Twenty years had passed since Lord Voldemort fell. For Harry the events of that wizard’s downfall seemed so recent in his memory and yet so far away. The man, named Harry Potter, entered Auror training, married and had children of his own. Yet, he never felt so close to his teenage years as he did that morning. He was invited by the Headmistress, Professor Pomona Sprout, for a chat regarding Jamess recent prank adventures.

Harry sighed. James was proving to be a great mixture of his grandfather and the twins. In many occasions he wondered, as he received owls from the Headmistress, how ironic it would have been if he had listened to his wife to name the boy Arthur.

He waited for Professor Sprout to arrive. She was called out of her office unrepentantly ten minutes before their scheduled appointment. He was asked to wait in her office, much to his discomfort. He looked around. Exotic magical plants were in pots, the professor’s trophies from competitions all around the room. The portraits of all the headmasters and headmistresses were eyeing him. And in the middle of the room, exactly above the headmistress’ chair, the portrait of the last Hogwarts’ headmaster hang. Severus Snape was looking at him with piercing eyes.

Ironically it was Harry Potter who pursued for the portrait to be hanged in the office. It was Harry Potter who made sure that Snape’s name was cleared and that the man would receive a hero’s burial close to Lily Potter’s grave as his final wish was. After that Harry Potter avoided the portrait of Severus Snape like hell. He had never visited Hogwarts so far, letting Ginny to go and deal with their son’s mischief. Yet this time he had no option but to attend as Ginny was away visiting Great Aunt Muriel who was sick.

He avoided Snape’s eyes looking at the floor, at the red carpet that remained unchanged after all these years. Suddenly he heard out the loudest snort of annoyance.

“Christ Potter, I expected more courage from a Gryffindor!”

Harry shot up when Snape spoke.

“You fight to have my portrait in this room, for me to have a hero’s funeral and you name one of your children after me. And yet you avoid speaking to me. If you ask me, it is quite hypocritical.”

Harry pierced his lips in anger.

“Oh that’s rich,” Harry answered back, “Coming from a man that could have been a great mentor and ended up being the greatest git of all times.”

“Well, well, well” Snape said in pretentious amazement, “cat didn’t got your tongue after all!”

The other portraits remained silent. Even Dumbledore’s did not speak as if through their silence they showed that it was about time this conversation took place.

“You loved my mother,” Harry said hotly, “I accepted that. And you dedicated your life to her memory. I seriously understand that. But I cannot understand why you had to hate me so much.”

“I never hated you,” Snape said immediately.

“Well you certainly didn’t like me” Harry insisted.

“You can say so,” Snape nodded in agreement. “How could I love you when you were what I ached for? How could I do so when you reminded me of what I could have had if things were different? How could I accept you when you are the living manifestation of my failure? And of that man that caused me to lose her.”

“Oh bollocks!” Harry intervened, “You always blamed my father. You never blamed yourself. You lost her because you never fully realised that my mother would always love her muggle origins. Because she was a muggle product after all.”

Snape looked at him sourly. Yet the sour turned to understanding and then shame.

“Things could have been different,” he finally said.

Harry sighed. They were both the same age now. Snape died at the age of thirty-seven and his portrait would remain in that age forever. Harry had reached that age. They seemed so different and yet so alike. The Headmistress was still absent.

“So,” Snape asked with a cheeky smirk, “How do you feel that young Lily is in Slytherin?”

Harry snorted. Where was the Headmistress when he needed her?