Hello everyone! So this is a re-write of another story, Tis Better to Have Loved and Lost. I really wasn't happy with it, so I decided it needed a re-write. I've left the original up so you can read that and compare if you want to!

Leave me a review and let me know what you think!

In Memoriam

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

Love. It was meant to be that which would defeat Voldemort, meant to be the only unbeatable magic, the only thing that could keep death at bay. I was told that love would help me, that that would be my greatest weapon. But love failed me. It was not love I used to kill Tom Riddle. It was not pity or compassion. I did not forgive him, I did not sympathise with him. I killed him because I hated him. He had done something which I could never forgive, and by doing so showed me that Dumbledore was wrong. Love did not conquer all, and when it came to averting Death, it hindered rather than helped me.

Love is such an odd emotion. I had never hoped to see it. I was unloved by my family, and had no parents to show me such. I did not think I could pursue love, for I had not thought to live much beyond 17. I expected only Death, and was surprised when Love came unlooked for. I was even more surprised by the form it took. For I did not find a girl whose beauty stole your breath and made your heart ache, I didn't find a golden haired girl who would be gentle and sweet and who would meekly follow me wherever I led. No, I didn't even find a girl. For me, the embodiment of Love was a Man, not a boy but a man full grown and much older than I. He was not handsome, but he had a certain something in his face that made you look again. He was distinguished and reserved rather than confident in his sexuality. He did not wear designer clothes and fashionable wares, but shrouded himself in heavy black cloth, preferring the styles of another time. His hair was not glossy and silken, but limp and slightly greasy, I did not go into raptures when I touched it. His nose was definitely not aquiline, but hooked and yet lent his face a stern look that sat well on him. He was not my Knight in shining armour, nor my Prince; he was not the Light of my life or any other of those horribly twee epithets. He was simply the man I loved with all my heart. And yet, when we met, we hated one another. But that hatred began to change, and with it my perceptions of him. What I had once found ugly I now found myself attracted to. But it was his eyes that cemented my attraction. If nothing else, his eyes were beautiful. Dark and soulful, sometimes shuttered and other times you could see right into his heart. He was not kind, nor overly romantic, and sometimes he would call me every hurtful name under the Sun, but I did not doubt his love for me.

I remember clearly the first time we met, I was only eleven years old and newly arrived in a world that could quite easily have come from a fantasy novel. Fresh faced and still staring around myself in wonder I had been at Hogwarts for a week, and still found this new place to be amazing and so very different from the Muggle home I had come from. It was a Monday when I first met him. I had seen him before, for he had sat at the Head Table in the Great Hall for meals and I had experienced a flash of pain in my scar when he had first looked at me during the Sorting Feast. But that Monday, I would meet him and my view of him would change.

He strode into the room in a billow of black robes, in a way that I much admired. His robes were very old-fashioned, and very severe, and covered him completely. I decided that he must wear things like that because it was so cold in his dungeon classroom, and I wished that I had robes that would keep me warmer than I was. His black eyes surveyed the room and he began to speak. His voice was very low, and very smooth. The room was so silent that he had no need to speak much above a whisper. His voice had a rather soporific effect on me, I relaxed instantly. As I got older I would realise that this was actually arousal, not lethargy, but an eleven year old has no concept of that. In order to stay attentive, I began to copy down what his speech, paying particular attention to the type of things he claimed to be able to teach us. He spoke directly to me then, believing that I had not been paying attention. He called me out and asked difficult questions I didn't know the answers to. He showed himself to be petty and jealous, and by the end of the class I knew he hated me. I hated him too, for blaming everything on me, for making me look stupid and for hating me. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve it. Because he had shown me such an awful side of himself, I began to imagine worse and suspected him in all manner of plots for nigh on five years. I thought the worst of him because that was he showed me. But I was full of contradictions.

I admired the way his robes billowed as he walked his intimidating stare and downright frightening glare. I admired his grace and his aloof manner, his eloquence and his creativity when it came to insults. I admired his skill at Potions and his passion for the subject kept me interested even if I was no good at brewing. I loved the way he could reduce even the burliest of Seventh Years to tears, and I admired his protective instinct toward his Slytherins, even if it was detrimental to both my House Points and my sense of justice.

Once I hit puberty, I began to notice other things about him.

