palimpsest
“And that is what I told her – I said, Tuney, if you really wanna be that wife who prefers to sit at home and watch telly and then serve dinner, sure, marry him tomorrow.”
She exhaled the smoke from her cigarette in a slow, practiced curl, lips pursed just so. They were painted the deep, moody red of beetroot—bold against her pale skin, slightly smudged at the corner as the two sat by the big front window of the half-forgotten café near the train tracks. It was their current usual spot, where the tea was always lukewarm, the chairs never matched, and nobody looked twice if you stayed too long without ordering.
“But you know how it is, nobody really strives to understand how we are soon to be in the most promising age of our time, eh? Like I’d rather marry at thirty, but know that this is the guy with whom I won’t constantly bicker ‘cause I wanna go see stuffs. And plus get to have a life till thirty, y’know.”
Severus just stared blankly, unaware of how to add to the conversation.
“Right.”
“You know like in that song by Fleetwood Mac – Go on your way, or summat.”
“Haven’t heard it.”
“Jesus, Sev, do you even listen to music?”
He shook his head, aligning his lips into a thin line (thinner than it already was).
“Okay, that’s bad.” She sighed, tossing ash out the open window with a flick. “Listen, once, me and Mary went to London—like during Christmas break. I told Mum and Dad I’d arrive two days later than I actually did. Total lie.”
She grinned, not even a little guilty.
“And we went to this club—well, it wasn’t really a club, I think, more like a bar where some lads were performing. Local band, no name, just music so loud you could feel it in your ribs. And it was the first time I had genuine fun outside of school. Like, real, proper fun. The kind that makes you forget the time and your name and every expectation anyone’s ever had of you.”
She looked over at him, expression softening.
“You ever had that? One of those nights?”
Severus looked down, then out the window, toward nothing in particular.
“No,” he said.
“Anyway, Mary even got to snog or get the number of this bloke who was playing. In all fairness, he was very cute and all, so I could understand her. But I don’t remember if she actually snogged him or just flirted a bit—anyway.” She smirked at the memory, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“I didn’t even tell James that I went to London. Genuinely didn’t want him and Sirius trailing after our arses, y’know, doing that whole ‘London is very dangerous, Lily’ act. But yeah, it was fun.”
Severus gave a small nod, but didn’t say anything.
“I think you'd like it,” she added after a pause. “Not the snogging musicians bit—unless that's a surprise—but the rest. The lights, the way the whole city hums at night. Nobody knows who you are, and no one gives a toss.”
He didn’t respond right away. Then, almost too quietly, he said, “Sounds… loud.”
“It is,” she grinned. “Loud, and messy, and completely alive. You need that. We both do.”
Her words hung between them like smoke.
Then she laughed suddenly. “You’d hate the crowds, though. You’d scowl the entire time.”
“Probably,” he murmured, but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly, taking out a cigarette out of his pack.
Severus didn’t even remember Lily being so music obsessed, maybe it was something she’d caught up on not so long ago. She used to hum under her breath in the library sometimes, sure, but this was different. Talking about bands, about nights that vibrated with sound and strangers, about disappearing into cities. Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he was too busy disappearing into himself.
She leaned her head back against the window frame, looking up at the black sky where stars were supposed to be. “If I ever live there,” she said suddenly, “I want a flat with windows like this. One you can lean out of, smoke a bit, say stupid things to someone you trust.”
Severus glanced sideways at her, the cigarette hovering near his lips.
“Sounds like you’ve got it already,” he said quietly.
And at that moment, Lily got a spark of an idea, an idea that probably would be something Severus would disregard.
“Would you wanna split a flat with me in London?”
A diabolically bad idea, Severus thought the moment it left her lips. Not only would they bicker all the time—about cleaning, noise, potions equipment left to rot in the sink, but they would also start hating each other based on their whereabouts outside home.
She would meet with those bloody Gryffindors, and even bring them home for a ‘just wine and music’. And then she’d disappear into the city for hours, maybe all night, reappearing with glitter on her cheeks and someone else's laughter still clinging to her hair.
Not that he had to care.
But he knew—he knew—that he wouldn’t be able to help it.
He’d start pacing, checking the clock too often, pretending he was reading. He’d try not to listen for the door, and fail every time.
And then she’d hate him for caring more than he should, causing him to hate himself for doing it anyway.
So he just inhaled the smoke, and didn’t look at her.
“I can tell that you hate the idea, Sev.” She chuckled at his sour face.
“It’s– No, I mean, yeah sure, but like, you know–”
“It would be too much for us. Plus, we’ve got a long way to go anyway.”
