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Appetence

Chapter 51: Lily Potter

Notes:

Hello everyone! My apologies for such a long wait— I had just finished my own exams on Tuesday and had to spend the week trying to prep for another term! To everyone who is back in school already *or is starting here soon* I wish you all good luck. Just know that I'm here, suffering alongside you lol.

This chapter is a bit of a long one so I hope that'll make up a bit for the wait! I actually enjoyed writing this one quite a bit because I'm rather soft for any Snape and Harri interactions! I hope you guys will enjoy it as well (and if anyone gets the Greek myth references I've sprinkled throughout this chapter, I will love you forever! 😂)

Enjoy! 💕

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text



In the humble opinion of Severus Snape, it was a lovely day for tea.

Situated in the Malfoy’s solarium— the warming sunshine hazily filtering in through the windows and the fragrant potted hyacinths turning the air sweet— he found there was, truly, not a better way to pass an idle afternoon. 

Of course, he knew he probably shouldn’t— that, rather, it would be wiser to spend his free time in a more productive manner. He did have a school to run, after all—  the ceaseless headache it was, constantly balancing ledgers and doling out punishments and dealing with the complaints of his staff— and his personal brewing stores were in dire need of replenishing. Instead, he could use this opportunity to visit Diagon Alley— perhaps even gander down Knockturn for some of the less-than-desirable ingredients— or focus on restocking the exorbitant amount of Calming Draughts he’d been going through.

And yet, he found himself here all the same, unable to fully resist the temptation good tea and good company posed.

Then again, he figured where was the harm in allowing himself this? It was seldom the chances he had to relax, after all. To socialise

See, in all of the years he’d spent in dedicated service to the Dark Lord, Severus generally made it a point to limit his interactions with the other Death Eaters outside of their meetings. And that meant, consequently, his options for companionship were limited. On a whole, he thought them to be an unsavoury lot; people who reveled in heated discussions of torture and endorsed a supremacy based around lineage. Not to mention being a Half-blood himself— a status that most viewed as barely permissible— he was often at the centre of their ridicule, shuffled down the perceived hierarchy of importance and sniggered at . It didn’t matter how accomplished he was, or how highly the Dark Lord regarded him, he remained unworthy of their ‘prestigious’ circles. They constantly reminded him of it too, reprimanding him for being too brusque, too curt, too ill-mannered— and, worst of all, a traitor. Viewed as Dumbledore’s lapdog, they sneered that he’d been brought to heel by another master. Entirely disloyal.

Though, in all honesty, their disdain and distance suited him just fine. Being cast as a reject, and lacking the sizable repertoire of acquaintances that Pure-bloods used— traded— as their own special currency, was not new to him. Not by any means. But it was also how he had been able to achieve so much so quickly. While his comrades— a term he used in the lightest sense—  were busy parading about, tittering over gossip and flaunting their wealth during their soirees, he was working. Brewing, casting, planning from the safety of his dungeons and only ever making an appearance when it was deemed necessary, his solitary life had served him well overall. Kept him afloat and let him survive for as long as he had— enabled him to rise as the youngest professor, and now Headmaster, Hogwarts had ever seen.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t lonely every now and again. But that’s precisely where Narcissa Malfoy came in. Despite his general disdain for his Lord’s inner-circle, she was the one person he didn’t fully mind. 

While they’d been amicable enough at school, their friendship had flourished in the years following their graduation— enough so that he had become her only son’s godfather. Narcissa, he found, was rather unlike the other Death Eaters. Composed, alarmingly perceptive, and unwilling as he to engage in unnecessary acts of violence, she seemed to have a head on her shoulders— one that wasn’t completely empty and filled with a mind of her own. It was what they primarily bonded over— these quiet secular opinions that they only ever felt free enough to express in each other’s company. And though she didn’t bear the mark herself, he respected her and how far she had climbed. How much she’d come to be valued by the Dark Lord, sitting in on his meetings and providing her insight whenever asked. 

Yes, though he would refuse to admit it aloud, he liked her. She was the closest thing he could lay claim to as a friend and being in her presence was refreshing. With her refined manners and dulcet voice, Narcissa was the balm he sorely needed— a grounding rock in the ever-carrying current of life. 

So naturally, when an owl had arrived that morning with an invitation, Severus simply couldn't refuse. 

“Tell me, how is my son doing?” Narcissa asked, stirring a sugar cube into her tea— the quiet clink of a spoon against the fine china’s rim. While she attempted to appear uninterested, there was a keenness in her voice that betrayed her. “I imagine he must be quite busy, seeing as the time to write to his mother has escaped him.”

“Draco’s doing well enough, I suppose,” Severus responded. “Though there seems to have been a falling out between him and Zabini. He’s also apparently given up on Quidditch for the year. According to him, there’s no point in playing against anyone other than Potter.”

