Disclaimer: I own none of the characters.
A/N: This story takes place between Snape's finding out Voldemort's plan to have Draco kill Dumbledore and his swearing the Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa.
Blue had become Snape's least favorite color. Those eyes of Dumbledore's—they sparkled with mirth or melted with sympathy or hardened with flinty determination without so much as a second's warning. With the Dark Lord, one always knew exactly where one stood and would stand in the proceeding weeks, months, and years. He loathed everyone, some less than others, and he would eventually find an excuse to cast aside or murder anyone and everyone who was unfortunate enough to enter his service. Voldemort's soulless red eyes told that tale quite plainly. It was the blue eyes that so many called kind that terrified Snape beyond words.
At that very moment, he felt Petrified by their unwavering gaze. The words that had just issued from Dumbledore's mouth were enough to send anyone into shock, but Snape felt as though he had temporarily lost his cognition. During the long pause, the snores of the sleeping headmasters and headmistresses filled the room, deafening Snape's terror-heightened senses.
He was going to be cast aside, abandoned… And Dumbledore wanted him to cut his own leash.
"I won't do it," Snape said firmly and plainly, as though they were discussing something as mundane as chaperoning a school dance.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I will not," said the Defense against the Dark Arts professor through tightly clenched teeth; anyone other than Dumbledore would have been terrified, "do it."
The Headmaster did not immediately respond. He lifted the teaspoon from atop his desk and began to stir the cooling mug of tea beside which it had been resting. In a calmly unconcerned manner, he set down the spoon and took a sip of the tea. "What other options do you believe you have? For the school to survive, for the Order to have any chance, I must be eliminated."
"I'm sure that I can think of something."
"There is no need. I have already devised the most suitable—"
"I won't do it."
"Do not interrupt me, Severus." Properly chastised, Snape lowered his gaze to his hands, clasped in his lap to stop their shaking. His shoulders had gone even more rigid, and his sharp inhalation told Dumbledore that he had truly unsettled his protégé. "I know quite well that you remember the vow you swore to meupon our earliest meeting. I have not yet released you from it. I have no intention of ever doing so."
Snape slammed up his Occlumency barriers, but Dumbledore's amused smile told him that it was pointless. The Headmaster had already seen what he had needed to see. Of course Snape remembered the vow. It had been obtained on the morning Snape's fate was to be determined, the morning of his trial, words drawn from the mouth of a terrified child. He had not yet been twenty when he had sworn to obey Dumbledore; he would have sworn allegiance to anyone to keep himself out of Azkaban. But there had been nearly twenty years in between that gut-wrenching morning and the night that sent Snape adrift once again, years during which Snape had found something like his honor in Dumbledore's service. He had never asked Snape to do anything inherently against his will, save perhaps teaching the Potter boy Occlumency—
"You know that I had reasons for that."
Snape closed his eyes and whispered, "I know. Please, I need to think."
"You would prefer that I was not raking through your mind as you did so?"
"Yes, I would prefer it."
The Headmaster shrugged. "Then get me out."
Like it was some sort of damned classroom exercise. Like they were talking theoretically, formulating hypotheses for publication. With an explosion, Snape concentrated all of his power on the nearly undetectable speck of foreign magic in the back of his brain, slamming against it like an American footballer determined to kill his opponent. After less than half a minute of this, Snape sagged in his chair, exhausted. The edges of his vision were alternating between grey and black, and he felt his breath hitching painfully in his chest.
But Dumbledore smiled serenely at him. "Twenty points from Slytherin, then… After all that dithering, I rather expected something more impressive."
"You're mad."
That peaceful smile remained in place. "So many have asserted."
