~ by ContrarytoEverything

“Lily.”

Harry didn’t know why he responded to the name. True, it was a ‘name’ he’d given to this version of himself, Lilian, if one wanted be exact. This foreign feminine body with its dark red hair, delicate features, and hazel-green eyes. But people didn’t typically respond to names that weren’t their own, so why? Harry faltered mid-stride in the stretch of torch-lit corridor, his grip tightening on the strap of his book bag, as he realized he couldn’t really say for sure? No one had ever called him Lily before. If he’d any sense, he would have kept walking. It was near curfew.  He had no reason to stop.

Perhaps it was that silky and sonorous voice that so often promised trouble, or at least detention? The sort of low voice that one couldn’t help attuning their ears to (“Bottle fame, brew glory”), even when the words spoken were cruel and crushing, mocking and derisive.  It was a voice that engendered his resentment, that reminded him that this was one of the people he hated most in the world.

Yes, Harry should have kept walking.  Instead, he turned his head, each second achingly drawn out, every instinct warning: ‘danger! danger!’ Still, he was turning, eyes wide as he caught sight of sallow and sickly skin, looking almost jaundiced under the torch light, framed by a greasy curtain of shoulder length black hair, and draped in swaths of flowing black. A creature of the shadows, of night. If Harry had seen what he’d expected to see in those onyx eyes, his feet would have moved before his mind, as fleet as a deer. Trusting in the twists and turns of the corridor to protect him. Trusting that he would have time to throw his invisibility cloak over himself as he raced, back to the safety of gold and red, of caring and sympathetic friends. But what Harry saw in Professor Snape’s eyes had not been anything he could have foreseen, anything he could have imagined, and that immobilized him more than any spell could have done.

“Lily,” the professor repeated, a long-fingered hand slowly raising, reaching out, tentative, and oddly graceless, and this time, the voice wasn’t quite so silky and smooth. This time, the way the name had been spoken was like something unwillingly ripped out of his throat, shattered and broken by the time the sound parted from thin lips.

Harry swallowed, wondering why his throat felt constricted? Why was Snape looking at him like that? Like a man who’d seen a ghost – and not a castle ghost, not anything like Nearly Headless Nick or the Fat Friar or the Bloody Baron, no. There was something about seeing Snape like this, something horribly aberrant and perverse, akin to walking in on the man while he was doing something private, like brushing his teeth or taking a bath. Did Snape even do either of those things? Harry didn’t even want to consider it; it was too disturbing, something he’d certainly have to scour from his mind if he wanted to sleep ever again.

It was as if the Snape that he knew had had his usual emotionless mask ripped away. As if someone had made use of Polyjuice Potion to create a facsimile of his features, while having no concept at all about the man beneath. As if it had contorted his eyebrows, eyes, mouth, cheeks…everything, into an expression that didn’t belong, because nothing about the Snape that Harry knew fit with what he was seeing.
Surely this was a dream…wasn’t it? Perhaps a trick of the torch light? A bizarre and inexplicable prank courtesy of the Weasley twins? Harry didn’t wait to find out. Before Snape could say that name (her name, his own mother’s name) once more, Harry’s feet had caught up to the wild staccato of his pulse, and he ran.

***

Metamorphmagus.

After combing through the various tomes and books in the library, it was the closest description he’d found. He didn’t act with a Hermione level of meticulousness, but if she’d known that he’d willingly stepped foot between those dusty parchment-and-leather scented aisles, she’d have been proud, which would have been a tad mortifying.

“Metamorphmagus: a witch or wizard with the ability to change their physical appearance at will, rather than requiring Polyjuice Potion or a spell.”

It wasn’t exactly right. Yes, Harry could change his physical appearance at will, but he could only change it to one thing: a girl with dark red hair down to her shoulders, pale skin, and eyes much like his own, almond-shaped, except shot through with slivers of hazel.

Harry had been given a photo album of his parents by Hagrid, and though he’d only seen pictures of his mother when she was older, he thought that he resembled her – perhaps a younger version of Lily Potter, or Lily Evans, as she was back then. So few photos of her existed, that he had studied each of them time and time again, heart stuttering at the way his parents’ eyes would crinkle, flashing teeth in wide and unselfconscious grins, love written across their faces. Harry would trace his fingers over the smooth planes of the images, wondering what it felt like to feel warm embraces and affectionate touches. To feel loved.

Of course, he wasn’t entirely sure that he did resemble her? Perhaps it was just wishful thinking? One more tenuous thread of connection for him to desperately grasp at, knowing that he had so few connections to speak of at all? He’d named this alter ego of his, Lilian, in honour of her; but also, because it was ruddy difficult to think of a girl’s name, and he certainly wasn’t going to go by Harriet, or anything like that. But whether or not Harry’s other face (and other body) had a name didn’t really matter.  No one knew of Lilian. Not Ron. Not Hermione. Nobody. Lilian was his secret, his opportunity to be someone ordinary, to be merely another face in Hogwarts’ ancient halls. Lilian didn’t attend classes, didn’t watch Quidditch games, didn’t have friends or foes, and she certainly didn’t have to think about the Triwizard Tournament. Lilian was free!

It had been startlingly easy for him to adjust to sometimes being a girl. After all, as a boy who had spent the first eleven years of his life living in a cupboard. Treated like an indentured servant, being beaten up by his cousin, and denied food; it was almost natural that he’d disconnect from his own body. It wasn’t his body that could unlock the cupboard. It wasn’t his body that offered any reprieve. No. It was his mind, his imagination, where he had found his escape. At least until the Hogwarts acceptance letter and Hagrid came along.

The strangest thing about being a girl was the hair. It was always swinging everywhere, getting in his mouth. His gait too. It was weird…and decidedly feminine. Oh, and his voice. There was something utterly disconcerting about the boyish voice in his head transmuting into the girlish voice coming from his mouth whenever he transformed. Mostly, he tried not to speak.

