Harry Potter’s first potions lesson had been—interesting. The professor, Snape, had shown a great and apparent dislike towards Harry, but there was an anomaly. Harry would be sure to figure it out. He had checked his facts and gone over the moment in his head many times. Now, he would confront the professor.

Harry wanted to know why he hated him so much. He also wanted to know what the professor’s secret was. He had to work himself up to the encounter; after all, Professor Snape was scary.

He made sure that his uniform was correct—no sense in losing more points than he had to, right—pulled his bag onto his shoulder, and grabbed his, now late, potions homework. He made his way out of Gryffindor Tower alone. Each step closer to the dungeons was more daunting than the last.

Harry stood in front of Professor Snape’s office door for a few minutes before he plucked up the courage to knock.

‘You can just hand in the homework and back out, like a coward,’ he said to himself.

Harry was not going to back out. He was no coward. He knocked, and within seconds he heard the deep, low rumble of Professor Snape’s voice.

'Come in.'

Harry paused, running through the details one last time before taking hold of the cold metal handle and twisted it.

It was a small and dismal office. As dark as the potions classroom, and it held only a desk and walls lined with bookshelves. Everything was neat and orderly. A few candles lit the dark, dank room, and there were no windows leaving everything feeling cold.

Professor Snape sat behind a large ebony desk. His head bowed over a pile of parchment, and a long, black quill scratched furiously. He didn’t look up as Harry approached the desk or when the loud scraping of a chair broke the eerie silence.

Harry sat down and waited quietly.

'Spit it out, Potter,' Severus said, finally breaking the silence.

'I wanted to talk to you, sir.' Harry fumbled about in his bag, pulling out a very worn-out piece of parchment. Clearing his throat, he continued, 'I wanted to talk to you about something you said in class.'

Silence reigned once more. Professor Snape continued to work.

'Were you planning on expanding on that thought?' the professor asked eventually.

'You asked me a question, sir,' Harry began. 'What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

The teacher didn’t move or acknowledge the question for some time. The unnaturally loud sound of a quill scraping away on parchment and the movement of Harry’s robes as he fidgeted filled the office.

'Giving me an answer now, after I told it to you, is not very impressive, Potter.'

'I have a different answer, Professor,' Harry said.

He gulped. He was now past the point of no return. His heart was hammering in his chest, thudding in his ears, and all he could do was watch his professor, who seemed to have turned to stone.

'There is only one answer,' he replied, finally looking up. His black eyes were cold, and his expression stern and uncaring. 'Now, if that was all, you may kindly hand in your late essay. I have work to do.'

Once more, the dark professor bowed his head, pulled out a fresh essay, and his long black quill dipped into the red ink, and he began littering the parchment with notes.

There was an air of finality in the room, but Harry felt a surge of bravery. He was not going to give up.

'Did you know that an Asphodel is a type of Lily?’ he said.

Professor Snape’s quill paused, a large splotch of red ink marring the page in front of him.

‘It has a very specific meaning,’ Harry continued. ‘“My regrets follow you to the grave.” My mum was called Lily.’ Harry barely whispered.

Professor Snape was unable to look up, and the tension was palpable. The professor paid rapturous attention to Harry’s words.

‘Wormwood is a symbol of bitterness and sorrow, so if I were to combine those two things, what you were saying is: “I bitterly regret Lily’s death,”’ he said.

Harry found his grip on the arms of the chair were now white-knuckled, and his skin prickled. He waited for the professor’s reaction, any reaction at all, but there was none.

The dark man was frozen where he sat. He didn’t speak or move. The quill in his hand trembled, though, and red ink continued to drip onto the parchment, utterly unnoticed by the professor.

The silence was unbearable, but Harry tried to wait for the professor to break it. The temptation to say something, maybe even to take it all back, consumed Harry, and still, the Professor didn’t do a thing.

'This was basically the first thing you said to me.' Harry buckled under the pressure, and as he did, he felt more like a Gryffindor than he did before.

'I can tell you dislike me,’ Harry continued. ‘I can see how angry you are every time you talk to me. You were angry when you asked me that question, so don’t lie to me. You were angry, but behind that, you couldn’t bear to say the words. There was pain, too.'

The professor still didn’t move, and Harry, like a runaway train, continued.

'I have been lied to all my life, so I can tell when it’s happening. I watched people because my aunt wouldn’t let them talk to me. I learnt to read people, and I know you can lie. I bet you’re really good at it. Please don’t. I know you knew her—' Harry’s voice cracked.

The coiled emotion that had been wound so tightly over the last eleven years started to unwind. Before Harry knew what was happening, it was spiralling, breaking through the carefully built walls. Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and desperation seeped into every word he said.

'I know that you knew my mum,' he cried. 'Please, I just want to know about her. Do you have a picture of her? Can you believe I haven’t seen my own mum?'

The dark professor moved an inch at a time until he was staring Harry in the face. His expression was stiff, angry, and unmoving, and it frightened Harry. It told him that he wasn’t going to get what he was looking for. That was scarier than Professor Snape deducting one hundred points from Gryffindor.

'How dare you,' he began. 'You think you can come here and pry into my personal life? You are—'

'—No!' Harry interrupted.

He surprised himself by shouting. Professor Snape gaped at Harry.

'If you cared about her at all, you would tell me something—anything,’ said Harry. ‘I’m the son she couldn’t look after, so you tell me about her. That’s what she would have done. If you miss her, if you are sorry she’s gone, you would do the right thing. You would let me see her, just once!'

'I do not know where you got this insane idea from,' he began, trying to adopt a far calmer demeanour, but the Professor was shaken.

'Don’t lie! It’s not a coincidence. That’s what it means. That’s what you said to me.'

