a present from
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djin7:
After three years of rooting around in the boy's head, Snape had quite a collection of Harry's thoughts in his own. Or he used to, anyway -- he watched them swirling, silvery and strange in the bowl of Dumbledore's Pensieve. Snape had hated Harry for a long time, long before he'd even met the boy if he was to be honest with himself, and yet lately he'd been feeling something new, something that called for a great deal of additional contemplation that he dared not take the time out for just yet.
After all, they still had a war to win.
Snape closed the cupboard and, quite literally, put the thoughts out of his mind. He'd come back to them when he could; it was far less urgent, now he was quit of the boy for the rest of term. In fact, it wasn't until the end of term came and Albus asked for the return of his Pensieve that Snape remembered the stored thoughts at all.
When he finally did take the time to look at them, he was surprised that he'd never seen the connections before.
One of Harry's childhood memories roiled to the surface, of being chased by his older cousin and friends, dragging with it Snape's own memory of being persecuted by Potter, Black and crew. Another, of Harry shut in a cupboard with no supper, came trailing one of Snape's, when he'd been reduced to one meal and scraps a day for a whole summer, ostensibly to pay for his schoolbooks for another year. Harry, staring despondently into his trunk for a single item of clothing that was presentable on his tiny frame, was followed by Snape's own memory of tatty robes and greying pants, worn to nothing before he was allowed to replace them thing things from the secondhand shop. His own memory of being faced with a werewolf seemed pale and safe after Harry's, of being hunted down by the basilisk and nearly dying, rescued only by the miracle of his own loyalty and Fawkes' tears.
When Harry's memory of the Mirror of Erised came up, Snape found his chest tight when he realised there would be no corresponding hurt of his own to follow. He'd had family, horrid as they'd been, and a home that was his own. Harry had none of those things, only the home he'd made here at Hogwarts and the ragtag bunch he'd gathered around himself, those who had shown themselves in the Department of Mysteries to be just as brave, loyal and stupid as the boy himself.
Snape began to put the memories back in his own head, unwilling to watch them swirl by any longer. They felt cold going in, almost painfully so, but he found it only appropriate; they weren't comfortable memories, after all. He was nearly done when the headmaster laid a hand on his shoulder, and he took the time to tuck the final bit of silver back away inside his skull before turning.
"Did you figure it out?" asked Albus, eyes serious and just a touch sad.
Snape sighed and nodded. "It's too late, of course," he said, tapping the Pensieve with his wand to deactivate it. "He'll never believe it of me."
"He'll need all the allies he can get," said Dumbledore, levitating the stone bowl out of its niche. "Even the ones he won't understand until much later."
Snape resisted the urge to sigh again, instead closing and locking the cupboard carefully, despite having divested it of its most valuable contents. There was more than memory at stake here, and it didn't pay to leave anything lying about these days. "Would you..."
"There is nothing to forgive," said Albus at Snape's hesitation, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze.
Snape watched him go, and wondered if he'd ever forgive himself.
