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August 17th, 1995
Dear Mr S,
It may come as a surprise that I am writing to you. After all, I’m not entirely sure if you even know who I am. My name is Harry Potter — I’m sorry that I don’t know yours. The photograph I found only had your initials written on the back.
Re: the photograph. I found a box hidden in a forgotten crevice of the darkest part of the attic. I don’t ever go up there unless my aunt or uncle demands me to, and when I do, I stick close to the door; I’m not fond of small, dark spaces. Anyway, I found a box of old photos of my mother. You were in one of them, though your face was concealed (it was of you and my mother hugging, your back to the camera and her face smiling beautifully over your shoulder. Since then, I find myself desperate to know what you look like. Is that weird?).
On the back of this photograph, there were a few short sentences that lead me to believe my mother intended on sending it to you. It read: My best friend, forever and for always. Can you believe we were once this young? The thought that I am now, only a few years later, expecting a child is baffling! I forgive you, you know. I miss you like a severed limb. I write this in the hope that you will forgive yourself as I have and return to my life. Yours, Lily.
I don’t know what my mother was forgiving you for, but I hope you have forgiven yourself for it. I realise I could simply Owl you the photograph along with my letter, but I find myself helpless to my own selfishness. Only, her hand is what wrote those words. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her handwriting. It’s a part of her that I never got the chance to know, you see?
Your address is also written on the picture (it’s a Muggle picture, by the way. Maybe I should be wary of being more subtle as I am now realising I don’t know if you are a Muggle or not…) and I really hope you still live there, because otherwise, I don’t know how I’ll manage to find you.
It might sound silly, but I’m desperate to correspond with you. I know next to nothing about my mother, only a few small details that Remus and Sirius have told me. They were closer with my father, however, and so they seem to spill more easily the details about him rather than her. That sounds worse than it is. They were very fond of my mother — Remus especially. I can tell.
I’m rambling, so I guess I’ll just jump to the point: I’m having a hard summer and the thought of having someone to talk to, someone who I don’t know, is eating away at me like some kind of desperate inner beast. I do already have people I could talk to, but it isn’t the same. ‘We’re here for you, Harry. We can get through this together.’ That’s what I imagine they’d say and… it doesn’t help. My friends think I’m stronger than I am and who am I to diminish their beliefs and make them worry?
I guess maybe I seek an impartial ear. Not that I expect that of you, of course. Just a thought… Merlin, I’m sorry. I just realised how stupid I’m acting. You don’t owe me anything. I think I’ve latched onto the idea that because you were friends with my mother, you will be an extension of her comfort in a way. Does that make sense? It probably doesn’t, but I guess I’ve got nothing to lose in reaching out to you.
If you wish for me to send you the photo, I will understand and include it in my next letter (if it's okay that I write again?). Please write back. I have so many questions — about her, but about you as well. Like: did you and Mum ever make amends?
Kind regards,
Harry James Potter
Severus sunk back into the sofa and closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Potter’s letter was clutched in one hand and in the other, his wand flicked lazily in the direction of the kitchen. He needed firewhisky if he was to deal with this situation.
When his stomach was lined with a heavy layer of alcohol, Severus opened his eyes and peered cautiously at the crumpled parchment again.
Potter had no idea he was talking to Severus, that much was obvious. If he had known, he would never have spoken so openly, so vulnerably. It almost made the regretful feeling in Severus’ chest that he refused to acknowledge pang with something much more potent than his Occlumency shields allowed for. He took another sip of his smoking drink at the rising guilt and wondered what he should do about the situation.
Should he write back and inform Potter of exactly who he had written to and demand that he never write again? Should he ignore the letter altogether and hope the boy's attention span was as flighty as it was in Severus’ own classroom? Should he return the letter without a response?
“No,” the suspiciously feminine voice in the back of his head whispered. Lily. “Write him back, Severus. Shoulder his worries and relieve his burden. He needs you.”
Severus sighed. “No, he needs you. He needs his mother,” he muttered in response.
But the echo of Lily only harrumphed and countered, “He cannot have me. Like Harry said, you can be an extension of me. Help my boy, Severus. Please.”
It was this, her pleading tone, that had him summoning a blank bit of parchment and an inkpot. As he dipped the tip of his quill into the ink, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t losing the plot.
With faltering mental shields and a ghost-like burden still whispering in his mind, he brought quill to parchment and began to write.
August 19th, 1995
Mr Potter,
You are certainly correct in presuming I might find your mail with surprise. I admit that never had I assumed we would interact in such a way. You apologised for not knowing my name — there is no need for apologies. You may continue to call me ‘Mr S’ for now.
I am surprised, even more so than by your reaching out, that your aunt deemed to keep any photographs of your mother (does she know that you found them?). I remember very well the photograph that you describe to me. If memory serves, it was taken during the summer between our fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts (yes, I am a wizard). Your grandfather was very fond of taking pictures on his old film camera at that time. He was a great man who would no doubt be exceedingly proud of you.
I am a very private man, hence why I have not revealed to you my name. Some call me paranoid and I fear they are correct, but I digress. It is only this that prevents me from sharing what I look like with you, but I suppose it will do no harm to give you the insignificant details: I have dark hair and pale skin that burns alarmingly quickly in the summer heat. I am of average height, possibly slightly taller. I do not think your curiosity is weird, not at all; it is only natural to wonder about these things.
