A/N: This is part one of a two part story . Some plot points in this story appear in my first story, "My Juliet." Once again, reviews are welcome and appreciated!

Harry made his way down to the dungeons at eight o'clock that evening. Inwardly he grumbled, cursing Malfoy for provoking him in Potions. Harry wasn't usually the one who had to be held back from jumping on the slimy git; most of the time it was Ron. But Malfoy had been insulting Harry's parents. . .

Harry's parents had been on his mind a lot lately. Especially with... him gone.

Try as he might, Harry couldn't bring himself to say or even think his name. It hurt too much. Seeing Snape every other day didn't make things any easier. Every time Harry looked at his Potions Master, he was reminded of the relationship Snape had had with Harry's father and him. His face would pop into Harry's mind whenever he saw Snape. Him, laughing and singing Christmas carols. Him, tearing at a chicken breast as though he were a dog.

Him, falling through the veil.

It really wasn't a memory Harry wanted to dwell on.

He stood outside the door to Snape's dungeon office and knocked.

"Enter," came Snape's voice from behind the door. Harry did as he was told. When he entered the office, he expected to find it in its normal state: gleaming jars full of pickled brains and other slimy things, immaculate desk, roaring fire. But what met his eye was definitely not what he expected. Thoughts of him were drawn out of Harry's mind as he stared around at the mess that was Snape's office. The jars that normally shone in the firelight were dirty and dusty. Many had mold creeping up their sides. There was no fire in the grate, making the air in the room bite at Harry's hands and ears. Snape's desk, usually spotless, was covered with rubbish and crushed parchment.

Snape sneered at Harry. "You're late, Potter."

Harry glanced down at his watch. Eight-oh-two. "Excuse me, Professor. I didn't mean to. . ."

"Of course you didn't mean to, Potter. You never mean to do anything, do you?"

Harry wasn't entirely sure what Snape meant. His teacher had moved out from behind the littered desk and was clutching something in his hand. Harry shifted slightly, and saw what looked like a piece of parchment. Before he could answer Snape's question, the Professor spoke again.

"What kept you, Potter? Were you too busy fighting off adoring fans?" Snape spat. He held up the parchment in his hand. It was a newspaper article, and Harry could just see his own face staring back at him before Snape threw it to his desk.

Harry took a deep breath. It wouldn't do to lose his temper and receive more detentions.

"I'm sorry, sir. I was thinking, that's all."

"Thinking, were you, Potter? What about? Your latest Quidditch win? Or how about your next interview?" Snape asked as he moved closer to where Harry was standing. He continued speaking quietly but deliberately, so that Harry would catch every word. "Or perhaps, Potter, you were lost in thought about your dear godfather and his tragic demise."

Anger coursed through Harry and he fought to keep it under control. It was difficult; he felt as through his insides were on fire. How dare Snape talk about. . . talk about him like that? It wasn't fair. If Snape were anyone else he, Harry, would hex him into tomorrow. . . but Snape was a teacher, and Harry didn't need to be in more trouble than he already was.

He tried even harder to make himself calm down. It was a hard fight. Taking a few more deep breaths, Harry forced himself to look into Snape's hard eyes. Snape smirked.

"Well, I'll leave your thoughts alone, Potter. . . for now."

Harry felt a slight shiver run up his spine at Snape's words. For now? Harry hadn't taken Occlumency lessons from Snape for a long while, so he couldn't think of any time when it would be necessary for Snape to invade his thoughts. The professor chuckled haughtily and walked behind his desk. It was only when Snape moved that Harry realized his professor might have been trying to scare him.

Harry felt irritated at himself for thinking like a child and spoke in a tone of forced politeness. "What do you want me to do, Professor? For my detention?"

Snape gestured at the jars behind him. "You will be cleaning my specimen containers. . .without magic." He waved his wand and a pile of rags and a bottle of cleaning solution appeared in the corner of the dungeon. "Touch only the jars, Potter. If I come back and see that you have laid a finger on my desk, you will be very sorry indeed."

With that he left the dungeon, his robes whipping behind him as he slammed the door.

Two hours later, Harry felt he had made very little progress. At first he had been bewildered. . . he certainly had had plenty of practice with Muggle cleaning at Privet Drive. But as the night wore on, Harry realized Snape had probably charmed the mold to make it resistant to cleaning.

Harry remembered another time when he had had difficulty removing a piece of mold. . . a particularly nasty teacup in a particularly nasty house. . .

