Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Gigantic thank you to iNiGmA who betadd this thing like three times. Poor girl.
1998
Green. The green of grass, the golden yellow of wild dandelions dancing among it in the wind. It stares back at Severus, framed in the face of a boy who confuses him. If there is a word to describe revulsion mixed with obligation, a distant sense of love, that is what defines Harry. Defines the dynamic between them, though most years it has bordered more on hatred. On rage and contempt. Annoyance. Now, it serves Severus only memory.
Days beside the river stretched out in the gentle rays of the sun. The quiet whistle of leaves as a breeze blows through them. It's days like that these eyes remind him of. The person with whom he spent them.
He feels a trickle across his cheek as he stares at Harry, reorganizing what he wants to say. A tear that is more than sadness, but despair. Memory. All Severus has left to offer him, and all Harry needs to know. Severus' final fight in this war that has been his life. Like Harry, it is nearly all he has known, and, like him, Severus won't get to see the end.
"Take them...please." His voice breaks in weakness, the fight that has filled him for two decades now falling from within him. He worries that Harry won't listen, That the things he has seen Severus do — provoke, torture, kill — are enough to dissuade him.
But, he is Harry. He is Lily's boy. There is more of her in him than Severus was ever able to admit to himself for fear of attachment with a master that required him to be distant. And as he looks, he feels a pang. It isn't that of the jagged tears across his throat, but of age-old regret. The one he has tortured himself with for more years than Harry has lived. A pang that Severus wasn't enough, that he failed the most important task he was given. That Lily would be ashamed of the man he became.
And that's what it all culminates to, what it always has. Lily.
"You have your mother's eyes." Severus' voice feels detached as he says it, the thought escaping him before it has fully formed. A thought he would have kept inside only moments before. But, the poison is taking hold.
Severus watches a flicker of confusion cross Harry's features, a question for the boy to ponder at a different time, locked away for when death no longer looms on the battlefield. But, it is not a priority for now. The time for more important things is slipping away.
Still, they are words that betray Severus. That should Harry not obey what he has asked — an action which wouldn't surprise him — they tell, he hopes, of his allegiance. And maybe they'll be enough to push Harry toward Dumbledore's office — an office Severus never considered his own — despite Harry's desire to protect his friends.
It has to be enough, because Severus has nothing else to give.
Severus feels the edges of his sight fraying, feels death coming to collect him, and he lets it happen. He turns his face from Harry's, who kneels before him a man, no longer the boy he had known. He fades away, the image of red and green filling his mind, of autumn sun and a lilting voice. He feels her closer than he has in years, and with a final heave of breath, he edges towards her — the one he has waited for for years.
He lets go.
1976
"Well, I thought that paper was a piece of cake." Sirius smiled to himself, and James agreed. It had been — for them.
James thought of Snape, several rows ahead, of the way his nose had nearly pressed against the parchment. If his snot had dripped from his disgusting nose, the parchment would have been there to soak it away. The stain unnoticeable beneath the spots of grease.
Snape had written furiously, his quill gliding across the parchment, and James had wondered what it was he was writing, if the examiner would question the material Snape submitted. There was no doubt he was experienced. James had felt the heat of Snape's spells on his own skin, the anger that had formed into the letters of a curse as Snape lashed out. A time or two, James had been sent to the hospital as a result. If anyone knew the Dark Arts, it was Snape. But James questioned how much Snape knew about defending himself against them.
From everything James had seen, Snape's defenses were weak. Snape was always ill-prepared, allowing the Marauders to easily catch him with an Incarcerous, a body binding curse. There were so many options for what to do with him, and James was anxious to try them all.
The four of them stepped into the sunlight, the sun's warmth beating down on them, as though it, too, were proud. James pulled a Snitch from his pocket, fiddling with it as they walked when he heard Sirius' voice again.
"Where'd you get that?" He sounded almost annoyed, but James gave it no thought.
"Nicked it," James replied, releasing the little golden ball from his fingers. He let it flutter in front of him, the magic inside of it questioning where it should go. Only when it began to move away did he reach out and grasp it in his hand again. He felt the beady eyes of Peter on him all the while.
They reached the shade of their tree, the one they usually relaxed beneath. Although the sunlight had been inviting, the shade was even more so.
They sat in silence, Remus with his book, Sirius with his eyes latched on a pair of girls across the grounds, and Peter still watching James. He found it annoying, the way Peter drooled over his actions, but never did he ask him to stop. There was something fulfilling about Peter's little gasps of awe, and James allowed it to continue.
Their weeks — months — before now had been consumed by studying, by the yellowing pages of books and lines of black ink. Without them now, it felt almost empty. Even though James enjoyed the freedom, he was bored.