Snape decided to try another track. "Draco doesn't have the slightest chance of—He is talented, but he is inexperienced and, dare I say, his attempts will be halfhearted at best. He does not yet know with which side he will stand." Snape thought of the chess games he'd been playing with Draco since the boy's second year, those nervous comments, those tremulous questions, and finally, just the previous spring—Sir, what if the Dark Lord is wrong? How could Snape have done anything but swear to protect the boy? He had no one else, there was no one else powerful enough to protect him. Narcissa was a joke, Bellatrix didn't care, and Lucius was indefinitely off the board. Dumbledore could protect himself. Draco was not yet able.
Once again proving his point, Dumbledore responded to Snape's thoughts. "No, Draco is not capable. Nor are you, if we are to be completely honest with one another," the Headmaster said. Perhaps surprisingly, Snape did not react violently to this observation. He knew as well as Dumbledore that his magic was no match for the Headmaster's power, precision, and ingenuity. "Perhaps Tom is the only person capable of defeating me—and he must be allowed to do so."
"No."
"I understand that it is difficult for you to accept. It is perhaps more difficult for the young to comprehend the minds of the old than for the old to sympathize with the young… I have lived my life, Severus. I have done everything that I wished to do, and the few loose ends I have to tie up will have been completed by the end of the spring term, I do believe. I always wanted to die in the spring," Dumbledore added conversationally, "because it seems so wonderfully poetic. Being buried would be rather like being planted, don't you think?"
"I have never—given it much thought," Snape said helplessly.
"Well, there you are. I do not fear death, only remaining in a world where my presence is harmful. It is quickly becoming so. Our Mr. Potter is progressing wonderfully. Under your influence, Mr. Malfoy is becoming more and more of a threat to Voldemort, and you, my dear, you… Well, I can only say that Minerva will spend even less time than I did choosing a successor."
"Minerva will gleefully torture me to death if I do as you are asking."
"Do you truly believe that I will not thoroughly explain my plan to the Order? I have already enchanted certain documents to make themselves known to interested parties a suitable length of time proceeding my death, explaining how it came to pass. You will already be in hiding, of course, firmly implanted among the Death Eaters.""I cannot believe we are discussing the technicalities of—I cannot do it," Snape said desperately. His clenched hands were trembling in his lap as he rose from his chair. He did the unthinkable: crossed behind Dumbledore's behemoth of a desk. The Headmaster turned his chair so that he was facing Snape just as the Defense against the Dark Arts professor sank to his knees. "Please, do not ask it of me."
"I have already asked it," Dumbledore said patiently. "I trust no one else enough. It must be you. Severus, if you do not do this, our chances at defeating Voldemort will lessen significantly. I am swiftly becoming a liability to the Order. Tom's hatred of me, which is rivaled only by his hatred of Harry Potter, is making him singularly determined to destroy me and my school. Hogwarts must survive, Severus, and if my death is the only way that I can ensure its continued existence, I will die cheerfully. You must be my hand."
With none of his usual subtlety, Dumbledore rested his blackened hand against Snape's sallow cheek. The touch which usually brought peace horrified Snape, as he realized with painful certainty: By this time next year, I will never feel his touch again.
"Will you protect Hogwarts?"
"I have always done everything you asked of me," Snape said quietly. He looked up into Dumbledore's eyes expecting the serene blue, as peaceful as the spring sky beneath which Snape could already picture columns of weeping children. Also, he saw a beseeching look, that of an elderly man whose resignation was so complete that it was now only painful to others. Snape swallowed the tears that were threatening and whispered, "I will always do everything you ask of me."
"Thank you, dearest." Dumbledore said quietly. He leaned forward in his chair and kissed Snape's forehead like a king blessing the conquering knight and felt a shudder pass through the younger man's frame—terror, or grief shivering its way out of the frame unaccustomed to such strong emotions. Then with a little chuckle, Dumbledore pulled back, "You'll catch cold if you stay on the damp floor. Up now, and I'll Summon us another pot of tea—and perhaps some Twinkies. Have you ever tried Twinkies? Muggles say that the filling is whipped pig's fat, but I find them quite delicious."