I have managed to fix this story so that the paragraphs are properly divided - at least I think. Let me get back to y'all on that one.
It was a universally accepted truth that Severus Snape was a cold, heartless bastard who only cared about himself. It was equally acknowledged that the only real emotions he seemed capable of were irritation, annoyance, rage, and condescension - although that last one was debatable as an emotion versus a personality trait. In sixteen years of teaching, the only time his unfortunate pupils had ever seen anything close to a smile was the malicious smirk his face twisted into when he was berating a hapless student or docking points from anyone foolish enough to not be in Slytherin. If asked, each and every person - or near about, anyway - would have said Snape wasn't *capable* of experiencing the softer spectrum of emotions. Most days, the man himself would agree with that hasty assessment.
Only a few people, intimately acquainted with him in a way he loathed and had determinedly tried to avoid, knew the truth of the solitary man. Although, after The-Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Bloody-Die had proclaimed the truth to a Great Hall full of various and assorted combatants for both Dark and Light, it was surprising that more rumors hadn't been bandied about during his convalescence from the brink of death's dark chasm; Merlin knew that most of the Wizarding world was usually much more inclined to latch onto the vaguest hint of salacious gossip and distort it into implausible, paper-selling drivel. No, it was still only a thankfully, relatively, small handful who knew of Severus's pathetic torch-carrying for a woman long dead who, even had she been alive, would certainly not have been on speaking terms with him. She'd made that perfectly clear after his one transgression, made in the heat of impotent rage and abject humiliation.
Unfortunately enough for Severus, one of those knowledgeable people in particular refused to let the matter drop, remaining deliberately, willfully noncompliant with his wish to never speak of the matter again, in a manner most unbecoming of a supposedly cunning Slytherin.
On this night, as on many others past, Severus was sitting in Lucius Malfoy's opulent, but tasteful, study. In his younger, more impressionable days as a poor, neglected half-blood being introduced into pureblood society, he had been unable to conceal his longing to read every book on the multitude of bookshelves; he had been visibly impressed by the lush rugs that covered the entirety of the otherwise cold stone floor. The grandiose fireplace, standing taller than his over-six-foot frame, had drawn his eye, thanks to its ornately carved mantlepiece; a magical hunting scene was carved in the wood, and his first few times in Lucius's inner sanctum he had been thoroughly captivated by the people on horses chasing down a fox.
Now, though, the allure of Lucius's magnificent abode could not hold his attention, because even as his friend poured him a drink, he knew this was to be one of the nights when Lucius attempted to force him into a conversation about her. And even Lucius's status as Severus's oldest friend and most trusted - perhaps *only* trusted - acquaintance would not keep him safe from a painful hex if he insisted on pursuing the topic past Severus's initial rebuttal of his inquiry.
"Severus," began the older man,"you must tell me something."
Severus knew that tone well, and it promised little peace unless its demands were met; it was the infamous, imperial 'I am above you and have the right to order you about' tone that had served the Malfoys so well for generations. He closed his eyes in an unvoiced prayer for patience before turning his blankest stare on his friend. The only sign of tension he allowed to remain visible was the grip on his tumbler of Firewhiskey: The knuckles of his left hand were so white that it looked as though the skin would split if any more pressure was exerted.
"And just what knowledge could you possibly feel entitled to demand of me tonight, Lucius?" he drawled, sounding completely unconcerned with the answer to his sarcastic query - probably because he already knew the topic at hand.
Lucius, however, was no fool, and he had known Severus since he was a surly eleven-year-old determined to prove he wasn't scared by the older boys' trick and pranks, some of which had been admittedly Dark; his eyes gleamed in unstated acknowledgment of his friend's studied nonchalance. "Come now, old friend, don't be so uncooperative. I swear, just the one thing, and then we can turn our attention to more pleasant topics."
"Lucius," Severus's tone was cold and forbidding as he stood and paced over to the fireplace, standing with his back to his friend as he traced the intricate carvings with one long, elegant finger, "what, in the last two decades of unsuccessful questioning, has led you to think I will be any more willing to talk about this tonight, or any other night?"
