Severus Snape wove his way through the gravestones behind the small church as he’d done every 30th of June for the last twelve years: offering apologies, seeking absolution. This day was neither her birthday or death day, but the anniversary of the day they had met so many years ago.

The three flowers he carried were the same ones he’d given her each year on this day while she was alive—whether she’d wanted them or not. Now, he laid them carefully on her grave: yellow for friendship, white for devotion, and pink for youth. Three lilies for his one and only Lily.

Sighing deeply, Snape settled himself atop the gravestone next to hers, turning his back on his childhood nemesis. It was disrespectful and petty, but he didn’t care. Lily was his, always had been. Closing his eyes, he felt the sadness settle over him like a heavy, wet cloak. Would he ever stop missing her?

As the early morning wind shifted, he smelled vanilla and cinnamon. Inhaling more deeply, he picked up a touch of citrus as well: Lily’s scent. Eyes flashing open, he searched the graveyard for her, his heart pounding in his chest. Images of her danced in the mist of his memories: her chestnut hair glinting red in the sun, green eyes shining, face aglow with happiness and laughter. He felt the familiar lump in his throat and closed his eyes once more. Lily, his Lily.

“Severus.”

The voice echoed in his head and heart, soul-sweet music.

“Lily,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He heard her sigh and could feel her presence to the depth of his bones.

“Please forgive me,” Snape said. He knew he was talking to himself, but he didn’t care. Lily’s scent still lingered in the air around him, both warming and refreshing. He would take whatever illusion of her he could get.

“I need your help,” her voice implored. “Please, Sev.”

Snape clutched the gravestone he sat on. This wasn’t real, wasn’t possible. And yet, it was her voice, her scent… “Anything,” he croaked. “Anything for you, Lily.”

“Harry is in danger. I need you to go to him.”

“Harry? In danger? Surely not,” Snape scoffed, keeping his eyes shut tight so as not to ruin the illusion. “He’s with your relatives. Petunia and her husband and their son.”

“I know.”

He heard the profound sadness in her voice.

“Lily, I’m sure he’s fine. You’ve no need to worry.”

“No, Sev, he is not fine. The things I’ve seen…”

Snape stiffened and felt his face flush. “What have you seen?” Granted, he had not treated the boy well, but the Potter brat was arrogant and insufferable, just like his father.

“He’s my son too, Sev. And he has more than just my eyes; he has my blood, my soul; my courage, and my compassion.”

Snape shifted uncomfortably. “You sound like Dumbledore,” he muttered.

He could imagine Lily lifting an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Maybe you should listen to him. But that’s neither here nor there. The Dursley’s have gone out for the day and left Harry home alone. I need you to check on him. Please, Sev, for me?”

Her voice licked at his nerves, sending shivers up his spine. “I… alright… if it will make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Sev, you’re the best.”

A smile. He could sense it in her voice. He smiled too, and felt the whisper of a kiss on his cheek. He touched the place reverently, feeling the trace of moisture there. Shaking his head in wonder, he got up. “Only for you, Lily, only for you.”

 “Wotcher, Snape.”

“Tonks,” he acknowledged, turning his head toward the source of the voice.

Slipping out from beneath the invisibility cloak, Tonks asked: “What brings you to Privet Drive?” Idly, she twirled a strand of spiky hot pink hair between thumb and forefinger.

“Just checking in on our charge,” he answered, ignoring the curious glance she shot his direction.

Snape took a step forward but stopped “Do me a favor?” It was more of a command than a request. “Send the Ministry an owl stating that any magic performed within the next 15 minutes was done so by a fully qualified wizard and not the underage one in residence.”

At Tonks’ surprised and slightly concerned look, Snape waved a conciliatory hand. “Not to worry, I have no plans to harm your precious Potter. But I believe the door will be locked?”

Looking reassured, Tonks nodded. “Say hi to him for me, will you?” And with that, she was off, presumably to find an owl.

Snape shook his head. The last thing he needed right now was either Ministry interference or knowledge of his visit.

From the looks of it, Lily had been right; no one was home. No one except Harry Potter. Why hadn’t the boy gone with his family? Was he too good for his Muggle relatives? Or was it yet another ploy for attention? He huffed in disgust. If the boy only knew what some children had to suffer…

The front door was indeed locked, as he expected. Snape stepped around back to find the garden door conveniently open. He entered through the pristine kitchen, admiring the neatness of the Muggles. His childhood home had never been so clean. The tidiness continued as he wended his way through the hallway, which was adorned by pictures of a happy family: mother, father, and son. Harry’s absence in the pictures niggled at the back of his mind but he pushed the thought away; surely it was Harry who’d refused to be seen in their company, not the other way around. A brief glance into the orderly living room confirmed what the absence of lights had suggested—no one in residence.