Narcissa returned the tea spoon to the saucer. Her painted lips thinned and she sighed, almost as though she wasn’t surprised by his answer. “Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I, for one, never cared too much for that boy or his mother. As for Quidditch, it was to be expected. Did you know he only tried out because of Harri? Something about not wanting to be bested by her again, of all things.”

“Is that right?”

“Indeed.”

For a moment, there was a pause— contemplative in nature as though Narcissa was trying to gather her thoughts. He could see them there, clouding over her pale eyes; several emotions filtering through, a rare instance in which she allowed them. Fondness, resignation, sadness, and then disapproval. He watched it all in silence, waiting until she spoke again.

“The poor child.” She’d given a sympathetic shake of her head. “It’s difficult to imagine how she must be feeling right now. What with her friends being back at school.” 

Severus only gave a noncommittal hum. 

Dark eyes fixing on the oolong tea in his cup— the fragrant curls of steam rolling off its surface— his mind wandered to the same thoughts he always had whenever the girl was brought up. Several months had already passed since the Dark Lord infiltrated Hogwarts, but her situation had yet to change. Of course, he understood that she was their Lord’s ward, and therefore it made sense for her to be living in the manor— it was the why, however, that escaped him. After all, the prophecy still existed, unfulfilled. And yet, their Lord seemed far less concerned with it now than he had in the past, brushing it aside as though it hadn’t been his driving force for years. 

Overall, the sudden change in his behaviour was bewildering. Perturbing— almost as much as seeing Harri Potter seated among the Death Eaters, dressed in finery suited to an aristocrat and with the Dark Lord’s familiar, of all things, curled possessively about her shoulders. Truly, there were no words that could suffice in describing how tense he became during those meetings, some irrational part of him just waiting for the snake to extend its jaws and swallow her whole. 

Yes, the stress brought on by her situation had become his constant companion of late, the same question hounding him through the night: how long was this going to last? Sure, it seemed that Potter was safe for now— but what would happen when she turned eighteen and the legal guardianship was annulled? After all, it was common knowledge that their Lord was freely using her name, her fame, to publicly support himself and his mandates. That he’d been helping himself to the wealth in her vaults to fund his campaigns and the costly reformations of his Citadel. But those resources were bound to be cut off eventually. And that? That left the girl’s future murky, uncertain.

The only thing he really managed to take solace in was the fact he’d been instructed to teach her Occlumency. Because that, at least, meant there was an investment being put into her. How would it make any sense to go through the effort of training her if she was destined for slaughter?

Then again, that’s exactly what Dumbledore had done, wasn’t it?

Severus uneasily swirled the cup in his hands, frowning as the ripples crested the sides. 

And though he loathed it, her absence did, admittedly, cause some disquiet in himself. Despite visiting her on a weekly basis, not seeing the girl romp through the stone halls and chase after her friends with annoyingly loud peals of laughter was— strange. In fact, he might even be inclined to agree with Draco: it was painfully tranquil without Potter around. To the point that it felt as if the castle was put into a stagnant state— a stasis. He might even go as far to say, at times, he missed her rebellious antics and complete disregard for authority— her uncanny ability to stir up trouble and keep him on his toes.

Of course, he would never admit to any of this. 

In fact, swallowing his tongue seemed far more preferable. 

“The girl. Is she coping well?” he finally asked, attempting to exude a blasé disinterest.

“Within her means, I would like to think. The Dark Lord has charged me with teaching her etiquette. While it hasn’t been an easy endeavour, she is a quick learner who has an inherent grace.” Narcissa returned her cup and saucer to the side table, her hands folding in her lap. “He has also scheduled an appointment with a healer for her this Wednesday. All routine, I was assured,” she added hastily when his shoulders tensed. “Nothing more.”

“But Severus, I must confess I’m rather troubled with our Lord’s recent behaviour,” she said, nonchalantly assessing the colourful petit fours arranged on the tiered platter, “that he may be harbouring some inappropriate intentions.”

“Narcissa, careful. You know it is not our place to pass judgement onto him,” Severus cut in sharply. Dark eyes narrowing a fraction, they briefly flickered towards the door— wary— before looking back at her. “His temper and affections are mercurial at the best of times. And we both know how easy it is to fall out of his grace.” 

“I’m well aware, but I’m speaking to you now as a friend, not a follower,” she responded, just as sharp and just as cutting. Narcissa lowered her voice to a whisper and leaned forward in her chair. “You care for the child, I know you do. Do not try to deny it. In all of the years you and I have known each other, how many times have you interceded on the behalf of another? Yet, when it concerns Harri, you do so readily.” 

“The way he looks at her, Severus, is unnatural,” she continued, lips pursed. “There’s more to their relationship than meets the eye. Though I cannot claim to understand what it is, it unnerves me all the same. And I worry that this obsession with her is beginning to take its toll. She’s just a child, after all. Perhaps you might convince our Lord to let her return to Hogwarts?” 