He didn’t change into Lilian very often. Only when being ‘Harry Potter’ became too much.

***

Harry had been afraid that once he ran away from Snape, the other man would follow. In fact, the professor needn’t have followed at all. He merely needed to raise his wand and utter a spell in his low and lazy tones – Petrificus Totalus, Stupefy, Locomotor Mortis, Colloshoo, Immobulus, Incarcerous – really, there were a world of possibilities. This didn’t occur to Harry until later, of course, once he was ensconced in his four-poster bed, curtains drawn, while his pulse slowed, his skin cooled, and his mind gradually reasserted itself…admittedly not very effectively.
Ron’s worried voice called out, “Harry? Mate? Is everything all right?” He must have made the proper excuses because Ron eventually left him alone again.

His mind had been very busy dousing the flames of his emotions. What if he knew? What if he takes away House points? What if I’m expelled? Oh god, I’m doomed! The efforts of his logic had been rather piddling. No matter how many times he reminded himself that no one knew of Lilian’s connection to him, his fears would charge over his reasoning, stomping about with all the care of an overwrought dragon.

It wasn’t until after a night of fitful sleep, and nebulous dreams about dungeon bats, that he could really think…that, and the fact that Snape had paid him no heed when Harry had slunk into the Great Hall for breakfast, eyes smudged with darkness, and lips pulled in a grim line. The face of a boy walking towards the gallows. It had been Harry’s intention to act as inconspicuously as possible, head down and focused on his rashers of bacon and his toast. He hadn’t intended to cast surreptitious glances towards the High Table, which seemed like tempting disaster, but the Gryffindor in him was too strong.

But because Harry had been peeking towards the High Table, because he was studying Snape, the way a circumspect buck might study a lone wolf, he noticed certain details that might have escaped his attention, had he been his usual self, and talking Quidditch or classes with Ron and Hermione, or scowling at Malfoy’s smirks.

For one, Snape looked as exhausted as Harry was. The circles under his eyes stark against his pallid skin, his black hair shadowing his face more than usual, shroud-like and gloomy. If not for his obtrusive nose, he would have made a passable dementor. For another, he didn’t carry his usual aura of sharpness. The sort of feeling that gave one the sense that nothing went unnoticed. Snape’s eyes looked hollow, for lack of a better word, though Harry hoped it was merely his imagination. He couldn’t possibly be seeing that emptiness past Snape’s greasy curtain of hair?  If Snape couldn’t fully pass as a dementor, that morning he at the very least looked like a man who’d been kissed by one.

Once Harry fully shed all the worries he felt for his own skin, he found he was able to step back from his situation, and really consider it. ‘Lily,’ Snape had said. ‘Lily’. It hadn’t been Lilian. It hadn’t been ‘Lily?’ in a shocked or even questioning tone. It was just ‘Lily.’ He’d even said it twice, and while Harry might have brushed off the first utterance of the name, he couldn’t brush off second. A shiver rippled down his spine. The more he considered it, the more perturbed he felt.

For a moment, he considered mentioning the bizarre encounter to Ron and Hermione. Ron’s convictions about Snape, so very like his own had been…no, still were, would surely right his sense of imbalance? Hermione’s levelheadedness and quick reasoning would have already offered a list of rationalizations for Snape’s strange behaviour, or at least there would be promises of research. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he struck it out. If he were to tell them about his encounter, he’d have to tell them about Lilian as well, and that was something he was still unwilling to share. Having the support of his friends would be nice, but he didn’t need them for everything, and especially not for this.

‘Lily,’ he’d said. It surely meant that Snape had actually known his mother. With the way Snape spoke of his father, it shouldn’t really have been a surprise that he would know Harry’s mother as well. Only Snape had never spoken of Harry’s mother before, had he? Of course, they must have known each other while they were at Hogwarts. But his mother had been a Gryffindor while Snape had been a Slytherin. Why would they have been anything other than passing acquaintances? In that case, Snape should have used her surname. But he hadn’t? Lily, he’d said, and he’d said it in a way that suggested…

Harry shivered again. He didn’t want to remember the way Snape’s voice slid over the sound of his mother’s name. He didn’t want to remember that haunted look in Snape’s eyes. Snape had said ‘Lily’ in a way that suggested a certain intimacy, and there was no way that his mother would let that slimy snake anywhere near her…would she? The notion was unthinkable!

Harry wanted answers. Harry needed answers; and he knew just the person to ask – someone who had been there during those years at Hogwarts so many years ago, his godfather, Sirius.

***

Patience wasn’t one of Harry’s strengths. He’d sent Sirius a letter with Pigwidgeon, since Sirius was still in hiding and Hedwig was too conspicuous, but he’d yet to hear back from his godfather. That didn’t mean he was about to sit back and idly twirl his quill as he waited. There were others who’d known both his parents and Snape when they were younger, and amongst their ranks were Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. As much as Harry trusted and looked up to Dumbledore, he didn’t feel comfortable approaching the Headmaster about this matter. He didn’t feel comfortable about approaching McGonagall either, but she was also his Head of House, and part of her duties comprised of speaking to students about their troubles, whether academic or personal, didn’t it?

He ended up dithering in front of her office, debating whether or not to knock on the door, when it suddenly swung open, taking the decision out of his hands.

 “I could hear you pacing outside, Mr. Potter,” came McGonagall’s voice. Was that amusement he heard in her tone? “Come in.”

He sat himself down in one of the straight-backed seats, taking in the decidedly tartan-themed decor, and the sight of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team practicing outside the window. After he accepted an offer for tea, Professor McGonagall asked, “What can I help you with, Mr. Potter?”

