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17th December, 1991
It was a Tuesday. Severus hated Tuesdays.
For a start, he had to wake up on Tuesdays. That would have sufficed. Yes, he had to wake up every other day of the week, too, and he hated that fact just as much. But there were so many other excellent reasons to loathe a Tuesday.
For instance, on Tuesday Severus had to endure two whole hours of lessons with the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. This meant that, although Draco was a fairly pleasant face to have around, Severus had to share the dungeon classroom with Harry Potter for two entire, slow, excruciating hours.
But that wasn’t all—oh, no. It wasn’t enough to wake up on a Tuesday and find himself stuck in a room with James Potter’s son. On top of that, that particular Tuesday was damn near Christmas.
Enchanted snow fell all over the castle. Christmas trees floated in all their colourful glee in every classroom he had the misfortune to enter. Far too cheerful ghosts, considering their nature, drifted along every corridor Severus passed through, making him long to finally find an answer to one of the most intriguing questions in the history of the Dark Arts: If Unforgivable Curses specifically attack their target’s soul, and ghosts are, by definition, lost souls, what exactly would happen if someone cast an Avada Kedavra on them?
It was a struggle, but Severus eventually managed to reach the Great Hall without casting any Unforgivable Curses. He was the first to arrive at the High Table, as often happened. Every day, he arrived early in the irrational hope that, by doing so, he might also be able to leave early. Without fail, it never happened.
He sat in his usual place and waited the customary ten minutes before the other members of the teaching staff and the students took their places at their respective tables. When Dumbledore clapped his hands and food appeared before him, Severus approached it with the mild nausea that had plagued him more or less since the day he was born. He gripped his fork, brought it towards a roast potato and speared it.
Before bringing it to his lips, he made the mistake of letting his sullen gaze wander over the rest of the Great Hall. For no more than an instant, he met the green eyes of the Boy Who Lived. His hand froze mid-air above his plate, and his expression took on the disgust that the sight provoked every bloody time.
Harry noticed; he always did. And Severus knew it. He had known it from the moment their eyes first met, on the very first day the boy set foot in Hogwarts. He could read it on his face: the arrogance and defiance with which he dared to return his gaze. Severus never misread people’s faces. Like father…
His appetite vanished. He unceremoniously put his fork down on his plate and looked elsewhere, arms crossed. For the rest of the dinner, all he did was empty his goblet of wine, wait for it to refill with the usual charm, and empty it again—an activity he fully intended to persist with once he returned to his quarters.
But that Tuesday really wasn’t his day, and while the other diners went off to rest with full stomachs, Severus, with his empty one, was stopped before he could reach the doors.
“Severus?”
He turned. A few steps behind him, with his unnervingly gentle demeanour and the irritatingly calm gaze of someone who knows something the rest of the world doesn’t, stood Albus Dumbledore. He peered at Severus from behind his half-moon glasses and took a measured step forward.
“Might I have a word?” he asked with a smile.
‘No’ was the answer Severus longed to give. With great reluctance, but careful not to show it, all he did was nod slowly and follow the Headmaster out of the Great Hall.
They reached the statue of the gargoyle in what would have been a pleasant silence if it hadn’t been for Dumbledore’s irritating humming. The Headmaster whispered the usual password—“Sherbet Lemon”—which made Severus roll his eyes for no legitimate reason. They climbed the spiral staircase, reached the office, and Dumbledore politely gestured for Severus to go first.
It was the usual office, filled with the usual silver trinkets scattered across the desk, the tall, dusty bookshelves, and the portraits of the former headmasters hanging along the walls. The only difference from the last time he had been there, Severus observed, was that instead of chirping cheerfully on his perch in the corner of the room, Fawkes the phoenix was spasmodically opening its beak in what should have been discontented cries, but without making a sound.
He frowned. “What’s happened to it?”
“Hmm?” Dumbledore replied absently. “Ah…”
He approached the phoenix cautiously and tried to soothe it by stroking its head gently.
“An old acquaintance of mine came to visit quite recently,” he explained, shaking his head in mild disapproval. “I’m afraid the absence of silence within these walls was misinterpreted as a deliberate provocation.”
Severus, his eyes still fixed on Fawkes, turned quickly towards the Headmaster. It took him a moment to grasp the implication. When it did, he had to make a considerable effort not to snigger.
“Did someone… mute your bird?” he asked, miraculously managing to sound deadpan.
