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Severus hates this day.
To most of the Wizarding world, it is a happy day. In all honesty, Severus has never liked it much—growing up in a Muggle neighbourhood, he had largely found the tradition of Trick or Treating to be asinine and nonsensical—but at least when he was younger, it was simply an annoying holiday, rather than a painful reminder of all the mistakes he has made since he was fifteen years old. So, while his peers are content to celebrate the fall of the Dark Lord and overindulge on sweets, Severus would much rather ignore the festivities altogether, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, Dumbledore is less inclined to let him do so.
Oh, yes, the old man knows what this day represents. But if Severus were to ever protest against the rule that all staff have to attend holiday feasts barring physical inability, he knows Dumbledore would simply remind him that he has a duty to Potter, and he cannot let himself be blinded by his grief. Besides, he would surely add, what better way to deal with the grief than to eat some tooth-rotting goodies? Severus will be avoiding that lecture until the day he dies.
As it turns out, though, he ought not have bothered at all.
It’s Minerva who notices first, likely due to her sharp, catlike sense. While she is counting the heads of her Gryffindors from the High Table, a frown is steadily overtaking her face. Finally, she turns to Dumbledore and says, “Where in the world is Potter?”
Severus pretends to be focussed on the food that had appeared on the table only minutes before as he strains to hear the headmaster’s response:
“Perhaps something has kept him. I wouldn’t worry too terribly, Minerva. If he were up to something, I daresay Miss Granger and Mr Weasley would be right along with him.”
Now, Severus looks up to survey the Gryffindor table. A brown head in a sea of ginger is impossible to miss, but, had he not been looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed the occasional anxious glances Granger and Weasley—the youngest boy, that is—keep sending towards the entrance of the Hall.
Minerva purses her lips, but wisely says nothing else.
As if aware that Severus has been listening in, Dumbledore catches his eye around the deputy headmistress. Eyes twinkling, lips spread into a small, telling smile that Severus has come to hate over the years, he asks, “Perhaps you have an idea where young Harry might be, Severus?”
“Not so, Headmaster.” And as if he should care. But wasn’t it a promise to keep an eye on the brat that had brought him to this ridiculous feast himself?
“I must admit myself concerned,” Minerva murmurs. “I feel the boy has been acting strangely since the beginning of term. Besides the point, should he really be alone?”
“He will be safe in the castle,” Dumbledore says soothingly. “Though I must agree, he has not seemed himself.”
“He has not been in as much trouble, you mean,” Severus mutters.
“Ah, I don’t know about that.” Dumbledore strokes his beard, thoughtful. “I believe Harry is aware of the threat Black poses to him, and is merely trying to avoid it.”
“Remus mentioned he has a poor reaction to the Dementors,” Minerva puts in. “On the first day of term. Perhaps he’s being affected by them?”
“I don’t think so.” Though Dumbledore certainly seems to be considering the possibility. “There is enough distance between them and Hogwarts. But you raise a good point, Minerva, as always. Severus, you had already expressed a desire to leave the feast early. Perhaps you could keep an eye out for Mr Potter on your way?”
Severus sighs, but nods his agreement and focusses on his food again. How typical, he thinks in annoyance. Potter gets into some sort of trouble, and Severus has to go running after him. He doesn’t pretend to think that Dumbledore just wants him to “keep an eye out.” Obviously, Severus will be expected to search every corner of the castle until he finds Potter—regardless of the fact that he may very well be in the Gryffindor common room, pleasantly unharmed and relaxed!
He makes quick work of his dinner, scowling deeply, and then rises and stalks from the Great Hall, well aware of the curious stares following after him.
With nearly all of the castle amassed in the Great Hall, the lack of sound outside is almost chilling. Still, he takes a moment to relish in it before considering how in the world he’s going to track down Potter before the rest of the students have finished eating. Shaking his head, he begins walking towards the Entrance Hall, still undecided on whether he should search the grounds or the castle itself first.
But he comes to a stop quickly as he hears someone speaking:
“You ought to go back to wherever you’ve come from. Hagrid’s, maybe?” A pause, as if thinking. “No, I reckon I’d know if Hagrid had gotten another pet. Where’d you come from, then? I don’t imagine many strays get lost ‘round here…”
After a moment, Severus lets out a relieved sigh. That’s Potter’s voice, there’s no doubt about it.
He steps towards the voice, then stops as he hears someone moving frantically, as if planning to escape from him.
