Master of Death
Severus Snape has survived so very much. But even he has to succumb in time.
~ SS19
Death had come for him three times.
The first had been when the shadows were shortening, and the leaves were turning to gold. The breezes were cooler, and the skies were becoming darker. Reluctance was lying in the air, and as he walked, he could feel life fighting the onslaught, the coming invasion of the darkness and the cold.
The figure was on his knees, hands clasped, before a wizard who was more powerful than him - and Death waited. He could see that his Summoner was not yet ready to die, even though it seemed to be the most logical solution. He would kick and scream and fight. But Death was always triumphant - in the end - and he would simply stand.
The scene before him was one of tragedy - and he would have felt pity for the boy, twenty-one years old - pleading with a man who was many times his senior, yet no more wise. Death could see the reason for the boy's agony; the emotion that had brought so many, humans and wizards and creatures alike, to their very knees and beyond - Love. And still, Death watched.
Death reached out a hand.
He expected the curse to fall - and yet - it did not. Instead, another hand was reached out to the boy, pulling him back to his feet, and a promise was made. And Death realised that Now was not the time. He had been denied.
But there would be others.
Autumn had to turn to Winter, after all.
The second had been when the nights were cold and dark and long. Life had become slow, sluggish, and even existence was painful.
The ward had been quiet and still, and the figure on the bed quieter and stiller yet. His skin was still stained with red, his robes torn open to allow those who fought to save his life access to the deeper wounds.
Death waited, once more. Black eyes were open, drifting, unfocused, unaware.
Yet they rested upon Death and his cloak. It had to be close. A mortal could only see Death at the very end.
There was no fear, this time. He was simply tired. Pained. Cold. Dark.
And still Death watched.
"What is he looking at?"
"He is not with us. I am fighting. I will not let him die."
Death reached out a hand. He was close. But he was not close enough.
He saw the hand, an imperceptible shake of his head, and turned away, and those black eyes fluttered closed.
No. There would be another time, after all.
The third, and final, saw a transitional season. A time of renewal. What had once been new life was becoming childlike with joy and age - the sun would stream, and the warmth would flow, and the peace would build. As the nights lengthened, many were swept away by this feeling of joy, the brightness, the knowledge that Winter and the dark and the cold were so very far away.
Death had been busy. War was filled with tragedy.
And he had been Summoned, once more, to the man who had mastered him twice.
But no man had mastered Death three times.
He lay, collapsed. A boy was by his side.
"Look at me." A pause. "You have your mother's eyes."
Before dying, a man could see their life stretched out before them for them to admire or fear. That was Death's doing. He allowed them to see their deeds and their misdeeds.
So much torment. Perhaps, this time, death was a true reward for such a brave soldier.
Black eyes flickered toward him, and Death simply watched back as he had always done, silent and still.
He reached out a hand.
The dying man nodded.
And responded, in kind, and Death caught that hand before it thudded to the floor, and his body lay still, and moved no more.
Harry Potter returned to the Boat House. The body remained, the blood had long since stemmed, and the flesh was cold. But Harry Potter understood now. He understood what this man had done for him - for his mother - for his mentor - for everyone.
And he would receive the funeral he deserved, the opportunity to be mourned and honored and admired.
He moved slightly closer, wishing he had been able to convey some sort of gratitude.
He knelt beside the lifeless figure and leaned close. "Thank you, Professor."
And somewhere in the ether, a figure with black robes and black hair and white hands clasped together in front of him, watched. There was no pain; there was no exhaustion; there was no struggle.
There was simply him.
And Severus Snape half smiled, and murmured in response to ears that would never hear him, "You're welcome."