Severus reclined in his own chair, fingers steepling as his attention strayed to the world beyond the solarium’s glass walls. The sunshine was mild today, but stronger than it’d been in a while— an affirmation to the ending of winter and the beginning of spring. But even then, there were greying clouds gathering in the distance— rolling in, steadfast and sure and bringing with them a certain kind of gloom. Strangely befitting for the turn their conversation had taken.

In truth, he was unable to disagree with Narcissa: there was an unnatural aspect to the relationship between Potter and the Dark Lord. Almost a sort of enthrallment. And, to a certain extent, it seemed their Lord was more aware of it than the girl was. It was difficult to deny when it was his fingers that always seemed to linger— brief touches coming as wandering hands brushing against hers, twisting in her hair, resting upon her shoulders. Inconspicuous little moments that, once noticed, were impossible to ignore. And that was all in public. No small part of him was horrified to even hazard a guess as to what went on between them behind closed doors. After all, he’d been summoned to heal her once already due to a nearly damaged windpipe and it begged the question of how often did similar things occur? How much further did it go?

But, surely— even as depraved as the man was— their Lord had to have some shred of decency? Enough gentlemanly pride to know not to force himself upon her?

It was his hope— one that he clung to desperately rather than considering the alternative. 

“I only advise when he asks, Narcissa. Attempting to do so without prompting often leads to disaster,” Severus eventually muttered, his voice flat as he watched a sparrow flit past the window. “In any case, he would be more disinclined than ever to let her return to Hogwarts. Not with the Order becoming active once again.” 

“But surely he could be persuaded? Now that you’re Headmaster?” Narcissa pressed, leaning forward to place an imploring hand on his knee. “It’s not right, Severus, for a teenage girl to be locked away. Though I try to visit with her often, it’s a far cry from being enough.” She frowned when he didn’t respond right away. “Can you not see that? She should be with her friends, not cooped up in the manor and isolated. She needs structure in her life. A routine, a sense of normalcy, and, more importantly, distance from him.”   

He opened his mouth to explain— to argue it was out of his control and his power— when the solarium’s heavy oak door swung open.

 In unison, their heads snapped towards the interruption; a palpable surprise shared between them when the very girl in question was lingering in the doorway.

For a lack of a better description, Harri Potter was chaos personified: the human embodiment of disorder . The dress she was wearing had been one that obviously spent the night on the floor— wrinkled beyond saving— and its buttons relayed that she'd done them up in haste. Each one was currently mismatched, paired to the wrong slot. She wore no stockings, no socks, and her left leg dangled in the air as she tried to slip on the low-heels— a curse when she nearly lost her balance, her hand shooting out to grasp the door frame to steady herself. Her normally tidy auburn hair had likewise suffered from her hurry— loose, unbrushed and as wild as the look in her glassy eyes. But her questionable appearance wasn’t what was alarming to Severus. No. 

No, it was her neck.

More specifically, it was the discoloration of it— wine-deep blooms unfurling and twisting against the pale canvas of her skin. They wound their way up from underneath her collar, the visible few undoubtedly having more companions hidden away. And there— teeth marks . Savagely impressed into her neck, angry looking; deep indentations that betrayed the nature of what had happened. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw the revulsion flicker across Narcissa’s otherwise prim face. And the glance she eventually directed his way spoke volumes: ‘See?’ It seemed to say, ‘This is exactly what I meant.’  

“Professor— oh, Mrs. Malfoy! I, um, Barty said that you would be here?” Harri fumbled. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, Harri,” Narcissa was the one to speak for them both, the forced quality of her smile bleeding into her voice. “Severus and I were having a chat, that’s all. What do you need?”

Harri’s attention bounced from Narcissa to Severus, her teeth worrying her bottom lip when she noticed his chilly demeanour. She wasn’t entirely even sure as to why she was seeking him out. It wasn’t as if their relationship had been the most loving, after all. In fact, it was borne entirely out of snarky retorts and cynical insults; of chiding exasperations and unfair punishments. And several times he made it clear she was a headache to him— that he loathed, above all else, being her ‘babysitter’. Plus, he was one of the Dark Lord’s acolytes. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he might very well go behind her back and tell Voldemort everything: her darkest thoughts, her weaknesses, her fears, the soft spots for him to twist to his advantage.

And yet, despite all of that, some small voice encouraged her to find comfort in the man she’d known for years. To, perhaps, take some of the calmness he exuded and use it for her own— to relax into the familiarity of him and forget for a moment. 

“I see. Then could I perhaps borrow Professor Snape? Just for a few minutes?” Harri asked. Absentmindedly, her thumb had taken to running over the opposite palm in a soothing tic.

Narcissa’s pale eyes lingered on the girl’s hands, her feigned smile slipping. With a sigh, she rose from her seat and headed towards the door, pausing just long enough to place a gentle hand on Harri’s shoulder. “Borrow him for as long as you would like.” There was the vaguest attempt at a reassuring squeeze, followed by a cutting look tossed over her shoulder. “We were just finishing up anyways.”