He worried his lower lip, hands encircling the tea cup as he stared at the steam rising up out of his Earl Grey, rather than meeting McGonagall’s eyes. He wasn’t afraid of her, nor was he particularly uneasy about the topic of conversation, but Professor McGonagall had never been the sort to invite confidence. It wasn’t like speaking to Ron, Hermione, or Sirius, or even like Professor (ex-Professor now) Lupin.

“Well, actually, I wanted to ask you about my parents, Professor.”

“Oh?”

He ran his thumb along the gilded edge of the delicate china. “And about – erm – Sn- Professor Snape.” He hesitated, glancing up to gauge her reaction, but there was only a brief flicker of surprise before she composed her expression. “They – that is, I know my dad and Sn- Professor Snape weren’t close, but my mum – well –” He peered up at her again.

Professor McGonagall’s expression was troubled, deep lines bracketing her mouth, and Harry wished he could understand what the look meant.

When McGonagall didn’t speak, he prodded, “Were they – Professor Snape and my mum –” He was about to say ‘close’, but it sounded too ambiguous. Instead, he blurted out, “Friends?” As soon as the word left his mouth, he blinked. They couldn’t have been friends. Why had he even asked that?

Eventually, she answered, sounding almost reluctant. “Yes. For a time.”

Harry felt his eyes bulge in shock, his jaw dropping. “What?!”

“They were inseparable during their early years. It was unusual, even all those years ago, for a Gryffindor and Slytherin to be close friends.”

“My mum – and Snape?” He stuttered out, realizing it wasn’t the most coherent answer, but he was still reeling. McGonagall, lips compressed into a thin line, merely nodded.

“Friends?!” McGonagall nodded again.

“What happened? Wha – why?” As the muscles in his hands twitched and tightened, he realized he was holding fine bone china and released the cup, laying his palms on the table.

McGonagall frowned, deepening the lines on her face. “I’m afraid that isn’t my story to tell. If you wish to know more, you’ll have to ask Professor Snape.”

“But –”

Seeing the shuttered look on Professor McGonagall face, he knew he would get nothing more from her. He’d get even less from Snape, thought, he was sure of it. With more questions than ever before, he thanked her, and left her office.

***

Learning that Snape and his mother used to be friends had done nothing to improve Harry’s feelings towards the other man. If anything, it had sparked an angry fire within him. Not because he objected to someone like Snape befriending his mother, as distasteful as the notion was, but because Snape had been close with his mother, and yet still he persisted in treating Harry with endless cruelty. Why?

It drove him mad that he didn’t have the answers! Sirius still hadn’t replied to his owl, and he wasn’t about to interrogate Dumbledore. As riled as he was, his curiosity had not abated. He wanted answers, and as much as he hoped that Sirius would have them, he had a feeling that he’d need to hear the explanation from Snape’s own mouth. He could hardly ask Snape as Harry Potter though. Snape loathed him, seemingly as a matter of principle…but Lilian? Could it work? Did he dare speak to the dour professor as Lilian, or ‘Lily,’ as Snape imagined her?

The thought of subterfuge caused a twinge of conscience, but only a minor one. This was Snape.  His encounter with the ill-tempered man had been long enough ago now, that the emotional impact had been mostly forgotten, and the haunted look in Snape’s eyes, the sound of his voice, felt like a distant dream.

Besides, Harry wanted more than answers. He wanted a change. He didn’t expect Snape to ever treat him with kindness. That was as ridiculous as wishing to defeat Voldemort by lobbing puffskeins at him. No, kindness was too much to ask for. But perhaps, if he made use of Lilian just so, he could effect a change and have Snape treat him as just another student to more or less ignore. The more he considered it, the more it seemed like a brilliant idea. It was brilliant enough that he was tempted to transform into Lilian then and there and stride off purposefully towards the dungeons in search of the Potions Professor. Fortunately, as much as Snape might have doubted his good sense, Harry did have some…all right, perhaps he could have done with a little more, but still!

Instead, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map, unveiled its lovely secrets, and searched out the dot labelled ‘Severus Snape.’ In the past, he’d only seen Snape’s dot as a warning, as something to avoid. Now, he needed to learn the man’s habits and patterns, and use them to his own advantage. If he played his cards right, it could be quite an advantage indeed.

***

“Severus.  Severus.  Severus.”

Harry was treading through one of the corridors alone, practicing saying the name, because he couldn’t imagine his mother as the sort who’d call friends by their surnames, and given the chance to act spontaneously, he knew he’d end up spitting out ‘Snape.’ It felt strange, both thinking and saying it, as if he was crossing some line of propriety and doing something forbidden. Only, it was an unpleasant sort of forbidden, not the more delightful kind that the Weasley twins might favour. It was a sibilant name that slid smoothly off his tongue. It was an easy name to say. The difficult part was the man himself and knowing that it was his name. The use of a person’s given name felt far too intimate, and the thought of himself and Snape sharing any degree of that made him feel more than a little nauseated.

What if his mother hadn’t even called him ‘Severus’? What if she called him ‘Sev’? Oh, Merlin!  At least he had a plan…well, the barest sketch of a plan…he was a Gryffindor! Not a Ravenclaw after all. It was just a matter of carrying it out. Tonight.

After extensively monitoring Snape’s behaviours using the map, he learned that the man was a bit of an insomniac who tended to wander the halls of Hogwarts at night, typically following a set of paths from the dungeons, in a winding loop up to the seventh floor. He alternated up and down the towers, taking the Astronomy Tower one day, then the Bell Towers, then the Clock Tower, then the West Tower, then the North Tower, and so forth. More than once, Harry had wondered whether Snape’s overt reactions to that first encounter with Lilian had been the product of a sleep-deprived mind? It was more than possible.

It had ruined Harry’s sleep, of course, to learn this pattern of Snape’s, but Harry always took a certain degree of pleasure in watching the map, and he’d been able to get away with napping in some of his classes, such as History of Magic. Now that he did know Snape’s pattern, he could say he felt a certain degree of pride as well; a sense of accomplishment. If only Ron and Hermione knew how carefully he was acting! Of course, he couldn’t tell them. Shame, really.