Thanking you sincerely for sharing the words of your mother with me does not feel enough. To answer your final question: no, Lily and I never had the chance to reconcile. I said something awful to your mother that I did not really mean at the height of my own humiliation. I have not forgiven myself for one moment, but I find the ache of regret easing now with the knowledge that she forgave me for it a very long time ago. You have given me a gift, Mr Potter, for which I am eternally grateful.
Seeking comfort from a stranger is not silly, I can assure you. Understand that I acknowledge how it might come as even more of a comfort to know that advice from a friend of your mother may be easier than seeking it from a friend of your own. You may write to me as many times as you wish and I will ask only in return that you live the safest and happiest life you can manage.
Black and Lupin mean well, I’m sure, but I do sympathise with the knowledge that it might be disheartening to hear of only your fathers accomplishments — especially when the whole Wizarding world compares you to him already. I will tell you with utmost certainty that your mother was a spectacular witch and whatever you wish to know about her, I will answer to the best of my ability.
Now, why don’t you tell me about your summer so far. It is to my knowledge that you turned fifteen years old only a few weeks previous; did you have a nice celebration? Happy belated birthday.
Keep the photograph, Mr Potter. Merlin knows you deserve it far more than I.
Sincerest regards,
S.S
“Thank you for being kind to my son,” the phantom Lily whispered tearfully in his ear.
Severus watched as the post owl swept out into the purple sky, feeling weary beyond his years, and nodded.
August 22nd, 1995
Dear Mr S,
Thank you so much for responding to my letter! And so fast as well! Hedwig (that’s my owl’s name) doesn’t get to send much mail during the summer as my friends know it’s best not to write too much when I’m with my relatives, so she was absolutely chomping at the bit to deliver my last letter to you. She goes out hunting sometimes but I keep her inside mostly in case my uncle decides to lock her cage again.
Speaking of my relatives, your surprise that my aunt had any photographs of my mother in the house proves what I’ve always wondered: Aunt Petunia was never very fond of my mother, was she? If I’m honest, after I’d gotten over the shock of finding pictures of her, I was stunned at the realisation that Aunt Petunia had bothered to keep them. To answer your question: no, she has no idea what I found. They’d be burned right before my eyes if I was caught with them.
You said that the photo of you and my mother was taken between your fourth and fifth years at Hogwarts. I wonder, do you still wear your hair tied back in a man-bun? My friend Ron says his brother Bill has a man-bun and that Mrs Weasley hates it, but I think they’re very cool. Maybe I should grow out my hair and see if tying it up will tame it a bit… hm. Now that I know loosely what you might look like, it’s easy to conjure up an image of you in my head. It’s safe to say that you look really cool in my mind, Mr S.
I have to admit that when you wrote about my grandfather I almost cried. I’ve never really given much thought to family apart from my parents. I hope you’re right. I hope he’s proud of me, just like I’m sure my mother is proud of you.
You gave me permission to ask questions, so here they come. Do you know Remus and Sirius? I suppose you would’ve known them at school, right? What was my mother’s favourite class? What was her favourite thing to do in the summer? Did she have a favourite dessert like me (treacle tart) or did she enjoy them all the same (like my friend Hermione)? What did her laugh sound like? Was she a Gryffindor?
Thank you for the birthday wish. I didn’t have a celebration — the thought of the Dursley’s even acknowledging my birthday is laughable. I’m not sure they even know when it is. My friends sent me some lovely gifts and a few cakes, which I really appreciate because I’d only been eating a piece of fruit a day until then. I really miss the Hogwarts food.
My summer so far has been… well, it hasn’t been good. I don’t want to complain because at least here I’m safe from Voldemort, but Uncle Vernon has been even angrier as of late and who else is there to take the brink of it but me? I’m finding it hard to sleep, too. I keep having these awful dreams about what happened in the graveyard at the end of the term (which I’m now realising you won’t know about. Basically, Voldemort’s resurrection happened in a graveyard and I almost died).
I don’t know you so it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable to admit what I’ve not been able to say since that night: I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do. I guess I just feel hopeless and like the weight of the world rests on my shoulders.
Sorry, Mr S. I don’t mean to whine and whinge to you. Thank you again for your last response.
Kind regards,
Harry James Potter
Somewhere beside him, Lily could be heard crying. It was a soft sound, muffled maybe by the fact that she was a figment of Severus’ imagination, but even so, the noise haunted him.
“What are they doing to my son?” she kept saying, and all Severus could do was shake his head and stare down at the word-littered page in front of him.
Potter’s letter had been… exceptionally eye-opening.
His owl. His lack of nourishment. His neglectful aunt. His angry uncle.
It all reminded Severus of his own childhood.
How had no one caught onto this? How had Severus, a man chilled by the ghost of his own past, not recognised Potter’s too-skinny frame and too-desperate need to prove himself for what it really was? How had he so easily dismissed Potter’s lack of self-preservation as foolish Gryffindor courage?
Severus very rarely was stumped the way he was now. He always knew what to do next, how to proceed. This, however? This situation had bested him.
It was more than what Potter had revealed to him that had him in such an uncharacteristic state of stagnation. It was the fact that the boy didn’t seem to realise how awful the things he had written were.