"Put that away, will you?" Sirius insisted, the irritation in his voice growing. James knew that Sirius felt like he did when it came to Peter. That Peter was good for one's self-confidence, but he could get a little old. A little dull. Unlike James, Sirius had had enough.
James stuffed the Snitch in his pocket once more, listening to Sirius' reflection of his own thoughts from a moment ago. The sigh of how utterly bored he was. The thirst for some excitement — a sentiment Remus didn't appreciate.
James gazed across the grounds, looking for anything else, when he spotted black. With another glance, he could see Lily, her red hair visible as she sat beside the lake. He wondered if that's where Snape was headed. An idea occurred. James felt it stretch across his lips with glee — just the thing Sirius had wanted. The thing they had waited for. The greatest snare James could set for Lily.
"This'll liven you up, Padfoot," he muttered, a corner of his lips turning upwards. He gave a jerk of his head, motioning to Snape across the grounds. "Look who it is."
They didn't need to say his name aloud. They had come to the agreement that they would stop him at any cost, at any opportunity. Amidst their boredom, one had presented itself. James stood, quickly pulling his wand from where he had stowed it in his pocket.
They watched as Snape shoved a parchment into his worn and well-used bag, the strap threatening to tear as it hung lazily over his shoulder. James stalked towards him, Sirius following close behind. The other two had stayed. James knew they had more reservations about Snape than Sirius and him, but this was something that had to be done.
"All right, Snivellus?" James called across the grounds, his voice reverberating in the empty space, drawing the attention of students who lazed about the grounds. He easily expected to attract even more.
Snape didn't help himself, he brought on some of the embarrassment. His bag fell to the ground, his wand stretching out in front of him, a curse readying itself. James was too fast.
"Expelliarmus!" he shouted carelessly, watching as the wand flew from Snape's hand to rest a ways behind him. Snape turned, reaching for his only defense when Sirius' Impedimenta stopped it. Snape collided with the ground, his belly thudding roughly against the grass, his wand arm still outstretched in hope.
More students turned to watch now. James looked, wondering if he had caught the attention of Lily. She was the only one that mattered. He hadn't.
They taunted Snape. Sometimes words were more effective than wands. The red filling Snape's cheeks, telling of his embarrassment, was worth it.
Snape fought against Sirius' magic, struggling for any less embarrassing position, threats falling breathlessly from his own mouth. James wondered what he would have done, what curses he would have cast, had he still had his wand. The hexes that streamed from Snape moments later answered that question, and not all of them were ones James recognized.
He was useless without his wand, and James nearly laughed, but he didn't care to listen to it all the same. "Scourgify!" he cast, watching Snape's mouth foam, the bubbles spilling from his lips and down his shirt. Snape fought to speak, choking on the soap instead.
"Leave him ALONE!"
They heard Lily's voice. Desperate and angry as it wedged through the crowd. She didn't know it was partly how James had fallen for her. The way her face screwed up in rage almost made this all more worth it. He couldn't help but smile as she shouted at him. She simply brought it out.
She was beautiful, and James couldn't help but be distracted, even if she was calling him vile things. "Go out with me," he insisted, a bribe he was sure she would take. Sure it would interest her for reasons beyond Snape.
This wasn't the first time she had yelled at James, but he knew he was wearing her down. That soon enough, Snape would no longer be a factor.
James had caught the way she smiled at him across the common room all those times before, her eyes glinting with what he hoped was something more. It was there when he had first fallen for her. She had sat beside the firelight, the snow falling heavily beyond their tower. It was insignificant, a book held in her fingers, pulling her attention away from him. But, he was struck. Three years later and he was positive that he had fallen fully in love.
"OY!" Sirius' voice broke through James' distractions. He blinked away the image of her bathed in yellow and orange and returned to the present. He turned, seeing a wand aimed towards him, the hand that gripped it none other than the slimeball he had thought still lay on the ground.
He felt a gash slice into his skin, felt the pain radiate from his cheek as his blood trickled from the cut. What James did next was done without a thought, merely a retaliation. A usage of the spell that had been stuck inside his memory for some time.
James watched as Snape was lifted in the air, his clothes falling to expose his pale legs, his dingy underwear. He was an ugly little slimeball.
James heard laughter from the crowd that had grown around them, felt it spur him on. But, his face was on Lily's again. On the way her eyes gleamed with a laughter she tried to contain, even if she pushed it away a second later. He watched the twitch of her lips, how easily it had almost formed into a smile. He realized then that Snape no longer mattered. That James didn't need to worm his way into her heart, Snape had already begun to force himself out of it.