His plan was to accost Snape as Lilian, when Snape was descending one of the towers, and that was how he found himself (herself?) stood outside of the Gryffindor Tower, dressed in his school robes, which were far more appropriate for Lilian than his over-sized and torn pyjamas. His invisibility cloak was safely folded away in his pocket for if he should need it, though at this time of night, so late that most were probably not yet dreaming, he was unlikely to encounter anyone else.

The night air was cooler than he’d expected, but anticipation had made him restless, and he paced the floor by the North Tower, the movement keeping him warm enough. He suddenly froze.  Did his mother used to pace? It was a strange thing to consider in this body, his mother’s red hair swishing around him. Pacing was so mundane, so commonplace, and it occurred to him that he had never really considered his parents doing commonplace things.  He’d never witnessed them making tea. Never knew if they tapped or twirled their wands, or if they kept them tucked away) Never learned if they played with their hair, or touched their chins when they ruminated, or all manner of other little gestures. It made him feel empty, and even with their likeness in his face and form, he did not know them any more than before.

 “Lily.”

The gasped name halted him (her?) in his steps and he turned towards the voice, blood pounding in his ears. Snape was descending the tower stairs, his footfalls all but soundless, which explained why Harry hadn’t heard him, why he had been caught off guard yet again. But now the Potions Professor was still, as if he feared that any motion would dissolve the surreal scene.

“Severus.” It was a miracle that he didn’t stumble or stutter over the syllables. The name poured out of him as smoothly as cream, better yet, for the first time he didn’t flinch at the sound of his feminine voice. He’d barely managed to speak above a whisper and was afraid for a moment that he’d have to repeat himself.

But no, Snape had heard him. It was clear in the way that those black eyes widened, the way his thin lips parted, only slightly, but considering that this was Snape, it was equivalent to seeing the man’s jaw drop. Harry’s plan had been rather amorphous at best and had mostly consisted of how he could arrange another meeting without bringing disaster upon his head, perhaps causing Gryffindor to fall into negative house points. He hadn’t known his mother so there was no way he could have planned how to act in this moment. In truth, his plan could have been summed up as: ‘meet Snape, ask my questions in as few words as possible, and get out of there’.

“How are you here?” Snape asked, low voice breaking over the words, and a universe of what looked to Harry like bewilderment…maybe even hope in his eyes.

Harry knew he should have expected questions, but he hadn’t, and his mind stumbled to find an answer. But then it occurred to him that he had no obligation to answer any questions. If Snape was displeased or suspicious, he’d just run as he had the last time. He wished, then, that he’d known his mother better, if only to be able to capture her mannerisms. His pulse was still drumming, his palms were sweating, and he found himself clutching his robes, squeezing the fabric as if the familiar wool could offer some kind of reassurance.

“Lily?” Snape took a tentative step towards him, and Harry’s eyes widened, as he took a step back in turn.

“Don’t!” he cried, eyes widening further when he realized that Snape had obeyed. The entire situation beggared belief. For a heartbeat or two, he wondered if he’d angered Snape and steeled himself for the vitriol he was accustomed to receiving from the man. But no aspersions were forthcoming. Instead, Snape looked hurt. How was that even possible? Once again, he was besieged by the sickening feeling that he wasn’t looking at Snape at all, but instead was facing an imposter. It was tempting to snatch out the Marauder’s Map, if only to confirm that the man before him was who he appeared to be.

He couldn’t meet Snape’s eyes. Couldn’t bear to be assailed by the sight of such naked emotions on another person’s face. His own emotions were becoming a churning mess, and unlike Snape, Harry had never been much good at masking his feelings. His eyes were drawn to Snape’s hands, and he saw they were curled into tight fists, so that not only his face, but his body too, betrayed the rawness of his feelings.

For a moment, Harry had the guilty sense of committing a wrongdoing, of a line being crossed, but he recalled himself to his purpose. Answers. That was why he was here. He’d written out a list (Wouldn’t Hermione be proud!) But now that the moment had arrived, the list was forgotten.

Instead, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind, a hint of accusation in his voice: “Why are you so mean to Harry? He’s my…” It was a miracle he didn’t choke on the word, the lie… “—son.”

Even under the scant light of the torches, he could see two spots of dull colour appearing on Snape’s face. Harry felt his nausea rising once again, the sense of having seen too much, of being exposed to a sight that was never meant for his eyes. He felt like some twisted voyeur, peeling off another man’s skin and flesh to witness the beating, vulnerable heart beneath. It was sick. It was wrong.

“He’s nothing like you,” Snape rasped.

The words were like a slap and they left Harry feeling stricken. He knew he had his mother’s eyes, but he’d desperately wanted to think he had more than just that. That even if she was no longer in his life, he still carried something of her. He wanted to deny, to protest, but the fact was, Harry hadn’t known his mother…and Snape had. The resentment he felt swelled up yet again, and his grip on the fabric of his robes tightened. What frightened him most was, the idea that Snape could be right. Snape had known her. Harry had not.

As if mistaking Harry’s tight-lipped silence, Snape continued, “He’s arrogant, intellectually lazy, and insolent, abusing his celebrity status and Quidditch abilities –”

“No!” Oh, how Harry wanted to argue. How he wanted to throw the words back in Snape’s face, and heap on his own condemnation. Snape didn’t even know him! But then, his mother didn’t either, and hearing proof of that was like a spear piercing his own heart, a cruel reminder of his own terrible loss.