I saw that those black eyes I had once thought cold and empty were instead filled with wisdom and pain, that sometimes they could be filled with passion, or hurt, and that they glittered when he was angry. I would feel a thrill go thought me whenever he glared at me, whenever he turned that deep impenetrable gaze on me. I found too that I loved his voice, those rich, smooth tones that slipped silkily over my senses.

I would watch his hands, long fingered and elegant as they busily sliced, crushed and stirred. I admired the way he held his Quill and the way he held his wand. In fact, I began to find the image of him holding something else frequenting my sleeping mind, and I would wake from my dreams panting and lustful.

I saw his quiet strength and his deep pain, and I was troubled by it.

But still I loathed him, still I ignored my desire for him and pursued meaningless relationships with girls that others told me were pretty, attempting to prove to myself that I did not want him. I didn't think Cho Chang was lovely, I thought that she was quite boring, that her constant depression made her ugly and I found her too emotional and too cloying. I wasn't lying when I told my friends I had found the kiss she and I shared to be wet. I found her very wet, constantly soaked in her own tears and unable to smile. So I ended it, allowed it to fizzle out and never really spoke to her again, choosing to avoid any awkward interactions in the future.

By this point I had begun to realise that my reviled and hated Potions Master might be more than I had first realised and I watched more closely. I saw that he was exhausted, that he looked pale and ill, the purple bruising under his eyes that indicated prolonged lack of sleep, the sunken quality his face took on. I watched him as he began to fade away, I watched and I worried. I didn't know that I had the same look about me, that I too looked tired and ill. I didn't know it, but he watched me and worried too.

It was after I witnessed Mr Weasley's attack that things changed. He was forced to teach me Occlumency and during those lessons we learnt more of the other than we would ever have hoped to. I saw his childhood, his pain and his loneliness. I saw his that he was still hurting and still lonely. I had fooled myself into thinking him cold and without a heart, but I saw that he had hidden it away, still nursing his wounds, taking care that he would not be hurt again.

He had always thought me to be spoilt and pampered, but he saw the abuse I suffered, my own loneliness and he found that I wasn't shallow and stupid. Our relationship changed then.

We saw more of ourselves in each other, and so we began to spend more time together, he venting about the way Dumbledore would use him, and I lamenting because none of my friends understood me.

Over time, we became friends. He taught me Occlumency and despaired of me ever mastering it. So he taught me other things instead, he trained me. I learnt Duelling skills, wandless magic, and wordless magic. I learnt how to read body language so I would know when someone was lying. He taught me how to hide my emotions, how to reason and plan. He taught me how to live, how to ensure I lived and how to kill. He taught me spells that would allow me to defeat my enemy without uttering the Killing Curse. And I, I taught him love. The more time we spent together, the more and more he opened up to me. He told me secrets no one else knew, told me that he had loved my Mother, as a sister, that he had admired the Marauders as well as hated them. He told me that he joined the Death Eaters so he could be valued and recognised. He had wanted to make a difference and he wanted someone to appreciate his talents. Voldemort had offered him that, and he had been seduced by it. He told me that he had to torture and kill to keep his role as Spy hidden, and that he had to hate me so no one would suspect. But he couldn't.

He had begun to love me, and I him. By my Sixth Year we were sneaking around the school, meeting in out of the way places. He would kiss me, gently, and then as his own desires overtook him, with unbridled passion, devouring me and yet giving me life. He would wrap his surprisingly strong arms around me and hold me close, making me feel so very safe. He let me give up my control, giving me what I needed, and in return I would assume control and let him relax in my embrace. We made love often, knowing that every time we did, we would be that much closer to each other. Sometimes it was gentle, reverent, as if he couldn't believe I wanted him. Other times he was rough and forceful, taking what he wanted and leaving me delirious with pleasure. He worshipped me, and I him. We were not living a fairy-tale though. Some days I still couldn't stand him, and other times I needed his so badly I would sneak away, and find my way to his rooms.

He told me months before hand that he would have to kill Dumbledore, and he looked so broken, so very vulnerable when he revealed the Headmaster's plan. I loved him that night, told him that he must do what needed to be done, that I would not think any less of him. I told him that night, what I had kept in my heart for several months. I told him that I loved him and always would. He was shocked, and whispered that I couldn't possibly, but I did. He quietly replied in kind and we spent the night proving how much we loved each other.