1997
Severus steps to an archway, the window of it long ago broken. He stands in the chill of winter, watching the grounds below, the students that march across it. They follow the Carrows, looking like prisoners of war, and Severus supposes they are. Prisoners he never intended to take.
He isn't sure how he got here, how all of it fell apart so fast. In three years, the Dark Lord has taken everything and Severus has watched it fall. He has seen the death of children, people he had long ago, and even recently, considered beyond acquaintances. He has watched the fall of the school, the Ministry, and the snuffing of what little light remains. He has been cast into a darkness the world beyond can't comprehend. He knows the entirety of both armies, but there is little he can do. He is trapped within their shadows. The man with nearly the most power and he can do nothing.
He has felt the Dark Lord's rage in spells across his skin, in nights he wasn't sure he'd survive. He's watched Potter. Seen the boy's defiance when those around him had only tried to help, to guide, to protect — only to be met with arrogance; the assumption that Potter knew better when he had known nothing at all. Potter is the largest part of this war, and in some ways, he doesn't even know it. Doesn't know how it will end. Potter's life is frivolous. Friends, schoolboy crushes, it will all come to an end soon. Sooner than Severus cares to think about. Potter has lived in this world as a weapon of the Dark Lord's creation, and the explosion inside him will fizzle one day too.
Instead, Severus bides his time. He escapes into the Headmaster's office, trying to remain as impartial as is possible for him. He avoids punishment, avoids judgments, avoids the knowledge that here children are being hurt, and there is little he can do to stop it.
He is faced with reminders of Potter daily. He sees it in the face of the Weasley girl, of Lovegood and Longbottom — friends of Potter's who feel they need to do their part. That they have sacrifices to make when their lives will never be given — not in the way Potter's will.
If the war comes inside the castle, those friends will be forgotten, their names lost on a list of those who had fought, a list that grows longer by the day.
And Severus will be on one of his own. Marked as a traitor, a criminal, a murderer; the martyr inside him buried beneath the rivers of blood he has allowed to flow. He will be vilified — as he deserves — and the world will move on knowing they are better off without him.
He looks to the sky, ignoring his fate for just a moment, hoping against rationality that he will see Lily's face among the clouds. He searches for the strength that she has given, the reminder of why he is here to begin with. How he can rectify what he's done. But, the sky remains dark, motionless; free of her.
He hopes that Potter is alive, vanquishing a little more of the Dark Lord every day. Severus pleads with whoever is in charge of his miserable existence, that it will be brought to an end soon. That the war will close, the wizarding community will heal. That they will forget the mistakes he made. It's a hope he doesn't have the ability to feel, that has always evaded him and that he has lost, perhaps, forever.
1978
James stepped onto the loose dirt road, standing in front of the self pulled carriages. This would be the last time he and his friends took them.
The unmistakable sound of apparition echoed around him. It was just the same as any ending school year, many of the seventh years forgoing their final ride on the train. This time, it was their year. They didn't follow.
Instead, the five of them — Sirius, Remus, Peter, Lily, and himself — squeezed themselves into a singular carriage, letting it pull them away from the grounds.
James stared back wistfully, watching the gates to what had been his life for the last seven years close off. This was the end. The beginning of something new.
He was ready to fight. His spells were well-practiced, his defense strategies even more so, but for so many years now they had fought from inside the castle walls, protected from those who were truly dangerous. Instead, they had aimed to stop future followers. James saw the greasy black of Severus Snape disapparting from the crowd and knew, in that regard, he and his friends had failed.
He had no proof, no way to tell other than suspicion, but James knew that if Snivellius wasn't already a death eater, he was well on his way to becoming one. Perhaps that was the destination to which he headed now.
"You ready to join the order then, Prongs?" Sirius' voice mirrored James' thoughts from a moment ago, and he heartily replied. He had looked forward to this for years.
The carriage stopped, the scarlet train coming into view. They climbed from the carriage, boarding the train instead, Lily's hand in his.
The days after had passed quickly, blurring into a haze of boredom. Now James wished for them back. His breathing was ragged and the fight had hardly begun. He had anticipated this moment, had talked about it with grandeur on the train ride home from Hogwarts. His final ride. He had been excited, prepared — he thought — for this moment. That was a week ago. Now, he was paralyzed by fear.
This was different than the battle he had fought inside of Hogwarts. Snape, as cruel and dark as he had been, had been restrained by rules and solitude. His spells, though cutting, were now fired at James from every direction. From people he had tried to save, from people he didn't know.
He felt outnumbered. The calls of spells blurred into a singular sound and he never knew what was coming. Could hardly anticipate it before the spell had arrived, his own shield barely forming and knocking the curses away.