At least here I’m safe from Voldemort, he had written. And though it was true that the Dark Lord could not touch Potter while he resided in Privet Drive, it was clear that he was far from safe. I don’t mean to whine and whinge, he had finished with. But he had every right to do so.
“How could I have missed this?” he found himself muttering aloud as he summoned his half-empty bottle of firewhisky from the kitchen. “I have been blinded… how…?”
Severus flinched when Lily, who he had forgotten was even there, said through her quiet weeping, “It isn’t your fault, Severus. You weren’t to know.”
“I should have known!” he argued as he poured a long splash of alcohol into a glass. “I live in the same castle as him for three quarters of a year! Of course I should have known!” He took a large sip and stood stiffly, opening the sitting room window to allow air inside. He peered out the window, glass in hand, and the anger traded itself for deep-rooted self-loathing. “I’ve been nothing but cruel to the boy since the day I first laid eyes upon him. I’m no better than Petunia and her despicable husband.”
A thrum of anger vibrated around him. It wasn’t his. “Don’t say her name,” Lily demanded, her voice no longer a whisper, but hard and furious. “That evil woman. How dare she treat my son so poorly! You are nothing like her, Severus. If you were, you would not be so shaken by this.”
“Lily…”
“No.” Her tone brooked no arguments. “Listen to me, Severus, and listen good. There is no room for self-blame. You know what to do. You know how you can help. Be the good man I know you to be and do what you must to protect Harry.”
A prickle of indignation ran up his spine and he turned to face her, only to find his empty sitting room devoid of life other than himself. She is not real, he had to remind himself. Still, he answered, “There is no doubt about my protecting him, Lily. None at all. I will write back and gather information. From then, I will do all I can to have him removed from their care.”
“Good,” she replied, calmer now. “Thank you, Severus.”
He vanished his drink, glanced at the unused landline on the far wall, and got to writing.
August 24th, 1995
Mr Potter,
It is with reluctant amusement that I admit: no, I do not still have what you call a man-bun. It was a dreadful phase that I will not be returning to any time soon (I beg of you to open a dictionary and find the meaning of the word ‘cool’. I, under no circumstances, fit under that category. Nor do I believe man-buns do). If your fathers mop of hair was anything to go by, I do not think even a man-bun would tame the locks I hear you have inherited from him.
Your grandparents were very good people, Mr Potter, I can assure you. They loved your mother very much and they welcomed me into their home like a son. I will search my home for photographs of them if it is your desire to know what they looked like.
Yes, I used to know Black and Lupin. If it is not too much to ask, I wish for you to withhold from informing them of our correspondence as of now. Your mothers favourite class was without a doubt Charms. Professor Flitwick had quite the soft spot for Lily, you know. She was his star student. Her favourite thing to do in the summer was sit by the pond and feed the ducks. She dragged me out to the park every day so we could throw bits of old bread at them. Her favourite pudding was trifle, though she always ended up feeling ill after eating it. And yes, Lily was (unfortunately, I always said) a Gryffindor, much like yourself.
Lily’s laugh… well, her laugh was like spring. At times it was obnoxiously loud and she snorted when really riled up, but it never failed to charm anyone who heard it. She was the kind of woman who brought joy to people's lives just by simply smiling.
It may come as a surprise, but I am privy to the events that occurred at the end of June in the graveyard. If you wish to tell me about your dreams, I will do all that is in my power to lend a listening ear. If you do not, that is okay too. Know that you are not alone.
If you are comfortable sharing with me, I wish to ask a few questions of you. Does your uncle lock up your owl often? Why is it that you believe your relatives do not know your date of birth? Is there a reason you have not been consuming full meals this summer? You mentioned that you take the brink of your uncle's anger; you do not mean to say you are physically harmed by his hand, do you?
I realise that this may be a sensitive topic, but I implore you to alert me, or anyone trusted, to any dangers you may face in your home. You-Know-Who is a great danger to you, yes, but there are many precautions that can and will be put in place if your wellbeing at your aunt and uncle's house is not being prioritised. I will include the number to my landline at the end of this letter in case you are in desperate need of help. If you simply need to reach someone faster than mail can be delivered, that too is acceptable.
You need not think you are a burden, Mr Potter. You are not. Feeling afraid does not make you weak, nor does it make you a coward. It makes you human, and humanity is a life force that you should cling to rather than be ashamed of.
It does not matter to me whether it is in the middle of the night or in the middle of the day — if you feel the need to make use of my landline before term resumes, please do not resist.
My sincerest regards,
S.S
“What will you say if Harry calls and recognises your voice?”
“I… I do not know. It will not change anything for me. He will no doubt be angry with me, furious even, and I will give him the space he needs. The vow I made matters little; I will take any measure to ensure your son is safe despite any oath or lack-thereof.”
“Your vow was to me…” Lily’s voice murmured, trailing off into the air around him.
Severus nodded, knowing that no one could see, and braced himself for his following words. “It is now more than that. Lily… I am sorry for the way I have shamed your son. I was wrong about him. About everything.”
“You needn’t be sorry, Severus. I know that you care for him.”
Severus nodded again. He found that he had no desire to deny her claim. It was the truth, after all.
It was a week and three exchanged letters later that it happened.
Two days before the school term resumed, Severus’ landline rang for the first time in Merlin knows how long. Midnight was rapidly approaching, and Severus, who had spent too many hours hunched over his writing desk to finalise the coming years’ curriculum, flinched at the grating sound.