Not likely, he thinks mutinously, and quickens his steps.
He comes out to the steps leading up to the castle to see Potter standing before him, eyes wide.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” he says quickly. “Really, sir.”
Severus ignores him. “Who were you talking to?”
“Oh.” Potter glances uncertainly behind him, then turns back and shrugs. “There was a dog here. Dunno where it came from.”
“A dog,” Severus repeats.
“Er, yes, sir.”
“And what are you doing out here?”
Potter wraps his arms over his chest, as if trying to preserve warmth. “I was going to go to the feast,” he says. “I just…”
Severus watches, fascinated, as Potter drops his gaze, shoulders hunching in an almost defensive manner.
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he says after a moment, lifting his head again and meeting Severus’s eyes defiantly. “There’s nothing to punish me for, sir.”
“The headmaster was concerned,” Severus informs him. “You are aware that there is a mass murderer at large, yes?”
Potter blinks, then whitens. “I…hadn’t thought about it.”
Severus raises an eyebrow at him and he hastens to add, “Sir.”
“Yes, well…” Severus purses his lips. “Perhaps you should go join your classmates before the feast is over.”
“No.”
Severus blinks. “No?”
Misunderstanding, Potter amends with, “No, sir.”
“No, Potter, I mean—why are you refusing to go to the feast? More than that, why are you sitting out here in the cold? Too good to celebrate with your classmates?”
Potter’s eyes flash angrily at this. “What would you know?” he demands. “Maybe I think they shouldn’t be celebrating at all!”
This makes him pause, at the very least because it’s so absurd, but he supposes the headmaster would want him to give Potter the benefit of the doubt. “Is that so?”
Potter huffs. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he mutters. “Just leave me—”
“I’ve already told you,” Severus says loudly, cutting off Potter’s inevitable angry tirade. “Another matter had taken me from the feast early, and so Professor Dumbledore asked if I could look around for you on my way back. Rest assured, Potter, I would not have bothered otherwise.”
Potter says something under his breath that Severus doesn’t quite catch, but it would be impossible to miss the rage swimming in those green eyes.
“What was that?” Severus asks, as solicitously as he can manage.
“Nothing, sir.”
“No, Potter, do tell me. I believe I asked you a rather direct question?”
Potter scowls. “Fine. I said that you wouldn’t be the first not to bother, sir. Now, if that’s all, I’ll go back up to the Tower if you—”
“Not so fast,” Severus says silkily, reaching for the boy’s arm as he tries to brush past.
Two things happen very, very quickly:
First, Potter flinches away from him so hard one would think that Severus had suddenly pulled his wand on him.
Two, his momentum has him stumbling away from Severus, tripping over his own feet and then making a surprisingly (or not surprisingly, perhaps, given the reflexes he relies on for Quidditch) graceful recovery. There is a sizeable distance between them now, and when he straightens up, his eyes are hard.
“You already said it didn’t matter to you,” he snaps. “I’m not really in the mood, sir, so just give me a detention or whatever and let’s move on.”
Severus narrows his eyes. “I hadn’t planned on giving you a detention, Potter.”
This seems to only shock the boy for a moment, and then he is back on the defensive: “Well, then, why are you still here? I’m fine. You can tell Professor Dumbledore that, and I’ll go back to my dorm where I’ll be safe. I haven’t been here very long, anyway. I was just distracted by that dog. I was planning to go back.”
“Were you,” Severus says dryly.
Potter’s eyes are blazing again. “Yes, sir. So you can get on with your business, and I can get on with mine.”
Severus considers this for a moment, honestly unsure, himself, why he hasn’t just let the brat go. He frowns in thought, and then it comes to him.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he recalls. “Why didn’t you go to the feast? Your sidekicks seem rather concerned.”
Potter looks away from him, seeming to deflate slightly. “I just don’t see the point.”
“Even though much of the celebration is about you?” Severus raises an eyebrow at that. “Colour me surprised. Or, perhaps, you are lying to me? That seems far more likely, given your history…”
“I don’t want to celebrate!” Potter shouts. “That’s it, there’s nothing to celebrate. They don’t get it!”
Severus opens his mouth to respond, then falls short, stunned. Maybe not in so many words, no, but…hasn’t he said this same thing before, twelve times now, to Dumbledore?
He recovers faster than Potter can say or do something else, though: “Who doesn’t get what, Potter?”
