I have loved and lost. I and the entire world have mourned the loss of my beloved. He died, in my arms, his dark eyes filled with love. He died in the Final Battle, the unsung hero of the war, his sacrifice unknown to any, even me. Perhaps if I had taken the time to see, to understand him a little better, he would not have died. But perhaps, I am simply being sentimental.
He was with Voldemort, knelt before him in the filthy Shrieking Shack, knelt in supplication, his posture rigid, proud even then. He knew, I think, that the Dark Lord had figured it out, that he was going to die. But even though he knew it, he was still so assured of himself, still so damned proud.
And when Voldemort released Nagini, he didn't try to fend her off; he merely closed his dark eyes and resigned himself to his fate.
As the poison filled his veins he laid there, still and silent. He didn't cry out in pain, though he must have been in so much. He didn't react when Voldemort spoke his parting words, words that he did not mean and never would. He had never cared for him, never wanted him to live; for he did not know how to love and he would never know.
Once he'd left, I crept from my hiding place and rushed to my beloved's side. His eyes opened then, and stared straight at me, a smile ghosting across his already pale lips, lips that had kissed me a thousand times, lips that had whispered words of love into my ears, had traced every inch of my body. Lips that were once a rich ruby red, now almost white with death. He didn't say anything for a moment, just looked at me with those onyx eyes of his, staring into my very soul. And then he spoke, hoarse and halting, his voice shaking and rattling with every word. I had always loved his voice, so smooth and rich, like smoky wine and silk. But now, now his voice was so very weak, like the rest of him and I wept to hear it. He gripped the front of my robes with his long fingered elegant hand and I gently took hold of it, gripping it firmly enough to let him know I wasn't going anywhere.
He told me that he loved me then, and I wished that he would live, tell me it was ok, that he would be alright and that we would be happy. But of course, he could not.
He placed a crystal vial into my hand, another smile upon his lips. He made me promise to look at them, made me promise to watch and understand. And I could only nod, tears streaming down my face.
And as I took the vial, his hand slipped from my grasp and his eyes closed. And I called his name, gently at first, but then louder and with growing desperation as I realised, the man I loved was gone.
My friends dragged me away, and I kicked and screamed, begged them to let me go. But they would not.
In that moment I wanted to die, wished for it so very badly. In a way, his death helped me to face my own, to willingly walk to meet my nemesis, to put up no resistance.
I died with his name on my lips and I was devastated that he did not welcome me into death. But it was he who convinced me to go back, to breath again and to finish the battle.
I owe him my life, and the world owes him their freedom, but they don't know that. They mourn him because he was a spy, because he was a good man, but they don't know that if he had never lived, I would never have had the courage or the conviction to live.
I wait now, for the day when I can finally go to him, when I can finally fall into his strong embrace and never let go. I wait for the day that I will die, the day that I will see him again, happy and whole, a smile on his lips and that look in his eyes that makes my knees go weak.
I wait for the day when I can say what I never got the chance to say, I wait for the day when I can say, I, Harry Potter, love Severus Snape.
Review please, I want to know what you think. This was written while I was in a maudlin mood, after reading a fic in which Harry watched his lover die. It was originally written as my own memories, but somewhere along the way, Harry snuck in. Hopefully, I got the emotions across as I wanted.