Severus was more than fully aware of the look Narcissa had sent his way— a warning for him to be kind. Compassionate, careful with his words. Then again, even without her demanding such, he would’ve been anyway. Potter looked, after all— well. She looked as if she had enough rough treatment to last a lifetime. 

Only just glancing over the marks dotting her throat— unwilling to let himself look too long for the fear of where his mind would go— he pensively studied her. The taut shoulders; the anxiety in her eyes; the bottom lip bitten raw. Something wasn’t right with her. Not right at all. It was difficult to explain, but it felt as if something had shifted in her— changed, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. 

“What can I do for you, Potter?” He spoke first, his index finger tapping rhythmically against the chair’s armrest. She didn't quite seem to know, though, judging by the way her mouth kept opening and closing, struggling to answer.

“I—” Harri trailed off, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. And then those green eyes, inexplicably, drifted to the window. “Can we go for a walk? Outside?” 

His gaze followed hers. She was looking straight at the hedge maze in the distance, a longing sparking in her vivid eyes. And he realised, quite suddenly, he hadn’t seen such from her in a long, long time. Longing, that is— hope. Narcissa’s words came back to him, haunting with their argument that the Dark Lord’s presence was taking its toll. Perhaps she was right. 

Slowly, he rose from his chair and gave a silent, acquiescing nod. 



They ended up strolling side by side in the spiralled hedge maze— the one in which, Harri was quick to recognise, her bathroom window overlooked. At first, Barty had attempted to trail after them— but Severus sent him off with a glare and a clipped drawl that he could handle a wandless sixteen-year old. It almost made her want to hug the dour man.

By this point in the season, the snow had mostly melted as sparse blades of grass peeked through the scattered pockets of white. Overhead, there was the trill of birdsong — the promise of warmer weather that was sure to come— making their walk strangely idyllic. Blissful, even. Enough so that she felt a daring sort of joy.

How long had it been, after all, since she last ventured outside? Not just on the veranda overlooking the manor’s acreage— but actually outside? 

It was grounding, feeling the thawing earth give beneath each step and being surrounded by the calls of nature, breathing in the crisp air that froze her lungs in the best of ways. A weight seemingly lifted; a moment of respite without having someone watch her every move. And though it was, by no means, a temperate summer breeze, her arms were thrown wide in welcome of it all the same. 

Nature was seemingly coaxing the darkness and gloom out of her, stowing it away in the towering brambles of the hedges instead— a secret claimed, a secret kept. And the more Harri walked on, the more the meagre sunshine became her Lethe, carrying off the memories she didn’t quite want to keep. Smouldering red eyes; the heat of searching fingers; the fervent confessions— all of it seemed strangely distant, left behind in the mansion and unable to follow as they wandered, ever-deeper, into the labyrinth. 

Severus watched as the girl traipsed ahead, his pace slowing enough to give her a sense of space, of freedom. An illusion, a lovely one, but still one nonetheless. Because that was the truth of it: an illusion. It had hit him, as she walked on and he lingered, right then and right there: Harri Potter was never going to be fully free again, was she? No, long gone were her days of moving without someone in her shadow— of being able to go to Hogsmeade on the weekends or roaming Diagon Alley unattended. It was a reality that was making itself clearer and clearer as the days bled into weeks and the weeks into months: this was it for her. And he had helped make it so. Even if it was to save her in the end, he was guilty of it— clipping her wings— wasn’t he?

A chime of delighted laughter yanked him out of his melancholy— a twitch in the corners of his mouth, the threat of a smile, despite it all. The girl had crouched down to point out the tender bud of a rose— a lone survivor from the frost, wholly intent on blooming before its time. Hands gently cupping it, she called out for him, auburn head tilted. He froze. 

For a moment, he couldn’t move. 

Couldn’t think. 

The world fell away as he was seized by memory without warning. Down to the way those green eyes— those startlingly green eyes— glittered in their excitement and her smile beamed— the gentleness in how she held the rose, cradling it as though it were a fragile thing— it was all uncanny. Lily. This— this was a graven image of a dead woman. Debilitating.  By all accounts, he wondered if this might be considered a form of madness: seeing a woman long since gone. Or, maybe, how he continued to willingly involve himself with her child— a girl that he, truly, had no claim towards, but felt one all the same. 

Madness in the constant torment it was whenever he experienced moments— like now— where she seemed less like ‘Harri’ and more like ‘Lily’. 

For Harri, this was the first time she’d seen a flower in months. Not the already-dead sort that perfumed the manor and were arranged in neat, little displays on every table— but a living, in the ground flower . And, for the strangest of reasons, it elicited a euphoric sort of anticipation. No matter how much she enjoyed the snow— the cosiness winter brought, the heat of the fire and the comfort of thick socks— spring was, secretly, her favourite time of year. After all, spring signalled the resuming of Quidditch and longer days spent outside; of scratchy sweaters being packed away and the soft linens of their warm-weather uniforms. Spring meant pleasant April showers— the kind that she loved getting caught in, warm in nature and the sort that turned the air fresh and sweet. And the greenery.

That was her favourite part. 