A damn long way for sure, Lily thought. It wasn’t that they couldn’t stand each other, but just because they had left everything off their chests didn’t mean that they were back to the way they were. Right now, all they did was just hang out and smoke together, and maybe drink at times. There was no sincerity in their words because both of them were waiting for each other to say the first words. They didn’t address why they have done the things that have hurt them, and it seemed as though nobody was planning on doing so anyway.
It was easier this way.
To sit by a cracked window and pretend things were still forming between them, instead of admitting how much had already shattered.
Lily exhaled, the smoke catching in her chest a little more than usual.
“Yeah,” she repeated again as if assuring herself, voice softer now. “We’ve got a long way to go.”
And Severus didn’t disagree.
He knew, or at least hoped, that once the summer was over, the two wouldn’t see each other as much, thus everything could continue just as he had hoped for himself. After all, he felt like neither of them had to prioritize each other in any way.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from caring for her anyhow, and now that they were somewhat talking again, he cared even more than before. He could never pretend that he didn’t know her. Maybe to people who would hurt her (and he knew very well that they’d be close to him), but never to himself. Not really.
He could lie to them, wear the mask, keep his mouth shut when her name came up in the wrong tone. But in the quiet of his mind, in the silence of nights like this, she was still Lily. Still the girl who would make small dances when the food tasted good. Still the one who said his name like it mattered.
And that was the worst part of all.
Because the more he cared, the more dangerous it became—for both of them.
So he said nothing. Let the smoke rise. Let the moment pass.
Let her believe, just for now, that he was unmoved.
Even if everything inside him was screaming otherwise all the time.
Why was he like this? Lily wondered, not all of a sudden. In fact, she had been wondering about it for probably a few weeks now. She thought that initially his spontaneity would be what would bring them to the common ground, but instead, it was exactly what had ruined their chances of having a proper conversation about them. Lily wouldn’t admit it, but even when he was pouring himself out to her that day, he seemed to be so intimidatingly dangerous.
Like if he could hurt her; like he would want to hurt her.
And maybe that was unfair—maybe it was just the way the shadows played on his face, or the tightness in his voice. But there was something volatile there. Something coiled.
She’d felt it before. In the way he bristled when cornered, the way he looked at the world like it owed him something, and he was this close to collecting.
It wasn’t that she didn’t care for him. She did. Too much, probably.
But there was a difference between knowing someone and trusting them. And lately, Lily wasn’t sure if those two things lined up anymore.
She brought the cigarette to her lips again, watching the ash at the tip tremble slightly in the breeze. The sky was fighting with the sun, and the day had passed before they could even make anything out of it.
After a bit of rambling, Lily decided that it was time for her to go home. Severus insisted that he’d walk her all the way home, and Lily had nothing against it.
They didn’t talk much as they walked.
The streets were quiet in that early-morning way—empty, a little cold, like everything was still stretching itself awake. Their footsteps echoed softly on the pavement, side by side but never quite touching.
At one point, their hands brushed. Neither of them mentioned it.
When they reached the corner by her house, Lily slowed.
“This is fine,” she said, nodding toward the familiar gate. “You don’t have to go further.”
Severus stopped, hands buried deep in his coat pockets.
Lily turned to face him, her expression unreadable in the pale light of dawn. For a moment, it felt like one of them should say something—something that might finally crack the silence open.
But they didn’t.
“Thanks,” she said, then scrunched her nose and asked him, “God, I hope I don’t smell of cigarettes, do I?”
He nodded. “Right. Yeah. I mean–”
Then, before either of them could stop it, he leaned in a little. Just a bit. Close enough that she could feel it—not his breath or anything dramatic like that, just... the nearness. The hesitation. The fact that he was looking at her, not past her.
Lily went still, but didn’t move away.
She noticed it. The closeness. The way he seemed to pause right there, like he wasn’t sure what he was checking for anymore. And for a second, she didn’t think anything. She just let it happen.
Then—quietly, and a little stupidly—he backed off.
“You do,” he mumbled, suddenly looking everywhere except at her. “But not in a bad way.”
Lily stared at him for a beat longer than necessary.
Then, with a light laugh—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes—she replied, “Well, let’s hope my mum agrees. She’ll love that I smell like regret and secondhand ash.”
He just gave her a small teeny-tiny smile. It wasn’t an obvious smile to others, but Lily knew that it was a smile. His smile.
Severus watched her go.
And when she disappeared inside, he stood there a little longer than he needed to—until the door closed and the world felt a little quieter again.