His pain must have shown on his face because Snape was saying her name again. “Lily,” the two syllables were laden with a lifetime of emotion. The silence grew between them. Harry almost choked on the bitter taste of rancour in the back of his throat

Snape seemed to deflate. “Let’s not speak of Potter.” He let out a world-worn, life-worn sigh before letting their eyes meet once again. “Lily, I – I’m sorry –”

Regret? Was that the look in Snape’s eyes? Intuitively, he sensed that those words weren’t meant for him, and he wanted to cry, ‘For what? What did you do to her? What did you do to my mum?!’ He was so ready to assume the worst and he would have done too, except that just then a flicker of torch light caught the dark red of his hair, reminding him that in this moment he wasn’t Harry, he was Lilian. It wasn’t loathing or malice in Snape’s dark eyes but remorse, oceans worth of it. Harry didn’t have the stomach to deal with that. The idea of pulling apart another man’s ribs and uncovering what lay beneath just made him feel sick to his stomach.

He wasn’t afraid, but he was confused so he turned and ran. The name “Lily!” rang out once more, in that ragged, awful tone, but he kept on running. He almost felt as if he’d somehow wronged the other man, mercilessly gouging into old wounds with blind abandon. But there was no time to consider it and there were tears in his own eyes, Lilian’s tears, though he didn’t permit them to fall. There was something dreadful about knowing that Snape knew his mother better than Harry ever could. He found himself wishing for the mother that he’d never known, and the life he’d never have. He wished he’d never encountered Severus Snape at all!

Harry dreaded a worsening antagonism between him and Snape after his meeting with the man. If he was lucky, his situation would remain unchanged. Speaking with Snape had only solidified his awareness of the professor’s deep-seated antipathy towards him, adding new dimensions to the ‘why’ of his rancour. Snape didn’t merely hate him because of Harry’s resemblance to his father. It seemed that Snape hated him just as much because of how distant he was from his mother, from her character. Considering how others tended to speak of Lily, with an unmissable glow of warmth and admiration in their voices, it didn’t make Harry feel very confident in who he was.

Ever perceptive, Hermione had noticed Harry’s subdued behaviour, but it was easy to divert her worries by claiming a preoccupation with the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. His plan may have ended badly, but as it turned out, Snape did change – far beyond Harry’s wildest hopes.

***

Harry had trudged into the Potions classroom later that week, defensiveness already gathered around him like a protective mantle, and fully expecting the usual derision and scorn. He sat down in his usual place next to Ron, a glare already fixed upon his face. But all the animosity he had dredged up was a wasted effort. Certainly, Snape seemed like himself, with his blatant favouritism towards the Slytherins, and his trademark snide remarks and disdainful sneers towards the Gryffindors. The only difference was that it seemed this time Harry was excluded from being a Gryffindor. He was excluded from being anything at all, in fact. It was as though Snape didn’t even see him, as though Harry wasn’t worth the attention. By the time the students were filing out of the classroom, he was filled with a numb sort of amazement, peering back over his shoulder towards the professor’s desk, as if some strange error of fate had occurred.

He felt a burgeoning elation, knowing that it might be premature, but nonetheless, Lilian had done more for him than he could have ever hoped. Remarkably, the pattern continued. Aside from having to worry about the Triwizard Tournament, his academic life had never been so peaceful. Before long, all he ever had to worry about was Hermione nagging him about studying and homework.  Without the threat of losing house points, or of being humiliated in front of the entire class, Potions became a tolerable subject.

Eventually, Harry received a reply from Sirius. The letter had been brief, like so many of Sirius’s letters these days, and Harry felt a pang of worry for his godfather. There he was, fretting about Snape’s behaviour – downright friendly, considering that Snape was ignoring him – while Sirius was out there, still on the run, and facing unknown troubles while he tried to help Harry with his problems.

Besides, Sirius hadn’t offered very much insight in the end, other than to say that Snivellus and Lily had met each other before their shared time at Hogwarts, and that Lily had made the best decision of her life by ending the friendship. Just as after his conversation with McGonagall, Harry found himself with more questions than answers.

During Harry’s last meeting with Snape as Lilian, Snape had said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Harry should have asked what he was sorry for. Whereas in the past, his eyes had skittered away from the ugly professor, as if hatred made the very act of looking at him unpleasant, now Harry’s eyes sought him out.

At first, Snape had appeared like his usual self, sullen and withdrawn, black eyes ever alert for trouble, and always seeing the worst in everyone who wasn’t a Slytherin. But the more that Harry observed him, the more he realized that his picture of Snape wasn’t quite right. He cursed himself for not paying more attention before. He wasn’t quite certain what measure of Snape he could use as comparison? The dark blots of skin under his eyes seemed permanently painted there, and the pallor of his skin wasn’t getting worse, was it? He found it was difficult to discern different shades of paleness, and all he could say for certain was that Snape looked terrible, even beyond his typical ill-graced features.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what he felt about that? Surely not guilty, and most certainly not sympathetic. He was able to convince himself that he was searching for signs that just weren’t there. That certain features about Snape which he had been insensitive to before were now salient, but meaningless. The loss of appetite? Well, Snape had never looked like the sort who gorged himself. The absence of asperity directed towards Gryffindors in the classroom? His words were as biting as ever. Besides, something like a person’s tone of voice was probably subjective anyway. Snape’s insomnia, or the fact that he appeared to haunt the spots where he’d had his encounters with ‘Lily?’ Well, why on earth was Harry even checking the Marauder’s Map in the first place? It was only making him sleep deprived and was probably only a paranoid delusion borne out of his exhaustion-addled mind.

He didn’t care. He abhorred Snape…didn’t he? The very idea he might not hate Snape as much as he had supposed made him feel groundless, lost, as if he didn’t quite know who he was anymore. It made complete sense to hate someone who’d abused him, someone who appeared to only ever see the worst in him, or worse, saw a false and unfair representation of him. It didn’t make quite so much sense to hate someone who didn’t acknowledge his existence at all, who acted with an almost chilling detachment, as if the past three years of their turbulent history no longer mattered. But it did! It did!