No, he told himself firmly. Not now.

He picked up a jar of frog legs and began to wipe it clean when a flash caught his eye. He turned, whipping out his wand, but there was nothing there. Even though he could see nothing, Harry remained still for a few more seconds. What if there was someone there, in an Invisibility Cloak. . .?

Harry shook his head. He really was beginning to act like Moody. Chuckling at himself for feeling so on edge, Harry shoved his wand back inside his robe pocket. But just as he was turning, he again saw the same flash. For the second time, Harry abandoned the frogs and took out his wand. And, for the second time, when he turned around, there was nothing there.

Nothing there, except grimy jars and a dirty floor and Snape's desk littered with parchment. . .

His desk. Harry put his wand down and stepped closer, feeling only a slight squirm when he remembered that Snape had forbidden him to touch the desk.

But he didn't particularly care what Snape wanted.

Harry's eyes traveled over the rubbish until they reached the top right corner. There was photograph halfway hidden beneath a pile of parchment, which flashed as Harry looked at it. He picked it up. The photo was of a young woman lying on the ground, next to a lake. Her face was hidden, but her flaming red hair gleamed in the sun. A badge glinted near her shoulder. It was obvious why the photo had caught his attention—the sun combined the girl's hair and badge into one bright gleam of light. It looked as though it had been taken at Hogwarts. He looked closer still. The girl was wearing black school robes. A bag with a Gryffindor crest lay nearby.

Why would Snape have a picture of a Gryffindor girl lying by the lake? Harry's mind fell to the only Gryffindor girl he knew with flaming red hair and his stomach twisted.

Who else could it be besides Ginny?

Harry felt nauseous. He was about to throw the picture back on Snape's desk when she turned over in the photograph. Harry knew he shouldn't look at it, but he couldn't resist. The girl in the photograph was lovely, with her long hair and pretty smile. But it wasn't Ginny.

Her face was familiar. And her eyes. . . she had Harry's eyes.

Harry realized who the girl in the photograph was. And then he felt really sick.

Snape had a picture of Lily Evans on his desk. Snape had a photo of his, Harry's, mother. His mother lying down by the lake.

Harry didn't know what to think. In the photo, Lily looked up and waved at him, then reached for her bag. She grabbed a book and started to read. Her hair glinted in the sunlight again.

A terrible ache filled Harry. An ache of longing. . . he wanted to reach out and touch her. To speak to her. True, he did have other photos of his mother, but they were all of her as an adult. Harry had only ever seen her as a teenager once, in Snape's Pensieve, and she had been furious. But here, in this photo, she was happy. She was content.

A sudden thought struck Harry and he turned the photo over, hoping. . .

He was right. There was a message written there. . . and it was definitely not addressed to Snape.

Harry read:

Dear James:

I don't know why you took this picture, you great prat. You know I hate having photos taken.

Oh, don't look at me like that. I don't care if you wanted to 'commemorate the day', you should have asked permission. All right, all right! I'll be nice.

I love you. You know this, but I think it a good idea to remind you every once in awhile. Just so you don't run off with one of those fifth year Hufflepuffs who are always fawning over you.

Oh, dear. The bell has rung and we're late for Transfiguration. I know what you're thinking, and NO, we are not skiving off. You are Head Boy and I am Head Girl and we will set a good example and keep up with you studies.

And no, I'm not insane. Just because I like going to class doesn't make me crazy.

You're very lucky, Potter. Any other girl would be insulted if you questioned her sanity. But I'm not—because you're mad as well. Ah, James, love. What would I do without you?

Love,

Lily

Tears stung in Harry's eyes as he read her message, but he was determined not to let them fall. Why the hell did Snape have this on his office desk? It was personal; it had been between his mother and his father. And Snape had hated James. Why would he want a picture of Lily. . .?

Something in the back of Harry's mind clicked. James loved Lily. Snape hated James. Harry had always wondered why they detested each other with such zeal. And the answer lay in his hands.

It was so obvious. Harry couldn't believe he had never realized it before. Snape had been in love with his mother. The thought made Harry furious and sick at the same time. Snape had no right to have a picture of his mother. He didn't deserve to love her. He was sick and greasy and Harry hated him with his whole heart. It wasn't fair that Snape had gotten to spend seven years with her, while Harry had only had one. . . one year he couldn't even remember. . .

More tears stung in Harry's eyes as the door to the office swung open.

Part two: a confrontation with Snape. Please review!