He didn’t have the words to describe what went through his mind every time they met up to ‘reconstruct’ their friendship, as Lily liked to claim. Because the ineffable wall of whatever stood between them hadn’t really crumbled—it had just shifted, turned semi-transparent in the right lighting, but always there. He could feel it in the way he filtered every word, in the quiet moments when her gaze would flick toward him, half-expectant, and he’d pretend not to notice. And the most frustrating thing was, he didn’t even know when it had started—this aching, maddening pull toward her. He couldn’t pin it to a single moment. There was no thunderclap, no obvious beginning. Just this slow, steady realization that he had always been attached to her, long before he knew what that even meant.
He hated how naturally it came now to act like he didn’t. He’d perfected the detached voice, the idle conversation, the offer of a cigarette passed off as casual. When she talked about London, about music, about some blurry future that didn’t involve war or shadows, he nodded along like none of it touched him. But it did. Every word sank in. Every smile she threw his way—half genuine, half guarded—twisted something in him. And still, he said nothing. Because caring for her had always felt like holding a lit match too close to his skin. Because if he ever made her his, he feared he’d only end up burning her with the weight of who he was becoming.
It was easier to let her believe he was fine with all of this. With just being there. With just being safe. Because maybe if he kept it light, she’d stay. And maybe if she stayed, he wouldn’t fall apart as quickly as he knew he could.
Lily, meanwhile, closed the door behind her with quiet hands and leaned back against it for a moment, her eyes blinking slowly into the dim hallway. She wasn’t sure what to make of the version of Severus who had just walked her home. He was gentle, careful, like he’d been rehearsing this role for weeks—civil, soft around the edges, even a little funny in that dry, Severus sort of way. But that was the thing. It felt like a performance. Not fake, exactly, but practiced. Controlled. Like he was keeping something locked under the surface with so much effort that the tension radiated off him in waves.
It was difficult. Not because she didn’t want to be around him, but because every time she was, it felt like she was learning someone new. Someone with his voice, his face, his tired little smile—but different. Someone harder to read. Someone with quieter anger and louder silence. And the strange thing was, she still trusted him. That hadn’t gone away. Maybe it should have, but it hadn’t. She trusted him with parts of herself that even James had never seen—bits of frustration, of fear, of not knowing what came next. But part of her felt stupid for that trust. Stupid for how fast it came back, like it had just been waiting for the right moment to resurface.
“—There will be a day, I will be a great wizard. I hope you will see it.”
He’d said it the other night, a little tipsy, slouched back in the armchair with a lazy grin, cigarette hanging from one hand. He’d said it like a joke, voice laced with that dry, half-daring sarcasm of his.
But she’d heard it differently.
Because that line wasn’t for the room. It was for her.
And the way he’d looked at her afterward—just briefly, before glancing away again—it made her think he hadn’t meant it as a joke at all. Or at least, not entirely.
It wasn’t arrogance. It was something closer to longing.
It was his way of not slipping into someone worse than he could be. It was his way of existing between her world and his. And maybe that’s why it all felt so difficult—why every moment around him seemed to come with a double edge. Nothing about being with Severus was simple anymore. There was no easy comfort, no clear line between who he had been and who he was now. Every word from him seemed to carry some hidden weight, like it was shaped around what he couldn’t say rather than what he did. And still, she listened. Still, she stayed.
It would be a lie to say Lily wasn’t impressed by the cool and chilly demeanour he had evolved over time. He seemed to be drawing more into himself. He was easily noticed, and not in a bad way, like he’d always assume. It was in the way his eyes seemed to scan the street behind them even when they were just walking, like he was waiting for something to catch up with him. Or maybe someone.
And Lily wanted to catch up with him. She truly did.
Merlin, only if he let her, she thought.
But it wasn’t the fact that he didn’t want; it was the fact that she wasn’t sure if he wanted anybody to catch up with him, if he wanted to be pulled back.
Maybe the worst part was knowing he probably didn’t. Not entirely. Maybe he thought he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he was so used to standing near the edge that the idea of anyone pulling him away felt like an interruption rather than a rescue.
But despite all that, Lily knew one thing for sure.
He wanted her to see him.
Not the polite version. Not the dry comments or the passive nods. Him. The version of himself that still believed—barely—that someone might hold on. That someone might care enough to see past the silence and into the mess beneath it.
And maybe that was what scared her the most.
Because it meant she couldn’t look away.
Because it meant she was part of this, whether she liked it or not.
And because some small, vulnerable part of her had always seen him—and she didn’t know how to stop. And now that this new him was so tightly wrapped in layers she hadn’t helped build, she didn’t know how to reach him without tearing something.
She wasn’t even sure he realized how much of himself he still let slip—how, despite everything, he hadn’t hidden the parts of him that mattered most. The little hesitations before answering. The flicker of something vulnerable when she mentioned something from years ago. The way he offered her the last cigarette even when he clearly wanted it. He didn’t say much, but there was meaning in his stillness. And that was the version she was afraid of forgetting.
