Note: This was originally the first half of a two-shot piece. However it didn't quite go the direction I wanted it to, so I think it might work better on its own. I may post the second half separately at some point. Or I may add it. We'll see... I may also manage to write what I originally planned - an exploration of Sev's changing feelings for Harry - before Sev's anger at what he perceives as Dumbledore's betrayal hijacked the story.

Prelude to an End

'Severus'

I look up from my marking to the Headmaster's face in my fire.

'It is time. They are coming tonight.'

Suddenly I am ice cold, though the room is quite warm. I knew this night was coming, but I am not ready. Never ready. My face betrays nothing of my turmoil, and I have nothing left to say. I have already said all I could and then some, but the Headmaster is immovable as always. Impassive, immutable. A plan some 14 years in the making (and I fear maybe longer than that) culminates for him tonight, and he was never to be swayed from his path.

I think maybe I am the only one who sees him for the cruel man he truly is. Easily as cruel as the Dark Lord. Maybe crueler. You expect the Dark Lord to crush your dreams. Not the twinkling old bastard who plays the part of your confidant and mentor, slowly and skillfully drawing out your every essence, every precious secret, every desperate hope, before burning them to ash before your eyes, all for the Greater Good.

He knows everything about me, and he has destroyed me. He has destroyed me, and he is swiftly destroying the only thing left on this Earth that I give a damn about. Worse yet, I am his (un)willing tool in this destruction. The boy, Lily's precious Harry.

My precious Harry! Mine!

Precious Harry. Wild, reckless, sorely neglected, abandoned and used. Knocked down and trampled again and again, yet his eyes still shine. I am in awe of his strength: It took so much less to break me. I don't know how he came to be what he is. His father was nothing but a charming bullyboy to the end. His mother, Oh, I loved her! Part of me always will I think, but after all this time I can see that she was not so terribly different from her sister.

You would never have chosen me, would you Lils? Fool that I was. You created your perfect family with James, just as Petunia did with her Vernon.

Not so Harry. Beautiful, wild, reckless Harry, who would stand before Voldemort and Lucifer himself in defense of his friends.

No, there is nothing left to say to the old man, but I am compelled, my black, broken heart demands it:

'Potter?'

He sighs, a touch of irritation. I can't tell if it's at my continued belaboring of the point - we've been over this, so many times - or if he knows of my secret desire, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. He can't use it against me anymore. Not that there's anything left of me to use it against anyway.

'I have just sent Harry to get his Cloak. He will give the Felix to his friends-'

He's using the same tone of voice he uses for first year Hufflepuffs he catches in the kitchens after curfew. And of course he didn't tell Harry to give the damn luck potion to his friends. Oh, no. Better to plant the idea in the boy's brain.

Like you'd accuse a Slytherin of doing.

I sneer, and his tone becomes more one he'd use on Slytherins for, well, being Slytherins.

'I will see to Harry's safety. Look to young Draco Severus!'

I scowl at the man, but he is already gone. I suppose he thinks maybe I would find his concern for Lucius' irritating spawn commendable. I know him too well though. Oh, not as well as he knows me, not by half, but certainly a lot better than he thinks. He had all year to do something about the situation, if he cared. The Weasley boy and the Bell girl almost died for his negligence.

And the damn Felix Felicus! Stupid blind old Sluggy probably never even told those fool children how dangerous it is! And my wild Harry would likely not care anyway! Dear infuriating boy! A prize indeed! Damn the old bastard and his stupid games with my old Potions book!

I wonder what Fate's price for tonight's stolen luck will be. If poor Sybil hadn't pickled herself in the cooking sherry she could probably tell me. I smirk to myself, but I can't fault the fool woman. Nightmares are bad enough without having to face them in your waking hours too. She knows what I am, what I was. I see the fear and betrayal still in her eyes in her rare lucid moments. I can only guess at the horrors that visit her dreams.

A gentle ripple through the wards tells me that the Headmaster has left (with Harry). I breathe out, long and slow, secure in the knowledge that the old bastard won't show up in my Floo, or float unnoticed though my wards.

He's taking Harry. Lily's Harry. My Harry. I don't know when it happened, or how, but one day I realized I didn't hate him anymore. I didn't see James Potter wearing those green eyes anymore. Just Harry, with eyes the colour of the killing curse, full of all the pain and loss and despair that only an Unforgivable can inspire. Oh, the insolence is there, the wildness, the recklessness. Even a little arrogance. But it's not his father's brashness. James' superiority was his birthright, handed to him by his doting parents, reaffirmed by the admiring sycophants he called friends. Harry has earned every ounce of his pride.

And so I cry. I cry for Lily, and the lost boy who once loved her. I cry for the man I could have been, had my two masters not destroyed me, and for the man I am, what I have become: A walking nightmare lurking in the shadows of the day. Mostly though, I cry for Harry. My sobs are almost silent. I learned young that it is always best to be quiet, but in my mind I scream out the pain of his hatred.

I have a little time, a very little, before I must play my part. And then, I know, only my death will temper my love's hatred.