Leaning back in his elegant, yet comfortable, wing-backed chair, Lucius eyed Severus with an intense, calculating speculation, one that itched at the other man's shoulder blades as years of spy-conditioning kicked in. Lucius knew that after the end of the Second War four years ago, Severus had locked himself away at Spinner's End for several months under the pretense of needing to finish healing from Nagini's admittedly brutal attack. Lucius also knew that this was possibly the smallest fraction of the truth of the matter - the reality was that Severus had spent those months battling bouts of deep, soul-crushing depression and self-hatred. He had never expected to survive the Dark Lord's second ascendance to power, nor had he ever considered what to do if he did; after the Dark Lord's demise Severus couldn't seem to find a purpose to his continued existence. The idea of vengeance was all well and good in the abstract, but it was fleeting, and once achieved it left a void that threatened to mercilessly suck everything that remained into it - as Lucius knew only too well.
"Willing? No," murmured Lucius after a long pause. "But I think it necessary. As you said, it has been twenty years, almost to the day. Have you ever once in that time said her name? Have you ever told anyone why you did what you did?"
His earnest entreaties discomfited Severus more than his previous attempts at this conversation ever had. It was not in the Slytherin nature to speak so openly, so baldly, about such personal circumstances.
Forcing himself not to flinch, Severus growled, "Potter and his sidekicks know, they saw the memories. They know," he repeated in a quieter voice, almost to himself, as he stared into the dancing, leaping flames.
"But have you *told* anyone, is what I asked. Have you ever vocalized it?" pushed Lucius inexorably. "You are one of my dearest friends, dead or alive, even with the many circumstances that have ever come between us - you are my only child's godfather - do you honestly think I am asking to hurt you? I have only one question, one I think you need to hear the answer to as much as I do."
"No, Lucius," snarled Severus. He had reached the edge of his admittedly frayed rope, and the continued pressure was likely to cause him to have a mental breakdown of some sort. He had deliberately shied away from most of those memories, preferring not to look too closely at what he had honestly fought in the name of. "I do not know why you always push so hard for this. It's not as if she ever meant anything to you - she was a Mudblood, fit only for casual use, remember?" His lips twisted bitterly as he spat out the word, threw it at Lucius, and he felt unclean before the whole sentence had escaped.
It was in his nature to retreat behind walls of harshness when threatened, and they both knew it, but whereas Lucius would usually back off at this point, tonight he kept pushing.
"I have never denied my attitude towards Muggle-borns; I never will, either. But it is not *my* feelings that matter. You are wounded by these thoughts; they fester and twist inside you. I can tell, Narcissa can *certainly* tell, and even Draco suspects that you are closer to the edge of madness than any of us are comfortable with." Not to mention, his dislike of Lily Evans went far deeper than her parentage issues; she had been a selfish girl, and swing her weild her influence on one of his Slytherins without said Slytherin gaining anything from the association, had made him furious. Manipulation was the Slytherin way, to be sure, but both parties usually *agreed* to and acknowledged that it was happening, and tried to make it mutually beneficial - as far as Lucius could tell, the only benefit Severus had ever gotten from Evans's company was a dubious sort of puppy love.
By this point, Severus was pacing furiously, his vicious movements a manifestation if his roiling emotions. "I deserve to be wounded, to stay in pain!" he snarled as he moved. "There should be no respite for me. I caused it, her death, his resurrection! All of it was my fault, IS my fault - I can never escape! And you, how can you talk to me of madness? Of wounds? Do your own crimes not weigh on you? You escaped Azkaban thanks to your wife's machinations and my own, but if given the opportunity, would you join a new Dark Lord?" Severus was panting with the emotional tirade he was spewing forth; he could barely see through the haze of pain emanating from his chest, where his proverbial heart should have been. As if he had one any more. As if he deserved one!
"Severus," said a solemn Lucius, "I regret nothing more than my involvement in the Dark Campaign, more than my eager desire to advance the family name. But that is what Malfoys do, Severus. We flip a coin on the hopes that the side it lands on will further our glory. Most times it lands right. This time ... it did not.
"And you say you don't deserve absolution, healing? Severus, without you the Dark Lord would have triumphed. Without you, our world would be irreparably changed for the worse. If anyone involved in this whole blasted war *deserves* healing, it is you." Lucius moved to stand behind a stone-still Severus, placing a hand on his shoulder in warm camaraderie. "My question, while perhaps initially painful, will allow you to examine the past, observe what has changed, and accept that you have more than earned your second lease on life."