Because this person he was becoming—it wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t someone she didn’t recognize. It was just a version of him that had grown up with pain in places she hadn’t been there to see. And now that she was here, now that he was standing just close enough to touch but far enough to leave without saying goodbye, Lily didn’t know what she was supposed to do with the space between them.
“Lily, darling, where have you been?”
The voice floated up from the kitchen, light but edged with a mother’s familiar knowing.
Lily blinked, pulled from her thoughts like someone surfacing too fast from somewhere deep.
“It’s only eight,” she called down, voice still a bit caught in her chest. “I was just out with a friend.”
Another pause.
“I can smell smoke,” her mum replied, not unkindly.
Lily rolled her eyes, more at herself than anything. She padded into the hallway, leaning slightly over the bannister. “It’s not me, it’s Severus. He smokes; I don’t.”
That earned a beat of silence.
“You’re back?” her mum asked, tone unreadable.
Lily stiffened slightly.
“Why did you say it like that?”
Her mother’s voice floated up again, casual. “Say what like what?”
Lily blinked, caught off guard. “Like—like it’s a thing.”
“I just meant I haven’t seen him around in a while,” her mum replied, slightly puzzled. “Didn’t realise you were speaking again, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Lily looked down at the railing, fingers grazing the chipped wood. “Right.”
Her mum hummed, not pushing further.
Lily turned slowly back toward her room, pulling the door halfway shut behind her. She let out a slow breath, the kind that didn’t really help.
Of course her mum hadn’t meant it that way.
And yet the fact that she’d jumped to that conclusion so quickly—so reflexively—made something tighten in her chest.
Because that meant the thought was already–
“Tuney?”
Her sister was organising their drawers, again.
“Yes?”
“Are you still with Vernon?”
Her sister turned to look at her abruptly.
“Gosh, you smell like unfiltered smoke.”
Lily smirked. “Like you don’t know what that is.”
“Oh hush!” Her sister tried to hide her smile by turning back to organising.
“Do you love him? Vernon, I mean.”
They both sat in silence for a moment. Then, quietly, Petunia said, “I do.”
Lily blinked. “You do?”
“Yes.” Petunia smoothed a wrinkle in the blanket that absolutely wasn’t there. “I love him.”
There was a beat.
Lily tilted her head. “Do you shag?”
Petunia gasped like she’d been slapped. “Lily! Manners!”
“Oh please, you love him and you reorganise drawers for fun, I need something to remind me you’re still human.”
Petunia narrowed her eyes, but there was a telltale flush creeping up her neck. She looked around the room like someone might be hiding in the wardrobe before lowering her voice.
“Well—he’s… very determined. I’ll say that.”
Lily snorted. “Determined how?”
“He insists on—well, you know—going down on me every time.”
Lily choked on absolutely nothing. “Okay! Christ, alright!”
“I didn’t ask for commentary,” Petunia said primly, but she was smirking now. “It’s just… strange. Sometimes he doesn’t even want to have actual sex. He just says he enjoys that part.”
Lily blinked. “That sounds suspiciously generous. Is Vernon hiding a secret life or just really into customer satisfaction?”
“Jesus fucking Christ–”
“Honestly, Tuney, you might’ve just raised his profile in my mind by, like, 30%.”
Petunia gave her a smug little nod, like she’d just won a silent competition she didn’t know they were having.
“But still,” Lily added, tilting her head, “not shagging is kinda weird, isn’t it?”
Petunia looked mildly offended. “It’s not weird. It’s... considerate.”
“It’s suspicious,” Lily corrected, grinning. “Like—is he saving himself for Queen and country? Or is he just that into foreplay?”
Petunia narrowed her eyes. “Maybe he just likes doing things properly. Which, clearly, you don’t appreciate.”
“I appreciate efficiency.”
“You dated a boy who thought socks were optional.”
“That was a phase.”
They stared at each other a moment, then burst into laughter again.
Lily leaned her head against the bedpost, still grinning. “Alright, alright. Vernon’s weirdly noble and possibly the most generous man in Britain. You win.”
“I always do.”
“But seriously,” Lily added, more quietly now, “if he ever turns out to be a secret fetish priest or a warlock or something, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
Petunia sniffed. “And if you ever realize you’re emotionally involved with that awful boy of yours, I reserve the right to say I told you so.”
“He is just a friend!”
Petunia raised a single eyebrow without turning from the drawer. “You say that like you’re trying to convince a jury.”
“I am,” Lily snapped. “You’re the jury, apparently. The judge. Possibly the executioner.”