Nature finally waking up after long, sleepy months— plants unfurling from under blankets of white, new life abounding. There was something inspiring, she found, in the way flowers always managed to come back, no matter how deeply they’d been buried under the ice and cold. And despite her aunt viewing it more as a punishment— a chore and busywork delegated to her niece— she honestly always loved tending to the gardens. It’d been the one thing she never fully minded, feeling the damp dirt gather under her nails and seeing what would eventually sprout. Often, they were petunias, what with how much her aunt loved her namesake, but still—

Petunia

There was the sudden flash of a gaunt-looking woman in her mind— of beady eyes watching her with open hatred; grating screams; the smell of burnt flesh and bile. The overwhelming pleasure that followed; a rapture as her lungs filled with the scent of sweetened smoke. The way Vernon’s cries for mercy sounded almost mellifluous in her ringing ears— how much they had pleased her. Her throat constricted. 

She dropped the rose, terrified by the memories that came rushing back. Why she had sought Snape out in the first place. Why they were in the gardens— why she fled from the study. Oh, how she even dared to think, just for a second, that she deserved to forget. What was wrong with her?!

“I did something terrible, Professor,” Harri admitted, voice cracking. “Really, really terrible.”

Severus reeled at the sudden change in her demeanour— at the tears that’d sprung up, clinging to the corners of her lashes. Though he wasn’t proud to admit it,  he was akin to a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car when that misted gaze turned on him. There was just something so raw, so desperate in her eyes— so defeated— that it caught him off-guard. After all, in the years they’d known one another, he could count on one hand all of the times he’d seen her cry

“My uncle, I tortured him,” she explained without prompting, “I just— I felt all of this hatred and it was so easy to give in.” 

He blinked at the confession. Admittedly, he’d often wondered what became of the Dursleys after that night, but decided, in the end, it was best to simply not know. He’d done what was asked of him— and that was enough. Why go chasing after the gruesome details? However, to hear that she was involved? That she had punished them herself?  Well, it was, frankly, a bit unnerving. 

 “I used the Cruciatus on him,” she continued, her hands flexing, unflexing repeatedly, “I don’t regret making him hurt, though I do regret using it. Not because Vernon suffered, but because I slipped. That’s the fucked up part. I regret that I used it because I think it woke up something in me.” 

Harri shook her head, aware she was rambling now but unable to stop, “Still, it felt so good in the moment that I— and then with him. With Voldemort, of all people. And then I just gave my aunt and uncle to him to handle because I couldn’t —” There was a lump now in her throat, nearly impossible to speak around. “I did the one thing that Dumbledore always said I shouldn’t. I gave in. There’s something wrong with me, I know it. I can feel it. Something vile.”

Green eyes lifted from her trembling hands to the mottled sky above, rapidly trying to blink back the well of tears. “What if I’m becoming evil, Professor?” 

If there was one fundamental truth to Severus Snape— his, arguably, most fatal flaw— it would be that he didn’t handle the emotions of others very well. Especially when said emotions led to tears— especially tears. In fact, during the few times he interacted with Draco as a child, it had been his policy to call for Narcissa at the first sign of any impending breakdown. He just wasn’t cut out for it: consoling and comforting. And that was with an infant— a child whose problems were so unsophisticated, uncomplicated, that they were remedied with a pacifier or a stuffed toy. 

So what the hell was he supposed to do when faced with a complex moral dilemma?

He barely had the answers to solve his own issues, let alone enough to sort hers out. Not to mention his coping methods weren’t exactly the healthiest. After all, he firmly believed ‘suppression’ was the best option— often throwing himself into his work until he could forget— but how would that help her? Plus—

Wait. Did she say she used the Cruciatus curse? That wasn’t possible, though. Was it? No one with a predisposition towards light magic should have been able to cast an Unforgivable with the ease she described. Not unless— 

His mouth parted at the revelation: she wasn’t light in nature. It was the only plausible explanation. But still, he’d been so certain she was— that she had taken after her father’s magic and that’s why she aligned herself with Dumbledore’s ideologies. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more the little things that never quite added up clicked into place with startling clarity. 

The way she flourished in the old Defence classes and then in the rebranded Introduction to the Dark Arts curriculum. 

The way dark creatures and objects seemed to naturally flock to her. 

The way she always seemed to perform best while experiencing intense bouts of negative, rather than positive, emotion. 

Her ability to speak parseltongue. 

Dumbledore’s apparent warnings for her not to give in.

Yes, Harri Potter, the Chosen One was dark

And then it hit him, rather belatedly: the change he sensed earlier— the energy he’d felt when she first entered the room, charging the air— that had been her magic shifting, hadn’t it? Merlin, how did he possibly not recognise it sooner? True, he wasn’t the most sensitive when it came to magical signatures— but still, even he should have been able to see the signs, close as she was to reaching her maturity. That is, unless there was something blocking its detection, or— Merlin. Could she have been suppressing it? No, surely even she wasn’t that reckless to try to control something she couldn’t. That was exactly how Obscurials were made, after all— how people ended up slipping when they least expected it. How they got hurt. Of course, knowing Potter’s stubbornness, she probably had been. Hell, it wouldn’t even surprise him if she had known the consequences and yet still blatantly chose to do so. 

