They say that love and hatred are two sides of the same coin.

Severus had always understood this to mean that love could change to hatred, the coin turning slowly, like a waterwheel, under the pressure of events. Such as it had been with Lily, where all his little mistakes, his misjudgements, had heaped together, forcing her friendship to turn into dislike, apathy. 

Perhaps James should have shown him that the waterwheel could spin the other way, that small good deeds, tiny indicators of kindness, fairness, self-control, could push the waterwheel the other way, turning hate into love.

He wondered if it had come as much as a surprise to Lily when she looked at James and realised that she saw, not the big-headed, bullying toe-rag but a decent man, one who she wanted to know better. One who she could love.

Of course, romantic love was different; the old adage ‘love is blind’ was certainly true- Narcissa would deny in all sincerity that Lucius was a puffed up old peacock who, despite his predilection for the gothic, was as much cut out to be a death-eater as Neville Longbottom.  He was only here to look for Draco, the Dark Lord knew that all too well.

Draco. The poor boy. How long would he survive once the Dark Lord realised? No wonder the Elder Wand had not been working as well, tied to that stupid, soft-hearted child. Even Potter was more ruthless, the boy had resolve and, moreover, motive; people were out to kill him and those he loved. Poor Nymphadora and the werewolf, Potter’s last link to his parents. That would sting. The Weasleys too, were bound to catch it. The Dark Lord knew that Potter loved Molly like a mother- what better way to tempt him out than slaughtering them? The man was Shere Khan. He merely hoped that she wiped out the bitch first. And the damn snake.

Severus reached for his neck, focussing fuzzily on the damp redness on his fingers. He stretched his mind, trying to remember how blood magic worked. Could he, somehow, do something with this? Arterial blood, jugular blood was valuable. He could work some protection using it, he was sure of that. But how? How?

 Since that awful, October night Severus had worked to protect Harry, for Lily’s sake, so her sacrifice would not be in vain. He had still believed, wholeheartedly, that this was his motivation when he released his patronus in the tower. Dumbledore, eyes blinded by tears, had seen a doe.

Severus, whose eyes were forever forsaken by tears, saw the budding horns. A young stag, barely more than a fawn.

“The wanton soldiers riding by, have shot my fawn and it will die…”

It was a long time before he could bring himself to admit it, but, somehow, the wheel had turned for him, as surely as it had for Lily. Hours of scrying had been of no avail, Severus could not pinpoint the event that made his perceptions shift. Unless, of course, it was the realisation that Dumbledore, Potter’s strongest protector, was merely a shepherd protecting his lamb until it was ripe for slaughter. Even an arrogant, reckless, rude little brat did not deserve such callousness; Potter might have deserved a good thrashing but death? Of Age or not, he was still a child!

All the scrying had done was to show Severus a different Potter, vulnerable under the bravado, desperate under the recklessness. And the rudeness had, possibly, been a natural reaction to a teacher who would never allow him the benefit of the doubt. Why be polite to someone who would find fault regardless?

As the memories were reviewed, his pity increased; how obvious now the meaning of those Christmases and Easters at Hogwarts? How clear the implications of the thinner, paler child who arrived every year, in scuffed, too large trainers and broken glasses, his homework scribbled, rushed, as if it had been completed on the train- so different from the work handed in during term-time.  No owls arrived with letters or packages, save those which bought gifts for his friends.

Unwanted and unloved at home, the gilded cage at Hogwarts must have seemed like paradise, even if he had to share it with the occasional manticore.   

Poor little boy. Poor, poor little boy. The thoughts dripped, gathering weight, momentum. The coin flipped. An aching tenderness for the child who would forever hate him.

Severus closed his eyes. He was tired. Everything hurt, including his heart. He had tried to warn Harry, tried to sneak away to tell him but to no avail. Perhaps the child would not have listened anyway.

When Severus reopened his eyes, they met the green, troubled stare of the child closest to his heart. For a second, he wondered whether this was the afterlife, whether all had been in vane and Potter had died. It was only the realisation that, whereever he was headed, Potter was going to be somewhere rather better that made Severus’ failing senses take in the darkness of the tunnel, the dirty, thin faces of Ron and Hermione peeking over Harry’s shoulder. There was still time.

He could not remember any blood spells but occulmancy had been his domain as water was to a duck. He could share his memories, show Potter, show him what he needed to know, so he could choose. Choose to eascape. He hoped the boy would choose to escape.

Severus watched as the thoughts were gathered, like smoke being scooped into a tube. Harry had to know, he would know. Severus hoped, a small, poignant, self-indulgent hope, that one of the memories collected would be of his realisation, of his new understanding of the boy. He did not want to die with Harry thinking that he hated him.

“Look at me” he heard himself saying. Harry’s green- heartbreakingly green- eyes met his. Pity, sorrow perhaps understanding reflected through the cracked, grubbly glasses. Severus tried to convey his regret, his sympathy, his sorrow over the missed chances, the lost opportunities for mentorship, friendship, even fatherhood. He could have been a father to this poor, lonely, rejected little boy. He should have been.

All Harry saw was agony.