You are Cordially Invited
To the Joining of Souls of
Lily Marie Evans and James Frederick Potter
On this 30 day of June
R.S.V.P by Owl Post
The glittery gold writing stared up at him for all of a minute before it was cast into the fire, twisting and curling black as it burned.
Pulling his suit collar tight around his neck, a dark-haired man slid into the procession as the vows were being said. One side, obviously full of wizards, seeing their attire, the other full of muggles, dressed in their best suits like the wedding party at the front of the room. He slid into a seat on the side of muggles, the bride's side, and watched as the muggle preacher told them to repeat their vows, and a small wizard preacher hovered unseen behind him, casting a small spark with each vow they made, slowly creating a golden archway around the two of them.
There was Lily, beautiful, even more perfect than usual in her dress, with her hair laying perfectly down her back and pulled gracefully to one side; her face shone form all the way at the back of the church. He couldn't see her eyes, but he knew they were full of love, love for Potter, love that could have-should have been for him. Anger boiled inside of him, but he sat still through the procession, through the kiss, and even there walk down the aisle. He sat still watching them, the others all standing and clapping around him as he sat still. Her eyes flickered to him, widening in disbelief before Potter led her out the door.
By the time she came to look for him, he was miles away, brushing his fingers against the mark burned into his skin.
November was cold, the first days already hinting at the horrible winter to come, but he ignored this. He could see the strings of leftover Halloween decorations littering the streets of Godric's Hollow, the pumpkin's smiles sinking as the flesh supporting them caved in on itself, not to be cleared away for days when the inhabitants of the neighborhood finally thought it was safe to return. One house, that he know paused in front of, was missing a side, the roof blown out in an explosion form only a week ago. But he had been there; he had no desire to see it again.
He stepped through the gate guarding the small cemetery holding long forgotten people in a varying collection, but he passed most of them without a second thought. He had no interest in ancient history, only the most recent tombstones bothered him. He saw them. Two mounds of fresh dirt, two stones that still shone with the magical coating they had been given.
He sank to his knees unable to take his eyes off the writing on the stone, feeling the tears that would not come burn behind his eyes. He pulled out his wand, seeing a flash of his horrible tattoo underneath his cloak, and pointed it to the stone. A small flower appeared, a perfect white lily on leaning up under where her name was carved into the stone. He waited, sitting alone with his own thoughts pressing against his mind. He couldn't sit here any longer; he had to see the boy.
He rose to his feet, turning to leave the graveyard and taking all of two steps before he turned around. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, one of the last things she had ever written to him, and laid it underneath his flower. He knew it would not last, but that didn't matter, it belonged here far more than it belonged with him. He drew in a breath, the dying scent of autumn twilight being pulled into his lungs, and as a quick afterthought, he added another lily to the gravestone, this one underneath the man's name, to whom she had actually belonged.
He pulled the cloak around his shoulders, disapperating out of the graveyard because he knew he could not bear to walk away.
Teaching first years was easy, they were ready to learn, willing to listen to instructions, and tended not to argue, but now they carried a new feeling with them as they filed in. Malfoy first, followed by the Slytherins that he had to take care of for the rest of their stay here. But behind them came the Gryffindor's, headed by none other than the Potter boy and his friend, Weasley.
The years had given him the skill to hide his own emotions, but he still found it hard to look at the boy, James Potter in miniature but the eyes staring back at him were Lily's. Brilliant green, like the leaves of the tree where he had first seen her, but they didn't belong on the boy's face, he would never be able to look at him directly. The boy glared up at him, his eyes distorted with frustration, an expression that didn't belong in those eyes.
Minutes later he gave them a potion to begin work on, if only so Harry would look at something other than him.
(A/N) So yeah, poor Snape. His life was an experiment in tragedy to be honest, so I felt like writing this. Please read and review, I want constructive criticism, but please don't be rude. Thanks.