James felt more that night than he had imagined was possible. Felt ropes of flame licking at his skin, tightening before falling away from the help of another. He had felt his body convulse on the ground below, his screams begging for the pain to stop. That connection had been broken, too, giving him just a moment to breathe before something else came.
The world around him was unrecognizable. Blurred by smoke, obscured by screams he forced himself not to linger on, and permeated by blood. It terrified him, but he had advanced.
James pressed forward into the night, weaving his way through the streets of some city he had never known before. Sparks shot from his wand, an array of colors, of spells. They lit up the night and, combined with the magic around him, blocked out the starry sky above.
He felt his lips move, heard his voice weakly form an "Expelliarmus!" and he watched a wand fly from the masked man before him.
Reaching out, James caught it. He was filled with a sense of victory as the man retreated; that maybe he wouldn't be defeated as easily as he had thought before. That maybe he had a chance.
He ran, diving away from the fight for just a moment. Pressing himself against a wall, hiding himself in the shadows, he searched the street, catching his breath. His eyes crawled over every face, looking for the ones he knew, the ones he loved — for Lily, hoping she had been as victorious this far as he. He spotted her off in the distance casting spells of her own, and he felt a smile tug at his lips.
They were in this together.
1997
Severus' eyes scan the Astronomy tower, searching for that glimmer of green. He knows Potter is here, hidden beneath the starry sky. How many times has the night protected Potter? Or has it merely signaled the fall of something else? Pettigrew. Diggory. And now, Dumbledore.
Albus leans against the parapet. His skin is pale beneath the moonlight, and Severus can see him slipping — what's left inside fading away. He wants to ponder what the Dark Lord has done to Dumbledore. What protection was placed around the Horcrux this time? Was he foolish once again, as he had been with the ring? Or is there something more?
It does not matter. Severus' heart collapses inside him and he feels empty. He wills the emotion away, knowing that now is the time Dumbledore has asked him for. That Dumbledore would have fetched him here not to mend him, but to take away the pain, forever. It hasn't mattered that Severus has protested, that he doesn't want to cast the fatal spell. There is something more behind this that he doesn't yet know.
He listens to the taunting of his comrades — of Death Eaters who he had foolishly once agreed with. Carrow. Greyback. Lestrange. And in his disappointment — Draco. Severus can see him faltering. See the will within his eyes disappearing. He knew that Draco would never be able to finish his job, even if the boy has come this far — a feat that still surprises Severus. That deep inside, Draco is not a monster like him, like Lucius; but that kindness beats within him still.
Severus is here to take that choice from him, to lift the weights from Draco's shoulders and place them on his own. If not for Draco, then for his mother.
Just like Harry.
Severus gazes at Dumbledore a final time, knowing what he must do, but he is frozen all the same. This spell will change more than perhaps he can imagine. And Dumbledore says the words he knows will break him.
"Severus...please."
His voice is weak, and Severus knows with or without him the end has come. He raises his wand, swallowing what spit remains in his dry mouth. He forms the words he detests most, thrusting them into the night air. He watches the sparks of green burst from his wand. Watches them connect with Dumbledore's chest, pushing him over the wall and sending him cascading to the ground. He watches the light of his only friend, the only person who knows his truth, fade away.
He turns. Storming down the steps in a rage. There is no containing this. Severus is furious at what he has become. Furious at what Dumbledore made him do. Furious that it is all his own fault.
And there is Potter.
Severus hears his voice shouting behind him — frantic — and he knows Potter is just as angry as he is. That Potter is confused, hurt, and he has every right to be. Severus lets his facade crack if only for an instant because, although he cannot stand Potter, this is a pain they share.
"It's over, time to go!" Severus urges the others, his voice brusque as he shouts. He knows that Potter will antagonize them all the while, his rage spilling from him in magic sparks. And Severus knows they can handle it for only so long before they cast a fatal spell of their own towards Potter. It is the final protection Severus can offer him, because, after tonight, there will be no question in their minds about his allegiance.
He forces himself through the castle, Draco — the one who concerns him most — following close. Severus has heard the thuds of the others, their bodies frozen by spells and pulled to the stone. It fills him with an unfamiliar sense of glee; to know that someone can hurt them when he cannot.
He edges his way across the lawn, the gates to Hogsmeade and beyond coming into view. He thinks he's lost Potter. That they might be able to escape without causing more bloodshed, when a poorly aimed spell barrels past him. The red of it streaks across his vision, Potter's voice breaking through the cacophony of battle.
"Run, Draco!" Severus calls. This boy must escape. If he cannot save Potter, cannot save himself, he hopes Draco, at least, will be different.