Dumbledore seemed to notice the spark of sadistic amusement behind that facade. His tone was slightly graver when he muttered, “Yes…”
Severus nodded with utterly false indifference and took a few steps forward. “Why don’t you cast a counterspell on it?”
The Headmaster shook his head. “I’ve tried,” he replied. “Apparently, it is not the work of a spell. I suspect a potion.”
Severus stopped. His frown deepening, he shifted his gaze between the man and the phoenix several times. “Muteness Potion?”
“That’s the most likely hypothesis, wouldn’t you say?”
“Muteness Potion wears off within hours,” Severus countered.
Dumbledore gave a slow nod. “I suspect a potion specifically designed to achieve this…” He cast a sombre look at Fawkes and sighed. “Brilliant result.”
There was a brief silence. Perhaps thanks to the wine, or perhaps because of the profound contempt he had always felt for that bird and its incessant chirping, Severus simply couldn’t prevent a hint of sarcasm from creeping into his voice.
“Someone went through the trouble of modifying the Muteness Potion recipe to… to mute your… your…” He couldn’t finish the sentence without the risk of a snort.
Dumbledore shot him a look that bordered on the scolding. “Yes, Severus,” he replied in all seriousness. “Someone did.”
“Who on earth would do such a thing?” he asked wryly.
The Headmaster closed his eyes for a moment and let out another deep sigh. “I have quite a few odd acquaintances.”
“I can see that,” Severus replied.
He resumed advancing towards the phoenix. He was now studying it the way one might examine a particularly intriguing dark artefact.
“Do you reckon you could brew an antidote?” asked Dumbledore.
Severus stopped again, turned and looked up at him with an arched eyebrow. “Am I here to unmute your bird?”
The other gave him a long stare, then sighed for a third time. “No,” he admitted wearily. “No, I suppose we have more urgent matters to address.”
He finally let go of Fawkes’ head and the bird resumed its futile attempts to chirp. He crossed the office until he reached the opposite corner and stopped in front of something that Severus hadn’t noticed before. It was something tall and solid, covered by a sort of large purple cloak. Intrigued, he approached the Headmaster quickly and stopped in front of it.
“What is it?”
Dumbledore blinked a few times too many. Severus read a quiet sorrow, perhaps even a hint of guilt, in the smile he gave him a moment later. He grasped the cloak by one of its edges and pulled it away decisively.
Severus started, then froze. Before him was a large mirror, with an inscription at the top that left no doubt about its nature. Dumbledore had mentioned it to him at the beginning of the year. It took him no more than an instant to connect the sight with what he had been told.
“This is…” he breathed. “It’s the mirror… is it that mirror?”
Dumbledore nodded. “The Mirror of Erised,” he confirmed softly.
The Mirror of Erised, Severus repeated to himself. He thought back to the Headmaster’s own definition as he had explained its purpose.
The happiest man on earth would look in the mirror and see only himself just as he is.
He stood still, staring at it. It took a few moments for the concept to make space in his crowded mind. Here was a mirror whose purpose was to show those who dared to look into it their deepest desires… and here he was, standing in front of it.
He watched his reflection slowly transform into… something else. He let out a hissing breath and hurriedly moved away, his gaze fixed on the floor.
“Why are you showing me this?” he spat, his face twisted in disgust.
Dumbledore, equally careful to stand anywhere but in front of the mirror, sighed.
“I’m afraid I exercised poor judgement, Severus,” he explained.
Reaching for the wand he had left on his desk, he gave it a wave and once more covered the mirror’s surface.
“I asked for it to be moved to Hogwarts so that I could use it to secure the Philosopher’s Stone. But I made the mistake of doing so before understanding exactly how…” He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing up and down the office. “I naively assumed that keeping it hidden in an isolated wing of the castle in the meantime would be sensible.”
Severus followed him with his gaze, his eyes narrowed. “Someone has found it?”
Dumbledore shot him a fleeting, guilty look. “Yes,” he murmured. “Someone has found it. And, as is only natural for a young mind, he lost himself in it…”
“Ah,” Severus muttered. “So a student, then. Who?”
The Headmaster stopped walking and turned towards him. In his next glance, Severus read far more than just the mild regret he had seen moments before. He grasped the implication immediately.
“Potter,” he snarled, spitting the name, as he always did, as if it were an obscenity. He flashed a malevolent grin. “He’s been wandering around parts of the castle he’s not allowed to be in, hasn’t he?”
