A.N:none of the characters belong to me, the central background plot isn't mine either, this is just an elaboration on personal views of what certain characters felt towards the end of DH. Don't sue. ENJOY.

THE CHOICES WE MAKE: Snake's last memory

The voices in the office rumbled low and indistinct in the small hours of the morning. It was still dark outside, and though there were no lights inside the office itself, the flames in the fireplace on the left side of the office cast uncertain shadows in the dimly lit room. It was best if nothing indicated that the Headmaster was still, in fact, awake and running, especially to all members of staff.

Being a Death Eater and running a school of Hogwarts' size was no small feat, but as of late things had been further complicated by the pinnacle the war was no doubt reaching. Both sides were getting impatient, skittish and all-round exasperating.

He had found the boy by a miraculous coincidence – "sheer dumb luck" – but, despite having done as his master had ordered, he had his own misconceptions about the infallibility of the grand plan. He had never been given cause to believe that the boy had been half as talented or as bright as his bevy of admirers passionately proclaimed in the past years, so it was only natural, he supposed, that he failed to feel any disproportionate sense of faith in the boy's capability to get that sword out of that frozen lake.

After all, he himself doubted that, were he in the boy's position, he would dive into those below-freezing waters to retrieve a stupid sword that had belonged to a wizard who housed the brawniest and most brash students he had ever seen in his teaching career. Logically, it defied reason, for how could he destroy a mere trinket holding a piece of the soul of the most powerful wizard Britain had seen in the past decades, who was still alive, with a … a mere piece of steel?

Selfishly, it was something he as a Slytherin would never dream of doing in his worst nightmares, because there was nothing personal for him to gain that might hold his interest for more than a moment. There were other ways to destroy the locket, after all, and some of them were considerably trickier than swinging a sword at the locket as one might do a sledgehammer, hacking at it – and even more dangerous than losing one's hand. He would probably opt for the trickier methods, both in order to avoid the sheer stupidity of diving into a frozen lake, and to prove to others, as well as reassure himself, that he was very much capable of casting such difficult magic.

But then he'd never been able to comprehend what drove Gryffindors to act as they did, never mind a boy who was so complicated yet strangely predictable, nor why both his masters were so obsessed with him, though of course, for entirely different reasons.

But when confronted, those reasons pretty much amounted to the same thing: power.

He had refused to consider and understand how such an ordinary boy could be expected to be the saviour of them all, and wondered how he could ever stand the slightest chance against the Dark Lord. That is, he hadn't understood until he saw with his own eyes the final missing piece to the grand puzzle.

He'd been able to look at the bigger picture then and felt something sickeningly close to pity for the boy, but only for a moment, before he hardened his heart and set his mind to fulfilling his masters' orders.

Curse them both, he'd once growled.

Both shared one thing in common, though he'd never admit this to anyone: the obstinacy of not staying dead and leaving him be. Both senile old men galled him by stringing him about like a puppet in their macabre game from beyond the grave, though one of them had never truly known death because he had shattered his soul into seven pieces, thus effectively getting as close to immortality as anyone had ever had dared.

But he was digressing here.

He followed the old man's orders and planted the sword in that frozen lake, all the while feeling foolish and expectant at the same time, because he'd seen tail nor hide of the boy and his loyal little lackeys since that fateful night when he and Draco had been fleeing for the lives from the castle's grounds, that night, when he thought he was well into perdition and beyond anyone's help, when the little whelp had dared to belittle him and befoul his arduous task.

COWARD!

Oh, that one had hurt like a sickening blow to the gut. He'd had to make the little brat pay for his insolence – he'd marked him as he had done numerous times to his father in their youth – he knew nothing of the filth he had been subjected to enduring since deciding to serve either of his masters!

He'd secured the spell that would enable to sword to be pulled out only through a sheer act of bravery, and then sent his message doe to draw the boy out of his hidey-hole.

He had to admit that the boy had certainly grown since he'd last seen him. Not just physically, although that had startled him when he first glimpsed him through the trees – how had the boy gotten so tall in such a short amount of time, gained such a look of adulthood about him? – but also in his casting and performing of magic. If it wasn't for the fact that he had seen the boy coming out of what appeared to be thin air, as though he'd Apparated, he wouldn't have believed he'd been hidden somewhere under numbers of protective charms and secrecy sensors as well as see-me-not invisibility spells.

That showed the boy was cunning and clever and knew exactly how to stay in hiding for endless months, biding his time, until he was ready.

Perhaps there was hope yet.

His heart beat erratically as the boy followed the doe trustingly and drew closer to the frozen expanse of water he would soon have to dive into. What if he didn't understand what he was supposed to do? The whelp had never been as intelligent as many had liked to think, he thought sneeringly.

What if the boy didn't even see the sword inside the lake? Perhaps he had hidden it too well, set it in too deep.

And if he decided it was all some fluke and returned to his hiding place?

Snape must do everything in his power to make the boy get that bloody sword without him suspecting who was leading him thus, for then he would leave and all would be lost.

Focus, he thought. You will be of no help if you don't concentrate.

All his fears were vanished when the boy drew close to the lake, after his doe had disappeared. He was looking into the murky, frozen waters at his feet, and surely, he was clearly startled to see the sword, but recognised it immediately. So, he had handled that sword before. Dumbledore wouldn't have lied, but it wasn't a matter of believing in Dumbledore's words, more a problem of believing in the boy himself.