Severus turns, finding Potter close behind him. Potter's eyes betray the night he has had, and Severus pushes. He can see the interior of the cave, the creeping bodies growing near, the walls of flame within created by Dumbledore. He can see the formation of a spell before the word meets Potter's lips. Though Severus deserves it, he parries.
Potter falls backward, colliding with the ground beneath him. Severus can hear shouts echoing around him, sees a flash of flame, and he knows he's lost control. That although he has tried to contain the chaos, Bellatrix has escaped him, and he has failed once more. Severus hears the cry of Hagrid, the man's concern bellowing into the night above all else, and Severus is overwhelmed. Hagrid is yet another victim in an unnecessary war.
Potter is standing again, the same spell lining his lips, but again, Severus is prepared.
"Cruc—!" Potter begins, but Severus is too fast, too experienced. Too determined. With a gentle movement, the spell is shifted away from him.
"Incarc—!" Potter tries again, the spell falling uselessly to the ground. Severus can see Potter's frustration building as the boy edges him closer to the gates. An attempt to inflict pain. And though Severus knows the correct emotions are behind the spells, Potter doesn't have it in him.
He is Lily's boy.
Harry urges Severus to fight back, not knowing that is all he has been doing. That for every year Potter has survived, Severus has fought a little harder. That every lie he has told, even the ones he will bring to his master in a moment, will be for Potter.
He can see Potters' hatred for him obscuring the boy's sight and can see the beginnings of something else. Severus sees the pools of blood on the floor of a Hogwarts' bathroom. Can see Draco and the wounds Severus has healed. He can feel Potter's regret, now, that Draco had been okay. Severus can see Potter's determination to not let it happen again. And the spell — Severus' spell — builds, pouring from Potter in agony.
Severus wants it to come. He wants to feel it slice across his skin, feel the fading of his own life. It is less than he deserves, but the moment will have to wait. More than anything, he is infuriated — disappointed — in Potter. This isn't the act of Lily's son, but James'. Severus knocks the curse away, the building of his own fury escaping his lips.
"No, Potter!" He watches the boy fly backward, feeling only the slightest bit of remorse as Potter crumples. Severus has had enough.
He steps closer to Potter, determined to make him understand, offering his final jab as he tells Potter what Severus knows he has wondered all year. That Potter has tried to hurt him with his own creation. An act that Severus has been subjected to before. Severus sends Potter's wand flying across the grass in anger, and protection of them both.
He hears the accusation of what he has done to Dumbledore thrown in his face. The proof that, despite everything else, this is all he'll be known for.
Severus screams at him, years of rage that he has kept locked behind his tightest barriers breaking free. He can see nothing but James then. The messy hair, the glasses. He wants retaliation. Severus wants to inflict the same pain that he has been subjected to.
His wand slices through the air, the movement almost involuntary. He watches Potter stumble a final time, watches as he gasps for breath. Severus should feel shame, but it morphs into a sickening sense of pride. A reminder that he has fought this war on more than one side. Severus steps toward the gates once more, and disapparates.
1979
The ground had chilled with winter edging closer. They were surrounded by fallen leaves, blown by a late autumn wind. It was cold and Lily was alight with flame. She was a fire that burrowed beneath James' skin, the flames flickering against his soul. He could feel the heat of her, pressing into him. Could feel the warmth of her body, flush against his. James tucked an escaped strand of red behind her ear, pressing kisses to the skin where his fingers had brushed.
She was dressed in black — an outfit fit for a mourner, though the look stretched across her features was content. She leaned forward, her head falling to his chest. His heart thumped gleefully, and he wondered if she could hear it pounding out the letters of her name.
James took her hands in his, their fingers intertwining. Their steps were slow at first, moving in gentle circles around the pavement. Their shoes made soft thuds against the stones as they spun, moving together as one. The running water of the fountain behind them nearly masked the sound, but even his ears were desperate for a part of her.
They were not the people they had once been. No longer immature. The war had aged them beyond just nineteen, broken the most childish parts of them. The things they had seen — had survived — were more than many older than them could even comprehend.
Their generation was forced from their youth, many of them choosing to fight. Lily and James were among them. There was too much darkness in the world, and they wanted to steal just a little more light. These moments together gave them a glimpse of what might be. A future together that they couldn't wait to start. It didn't matter if they had years together or only stolen moments, as long as they existed. As long as he had her. His flower.
Lily pulled away a final time, their dance coming to a stop, and he smiled at her. Begged silently for the freezing of time, to make this moment last forever, but her lips moved. She had other plans.
"James."
His name. Said with its usual love, though there was a faltering in her voice, a nervousness he didn't understand. She was still holding his hands, her grip tightening as though she were afraid he might run away.