Dumbledore took a deep breath but didn’t answer.
“I told you as soon as he arrived,” Severus insisted, taking a step forward. “He’s just like his father. Insolent. Reckless. Entirely disrespectful of the rules imposed on him for his own safety. Keeping him here will cause more problems than it’ll solve, believe me, Headmaster—”
“We’re not here to discuss whether Harry should be at Hogwarts, Severus,” Dumbledore interrupted.
Severus looked him in the eye for a long moment. “No?” he asked.
“No,” the other replied, shaking his head.
“Then why?”
Dumbledore lowered his gaze. He seemed to have suddenly lost the ability to meet his eyes—a behaviour that Severus understood immediately. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. The old man was about to ask him to do something he most definitely wasn’t going to like.
“I need someone to keep it safe,” he confessed. “I need to know it’s somewhere no one can find it until I’ve determined exactly how to use it.”
Severus understood again, and hated it even more than he had anticipated.
“And you expect me to keep it?” he scoffed incredulously. “Me? Of all the residents of the castle?”
He took another step forward and fixed his gaze on him, as if challenging him to look him in the eye. But he didn’t.
“Why?”
“Because I trust you, Severus.”
At that, all the anger he had kept under control burst onto his face. His nostrils flared and his expression twisted into a grimace of pure contempt.
“Of course you trust me!” he blurted out. “But shouldn’t the very reason you trust me be precisely what makes it inappropriate to ask me to keep such… such a thing…” He gestured towards the covered mirror, but couldn’t finish the sentence.
The Headmaster didn’t reply. He gave Severus another hesitant look, and he understood that what he was receiving was not a request at all. It was an order. Part of his rage was replaced by outright panic.
“You can ask Minerva,” he insisted, his tone almost a plea. “Or Flitwick. Anyone but me!”
“No one understands the situation as well as you and I—”
“THEN YOU KEEP IT YOURSELF!” he roared.
Dumbledore flinched. He remained silent for another long moment, then finally raised his head slightly. He returned Severus’ furious glare with a weak smile.
“Severus…” he said softly. “Please.”
There was something in that look. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but which resonated with his own pain. He wondered what Dumbledore saw when he looked in the mirror. He wondered if it was as atrocious as what he would have seen. He told himself that it hardly mattered—for it was him, after all, who had just been burdened with the duty of freeing the old bastard from the shadows of his past.
He lowered his head and let out a bitter laugh. He couldn’t say no. Severus had never been able to say no to him, and he was fairly certain that one day that fact alone would be his downfall.
Instead of replying, he turned and stormed out of the office, his cloak billowing behind him in a furious black wave. Dumbledore knew that gesture was as good as a yes.
When he woke up the next day, in a foul mood, with a pounding headache and an even worse knot in his stomach, he found the mirror in his quarters. It was right there in his small sitting room, facing the armchair he usually sat in, in front of the second armchair that had been empty ever since he had inherited those rooms. That morning, he managed to give it only a grimace of disgust before turning away and continuing with his day as if it didn’t exist.
The problem came that evening, and the one after that. Every evening until the end of the week, Severus returned to his quarters after lessons to find it stationed in front of his favourite armchair; the only place in the world where occasionally, with a book in one hand and a glass in the other, he would allow himself to feel safe.
On the first night, he simply gave up drinking. He went straight to the short corridor and disappeared behind his bedroom door, but he didn’t sleep a wink. He spent the second night shut in his office, busying himself with brewing the antidote for the Muteness Potion just to kill time.
By Friday, the third day, Severus was so tired that he could barely think. That afternoon, while teaching the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, he was so lost in dark thoughts that he barely noticed one of the cauldrons regurgitating the Strengthening Solution he had asked the students to brew. When he realised that the culprit was a Gryffindor, it gave him even more twisted delight than usual.
Without a word, he rose from his desk and approached the unlucky student with slow, menacing steps. The boy—an insufferable know-it-all whom Severus had wanted to punish ever since he set foot in his classroom—lowered his head and swallowed audibly. The Professor grinned as he leaned over his cauldron.
“Let’s see, Robins,” he whispered greasily. “What do we have here?”
He took great satisfaction in the sight of the boy trying to disappear.
“Hmm… it seems to have turned red instead of orange,” he observed coldly. “I suggest you invest your time in revising basic mathematics, Robins, rather than attending my Potions classes. It appears that you cannot count to two, given that that was the number of Snake Fangs you were supposed to add.”