Petunia turned, folding a blouse with entirely unnecessary precision. “So that’s why you come home smelling like smoke and looking like someone’s told you the moon’s cancelled.”
“Oh, brilliant. So now I look tragic?”
“You are tragic. It’s your thing.”
Lily threw a sock at her. It bounced harmlessly off her shoulder. Petunia didn’t even flinch.
“It’s not like that,” Lily muttered. “He’s just—he’s Severus.”
“And that’s supposed to clarify something?” Petunia asked, deadpan.
Lily sat up straighter, arms crossed. “We talk. We hang out. We don’t even talk about anything serious half the time.”
“That sounds so emotionally healthy,” Petunia said with a smile so sweet it had to be fatal.
Lily gave her a withering look. “He’s not awful, you know.”
Petunia blinked slowly. “Lily. He only wears black and stares at people like he’s trying to set them on fire with his mind. He once referred to our neighbour as ‘a Muggle with the personality of wet parchment.’”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Lily muttered.
“That’s not the defence you think it is.”
“I’m just saying,” Lily said, voice edging toward defense, “he’s not who you think he is. He’s… different when it’s just us.”
“Oh no,” Petunia groaned. “You’ve hit the ‘he’s different around me’ stage. I need to call someone. A therapist. An intervention squad.”
Lily buried her face in her hands. “We are not having this conversation.”
“You brought it up!”
“Do you smile when he sends you letters?”
“He doesn’t send letters.”
“Do you want him to send letters?”
Lily glared. “We’re not dating in a Brontë novel, Tuney.”
“That’s not a no.”
“We are not even dating!”
“I never said anything about dating?”
Lily sat up sharply, hair a mess and eyes narrowed. “God, Tuney, I don’t love Severus. It’s not like that.”
Petunia didn’t answer. She just folded a pair of knickers and placed them perfectly beside a stack of identical ones, like she was bracing herself for something.
“I mean it,” Lily said. “He’s—he’s not someone I’d fall for.”
“Because he’s awful?”
“Because it’s not that kind of thing!” Lily threw her arms up. “With James it was different.”
“Oh?” Petunia said, too casually. “The handsome one?”
Lily hesitated. “I don’t know. We laughed. He made me feel like I could be... easy. I didn’t have to try so hard.”
Petunia made a noncommittal sound. “And you shagged.”
“What?”
“You said it like you were about to go there. Just filling in the gaps.”
“I’m not telling you about my sex life with my ex!” Lily snapped, pointing a finger like Petunia had just committed some war crime.
Petunia looked personally affronted. “You just asked me about Vernon!”
“That was different!”
“Oh, was it? Because when I say things, I’m offering important insight. When you do, it’s just curious little sister banter?”
“I didn’t know you were going to tell me he’s a bloody—oral saint!”
Petunia looked down at her folded laundry, muttering, “You’re just jealous.”
“I’m going to hex myself next week.”
“Do let me know if it works. I could use the peace.”
Lily grabbed the nearest pillow and flung it at her head. Petunia batted it aside like she’d been training for it.
“God, you’re awful,” Lily muttered.
“And yet,” Petunia said, fluffing the pillow and placing it neatly back on the bed, “you’re still here, talking about the emotionally unavailable boy you’re not in love with.”
Lily lay back with a loud groan, one arm over her eyes. “I hate this family.”
“And Severus is just a friend,” Petunia said sweetly.
“I will hex you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
There was a long pause. Then Lily sat up again, legs swinging over the edge of the bed.
“D’you want to smoke?”
Petunia looked horrified. “Now?”
Lily gave her a look. “Yes, now. Before Mum gets back and starts judging us with her passive-aggressive teacup clinks.”
“I already brushed my teeth,” Petunia muttered, but she didn’t say no.
“Where did you hide that pack we kept? You moved it, didn’t you?”
Petunia sighed, stood up, and went to the bookshelf. She pulled out an old copy of Little Women, opened it like it was a hollowed-out Bible, and revealed the slightly crushed pack of cigarettes inside.
Lily blinked. “You put them in Louisa May Alcott?”
“She’d understand,” Petunia said dryly, tossing the pack over.
“You are such a closet anarchist.”
“And you are turning into a chimney.”
“Only mildly,” Lily said, already lighting one with her fingertips. She held it out. “Coming?”
Petunia made a noise like she regretted every decision she’d made this evening, but followed her out the window anyway.
They sat on the little overhang outside the bedroom, legs tucked up against the wood, night air curling cool around their sleeves.
Lily exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift upward. “It’s mad, isn’t it? That this is what we do now?”
Petunia took a long drag. “Honestly, it’s better than talking.”