For a moment he sat stock still, wondering what he should do. It wasn’t until Lily’s voice echoed quietly but firmly, “Get a grip, Severus. Are you going to help Harry or not?” that he shook from his stupor and rushed to the phone.
When the line connected, Severus hesitated, unsure as of what to say. Luckily, Potter spoke first.
“Mr S?” he whispered down the line, voice uncertain and thick as if he’d very recently been reduced to tears. “Mr S, are you there? I… it’s Harry, sir. Harry Potter.”
“I’m here,” Severus assured, his tone an uncharacteristically strangled mutter.
He let out a breath of relief when Potter didn’t immediately pick up on the fact that he was speaking to his least favourite professor. There was an odd sort of pang, too, when he realised that Potter would feel betrayed when he finally recognised Severus’ voice.
“I’m sorry,” Potter said softly. “I shouldn’t have called, just… I needed…” The boy cut himself off and Severus was startled to hear hushed sobs beginning to make their way through the phone. “Uncle Vernon was really awful today,” he managed to say through his quiet tears, “and I can’t bloody sleep without seeing him and I just… I miss my friends and I miss Hogwarts and I miss being normal—”
Severus closed his eyes and gripped the phone so tight his knuckles popped. He was not equipped to deal with this. His Occulmency shields were failing him and for the first time in a very long time, he felt truly hopeless.
The boy's cries quieted almost as quickly as they had begun and all that could be heard now were soft sniffles and small breaths. Severus took a deep breath and steeled himself.
“You are normal, Potter,” he said, so quiet he wasn’t certain it would reach the boy. He knew it did, however, when Potter let out a half-sniff half-scoff sound.
“Really? Because here I’m a freak, and in the Wizarding world I’m some kind of circus animal. At least at Hogwarts I have my friends. Here I have nothing.”
“You have me,” Severus said firmly.
And… there it was. The little gasp of recognition. The stilted pause in conversation. The increased thrum of Severus’ heart that eluded to nothing good.
His voice came out blank, almost as if he had been wiped of all emotion, when he said, “You— Professor?”
Severus’ first thought was to deny it. To say, “What on earth are you calling me ‘professor’ for, Mr Potter?” — but he didn’t. It was futile. The boy knew and there was nothing to do but be there and hope he wouldn’t feel too betrayed. And if he did… Well, he would see the boy in two days time. He would do all he could to ensure Potter got the support he needed.
And so Severus drew in a silent breath and leaned back against the wall before admitting, “Yes. It is I.”
“You… you arsehole,” Potter spat, though still hushed, and Severus could not even find it within himself to scold the boy. “This whole time…? Just— I— I can’t bloody believe this!” It was hissed with a heavy dosing of outrage. It was obvious that he was attempting to conceal it, but Severus heard the way his breath hitched into another round of tears. “You let me tell you my secrets and didn’t bloody bother to let me know who I was telling them to! You lied. I hate you.”
“Potter—”
It was the only word he had time to speak before the line went dead.
“You tried,” Lily whispered sadly. Her breath hitched in quite the same way her son’s did only moments ago. “Give him some time. He will understand eventually.”
That night, Severus did not sleep.
Severus had to give it to him: Harry Potter was one stubborn lion.
Every year since Potter’s first, he and Severus had shared a long, silent glaring match during the Welcome Feast. This year, Potter did not even glance over at the teachers’ table. Not one single time.
Loath as he was to admit it, Severus was bothered.
When it was time for pudding, Severus inwardly smiled at the sight of Potter piling an absurd amount of treacle tart onto his plate. Not only did it remind him of Potter’s letters, but it more so came as a great relief to see the boy stuff himself so full of food that it was likely he would sleep through the night with no issues.
When the meal had concluded, Severus’ dark eyes followed the boy until he was out of sight.
“Are you quite alright, Severus?” Minerva’s hand on his arm and her gentle questioning was enough to shake Severus from his staring. He turned to face her with a raised brow. “You haven’t made nearly enough snide comments about my Gryffindors. Are you feeling poorly?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Severus drawled. “My stomach is turning at the idea of spending another long year babying a new load of dunderheads.”
Minerva rolled her eyes, but before she could reply, a haughty ‘hem hem’ sounded from the atrociously pink-clad woman somewhere behind them. Umbridge was speaking sternly to the headmaster, who wore a strained smile as he listened attentively to what she had to say.
“Now my stomach is turning,” Minerva muttered. Severus hummed in agreement, his lip curled in disgust. “I shall see you at breakfast. Please refrain from shouting at any loitering Gryffindors you may see on your way to the dungeons.”
Usually, Severus would have smirked and told her he would make no promises. Today, he inclined his head and turned in a swish of robes.
“You’re being a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
Lily was teasing him. No, the Lily of his mind was teasing him. Merlin, Severus needed to be institutionalised.
“Harry is safe!” she went on, happier than he had heard her in weeks. “You’ve got an entire year to get him to acknowledge you. Don’t be so glum.”
Severus scoffed as he paced the room. The Gryffindor-Slytherin fifth year class was his first of the year. They were set to arrive any minute now. Severus had never felt so antsy.
