❝ he and i are closer than friends, we are enemies linked together, the same sin binds us ❞ | in which lilium snape is bound to harry potter by fate, destined to stand on either side of a war that will soon be waged. she is cursed by prophecy, or so...
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ACT THREE, chapter forty—eight : give me back my girlhood, it was mine first
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[trigger warnings — depictions of attempted sexual assault, read notes if prefer to skip]
Lili had nightmares again last night.
The Dark Lord holding her in cold hands, her mother leaning close with a mad grin, familiar knife held in hand.
Between planning for their career advice meeting, the OWLs steadily approaching, and the Golden Quartet now responsible for Hagrid's giant half—brother Grawpy (who was utterly and madly in love with Hermione), life had been quite busy as of late. Tonight, Harry was once again at his Occlumency lessons while Hermione and Ron were off doing prefect duties so Lili took advantage of the downtime while she could.
The girl sketched in front of the hearth in the Gryffindor common room, twisting a stray piece of hair round her finger. She was toasting her knitted socks by the crackling fire, soaking in the warmth, nursing a cuppa. She found that sketching out her nightmares helped her first process them and then sort them behind her Occlumency shields.
Bellatrix's face was difficult to capture, though. Wide—eyed, twisted smile. Wild hair and proud chin. A cruel naivety, a mad beauty. Even sketching her made Lili shudder a little, especially when she added the glinting knife to her mother's pale hand.
Suddenly the portrait door wrenched open, and none other than Harry hurtled into the room, practically flying across the empty common room.
"Harry?"
But her boyfriend was already gone.
Lili's thick socks slipped on the stone while she chased him through the common room and further up the Tower. When she finally reached his dorm, he was no longer there, and wide—eyed, Neville helpfully pointed her to the boys' bathroom. Lili steeled herself, yanked open the door, and stormed inside. But she didn't immediately see Harry there either. The shower was running. She crept carefully closer, eyes on her feet, gently rapping her knuckles against the stall.
The shower curtain tore back.
Harry stood there, fully—clothed, under the steaming spray, shoulders heaving, soaked through so she couldn't tell what was shower water or teardrops. Immediately, she was overcome with questions.
"Harry, what's happened? Is it your scar again? I can call my father—,"
"No!" He sounded strangled, desperate, "No, don't call Snape."
