Chapter 1: After death
Dedication: To Alan Rickman.
Forward: There are princes that were born princes, and paupers trying to fabricate a lie riddled with holes in the beginning.
There were many secrets that lived and breathed in the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
There was a room on the seventh floor of the castle that could change and provide for you anything you might need if you ask for the right things. There was a great chamber unexplored underneath the dungeons of the school, guarded by an army of great snake skins and lesser reptiles, carved and otherwise.
There was the hidden compartment nestled behind Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's portrait. There was a stone among millions that call the Forbidden Forest home that could bring back the dead.
There were the hidden stashes of sweets underneath numerous four poster beds. There were the dusty tomes wedged between bookshelves that should never be forgotten. There were galleons and essays taped on the other side of writing desks to avoid a professor's prying eyes.
There are secrets that were spoken, secrets that were passed from one giggling ear to another. Secrets that were made, secrets that were hidden and there were secrets that should not have been a secret in the first place.
Things that were originally for fame and glory, not gathering dust and cobwebs that sat long abandoned.
Things that should be remembered and admired, was lost.
Like the tomb of a Prince.
A lot of things had happened in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts, after the defeat and death of the Dark Lord Voldemort. A lot of things had changed. The ministry reformed, Hogwarts and Diagon's repairs was finished. Death Eaters were all subdued.
At long last, peace came and refused to go away.
But human nature could not be changed.
Hidden deep in the Forbidden Forest, under a great yew tree filled with thick ruby ribbons and bushels of galaxy-bright black lilies, was a grave.
A grave for a man that was both hero and villain, a man cheated out of the remembrance he so justly deserved. No one remembered him anymore, after all those years, after all that he had done.
Only one man still came, though his visits were becoming more and more infrequent. But he still came, still brought midnight colored flowers, still talked about his worries to the beautiful tombstone because the man buried beneath it was the only one that listened anymore.
Always the one man, the man with the ridiculously messy hair and bright emerald eyes like stars. The tree and the grave watched in silence as the man aged. From a boy barely of age to a seasoned teacher and father some years later, he like all others, grew.
The lightning scar faded from the man's forehead, the branches on the Vigor Mortis tree became spidery and long-limbed, almost glaring at whatever or whomever that disturbed the tomb with beady eyes, the thick red ribbons joined by silver black green and purple.
The lilies birthed new flowers quickly after being planted by the green-eyed man and died just as quickly. A never ending cycle, vicious and curious.
Once in a while, a curious stranger or a dozen or so would find their way onto the little footpath that led to the grave. They followed it because they were lost, and was in need of light and comfort.
They would marvel at the ribbons on the big hollow tree, some messily tied by the hands of children. They would trample over the lilies and the roses and would brush their ignorant fingers over the obsidian tombstone, laughing loudly among themselves when they felt the name.
The gave was small, magic swirled in the air around it, preventing the body that rests beneath from rotting.
The tombstone was a beautiful thing, pure obsidian in its raw form, the jagged edges poking out from the sides. The words printed on the stone were cryptic and strange, but it made the perfect sense for those that still made the effort to remember.
For those that remembered, the man underneath the stone was a man of many masks. Some saw him as a brilliant Potions Master, others took him as the scary dungeon bat that took little children from their beds while others called him a murderer and villain and a thief.
He had no legacy to leave behind except fir a house full of damp books and spells of his creation, passed down from one ignorant person to another.
He was considered by a small few as brilliant in his field, meticulous in his teaching and thorough with his war efforts.
He was a man hated by some and forgotten by many.
Even if the world should crumble and fall, the forest burns to a crisp and the castle of Hogwarts that has stood for a thousand something years be leveled to the ground. Even if the green-eyed man's blood showered the Vigor Mortis tree like raindrops.
The obsidian never forgave, and never forgot.
The words etched in the stone will never disappear.
The Half-Blood Prince
1998
Keeping his promises to the bitter end
'Always'
A raven was carved underneath the cursive words, etched with a sharp blade and sword into the unforgiving stone. Of a midnight raven outlined in silver, taking flight, one last time.
It was a tomb fit for a Prince. A forgotten prince.
But no less deserving.
Fin
Dedicated to the memory of Severus Tobias Snape. A man that always kept his promises.
A/N:
I originally posted this as a stand alone story but since I dug a hole for myself and desperately needed something to fill it, so I took this and put it as the first chapter of my new story.
I wrote this a long time ago when I was bored in English class and the substitute teacher had us watching the Princess Bride for the third time in a week because why the hell not?
I can't write on a computer.