It would be the last time we were free to love one another.

The night he killed Dumbledore would be the last time I would see him before the end. He fled that night, running from those he considered friends, running from me. I pursued him, screaming at him, making it look as if I hadn't known what he would do.

Late that night I snuck out to the furthest edge of the Forbidden Forest, and there we shared a desperate kiss and said our sorrowful goodbye, promising that we would still love one another when it was all over. He left, going to his 'Master' and the dubious honour of being his new favourite.

I embarked on another journey, seeking out and destroying Voldemort's Horcuxes. We did not write, we did not speak, and we did not acknowledge the other's existence. I heard on the radio that his Master had made his Headmaster of Hogwarts and I wept for him. I couldn't imagine how hard it would be for him to be in charge of the school. How difficult it would be for him to obey Voldemort and turn the school into a prison. It would destroy him to allow his students to be tortured.

Then, just after Christmas when I was hiding in the Forest of Dean, trying to avoid Snatchers and despairing of ever destroying the Locket, he came to me.

I knew of course that his Patronus was a Doe, in honour of my Mother. I did not try to find him; I did as he needed me to do and went to retrieve the sword of Gryffindor. As I began to drown, the Locket around my neck trying to escape what it knew would kill it, I wished that he would save me and when I was pulled out hoped that he had dived in after me. I was disappointed when I turned to look and found red hair instead of black.

I never told my friends that I knew who had led me to the sword; I pretended that I had no idea when Ron asked me. I at least knew that he was still alive and able to leave the school, though no doubt he was being closely watched.

By the time I returned to Hogwarts I missed him dreadfully. I nearly ran to him in the Great Hall, but I knew I needed to play my part. I saw the apology in his eyes as he levelled his wand at me, and I saw his anguish when he had to flee once more.

Throughout the Battle I fought with one goal in mind. I would kill the Dark Lord and free the man I loved. I fought for him, for his life and for his freedom. But I would be denied.

When next I saw him, he was standing in the Shrieking Shack, facing our enemy. I watched in horror as Voldemort came to the conclusion that he was not the Master of the Elder Wand and that to do so, he would need to kill the Man I loved. I was frozen in place, hoping that he would get away, but I hoped in vain. I nearly revealed myself when Nagini surged toward him but I was held in place by Ron and Hermione. Hermione had to put her hand over my mouth when the snake's jaws closed around his neck. The moment Voldemort left I broke free of Hermione's grasp and ran to him. He lay, crumpled at the base of a wall, his hands clutching uselessly at the gaping wound on his neck. Blood ran over those long fingers I admired so, and his eyes were dazed and glassy. Tears spilled from my eyes as I knelt beside him. I pressed my fingers over his; helping to apply pressure, but it did nothing. I pleaded with him to stay with me, tears spilling down my cheeks and falling onto his face. His skin got paler and paler as life seeped from his neck, his eyes going in and out of focus.

He smiled at me, shakily raised his hand to my face. I caught it within my own hand, cradling it gently. Tears leaked from his eyes, silvery and glittering. He told me brokenly to take them, and someone handed me a small vial. I caught the strands of memory within the glass, my hands shaking. Again he smiled and I tried to smile back. 'Look at me' he said, his voice broken and gurgled. I did, allowing him one more look into my eyes. He had loved my eyes, likening them to jewels. He stared into my eyes, those black depths swimming with love, pain and regret. He tried and failed to speak once more, but I did not need him to. I knew how much he loved me; I knew how much he didn't want to go. But he had to, there was no way the venom within his body could be eradicated, no way I could save him. I watched, heart-broken as he faded away before me. His eyes emptied of life, his body relaxed and settled against the wall. His skin lost all colour, his lips became white. He lay there, still, his skin bloodless and his eyes blank. I heaved in a breath as the light left his eyes, as he died there before me. Sobs wracked my body. I clutched at him, lying over his body, crying into his unmoving chest. My friend's confused faces were barely visible through my tears, as I cried for my dead lover.

After quite some time I rose, ignoring Ron and Hermione I quickly cast a Ward, to ensure that his body would remain until I returned. Then I stalked from the room, my heavy steps echoed in the tunnel that would lead back to the school. I emerged into the moonlight, covered in dirt and tears still falling down my cheeks. The battle torn school was silent in that moment as if Hogwarts herself knew that her Headmaster lay dead in a filthy room. I walked toward his office, ignoring the faces of the fallen, focused only on reaching my goal.

