“Y-y-you know, Severus, I r-r-really hope there won’t be any hard f-f-feelings between us this year. I know how much you l-love the subject, but m-m-maybe it’s for the best, eh?�

Quirrell laughed nervously as Snape sat down at the Head Table for the first meal of the school year. Normally he would have tried to feign interest with some sort of curt reply, but tonight he just glared down his nose at the timid man before him, until his icy stare caused Quirrell to wince and turn away. He had bigger things to worry about on this particular night.

This year marked the ten-year anniversary of the Dark Lord’s downfall, caused by a then-infant known as Harry Potter. It was a miracle, some had said, and an incredible victory for the wizarding community at large. Most wizards had celebrated with a renewed sense of peace and hope. Most of the Dark Lord’s followers had fled into hiding. Snape, however, had done neither of these things. In fact, he preferred not to think about that night at all. But his subconscious preferred otherwise, and he often found himself shrouded by a sense of depression and numb pain, as heavy as the cloak he wore now, and more permanent.

The students at the four massive tables that sat before him grew silent as the doors to the Great Hall began to open. Snape felt someone watching him, and he looked down the table to see Dumbledore staring at him intently. He communicated to Snape a message of support through his twinkling eyes. Snape moved his chin slightly downward in a nod indicating his thanks, unwilling to show any sort of emotion.

As students began filing into the Hall, Snape set his mouth and narrowed his eyes, searching the frightened-looking line of first-years that walked in his direction. A small clone of Lucius Malfoy was walking with his nose in the air, looking as pretentious as he was taught to be. A small, round-faced boy with Alice Longbottom’s eyes and her husband’s hair fidgeted nervously as he tried not to trip over his overlong robes. Snape recognized other students who resembled their famous parents, but could not find the one he was looking for, the one that he was both yearning and dreading to see.

Then, suddenly, a flash. Towards the back of the line stood a tall, gangly-looking, redheaded boy whose facial features could not quite be made out. Snape’s eyes widened as he sat up in his chair, alert. This boy did not look like the boy he’d seen ten years ago, but he had heard of children who resembled one parent at birth and another as they began to age. He foolishly hoped that this was the case with this child—the living evidence of what could never be his. A model of everything he loved, and hated.

A quick scan of the group told him the one he thought he searched for was not present, and his heart began to race. Perhaps teaching this boy would not be so unbearable after all. Perhaps he would even grow to tolerate him. Perhaps… whatever thought had begun to form in his head quickly disappeared as the sandy-haired boy in front of the redhead he had been so focused on shifted, revealing a student Snape had obviously failed to notice. This one’s hair was jet-black and tousled. This one wore round glasses that were just a little too big for his face. Snape’s eyes narrowed rapidly into slits, and he gritted his teeth behind paper-thin pursed lips. A rush of boiling rage welled up inside of him. How foolish he had been, to allow himself to hope for something so impossible! Of course this boy looked like him. That was fate’s cruel way of reminding him, every day, that he wasn’t her first choice. Reminding him of the mistake he made, that fateful day, in a moment of pride and spite… He thought of her face that night, as he begged for forgiveness, of the sadness in her unfathomable green eyes—

Her eyes. Did he still have his mother’s eyes? He looked for the boy again, with slight difficulty—in his sudden rage, Snape had not realized the sorting had begun, and was in fact almost over. Minerva called the name of two girls named Patil… then a Perks… then…

“Potter, Harry.�

A split second of silence, and then, an outbreak of whispers. Half-listening, Snape caught snippets of students’ conversations… “the Dark Lord…� “Scar…� “the Chosen One…� “his poor parents…� Snape gritted his teeth even more to block out the sound, and tried to make eye contact with the boy, but it was too late. He sat down on the rickety stool in front of the Head Table as Minerva placed the Sorting Hat on his head. A thick silence filled the hall as the Hat deliberated. The boy’s knuckles were white as they gripped the seat of the stool. Finally, the Hat yelled its decision.

“GRYFFINDOR!�

An enormous cheer erupted from the Gryffindor table as the boy made his way down from the stool. Percy Weasley grabbed him and shook his hand vigorously. Harry grinned broadly at various teachers at the Head Table before plopping down beside Percy, his face hidden once more. Snape would have to wait until later in the night to see if this unknowing boy possessed the most important quality. For the time being he decided to sit back in his chair and try to regain control of his emotions. But as Harry accepted congratulations from everyone who was within touching distance of him, Snape’s lip curled into a disgusted sneer.

“Just like his father,� Snape thought, “basking in his glory.�

The rest of the sorting continued with much less excitement, and Snape found that the ginger boy he had mistakenly identified as the Potter boy earlier was yet another Weasley. This Weasley joined Harry at the Gryffindor table as Dumbledore stood up to speak. He proclaimed, “Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!� loudly before sitting down and letting the congregation enjoy dinner.

Snape barely touched the feast in front of him, focusing instead on the Potter boy, trying to catch a clear view of his eyes. This task was proving difficult, however, as the boy was shoving every food item within reach into his mouth, seemingly all at once. Snape’s lip curled even more.

“Disgusting,� he muttered to himself.

“I-I-I’m sorry?� Quirrell asked, looking up at Snape. “D-did you say s-something?�

“Not to you,� Snape replied curtly. Quirrell laughed nervously once more, then turned to adjust his ridiculous turban. Snape looked away, disgusted. Right as he turned his head, he was surprised to find himself staring into Lily Evans’ eyes.

Immediately a rush of unwanted memories flooded Snape’s mind—Lily as a girl, red hair flying through the air as she jumped from a playground swing… Lily eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table, the sound of her laugh drifting across the Hall… Lily’s eyes, those beautiful emerald eyes, shining with joy on the day of her wedding… to him…

Snape realized that hot tears had welled up in his eyes, and he glanced around to make sure no one had seen. Fourtunately everyone was engrossed in their own conversation—everyone except Dumbledore, of course. He gave Snape a sad smile, and said in a whisper that managed to carry across the table while somehow not disturbing anyone else, “It will get better with time.� Snape tried to manage some sort of reply, but only succeeded in twisting up his face in an effort not to let his emotions get out of hand. As much as he trusted Dumbledore, experience told him that these particular words of wisdom were painstakingly false. Snape’s pain had only become more prevalent in the ten years since the incident. He looked away, quickly drying his eyes, and shrunk into his chair, sulking throughout the remainder of the meal. After a period of time that seemed far too long, the dessert cleared from the table, and Dumbledore made his closing remarks. Snape barely endured the Weasley twins’ obnoxious version of the school song, and he was relieved when Dumbledore dismissed everyone to bed. Snape rose from the table and, against his better judgment, took one last look at the Potter boy. He was stretching and smiling contently, ignorant to the pain and suffering he caused. Snape’s eyes narrowed as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the Great Hall as quickly as possible. As he dashed to the sanctuary of his dungeon chambers, images of Lily Evans continued to race through his head, relentless, endless, ruthless.