“I am not being melodramatic,” he muttered in a low tone, “I simply have no idea how to proceed. I cannot exactly treat him the way I have previously. I have no desire to do so and it will not make things easier.”
“Okay, so don’t be a prick. Is that really so hard?”
“Of course not, but I cannot exactly coddle him. He will not take well to it.”
“You could try ignoring him entirely?” Lily offered, but it seemed like even the she of his mind knew that that was an immediate no.
“And make him believe that I want nothing to do with him?” Severus stopped behind his desk and had to fight the urge to grumble aloud. “The boy needs to feel supported, not isolated.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sev.” Her voice faded as the sounds of footfalls neared. “You’ll figure it out. It’ll be alright.”
Figure it out, he would, even if it was the last thing he did.
—
It was nearing the end of lesson and Potter had not spared him a single glance. The boy had not even retorted when Draco Malfoy sneered and accused him of being the fame-hungry, attention-seeking git that Severus had always assumed of him. He did not even blink twice when Severus took ten points from Slytherin house (an extremely rare occasion) and told Malfoy to desist his childishness lest he earn himself a detention.
The entire class stared at him with obvious surprise, if their wide eyes and loose jaws were anything to go by, until he had snapped at them to get back to the Draughts of Peace he had assigned for them to brew.
Still, Potter did not budge. He simply kept his head over his potion and focused like Severus had never before seen.
When Severus wandered the room, he was not at all surprised to see that the majority of the class had failed to manage even the first few steps of the colour-changing potion. When he peered over Potter’s shoulder, the stiffening of the boy’s back was the only indication he knew Severus was there at all. What he was surprised to see was Potter’s almost perfect brew.
“Good,” Severus found himself saying. He didn’t even intend to do it, but it was out of his control when the next sentence slipped from between his lips, “ten points to Gryffindor.”
Again, the class went silent. Again, Potter failed to acknowledge him. If Severus was disheartened (he was), he didn’t show it. Instead, he sneered at a baffled Miss Granger and told the class to bottle and label their brews.
When he dismissed the class, his mouth, once again, decided to open before his brain had time to process what he was doing.
“Stay back after class, Mr Potter.”
But the boy completely ignored him and walked right out of the room.
“He probably didn’t hear you…” came Lily’s nervous whisper.
She said nothing more after Granger was heard needling, “Harry, did you not hear Professor Snape? He asked you to see him after class.”
“He can piss off,” Severus heard Potter grumble before their voices faded into the noise of the corridor.
September passed by slowly. Things at Hogwarts were as ordinary as ever; the students handed in dreadful essays, the leaves turned brown out by the lake, and Severus was still known as the harsh dungeon bat.
There was only one significant difference this year: Potter still had yet to acknowledge him.
He had not tried to keep the boy after class again. He had not rewarded points or praised his brewing again, despite it being true that Potter’s stubborn avoidance resulted in exemplary potions work. He had started taking points from his Slytherins, however, when they thought it best to mess with Potter and his work. It took a mere two lessons for his snakes to realise he would not be so lenient with them any longer.
There was something other than the boy’s silence that was bothering Severus. It was the permanent dark circles under his eyes. It was the near constant frown upon his brow. It was the lethargy, like he was not sleeping more than an odd few hours each night. It was the lack of defiance that the other professors had spoken of in the staff room. It was the mystery bandage that the boy had had wrapped around his right hand since the first week of term.
The boy was deteriorating and Severus was entirely at a loss for what to do.
It was not only Severus who noticed the change in Potter. Minerva had expressed countless times that she did not know what to make of a traumatised, angry Harry Potter. She had told Severus over dinner that Umbridge had Potter in detention multiple times a week, the only sign of defiance the boy had recently shown.
It was apparent that Granger and Weasley did not know what to do with their friend either. Potter rarely spoke during meal times and Severus could spy even from the teachers’ table the worried looks they shared when Potter was staring off into the distance. In Potions, the fretting occurred quietly and frequently.
They were at a loss, it seemed, just as much as Severus was.
It was these thoughts that were interrupted by a quiet knock on Severus’ office door. He had been attempting to mark first year essays, though he had not written anything down in several hours. When he cast a quick Tempus, he found that it was rapidly nearing one a.m. and cursed under his breath.
Who on earth dared to disturb him in the middle of the night?
He took his time standing up, letting his stiff joints loosen before making his way around the desk and over to the door. His face was set in a sneer, ready to tell whoever deemed it acceptable to disturb him at this hour to leave immediately, but his expression fell into one of unconcealed surprise and the words evaporated before they had time to come out when his visitor was revealed.
Harry Potter stood with his shoulders drawn and his eyes downcast in the threshold of Severus’ office, looking one stiff wind away from being knocked to the ground. His right hand was held protectively to his chest and Severus did not have a single intelligent thing to say.
So, instead of speaking, he opened the door in invitation and stepped out of the way.
When the boy stepped inside, the air of his office turned tense and noticeably uncomfortable. Severus shut the door and warded it with a silencing charm, too — Potter definitely did not look up for any shouting but if he was (which was likely, Severus thought), Severus would rather not alert the entire dungeon to their private matters.
After an extensive period of silence, where Severus stood with his back to the door and Potter with his back to Severus, he decided that if they were to speak, it would be up to him to start the conversation. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth. He said nothing.
What was he supposed to say to the boy? Where was Lily when he needed her?