He tentatively reached out with his mind to probe the boy's, and was profoundly shocked to meet with a strong barrier that blocked him entrance to the boy's mind.

Occlumency.

Severus sneered half mockingly half admiringly.

So.

He had learnt how to master the art of Occluding one's mind after all.

His fists clenched of their own volition as he backed out and returned within himself, pondering just who he was dealing with here. In the space of a few minutes the irritating little chit had managed to shake his perfectly set views of the last Potter heir, went so far as to make him doubt that he had ever truly the known the boy for what he really was. Severus gazed at the boy-become-man a little longer as he started shedding his clothes, stripping to his underwear and leaving the chain around his neck. Something dark stirred within his bowels as he stared at the strong muscles playing on Potter's back as he methodically removed his clothes from his no-longer skinny frame, pale skin gleaming under the moonlight, soft, dark hair swaying gently in the breeze.

A desire like he hadn't felt in a while. Regret, too.

A strong desire to have had the boy under him, in his House, as his student.

Oh, the things he could have taught him! The cunning little Slytherin he could have been, waiting for him to praise him and counsel him, advise him through his studies and introduce him to the higher circles, mentor him and twist him in a way that would make any fool-hardy Gryffindor shrink away from him upon sight! The sheer delight Severus would have felt if Harry Potter had been sorted into Slytherin House! But he had learnt long, long ago that some things were never meant for him to touch, taste, call his. Not for Severus the glory and warmth of admiration and good things. He could only stand and watch as, like James, Harry stood under a light he had never known.

The person standing there, not twenty feet away from his hiding place, could have been anything ranging from Potter senior to Potter junior along with the mutt, the wolf and … her. But he wasn't, and Severus couldn't for the life of him understand just who this man, Chosen One, truly was, or what he was capable of, and suspected that he knew very little of the latter. He sneered fiercely, an ugly look on his sallow face, twisted into something akin to hatred. Since when had Severus been so sentimental about things? About a Gryffindor of all people? A vile Potter heir of that scum?

It was a good thing he moved when he did, because, without his realising Potter had dived into the freezing waters and hadn't come back up. And his most fierce and loyal of lackeys, the red-headed youngest of the Weasley clan, was pelting to the lake-side, determination and terror stark in his face.

Hmm. Interesting.

He hadn't seen the boy come out after Potter.

Maybe he was getting old in his own right, Merlin forbid.

He fled into the night before more insidious thoughts about the brat rose in his mind, fully intent on not being seen when the two would make their way back to wherever they were staying.

How treacherous.

How fitting that he should die like this, forsaken by everyone, betrayed by his master, alone and deaf to all.

The sheer horror of it hit him, and he buckled, broken, sprawled on the dirty old floorboards of the Shrieking Shack.

He hadn't found the boy in time, told him what things were really like, what he must do before long.

He had failed.

Forgive me.

The flow of blood upon his cold hands brought him out of his reverie as the Dark Lord walked out, without a single back glance at his servant, that accursed snake still safely floating inside the magical cage. He felt his body getting sluggish, numb, the life gushing out of his throat, spewing forth into his hands as he tried to staunch the flow, to hold on just…a … little…longer…

A soft swish attracted his waning attention, and a pair of long, dark-clad legs appeared into his direct line of vision. A silvery bundle fell to the floor, puddled at the intruder's feet.

Oh praise be.

Oh my most merciful lord, my companion of schemes.

Thank you, for letting him come to me before it's too late.

He was staring into the handsome face of an enemy he hated with a passion, but who didn't look down upon him in equal scorn and hatred, but instead with an understanding that brought tears to his eyes, a pity he would have despised any other time, but in which he now basked as though in warmth after walking in miles of snow. He looked past all those trademark features with a renewed sense of urgency as the man stepped closer to him and knelt at his side.

"Take it."

More blood spewed forth as his mouth worked to speak. The Granger girl pushed a phial into his uncharacteristically shaking hands and he lapped up all the silvery substance, not quite liquid, that trickled from his eyes, and nose and ears, into the little glass bottle. Severus felt the cold finger of Death closing in upon him, sweeping him away from his broken body, and expressed his heart's deepest desire once more, for the last time.

"Look…at…me…"

A pair of stunning green eyes, vivid like gleaming emeralds, looked into his own, and this time tears leaked out of the corner of his sockets, as he gazed, for the last time, into a beloved pair of eyes that had once been as precious to him and treasured by him as the very breaths he took, since the tender age of seven.

His wish had been granted.

The memories were secured into the strong wizard's hands, relaying a message, an instruction as to what he would later this night have to do.

As he drew in a last, shaky, fractured breath, he felt at peace with himself as his eyes stared at the eyes of Lily Evans ensconced in James Potter's face, right underneath Harry Potter's famed scar.

His Oath had been fulfilled.

His work was done.

A.N:This is only the first chapter. I plan to have at least another two in this short series, so look back next week for updates, and let me know what you thought of the way I wrote Severus Snape following the events of Deathly Hallows; this was the very first time I wrote him, but feel that in all the effort has gone sufficiently well. Thanks!