Severus opened his mouth, a sharp reprimand at the ready— but then the first few tears slipped free, and, quite  suddenly, he forgot his anger. It fizzled away from him, dampened by the sight of her wet cheeks— panic . His mind went infuriatingly blank once again. What was he supposed to say to her? What could he possibly offer her in terms of comfort? Console her with? How could— and then, without being summoned, there was a memory. Faint, but nonetheless still raw; a flash of red hair, the exact same question asked under the privacy of a weeping willow. He didn't want to go back there— revisit that time— but it was the only thing he could really think of. 

“Your mother,” Severus forced out, faltering. He had to clear his throat in order to continue. “Your mother,” he repeated, “asked me the same thing when she also discovered her magic’s inclination.”

 Those green eyes swung back to him, wide and glassy. Much to his relief, however, there was a pause in their tears. Encouraged, he took a wary half-step closer. “And what I am about to tell you now is precisely what I said to her years ago: your magic does not make you inherently good or evil. It is only your actions that can define you.” 

Harri blinked owlishly at Snape, trying to process what he just told her— a throb in her chest, her temples. Did she hear him right? Her mother, the woman people always said had been unfailingly gentle, was a dark witch? It was— strange, to say the very least. So incongruent with the image she had of Lily Potter. 

Suddenly, a hand appeared in her periphery, extended in silent invitation. Taking in the tense expression on Snape’s sallow face— his thin lips set into a frown; a heavy line between his brows— she forced herself to accept it. Hand slipping into his, she allowed herself to be lifted from the thawing, damp ground.

“A dark core, a dark inclination, Harri, should not automatically be equated to being evil,” Snape surmised. “It simply means that you are ruled by your passion and negative emotions more than others. That’s it. Nothing more and nothing less.” 

“But you don’t understand,” she protested, dropping her hand from his. “I tortured him! Vernon, without hesitation— and I enjoyed it. That is evil, Professor!” 

Severus regarded her, his frown deepening at the dismay that shone wetly in her eyes. It was becoming clear to him that she wasn’t looking to be comforted or excused— but, rather, to be condemned instead. In a sense, he could relate. Commiserate, even, with this want to not be forgiven. And he could understand somewhat that this probably terrified her; the fact she was finally forced to acknowledge the subconscious bitterness she harboured towards her relatives and the resulting relief from getting to express it. Then, of course, there was the other aspect of this all— the one that still went unnamed, hanging between them, demanding attention: the bruises adorning her neck. It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with the heady effect dark casting had on adults, nevermind teenagers. But that was a matter for a different time and a different place. One that, he secretly hoped, he would never have to discuss.

“As you know, I have spent many years in service to both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. And in those years, I’ve seen actions carried out by either side that could be classified as evil,” he said softly, his feet carrying him further into the maze. “Whether you choose to believe my words or not, they are the truth. A single deed borne out of a lack of discipline and passionate anger is not enough to make you such.” 

Harri gaped as Severus rounded the manicured hedge— a momentary pause before, eventually, she trailed after him, suppressing the urge to argue he was wrong. Everyone was. To point out that he was blissfully ignorant of the truth. Ever since she was a baby, ever since the second air had filled her lungs again after her death, she’d been marked as an evil— one that violated all of the universe’s sacred laws. And for once, she just wanted someone to finally agree with her and understand what unholy sort of creature she was. 

But yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say any of it. 

Rather, her mind refused to move past Snape’s earlier confession about Lily. It was perturbing. Her mother— a woman once remarked on as being ‘uncommonly kind’  by Remus—  had been drawn to the dark arts. And how she was suddenly desperate for more. What did others think of her when they found out? Or did they even know? How did she overcome it? Did she ever give in? Of course, she knew that this was Snape’s roundabout way of distracting her, of curbing her existential dread by dangling a carrot just out of reach, but it was working. Alarmingly well.

Stubbornly wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, she took another hesitant step before breaking into a jog to catch up with him. “You said my mother had a dark disposition,” she prompted, mildly surprised with how long Snape’s strides were.

“So I did.”

He sharply rounded the corner and Harri followed, irritated when he offered nothing more on the subject. Admittedly, the topic of her parents had always been a bit— odd for her. Mostly because, by a large part, they were unknown. While she knew what they looked like from a tattered few photographs and a dusty album she received at the age of eleven, their personalities eluded her— remained only vaguely constructed through stories and secondhand accounts. And even as people expected her to miss them, to mourn their deaths as they did, she often couldn’t really bring herself to. It was a secret she was unwilling to tell even Hermione, too self-conscious of coming across as cold and apathetic— but it was the truth. Sure, she ached for the idea of parents— the life of what could have been— but not specifically for Lily and James Potter as individuals. Hell, she didn’t know what their hobbies had been, or what foods they preferred, or their favourite colours. And really, it was difficult to play the filial daughter to complete strangers.