"I'm not drunk enough for this," was his muttered response, but with it Lucius knew he had finally, at long last, been granted a concession from the concessionless man.
Obviously intent on remedying said sobriety, Severus strode over the plush rugs he had once been in awe of to reach the bar and filled his tumbler to the brim with the strongest Firewhiskey on offer. Only once he was back in his customary seat, and Lucius as well, did he throw the contents back viciously, desperately, refusing to acknowledge the burn in his throat with more than a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes as he glared at the flickering fireplace, several indescribable emotions warring with his usual stoic blankness.
"Very well, Lucius," he finally conceded with visible reluctance after an interminable pause. "You may ask your one question about ... " Lucius could see Severus steel himself to rectify one of his earlier points. "About Lily Evans."
Lucius didn't ask right away; he didn't say anything at all, allowing the silence to turn the air contemplative as he became caught up in watching the feelings glimmer in Severus's eyes - love, anger, stark hopelessness, despair.
"What," he finally began, fingers steepled against his lips, "*precisely*, do you still love about her? Not what you *did* when you were a boy. Not what you *think* you should. What about her inspired the single-minded devotion that got you, and by extension my family, through both wars, that still exists?"
It was obvious to Lucius that whatever Severus had expected him to ask, what he had chosen to was not on the list. His mouth opened several times, only to close again without a word escaping, like a loose window shutter flapping in a gale.
What sort of question *was* that? How was he supposed to explain to a man who had everything, and could get even more, that he had loved her in spite of the rejection? He hadn't really expected much more, to be honest - he had learned as a *very* young boy that he was worthless, undeserving of real love. Even as children, Lily had clearly known that she held all the power in their friendship - something Severus had never really been comfortable with, but that he had accepted as normal because he was accustomed to such treatment.
How was he supposed to verbalize the longing that rose up in his chest every time he thought of the first smile she'd directed at him, the fascination in her gaze as he'd told her about Hogwarts? But - these were childhood memories, and he was a grown man. The emotions in those recollections were tinged with an anger, anger at the way she had so callously dismissed him as irredeemable, Dark beyond help - when he would have done almost anything for her, been anything she'd wanted.
Everyone had given up on him, for his entire life, and he was sick of it; this anger, however, was momentarily tamper down by the pain that had started in his chest and was now radiating out through his extremities. His muscles began to twitch, developing after a moment into a full-bodied shudder that seemed to crack something deep inside him, something that made the pain worse but better, and before he could stop them, tears were silently streaming down his cheeks.
As soon as he noticed, he turned his face away from Lucius, not wanting to so openly display his weakness to the other man - something his fellow Slytherin accepted with silent understanding.
"Why don't I love her anymore? Why am I so ... angry?" His voice was small, broken, and nothing like his usual smooth baritone, although it didn't waver or in any other way display his turmoil.
Lucius looked at his back sympathetically, and gave his words heavy consideration before voicing them. "Because, old friend, you no longer *have* to. You don't need her to get you through the horrors of war; you've done your part, and now you can finally allow yourself to feel anger. The anger at how she treated you, how the world has treated you - you deserve better, whether you accept it or not, and it's perfectly acceptable to be angry."
Lucius tilted his head speculatively, and upon judging that any more deep words would break his friend's fragile composure, he made the decision to lighten the conversation. "Hopefully, you'll reconcile the anger much quicker and be fit to move on - Merlin knows Narcissa has been after me to invite you to tea with several of the more eligible witches in her acquaintance."
At this, Severus snorted dryly, all hint of both sadness and anger carefully hidden away beneath his mask of sarcasm. "One impossibility at a time, Lucius. We aren't all blond demi-gods - no woman is going to throw herself at me. Not a sincere one, anyway," he amended.
Lucius let out a bark if laughter, finally relaxing all the way into his chair. He was secure in the knowledge that his friend, his protege, was, at long last, on the path to healing. They settled into light-hearted banter, and the embers in the fireplace had all but died out by the time the two men said their farewells and parted ways, both feeling the better for the night's discussion.