The boy shuddered, but only for a moment. Then he frowned and managed to return the Professor’s piercing gaze with surprising, irritating bravado.
“Pro… Professor,” he mumbled. “It… it says four on the board.”
Severus turned around. He realised to his horror that he had been distracted enough to write the instructions incorrectly. Robin hadn’t made a mistake: he had simply been the first to reach that stage of the preparation. That was why his cauldron was the only one regurgitating.
He hesitated. His brain worked frantically to find a solution, and the hatred, rage and pain he had been harbouring for days certainly didn’t help him to find a reasonable one. He gripped his wand beneath his cloak and gave it an almost imperceptible flick. The 4 on the board quickly changed into a 2.
“Five points from Gryffindor, Robins,” he announced, his nose held high.
Ignoring the boy’s stifled protests, he prowled between the desks, looking for something to divert attention. He stopped in front of a girl and pretended, far too convincingly, to be examining the contents of her cauldron.
“Acceptable, Barbosa,” he declared. “Five points to Slytherin.”
The girl let out a huge sigh of relief and smiled at him. Severus, aware that he had managed to upset the entire fifth-year Gryffindor class in just two sentences, returned to his desk and revelled in it until the end of the lesson.
But the worst came the following day. That Saturday marked the inevitable start of the Christmas holidays, and Severus found himself with nothing to do. There were no more classes to teach and no work to be done; the antidote he was brewing needed at least a week to rest. Severus had worked out how the culprit behind the attack on Fawkes had modified the Muteness Potion. Whoever it was had been rather clever, and creating an effective antidote was proving more difficult than he had expected.
So Severus had nothing left to think about. On the rare occasions when such a situation occurred, he would usually spend time relaxing in his armchair. But every time he reached his quarters to do so, he found that mirror.
He began to spiral. For a while, he managed to control himself enough to merely fantasise about how he would have liked to repay Albus Dumbledore for forcing him into that miserable predicament.
Then, as always, the anger began to fade. Severus hated it when that happened. Rage, contempt and hatred were the only emotions loud enough to drown out the sound of his pain. When those faded, the noise subsided and the lament, inexorable, made itself heard again.
On Sunday, he began to think. Shut away in his quarters with his hands clasped behind his back, pacing desperately back and forth in front of the armchairs, he began to ask himself questions.
What would he see? He knew it would be her. What else could it possibly be? But what, specifically? Would he see himself holding her in his arms? Would he relive the few happy memories he had with her, the ones that saw him beside her in the library or strolling through the castle corridors? Would he see himself lying next to her under the great oak tree at Spinner’s End?
Or—Merlin forbid—would he see himself in… compromising situations? No, he was fairly certain that wouldn’t happen. Perhaps he would see himself at an altar, watching her walk down the aisle. Severus had never been a supporter of marriage; he had never believed in it. He had witnessed his parents’ one, and that had been enough for him to dismiss the institution as a lie designed to make people feel accepted in a society whose conventions he didn’t agree with. But he would have done it for her. Perhaps he would have even desired it, if only to have the certainty of her being by his side for the rest of his life.
Yes, perhaps that would be it. Maybe he would see himself in a house adorned with the flowers she so adored, wearing a ring and surrounded by screaming children chasing each other around the living room on toy broomsticks. Severus hated children, screaming, and broomsticks. But he would have done that for her, too.
Something far worse than anger or pain occurred: Severus became curious. Curiosity had always been a major problem for him; he had never truly mastered the ability to control it. It was what had first driven him to take an interest in the Dark Arts. More than anything else, it had taken him to places he should never have been and made him do things he should never have done. All his worst mistakes had been the product of hatred, pain, and unhealthy curiosity, and at that moment, Severus felt all three.
On the first Monday of the holidays, he barely managed to resist. But by the following bloody Tuesday, he couldn’t bear it any longer.
It was Christmas Eve and most of the students had gone home. The castle was quiet; quiet enough that it was bearable to spend time somewhere other than the dungeons. The day passed undisturbed and the feast arrived in a flash. As had been the case on every festive occasion for the past ten years, Severus sat at the table with a profound resentment towards anyone who dared wish him a Merry Christmas, and an even greater desire to leave than usual.
He didn’t eat; he drank, and then he drank some more. Even by his standards, he drank a bit too much. He drank to the point where he had to make a conscious effort not to stagger on his way back to his quarters.
“Asphodel,” he murmured. He heard the door open with a click.
