A/N: DH complaint...to an extent. Takes place during chapter 32 of DH..but goes AU from there.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

-Lewis Carroll, The Hunting of the Snark

Prologue:: Some are Boojums

He knew it the moment he opened his eyes, the moment he was conscious of that first rattling breath within his chest.

Something was wrong.

It wasn't simply the fact that he was laying in a pool of blood…his blood, he realized distortedly. It was a feeling, an innate knowledge that something had gone terribly wrong.

The walls blurred before him.

Oh.

Oh.

He was in the Shrieking Shack. The Dark Lord had tried to kill him. No, he amended; it was the snake who had done the deed. Attempted, his mind corrected dimly, because for some inexplicable reason he was still alive. His limbs were numb, dead weights against him, and his breath came in rasping, painful gasps, but he was alive.

Alive.

It would have brought a derisive laugh, this thought, had his throat not been so constricted and swollen. That he, Severus Snape, should survive against The Dark Lord's…whims... seemed a contradicting case of both 'dumb luck' and 'cruel misfortune'. And…

…and he was here again. Here of all places…! The same place that had nearly been his tomb over 2 decades ago. In the stillness around him, he could almost hear the phantom growls of the werewolf Lupin, could almost smell the rancid musk of the creature that had once lingered in the room. His stomach clenched and he took a shaky breath, trying to calm his lurching insides. He closed his eyes.

And his world burst into color.

Red hair like molten gold, like a late sunset disappearing over the horizon. Sparkling green eyes gazed out at him from the darkness.

He was up in an instant, struggling against his protesting body, eyes wide open, pulling himself sluggishly to his feet, nearly slipping in his own blood. His heart beat painfully in his chest, and the blessed numbness that had previously sheathed his form vanished, leaving pain, sharp and piercing.

How long had he spent simply laying here, he wondered, while all around him wizards immersed themselves in battle? Another thought struck him abruptly.

Had the boy…Had he and the Dark Lord already - ?

Consternation, swift and cold, darkened his face, and he made a jerky step forward.

He had to find Potter.

It was too much to hope that the child had managed to figure it out for himself. Never mind that not even he himself would have surmised that both the boy and The Dark Lord would have to die-

His lips gave a contemptuous curl. An empty attempt. He couldn't even summon irritation at the knowledge that he'd been reduced to some….some harbinger of death. That even at the forefront of battle he was still being used as some perverse 'go between'. On both ends of the spectrum, it all came back to one Harry Potter…

His step wavered, and he fell against the wall, room spinning madly.

The venom?

It would begin to affect him rapidly now that he was conscious and active. Though he could only speculate as to why he was even still alive. Years of sampling new potions and of inhaling fumes had perhaps given his body a certain degree of immunity against poison. It was, he assumed, the only reason he'd lasted this long. But combined with the amount of blood he'd already lost…and was still loosing… A hand swept absently to his neck. It was impossible to tell.

With some difficulty, he forced himself to straighten. Walk, he thought grimly. Just walk. Out of habit, his hand closed automatically over the wand in his sleeve. Except that this time, instinct felt wrong, the fingers were thick and clumsy. He couldn't feel his fingertips, he realized suddenly, could barely register any feeling in his hand at all. He wouldn't last an instant if he were attacked along the way… But he couldn't help that. There was nothing he could do at present. He stumbled towards the dark corridor.

It was exasperating work.

His sudden, stilted movements had indeed increased the venom's travel, though his mind at least, seemed to be working properly. For now. His body on the other hand, was a different story. There was a definite lull in his senses, and by the time he managed to drag himself to the exit, by the time he'd fumbled for and pushed the knob at the base of the willow tree and pulled himself out, he was drenched in sweat and utterly exhausted. Greasy black hair clung limply to his forehead, and his dark eyes were cloudy and blurred. He wondered absently if he would go blind, too.

He collapsed on the ground.

Bloody hell. Would he have to crawl now?! There seemed to be no end… He lay there a moment, catching his breath, body completely done in. Distantly, objectively even, his mind settled on the willow above him. He needed to move, he thought with some irritation. He really must get out of range of that infernal tree—

But he would never make it in time, not in this condition. Resigned, he turned over, wondering if he had enough energy to toss a hex at the tree, when his cloudy eyes settled on the boughs. Or lack thereof.

The tree was gone.

Well, not gone exactly, though most certainly branchless. Illuminated by the half slit of the moon in the sky, Severus could just make out the form of it, grotesque and still. The twisted base looked strangely deformed without the limbs. He smelled it too, the tree. Just faintly on the wind. The smell of scorched tree sap and wood. The odor made his nose burn, and he stared up, pale faced and silent. Something inside him went utterly still, and he pulled himself painfully to his knees, staring slowly around him over the waning moonlit grounds.

It was over.

He knew it with a quiet sort of certainty. It was over.

And there was no question as to who had won. That much, he could attest, was quite obvious. As obvious as the littering of bodies which dotted the vast court-yard around him. His breath rasped faster.

