I remember being a child, hearing the story of Romeo and Juliet and thinking, "I can't imagine anyone ever loving me that much."
Now I was grown and it was still just as unreachable and unimaginable as always. I thought for a moment... but no. Love would never truly come to me.
Of all the secrets to keep, mine was one of the hardest to cope with. Being in love with Lily Evans wasn't something one spoke of openly. Unless you were James Potter, all bigotry and pig-headedness and entitlement.
I had finally found someone I could trust, who could find themselves in me and I in them. She made me feel special. More than just a greasy haired recluse who was good at potions. She made me feel exceptional. And then I pushed her away. And then she fell for James. And Lily wasn't a prize; and she wasn't the winnings from any contest. But James won her anyway.
There were other girls for me, of course. But that was the problem: They were other girls. I found ones with red hair like hers, freckled skin like hers, ones with her voice. But nobody else ever had those eyes. And nobody else was ever Lily. And for that reason, I never could love any of them. And they could never find any part of me worth loving.
Dumbledore was head of Gryffindor house then, not the Headmaster. And when Lily married James in the Spring, I wasn't in attendance as he was. He found me waiting in his office when he got back from the festivities.
Of all the secrets to share between two, that was the most confusing. Dumbledore had been in love with Grindelwald since he was seventeen. I had been in love with Lily since I was ten. I figured that made us even. I sought his comfort that night and I got it. But I still don't understand how we had let it happen.
When I kissed him, he pulled away and whispered "just this once" before coming back to me. A warning, that this was the only time he would help me forget. He probably agreed to it so easily because sometimes everyone needed help forgetting and maybe I wasn't the only one trying.
"I'm not Lily," he said softly as I undid the buttons of his silly muggle costume. That much was obvious.
"And I'm not Grindelwald," which was also obvious.
But for a few hours, it was enough.
And then Lily died, and that night found me at Dumbledore's door once again.
"Severus," he began, and I saw all the excuses on his lips before he needed to speak them.
"I'm not here for that." But I didn't know if that was true. I needed something, anything. If one more time with Dumbledore could ease the pain a little, make me forget just for a second, it was worth any price he wanted me to pay. I needed a quick fix, and he was it.
Dumbledore's instincts denied me yet he gave himself to me once again. I thought of her and I know he thought of him. And after, he sat with me until morning. And as I sobbed myself out of tears and then heaved myself out of breath, I thought, "I never imagined I could love anyone this much."
And of all the secrets I'd collected in my life, I would take this one to my grave.