I watched a documentary about a legal execution...it made me cry and marvel at how wrong and inhumane the death penalty is...I thought this fanfic would be a good outlet for that pain. As usual, none of the characters are mine, only the disturbing, graphic plot. Be warned, this is not an easy read.
Eternally Yours
The sterile, white hallway seems an eternity long, and the procession of footsteps echoes in my head.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. A thick, heavy-soled dress shoe.
Click. Click. Click. A high heeled sandal.
Squeak .Squeak. Squeak. A soft plodding sneaker.
There are more, of course, a symphonic mixture of odious pleasure within the realm of human strides. His steps stand out in my ears, though, as if someone has magnified his cat-like saunter to a thousand decibels of pure torture. His boots never make undue noise, yet I can pick them out within the parade of sickening rhythm without a second thought.
And suddenly, we are there, in that glaringly blank room of so-called justice. And its purity of color nauseates me. It is as though this glorious retribution was costing nothing--this final closure was clearly the action of righteousness, clearly the defining principle of morality.
I feel the angry bile rising in my throat, and I choke it down. The damn room should be black.
Black like the obsidian depths piercing my own as they march him into the chamber. Swirling with the inhumanity of it all, yet pooling with acceptance. As though he felt this was deserved, the final payment in a lifetime of atonement. His onyx irises bore into my own with the fervor of one who seeks not to be forgiven, but merely forgotten.
His chair is rigid and dark cherry-wood, ironically crafted to the height of gothic beauty. They push his lanky frame into the seat, strapping in his feet and chest and legs. I want to scream in anguish as they bind his beautiful hands...those wonderful, slender, lily-white hands, strong and yet amazing in their feline grace. Those hands...how could those be the hands of a monster? Those hands that held me, caressed me, loved me... I recall teasing him about those glorious hands....
"Lily-white," I tease, running my fingers over his palm. "Such a contrast to those smoldering eyes, that ebony hair."
His smile is sardonic. "Yes," he replies, "Lily-white to match my heart, I'm sure." His tone is sadly sarcastic.
I cup his face and then draw one of his hands to my mouth, placing a kiss on each finger.
"Yes, darling," I say lovingly. "Lily-white to match your heart."
And for a moment, he believes me.
I ache as his hair loosens itself from its tie and hangs in his eyes. That damn curtain of darkness he always hid behind. And I stare at him, knowing that he is reading my every thought, my hurricane of emotion at this terrible moment. I remember all those times I ran my hands through that silky mane, all those dearest of memories with my face buried happily in his locks. The first time, however, the first time was special.
He glances at me as I continue cutting and pouring. I make a great effort not to meet his gaze, afraid that he'll certainly see my blush, feel the way my heart is racing, notice the slight tremble of my chin at just being in his mere presence. His smooth voice cuts into my thought as I struggle to remember what I'm doing.
"No," he says, not unkindly, "It's easier if you stir it this way."
And suddenly he is behind me, his strong arms reaching around me, gently prying the spoon out of my fingers. He then removes his arms and nudges me slightly aside, stirring the concoction himself. He is so near that I can feel his breath on the side of my face, so near that I can see the fine curl of his eyelashes. And I can't stop staring.
Just then, he flinches as the mixture pops and burns his arm, and a strand of inky hair falls into his eyes. Before I can resist the urge, I reach over and brush it back, my hand quivering, hesitating briefly on the side of his cheek.
He turns to meet my eyes, and its at that moment I know I want to spend the rest of my life drowning in his smoky orbs.
And there he is in front of me, and he has just the same affect on my body. My knees are trembling, my breathing labored, my face flushed, my heart pounding....only this time, I know, there will be no satisfaction. There will be no subtle brushings of skin, no secret longings, no furious declarations of ardor, no soft kisses or sweet caresses or hours making love. And my soul is strapped into that chair with him.
And both my soul and his body are getting ready to die.
The others present are chatting idly, as though this is merely a spectators' event or a mundane task to be dealt with and discarded from memory. For most of them, I suppose it is. A matter of interest or a topic of fierce debate--after all, they are doing the world "justice."
There are a few of us, however, a few that knew the man behind the mask...a few of us that stand all around him, blocking his view of those willing to slight him with insults or hateful glares, even in his final minutes.
I am lost inside him, willing my memory to capture every detail of his face, every curve of his body, every fleck of silver in his raven eyes. I've known his smallest features better than my own image, yet here I stand, dying to touch him once more, to press my lips against his, to whisper words of encouragement and eternal devotion.
Then it happens. He raises his chin and speaks softly.
"Love, please forget me." And his tone is so melancholy and sincere that I lose any sense of composure or decorum. I rush forward and throw myself at his feet, wrapping my arms around his painfully thin neck.