Right, drawled the voice of his own sarcastic self in the back of his mind, because wishing for the advice of a dead woman you cannot let go of is very healthy and not at all a cause for concern.
Severus cleared his throat again. Merlin, this was difficult. “Potter—” he began quietly, but cut himself off when the boy startled. Potter spun around to face Severus, and that’s when he noticed it. The blood.
It was like a switch, the way all awkwardness traded itself for concern. “What happened?” he asked sharply, eyes zeroing in on the hand that, now not held to Potter’s chest, was dripping blood onto the floor.
Streaming, more like. His hand was streaming blood and Severus had never felt his heart stutter quite like this.
He jolted forward, hands outstretched towards Potter, but halted when the boy snatched his hand back to his chest and regarded Severus with wide, startled eyes. Those eyes… Severus had almost forgotten how they so resembled Lily’s…
Potter was no doubt unsure about whether he could trust Severus. This fact only set determination in Severus’ shoulders and he spun to the potion-filled cabinet on the opposite wall and retrieved a Blood Replenishing Potion, a Nutrient Potion (because if Severus was presented the chance to ensure the boys health, he would take it), Murtlap Essence and a large roll of bandages. He set the potions down, moving around the muted boy, and conjured two chairs in front of his desk. It was only when he himself had sat down and poured a generous amount of Murtlap into a bowl that he regarded Potter once more.
“Sit,” he said evenly. When Potter obeyed, Severus could have slumped ungracefully in relief. Instead, he nodded once and asked again, “What happened, Mr Potter?”
The boy shrugged. His voice was a hoarse croak when he murmured, “I didn’t know who else to come to.” He held out his hand for Severus to inspect. It was so covered with blood that there were no identifying injuries. “Not a pretty sight, is it?”
Severus looked up from where his eyes were pinned to the boy's hand. “I will need to spell away the blood before soaking your hand in Murtlap Essence. Do I have your permission?” Potter nodded. After he had performed the simple cleaning spell, Severus’ stomach dropped and a lick of furious fire erupted through him immediately. Lips so thin they almost shook, Severus gritted out, “Who is responsible for this?”
I must not tell lies.
“Umbridge.”
Severus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as a roar of protectiveness he did not know he was capable of feeling came to life in his body. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth were in danger of cracking. He was going to rain hell on that evil, despicable woman.
The idea of seeking the woman out immediately was almost too enticing to resist. When he opened his eyes to see the boy watching him nervously, however, he brought forth his Occlumency shields and focused back on the matter at hand. Revenge could wait; he could not let Harry Potter slip through his fingers again.
“This is the work of a Black Quill, or more commonly referred to, a Blood Quill. Am I correct?”
“Yeah, sounds about right,” Potter said, sounding so, so tired. “It was a quill that used my blood as the ink. Can you… will you be able to fix it?” Busying himself with submerging Potter’s hand in the yellow solution, it took Severus a moment to build up the courage to tell him that no, he would not be able to fix it. Not properly, anyway. “Woah,” the boy gasped, flexing his fingers in the liquid, “it doesn’t hurt at all anymore.”
“Murtlap Essence heals abrasions and offers immediate pain relief,” Severus informed, his routine teaching drawl ever present. “It will heal the wound, yes, but I am afraid it will do nothing for the scarring. Blood Quills wield Dark Magic upon its victim, causing no ordinary injury. You will have a curse scar for the rest of your life.”
The boy, seemingly unconsciously, brought his free hand up to his forehead. He huffed a small laugh, but Severus could see that it fell with no trace of humour. “Nothing I’m not used to,” he said, defeated.
“I will make it look as clean as I possibly can,” Severus vowed. “She will not get away with this, I assure you.”
“She will,” Potter countered, not argumentatively but certain. “Dumbledore won’t care, will he? He hasn’t spared me a single look since term began.” Here, Potter paused and gave Severus an awkward look. The relief brought on a wave of amusement that he did not let show on his face. “Besides, Umbridge works for Fudge. That git won’t give a toss what she does to me as long as it hurts.”
They fell into a contemplative silence after that. Severus knew the boy was right. What he wasn’t right about, however, was that Umbridge would get away with what she had done to the boy. If it was true — and it likely was — that no one of authority would do anything about the situation, then Severus would.
Not even for Lily’s sake, but for Potter’s — Harry’s.
No words were exchanged as Severus handed the boy his potions. He took the Blood Replenisher without pause, but when handed the Nutrient Potion, he gave Severus a questioning look. Severus waved the look away, not willing to admit that he had been watching Potter enough to know he had been skipping meals.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Potter asked quietly after a long stretch of comfortable silence.
Severus took a minute to finish writing a scathing comment on the essay he had picked back up to distract himself from the current situation and levelled Potter with a regretful look. “You were in search of guidance. It would have been ignorant to assume you would have accepted it from me.” He set his quill down and turned his chair to fully face the boy. “You and I have never quite seen eye-to-eye, of that I am aware, but you are a traumatised child and you needed someone to talk to. You may believe the contrary, but I am not a cruel man.”
“Right.” Potter’s shoulders hunched over again and he frowned. “But… you don’t like me. I don’t understand why you would want to help someone you don’t like.”
