A/N: This idea came into my head during a time when I had nothing better to do than write, so I wrote it. Check it out, if you like.

Disclaimer: I own nothing... especially not Harry Potter

Happy Reading!


Regarding That Potter Boy

People often told me to stop sulking around. That I needed to get out more often, or get a hobby. Or, more often than not, to get some friends. I ignored them, not caring that I drifted through life as miserable and angry as your average bat. In fact, I have often been referred to as an overgrown bat, swooping down on the unsuspecting. Yes, I was lonely. Yes, I was miserable. Yes, I was bored. And yes, I was, most certainly, angry. And then, a few years ago, everything changed.

Well, not everything; I was still an angry, overgrown bat. But my life was about to change.

Confused? Let me explain myself, then.

September the first came faster than I could have imagined. It seemed that every year, my life flew by at a more rapid pace. But there I was, sitting at my spot at the Professor's table, watching the first years come in. Small, weak, pathetic first years. Oh how I disliked them all, and their squeaky voices that made my eardrums tremble. And then I saw him, standing with (undoubtedly) a Weasley. He looked just like his father, and I imagined that he was just as arrogant as his father was before him.

But by Jove, he had Lily's eyes.

That was the first thing that startled me, like a condemnation of torture for the next six years. I learned to loathe the Potter Boy and his cockiness. He possessed no real talent for school, and quite frankly, I was astounded that he managed to pass my class each year. He obviously had inherited none of his mother's talent.

Ahh, Lily Evans. Whenever I was forced to look upon the Potter Boy, I felt a balloon rise in my chest. The Potter Boy forced me to relive my shame, and I loathed him all the more. I took every opportunity I could find to disturb him, and yet I still felt that I owed him. His damn father saved my life, and now I owed his blasted son that had his mother's eyes. So I worked, and I paid off my debt to his father. But to his mother…

Well, that was a different story.

Another year passed without much controversy between the Potter Boy and me. Well, besides the usual, at least. He hated me, and I him. A match made in Hell. And still, every time I looked at him, I was forced to remember his mother. His mother and her kind words and her attempts to keep everything on balance. And my arrogance, my conceit. And, of course, the blood that I was never able to wash from my hands. Her blood. Lily's blood.

Third year came and went, and the Potter Boy learned how to interfere with time, or so I imagine. He must have done something. But seeing Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and the Potter Boy in the same room was like having Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, Potter and Evans all in the same room again. United against my cause. And yet, no matter what I do, there is still this blood on my hands that I cannot be rid of.

Fourth year was a drag, to say the least. I watched the Potter Boy worm his way through every punishment. Of course, I occasionally did my best to torment him, but without evidence, I could do nothing. He robbed my personal stores, and when I confronted him, he denied it. But how could he have possibly thought that he could lie? The Dark Lord rose again, and I was sent to meet him. I thought that the blood on my hands was beginning to fade, but it seems to be dark again. I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Albus seemed to think so, but I was unsure.

Fifth year was when things really started to unfold. I found myself alone with the Potter Boy on numerous occasions, teaching him what I knew. But his pride was his downfall – he was the worst occlumens that I had ever seen. His nosiness led him to my memories, where he saw my worst secrets. Now he knew what kind of man his father was. I saw it in his eyes – his mother's eyes – that day. He wished he had never tried to get in my business, and I made sure of that. With his snooping around, I was sure that he'd find out soon enough what I had done to him, and I was right.

Sixth year was a calamity. The Potter Boy found my personal belongings that I had stowed away for years and he used them. Little did he know, however, that I was the author, his tutor, his friend in potions and school. I did what I had to do on the lightning struck tower – it had been Dumbledore's orders that I do whatever I could to protect what side I was on. It cost me dearly, however. And what more? He found out what I had been trying so desperately to forget. The greatest regret of my life. I had hated Potter with all of my heart, but I never wanted to be the one to kill him. Or Lily. Especially Lily, who never did anything but try to help. Try to help me. Try to help everyone.

And I killed her.

The Potter Boy was right. I am as much of a coward as the next, but my repentance has also been the most sincere. I do not eat, I do not sleep. I merely hide and wait in the dark. They were right; I am an overgrown bat, swooping down on the unsuspecting and vulnerable. I do not sleep at night anymore, for if I do, than the blood on my hands might drown me as I slumber. And I have been forced to relive the pain every day of my life because of those eyes. The eyes of Lily. The eyes of the Potter Boy.

That damn Potter Boy.

FIN


A/N: Written by a Snape supporter... yours truly! I hope you liked it!