“All of them! Nobody gets it, they all think it’s a good thing, but—”
“You seem to have missed an essential part of my question.”
“Like you don’t know! Everyone knows!”
“Clarity is key, Potter,” Severus drawls. “I understand you are naturally inarticulate, but even you can’t be so thick as to misunderstand such a simple question.”
“I haven’t misunderstood, sir,” he hisses. “You want to—what? Put me in detention? Fine! I don’t care! But I’m not going to the bloody feast!”
“Do mind your tongue.”
Potter opens his mouth, outraged, but Severus holds up a hand to stop him before he can start again. What a headache that would be.
“I have already told you I have no desire to give you a detention. Of course, if you want one so badly…”
Potter looks away. “No,” he mutters. “I don’t.”
“Good. Then, hurry along, Potter. There’s still plenty of time to have something to eat before the headmaster sends everyone to bed.”
“I’m not going to the feast.”
Severus sighs. “Yes, so you’ve said, and yet you still refuse to explain why.”
Potter looks up at him, and he stops, chest constricting. Those eyes, Lily’s eyes, blazing green—
“I don’t think I should have to explain,” he says angrily. “It’s a little more than Halloween for them, don’t you think?”
When Severus doesn’t say anything, he crosses his arms over his chest, irritated. “Whatever. Nobody cares. And I’m not going to the stupid feast. Sir.”
“Nobody cares,” Severus repeats.
Potter just stares at him, those horrible, painful ghosts behind circular lenses.
Damn it all.
“I must confess,” Severus says, “that I rather assumed you were unbothered by it, given the fact that it has not appeared an issue until this year. As, I suspect, has the headmaster and Professor McGonagall.”
“Oh.” Potter looks away from him again, finally. Just as he is letting out a breath of relief, however, Potter says, “I didn’t remember it before this year, though.”
“Remember—?”
He seems embarrassed, suddenly. “Sorry. Can I go now, sir?”
“No, wait.” What in the world has Severus gotten himself into tonight? It must be the date. It always does strange things to him. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
“What? I mean I’ll go back to my dorm—”
“Not that,” Severus snaps. “What you remember. What does that mean, Potter?”
He stands there for a moment, gaze averted. It strikes Severus, suddenly, that Potter is really quite small. Certainly for a thirteen-year-old. He may be intent on skipping the feast, but Severus rather thinks he needs it. He’s seen first years with more skin on their bones than Potter has.
Then, finally, Potter says, “I dream about this, er, green light sometimes. I didn’t know what it was. Now I do.”
“Green light,” Severus repeats.
Potter says nothing, but he doesn’t really have to. Severus was a Death Eater long enough to understand the significance of that. What he can’t understand is how Potter knows that.
“Very well,” he says. “If you will not attend to the feast, will you eat dinner with me?”
Potter’s head jerks up, but just as soon as they have blown up wide, his eyes narrow in suspicion. “I thought you weren’t giving me a detention, sir.”
“It is not a detention, Potter. It is dinner.”
“With you,” Potter says slowly.
“That is correct.”
“You’re mad.”
“What was that?”
“Sir,” he adds, and Severus resists the urge to roll his eyes.
“I certainly am not forcing you, Potter. It is merely an option, considering missing the feast means missing dinner entirely. It is not as if I want your company.”
He seems to contemplate this for a moment. It is probably the longest Severus has ever seen Potter stop to think about something.
Finally, he says, “You still want to give me trouble for something, right?”
“Would it make you feel better or worse if I did?”
“Dunno. Either way, sir, I’m not very hungry. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Severus sighs. He is in too deep to back out now, surely. “Very well, then. Let’s consider it a detention, for skipping a meal.” He turns and gestures for the boy to follow him “Come along, Potter.”
“What? That’s not against the rules!”
He glances over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Disrespecting one’s professor, however…”
Potter scowls. “I didn’t disrespect you. Er, sir.”
“I believe I will be the one to judge that. Do hurry up, Potter. Don’t think that dragging your feet until curfew will make any difference other than proving to your friends that you were up to trouble during the feast.”
This gets him moving, though he’s muttering under his breath something about unfairness. Severus barely conceals a grimace; how very in-character for him.
They don’t speak as Severus leads him through the halls, down to the dungeons. They don’t speak even when Severus opens the door to his office and ushers Potter inside, or before Severus ducks down to get a message through to the kitchen to bring Potter some food. He’s already eaten, himself, and he would really rather not do so again just for Potter’s comfort. They don’t speak after, either, as they wait for the food in question.