“It is not so simple,” Severus explained, his exterior calm but his interior anything but. “It is not that I do not like you, it is that I do not like what you remind me of. My judgments of your character were solidified before we ever met. This is not your fault, Potter, and despite our… animosity, I would not turn my back on a child in need.”
“What I remind you of?” Potter repeated curiously. “Do you mean my dad, sir?”
Severus inclined his head. “Yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remind me in many ways of your father: your face, your courage, your love for Quidditch and aversion to Potions — yes, Potter, I know that you dislike my subject.” Severus rolled his eyes, though he was not annoyed. Talking to Lily’s boy was… almost like talking to her. “In many ways, you remind me of your mother, as well.”
“But… you and my mum were friends?”
“Yes,” Severus confirmed, throat tight. He had never imagined having this conversation. “Lily was a dear friend. Reminders of her are as painful as they are heartening, and you… well, let it be said that there is no question as to who your mother is.”
A childlike wonder sparked in Potter’s eyes and he asked in a surprised whisper, “Am I like her?”
“In many ways.” Severus’ lips quirked upwards of their own accord and as he recalled memories of his greatest friend, he let the smile linger. “Lily had a very short temper, much like yourself. She had a strong moral compass and she was not afraid to make it known when she disagreed with someone’s beliefs. She was kind and brave and had many friends. She was an incredibly magically powerful witch, though as much as it pains me to say, I believe you inherited that from both of your parents.”
“Oh,” Potter whispered. Severus politely looked away when he noticed the sheen of tears glowing in the boy's eyes. “That’s probably the most anyone has ever told me about her. Most people just say I have her eyes and call it a day… it’s nice to know I’ve got more of her than just her eye colour.”
“It isn’t just the colour,” Severus found himself saying quietly, “it is the shape of them, as well. You also have her nose.”
“Thank you,” Potter said, quiet and sincere. Severus knew it was entirely undeserved and yet…
“You are most welcome, Mr Potter. Now, remove your hand from the bowl and I will bandage it up for you.”
While Severus busied himself wrapping the boy’s injury, Potter sighed and told him, “I didn’t want you to know about it… about any of it.”
“I know,” Severus responded in a low murmur. His mind flashed to Potter’s summer residence and his concentrated frown shifted into one of anger.
“I’m not mad at you anymore. But—”
“But?”
“But I will be if you tell anyone about, well, you know,” Potter said frankly, gazing over at the far wall. “I don’t talk about my relatives and I don’t want to start talking about them. That stuff isn’t important.”
Severus finished wrapping his hand but did not drop it as he answered, “I have to disagree. It absolutely is important. The way they treat you is not right. Look at me, Potter,” he demanded, not unkindly, and waited until the boy’s haunted eyes reluctantly met his own. He let go of the boy’s hand and, with vigour, Severus repeated, “The treatment you are subjected to whilst residing in Privet Drive is not right. Do you hear me? You do not deserve to be man-handled, you do not deserve to be verbally attacked, and you certainly do not deserve to be underfed.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Potter asked defensively, pushing his chair back harshly and standing. Severus did not move, merely gazed calmly at the rattled child. “If I talk back, I’m punished. If I stay silent, I’m punished. If I take food without asking, I’m punished. If Hedwig is too loud, I’m punished. I can’t win with them and I can’t bloody escape, either!”
“If Dumbledore was aware—”
Potter cut him off with a cold bark of laughter. “Dumbledore doesn’t give a toss! He already knows!”
In an instant, Severus’ blood ran cold. “What did you just say to me?”
“Dumbledore knows, alright?” the boy repeated, running a frantic hand through his disastrous mop of curls. “Maybe not everything, but enough! I asked him, you know? Begged him to let me stay at Hogwarts for the summer after my first year. My Hogwarts letter was addressed to my cupboard. I found out over the summer that my neighbour is a Squib who’s been reporting to Dumbledore about me for years — my neighbour who’s had me dumped on her doorstep at every opportunity because Merlin forbid my relatives are seen with me in public! She’s healed injuries and fed me after days of starvation. Do you seriously want me to believe Dumbledore hasn’t got a clue?”
“Who is your neighbour?” Severus asked sharply, feeling a burning hatred running through him as he really took in the boy’s outburst.
“Mrs Figg,” Potter answered, sitting back down with a scowl. Oddly, Severus did not think it was aimed at him. “I think her first name is Arabella.”
“Yes,” Severus confirmed, fists clenched on his knees. “I am familiar with Arabella Figg. I was not aware that she was assigned to watch over you.”
“Yeah, well she wouldn’t bloody have to if Dumbledore let me stay with Sirius or the Weasleys,” he grumbled. “I don’t understand why he’s got so much authority over me; he isn’t my dad!”
“I will put a stop to this, Potter,” Severus promised, leaning forward in his chair. He did not care what Dumbledore had to say on the matter; he would go to infinite lengths to ensure the boy did not have to return to his relatives. “I will get you out,” he continued, “even if that means you have to stay with me over the summer. I will do whatever it takes.”
Potter looked at him for a long stretch of time. His eyes were narrowed as they swooped over Severus’ face, as if searching for deception. He would find none. When it seemed the boy had drawn his conclusion, he nodded.
“Now,” Severus swiftly moved on, “you will no longer be required to attend Professor Umbridge’s detentions.”