There was no one. No wayward presences to be felt nearby, no stray sparks of spells. No sound. No sound. There was simply silence.

He laughed, painful as it was.

It built within him, spilling through his dry throat; a bitter sort of laugh, triumphant, slightly mad.

Oh the irony!

The boy had failed. The golden 'Boy Who Lived' had wholly and completely failed. The child whom of which the entire wizarding world viewed as some sort of…Messiah - here he scowled - had failed. Oh how he relished it. Both relished and abhorred it, even. The boy for whom so many were willing to lay down their lives, for whom rules never seemed to apply, who could probably get away with murder if he so wished it. The…the…teenager who could barely pass potions, that mediocre wizard. If that, he corrected snidely He'd failed. Was probably dead-

Lily's son was dead.

The amusement drained from his face.

Lily's son was gone. Lily was gone. The last known link to this world…

And suddenly he was furious. His heart beat fast, his eyes prickled. In his hand, his wand was clutched so tightly that it might very well have broken had his attention not strayed to the castle before him. The poison was there, running through his veins, and the cool air against his blood soaked robes made his skin prickle, but his mind was on one thought.

Was the portrait still there? In the office?

How much of the actual castle remained? His black eyes lowered wildly to the ground, focusing on the pale, bony hands buried beneath the soil. It was impossible to tell from here, with his fading eyesight.

How much had the Death Eaters left standing after their victory?

He prayed it was still there, the Headmaster's portrait. Oh how he would destroy the thing, he thought nastily. His voice was a dagger, sharpened to diamond-esque perfection with age, and he would use it to tear into the old wizard, unrelenting. Perhaps he would even carry the portrait to the window, let the man see the result of his…brilliance. Let him suffer, he thought viciously. Let his heart ache for his precious Harry Potter…

Everything…everything had been wrong!

His fingers clawed fiercely into the earth. A strangled sob escaped his throat. It felt as though he were coming apart at the seams. Hysteria. Dementia. They rode the corners of his mind, scrambling for entrance, trying to unravel it, him, and for a moment he feared he might very well loose the rigid control he held so dear. It was the only thing of himself in which he truly owned…he couldn't- couldn't… His shoulders shook.

But what was the point?

The uncertainty grew, and with it, something else. That fury, that half quenched rage that he'd so diligently, for years, kept at bay. The bitterness, the…resentment. It washed over him now, doused him. And it was with renewed strength that he suddenly found himself on his feet, ignoring the increased spinning in his head as he strode purposefully, albeit unsteadily, towards the castle. The breeze was cool on his face; a wet combination of sweat and tears which he didn't bother to wipe away. There was no one around to see anymore. He'd be dead soon anyway.

Dead. He was dying, and he'd failed to protect Lily…and her son, much as he loathed the little brat, but as long as he got to the Headmaster…as long as he saw the look on the old wizard's face, he could die with at least some semblance of satisfaction. He would not be the only one who suffered! Oh no! It was a torment that he would gladly share, especially with…him.

The scent of blood and death hung thick over the grounds. He did not bother to avoid the many bodies and limbs that lay strewn before him. Neither did he look at them; they wouldn't bear any resemblance to the people he'd known anyway, and regardless, his vision was becoming so cloudy that it was nearing impossible to see more than a few yards ahead of himself. It was only habit, and that fueling rage that kept him going forward and oriented.

The air was cold. Odd, he noted absently, for May. He felt a sharp crack beneath his shoe, and paused, breathing hard.

Ice?

Certainly not this time of year. Unnatural ice, then. Residual material from a lingering spell, perhaps. His mind waved it impatiently away, eager to get to the Headmasters office. But another part, the rational part, gave pause. It most definitely was ice – he felt the sharp chill of it through his shoes – but it had happened suddenly, and recently too, for he certainly did not remember the temperature being this way back near the willow. It had to be something else…

He stopped, squashing the urge to kneel for a closer look. If he went down now, he wasn't confident that he'd be able to get back up in his current condition. So his eyes darted around in a suspicious squint, trying to penetrate the fog of his eyes. But…was it really his eyes that were foggy, he wondered suddenly?

Could it be-

But he hadn't felt anything. Surely they wouldn't…there was no one left alive here, after all; not that he could tell. There was only himself… He resumed his trek. Faster now, or at least as quickly as his body could manage. He could feel flecks of ice in the air, thin and sharp. Something cold and wispy brushed against his arm, and he stumbled over a body and landed hard on the ground, wand flying out of his hand.

Damn-!

Pain shot through his limbs, magnified by ten it seemed, and through the spinning in his head he rooted clumsily for his wand. But the feeling had long since faded from his fingers, and the fog was so thick that he could barely see…

Then there was a flutter; the barest of touches on his mind before the screaming began. Like whispers in his psyche.

He recognized them.

He sank back, gritting his teeth. He couldn't loose control…he couldn't let them get to him. He called his wand, and heard the answering smack of wood against his palm before pulling it securely to his chest. Even that small bit of magic had been taxing, and it was with difficulty that he pulled himself to his feet. There was no way he could summon his Patronus, not in his current state. Any attempt at any major magic would leave him severely vulnerable. His step faltered a moment before he strode shakily forward, automatically occluding his mind as he went.