Severus sits across from him and meets his defiant gaze, wondering, again, what he was thinking by all of this. He has nothing to say to Potter. He doesn’t particularly care if Potter misses dinner. He has no interest in anything Potter may or may not have to say, except—
That’s not entirely true, is it?
Remember. That’s the word he used.
Maybe it is not really a tangible memory at all, but Severus gets the sense he wouldn’t want to Legilimize it out of the boy anyway. There is something else that has driven him to this, something about the date, about mistakes he has made, mistakes that have branded him forever, just as they have branded Potter…
“Eat,” he says after a long moment. “I didn’t bring you all the way down here to sit uselessly in front of a plate.”
“It’s not a detention,” Potter says, like he’s still trying to believe it. “I don’t understand, sir.”
Severus looks away from him. Those damned eyes, Lily’s eyes…
“Eat, Potter. And then we will talk.”
Perhaps if only because he wants to know what Severus is going to say, Potter does eat. But Severus doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or how he is going to say it. He really did think he was over these impulsive moments of emotional decision, and yet he cannot Occlude, cannot compartmentalize, cannot do anything, because here is Potter, and he is just the same as Severus ever was. There’s nothing to celebrate.
Of course, Potter does not know the truth. Most likely, he never will.
It does not take the feeling away.
There is something about this day. It has relevance magically, of course. For that, it was a favoured holiday of the Dark Lord. Severus might have felt similarly at a time, if not for the Muggle environment he grew up in, but he has always felt it a foolish holiday, and, now, it is no holiday at all.
Potter eats, and then sits, waiting. Severus doubts he will wait for long, though. He is not exactly a paradigm of patience.
So, gaze just off from Potter’s eyes, Severus says, “I know why you do not want to celebrate.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. There is nothing to celebrate, you are correct.”
“Great.” Potter leans back, looking unimpressed. “I don’t need your pity, sir.”
“It is not pity.” Severus steels himself, then meets Potter’s eyes. It does not feel any less painful, but he ploughs on: “I have no interest in consoling you, either. That is not why I told you to come here. I merely—wished to tell you, I suppose, that—I understand. Why you do not wish to celebrate, that is. Your supposition that nobody cares is incorrect.”
Which implies he cares, but he thinks that, if anybody will understand what he really meant by that, it would be Potter.
“They’re not your parents,” Potter points out. “Or anyone else’s, for that matter. Who could possibly understand?”
“And you were, of course, the only person present who is still living.”
“I guess.”
“You remember it?”
Potter looks away, shoulders raised with tension. “Yes, sir. I remember it.”
“But you did not remember before this year.”
“No, I did. Just not—not as much.” He sighs, seeming to deflate slightly. “It’s embarrassing that nobody else reacts to the Dementors like that. Makes me feel—weak, I dunno.”
The Dementors?
And—that makes sense, Severus realizes, gut twisting. He knew, of course, that Potter was adversely affected by Dementors. He hasn’t thought much about it, though, hasn’t really considered why. Even if he had…
“That is how you know that the Killing Curse is green,” he finally says. “Because you have seen it in use, and you remember.”
He doesn’t answer. Severus hardly expected him to.
It is something about the day. Something that brings this feeling out in him, and here is Potter—he is a living, breathing reminder. He has her eyes, and they are full of grief. Grief and rage and a memory that never does fade away, no matter how much time passes.
He says, “You do not need to believe me, Potter, but you should know that others do feel the same way as you. Lupin would understand, I should think.”
Potter blinks, turning to face Severus again. “Sorry?”
“You lost your parents that night, but Lupin lost a friend. Perhaps there is some common ground there.”
“I don’t know about that, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just—nobody ever mentions it.” He frowns, considers this. “…But you did. Why?”
Severus shakes his head. “It seems rather obvious. It is common knowledge that they died on this day.”
“But nobody cares,” Potter says, again, and he remembers Lily looking this way sometimes too, earnest, stubborn, yearning to be understood…
Because nobody ever has understood.
And Severus has just made the critical error of being the first person to do exactly that.
It is the day, he thinks, but maybe it is not, not entirely. The problem, he supposes, is that he cannot escape his guilt. He cannot run away from what he has done. Her blood lingers on his hands, and Halloween does not actually make it any redder than it already is. It goes nowhere, but he does not try to wash it off, either; he knows he must shoulder this burden, because it is his fault.
All of it.
