(no subject)

[orngsnapdragon]

Written for prompt 2 of

nest_of_spiders:

There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other. -Philospher/Sorceror's Stone

Title: The Politics of Childhood
Summary: It's because of Petunia that Lily goes to Spinner's End. Gen.
Rating: PG I guess, for a couple of curse words.
Characters: Petunia, Lily, OFC, Elaine Snape, Severus
Word Count: 2889
Disclaimer: Characters and subject matter are property of J.K. Rowling. I am making no money for writing this fic. 
Warnings: Arrgh! Here thar be DH spoilers!

Some days Petunia refuses to play with her. There is neither reason nor rhythm to when and why Petunia shuns Lily. She just does, and today is one of those days. Except, today, Lily thinks, maybe there is an explanation.

Yesterday was the day the Snape boy popped out of the bushes and told Lily she was a witch. Lily doesn’t think he was very nice, but apparently Petunia blames Lily for his appearance. Apparently, Petunia blames Lily for being able to do special things.

The Snape boy said he could do special things too. The Snape boy called it magic.

Lily sits on the swing set and glares across the playground at Petunia and Carol Morris, whose age is right in the middle of the Evans girls and who worships Petunia. Three times Lily has tried to approach them. Three times she has been scorned, their faces closing like flowers in the evening and their birdlike voices coming to a halt.

The Snape boy, Lily recalls, didn’t have anyone to play with either.

She thinks for a moment. She feels sorry for him and she feels sorry for herself. That’s one thing they have in common. Petunia doesn’t like them. That’s another. And lastly, they can both do things that they aren’t supposed to. Do magic.

Lily rolls the word around in her head, whispers it, feeling the shape and texture of it in her mouth. She can do magic. She is a witch. The Snape boy is a wizard.

Still, he isn’t very nice. But then, sometimes she’s not very nice either. Last winter, another time when Petunia and Carol weren’t playing with her, Lily pushed Carol into the mud when Petunia wasn’t around. Carol cried.

There are, Lily decides, enough similarities between them to warrant a second chance. Snape didn’t like Petunia. That was very clear. He wouldn’t stop playing with Lily just because Petunia didn’t like her anymore. She gets off the swing set. The conversation flowing between Carol and Petunia slows. They’ve been keeping an eye on her.

“Petunia,” she yells, from a safe distance, “I’m going home.”

Petunia doesn’t answer, but Lily didn’t think she would. But since Petunia is the older sister and has to take care of Lily, she has to know where Lily is, where she is going. Had Lily not told her, Petunia would have followed. That would ruin everything. Because, after all, Lily is lying.

She feels a little guilty for lying. Perhaps it will turn into another similaraity between her and the Snape boy.

Spinner’s End. By the river.

Petunia said so. Yesterday.

Lily has never been to Spinner’s End before. But she knows how to get there precisely because she has been told repeatedly not to go there. You have to know exactly where it is you’re not supposed to go so you don’t get there accidentally.

It’s not a long walk to Spinner’s End, about as far as it is to her house, and downhill instead of up. Lily reaches the mouth of the road in seven minutes (she can keep more or less perfect time in her head), but stops there.

She has no idea which house is his. The street, Spinner’s End, is cobbled and winding and dingy, lined with blank and barefaced two by twos. Lily sets her lips in a firm line. They are nothing like the house she lives in, nor the houses nearby, graceful Victorians full of “professionals” not, and here’s where Lily’s mother always lowers her voice, “the working poor.”

It’s summer, but down here, nearer the river, it’s much cooler than by the playground. Lily shivers slightly in her light blouse and shorts. She isn’t supposed to be here.

But she hasn’t come this far just to turn around. She isn’t chicken, not like Petunia is. (Sometimes.) If she has to knock on the door of every house on the street, then she will. But…she doesn’t. Midway down the Spinner’s End a door opens and a woman with a long brown skirt comes out, sweeping away the flotsam and jetsam of her house. Lily jogs towards her, her tennies smacking across the cobblestones.

“Excuse me,” she calls politely, and the woman looks up. A kindly smile crosses her face. Lily is relieved. There are reasons you are not supposed to go places, and often that reason is that bad people are there. This woman looks motherly and not like a bad person at all.

“Yes dear?” asks the woman mildly when Lily stops in front of her. She is just beginning to become plump and middle aged and brown freckles dance across her apple cheeks. Her eyes are tired though, and the hands around the broom look lined and worn.

Lily eyes the broomstick for a moment before answering. Witches ride broomsticks. If the Snape boy is right, and she is a witch, would she be able to? She imagines flying. Scary, probably, but fun.

Finally, she answers the woman, feeling only a fleeting moment of guilt for talking to stranger.

“Please,” she says, “I’m looking for the Snapes...?”

The friendly woman squints at her dubiously, taking in the fine shine of Lily’s dark red hair, the cleanness and the newness of her clothes, the aura of being well-fed and well-loved. She is out of place in this gray and drooping street.

