Dulce et Decorum Est

Not even the moon was there in the pitch black night to see the severe-looking man with dark hair dragging a terrified, pale-haired boy. The man lit the way with the tip of his wand and appeared deep in thought as he ignored the boy's protests and questions and kept his arm in a death grip. The man was, in fact, deep within himself.

"Oh, Evans," Snape thought, "what I have done for your son!"

His grip on the squalling Malfoy tightened further. He had not done this thing just for Evans' son, of course. To see her eyes in the hated face of James Potter had been difficult. To see those eyes look at him with such hatred and accusation was unendurable. The boy had called him a coward. Still, how could he expect a boy to understand and forgive him when he could not forgive himself? He closed his eyes and a tremble managed to escape even his iron control.

"Professor," queried Draco Malfoy in a tremulous voice, "where are we going?"

"Shut up you sniveling little whelp," snapped Snape, "or Azkaban will be the least of your worries!"

Snape knew was not likely to get any thanks for this night's work. He did not see any way out and was ready for the final act. His most fervent hope was that his death would not be at the hands of Evans' son.

Was there really hope for any of them? Snape had never been one to put any credence in hope. He would try to do what Dumbledore would have had him do. Following the old man's orders couldn't cost him more than it already had. He would do what he could for Harry and even for this brat of Narcissa's. Children, however foolish, did not deserve to be caught up in the dark lord's doings. How well he knew…He wondered if she ever knew he loved her, he hadn't even known himself for so long.

"Lily," he whispered, "you sacrificed your life for your son but I have sacrificed my soul."

A puzzled Draco asked, "What did you say, Professor?"

"I said," Snape snarled, "that if you do not remain silent I will turn you into a newt!"

He had done what he had done at the behest of the only man who had ever truly trusted him for the son of the only woman he had ever cared for. Hope? His only hope was for a good death.