Her eyes slid across his face, meeting his gaze, before falling to the ground. She gave a sigh, taking an inhale of strength, before she looked at him again, and he found himself almost afraid. Although he wanted to urge her on, he said nothing. His silent patience seemed to be what she needed, providing the final stone of her resolve, and her mouth moved again.
"I'm pregnant."
He understood then, the hesitation. This had not been planned, although they hadn't been entirely careful. A baby, born in the middle of a war, but a child of theirs just the same. His lips parted in a smile. Despite the danger that filled the world around them, he was excited.
He pulled her close again, and his mouth moved against hers. Emotion rushed to the surface. Excitement, pleasure, fear, and an urgency for more time together. It was wrapped into one, each piece nearly indistinguishable from the others, and he told her what he had told her a thousand times over.
"I love you."
1991
Severus watches as Harry crosses the stone of the Hogwarts floor. Harry is not what he expected. He is small, tall — like his father — but overly thin. He seems timid, gazing at the enchanted sky above for only a moment before his eyes flit around the Hall. It's a look of wonder, curiosity; as though he's seeing magic for the first time.
Harry says nothing as he looks, as he steps towards the stool and the Hat that sits upon it. As he turns his back to Severus.
The Sorting Hat falls over Harry's head, the brim of it obscuring even the side of his face from view. The Hall waits in silence; a factor that Severus is sure surprises more than him.
He glances toward Dumbledore, past Quirrell — the purple-turbaned and unusual man beside him —a question in his gaze, but the Headmaster is turned away. He doesn't see. And they wait.
Everyone stares at Harry, waiting for the judgment of a most historical moment, Severus among them. He had expected the ring of "Gryffindor!" to echo through the chamber the moment the Hat realized who sat beneath it, but it isn't there. And he wonders. Wonders what the Hat is debating. Wonders what could have caused it. A line of lions, and nothing else, flows through Harry's blood. But they wait.
Finally, the judgment comes, the house of red and gold shouts in victory. They see him as a prize. Severus sees the boy's shoulders relax, and he wonders why that is — what relief has come over Harry that was held from the rest of the school. Severus watches as he slides amongst a sea of red hair, friends already made, and he feels a remorseful pang of jealousy. Once again, something that he wanted but could not have falls upon a Potter.
Severus is still staring at him when Harry turns toward him, and though he should look away, he can't. He is frozen by curiosity. His eyes meet Harry's. Meet the green that Dumbledore had long ago told him was there, and something inside him melts despite himself.
He feels a surge of legilimency, a hunger to delve into Harry's mind, but he restrains. Time enough will give Severus the answers he needs.
Instead, he watches as Harry's face fills with pain, his brows coming together for only a moment. As if this is new. That Harry hasn't felt it before. His hand rubs against the skin of his forehead — the raw-looking edges of his scar — and he winces. Severus looks to the man beside him. Curiosity he had once thought was misplaced now raging once more. The voice of Dumbledore breaks through Severus' thoughts. The feast begins. These curiosities will have to wait.
1980
The sight was unusual. Never before had James expected to welcome his Headmaster inside his home, to offer him a cup of tea, a place to sit. The dynamic between them was different than perhaps most students, but being a part of the Order had changed that. Still, James was uncomfortable. He knew that Dumbledore wasn't there for a chat, to exchange pleasantries. And even though the Headmaster tried to keep his face neutral, the dulled sparkle of his eyes betrayed him. There was something wrong.
The three of them sipped at their tea — Lily sitting among them. They knew that something must be shared there, but Dumbledore couldn't seem to say it. James and Lily couldn't seem to ask. It was easier to live in delusion, to pretend they were a normal family with normal company, but that dream, too, had to be shattered eventually. It was Dumbledore that broke it.
"There has been a prophecy." There was a clatter of his empty teacup as it met the saucer, and the noise rang loudly between the space of his words. "It spoke of a boy, a child that is to be born, and his ability to defeat Lord Voldemort."
James and Lily looked on in confusion. They knew what Dumbledore meant — that he spoke of their child that was yet to be, that would be born months from then. But the mechanics were more difficult. They needed him to go on, to explain.
And Dumbledore told them.
He spoke the prophecy in its entirety, his voice bored — as though he had been over this a hundred times. When he finished, James could only stare. It was insane.
"And we're the only couple having a baby?" It was Lily's voice, her words annoyed and dripping with disbelief. It was a valid question, but Dumbledore shook his head.
"He doesn't know of your child, not yet, but he will. He is searching, and when the baby is born he will decide if the prophecy tells of your child or another. But, he will choose one." There was more, but Dumbledore didn't say it. Didn't need to.
The three of them knew what he meant without the words having to be said aloud. That this child — whether it was theirs or another's — would die.