In the Headmasters office I easily found Dumbledore's Pensieve and emptied the tiny vial. I plunged headlong into the swirling memories.

When I emerged I was angered beyond words. My life had been geared toward this battle, I was to sacrifice myself, give my life for the lives of people I had never met. He had argued with the old Headmaster, he had tried to change his mind, refusing to help him. But it was inescapable. I would have to die or Voldemort would not. Hatred welled up within me at the thought of his name. He had murdered the man I loved; now I would ensure he could die. Ignoring my friend's pleas for an explanation I went to my death.

Once ensconced within the silence of the Forbidden Forest I took a small black stone from my pocket. Laying it on my out-stretched palm it turned it thrice. When I looked up, there they stood my Mother, my Father, my God-Father, my old teacher and Him. He looked so very sad, and so very proud. I went to him, standing before him.

My parents stayed silent, seeming to realise how much I needed this moment, that I needed to say goodbye to the man I loved. He looked mournfully into my eyes, and told me how much he loved me once more. He ignored his rivals in favour of me, giving his attention to me and me alone. I thanked him for giving me the best days of my life, for every day, every hour, every minute and every second in his company had been akin to heaven. We said a tearful goodbye before I finally turned to my parents. I was happy to see them, but also saddened. They told me they were proud of me, that I was brave and that they too loved me. I asked that they all stay with me, and they promised to walk with me through the trees. My Mother promised to look after my Lover for me, promised to keep him safe. As I neared Voldemort's camp a hand slipped into mine. He smiled at me.

'I will wait for you.'

Those were the last words he said to me. The very last words.

I dropped the Resurrection Stone as I stepped down into what had once been a hollow teeming with Acromantula. I allowed the green light of the Killing Curse to slam into my chest and my world went dark. I smiled; I would be with my love once more.

But I was to be disappointed. He was not there to meet me. Only my Headmaster was there, to apologise for sacrificing me, to explain. He sent me back, and so I found myself once more in the land of the living.

I pretended death; I allowed Voldemort to think he had won and bided my time, waiting for the right moment to exact my revenge.

It came quickly.

I told him of his failure, I told him that he had killed a man who need not have died. I told him that head murdered the man I loved, the man I had wanted to spend my life with. I told him that he would burn for it and I raised the Elder Wand to end his life as he had ended my Lover's. With one spell I ended his life. I put all my hatred into that spell; I filled it with my desire for his end, my anger at his actions.

When it was over, I spoke at length to the Students and Teachers, those left alive. I told them the my Lover had been on our side all along, that he had fought for us, tried to protect the children under his care. I told them that his memory should be honoured and that he should be remembered as a Hero.

Later, I returned to the Shrieking Shack for his body. I bore it to the school, carrying him instead of using magic, cradling his lifeless body to my chest. I took him to his rooms, his dungeon home. The room was dusty and as lifeless as their owner. I set him on the cold bed, and once more I cried. I cried until I had no tears left to shed.

Carefully, I washed the dirt from his face, undressed him and cleaned his corpse, carefully cleaning the grime and blood. Then I re-dressed him in clean, pristine robes from the wardrobe. I brushed his hair, and closed his eyes. When I was finished I lifted him once more and bore him up into the new dawn of peace. I took him to the forest, to a small clearing he had often frequented in life. It was teeming with Aconite, and he had often gone there to pick the delicate flowers that were so useful to his Art. I set him down among the blooms while I dug his grave, digging deep so that he would be undisturbed by the creatures of the forest. I laboured long, and when I had done digging I broke a branch from a nearby tree and transfigured it into a black coffin, lined with emerald green silk. I lay him within his final resting place, and another spell erected a gravestone, which I engraved.

Here lies Severus Tobias Snape

The unsung Hero of the War

He fought and died for Love

A friend, a Teacher, a Lover,

May he find peace now in eternal slumber

One day, I will join him there, when I have tired of life, when I have no more to give, when my weary heart can no longer go on, I shall return to him and lay down beside him. I will go to meet him. I will join him in eternity and I will see my love again. But for now, I will leave him to rest; recover from his long life of turmoil and espionage. One day, I will see him again…