Potter is sitting here, and maybe he thinks that there is finally somebody who understands him. He will not admit it, of course, but he is only thirteen. His emotions rest eagerly against the edge of Severus’s desk, and he does not know yet how to peel them from his sleeve.
The worst part of it is that he does understand. And when has he ever told Lily no?
“I mentioned it,” he says quietly, “because I do not wish to celebrate either. I mention it to the headmaster every year, in fact. I believe the feast in poor taste. Granted, I did not care for it much as a student, either, but now it is not merely a distasteful holiday celebration. It is the anniversary of something horrible, which should not be celebrated at all.”
Potter folds his arms over his chest. Leans back, away from him, wary. “Why should you care? Why should anybody?”
“Were you not saying that you think we all ought to care?”
“Well, yeah, but…” He stops, fishing for the words, and then: “But since nobody does care, there ought to be a reason that you do.”
Well, of course he would think that. Severus has practically invited him to.
When he says nothing, Potter just sighs. “Is my detention over yet, sir?”
“No,” Severus mutters. “It is not over.”
“Oh.”
“I suppose if I owe you nothing else, then perhaps I owe you this.” He folds his arms over the top of his desk and considers Potter carefully. “Every year, on this day, Professor Dumbledore forces me to attend the feast. He knows I do not want to. But he knows, perhaps as well as I do, that she—that is, my best friend, she would not wish for me to wallow in grief. And as surely as she would not wish me to do so, I am confident she would not want you to do so.” He sighs, pulling back, and then pulls open one of the small drawers on the side of the desk. There are only three things in it, each of them a different picture, but it is no matter, no matter at all, he must tell himself this for Lily’s sake…
“Sir?”
He holds one of the photos gingerly between his thumb and index finger and uses his other hand to slam the drawer shut again, and a quick flick of his wand to lock it. He does not look at Potter when he passes it over; he hears the hitch of breath and knows he would not be able to bear the look in his eyes now.
“I don’t understand,” Potter whispers. “What is…?”
“The past is the past, Potter, except when it comes back to haunt us.” He chances a glance over to see Potter’s head ducked down as he inspects the photograph. Severus supposes she must have been about the age Potter is now. “Keep it. Consider it a reparation.”
He looks up now, and Severus thinks he is ready, but he is not. Not at all.
“What do you mean?” Potter asks. “I don’t—”
“Understand, yes.” Severus sighs, but he dares not drop Potter’s gaze—Lily’s gaze. “This changes nothing, Potter. Lily was a dear friend, a very long time ago. At the time of her death, things had soured. So if I could not sweeten them then, I expect she would be pleased to know I had shared this with you. Keep it,” he says again, urging some impatience into his tone. “We will not speak of this again. That is all you must understand.”
Potter opens his mouth, perhaps to question him, but then seems to think better of it and nods instead.
“Then, leave. Curfew has already passed, so do be hasty.”
A beat passes, and then Potter stands. The photograph, of a young Lily—it is a Muggle photograph, one that Lily gave to him at the beginning of summer before their third or fourth year—is clutched in his hands. Better there, Severus supposes, than wasting away in an old desk drawer. The thought does not make it any less painful a departure, but it does make it easier, at least, to accept the words when Potter says, “Thank you, sir.”
He doesn’t respond, but Potter wasn’t waiting around for him to. Before he knows it, the door is slamming shut, and he is alone.
He doesn’t move, for a long while. Already, he regrets it. All of it, as he has regretted most things in regards to Potter.
But there is, too, a lightness in it. He feels it when he stands, like something in his chest has shifted, has released a hidden tension from his shoulders. No, it does not take away from the guilt of it all. It does not change what he has done… And yet he leaves his office to turn in for the night knowing that someone else will be sleeping poorly tonight, haunted by memories of his dead parents. It should not be a relief—it is, in fact, quite selfish to consider that it even could be—but it is. He has never liked Halloween. For the past twelve years, he has loathed it, and he has thought, all this time, that nobody understood, that Dumbledore and all the others were cruel and disrespectful for not feeling the same.
In many ways, it is worse knowing that Potter remembers, but in this one small thing…
There is a comfort in it, its consistency. Her blood will not go anywhere, just as surely as Potter’s memory will remain intact, forever worsened by the cloaked figure of misery that brought it back to him in the first place. This is one thing, then, that they share. Severus does not need, or want, more than this.
He understands, and that is really all that matters for either of them.