And then there was the small voice of logic telling him that his endeavours were pointless, that there was no reason to keep scrutinizing Snape – except in the usual mistrustful way. His mission was complete and he could finally focus on more important things like the Triwizard Tournament, the Yule Ball, and of course, Voldemort. At least he thought he could until…

“Has anyone else noticed that Professor Snape has been – erm – different?” Neville’s voice drifted to him across the Gryffindor table during their lunch in the Great Hall.  Neville lowered his voice to a whisper, as if even from this distance, Snape would somehow be able to pluck his words from the general din. “Less – erm – scary?”

Harry froze with his fork halfway to his mouth, his steak and kidney pie forgotten. With all the subtlety typical of Gryffindors, all the fourth years who had heard Neville’s disturbing remarks, excluding Harry, looked with barely-concealed curiosity towards the High Table before returning their attention to their lunches.

“Yes, actually,” Hermione agreed quietly, with another hesitant glance towards the professor in question. “He’s been acting differently for a while now.”

“What do you mean?!” Ron demanded. “The git just took twenty points from me the other day!”

“He took five from me in the hall,” Dean added.

“Yes, but haven’t you noticed that he’s actually been taking points off for legitimate reasons?” Hermione pointed out. “He took points off you in Potions, Ron, because you very nearly put an emperor dragonfly into your cauldron instead of an Azure damselfly and could have endangered the whole class! He used to take points off for far more trivial reasons than that.”

Ron rolled his eyes, not bothering to swallow his food, “You mean for unfair reasons?”

Hermione pressed her lips together reprovingly, but didn’t deign to answer Ron’s question, nor chide him for his questionable table manners as she usually would. “The point is, Neville’s right. Professor Snape has changed.”

“Still treats his slimy snakes better than anyone else,” Ron muttered.

Harry’s friends continued to speculate between themselves, but without his own voice to add fuel to their theories, which ranged from reasonable comments like “it’s probably just stress,” to outlandish ones like “He’s probably plotting something evil and wants us to lower our guard.” The fourth years eventually grew weary of bandying the topic around but not Harry. Long after his friends had forgotten all about the matter, Harry was still thinking about it. No matter what the voice of logic claimed, he realized more clearly than ever that the matter was far from over.

***

‘I’m not going to go check!’ Harry thought with irritation, as he sat up in bed, pushing the heavy duvet off of himself. The night was thick with inky darkness, and the bitter chill of the wind made him shiver/shudder.

‘I’m not going to check!’ Harry thought again, as he reluctantly reached for his wand. It was even colder outside the bed curtains, arctic air creeping over exposed skin.

‘Maybe just a quick look, then I’ll go back to bed.’ He rummaged through his belongings and pulled out the Marauder’s Map. The night air was frigid enough to give him goose-pimples, but once the map was before him, he hardly noticed his shivering.

‘He’s there.’ Despite telling himself that it was probably just Snape’s insomnia again, he couldn’t dispel that niggling feeling in his gut.

‘Well, I’m awake now. He rationalised. ‘I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep unless I check, so I might as well.’ He slipped into his shoes, absently rubbing his frozen arms to warm them.

‘He won’t see me…not with the invisibility cloak.’ He wandered the nights so often at this point that it was practically a habit.

‘I won’t transform into her.’ He just couldn’t bring himself to do that to Snape again, and see that haunted, desperate look in his eyes. He pulled his school robes over his pyjamas.

‘I really should just go back to bed…’  He was already past the portrait.

‘I don’t care about him!’ He already knew Snape’s nocturnal routes almost by heart.

‘I’m just curious…’ The feeling pulled at him like a tether.

‘It probably has nothing to do with her anyway.’ Yet, as he stared down at the map, Snape’s dot definitely tended to linger in the spots where he had seen Lily

Harry’s thoughts blinkered him to his surroundings. It seemed like only brief moments later he found himself once again at the base of the North Tower. He knew from the map that the man would be here, but he was still surprised by the strange sight of Snape sitting on the stone steps, elbows on his knees, his head cradled between his hands. The dejected slump of his posture, and deep and shadowed lines on his face, combined with the stillness to convey a terrible air of defeat.

‘I should be glad after the way he treated me –’ He tried to muster his anger, to steep himself in old, and not so old, injustices. There was no shortage of injustices, but Harry suddenly found that there was, however, a distinct shortage of anger.

‘What does he have to say for himself? What was he sorry for? Mum probably ended their friendship for a good reason, and good riddance. Why would she want to be friends with someone like him?’ His words, even inside the privacy of his own mind, lacked any bite. His curiosity, it seemed, was far stronger than his desire to be angry. He just needed to know!

Before he could dissuade himself from his impulsive course of action, he ducked back around the corner, removed his invisibility cloak, and transformed once again into Lily As Harry rounded the corner again, he saw that Snape’s posture was unchanged, pressed down by his own hopelessness. He came to a stop when Snape caught sight of his feet and the hem of his school robes, and slowly lifted his head.

“Lily?”

How could a voice of such honeyed smoothness come out as such a raw croak? It made Harry feel like he was somehow breaking the other man moment by agonizing moment. But instead of a dizzying sense of power and possibility, he felt revolted with himself. It wasn’t his power. It wasn’t even Lilian’s power. It was Lily’s. His mother was the one who had this power over Snape. It occurred to Harry that she could destroy Snape if she wanted to. Would his mother have wanted to do so?

“I’m sorry –” Snape’s words sounded like part of a litany, something thought and spoken more times than Harry could comprehend. As discomfiting as it was to hear this man apologizing, the words themselves were well-worn.  

Still, Harry just had to know, even if his very ignorance could expose him. “For what?”

