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Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh, Harry repeats the mantra inside his head. Don’t you dare.
The corners of Harry’s mouth twitch ever so slightly, and he desperately bites his tongue.
Laugh and you’re dead. Harry tastes blood. Severus Snape will kill you.
The memory is adorable. Young Lily braiding kid-Severus’ shoulder-length hair, silky smooth instead of greasy. They sit in the tall grass reading, backs against a tree, spots of golden light and greenish shadow dancing over their skin as the leaves of the tree sway gently in the breeze. Severus puts his head down on Lily’s lap and she strokes his hair while reading to him. He falls asleep, and for a moment the memory is only warm darkness and comfort and love. Then he wakes up and Lily is holding up a flower crown, woven from daisies, tall buttercup, poppy and meadow grass. Severus sits up and rubs his eyes, yawns, and Lily turns the wreath this way and that before deeming it worthy of sitting atop her best friend’s head and coronating him. Prince Sev.
Merlin, Snape used to be adorable!
Harry takes a deep, steadying breath. Snape scowls at him.
Don’t think of Snape in a flower crown. Just don’t.
But Harry can’t help picturing his morose professor with a pretty, colorful flower crown. Can’t help but imagine tall buttercup-stems tangling in his hair, a poppy petal detaching and gliding down to rest on his shoulder, a too-long daisy bending down until its little yellow face is eye-to-disk flowers with Snape.
Princess Snape, Harry thinks hysterically. Before his inner eye, a meadow grass-inflorescence tickles Snape and he sneezes. His lips turn pink like those of the boy, his cheeks flush rosy.
His highness, Princess Snape.
Snape squints at Harry. His eye twitches.
Harry doesn’t laugh.