James felt helpless. He wanted to run into the street and scream into the wind, wanted to feel the air ragged in his throat and his footsteps pound against the pavement. He wanted to rage at the injustice, to thrust sparks into the sky. He wanted to cry, knowing this was unfair, but Lily was silent beside him, and he composed himself.
They stayed that way long after Dumbledore left. There was nothing they could do, not yet. The baby was still safe, but for how long they didn't know. They wouldn't know, not until he was born. Then the decisions would come. Should they run, hide, fight? It was all too much, and though neither of them said it out loud, they knew which they would choose.
Being passive wasn't an option, not for their family. It didn't matter if the fight laid them in the ground, they would resist. You-Know-Who had taken everything else. They wouldn't give him this.
1980
Severus stumbles, trying to catch himself from falling to the pebbled ground beneath his feet. He glances back just in time to see a white trailing beard streaked with grey, and cold blue eyes staring from a hardened face. Aberforth's hand holds tightly to the knob, slamming the door he has just thrown Severus through.
Severus pauses, collecting his thoughts. He was unsuccessful, and for that, he knows he will pay, but he brings something more. When he is sure he can contain his emotions, can enter headquarters composed, he disapparates from the path leading to the Hog's Head Inn.
His magic brings him somewhere else, to a place he finds less dismal. He has spent so many nights inside this building and now he is here for another. He steps inside the mansion he knows so well, into hallways that his footsteps have memorized. He has found a home here, a welcome he's felt nowhere else. With him, he brings the key that he hopes will secure his stay.
Severus is early, and the Dark Lord is unimpressed. He swoops in, a mixture of billowing robes and fury. His face is angry with the assumption that Severus has failed. There is no warning. Severus falls to his knees inside the chamber, the wooden floor unforgiving as he collides against it.
He feels the force of the Dark Lord enter his mind, scrutinizing his memories of the night. Severus feels him clawing through his being, searching for the answer he so desperately wants and one Severus cannot provide.
"You have failed." The Dark Lord's words are sharp, cold as ice as they burrow beneath Severus' skin.
His voice catches in his throat, the words frigid, and he stutters. "N-no, my Lord. I bring something else. Something more."
The Dark Lord presses further, expanding his search. He has stepped towards Severus, holding his chin gruffly in his hand, and Severus can do nothing. If he fights, if he twists away, he will die. He summons up the prophecy instead, the words he overheard and allows it to play inside his mind, on display for his master.
He offers the image of a golden keyhole, of Dumbledore's voice and another trailing from behind the door. Severus offers up the woman, the mention that she is a Seer, providing the most important snippets — the ones that will spare him, and he hears her words. They replay inside him, harsh and distant and, now, for the Dark Lord's ears.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…"
The grip on Severus' chin tightens, the Dark Lord's overgrown nails pressing into his flesh. His rage has only grown. The mere idea of defeat is catastrophic, and Severus is just close enough to pay the price.
"...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies"
There is a scuffle, the shout of Aberforth, and Severus is pulled away, the remainder of the prophecy lost.
Severus expects punishment — any joy he had before is now eradicated, and he is afraid he hasn't done enough. The Dark Lord pulls away, stepping to the other side of the room. Severus falls, the loss of contact so sudden that he had no way to prepare himself.
The air around him is dangerously calm, charged with the hint of death, the only question is whose?
"This is not the task for which you were requested, Severus." His voice is cold, unreadable, and it only makes it worse; though if Severus knew what was coming, his only choice would be to accept his fate. He could not raise his wand to his master, not if he wanted to live.
"No, my Lord," he answers, swallowing his fear.
He watches his master turn, the Dark Lord's thin lips pulling back to reveal pointed teeth. His blood-red eyes gleam dangerously in the pale light, but this, Severus knows, is not for him.
"Nevertheless, we are pleased. If what you have shown us is the truth, you will be rewarded."
Severus' shoulders drop and he gives an exhale of pride. He has survived another night to fight again, to serve his cause, to secure his future, here.
And he is pleased.
1981
"I love you and I have loved you." James' words were a mumble beside her ear, a confirmation of what they both already knew. Of what he had told her a million times before. But, this was different.
There was a danger looming beyond, growing nearer by the second. She had to flee, and James had to fight. Lily opened her lips to speak, all the things she wanted to say, that she had held inside since their beginning, collided with one another. Meeting his ears with one singular word: "James."
"I know." He choked the words out and it pained him. With her, there would never be enough. Enough love. Enough time. And this was their goodbye.
