It never ceased to amaze him how far down into a bottle he could sink some nights.
The bottle of muggle rum fell to the floor, empty, rolling along the stones to rest against the fireplace with a clatter. It wouldn't be the first bottle he'd ever emptied, sitting alone, sinking with exhaustion into an old leather chair, too tired to sleep, too conflicted to rest.
Guilt never left him, especially in this hour of the night. It couldn't leave him. It always stayed in the corners of his mind, lurking in the deepest recesses of his own soul. Some days he welcomed it, since it reminded him that he still had a soul. Other days, it was a burden, since it cut into him. Guilt led to regret, regret led to self-loathing...
...and self-loathing led to an empty bottle cast across a floor.
He closed his eyes against the pain; the pain that no one knew he carried, for if they did, the charade would be over. The charade that kept him alive and intact. It made his sanity stretch like a tightrope – too taut, and he'd snap, too loose, and he'd fall.
When he opened his eyes, she was sitting in the chair opposite him.
It wasn't the first time she'd done that.
You did it again, didn't you?
You know I did. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here.
Why? Why do you keep after him so?
What am I supposed to do?
Remember he's only sixteen, for starters!
I was sixteen once. I wasn't treated with kid gloves.
How many times can someone apologize for what they did in their youth? How many times can I say I'm sorry? How many times will it take before you let go?
You're not the one who I needed the apology from.
Great. So, you're going to punish him, repeatedly, for what his father did. How noble of you.
Trust me, he's done his share. I don't even need his father's influence anymore.
Why can't you be the better man?
I forgot how to be a better man years ago.
No you didn't. You haven't forgotten.
What makes you think that?
I wouldn't be here if you had.
I don't want to think about this anymore. I just want to curl up and forget.
Why can't you help him? You know what he has to face. You know what he has to be feeling. Why can't you put your pride down and help him?
It's not pride that stops me. You know that. We've discussed that before.
You keep saying that. What else could it be?
Did it ever occur to you that showing favoritism, or even slight neutrality, will be worse in the long run? Do you think it's wise for he-who-pissed-off-he-who-must-not-be-named to act like he's buddy buddy pal pal with Harry Potter? Not really. Especially since I have to go run recon missions for the Order on a regular basis.
Oh, there you go again...
Don't belittle me right now. You have no idea what it's like, constantly wondering if someone is going to realize I'm not who I appear to be. These are people who have seen me at my worst; to let them know there's a side of me that loathes my past gives them the motive to distrust me at the least and kill me at the worst. And if I'm dead, how will I take care of your son?
But do you have to enjoy the damned charade so much?
Do you think I enjoy this? Do you truly believe I get some sick, sadistic joy out of torturing him? I don't. All I feel is an empty hate. I'm doing to him what his father did to me, and I know with every piece of my soul it's wrong. But I can't let my guard down, I can't allow myself to feel empathy around him.
Why not? Does he deserve this?
It's not a matter of what he deserves. It's a matter of what he needs. He needs to know the utter cruelty he will face. He needs to know what kind of man he's being asked to eventually challenge. If even in a diluted sense, he needs that lesson. And it's not one anyone else in this school can give. It's better he learn coldness and cruelty from someone looking out for his best interests than someone out to do serious harm. Who's going to do it? Dumbledore? McGonagall? Lupin?
He knows what he's fighting! He's faced it five times already! And yes, all those people can help him. I'm not saying you can't, but he doesn't particularly want to learn anything from you.
He doesn't know. He only knows the directness of it all. He doesn't know the subtlety. The little minute glances and turns of phrase that can mark his death. And Voldemort won't give him time to learn them, either. He won't give him a chance to learn.
I know that, you know that, and Harry even knows that. You still don't have to be so cutting and cold. And speaking of time to learn, you bloody hypocrite! Occlumency! I can't believe...I'm so angry with you for that. If you had actually HELPED him with that, so much could have been avoided.
He made it clear he didn't want my help. He never practiced in his spare time. That you cannot blame on me. Besides, all he sees of me is the person he's supposed to see – the man he saw that day...
You had your chance that day! You had a perfectly good opportunity to have a little heart-to-heart with Harry after that Pensieve incident, but you just freaked out instead.
Honestly, he wasn't going to be mean about it. He could have listened to you, he would have thought about it. He did anyway; he spent hours trying to balance the man he wants his father to have been with the vision he saw. Did you ever know that?
Maybe I didn't handle it so well, but he saw that, and if what you say is true, thought about it, and STILL he assumes I was the only jerk...doesn't leave room for a heart to heart with him.
He assumes, because that's all he can do. He doesn't know anything about you except that you're mean to him and his friends in Potions class, you haunt their steps in the hallways, you glare at him across a room. It doesn't have to be that way. You could tell him.
No, Lily, I can't. I can't ever tell him. Haven't you been paying attention?
You have already told him, Severus. You tried to save him first year, when Quirrell jinxed his broom. You tried to protect him from Remus and Sirius, when you knew one was a werewolf and assumed the other was a murderer. You didn't allow his warning to go unheeded last spring. You lied about the veritaserum. You've told. One day, he'll know.
I can't very well let a student die; I can't just turn a blind eye to his importance, no matter how much I loathe it. No matter how much others expect it.
Can you blame them? You've shown everyone nothing but some dark creature, barely in check. Why do you do this? Did Voldemort do this to you? That thing on your arm? You never do anything to change their opinions of you. I wonder if you ever will.
As long as everyone sees the dark creature, I'm safe. I'm alive. And as long as I live, he lives. You know that, Lily. As long as I still breathe, I can protect him. Isn't that all you care about? Your son's life?
No. I also care about your own safety. You watch over my son, and as much as I may severely hate your methods, as much as I cringe when you sneer, as much as my heart aches whenever you turn your cruelty to him, you do guard him. For that alone, I would care about your life.
Then you're a better person than I could ever be, Evans. A better person by far.
One day, Severus, you will be that better person. I know it.
What gives you that impression?
I told you before. If you didn't have that potential, I couldn't be here.
You mean, you wouldn't. I have to have a conscience for you to speak to it.
No, Severus. I couldn't be here. The rules are very clear. Now, sleep. Please, sleep.
His eyes shot wide open as sunlight drifted in through the high, narrow windows in his living room, the small openings barely skimming the surface of the earth that protected the dungeons. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes, trying to grasp a memory in his groggy mind of ever pulling the curtains back in the first place...
...and stopped, frozen in place.
The bottle was gone.