He closed it behind him and stood there motionless, his dark gaze fixed on the mirror for a time he soon lost track of. Eventually, he muttered a curse, clenched his teeth, and gave in.
Grimacing with disgust, more at himself than the object of his brooding, he headed to the cupboard against the opposite wall. He opened it and poured himself a glass of Firewhisky. He replaced the bottle, reached his armchair and sat down slowly. He raised the glass to his lips, took a long sip and felt it burn on the way down.
At last, he did it. He sat up straight, raised his head and looked into the mirror.
His heart was in his throat as he waited for the image to take shape. At first, all he could see was himself, holding a glass and wearing an expression of pure terror, which he quickly forced into impassivity. Then it changed suddenly.
There was no altar, nor a single screaming child. No regression to childhood, no compromising situations. There wasn’t even him. There was only her, sitting opposite him in the reflection of his armchair. Her red hair fell gently onto her shoulders, a smile curled her lips and her emerald eyes were deep enough to get lost in them. She looked at him with the comfortable ease of someone meeting a lifelong friend, and simply said, “Hello.”
It took Severus an eternity to react to the vision. For ages, he just sat there, his grip on the glass steadily tightening, staring at the image as if expecting it to change at any moment. But it didn’t; she remained in his armchair as if she belonged there.
Once he had come to terms with it, Severus sprang up from the armchair and turned his back on her. He forced a joyless laugh that would otherwise have been a sob.
“‘Hello’?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “This is my concept of desire? You sitting in an armchair saying ‘hello’?”
He knew he was talking to himself, but he didn’t care. Not when there was a chance that she might actually answer. Lily didn’t, though, not until he turned around again and sat back down opposite her. He leaned forward and ran his free hand over his face.
“Is that all?” he asked softly.
She smiled at him and nodded. “That’s all.”
Severus shook his head. “No… marriage, children, and a decorated tree in front of a crackling fire?”
Lily chuckled. “Do you even want those things?”
He shrugged. His gaze fixed on the glass, he hesitated for a moment before taking a sip large enough to empty it. He took his wand out and refilled it.
“I’m not even there,” he remarked grimly. “Am I not present in my own desires?”
She seemed to think about it for a moment. “Perhaps you’re not,” she replied.
He sucked his teeth. “No, of course I’m not,” he spat. “I’d have to want to exist to be there, wouldn’t I?” He shook his head again and brought the glass to his lips once more. “There’s something deeply wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Severus,” Lily stated.
Severus paused and looked at her again. Those words had never left her lips since the day they met.
Lily cleared her throat and gestured towards his glass. “Is it good?”
He followed her gaze. “What, the Firewhisky?”
She nodded.
Severus parted his lips, but faltered briefly before answering. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Lily smiled warmly at him. “Would you mind putting it on the table?”
He frowned. He stared at her for a moment, but eventually obeyed silently. Slowly, he reached towards the low table between the two armchairs and gently set it down. A glass appeared on the mirror’s surface, and the woman inside leaned forward to grasp its reflection between her fingers. She brought it to her lips, took a long sip and swallowed with a satisfied sound.
He followed her movements in astonishment. “Since… since when do you like Firewhisky?”
She shrugged. “Since now, I suppose.”
Severus let out a laugh—a genuine one, the kind that hadn’t left those lips spontaneously for at least eleven years. He knew that the person before him wasn’t the real Lily, but rather a reflection of his deepest longing. Nevertheless, he felt embarrassed and hurried to retrieve his glass to hide his face behind it.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, his words lacking their usual bitterness.
Lily nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is,” she said. “I mean, the old man could have asked anyone else, couldn’t he? And yet here you are, in pain because he needs a favour. Again…” She huffed.
Severus, his eyes wide, stared at her in disbelief. “It’s… it’s to protect Potter,” he murmured. “It’s… to protect your son that he asked me.”
She frowned and looked at him as if he were mad. “I don’t have a son!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, you do. He is…” His words died in his throat. He had to clear it before he could continue. “He… has your eyes,” he breathed.
“Hmm…” she muttered unconvincingly. She took another sip and leaned forward. “What’s he like? Does he have my attitude? I hope he’s not one of those children who run around screaming and throwing spells in the corridors.”
She said it with a disgusted grimace that left him speechless. Had he stopped to think, had he chosen to be the practical man he had always been, he would have realised that Lily Evans would never have said such a thing. But practicality was long gone by then. And whatever it was, that extraordinary oddity, he refused to give it up.