"Darling," I mumble, tears flowing down my face with no sign of ever ceasing, "My darling angel, would a painter forget his greatest masterpiece? Would a composer forget her greatest opera? I am you, we are one. I could never forget you, should I live to be a thousand years. Every day will begin with the memory of your face, every hour will be filled with the linger of your scent, every night will be filled with the craving of your touch."
And then he gives me the most treasured gift of my life. He smiles.
"When I meet Our Lord and Savior," he grins, "I shall tell Him that you were the most perfect thing He ever created."
I moan and laugh and yell all at once. This beloved creature, this dearest sweetheart of my existence, was preparing to leave the world forever...and all he could think of was to praise me when he first stepped foot into Heaven.
"Tell Him," I whisper, "That I can't be away from you for too long, and may He have mercy on me."
And then his smile falters and for the first time I register his fear.
"How can it be Heaven without you?" he chokes out.
I withdraw my arms from his neck and hold his resplendent hands.
"I'm sure you'll be okay," I assure him. His chin trembles.
"I never would have found God if it wasn't for you. I never would have loved that deeply. I never would have made it through the war. I never would have tried strawberry pie, or seen the Grand Canyon, or made love on a beach, or worn Muggle suits. I never would have really lived at all without you. And now that I have lived, I am not afraid to die."
I reach up and brush my lips against his for the last time.
"Have I ever told you I love you?" I ask, grinning despite my tears, for I can never think of our love with anything but joy, and the familiar banter makes me happy.
"No," he replies, putting his famous scowl in place.
"Well, I do. I love you, my Professor."
His scowl deepens, but I see the light radiating from his face.
"Now?" he asks.
"Always. I'm eternally yours."
And I wait for his last line, which I've heard so many times. I wait for him to say, "Then it's a good day to be alive." But he does not. He gazes at me longingly and then he mumbles his last words.
"Then it's a good day to die."
And I feel myself being pulled away as his words pierce my heart and I realize that this is truly the end.
I watch in twisted fascination and horror as the Ministry official comes smugly forward and makes his announcement.
"You, Severus Snape, have been charged with the crimes of a Death Eater and a follower of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Do you deny any such claims?"
"He was a spy, you barbaric assholes!" I scream furiously. "He was a SPY! He's a good man! He's a good man!"
Dumbledore lays a hand upon my shoulder. We've been through this all before, and the Ministry doesn't care about the truth. This war has given them horrors that they never dreamed of, and their motto is once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. Even Dumbledore's testimony could not say my beloved Severus this time.
"You will now be executed, according to our laws, by being injected with a lethal poison. Do you have any last words?" continued the Ministry official.
"Yes," replied Severus, "May God have mercy on your souls."
The Ministry witnesses all look affronted, and I hold back the desire to laugh maniacally. Severus always knows just what to say.
A small vile is brought forward on a tray, a glistening syringe next to it. A wizard in a long white coat, a Healer from St.Mungo's, I believe, is holding it. It strikes me as utterly ironic that we are executing an innocent man in a hospital, designed for healing. The Ministry prefers it this way...qualified healers on hand to certify death. And the morgue is only a couple floors down. The thought of my Professor down there, cold and naked on a slab on steel...I clench my stomach to keep from vomiting.
The feeling, however, is nothing compared to the sight before me. The Ministry official steps forward and fills the syringe with poison. Then he careful leans over my Severus and starts toward the vein in one of his hands.
"NO!" I cry. "YOU WILL NOT TOUCH HIS HANDS!"
The young wizard looks murderous, but a quick nod from his boss, hovering in the back, makes him acquiesce to my demand.
Instead, he rolls up my Professor's sleeve, pricking the arm with expert ease. Immediately, Severus' neck swells, his veins bulging. His mouth begins to foam, and I see his forearms clutching the chair in an effort to stop the convulsions racking his body. An unearthly groan emanates from him and I feel myself heave upon the floor, unable to stop the spasms in my stomach. His head rolls about at sickening angles, and I see a wet spot appear on his robes as he loses control of his bladder. I scream profanities at everyone in the room.
My dignified, sweet, stoic professor is pissing in front of his best friends, his former students, his lover, and a few dunderhead Ministry lackeys. And I burn at the very indignity of it, the very disrespect at such a man leaving the world in this manner.
A minute later, it is all over, and I watch his beautiful body being zipped into a bag. My fellow Order members lead me away. But I am no longer crying. I don't think I have any tears left. Severus and I cried together all week, and I cried some more just now. I think my crying is done. It's merely the pain that remains.
As we step outside into the light of the day, I glance up at the sky.
"You were wrong, my dearest Professor," I whisper, "No day is a good day to die."
Because I feel like I just have.
A/N: The lines about "Have I ever told you I love you?" were adapted from the movie Indecent Proposal.