“For everything!” Why did all of Snape’s words sound like they were tearing him apart? “For calling you a mudblood…for – for your death –”

The blood had already left Harry’s (Lily’s) face at the word ‘mudblood’. But death?!

“Death?” Harry’s voice was trembling.

Snape groaned, an almost animalistic sound of unrelieved anguish. “The prophecy – it…it was I who told the Dark Lord.” The words were scarce more than a whisper, but Harry heard as clearly as if Snape had shouted. “It was because of me that the Dark Lord –”

It was too much. Too much for Snape and too much for Harry. As eager as he’d been to sate his curiosity, he simply hadn’t realized that the knowledge might be so utterly crushing. He couldn’t think while he was standing there, staring down at a man who was breaking apart in front of him.  He couldn’t think when his faded anger resurfaced at full force and he found his shaking hand already gripped tightly around his wand. He was desperate to curse Snape to pieces, to make him suffer! His mother was dead because of Snape? Everything inside of him screamed for vengeance. He wanted to strike this man low, lower than he already was, grinding him to dirt, to dust.

Harry didn’t know how he did it, but somehow, he forced himself to back away. Then he was running again, though to where this time, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he needed to be far away from Snape, as far as he could go, somewhere where he could be alone to think. Someplace where he, himself, could crumble without anyone there to see it.

***

There are moments in life when one feels that they have learned and seen too much, and Harry felt he’d reached that point. He didn’t regret having the knowledge, but that didn’t make it any less painful to process.  As with everything else related to his mother and Snape, he now had more questions than ever, only now he realized that answers weren’t always harmless things, and that words and knowledge could slice just as deeply as any blade.

He still hadn’t said a word to either Ron or Hermione. Though he believed he would have their support, this was far too personal to share. He didn’t care about Snape’s privacy, not anymore, but he did care about his mother’s, and his own. As for the mysterious prophecy, he doubted that his friends would know anything that would help him shed light on what Snape had hinted at in his confession.

He wrote another letter to Sirius and then made his way back to the library. After fending off the usual barrage of questions from his friends, he hit the books. But unfortunately, the books offered no answers, making no mention at all about any prophecies.

Over the following days, Snape’s behaviour changed yet again. The Potions Professor was more vicious than ever, taking points and handing out detentions for even the smallest infractions. The Gryffindors were once again abound with theories, but Harry only listened with half an ear. He didn’t need to witness Snape reprimanding the other students, to think the worst of the man.

“I was right!” Ron had moaned. “He was just trying to lower our guard so that when he switched back to his evil self, it’d be worse than ever!”

“Honestly, Ron! Don’t be ridiculous! If anything, the Slytherins probably noticed his change in behaviour, asked him about it, and now he feels like he has to overcompensate. It’s not very professional, though.”

“Can we not talk about Snape?” Harry had gritted out, patience at an end.

“Of course, you wouldn’t care,” Ron groused. “He leaves you alone, doesn’t he?”

It was true enough. Snape treated all the other students with a remorseless verbal savagery, but still, Harry was ignored. Worse of all, while that might have given him peace a few short weeks ago, did nothing at all to assuage him now. But even in his own misery, he knew that he didn’t suffer alone. Snape suffered. Snape looked worse than Harry had ever seen him, cheeks hollowed, eyes like bruises, greasy hair thinning. More than once Harry could see the man’s hands quivering when he thought that no one would notice. With the way everyone else kept their eyes down in his presence, it was likely that no one did.

‘Good,’ Harry thought ruthlessly. ‘If anyone deserves to suffer, it’s him.’ But the thought brought Harry no peace. What peace could be found when his mother was dead because of Snape?

Sirius finally wrote him back, confirming that there was indeed a prophecy, but that he hadn’t known what the prophecy contained. It had been a dangerous time, the last Wizarding War, and no one knew who to trust. Ask Dumbledore, Sirius had written. But asking Dumbledore meant revealing how he had learned about the prophecy, and Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to do that. Besides, if Dumbledore already knew, then how could he keep something like this from him? What other secrets remained hidden from him? This world of magic and wonder was becoming ever more tarnished, day by day. He had known since first year that his life was dangerous, but he found that danger was still easier to accept than these consuming feelings of betrayal.

Let Snape suffer as he suffered. Let him die. Maybe he already was dying?

***

There were still nights when Harry would wake up while the rest of the castle slept. He would again find himself pulling out the Marauder’s Map to check for a certain hated dot. His eyes would follow the stretches of corridor, past the Astronomy Tower, past the Bell towers, and there at the base of the North Tower, Severus Snape would wait for her.

But she would not come. Never again. Not for him.

***

Too many nights spent trying to learn the Snape’s habits had a ruined Harry’s own internal clock. The very real stress he felt over the Triwizard Tournament, as well as his nightmares of Voldemort, did the total opposite of easing his agitated mind and body.

Snape wasn’t the only one who needed movement in order to bleed out those dark energies, those perturbed thoughts that sank curving claws into one’s psyche. Draped in his invisibility cloak, Harry would slip out of the Gryffindor common room, haunting the corridors and stairways like a wraith. He deliberately avoided the sections of the castle that he knew Snape frequented. It was bad enough to have to see that ugly, loathsome face in classes and during meals. He had no desire to subject himself further, to silently name the things he wanted to do to the man. Crucio! Avada Kedavra!

Harry didn’t always give much thought to where his feet took him. One night, as he was passing a statue of a trident-bearing merperson, he found his thoughts wandering, and the next moment, he found himself at the base of the North Tower. There he was, the one person in the world that Harry might hate even more than he hated Voldemort. Snape was once again sitting on the stairs, only this time he was angled sideways, his back leaning against the wall. But instead of looking casual, like the pose suggested, he looked drained, as if the wall was necessary to support the weight of his bones. In truth, the man looked ghastly, the torch light cast skeletal shadows on to his face, and gnarled hands.