Snape made his way up the stairs, ears attuned for the sounds of Wizard Rock or the scratching of a quill. Curiously, he heard nothing. He stepped onto the landing. No light shown from under a closed door. Perhaps Tonks had neglected to tell him the boy had gone out.

He came first to the master suite. The room, which was done in the tasteless colors of mustard yellow and pale green, was an affront to his senses. A large bed dominated the center, crowded by a large, wooden chest of drawers on one side and an overstuffed chintz chair on the other. Turning, he went back to the hall and opened the next door—a linen closet—and the next—a bathroom, before coming to the room at the end of the hall. This room was not tidy like the rest, but a cacophony of toys and electronics, the walls papered with obnoxious posters, the floor littered with comic books and discarded clothing. He frowned. There were no other rooms on this level, and he hadn’t seen any bedrooms on the first floor. He was just about to leave the child’s room when the sound of coughing stopped him in his tracks. He heard it again and looked toward the source of the noise.

There, behind a door covered in a poster of a cartoon character making a rude gesture, was where the sound had come from. He’d assumed the door led to a closet. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach but he ignored it. This was not his childhood; surely Harry Potter was not locked in a closet, beaten and bleeding, like he had been. Shaking his head, he kicked a Nintendo game system out of the way and reached for the door, intending to thrust it open. It wobbled on its hinges but did not budge. Looking more closely, he found the door secured by multiple locks—all on the outside. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. Lily’s voice echoed in his head: “Harry is in danger.”

“Potter?” he whispered.

A quick Alohamora and the locks fell away. Bursting through the door, he found himself in the middle of a small utility room. He stopped cold, a wave of déjà vu washing over him: the bare gray walls, the scuffed and scorched floor boards, the single light bulb hanging naked from the ceiling, the empty owl cage on top of the battered dresser… He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, before his eyes were drawn to the window. He shuddered; even he hadn’t had bars on his window.

A cough from behind had him spinning around, wand at the ready. Against the same wall as the door that he’d just entered, a bare mattress lay, sans box spring or frame. As he stared at the specter before him, ghostly pale and much too thin, the sharp tang of copper wafted up to him.

“Potter?” he asked, incredulous.

The only response Snape got was a low moan that made the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.

Potter lay face-down on the blood-stained mattress, threadbare boxers his only attire. His back was covered in lash marks, some still oozing blood, others covered in a dried black crust. Assuring himself that the boy’s grossly protruding ribcage still rose and fell with the sure signs of breathing, Snape quickly scanned the rest of the boy’s body. The raised ribbons of scarred flesh on Potter’s legs, torso, and arms made him quiver with rage—rage for the boy that lay before him now, rage for the boy he himself had once been. No child should have to suffer this, and the scars before him were proof that this was not the first time that Potter had been whipped.

Snape knelt down, his senses freshly assaulted by the scent of blood mixed with sweat. Potter coughed again, and the rasping, gurgling breath that followed made Snape cringe. Pneumonia? A punctured lung? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he had to get Potter out of here before his relatives caused more injury to him. The little boy inside of Snape cried: Why not me? Why didn’t anyone save me from my relatives? Snape promptly squashed the feelings of injustice and trained his mind on the task at hand.

“Potter, this will sting a bit,” Snape said. “Much less than Muggle methods, though,” he murmured to himself more than Potter. Casting a cleaning spell, he went over each gash individually, eliciting a series of sharp pitched cries from the boy. Another time and place, Snape might have taken pleasure in Potter’s discomfort, but not now. Potter moved restlessly beneath Snape’s ministrations, trying to escape the waves of pain.

“Be still. I’ll be finished in a minute.” Snape cast two more cleaning spells, one on a minor cut, the other on a deep laceration. “There,” he said. “Now, just let me heal these so they stay closed, and we’ll get you out of here.”

Glassy green eyes opened and squinted up at him.

“Accio Potter’s glasses,” Snape hissed. He caught them in mid-air and slid them onto Harry’s face.

“Snape?” Harry rasped.

“That’s Professor Snape to you, Potter.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. “Damn fever dreams.”

“What did you say?” Snape asked, but he was already reaching out to touch the boy’s forehead and judge for himself. Hot, too hot.

“I said that I must be dreaming,” Harry repeated, his eyes sliding shut again.

“And why is that, Mr. Potter?” Snape inquired, turning his attention back to the cuts on the boy’s back and expertly healing each of them before vanishing any remnants of blood that remained. A few ointments and these new wounds wouldn’t even scar.

“Because Snape—Professor Snape,” Harry corrected and then coughed, “would sooner hex me than heal me.”