“He’s insufferable,” he declared. For the first time since he had met the boy, he said it with a smile. “Insolent and reckless. I’ll probably spend the next seven years saving his life.”
Lily laughed. “Of course you will,” she said dryly. “Who else but you, right?”
“Indeed,” he replied, amused.
There was a brief silence. During those empty moments, the reason the boy needed protection loomed large, and Severus regained some of his rationality.
“You’re dead,” he stated, his eyes locked on hers.
Lily smiled faintly. “I know.”
“You died because of me,” he insisted. He said it as if the words held little weight. As if they were merely a fact that perhaps deserved a mention and not the reason he had stopped living ten years earlier.
“I died because of Voldemort, Sev,” she retorted.
“Yes,” he nodded. “But I definitely helped.”
He waited for her reply with specific expectations. He waited to be forgiven. That would have been irrefutable proof that what he had in front of him wasn’t possible. Lily would never forgive him. She hadn’t forgiven him for less in the past. It would’ve been the one thing to break the spell and finally make him see sense. Perhaps what he truly desired was forgiveness. Perhaps that was the meaning of it all.
But all Lily did was lean back in her chair, take a sip and pull a sardonic face that resembled his own all too closely.
“Yes, admittedly not your finest moment,” she said softly. “But it’s not as if we can do anything about it now. Unless you want to talk about it?”
Severus was speechless once again. No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t bring himself to let go of those green eyes. Rationality faltered again.
“No,” he replied. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.”
She gently shook her head. “No, I don’t.” She smiled at him again and resumed drinking.
He smiled back.
Severus and Lily never spoke about that night. They didn’t discuss prophecies, wars or Voldemort either. But they did talk for a long time. They talked until dawn, when Severus finally succumbed to sleep and dozed off in his armchair. When he woke up on Christmas morning, she was still there, and they talked some more.
They talked about anything and everything. They recalled every Christmas they had spent together, from the saddest ones at Spinner’s End to the happiest ones at Hogwarts. They talked about his career as a Professor—Severus spent nearly an hour complaining non-stop. Instead of accusing him of exaggerating, of being pessimistic or of being mean, Lily listened to him in silence when he needed it. She chuckled at his dark humour. She nodded when nodding was appropriate, and shook her head in quiet disapproval every time Severus sought that reaction.
Days passed. Severus forgot about everything except the image of Lily. He forgot about the brewed antidote in his office, as well as the lessons he had planned to prepare before the end of the holidays. He only left to eat, and not as often as he should have done. He spent the rest of the Christmas break there.
He hadn’t been so happy in a long time. He wasn’t even sure if he ever had been. Morbid curiosity soon joined the unfamiliar joy, and Severus definitively lost himself in that mirror. He told himself that his aim was to understand the meaning of it.
“Do I desire to be loved?” he asked the following Friday, dismissing the question as if it were of little consequence.
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Have I ever said ‘I love you’ to you?”
Severus was forced to concede the point with a nod. “I just want you to be alive,” he tried again.
“I wouldn’t know I’m dead if that were the case,” she objected.
“Then I only desire your presence,” he insisted.
“Why on earth would I be talking to you, then?”
In the end, he simply accepted that this was what his happiness looked like. Two people sitting opposite each other with a drink in hand, having a conversation.
And then, inevitably, another Tuesday arrived. It was 31 December, New Year’s Eve, and Severus was more determined than ever to spend it far from the chaos of the celebrations, oblivious to the gatherings organised by the rest of the teaching staff at the Three Broomsticks. There was only one person he wanted to see the first dawn of the new year with, and she was in that mirror.
But it was still a bloody Tuesday. And so, as he rose quickly from the High Table and hurried towards the staircase that would take him to the dungeons, Severus was stopped again by the calm voice of Albus Dumbledore calling his name.
The moment he turned and met his gaze, he knew what it was about. He could read it in every micro-expression on his face and in every measured step he took towards him. He didn’t need to listen as he told him that he had found a way to use it and that the next day, with the new year, the mirror would finally find its new resting place. He simply stood still, watching his lips move, without really hearing the words.
When Dumbledore had finished speaking, Severus nodded. He said nothing, but returned his probing gaze with an attempt at an impassive one. He wasn’t sure if he had been convincing, because the Headmaster offered him a smile that was almost sympathetic—something that was rarely directed at him, and which made him feel violently nauseous. He turned and marched towards his quarters.