Lily laughed under her breath. Then, casually: “Have you ever tried weed?”
Petunia turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “Have you?”
“Answer the question.”
“Is this one of those moments where you try to look cool and end up confessing to a minor crime?”
“Not minor, if Mum finds out.”
Petunia snorted. “No. I haven’t. Have you?”
“Well, yeah. You can’t expect a bunch of kids in boarding school with no proper adult supervision to not do anything as such.”
Then Lily shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Remember, I came two days later for Christmas. Said I got school stuff to sort?”
“Yeah? Oh God–”
“We went to London with Mary, we were staying at her cousin’s. He was so handsome. Anyway, before leaving, we stole weed from James’s friend, Sirius, and well, yeah.”
“You stole weed from a guy named Sirius?”
“Yeah, he is not so serious himself.”
“Well, I can tell by the fact he had weed just lying around like snacks.”
Lily laughed, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “Honestly, I think he wanted someone to take it. He is sort of a hippie, but in a rocker way.”
“And you decided you were the right person to take it?” Petunia looked scandalised. “How did this not end in an arrest?”
“It almost ended with Mary snogging a bartender named Alfie who had a tattoo of a goose smoking a pipe,” Lily said thoughtfully. “So actually, an arrest might’ve been the safer route. But she did end up getting the bassist’s number.”
Petunia stared at her like she was seeing a ghost. “Your life is a disaster novel.”
Lily grinned. “International bestseller, thank you very much.”
“God,” Petunia muttered, dragging on her cigarette, “one day you’ll have kids.”
Lily rolled her eyes. “Not this again—”
“I just hope not with Severus,” Petunia finished, tone bone-dry.
Lily froze, mid-laugh. “Tuney.”
Petunia took another drag, completely unbothered. “I mean it. Can you imagine the absolute state of those children?”
“They’d be fine,” Lily said defensively. “Sharp. Reserved. Possibly unnerving in daylight.”
“They’d hiss at their teachers and carry pocket knives by the time they were five.”
Lily groaned. “God, I am not marrying him. Please stop. Tunes.”
Petunia blinked. “I never said anything about marriage.”
“You implied it!”
“I implied procreation,” Petunia said sweetly. “Don’t twist my words.”
Lily buried her face in her hands. “I’m going to throw myself off this window.”
“If you do, leave me the cigarettes,” Petunia said, not missing a beat.
They both burst out laughing, smoke curling above them in lazy, crooked shapes, as the sky pressed darker around their hunched shoulders. And the entire world stood no chance if the Evans sisters ever decided to stop soaking their feelings in sarcasm long enough to let anyone in.
But they didn’t. Not really.
Instead, they stayed like that—two silhouettes pressed against the quiet hum of a suburban night, flicking ash off the edge of the world like it didn’t matter, like they weren’t teetering on some emotional ledge neither of them wanted to name.
“I’m serious, though,” Petunia said after a while, softer now. “Don’t marry anyone who makes you cry more than you laugh.”
Lily didn’t answer. She just stared at the ember of her cigarette as it burned closer to her fingers.
Then, quietly, “I’ll try.”
The silence returned. But this time, it felt like a shared coat.
And just below them, the wind shifted. Somewhere in Cokeworth, someone was walking too fast down a quiet street. Someone who hadn’t laughed in a long time. Someone who once promised the world he’d be great, and only half believed it.
Too many things were happening at once, Severus thought. Even if there was nothing happening under his nose, he knew quite well how he had to do something before summer finished because things were happening behind his back.
It had been days since he got Burke’s letter, and he was still unaware if he should take the offer. Brewing was never something he doubted himself at, but he wasn’t sure if he should agree to brew something for lifting an unknown curse.
The thought seemed attractively challenging, but again—it wasn’t the brewing that unsettled him. That part he could do blindfolded, hands steady over flame and glass, every measurement a second instinct. It was everything around it that made his jaw tighten. The vagueness. The implications. The fact that it had come at all.
He didn’t even know Eugene Burke that well.
Just a handful of glances across classrooms, a shared silence at the back of the Potions lab, both of them watching the rest of the world unfold like something mildly offensive. Burke wasn’t the kind to make casual connections. He was private, selective, razor-sharp with who he kept close. And Severus wasn’t on that list.
So why write to him?
And more than that—how?
The letter hadn’t been owl-posted like anything else from school. No envelope with the Hogwarts crest. No clear sender. Just a folded page, delivered by a clumsy owl that left a stain on the wall. It wasn’t enchanted, as far as he could tell. No charms, no wards. Just paper. Ink. But still—it had found him.
But the fact that they’d thought of him—that was the part he couldn’t shake. Not just because it felt like an opportunity, but because it didn’t make sense.
