Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

A/N: This was originally intended to have a companion story about Hermione Granger, but I doubt that it will ever materialize, so I have gone ahead and published this. It is set sometime after the end of the war; Snape has been captured and condemned to life in Azkaban.

Dear Albus-

It is probably the height of foolishness, to be writing to someone who is not only dead, but whom I killed, but I no longer care. It is a distraction from the cold of an Azkaban winter; that serves as a good enough excuse, at least to myself. Of course, my sanity might be shaky; these days, who can tell? The Dementors seem to affect me less than the others in the maximum security wing, but I might just be so far gone that they want nothing to do with me. Which leads me to wonder, if the Dementors want nothing to do with me, why would Miss Granger? Because it is she who has brought me this parchment. Of course, you, watching twinkly-eyed from Heaven, know this.

The reason I am explaining is that I expect this letter to be found after my death. A post mortem vindication, if you will; I have always, justly, felt myself to be misunderstood. It is my own fault; I have never tried to explain, or justify myself. I realize, after the introspection brought on by this place, that I ought not to have expected the world to instantly comprehended the suffering that made me who I am. Even you, with your all-knowing demeanor, cannot have known of everything. You cannot have known what it was like, growing up at Spinner's End.

My parents' marriage was not a particularly happy one, That much, Albus, you know. My mother had always looked slightly condescendingly on Muggles, and my father was not excluded. I am uncertain why they married, but my birth some six months later seems the most likely reason. Due to their mutual resentment, they rarely spoke, to me or to one another. As a result, I did not learn to speak until the age of six. That must surprise you, Albus, knowing that one who has always relied so heavily on his facility with words was so slow learning to use them.

Between my relatively recently acquired speech and my near-complete lack of socialization, is it any surprise that I could not cope with Hogwarts? I had never before met someone my age, and I dealt very badly indeed with crowds, which were also new to me. It was my perpetual flinching that first drew Potter's attention; of that I am certain. I remember, very clearly, hearing him say, "Look at him, the ugly little freak, always twitching and snivelling. I hate people like that." It is one of the memories that the Dementors have seized upon, as probably one of the most miserable in my life.

Until that point, I had believed that people did not like me because I did not particularly like them. The idea that I could not have friends even if I wanted them nearly broke my heart. Heart? Yes, I have a heart; however battered and atrophied it may be, it is still there, and it still beats. It might not be in such poor condition now if I had anyone to turn to then. Despite your frequent claims to the contrary, Albus, you were never neutral. There was never a time when you did not believe a Gryffindor's story over a Slytherin's, or a single occasion when you gave a Slytherin the benefit of the doubt.

I frquently, and not of my accord, think back to that great turning point of my life, the werewolf incident. It would have been more merciful, Albus, if you had simply obliviated me, and said that I had been caught out past curfew. It was that night, and the way you treated it as merely a prank gone wrong, that finally convinced that there was no place on the side of light for a half-blood Slytherin. Are Slytherins so worthless that the attempted murder of one of their number bears no significance? Shakespeare said it best: "If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"

I have had my revenge in spades; Potter is dead, Black has fallen through the veil, Lupin is old before his time, and Pettigrew, poor, pathetic Pettigrew, has become more rat than man. And you, who were my downfall and my redeemer, I have had my revenge on you. Not by being the cause of your death, although that was satisfying enough, but by proving you wrong. You have always shown yourself to believe that only Gryffindors can be heroes, but what greater heroism is there than sacrificing what you treasure most, be it your life or your love?

I have held my intellect as my most precious possession, and here, in a prison to which I went willingly, I feel it slipping away. You knew that you would have to die for the Potter boy to ever be willing to take charge; I do not question that. The way he acts around you makes it perfectly clear that he would be happy to follow your orders forever. You chose me to be the instrument of his liberation from your leading strings, and at the same time, to be the instrument of your death. I will not pretend that I did not do it willingly, Albus. I had my own reasons; chiefly to protect Draco, whom your caprices have so damaged.

I know that you did not do it intentionally, but the way you have so heavily and blatantly favored the Gryffindors in recent years, and Potter especially, has jaded more young minds than you will ever know. There is not, or there was not during my last year teaching, a single Slytherin who believed that he or she will ever be treated fairly. For this, Albus, I lay the blame squarely at your feet. You know, or you should know, that to a Slytherin, dignity, or the appearance of dignity, is everything. How do you think it felt, watching the faces of children as young as eleven harden and grow cold because you felt the need to publicly humiliate them?

You know what I'm referring to, Albus. The end of Potter's first year, my Slytherins had won the House Cup fairly, and you felt the need, for some unknown reason, to award points to Potter, and thus Gryffindor, for violations of the rules that would have resulted in the expulsion of any other student. If that were not enough, you went on to award points to Weasley, Granger and Longbottom, enough points to alter the standings for the Cup in Gryffindor's favor. After that display, your name was mud in Slytherin, even with the children of Light parents. The Bullstrodes, the Flints, the Zabinis... They are all Light families, yet I was present when Millicent, Marcus and Blaise received their Dark Marks. I wonder why?

Of your failings, Albus, the one that is most common has done the most harm. Your favoritism has cost lives; when I still believed in the deranged ramblings of the half-mad, half-dead creature known as Voldemort, I took a vicious pleasure in destroying Gryffindors, and ones you had favored in particular. I would have given anything to be the recipient of such affection, however misguided, and if I could could not have it, no one could. You have destroyed faith and twisted souls, Albus; you have created an army for the one person you truly hate, and you never even realized you doing it.

I am running out of parchment now, and it is nearly too dark to write anyway. Bearing in mind that I have not, and never was, allowed a lawyer, I leave all my worldly goods, save my books, to Draco Malfoy, whom I have failed to protect. I bequeath my books and this letter to Miss Hermione Granger, who will get the most and best use from them, and who has done me the kindness of giving me this parchment.

Severus Septimus Snape