They had heard the blasting of a spell moments ago, the splintering of the gate around their house, and James fumbled for his wand, which lay too far away, spells preparing themselves on his tongue before the wood was in his hand. But, she still had time. She could run. Save Harry and apparate away. James' destiny, however, had already been set in stone, perhaps before the prophecy even came to be. James was to hold him off and — he knew — die in the process.
She knew too. It was the reason for her hesitation, but when he spoke again, telling her to go, to run, she obeyed. Her eyes glistening with what they both knew would be.
He heard the thumps of her feet as she ran up the steps, the carpet doing little to muffle the fear that lived there. The sound died away, masked by a second explosion, the shattering of their door, the last hurdle that would stop You-Know-Who.
"Expelliarmus!" James shouted, his wand clenched tightly, but You-Know-Who was prepared. He waved away the scarlet of James' spell as if it were little more than a fly. The shimmer of a wordless shield stuttered into place, reflecting the sparks that had come from James' own wand, sending them cascading uselessly to the floor.
You-Know-Who advanced, his steps lazy, though he still drew nearer. James stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, the trembling of his fear hardly allowing him to stay upright. This was not the same war that he had fought before. It had grown beyond inexperienced Hogwarts graduates, separated by colorless black and brightest white. There would be no one coming to save him. No shouting voice that would pull You-Know-Who's attention away and allow James to escape. And he knew, as he had known before, that he would die here. But, to know it and to face it were different things.
And he was afraid.
James thought of Lily as another spell burst from his wand — a body bind curse. He thought of her as he watched the dying of his own sparks, once again thrown aside. James thought of her eyes. Green as the quidditch pitch, lined with the gold of a snitch. He thought of her hair, Gryffindor red, and the time they had spent huddled beneath the fabric of the stands, hidden from the world.
He remembered the things they had done there, the undressing of clothes, the fervent kisses traded beneath the shadows and the starlight. It was the first place they had exchanged "I love you's" The hope for their future together, a family, had sparked even then — no longer an idea, but a possibility.
James thought of her upstairs as he cast a final Protego of his own. He wondered if she was cradling their son against her bosom, knowing that, even now, she wouldn't cry. Lily was always strong despite the situations that would break those weaker than her.
He hoped that she had apparated away, that her feet had landed in the safe house they had set aside. He wondered, too, if it was even safe any longer. If You-Know-Who's followers would be waiting for her there, Snape among them. If they were destined to die despite all they had done.
He thought of Harry, his son. His boy, who was much too young to remember his parents. James thought of how Harry was a conglomerate of the things Lily and James were, the things they had loved. Black and green. Charms and quidditch. The world beyond Godric's Hollow.
The thought of Harry painted him — his dear, sweet Harry. He was coated in memories of his son. Of when he'd been barely a thought, of when he'd been born. Of the prophecy and how, now, Harry would have to fight this war without him. James murmured an apology Harry would never hear, his final profession of love — for he wouldn't get another chance.
He watched as the man-turned-monster towering before him raised his wand again. Watched the sinister smile spread across his lips, knowing he had won. James did too.
"Avada Kedavra!"
James listened to his voice thundering with joy, watched the vibrant green — unlike the one he had loved — hurtle towards him. And he thought of Lily. Of Harry.
Before his body fell, solid, unmoving, he thought of them and pleaded with Merlin that they would be all right.
1998
There is a parting in the mist, the usual calm distorted by the raging war below. The souls have come —have crossed the dividing tide. There is a soul crafted of brown and green beside one whose colors are ever-changing. There is red, half of a whole. Blonde that wasn't supposed to be there. And, finally, the soul that I have waited for all the while, there is black. There is Severus Snape.
He leaves the world behind, leaves everything that he has known and the little he has loved. A man that has survived when all the odds had been against him. He joins those who have been here before him. Those that he sent across the veil.
It is his turn to be broken.
I welcome him, hear him asking my name, asking if I am Death, and I can only agree. He isn't the first to wonder; isn't the first to be filled with relief at the knowledge that his fight is over, even if for billions of others it rages on. He has had enough.
I am reminded of another soul, one that came eighteen years before him. He, too, was black, broken, and though he came here under different and devastating circumstances, they feel the same to me.
Severus Snape and James Potter.
Two men that fought against each other, that hated each other. On earth, they had lashed at one another's throats — willing for the extinction of the other's life, for the freedom the loss of one of them would provide —but here, they are together again.
I wonder how it will go. If they will see yet just how alike they are. If their differences will have been left behind the veil when they crossed over. They are black and broken, and they have loved green, have fought for green and red; fought to survive, to win. And though it took the darker one some time, they both bathed in the light at their ends. I smile at the parallels between them, knowing that through every fight, they are the same.
That against all odds, they fought for love.
Fought for good.
And paid the ultimate price.