If he accepted, Regulus Black—someone he didn’t even know—was meant to pass him the rest of the details. Possibly during a gathering. Possibly at Malfoy Manor. Possibly not at all.
And Severus? He wasn’t even sure if he’d be invited.
He didn’t own the kind of robes required for an evening in that place—nothing silk-lined, nothing custom-stitched. Nothing that said he belonged. He could already imagine how it would feel, standing in some marbled corner, fingers stained with ink and potion residue, surrounded by sharp-cut smiles and sharper words.
But he hadn’t thrown the letter away.
It was still folded neatly into the lining of his coat. Still sitting there like it might catch fire at any moment and demand an answer.
Because he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Not just the challenge. Not just the spell.
But the fact that they’d thought of him.
And that—more than anything—unsettled him.
Because Malfoy had told him, not even that long ago, to stay precise. Don’t stretch yourself thin, he’d said. Don’t work with anyone else until you’re certain of your own standing. Be loyal to the cause. Keep your work—our work—clean.
So why, then?
Why would Malfoy hand him over so easily? Why give his name to Burke at all?
It didn’t track. Lucius wasn’t careless. If anything, he was too careful—deliberate to a fault. He didn’t pass along recommendations unless he had something to gain, or someone to test. So if he’d given Severus’s name to Burke, it wasn’t out of goodwill.
It was a move.
A pressure point.
And Severus—walking briskly now past shuttered windows and leaning lamp-posts—couldn’t help but feel like he was already halfway into something, even without saying yes.
He wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact that Lucius might be manipulating him, or the fact that it might be working. And if it was neither, he could lose Malfoy’s trust at all, which he couldn’t afford.
Regardless of his decision, he kept walking home, his head down, shoelaces tied and mind unravelling. He was already close to home, and for some reason, he felt like being home now was the best he could do. The silence of Spinner’s End wasn’t comforting, but it was familiar. The brickwork didn’t ask questions. The worn carpet didn’t flinch at the weight he carried. There was nothing warm waiting for him behind the door—no fire, no scent of supper—but there was privacy. Stillness. A place to sit down without being looked at.
“Leen! Where’s the boy?”
Fuck, Severus muttered under his breath.
He tried to get upstairs without being seen, slipping through the front door as quietly as his boots would allow, steps practiced and silent on the warped wood. The house smelled faintly of damp books and rusted pipes. No light came from the sitting room—just the low hum of the wireless left on too long or turned down too low to catch the words.
“Leen!” the voice bellowed again from the kitchen, sharper now, slurred at the edges. “Did he run off again?”
Severus gritted his teeth, hand already on the banister.
“Severus.”
His mother’s voice—calmer, tired—floated out from the narrow gap of the kitchen doorway.
He froze. She hadn’t even raised it. She never needed to.
The stairs creaked under him anyway, an accidental betrayal.
“Thought I heard something,” Tobias Snape muttered, voice dragging behind her like the sound of a knife against glass.
Severus didn’t respond. One more step. Two. If he could just reach the landing—
“Don’t be rude, boy,” Tobias called, suddenly louder, nearer. “You come in this house and don’t even say ‘ello?”
Severus turned, barely, enough to glance over his shoulder and see the shape of his father leaning against the kitchen door frame. His coat was too heavy for August, and he stank of old rain and cheap whiskey.
“Hello,” Severus said flatly.
“You’re looking skinny,” Tobias said, eyes squinting as though trying to find fault and succeeding by principle. “Still got that sour little face, I see.”
Eileen stepped between them—not protectively, just habitually. “Leave it, Toby.”
He ignored her, of course. “Where’ve you been all summer? Lurking about like a stray?”
“I was home, unlike you.”
“Got taller, this one, eh?”
Tobias’ jaw twitched, just a flicker, but Severus caught it. He always did. It was the sort of twitch that came before something cruel, before the mouth curled and the voice dipped into something pointed.
Eileen shot her son a look—sharp, warning, weary. But Severus didn’t back down. He didn’t move at all.
“I see the attitude’s gotten worse,” Tobias muttered, reaching for a chipped glass on the counter. “She let you run wild, didn’t she, Leen? Bet he thinks he’s too good for this place now.”
“I’ve always thought that,” Severus said before he could stop himself.
A beat of silence. Thick. Still.
Then the clink of glass against the sink, not hard enough to shatter but enough to rattle.
“You’d better watch that mouth, boy.”
“Yeah?” Severus stepped back from the stairs, just one foot, just enough. “Or what? You’ll vanish for another four months?”
Tobias took a step forward, but Eileen moved faster—her hand out, flat across his chest.