Of course, between her parents, she supposed she could say she knew James a bit better. In no small part that was due to Sirius and Remus and the tales of their exploits as the Marauders (though, admittedly, half of their stories went over her head, so ladened with inside jokes as they were). But Lily was rarely ever mentioned in them. Whenever she was, it was mostly about her chastising them for their immaturity, or her finding a loophole to get them out of their messes. Quite frankly, it painted her in a boring light. James was brash, daring; a Gryffindor through and through (as Sirius often said) who took the form of a stag more often than not and spent his time in the sky rather than in the library. In contrast, Lily seemed, well, plain. Kind and beautiful, yes— though nothing extraordinary. But perhaps, there was indeed something more to her— something as exciting as the daringness of James— something complex that went beyond the superficial image people had of her. And now, Harri figured, it was the perfect opportunity to ask.

She studied Severus’s stern profile— his somberness and unsmiling mouth— before working up the courage to ask, “What was she like, exactly? My mother?”

It was impossible to miss how he had stiffened. 

For a moment, she feared that he would ignore her. But then, much to her surprise, he paused mid-step and gave a resigned sort of sigh.

“Your mother was an exceptional witch,” he muttered, dark eyes lifting to the sky now mottled with clouds— a stretching sea of gathering grey. “During our time at school, she was both my closest friend and my greatest competition. I suppose you might say she loved winning, but had a rare sort of grace even when she lost. In fact, she made it a point to always congratulate me if I managed to score higher than her.” There was a tightness in the corners of his mouth, but the words kept flowing, “and she had this most peculiar habit of seeing the best in people, even when she probably shouldn’t have. Far too forgiving and far too compassionate at the worst of times.” 

Severus could feel the weight of Harri's full attention— and he knew that, if he dared to look over, it would be to see a ghost at his side. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Lily was there with them now, hidden somewhere in the towering brambles. If it was her phantom hands he felt pressing down about his shoulders, or the whisper of her breath on his nape. That, maybe, she was summoned by his reminiscence— was finally, finally, heeding his daily prayers for her to return to him. 

And there, just a few feet ahead, an unexpected handful of leaves. Burnt orange, carried on by the wind and curling playfully up towards the heavens on an invisible draft— a sign, perhaps, an answer to his question about her presence. It was a foolish interpretation— wishful thinking, really— but he clung to it, choosing to believe all the same. Merlin, how long had it been since he’d talked about her? Actually talked, that is, rather than reliving the past in his head? 

It was— unexpectedly cathartic

“You look so much like her, though you’re probably tired of hearing that,” he said, a bittersweet sorrow coiling tightly about his heart. 

It was true: the girl outwardly resembled so little of James that he often wondered if she’d been formed solely from Lily. If she had been fashioned from clay and given life through her mother’s magic, rather than natural conception. It was to the point that it was downright alarming at times— their similarities. The same beauty mark under their chin; the same way their eyes crinkled when they laughed; the same brow shape and the mannerisms expressed through them. Really, it was only their colourations that set them apart, the daughter’s hair a touch darker than the mother’s. And those eyes— curse green and so bright to the point of being unnatural. Yes, those eyes were undeniably Harri’s. Lily’s had never been that unnerving— never that haunting to look into. 

But still, those were all things so easily overlooked with a first glance— detrimental to his sanity. How many times had he seen the girl on his periphery and had to do a double take? Almost nearly called out the wrong name? How many times had it felt as though he were a bystander, rewatching the past all over again? Her being sorted into Gryffindor; her lounging under the weeping willow by the Black Lake; her trudging to Hogsmeade through the drifting snow, bundled up tightly in her house colours. Absolutely crushing

Harri blinked, listening to his strained voice with an unusual amount of focus. Normally, it frustrated her when she heard those words— that she looked like her mother, her existence overshadowed by their wistfulness for a dead woman. Yet, it felt different when it came from Snape. Strangely enough, it didn’t bother her then.

Following his sombre gaze further down the labyrinth, she watched the dancing leaves in a companionable silence. The last remnants of autumn that, by all accounts, should have long since decayed, it was mesmerising how they seemed to chase each other. Lifting higher, higher, until they vanished altogether, swept away over the tops of the hedges and out of sight. 

“Did you know her wand was a willow? She would have been an excellent healer, given the chance,” Snape’s voice had lowered to a whisper. “It was a dream of hers, in fact, to be a Mediwitch. That and to be a mother.”

And yet, neither of those were ever fully realised. 

Severus continued walking. Twenty-one years old, a life that should have been full of opportunity, but ended before anything substantial could’ve come out of it. Well, save for one thing— the thing that was currently trailing a few feet behind him, her legs working furiously to keep up. Just one aspect of her lifelong mission; motherhood experienced for such a transient burst of time, one wondered if it could count. But even then, Lily had proven herself to be stronger than the Leto of the myths— had readily made the ultimate sacrifice when she shouldn’t have. 

