Petunia and the Little Monster

February 1976 (2)

Severus felt dirty.

No, dirty was the wrong word. It implied something gritty and dry that could be washed off and dusted away. Instead whatever this feeling was, it permeated deeper than his skin, settling into his flesh, blood, bones, carrying something acidic and slimy.

He felt poisoned after leaving Dumbledore's office, those twinkling eyes following his movements, the too-sour taste of candy still sizzling his tongue.

Whenever he came here, silently and stealthily, the feeling sank a bit deeper, becoming dark and clouded like a spoiled potion, a quagmire of guilt and hatred and helplessness he was forced to swallow each time. And then he would blink and find himself in the dungeons, surrounded by people that were expecting him to overcompensate in everything his House valued to make up for his muddied blood. Cold, calculated and cruel.

And it fit better every time he wore it, moulding him, sheltering him. The Half-blood Prince certainly wouldn't feel cold sweat dripping down his neck when Dumbledore smiled at him. The Half-Blood Prince would have laughed at the old man's tricks without falling for them.

The Half-Blood Prince would never have agreed to anything a mere muggle girl asked of him.

Why the harpy haunted him more successfully than any ghost in the castle, Severus couldn't explain. What did she want from him? And since when did she feel she could come to him with her problems?

Not that those were strictly speaking her problems.

Lily ...

He should just get it over with. The entrance to the Headmaster's office was conveniently close to the stairs leading to Gryffindor tower. And once he had spoken to Lily he could ...

Severus couldn't clearly recall when the last time had been that he had talked to Lily. Back at the Slug Club? When he had helped her with a potion's assignment before Christmas? When was the last time they had taken a walk across the grounds, or met up in the library where no-one disturbed them to talk about magic and the Founders and Cokeworth?

When was the last time Lily had really looked at him? And why had Severus not noticed before now?

One explanation was simple. He had been preoccupied with Black and integrating into the Slytherin hierarchy, sneaking around at night and doing his best to never let his persona slip.

But the reasoning felt hollow. He had still found the time to talk to the harpy, however infrequently, and think about her, even though he certainly could do without her weighing on his mood.

So why not Lily? Why did he not talk to Lily, or follow her with his eyes or think about what she was doing, what she was getting up to? Had he sunk so deep into the Half-Blood Prince, who could never care for a dirty Mudblood, that he had unconsciously shied away from all thoughts of green eyes and Gryffindor pride?

Or was it because some part of him feared what Lily would think about him now, about him that was no longer ostracised by his peers but welcomed at the table, the him that didn't sit alone and mope, Lily the only bright spark in his dark days?

He remembered the station. It wasn't the last time he had talked to Lily, but her words were clear in his head as if it had been, as if she had said them to him just yesterday.

Creeps, evil, how can you sit with them, Sev?

No not those words, he wanted the ones that made light flicker inside him, not trepidation.

I'm just worried about you, Sev. We're friends, right?

And now it was Severus' turn to worry, Severus' turn to inquire what Lily had gotten herself into, what kind of company she was keeping or trying to integrate into.