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Euphemia Potter is a fierce woman.
Protective. Loving. The kind of mother who, if she ever found herself in Eileen Prince’s position, would set the whole house on fire before she let a man like Tobias Snape lay a hand on her son. Severus knows this as surely as he knows the shape of James’ hands, the curve of his smile when he isn’t trying to be cruel. The first time a man raised his hands on them would also be the last, because she’d fight back, hex and curse and drag James out with her bare hands if it was the last thing she did.
Eileen never did.
Severus used to resent her for it, for the way she always went back, again and again, to a house soaked in whiskey and rage, knowing what was waiting for her. He’d sworn that he would never let himself be like her. That he would never let himself be small, never let himself stay where he wasn’t wanted.
And then James Potter kissed him.
It was awkward and messy and terrifying and the best thing that had ever happened to him. James Potter, who held him like he was something precious. James Potter, who whispered things that made him feel warm for the first time in his life. James Potter, who he thinks might be the one for him.
At times.
Because James Potter is kind in the quiet. He’s gentle in the dark, when it’s just Sev and James, hidden away in shadows, James’ fingers ghosting over his skin, whispering I got you, I got you like a promise.
James is everything he’s ever wanted. And at times, he thinks he’s everything James wants, too. But only at night, only in stolen, hidden moments when James forgets that loving Severus Snape is something to be ashamed of.
But morning comes, and so does the laughter. So do the sneers, the pranks, the jeering chorus of Snivellus, Snivellus, with James at the center of it all. And James, stupid, noble, cowardly James, only ever meets his eyes in those moments with something like regret, but he never stops. Never stops Sirius from casting hexes that sent him sprawling, never stops himself from grinning at Severus’ humiliation.
And still, Severus would crawl back to him in the night. Would let James apologize and convince him that it was just a joke, Sev, you know I don't mean it. Would let James touch him like he was worth something. Would let himself believe in the softness, because it was the closest to love he’d ever get. Still, Severus loves him so much it hurts.
He looks at James now—standing before him, mocking smirk, wand twirling lazily between his fingers, an audience around him, eyes gleaming with something sharp and cruel —and Severus has never seen anything more beautiful.
He should leave, he knows. He should end this, because it isn't right, isn't fair to him.
But he won’t. He doesn't think he'd be able to, not with the way he always melts when James' hands finds the back of his neck, warm and familiar. Not when the mere thought of losing him—losing this, losing the one good thing in his miserable life—is enough to make bile rise in his throat.
James’ laugh echoes in his ears, and Severus’ stomach twists, but still, he can’t look away.
And then he sees it—Lily, across the room, staring at him.
She didn’t look away when he noticed her. Didn't pretend it hadn’t happened.
She just looked.
Not with the burning hatred he’s used to, or disappointment, not even pity. No, it was something quieter. Something worse.
Something like knowing.
He doesn't know how long she’s been watching. Doesn't know if she can see through him, if she knows exactly what he's feeling in this moment. But he can't stand it—can’t stand the way she sees him, like she’s peeling him open without even trying. He wants to cross the hall. Wants to find her and grab her by the shoulders and shake the truth out of her. What is it? he wants to demand. What do you know? Why do you keep looking at me like that?
But he doesn’t.
Because some part of him—the part that still remembers the way she used to braid his hair and tuck Primrose petals into his pockets—already knows what she’ll say. The thing he’s spent his whole life running from, the thing that tastes like blood and shame every time James pushes him away and pulls him back again.
You’re becoming your mother.
And Lily—Lily has always been clever. Lily has always seen him, even when he didn't want to be seen. Maybe she’s the only person left who still does. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.
Because she doesn’t say it.
She doesn’t need to.
And suddenly, it all makes sense. The ache in his chest when James smiles at someone else. The way he forgives things that should never be forgiven. The way he stays, again and again and again.
He understands now.
He understands his mother in a way he wishes he didn’t. Understands why she stayed, why she kept coming back, why she chose the brief moments of gentleness over the bruises that always followed.
He wonders if Eileen ever looked at Tobias the way he looks at James now. If she ever asked herself whether she was the problem. Whether she was the reason he was cruel. Whether this was the best she’d ever get, so she might as well hold onto it.
And maybe that’s the truth Lily sees. Maybe that’s what she’s always seen, in the quiet between spells and shouts and James’ roaring laugh.
Maybe she sees the boy behind the sneer.
Maybe she sees Eileen in his eyes.
Severus Snape may have sworn he'd never be like Eileen Prince, but at the end of the day he will always be his mother’s son.