The smile on the woman’s face is dimmed slightly as she asks, “Are you schoolmates with the little boy?”

“Er,” Lily hesitates, unsure whether it will be easier to lie or tell the truth, then nods. “Yes ma’am,” she tells the woman, with wide, honest eyes, “I am.”

“Oh.” The woman gestures down the street with her broom, “Very last house on the lane dear. You can’t miss it.” Her smile becomes bemused, “It is nice of you to visit. He does have so few friends.”

Lily nods uncertainly and thanks the woman before trotting down the street to her destination. The woman watches her all the way there, but Lily neither notices nor cares.

The Snape residence looks like all the others on Spinner’s End. It is with a feeling of foreboding that Lily walks up to the door, brown and plain amidst the brick of the house. Inside, she can hear someone yelling. It is a male’s voice, harsh and booming. A female voice answers it, shrill and shrieking.

Lily winces, fist raised in the air, then brings it down.

She knocks. Once. Twice. Three times, and stops and waits. The arguing slides to a standstill, the last tirade lingering menacingly, thunderclouds in August. The male voice says something, sounding confused, before the door is yanked open.

A woman is standing in the doorway. She does not look as kind as the one Lily just spoke to. Her hair is black and hangs in lank strings around a thin and awkward face with thick eyebrows and a hooked nose. A bruise is beginning to bloom purple on her cheekbone. Her clothes are threadbare and severe, with strict lines and long sleeves. Lily gulps and feels herself shrink back a little, timid and almost afraid.

“What?” snaps what is presumably Mrs. Snape in a high pitched nasal whine, just as the man (Mr. Snape?) shouts, unseen, “Who the bleeding fuck is at the door?”

Mrs. Snape’s eyes barely flicker in the direction of her husband’s voice. “Some girl,” she shouts back.

Mr. Snape mutters something that sounds like “Fuckin’ hell,” and there is a noise like a bottle cap being pried off.

It’s the curse words that spur Lily into action. She has been told all her life that such language is bad and is wrong to say. She only ever hears it in her own home when her father stubs his toe and hits his thumb when hammering something. And even then Mother always reprimands him and makes him apologize to the girls.

But here, here, the language is used thoughtlessly, without care of whether or not it is overheard by innocent visitors. The poor Snape boy must hear it all the time, and he already lives in a shabby house, with a shrill woman who wears bruises on her face. Lily’s angry. She is no longer looking for a companion, she is a savior. She has come to rescue Snape.

“Excuse me,” she says to Mrs. Snape, a little coldly, a little primly, “is your son in?”

Mrs. Snape narrows her eyes, already beady and black. She seems on the verge of asking a sharp-tongued question and Lily hopes it isn’t why. But Mrs. Snape doesn’t. Rather, she turns her head, showing off a cross and beaky profile, and screams, “SEVERUS!”

There is a pause then the slamming of the door and the sound of footsteps scuffling down stairs.

“What?” asks the boy (Severus, Lily now knows), apparently stopping a few feet shy of the doorway and thus unseen. He sounds sulky, defiant.

Mrs. Snape glares. “There’s someone to see you,” and she stabs a finger at Lily.

“Who?” demands Severus, but Mrs. Snape merely shrugs before turning and walking away and out of sight.

With a slight sigh, Severus Snape crosses into view.

“What do you wa-,” he begins roughly but then catches sight of who is standing on his doorstep and freezes. His eyes go very round and his mouth hangs open slightly.

Lily holds back a giggle. He is wearing the same hideous blouse and pants as yesterday, which, along with his expression, make him look very silly.

“Hullo Severus,” she says brightly, crossing her arms and trying to look cheerful and comfortable.

He continues to gape and doesn’t say a word. Lily uncrosses her arms and rubs uncomfortably at an elbow. The anger that fueled her to speak to Mrs. Snape ebbs away and is gone. She is left feeling distinctly uncomfortable and realizes, quite suddenly, she has no idea what to say.

“Er,” she mumbles and blushes, looking at a point somewhere beyond Severus’s head, “would you like to come outside?”

Severus nods jerkily, like a puppet. He reaches for something, a coat hanger probably as his hand comes back into view with his absurd jacket and steps outside. Lily shifts on the doorstep to make room for him, and he closes the door softly shut.

Lily examines Severus as he pulls on his jacket. He winces and blinks as his eyes adjust to brightness outside, too bright against the dimness he was just in.

“Won’t your parents care where you’re going?” Lily asks with interest. Hers always do.

Severus shakes his head, and speaks for the first time: “N-no,” almost as if it is a painful thing to do. He shrugs with sharp shoulders and avoids looking at her, “They don’t really mind ‘long as I’m not home too late.”

He was very keen to talk yesterday. But yesterday, Lily and Petunia had yet to be so mean to him. A sharp feeling, regret Lily will come to realize in later years, unfurls and settles heavily in her stomach.

“Oh,” she says neutrally, “That’s nice. I wish mine didn’t care so much.”

