Three young fools figured themselves his rescuers. How quaint.
He looked on from his place deep in the darkness, watching them gather in his thin arms and tuck in his chin. From the dark, always from the dark, he followed them with his eyes. He gave them his memories; now Potter had Dumbledore's final plan. The rest of history was theirs to make. Thus, whom they had dragged from the Shack had served his purpose.
Yet, the three heroes navigated the night to Hogwarts' courtyard entrance with his empty shell. Further heroics were discussed over his remains while they moved at a crawl, out from under the Whomping Willow, over the grounds littered with like corpses.
"Shit, he's heavy."
"Damn, damn it, Ron hold up your end!"
"Harry, mind his feet."
They were bringing him to Poppy's heel, hoping for miracles as they were wont to do.
It surprised him to find that he could miss that guileless optimism. Or, probably not: only the desperate alive had any use for it.
The trio laid him out on the grass to readjust his awkward limbs and wrap him in his own robes. Keeping him warm, holding him together. It was Gryffindorish tenacity, raging against the inevitable. So very admirable, and in the absence of most any other emotion besides the peace of the hereafter, he allowed himself time to bask in it, that desperation. Just a few minutes, he told himself. The rest of his life. It was all he had to give them.
The spark of life left in him dimmed gradually faster, slipping out of him and into the air to become something like to feed the ghosts. Souls drifted into nothingness in every direction. The three fools ignored the play of intricate dying, their gazes fixed on the castle walls.
Slowly, he realized: the force of their combined will bound the last of his energy to his bones and torn robes and blood. Instead of resigning, to anything, they ran.
The reckless emotion of it all approached a climax as they ducked into Hogwarts' shadow. It created a small ache in him, one borne by the thread of himself that still reached through the veil and held on. That was the crux of it, really, the crux of dying: that one little thread made all the difference. That tiny thing kept him alive, despite the light bleeding out of him and soaking into the stones of the school, his home. Something thin and significant - effectively "letting go" - taunted him as it eluded him.
His rescuers were running so fast, now. Too fast. They were using magic in excess. And they were talking more rapidly, now to him. He could hear them: "Hold on, Snape, you bloody bastard. A few minutes, just fucking hold on."
Holding on. All he'd ever done, and it was his problem - that and the fact that they were running too damn fast.
Wait, he thought at them, but they just ran on. Brats. Idiots. Insolent children rushing in, too self-righteous to spare him a moment for thought. They stole the peace right from under him. It was the story of his life, and it sent tremors through his very soul.
No rest for - well.
They didn't understand, and he had no way to tell them, to explain. Had he been able to teach them one damn thing, it would be the honor of dying. There was a burden in existing that death would sooth, and he'd hurt for so long. The war had shook him and he needed to be comforted. He had those needs written into the core of his being. Security, finality, closure, and peace. He yearned for peace, even if he did not deserve it.
He wanted what was done to be past at last.
Urgent pain was carved into the scene before him of three once-children skidding into the infirmary with his body floating behind, his pallor a pall. (He wanted nothing to do with all that bloody living.) Poppy turned toward them and saw the collage of sallow skin and greasy hair, hanging there, clinging.
Eyes, brown and blue and striking green, finally widened to understand the mess they'd dragged in through the dark and, Merlin, the agony of living. His image was full of it.
Let me go, he pleaded. Let me leave, let me be punished, let me be done. Please.
And suddenly it was as though a voice like flowers and swing sets and copper red hair whispered, "Not yet."
Panic licked up the ghostly approximation of his spine. He took in the wealth of spirit of his rescuers. Power enough to fell the greatest Dark wizard to date focused on him. Poppy Pomfrey herself was a resident wielder of miracles. Still, more facts accrued against his favor: the voice that commanded he lived belonged to the mother of the Master of Death. It was a conspiracy.
For the first time he wondered if Fate was a lioness.
He still kept with the notion of death, even while faced with his imminent survival - if anything, he was a stubborn man. However, that meant letting go, and he had never done that before. Not even once. He held on to every thing he'd ever touched. He stored them in the dark he had known since childhood, for safekeeping. Memories, emotions, grudges, promises, hoarded in the dark, surrounding him where he stood, watching a war-worn matron pour life into his body like water.
The tiny thread of light grew heavy, steely. It weighed him down, wrapped around him, crushing him down smaller, smaller. The fury of his thrashing was inspired. Yet still, light burned through the veil, steady, defiant, opening a hole no bigger than the eye of a needle. Blinded by the brightness, he didn't see destiny shift forwards, his body twitching, his lungs inflating, breathing in the selfish prayers of captors.
On the other side, Poppy Pomfrey grabbed the line of life with both hands and reeled him in.