He entered and slammed the door behind him. He strode over to the cupboard, took out the usual glass and put it on the table. He waited for Lily to appear in the mirror and grab its reflection.
“What happened?” she asked as soon as she saw him pacing restlessly instead of sitting in his armchair.
Severus forced himself not to panic. He stopped, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Dumbledore is taking the mirror back,” he announced under his breath. “Tomorrow.”
“Ah…” she murmured. She took a sip and shook her head. “He can be quite the bastard.”
Severus was far too distraught to realise that the real Lily would never have spoken of Dumbledore in those terms. He grabbed the glass from the table, downed its contents in one gulp, and resumed pacing.
“Do you think he asked me?” he burst out. “Do you think he stopped for a moment to consider my opinion? That he cared to know… to understand…”
She shook her head. “No, of course not.”
“Of course not!” he repeated furiously. “And why would he?”
He surrendered to his despair. It had happened before, in recent days, that he had allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of her. After all, he told himself, it was just an image in a mirror. No one was really watching him.
He sank into his armchair, head bowed, still clutching the empty glass in his hand.
“I don’t want to,” he breathed. There was almost a sob in his voice as he spoke; a tear fell slowly from the corner of his eye and landed on the low table. “I don’t… want to.”
Lily didn’t speak for a while. She watched him, a faint smile on her face, and slowly moved her hand forward until it touched the mirror’s surface. Severus saw her out of the corner of his eye. He froze for a moment; then he lost control. He imitated her, bringing his free hand to hers. Their fingers touched the mirror just above each other’s, and Severus’ heart beat as it hadn’t since she’d last granted him the honour of her company.
He raised his head slightly and met her gaze. He read no pity on her face; there was only something else. Something he couldn’t pinpoint, but which made him feel unlike anything he had ever felt before. Not even when he’d been in front of the real Lily.
“I know,” she told him softly. She offered him a crooked smile and tilted her head slightly. “It must be the worst New Year’s gift ever given…”
Severus sobbed. It was supposed to be a dry chuckle, but it came out as a lament, confirmed by the tears now streaming down his cheeks. His sarcasm persisted nonetheless.
“It wouldn’t even be the worst,” he stated hoarsely. “He has a terrible habit of gifting socks at Christmas, you know?”
Lily laughed. “Yes, I know… I know he does,” she murmured. “Socks, or those sweets of his that almost bite your fingers off every time you try to eat them. Do you remember? You made me try them the first time we went to Diagon Alley together… what are they called?”
Severus smiled. His fingers flicked against the mirror as if trying to grasp hers. “Liquorice Snaps.”
“Yes, Liquorice Snaps!” she confirmed.
They looked at each other and couldn’t tear their eyes away for what felt like excruciatingly painful minutes. Then Lily smiled again.
“It’s incredible how such an intelligent man can get something so simple so wrong,” she remarked. “I mean, you’re certainly not a complicated person to buy a gift for.”
Severus ran his eyes over her face. “I’m not?”
“No, I wouldn’t say so,” she replied. “You’re the type for… cauldrons. Bottles of whisky, perhaps, or elf-made wine.”
He nodded in silent agreement.
“Or books on the Dark Arts,” Lily added. “Yes, perhaps that would be the right gift. That’s what I’d give you if I could.”
That was what finally broke the spell. There was only one thing more absurd than the possibility that Lily Evans could forgive him; one thing stranger than the idea that she might drink whisky; one thing more impossible than her calling Dumbledore a bastard. It was the idea that Lily Evans could condone, support or even just comprehend Severus’ fascination with the Dark Arts. She had never understood it. She simply couldn’t.
He let go of the mirror and sat up straight in his armchair. He continued to meet her gaze, but his eyes regained their old solemnity.
“My desire is to be understood,” he said softly.
Lily gave him one last quiet smile and nodded.
Severus felt himself sink. It wasn’t so much the realisation itself. It was the one that came after.
“You’ll never understand me now,” he breathed. “Never, no matter what I do. You’re dead.”
Lily nodded again. Severus lowered his head and let out a bitter exhale. Finally, he set down the empty glass and stood up.
For the first time in a week, he turned his back on the mirror. He drew his wand and pointed it at the coat rack by the door. He levitated his black cloak towards the mirror to cover every inch of its surface.
He didn’t say another word. Not to her, not to himself and not to anyone else until the following afternoon.
