Snape awoke in the middle of the night with the weary sense that something was amiss. Indeed, a sphere on the shelf next to his bed was emitting a pink light and whirring softly. Had it been a true invasion, one with dark intent, the sphere would have alarmed shrilly. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He hadn’t thought to disable the wards when he’d deposited Potter in his refuge. Considering the day Potter had had, he wasn’t surprised the boy was awake. The dreamless sleep potion might prevent nightmares, but it didn’t guarantee a restful night’s sleep.

Pulling a robe over his nightshirt, Snape made his way across his quarters to the stairs that lead to where Potter was. He didn’t stop to question his actions as to why he was bothering to check on his charge. The haunting image of Diggory still played in his mind. He’d seen death too many times for it to have much impact on him, but surely Potter was not as numb to its effects.

Snape’s eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight of the refuge as he padded down the stairs. To his surprise, he found Potter standing before the painting of the woman, hand outstretched, one finger caressing the canvas.

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

Snape paused midway on the staircase. The boy certainly had acute hearing, though from what Snape had gathered of the boy’s upbringing, and what he knew of his own, any forewarning of an attack was valuable information. He cleared his throat before answering in a sleep-graveled voice, “What makes you think that?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry replied, shrugging. “And she kept looking at me, as if trying to tell me something.” Dropping his hand from the painting, he said, “It’s her eyes. They’re my eyes.”

Yes they are, Snape thought as he watched the boy continue to study the painting.

“And there’s something else,” Harry added, cocking his head to one side. “I can’t quite remember, but it’s so familiar to me. When I stand here,” he said, gesturing to the spot where he was, “It’s…it’s as if she’s here with me. I can almost hear her singing to me…”

Snape grasped the hand railing, hard. Potter wasn’t even talking to him anymore, he was voicing his thoughts aloud. But Snape had often felt it too, Lily’s presence.

“And I smell something good and warm and spicy, like cinnamon and sugar, when I stand here.” He shifted his stance unconsciously, scenting the air. “Maybe a touch of vanilla or cloves. And something citrusy, like lemons, or oranges…”

Snape stared at Potter in shocked amazement. Surely Potter couldn’t remember what Lily had smelled like; after all, he had been just a baby when she died.

Harry heaved a deep sigh. “It’s my fault she’s dead,” he said, turning his back on the painting and walking over to the arrangement of furniture in the center of the room. He flopped into the chair next to the couch. “They’re all dead because of me. My mum, my dad, Cedric…”

Snape continued to stand where he was, rooted to the spot. Who was this teenager sitting on his favorite chair,  speaking like someone much older than his almost 15 years? Where was the woe-is-me attitude? Where was the pampered boy he’d assumed had been a replica of James Potter? Who was this shadow of a child with the haunted green eyes who’d seen too much?

“Potter,” Snape growled, finally descending the rest of the stairs into the enchanted room. “Enough self-pity. It is beyond egotistical to believe you are responsible for the Dark Lord’s whims.” Snape raised an eyebrow, waiting for the boy’s response. Potter shrugged and raised his eyes, meeting Snape’s gaze for the first time that evening. 

“You knew my mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Obviously,” Snape replied.

“How?”

“How what, Potter?”

“How did you know her? How did you meet?” Harry’s gaze hardened with determination. “What was she like?”

Snape turned away from the boy’s intense gaze and walked over to the kitchenette. With a wave of his wand, he lit the small stove. He took down a chipped blue china tea pot from a hook over the sink and filled it with warm water.

“I met your mother when we were children,” Snape said, adding two tea bags to the kettle. “We lived in the same neighborhood.” Snape set the kettle atop the low flames to simmer. Then he opened the cabinets, sorting methodically through their contents. Taking down a crystal jar of sugar, he said, “I was the one who told her she was a witch.”

“Bet that went over well,” Harry commented with a laugh.

Snape almost smiled. “Indeed,” he replied. “She thought I was insulting her.” Snape found two matching tea cups and set them on a tray along with the jar of sugar. “In any case, we became friends.” He pulled out a tin of dried chamomile leaves and added them to the bottom of the tea cups. “We were inseparable over the summers.”

Silence met this statement and Snape was perversely satisfied to see the amount of discomfort this gave Potter. It was clear that the boy could not imagine his mother being friends with someone the likes of Severus Snape.

“What was she like?” he asked again.

Snape glanced at the picture on the wall. The familiar intense wave of longing hit him as he watched her push her shimmering curls from her face. She was so beautiful. He looked away and cleared his throat. “She was an amazing witch,” he whispered.

Snape pulled the whistling tea pot from the stove and poured the steaming liquid into the two chipped mugs, watching the charmed leaves dissolve into the light amber tea. Setting aside the tea pot, he lifted the tray, and walked toward Potter. In the next instant, pain shot viciously up his arm, causing him to stumble. Tea sloshed ominously over the rims of the cups. The Dark Lord had run out of patience.

Harry sipped the mug of tea that Snape had left for him. He’d watched as Snape had added some extra herbs, presumably to help Harry sleep, he realized, as he became more tired with each sip. He had hoped that Snape would say more about Lily, but it seemed that Harry’s relentless pursuit of the subject had only managed to infuriate the older wizard. Snape had nearly dropped the tray of tea when Harry asked what his mother was like, and when Snape had recovered, his face was pale and set in grim lines. He’d set a mug on the table in front of Harry, rather harder than was necessary, and instructed Harry to drink it. Then, Snape had hurried up the stairs, rubbing his arm as he went. He hadn’t even taken his own tea cup with him. It sat on the tray on the other end of the coffee table, chipped and a bit lopsided. Harry titled his head to make it appear straight in his field of vision. As exhaustion lapped at the edges of his consciousness, Harry wondered why Snape was so reluctant to discuss Lily Evans Potter. Shrugging, he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t notice how the shadows outside the window had darkened and become more menacing, or that an eerie stillness had settled over the landscape.