❝ he and i are closer than friends, we are enemies linked together, the same sin binds us ❞ | in which lilium snape is bound to harry potter by fate, destined to stand on either side of a war that will soon be waged. she is cursed by prophecy, or so...
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ACT ONE, chapter eleven : oh, who is she? a misty memory a haunting face
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All was well.
Mostly.
With the ashes of Quirrell's body near their feet and the Stone kept safe between their hands, the professors had found Lilium and Harry unconscious in the fire—lit chamber. She supposed there must have been many of them there, but all she remembered was Snape. She'd been barely conscious, her cheek pressed against thick black robes, head lolling back to see a hook—nosed face above her. And in his eyes... was a look like she'd never seen before: utter and terrible terror.
And more than that, she wasn't sure if he had ever carried her like that before.
It was stupid, suicidal really, but Lilium wondered how many other dangers she would put herself in just so he would carry her like that again.
In the days after, the Philosopher's Stone was destroyed, Hermione and Ronald (Ron, he insisted) were safe — if a bit worse for wear, and Harry was still recovering, like her, in the Hospital Wing.
The events in the dungeons between them and Professor Quirrell was supposed to be a complete secret, but the whole school knew anyway. Since then, Harry had received loads of gifts from admirers, and Lilium was shocked to find a few for herself. She'd assumed everyone would be too afraid of her to ever give a get—well—soon card.
She'd been wrong.
Once she got out of the Hospital Wing — two days too early by Madam Pomfrey's standards, she'd been levitated on a stretcher by her father to their private quarters. How humiliating. For those next two days, Snape had practically force—fed her potions and kept vigil in a chair by her bedside because, apparently, he couldn't trust her to 'stay out of trouble for more than five minutes at a time'.
When she first woke, he'd been furious, pacing and seething and growling under his breath, but she was rather used to his anger to be mostly unbothered by it. At least in this state. Lilium had nightmares, tremors, and she'd felt a dull sense of dread welling up in her chest ever since she'd woken up in the Hospital Wing. She felt small and feverish and pitiful. She hated that.
Once he was certain her mind would not turn to mush — and in between lectures about asinine Gryffindor bravery (or stupidity), Snape dispatched with most potions and had the house elves stuff her with all her favourite foods. And this sort of treatment... well, frankly, it unsettled her.
He did not dote. He did not baby. He usually trusted her to take care of herself. Most often, she found his parenting style more or less satisfactory: he provided her with necessities, very occasionally read to her, and generally treated her with courteous detachment. That is, until something absolutely horrible happened, and then he became an overbearing b—stard that wouldn't let her out of his sight. And if he was acting like this, something was very wrong.