Harry felt no sympathy. His wand was already in his hands, and unthinkingly, he had already transformed into Lilian, though he remained obscured by the invisibility cloak.

He stalked up to the professor, disembodied voice hissing, “You’re sorry? Sorry?! Sorry won’t…” He was about to say ‘bring her back,’ but he clamped down on the words. “Sorry won’t bring me back.”

Snape began to tremble, and even the thick professor’s robes he wore didn’t hide his trembling. “Lily,” he said, the words dragging with cruel friction.

“Do you think you deserve forgiveness…for all that you’ve done?” Oh, how he seethed.

Snape’s head dropped forward, repentant, vanquished.  “No,” he whispered. “No. I know I don’t deserve to be forgiven. I cannot forgive myself, and I won’t for as long as I live. I’d give anything – everything – to have you back.”

Harry’s nails cut into his palms, his own muscles quaking, and he could feel his heart in his throat, strangling him. A helpless sound, which he refused to accept as a sob, came from his mouth, and his eyes burned with unshed tears. He couldn’t bear this. He had to leave.  

***

Safely back in the familiar confines of his small room, he flopped down on his unmade bed, and threw his hands up over his eyes, trying to block out everything he’d just learned. It didn’t work.

Thirteen years, give or take a few months. That was how long Snape had been living with his regret, his sorrow.

‘It isn’t long enough,’ Harry felt no satisfaction at the figure.

Thirteen years, give or take a few months. No amount of remorse could bring his mother back. She was gone, gone forever.

Harry hadn’t even really known her. Not really.

Thirteen years was a long time to suffer. Thirteen years could leave a man as little more than a husk. He could see the evidence of that in the hunched man sat before him.

Snape had said that Harry was nothing like his mother. Was it true? Was the only trace of her left behind something as utterly superficial as the look of his eyes? The lingering protective magic she granted him? Was he so shallow a legacy?

What would Lily have done? Harry didn’t know her. He could acknowledge that much, even though it pained him terribly to do so.

Would Lily have sat and watched while Snape withered away? These days, Dumbledore’s eyes didn’t twinkle when he looked at Snape. Harry wasn’t sure why he noticed.

Lily was a person who loved. Her strength was her capacity to love. Her love ultimately protected him. Did Harry have that much love in his own heart? Even for those who had hurt him the most?

He found himself studying the Marauder’s Map again, watching that solitary dot, scenario after scenario playing out in his mind. He would read that abhorrent name, whispering every curse that he knew. He could vividly picture the brutal effects, the North Tower steps staining with deep crimson blood, filling the air with its coppery scent. He played out every dark fantasy in his mind, until he felt only hollowness instead of a longing for vengeance. Finally, he started to think of what would come after. A path of emptiness, a heart scraped out.

He began to see…to slowly admit, at least to himself, that no punishment he could inflict upon Snape would be worse than what Snape was already doing to himself, dragging himself doggedly towards death under the burden of his guilt. Would Lily have been satisfied?

***

As he, once again, stopped at the base of the North Tower, in Lilian’s – Lily’s – skin. He wasn’t certain of what he was doing, even less so than all of the other times combined. His instincts more than his mind guided him. He knew that Snape would already be there. He also knew that what he was doing had nothing at all to do with saving the man’s life. After all, Snape was Dumbledore’s man, and Dumbledore wouldn’t let Snape die, even if he had to force-feed him, even if he had to resort to other means to keep the man’s body healthy, at least as healthy as it could be, while Snape’s heart bled itself dry.

Snape might have a layer of living flesh over his bones, but he had the eyes of a dead man. He was, once again, sitting with his elbows on his knees, obsidian eyes pinned to some point on the stone floor.

“Severus.” The name slipped out before Harry could think, a whisper that hung between them, coiling like smoke.

Snape lifted his head, and Harry could see that everything he’d done in his past was clearly marked on his face. That everything Lily had done in the past was seared deep within his dark, pain-filled eyes. Harry realized then that Snape had suffered enough. He was as sure of it in that moment as he was of who he was. In the same moment he suddenly knew that he had inherited more from his mother than just her eyes. She was inside him, an inextricable part of who he was.

Snape couldn’t meet his – her – eyes. “Lily. You came back.” He bowed his head again, awaiting punishment, awaiting condemnation, not even steeling himself for it.

Here was a man already in hell, and it was Lily who had the power to keep him there forever.  

What would Lily do?

What would Harry do?  

‘Love is the strongest power there is.’ The words whispered across his mind. Where had he heard them before? Were they his mother’s words?  Dumbledore’s?

“Severus.” It wasn’t strange anymore, to hear that name spoken with her voice.

Snape looked up at him – at her – then. Here was a man completely devoid of hope, and yet still he couldn’t stop himself from responding to her call.

Lily was gone forever, but she still lived in Harry, and through Harry. He didn’t know who spoke, when he spoke, whether it was him, or whether it was her, but did it matter? It wasn’t in his heart to carry hate, and it hadn’t been in hers either. He felt this to be true. “I forgive you.”

“Lily?” Snape’s voice was faint, barely a broken whisper.

“I forgive you.”

Harry couldn’t bear to look upon the other man’s face and see the disbelief written there. He couldn’t bear to meet those eyes and see the other man’s flayed soul a moment longer. He turned away, steps hurried, as Snape again called out, “Wait!” voice hoarse, and achingly desperate.  

He didn’t need to look back in order to see Snape’s hand, stretched out, as if needing to know if the person before him was a tangible being, and more than just the product of his guilt-ridden mind. Reaching but touching only the soft caress of the breeze from the swirl of Harry’s robes.

Harry was already rounding the corner as he whispered, “Goodbye.”

Lily was gone, Lilian was gone. Harry’s heart was as heavy as it was light, but he wasn’t alone. She was with him and she would be with him, always, in the hard road to come.