'And you are sure those are the actual meanings?' the professor asked, looking down at Harry.
Harry took a deep breath. He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a very worn, very old-fashioned gardening book.

'Yes. I spend far too much time in my cupboard with nothing to do my read my Aunt Petunia’s old gardening books,' Harry said, his tone less angry and more resentful. 'I also went to the library and double-checked.'

Professor Snape’s face faltered. The anger slipped, and he raised his eyebrows infinitesimally. The shock passed, and he let out a breath, his shoulders relaxed, and his quill was placed gently to one side.

With daring hope, Harry asked once more. 'You did know her, didn’t you?'

'Yes,' he replied. 'I do not want to talk about it.'

Usually, when Professor Snape talked, he had a harsh, biting quality, but now his voice was devoid of life. Flat, empty words came out, almost as if he were admitting to liking a cup of tea at supper.

'My aunt never told me anything about my parents—well, nothing good. Can you at least tell me what you remember?'

Hope seemed to slip as every action Snape now made was deliberate, chosen, and gave nothing away. There were walls that would not be scaled wrapped tightly around the place where memories of Harry’s mother resided.

'I just want to know what she was like,' he whispered, sliding from his chair and picking up his book bag.

The professor stood, towering over Harry. 'She never took no for an answer either,' he replied in a quiet voice.

Harry watched as the intimidating silhouette of voluminous black robes floated over to the bookcase. Harry jumped back into the seat, the book bag dropped at his side, forgotten.

'When I first saw you in class, you were very defiant, just like your father! Just so you know, that isn’t a compliment. If you wish to speak of him, you will not like what you hear.' He pulled out an old battered wooden box, turning and setting it on top of the ink-soaked parchment.

Harry was transfixed. He had never heard him sound so gentle, and the way he touched the box, it was as though it were the most precious of relics. He lifted the lid with great care, shielding the contents from view, and Harry sat watching avidly.

'Were you in love with her once?’ The words tumbled out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop them. ‘That’s why you don’t like my dad or me, isn’t it?'

'Your mother and I were friends for a long time. We were not friends when we left Hogwarts, and we hadn’t been for some time. I will say no more. I will, however, tell you what she was like. Merlin knows Petunia won’t.'

'You knew Aunt Petunia?' Harry’s mouth fell open.

'She was a horrible, spiteful child, and I am not surprised that grew to be a horrible and spiteful adult. She was jealous of your mother and her gift.' The professor smirked, but it was lighter than the one he wore every day.

'Jealous? But Aunt Petunia hates magic. I got locked in my cupboard for a week because of magic. I mean, I didn’t know it was magic. She never told me anything about it!'

'You keep mentioning a cupboard?' he asked as he began mopping up the red ink. It was only then that he lifted pieces of parchment and photographs from his wooden box.

'Yeah, I don’t have to stay in my cupboard now, not since the first Hogwarts letter arrived.' Harry grinned.

'You lived in an actual cupboard?' he asked, looking down his nose at Harry.

Harry nodded, but he didn’t look at the professor. His eyes were glued to the photographs.

Snape held them so delicately, his hands close to his chest. He eyed Harry as though handing them over was possibly the worst thing that he could imagine.

'I’ll give them back, I promise,’ Harry said.

The professor didn’t hand them over, though. He looked at each one in turn as if committing it to memory.

‘I have Dudley’s second bedroom, now. There are more books in there, and I am pretty sure Dudley can’t read.’ Harry sat up straight in his chair, and his neck stretched as far as it could. The pictures still lay in the professor’s greedy hands.

'Did you ever tell anyone that you lived in a cupboard? It’s not something that the authorities, Muggle or Magical, generally allow.'

'I tried, but somehow nothing ever happened. Loads of teachers promised, and then it would be like they didn’t even remember? It was strange,’ Harry said, half-heartedly, his attention focused on the small collection held in the professor’s slender hands.

The professor frowned and finally handed over a few small photographs. 'She was the kindest person in the world. So very forgiving.'

Harry then saw the professors smile for the first time. It wasn’t like a usual person’s smile because it didn’t reach the eyes, and instead of showing happiness, it was filled with the bittersweet. Professor Snape’s smile was all sadness and regret.

'She was smart too and very good at potions,’ he continued, his voice low, and for the first time, weak.

'Really? I was looking forward to potions more than anything.' Harry grinned, but he focused only on the pictures.

She was young in the pictures, pulling funny faces with a very young-looking Professor Snape. In one, she made a daisy chain, and in another, she wore it. Some of them were Muggle photographs and some of them magical, Harry’s favourite being one where his mum tried to wrestle Snape into wearing a long daisy necklace.

'Ruined it, did I?' he asked.

'When you told me off…' Harry mumbled, tears pricking his eyes as he watched his mother, as a child, studying, seemingly she had no idea that the picture was even taken.

'You were making rather diligent notes,' said the Professor, in what felt like an olive branch.

'Yeah, and then you made me feel stupid.' He looked up, defiance in his eye. 'That puts a kid off, you know.'

'I know.'

'You want to hate me, don’t you?'

'It is far easier. If I were to see your mother, that would be very difficult for me. Hate is far less painful than regret.'

Harry blinked. Glancing up at the professor for just a moment, he didn’t focus on his mother’s beautiful face, her bright green eyes, or her rich auburn hair. Harry placed the photographs back into the Professor’s waiting hands.

'You make it difficult. Take the pictures,’ Snape said, handing the little stack back. ‘Maybe we can speak about her another time.'

The heart to heart was over. Harry collected the pictures, handling them just as delicately as the professor had, placing them in his potions textbook.

He placed the late homework on the desk, and as he made his way to the door, the professor spoke again.

'You deserve far more than a cupboard, Harry.'