An Ironic Title

Chapter 11: His Mother's Son

Why?

Why, why, why, why, why? If one were to try and penetrate my defenses now, I have no doubt that they would find it astonishingly easy - even for someone like Weasley - though strangely unprofitable. All my memories seem to have vanished into an endless black hole - of my father tormenting my mother, of Potter and Black using me as sport, of the faceless men, women, and children who I slaughtered, turning my own fury on those who had stood and jeered at me as a student, now begging me for mercy before they were claimed by that endless black hole.

The black hole that claimed the main scourge in my life - Potter.

And, yes, the Dark Lord, too, I suppose.

Why? I just don't understand.

I watch the Weasley girl talking to her mother after a hysterical dash across the grounds, Lupin wandering aimlessly - idiot man. They've had quite their share of "whys" - "why did he leave me?", "why did he die when he had so much to live for?". How sickeningly melodramatic, I feel the urge to throw up.

But I don't, I remain, rigid, sitting here on this metal folding chair for the funeral of the boy that has been the bane of my life ever since he entered this school . . . no, before that, when that proud, bigheaded father of his brought him to that Order meeting and the pestilential brat found the sudden urge to spit up on my robes. I hate the very air that he breathes . . . that by now he has stopped breathing. Yet, I am still sitting here.

Why?

It's not as if attendance is mandatory. Why, Albus has done nothing short of locking himself in his office - courtesy of Potter's final, arrogant demand. If the headmaster himself isn't here, I - the greasy Potions Master - definitely shouldn't be. By now I should have uncorked those bottles of mulled mead that Albus insists on giving me for Christmas; I should be dancing around the dungeons like a madman, my only companion a hired witch, found on a street corner. Ah, bliss. . . .

But I have still not made any move to secure this blissful fantasy, for, against all odds, against the very laws of nature, I am still sitting here.

Why?

I detest the boy. Truly, I do. He's the spitting image of his father: arrogant, athletic, popular, surrounded by friends and adoring fans. Hell, he even has a redhead going for him!

Part of me knows that that is not the truth. True, I know he cherished his friends and keeping the boy away from Quidditch is like keeping a fish out of water, but still. . . . That tiny, unbiased part of me sees beyond his surname and irritatingly untamable black hair (so like his father's) and looks closer . . . to see how discomfited he became whenever someone's eyes raked his hairline, searching for the telltale lightning-bolt scar, to see his utter terror and mortification at being chosen as the fourth Triwizard champion, to see the utter desperation, afraid that the Dark Lord was gaining entrance to his mind through that scar - relic of his survival and symbol of his celebrity status.

The status that his arrogant, bullheaded father would have adored, basking in the glow that the lightning-shaped mark afforded him - scheduling interviews and press conference, beaming and preening at so many journalists and cameramen, Black at his side. Ugh. . . . Vomit rises in me again.

But his son . . . James Potter's son. That tiny, unbiased part of me speaks again: it was easy to see that the boy loathed everything about it - the constant glances to his forehead, the strange, unbidden connection with the Dark Lord, and, perhaps most importantly, what it cost him to obtain, his parents - saw it in that one feature not inherited from his father, his eyes. Lily's eyes.

It is in his eyes that I see Lily Evans, my best - only - friend from childhood who accepted me for who I was rather than those who called themselves friends, who changed me into a man that, eventually, even I could barely recognize. It was Lily who, in her extraordinary kindness, saw past the surface - my hooked nose, my greasy hair and pallid face (that students today, dunderheads that they are, still whisper and giggle about once in the safety of dormitories or secluded library corners) - and saw Severus. Sev. My lips curl upward slightly at the name, but not before they are countered by several pearly tears.

Why? Why am I crying? Why am I even here?

To honor Lily, honor her sacrifice? Undoubtedly.

But for Potter? Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, son of James Potter - my childhood tormentor - and the "youngest Seeker in a century." Harry Potter, befriender of incompetents like Longbottom and, well . . . I'm not quite sure what to call her, like Miss Lovegood. Harry Potter, founder - well, co-founder, something tells me Miss Granger had something to do with it - of the DA, which gave even the most imbecilic a chance if what I heard from Albus was correct. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Loves. Harry Potter, son of Lily Evans.

I look up at the casket now, surrounded by well-wishers, and sigh. His eyes will be closed now, my slight connection to Lily through those eyes - no matter the face they stared out from - gone. Yet . . . the truth nudges at me irritatingly, perhaps it doesn't matter. Lily Evans's only son is dead - yes, there's no point denying it. Yet . . . yet, he remains in every act, every person he touched with his kindness, reflected in Lily's eyes. He is indeed his mother's son.

"Goddamn you, Potter," I growl and, for a moment, I am sure I hear his soft, mocking laugh in the breeze - so like his father's - before a timid step approaches me, effects of Potter, no doubt.

Damn you, Potter. Really. "Yes, Longbottom?"