“Stop it. Both of you.”
“Are you happy now, Ma? He is back. Are we a nice family now? Should I thank him for being my father?”
Eileen didn’t answer. Not to him. Not to either of them, while Tobias’s eyes were burning with fury.
Her hand stayed firm on Tobias’ chest, but her eyes—those unreadable eyes—shifted to Severus. Not soft. Not hard. Just... tired. And tired was enough to make something twist in his gut.
She turned back to her husband. “Go sit down. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I dun’ want tea.”
“You will,” she said. Not a suggestion.
Tobias muttered something like a curse under his breath, but he moved. He always did. Not out of respect. Just routine. Something in him still recognized that Eileen Snape was his missus, and even if he didn’t say it, even if he hadn’t said much of anything decent in years, he knew when not to push her. Not because he feared her magic—he never truly respected that part of her, not openly—but because somewhere, buried under the piss and bitterness, Tobias remembered she used to be someone else. And maybe, sometimes, that memory made him hesitate.
He slumped into the kitchen chair with a grunt, the kind that said he’d already made himself the victim—and Severus hated it. That sound. That slow, performative sigh of a man who thought the world owed him something just for existing in it. It wasn’t guilt that burned in Severus’s chest—it was irritation, hot and crawling. The audacity of vanishing for months only to come home and claim the role of the wounded party. Like he'd ever earned it.
Eileen didn’t flinch. Just turned toward the kettle with mechanical grace.
Severus stood still another second, watching the back of his mother’s shoulders. There was a tension in them he didn’t remember from last summer—or maybe he’d just stopped noticing. He felt something bitter rise in his throat. Not guilt, not quite. But something close. Something like uselessness.
“Upstairs,” she said again, this time more gently. Still not looking at him.
He didn’t argue.
He went.
The creak of the old floorboards followed him up, groaning like the house itself disapproved of everyone inside it. He pushed open the door to his room with a knuckle, quiet and deliberate. The hinges didn’t squeal—they’d learned, same as him.
Once inside, Severus let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than relief. He leaned back against the closed door, just for a second. Just to feel the weight of something solid against his spine.
The desk was still there, still holding the same old ink stains and burn marks and that one corner that warped when he spilled Essence of Dittany in fourth year. It hadn’t changed. Nothing in here had.
Except maybe him.
He opened the drawer with a flick of his fingers, pulling out the book on Occlumency he’d nicked from the restricted section last year. The leather binding cracked faintly as he flipped through it—he’d read most of it already, some parts until the ink practically echoed in his dreams—but tonight he wasn’t looking to read.
He was looking to rewrite.
False memories, the book had said, must be believable. They must feel like home to the mind that houses them. They must be laced with enough emotion to pass inspection.
It was a kind of art, really. The quietest kind of rebellion.
Severus sat down, dragged the candle closer, and let the wax drip onto a blank scrap of parchment. He needed to ground himself—something physical to do while he let the rest of him dissolve into the space between truth and fabrication.
He picked a memory that felt familiar. The summer after third year. The one where Lily had still sent him letters. Where they’d still walked along the riverbank and she’d braided grass into his hair just to annoy him.
He blinked.
Then he erased her from it.
Instead, he wrote himself alone. Sitting by the river. A book on curses open across his lap. Silence stretching around him like an old jumper, worn and soft and completely his.
It didn’t feel right. But that was the point.
He closed his eyes, tried again.
This time, he made it colder. The river frozen. A storm overhead. He sat there anyway. Same book. Same silence. But no laughter. No Lily.
Still wrong. Too hollow. Too obviously curated.
He leaned back, scowling.
The thing was—he didn’t know who he was without her in those years. Not really. All the best parts of him had happened in the space beside her. She was woven in. So removing her meant removing himself. Rebuilding something from scratch. Like memory surgery, but without anaesthetic.
He ran a hand through his hair, dragged his nails lightly across his scalp just to feel something sharp and real.
He could do this. He had to do this.
Because Malfoy had already named him once. And Burke had written. And if any of them ever decided to press further—if anyone, even Dumbledore, ever tried to push into his mind—
They couldn’t see her.
They couldn’t see Lily, not the way he remembered her. Not the freckles across her collarbone or the way her hands danced when she got excited about something stupid, like Arithmancy patterns in crystal grids. They couldn’t see her saying his name like it meant something. They couldn’t see the way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken yet.
They couldn’t have that.
Severus set his jaw, opened to a clean page in the notebook beside him, and began again.
This time, he made it rain. Made the ground muddy. Made the book too soaked to read. And still, he sat there, pretending not to care. Alone. Silent. Unmoved.
It wasn’t the truth.
But it would be.
Soon.