When Severus woke up on the Wednesday that marked the beginning of 1992, the Mirror of Erised was no longer in his quarters. He cast a fleeting glance at the two empty armchairs—just one, and nothing more. He picked up the black cloak that was now lying on the low table, draped it over his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around himself. He turned his back on the spot where the mirror had stood, his head bowed and his fists clenched. He took a deep breath—tired, exasperated. Desperate.
Then he raised his head again, his gaze fixed on the door. He straightened his back and nodded once. He reached for the door handle, turned it, and left his quarters.
He never thought about that mirror again—at least, not consciously. It remained hidden away in the darkest depths of his mind for a long time; perhaps it never truly left. He carried on as if nothing had ever happened, both with himself and with everyone else. It would take a whole decade before he could admit aloud to having looked into that mirror.
For the time being, Severus simply walked through the dungeon corridors with his usual brooding air, glaring at as many students as he came across. He reached his office as if doing so for no particular reason. As if he had no specific goal in mind, as if the past day had been just another Tuesday.
The antidote for the Muteness Potion was on his desk, inside a cauldron enchanted to maintain the necessary heat. He grabbed an empty vial from the shelves, between a jar of Bat Spleens and a bottle of Salamander Blood. He sat down at his desk, broke the cauldron’s enchantment, and began filling the vial, doing his best to convince himself that his actions had no ulterior motive.
Then, with his head held high and his steps brisk, he walked to the staircase and climbed to the Headmaster’s office.
“Sherbet lemon,” he grumbled.
He waited for the gargoyle statue to move aside, climbed the spiral staircase and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” replied Dumbledore’s serene voice.
Severus entered but said nothing. He stood still on the threshold for a while, his gaze fixed on the Headmaster’s long, silver hair. He stood motionless in front of the window, seemingly lost in thought. Unless he was mistaken, he thought he had glimpsed a raven taking off from the windowsill just after he entered. In any case, he decided to ignore it. There was no room in his mind for Albus Dumbledore’s quirks at that moment.
The Headmaster turned and gave him one of his usual calm smiles, which irritated him tenfold that day.
“Yes?” he asked.
Severus finally stepped into the room but didn’t close the door behind him. He walked over to the desk and waited for Dumbledore to join him. Without saying a word, he pulled the vial he had filled from beneath his cloak and handed it to him. Dumbledore accepted it with a furrowed brow.
“What is it?”
Severus averted his gaze. “The antidote for the Muteness Potion,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
Dumbledore raised his eyes to meet his. “Ah,” he murmured. His smile widened and took on an almost proud note. “How very considerate of you.”
Severus wrinkled his nose. “You asked me to,” he spat.
The other nodded. “That’s true, I did.”
There was a long pause. Severus forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the still mute phoenix.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” asked Dumbledore.
Severus looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he wanted to say. ‘There is.’ He wanted to pour out all the pain he had endured during those two weeks. He wanted to tell him never to dare ask him such a thing again. He wanted to finally spit out the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for ten long years.
Why is it always me? Out of all the pride you take in your supposed compassion, why am I never the one it’s directed at? Is it contempt? Or am I just disposable? Do I still disgust you?
“No,” he replied.
Dumbledore’s smile took on a note of weariness. He nodded.
It was time to turn. To leave that office and forget the entire matter—and Severus did so, without hesitating. But it was stronger than him, and inevitably, the real reason he had chosen to enter the office got the better of him.
In the split second it took him to turn around, his gaze fell upon the corner of the office where the Mirror of Erised had once stood. It was instinctive, illogical. He did it in the hope, however idiotic, of catching a glimpse of bright green or dark red.
But the mirror was no longer there.
“Severus?”
Already a step out of the door, he stopped and turned again. “Yes?”
Dumbledore lowered his head and looked at him intently from behind his glasses. He smiled at him again—this time, there was something new about it. Unfamiliar.
“A better time will come,” he said.
Severus hesitated. He was so taken aback that all he could do at first was blink and stare. Then he burst into a sharp, desperate, joyless laugh.
“When?” he hissed.
The other didn’t reply, as was often the case. Eventually, Severus gave up on the idea that it was just another bit of Dumbledore’s cryptic crap and didn’t probe further. He turned and left.
He walked through the castle’s corridors, impassive as ever, but with a lump in his throat and burning eyes, feeling miserable in a way he hadn’t since that Halloween night—utterly unaware that one day, sooner or later, a better time would indeed come.
The End