It was his point proven tenfold: she had been too compassionate and too fierce in her love. 

“At one point, the Dark Lord tried to recruit her. It was long before you were born, of course. He took an interest in both of your parents, strong as they were, but Lily,” he mused, interlacing his fingers behind his back, “was something else entirely. She held such immense power, yet refused to truly use it. Never in anger, or in grief. She always stayed her wand, no matter the circumstances. However, it wasn’t out of patience. It was out of fear. Fear of her own potential, her magical.” 

Harri nearly stumbled on her next step. Voldemort had tried to recruit her parents? Her mother? Well, that was disconcerting, to say the least. Especially since her entire understanding of them had been built around their status as freedom fighters for the Order. However, she didn’t have much time to dwell on the hypothetical as Snape’s pace quickened. 

“Despite the attempts I made to get her to see reason and accept her magic, I believe she never truly did. There is a saying, after all, that willow wands choose owners who have immense insecurities, whether they’re aware of them or not.” He veered sharply to the left, ignoring Harri’s protests to slow down. “It devastated her when she discovered what her magic’s predisposition meant and, in the end, crippled her. She was so preoccupied with what others would think that she never even tried for her dreams. And on that night when the Dark Lord came for you, it was that fear that didn't even allow her to lift her wand.” 

“What—?”

Severus finally slowed as the entrance to the maze reappeared before them. Overhead, pockets of golden light lazily lanced through some of the gathering clouds. “I mention all of this to you, Harri, as both a lesson and a warning. You cannot hide from your true nature. Any attempts to do so will lead to regret and ruin.”

Harri glanced uneasily towards the open, embellished gate that marked the beginning of the garden. In the background, Malfoy Manor loomed— a silent threat. Arriving back at the entrance made her suddenly recall the worries she’d somehow forgotten up until now— but, oh, how they came rushing back. 

Swallowing thickly, her attention flickered back to Severus. Part of her wasn’t quite ready to give up his company yet.  “Professor, please.” Unthinkingly, she reached for his forearm.  “I don’t know what to do. How do—where do I go from here?”

Severus glanced down to the pale hand latched onto him. There was a tremble held in her slight fingers, subtle and barely noticeable— but it nonetheless spoke volumes, reminding him, rather bitterly, of how young she actually was. In spite of all of the deeds and epics surrounding her— the myth and the legend of what she had accomplished—the fact was plain: she was a child. Scared and looking to others for answers, for help, still too young to know how to navigate the world properly. And inwardly, he cursed. Cursed the Dark Lord, cursed Dumbledore, himself, the whole lot of their world— each and every one of them sharing in the guilt of placing such pressure on her to begin with. Yes, he had failed her. They all did. With their never-ending expectations, with their continuous worship, they had failed her. 

A bitter bile crawled up his throat when those lost green eyes searched his. Well, perhaps there was still a chance. Perhaps he still could do something right. For himself, for Lily, for her— could, maybe, hopefully, begin to somehow atone for all the wrongs done to the girl.

“I suggest you heed my advice then, Harri. Lean into it. Learn from your mother and do not relive her mistakes,” he said, removing her hand— a brief moment where his thin fingers cradled hers; a fleeting squeeze— before dropping it. “Take what he is offering, use it to your advantage. You are smart, more so than you tend to let yourself believe. So forget whatever foolish ideas Dumbeldore has put into your head and accept yourself. Light, dark, none of it matters if you wind up dead— or worse.”

He sighed at her stunned expression. Of course, he wished he had more to offer than empty platitudes, but he didn’t. Rather, all he could say was, “I implored you once to survive and I do so yet again. Do not fight against something you cannot change.”  

There was a lapse— a moment of hushed silence between them— and Severus feared the worst as she quickly turned away, uttering a choked noise. The sharp edge of urgency pressed into him, desperate to suddenly make her see reason— to have her understand the precarious line that she was toeing. To not let history repeat itself.  

However, before he could open his mouth, she spoke.

“Alright,” Harri muttered, whirling back on her heel to face him. “I’ll do it. I’ll get his help.”

And not for the first time did Severus find himself taken back by the girl. Openly studying her face, he found where there once had been conflict now held the opposite. Resolute, determined, there was the certain kind of steadfastness that he’d come to expect— a curious sense of relief swelling in his chest with the realisation of how long it’d been since he’d seen it last.

Fire flickered in the stare that held his own, her chin lifted and her shoulders squared— the image of pure defiance. Overhead, the setting sun had fully broken through the grey, bathing them in its warmth and splendour. And at her back, the radiance crested; an aureole enveloping her in its golden light, turning her eyes molten. Less green and more resplendent, they glowed, made anew in Helio’s own likeness— burning brighter and brighter until it nearly hurt to look into them.

Unbowed, unbroken, this was the Harri Potter he had always known.

Notes:

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@ elysian-drops