“But, sir, she’s from the Ministry. I can’t—”
“It would not matter if she worked for Merlin himself — what she has done is immensely illegal and I will be putting a stop to it. At dawn, Minister Fudge will receive a very long and detailed letter regarding the torture she inflicts upon students during detention and if she is not removed from this school by nightfall, I will remove her myself.”
“You know,” Potter mused, lips lifting into a small smile, “you’re kind of scary for a bloke who once rocked a man-bun.”
“You—” Potter was grinning at him, a cheeky glint in his eyes that reminded him awfully of Lily. For the first time in a very long time, Severus felt true amusement rise through him and he let out a snort of laughter. “Idiot child. I should obliviate you.”
“Yeah, but you won’t.”
Severus sighed, a content feeling stirring in his stomach. “No, I will not.”
And just like that, all the lingering tension between them vanished. Potter leaned back in his chair, snickering to himself even as his eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes. Severus watched as he reached a hand into the pocket of his robe and pulled out—
“I’ve not gone a day without this in my pocket since the beginning of term,” Potter admitted quietly, staring down at the photograph that started this whole ordeal. “I thought… it’s stupid, but I thought that maybe if I had it on me, you would somehow know and demand to see it.” He looked up at Severus and smiled shyly, “I wanted an excuse to talk to you, but…”
When it became obvious that Potter was not planning to continue, Severus said, “You could have come to me. After my failure in getting you to stay after class, I thought it wise to let you decide how best to proceed. It was not out of indifference that I halted in pursuing you.”
“I know,” the boy said, cheeks flushing at what Severus assumed was the memory of plainly disobeying his request. “That’s why it’s stupid, sir. I wanted to talk but I couldn’t face you. I was obviously angry but I think I was mostly embarrassed, too.”
Severus nodded. “Know that I do not plan on sharing your private business with another living soul. What was said in those letters, and in this office tonight, is between you and I. There is nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Do you want to see it?” Potter asked, holding out the photo.
When Severus took it, he did not linger on the image, but turned it over to read the words written in Lily’s neat scrawl: My best friend, forever and for always. Can you believe we were once this young? The thought that I am now, only a few years later, expecting a child is baffling! I forgive you, you know. I miss you like a severed limb. I write this in the hope that you will forgive yourself as I have and return to my life. Yours, Lily.
Knowing of the words and reading them for himself were two different feelings entirely: reading it in Potter’s chicken scratch was shocking, but reading it in Lily’s cursive was heart-stuttering. He did not wish to dwell on the short note, lest his emotions get the best of him, and turned it over to study the image of a younger version of himself and the brightest woman he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.
Lily was radiant. He could almost hear her laughter in the cool air of his office. Suddenly, he was immersed in memories of long, red hair and a smile like spring.
It was a long time before Severus gave Potter the photograph back.
“You can have it if you want,” Potter offered, though his longing looks at the picture told Severus differently.
“No,” Severus declined, pushing it into the boy’s hands. “While your offer is tempting, it is entirely too kind. You deserve every part of her, even if it is a mere photograph. Keep it for as long as you wish to hold onto it. Thank you for showing it to me; I will be forever in your debt.”
“Don’t thank me,” Potter said quickly, shaking his head. His next words were hesitant and stammered, yet they seemed as sincere as they could have possibly been, “I… I’m sorry for your loss, Professor.”
A lump of emotion tangled in the back of Severus’ throat and, try as he might, he could not find his voice. Potter sat in front of him, saying the words that he himself had probably never even been told as if Severus deserved to hear them. As if he deserved to mourn. As if he didn’t sign Lily’s death certificate with one bad decision.
This boy… oh, how Severus had misjudged him.
Finally finding his voice, Severus managed to say softly, “She was your mother.”
“And she was your best friend,” Potter countered, shrugging. “She loved you. You lost her, too.”
He could only nod his head once in response, but it seemed enough for the boy, who smiled down at the picture for a moment longer before tucking it safely away in his robes. He yawned, long and child-like. “Knackered,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “I’d better get back to Gryffindor, sir.”
Severus raised a brow. “You are half asleep already. I do not believe you will make it up to the seventh floor without falling asleep halfway up the stairs and falling to your death.”
“Dramatic,” the boy commented, though he did not disagree.
“You will sleep on my sofa tonight. That is, if you are comfortable doing so?” When Potter nodded, Severus nodded his relief and continued, “I will write a note to your professors informing them that you will be absent from your morning classes. You are in dire need of a proper rest.”
Potter did not argue. He simply followed Severus into his quarters and settled himself on the sofa. Severus conjured a thick, woollen blanket and a large pillow for the boy, who cocooned himself and closed his eyes before even removing his glasses.
Severus sighed and gently took the specs from the bridge of Potter’s nose, folding and placing them on the small coffee table in the middle of the room. “I will return at lunch,” he said quietly. “You are welcome to use the bathroom and if you wake and find yourself hungry, you may call a house elf and order yourself some breakfast.”
“Okay,” Potter murmured, smiling sleepily. “Thanks, Professor.”
The rare smile that graced Severus’ face went unseen for the boy was asleep as soon as the words were spoken. That made it much simpler for Severus to reach out a careful hand and run it over the boy’s fringe.
“You are most welcome, Harry,” he whispered before making his way to his bedroom.
It was when he was settled in bed that she finally spoke.
“Thank you for caring for my son, Severus.”