed of. Turning his head, the rapid beat of Snape's heart stilled.

Lily had never lived long enough to develop laugh lines or that crinkle at the corner of her eyes. Her skin was still smooth and pale, her cheeks rounded and full. But she'd cut her hair. It was shorter, more practical—though still curled in waves by at her shoulders. And her eyes, oh those eyes. They were older. Wiser. Those were eyes that had seen the truth of the world, but still believed in good things.

She was still so very young, while he had grown so very old.

"Sev." Lily stretched a hand toward him, her fingers gently brushing against his knee. "It's okay."

"It's not." His voice cracked in his throat. "It was never supposed to be like this."

She pursed her lips, eyes softening, and Snape wished he could hide under a rock.

"I used to think that too. In the beginning. I thought I'd be here with James. You know. Clouds and halos and all that muggle jazz about angels and Heaven. I thought at the very least I'd get to watch over Harry. But it doesn't really work like that. I see James every once in a while, but never for very long. I did get to see Harry grow up, though not as much as I'd have liked. Enough to get a sense of who he turned out to be. But mostly, it was just a lot of waiting by myself. Lots and lots of waiting. Sound familiar?"

Lily didn't wait for him to respond before she continued.

"Then one day I'm magically here at the creek and I knew I'd see you again soon. I knew what you'd done for Harry. And I was so ready to just talk. There was so much I wanted to say. You probably won't believe me but I've thought a lot over the years about what seeing you again would be like." Pausing, Lily smiled tightly at him before wincing. "Didn't happen quite the way I imagined."

It never did with them. It never would. The realization sank heavily into his bones. All those years, when Harry was being difficult, he'd lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling imagining this moment. He dreamt of what it would be like if none of the bad things had ever happened. They'd be back to how they were before things got so twisted.

But, as it turned out, he had started forgetting long before his death. They had always sniped and bickered and poked at each other until the one of them went crazy. They'd always seesawed back and forth between affection and exasperation. He'd always disappointed her, and she'd never tried to understand his point of view.

She had just realized it before he had.

"Do you remember that summer before first year?"

Lily scrunched her nose. "Vaguely. Why?"

"The day before we came to Hogwarts, we sat here. You asked me if I was nervous about what school would be like."

"Yeah. You said everyone would remember us."

He chuckled darkly. "After that. You wanted to play tag but the sun had already started setting. If I could, I'd go back to that moment and I would do everything differently."

"How so?"

"For starters, I'd have let you go." When Lily started blinking rapidly, Snape licked his lips. His cheeks were warm and a small part of him wished the earth would crack open beneath him and swallow him whole. "It was all different after third year. If I'd been…better I'd have let you go instead of…" He waved his hand, as if he could summon the perfect blend of words that would express what he meant while preserving his dignity. "Instead of hoping you'd see me as anything more than your friend. And resenting you when you didn't. "

The words hung between them, heavy and thick like the air just before a thunderstorm. He'd always suspected she'd known. Every time their conversations skirted too close, every time he worked up the nerve to hint, she'd always steered the conversation back to something safe. And as they grew older, she stopped whispering in his ear or looping her arm through his. Worse yet, he wasn't blind and she was a terrible actress. Her eyes started lingering on James Potter, following him whenever he left the room. And while Snape had always looked back when they said goodnight, Lily had never once done the same.

But to finally say it. Snape breathed in the sweet smell of summer grass. It didn't help the dull ache in his chest, but when he finally exhaled, his entire body sagged with relief.

"Oh, Sev." Lily's eyes were shut, her lips pursed in a half grimace."I—"

"You don't have to say anything. It's fine."

To his surprise, it actually was. For the first time in years, he could see her for who she was and not who he wished she'd be. The ache in his chest, his constant companion since the day he first laid eyes on her, ebbed. He doubted it would ever go away completely. Even when he couldn't remember her, the echo of it had still been there.

"I forgive you. For that day."

"You shouldn't. I don't deserve it."

"Maybe not. But I forgive you anyway."

And for the first time since the summer before Fifth Year, they sat together in comfortable silence. It was like rereading an old book for the hundredth time; he knew every sentence, every twist and turn of phrase. He knew how this story ended, had always known how this story ended. But for once, he didn't resent his part.

"You know," he said, voice trembling. "It's not too late."

Lily's head tilted to the side, her brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

Brushing off the grass from his knees, Snape stood with a new lightness in his limbs. There was no troublesome ache in his neck. His bones did not creak. His back did not ache. The air was sweet with the scent of asphodel and wormwood, and when he looked at his hands, they were smooth. No calluses from years of writing, no scars from broken glass. Most importantly, there was no Dark Mark on his left forearm.

He glanced back at Lily and his heart leapt. She looked just as she had before a scarlet train took them to a magic castle in Scotland. Before she was a beautiful woman, back when she was a gangly girl with knobby knees and grass in her long auburn hair. It was the Lily Evans that only he knew—the Lily he loved best.

Leaning over, he lightly tapped her arm.

"Tag," he said. "You're it."

Snape didn't bother looking back as he shot across the field, his feet splashing through the creek as he darted toward home. He'd never been the fastest runner. Besides, he had full faith she would catch him before long.

Behind him, he heard Lily's indignant shriek and he pushed his legs to run faster. He didn't know if he'd ever see her again. Perhaps, he was the last person she needed to see before she left for shores unknown. As for him, he had a nagging feeling he wasn't done just yet. But this moment? This he could take with him.

A smile spread across his lips as he felt her grab a fistful of his shirt. Laughing, they tumbled down the hill.

This was something they could share, if only for a little while.