This isn’t true, but she’s trying to be kind, not honest. From the expression on Severus’s face, he can tell. It changes from being shocked to being miserable. She turns around and departs from the doorstep. When she walks a few paces and realizes that Severus isn’t following her, she turns around again.

He is still standing on the doorstep, peering at her anxiously, a gawky gargoyle. For a moment, he reminds Lily very much of his mother. Same greasy black hair and black eyes, same hunched stoop and thin face. But Severus is younger, so his face is more defined but less set in stone, and softer and kinder without the weight of years. More hopeful.

“Come on,” orders Lily impatiently, scowling at him. She crosses her arms again, but this time the effect is intended to be stern and formidable: This is someone you must listen to.

He obeys, tottering off the doorway and walking towards her. This time when Lily turns around and begins down the street, he is at her side, the exact same height, his coat flapping.

“Why are you wearing that jacket?” she asks, despite the goosebumps on her own arms, “It’s summer.”

“Keeps me warm,” mumbles Severus. But Lily, glancing askance and sideways at the shirt Petunia mocked as being his Mum’s, thinks she knows the real reason.

Reminded of Severus’s mother, Lily recalls something else from yesterday and silence stretches between them as they walk, Lily deep in thought. The street is deserted now, except for them, the friendly woman having gone back into her home. Their footsteps sound unnaturally loud.

“So,” asks Lily, blunt now that she has remembered everything worthy of remembrance, “If your Mum’s a witch, how come she lets your Da hit her?”

Severus looks at her sharply, “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” His tone is prickly, and he has gone tense at Lily’s side. It is a reprimand, however subtle.

Lily who is a redhead and pale, blushes, and it shows. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Sorry,” she mutters, “Tuney’s always saying I should stop being so nosy, but,” she presses, voice gaining strength, “isn’t it mad that your Mum doesn’t do anything?”

The look Severus gives her is an odd one, its meaning hard to place. He doesn’t answer her, but she lets him keep his silence. It is, she decides wisely, a difficult question to answer.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing you ask questions,” he assures her quietly, now looking at the cobblestones, "It means you…” but whatever it means Lily will never know. Severus interrupts himself to look at her and ask, “Why are you here? I thought you didn’t like me…”

That is also a difficult question. Answered truthfully, it will not reflect well on Lily. (I wanted a new friend because my sister doesn’t like me anymore.) She knows this, just as she knows not telling the truth will endanger the friendship from the start. So she settles for something that is true, but not all true and smiles blithely, endearingly.

“Because,” she tells Severus as they near the beginning of Spinner’s End, “we’re both special. We can both do magic.”

To prove her point, she pulls a candy wrapper from her pocket and holds it out on her palm. With a little squint of concentration, she sends it floating up a couple inches. It spins gracefully. Snape isn’t impressed. He inhales sharply and frowns, snatches the wrapper out of the air.

“Don’t do that!” he hisses.

Lily stops walking and stands, in the middle of the street, and stares at Severus. Something squirms in her gut. He’s just like Petunia and Mum and Da, she thinks furiously, telling me I’m not supposed to things. He isn’t different. He…He’s

But Severus grabs Lily’s arms and tugs at it as he leans in close to whisper at her.

“The Muggles aren’t supposed to see,” he says, “It’s not allowed.”

“Allowed by who?” asks Lily distrustfully, but allows herself to be pulled along. They reach where Spinner’s End empties into another street and have stopped, undecided on where to go next. Then, with a sharp jerk, Severus begins leading her opposite from the way she came.

“By the Ministry of Magic,” Severus tells her, sounding only a little impatient.

Lily bites back another question and sends out a plea in its place.

“I don’t know these things!” she cries, frustrated, “You have to tell me. I want to know!”

Severus pauses, and Lily bumps into him, still being pulled along by her arm. He doesn’t notice, but Lily does, just as she notices he reeks of alcohol and cigarette smoke. She takes a polite step back. He twists his head to peer at her.

“Will you be my friend?” he asks. There is an intensity to his gaze that makes Lily blush again. No one has ever looked at her like that.

“What?” she asks, hesitantly.

“Will you be my friend?” he repeats, “If I tell you about being magic, will we be friends?”

Lily’s look is one of astonishment. She has never been asked if she will be someone’s friend. You either are friends or you aren’t. But then, she remembers the dubious expression of the woman with the broom and realizes that having friends is a much bigger deal to Severus Snape than it is to her.

“Of course,” she tells Severus, “I’ll be your friend.”

For the first time, he smiles. It is a large and brilliant smile, painfully so on his thin and sallow face. It doesn’t look quite natural, as if it is rusty with disuse. But it makes his face even less like that of his mother and more like the young boy he is. He even stands a little straighter. Something warm and tender blossoms inside Lily’s chest. Fondness perhaps.

“Now,” she says, smiling back at him, “tell me about magic.”

He nods, his face is eager and enthusiastic, “Here, there’s this place I go to sometimes, near the river. We can talk there.”

Lily grins her agreement with this plan and this time when Severus pulls on her arm, he does so much more gently.