I Only Live For You

Let me clarify something for a moment. Divest yourself of any preconceived notion you may have of me.

I was not a nice man.

Perhaps, as Dumbledore always said, and many now profess, I was a good man, even a brave man. I certainly deserve the honors they posthumously piled upon me, if I do not desire them.

I shall now speak of Harry Potter.

You know how I felt about the boy. And it is true, as Dumbledore pointed out, that I was blinded by my hatred for his father, whatever impression he may have made upon me was fettered by the innumerable impressions forced upon me by James Potter.

But those eyes…

I spent ten years with my promise to Dumbledore at the back of my mind. Harry Potter was not a real person at this point, merely the son of one I hated, and of one I loved, and one who I had pledged to protect.

That all changed when Minerva led that class into the Great Hall for their sorting. I usually played my part well during this time, clapping loudly for whatever spoiled, conniving ingrate was sorted into my House. But that year, I could not keep up my act after those two words rang out to the Hall.

“Potter, Harry.”

I later discovered that he had nearly been sorted into Slytherin; the shard of Voldemort’s soul and his own considerable cunning drew him.

What would I have done then? How would I have treated him?

I cannot say.

It was to great relief, then, that he was sorted into Gryffindor, like his parents. Safe in a house that I could openly despise.

I met his eyes for the first time, that night. He looked up at the high table, and of course I was already looking at him, trying to shake that fool Quirrel from speaking to me.

Even from a somewhat long distance, I could see his green eyes, and my heart broke as I remembered Dumbledore’s words, ten years prior.

“He has her eyes, Severus. Precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’ eyes, don’t you?”

Of course I did.

That was the year, of course, that Dumbledore played host to the Philosopher’s Stone, and therefore pulled a curious mirror from the bowels of Hogwart’s storage, housing it in an unused classroom before adding it to the magical protection of the Stone.

It was pure chance that he happened to find me coming out of my chambers early that term, and elicited my help in taking it upstairs. He had other things to attend to.

Suffice to say that from the moment I pulled the protective sheet from the Mirror’s surface, I never wanted to leave it.

There was Lily. We held hands, smiled, laughed, kissed…her soft red hair…her green eyes…I collapsed to the floor, stayed there all day, watching her…watching us…

All that could have been.

I returned, every spare moment I had. This was, after all, the reason for my continued existence. I lived and breathed for Lily. I knew it was a flat, lifeless mockery of her, but it was more than I’d had in years… I pressed my palms to the glass…as if hoping to fall through…my Lily…

This continued for far too long, but respite came in a strange form. One night, the door opened and shut rapidly. I looked sharply up from the fantasy life I was living in the mirror, and could see nothing, but I cast a heavy disillusionment charm on myself immediately, retreating back into a corner. I thought, perhaps, Quirrell’s friendly parasite had directed him here, or that Dumbledore might have come looking for me, and give me some kind of stern talking to.

My fears turned out to be unfounded. The small, disobedient head of Harry Potter emerged from under his damned father’s invisibility cloak, in front of the mirror. Of course, I could see only his reflection.

I crept my way slowly to the door, but then he spoke. It was not the breaking of the silence that startled me, it was the word itself…

”Mum?” he said, reaching out to the mirror, just like I had been.

We both wanted the same person, more than anything else in the world.

The deepest desire of our hearts. Lily.

I chose to ignore this thing I had in common with Harry Potter. It was comfortable hating him, taking out my unresolved anger at his father by doing my utmost to make him miserable.

He spent those years becoming more and more like his mother, while looking more and more like his father. I cannot explain the torment this caused in my mind, only to point at my treatment of him. The petulant things he often said to me rang more of Lily’s cheek than of James Potter’s rampant disobedience.

At any rate, that is how I felt about the boy.

How I felt about the man, however, was a different story.

Granted, I had very little time to revise my opinion of him before I died. But by then, I had come, grudgingly, to respect Harry Potter, to see that he was Lily’s son indeed. The little I knew of what he was doing during that year I spent as Headmaster struck me greatly.

True, I wondered what hell’s name was taking him so long, but I have always been a patient man.

I knew that a considerable amount of his skill at avoiding capture was due to Hermione Granger, who was far more intelligent a witch than I ever let on to her face (at times, she sickeningly reminded me of Lily) and Ronald Weasley, a seemingly idiot boy who nonetheless spent far too much time winning at chess to be completely unintelligent.

But I had, often to my extreme displeasure, taught Harry Potter for six years. The last year spent as his Defense Professor gave me an insight to how intelligent and skilled he actually was. Respect began to creep in, though still tempered by hate.

After my death, Harry Potter spent quite a bit of time and energy in making sure I was treated as a hero. I was given a grave on the right hand side of Dumbledore’s tomb, my portrait was added to those of the Headmasters of Hogwarts, and, most odd of all, he named his son after me. True, it was only his middle name, and he was brothers with James Sirius Potter, but his first name was Albus, and he was also brothers with Lily Potter. I lived with this. Or did not live, rather.

I still fail to grasp why he did this; gave me this most high honor, bestowed to his parents, godfather, and mentor, who all died so that he could live. I certainly did not do that. I died out of pure stupidity on the part of an egomaniac. And, to his knowledge, I hated him until my last breath.

It is somehow fitting, though, that my last moments were spent with him, one who I had expended so much irrational energy into despising.

I am eternally grateful to whatever irrational bout of egotism the Dark Lord felt that dissuaded him from simply killing me with Avada Kedavra.

Nagini was considerably more painful, and far more terrifying, but I lived for a few moments more, allowing me to give the necessary memories to Harry Potter, in order for him to destroy the Dark Lord.

And I saw Lily’s eyes, one more time.