He needed to get inside. He needed to get out of the open area. But he was disoriented. He'd gotten confused in his fall, he'd lost view of the castle. He spun, and it was from pure habit that he found himself brandishing his wand, staring deep into the foggy night. To his left he caught a glint. A vague orange twinkle, and he dove towards it like a drowning man. Light, he thought. It had to be the castle…

It was.

His eyes stayed on that tiny pin prick of light. At times it disappeared completely from view, obscured by the fog, and he had to stop and search for it, feeling a vague sense panic overtake him. But then it would reappear, the light, and he would amble desperately towards it.

Eventually the fog thinned. Or maybe he had simply walked his way through it. Regardless, the presence of the Dementors had faded slightly, and the torch lights of the castle interior were now plainly visible.

It loomed like a great cathedral before him, the castle. He felt the odd contrast, seeking sanctuary here of all places; it drew a sharp parallel to the years before, when he had done the same thing, when he'd come crawling back here…to him. His entire life, it seemed was worth nothing more than to be used like some-

The screaming, which had quieted, at once increased, and he swayed under the pressure of it, nearly loosing his bearings. He wouldn't make it. He wouldn't- He would be killed by the Dementors, his soul sucked out like some petty criminal-

Oh, but that's what you are, isn't it? The darkest of the dark. Incapable of redemption or even clemency…

His throat burned.

He was defenseless, as useless as a muggle at present. His face fell into a glowering scowl. He needed to move faster…

But his body didn't seem to want to obey him. It hurt, moving like this. The anger was fast fading, and with it the blessed adrenaline that had hitherto given him strength. Twice he stumbled. It was harder to get up the second time. He needed to stop, if only for a moment to catch his breath. His legs felt thick and clumsy, and his mind was so disoriented that he couldn't discern whether this was an effect of the Dementors or simply the venom acting.

He bit the inside of his cheek and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Something sharp exploded in his head, a kaleidoscope of colors that dulled the screams just slightly. The pain helped, it gave him something to focus on, and he barely noticed when his feet touched the stone of the castle steps. The large oak doors were gone; completely splintered through by a spell. Not that such a thing as a door could stop a Dementor, anyway. He stumbled through the archway.

The moment he stepped through he knew something was off.

He'd expected this, of course; the school had fallen to the Death Eaters, to The Dark Lord himself. But it was still a shock, not feeling the hum of the protection wards. It meant that Hogwarts had truly fallen. He couldn't discern the feeling that settled over him at this realization.

The Headmasters office, his office, he corrected, was located on the 7th floor. A furtive glance behind him confirmed that he was still alone. They hadn't caught up yet. But certainly it was only a matter of time. A race. Against time, against death. But he would do this last deed. He would do this for himself.

He took a meandering step forward and knew immediately that he would never make it past the first floor. His body had begun to tremble, and though the freezing chill from the grounds had penetrated the school, he was soaked with sweat. He needed an easier way…a broom perhaps, some sort of transportation-

He exhaled, and his breath flared like smoke before his face. The torch lights dimmed and then extinguished in a hiss, and Severus held his breath, staring at the door. There was darkness.

They were here.

He heard their rattling breath, it filled his nostrils, putrid and rotten. He caught glimpses through the moonlit windows, the tattered end of a cloak, the hooded head. A gnarled, decayed hand brushed against his face.

And…coldness.

He felt it all around through the fog of his mind. It invaded him, chilled him to the bone.

But it wasn't as bad as the screams.

He fell against the stone wall, breathing hard. All around him they slid against him, gliding against his skin, fingers trailing through his hair like a lover's caress-

Surrounded by Dementors… Screams-

Where was his wand?!, he thought wildly. He couldn't think straight. The cold was seeping into his mind, his thoughts were sluggish and useless. He needed to think of something pleasant...pleasant..!! Lily, he thought wildly. Lily Potter. No…Evans!, he corrected. Lily Evans!! But Lily was dead. Everyone around him was dead. The Dark Lord had won. The Headmaster had been wrong, and Harry Potter was dead, just like Lily…

Lily…

His vision swam.

He stood frozen, paralyzed. They hadn't touched him in the courtyard for whatever reason, but they would have him now?! Now of all times, when he was so close?! He could have yelled at the injustice of it. Let greasy Snivellus get close to his goal and then snatch it all away! Oh, he should be used to it by now, certainly!. It was the story of his lifeSo why should his death be any different?!

The hands were on him once more. Several hands, it seemed. They couldn't seem to decide who would take him. It occurred to him suddenly, in some perverse morbidity, that this was the one and only time that anyone had ever bothered to fight over him. That it should be Dementors of all creatures… But then his face was being tilted upwards, something brushed against his nose, and white hot terror whipped through his mind, pushing all other thoughts aside.

And then the cold increased and he stopped thinking.

TBC