For Severus Snape life was never an easy thing. It actually went out of its way to be extra difficult. Lines were longer, cries were louder, and scars were deeper; Love was unattainable, joy was fleeting and laughter... Well there was none. Life was a bleak vacuum of pain and regret, despair and loneliness, but with just that tiny spark of hope for better. A spark that would not go out!
How much easier would it be if not for that bit of hope? Being able to bear the despair, and scars, and lack of laughter with resignation. There would be no regret; if not for that spark. Severus it seems had come to a conclusion. The spark must be snuffed out. Alone in his cold dungeon with a warm glass of fire-whiskey poised in one hand; and the other making its circuitous route across his lips it was all so obvious.
His Hope.
For his lost love, for his regret, and his laughter.
For his many scars in the pursuit of redemption he knows he will not earn.
For the cries of terror, and the pain he'd inflicted.
For the many orphans he'd helped create.
For all that was the major fuck up that is his so called life.
Harry Potter had to die.