Severus had never liked to think of himself as weak. And yet . . . this week, for the first time in a long, long time, he had found himself on his knees begging for things he couldn't have. And he hated it. He hated every second of it.
Severus Snape did not beg. He was not weak. He did not ask for others to do things he could do himself and he did not expect pity. He didn't need pity. He didn't want it. He wanted to work hard, to make use of his talents, to become extraordinary all on his own and to do - to be something remarkable. Begging, pleading, humbling himself? They were simply not in his character.
But for Lily . . .his mind supplied. Yes. For Lily. For Lily he would do anything. Even this.
He had seen the way his master looked at him as he begged for Lily's life to be spared. The contempt, just under the surface, for a man who would protect a muggle-born (even now, the thought of the word "mudblood" sent chills through him, the biggest mistake he'd ever made resonating through his head) even if she was a brilliant witch. When you really paid attention, Lily was as brilliant as any of the pure-bloods around him. Maybe more. His master didn't care.
The contempt in Voldemort's eyes was masked over with a calculating look, a look that made Severus feel as though his entire mind and soul and being were being pulled apart into their individual elements and examined. But, of course, they weren't, because there were depths to him that no one else could reach. He wouldn't let them. He kept them out.
Now, he was walking a tight-rope, letting Voldemort see enough of his childhood friendship with Lily to understand why he asked for her protection but keeping his master out of the part of him that still loved her as though nothing had ever gone wrong, the part of him that regretted "mudblood" more with every use of the word around him.
That was too much, and his master would never let it stand. He was a cruel man, in many ways, and if he thought Severus's love for Lily compromised his pureblood ideals, he would kill her on purpose.
And then the Dark Lord had looked away, decision made, and agreed to it. More or less. He had, at least, not refused to give Lily a chance. James, of course, could go. The thought bothered him only so far as he thought it would upset Lily. As far as Severus was concerned, James Potter had been Lily's biggest mistake, just the way "mudblood" had been his.
And the baby? Harder than James to think of killing, but at the same time - he'd never met the boy, had he? And if the boy was to bring down his master, then he had to die, didn't he? And yet . . . that feeling of being pulled apart and analyzed . . . his master had agreed to spare Lily because he thought it would keep him loyal, not because he actually wanted to agree. And it might not be enough.
And then he'd done it again. Begging. Like some pathetic little worm. But as much as he hated to admit it, Dumbledore and the Order were the best chance of protecting Lily. It had made his skin crawl to go to them and ask for her protection. He had betrayed his master, doing it, had given away valuable information, and now he was locked in, chained down into a position of double agent, and he couldn't get out of it.
Dumbledore had demanded that he become part of the Order and now he was. He was on both sides, and he didn't want to be, but there was no other choice. If he could keep at it long enough . . . he wasn't sure what he wanted, exactly, if he kept it up long enough. James dead and Lily coming over to his side? But could she really ever be a Death Eater's wife? He suspected not. And yet . . .
He walked confidently into the Death Eaters' headquarters, as if he had no worries at all. As if he had not just come from giving more information to the enemy, in exchange for Lily's continued protection (at least, that was how he thought of it - they would protect her, now that they knew the danger, whether he helped them or not, but Dumbledore had insisted . . .). He kept his shoulders back, his head high, his constant mental barriers up, and he acted as if nothing was wrong, or even strange.
And then he heard the news, delivered with a grotesquely wide and overly excited smile, that they had found the Potters - in Godric's Hollow, as if the name of Gryffindor would protect them - and the Dark Lord was on his way there right now, and Severus couldn't help himself.
He lost control for the first time in a long, long time, and he was out the door again before the other man could say a word about it, shoulders rounded, head down, panicked. And his mental barriers? He was lucky that his master didn't have more legillimens around.
Godric's Hollow. It was a tiny town, and it couldn't be hard to find them in it. If only he could be fast enough. He spun on his heel and there it was, the whole town square lying before him, and as he rushed down into the middle of the square, a house at the end exploded even though he hadn't realized it was there.
No.
He raced forward again, expecting to see his master storming out of the house, expecting to see the Dark Mark bursting from the top of the wreckage, praying to see Lily come out of the house behind him, alive, as his master had promised. And then he reached the gate, and none of it happened.
No. No, no, no. No. He almost went through the burnt-out gate into the yard, but the muggles were awake behind him now, stumbling like idiots out of their houses in their bathrobes and their pajamas and it was clear, now, that Lily wasn't coming out. No one was coming out. Not even his master, and it occurred to him that he should probably care about that, that the lack of Voldemort should probably be strange or frightening or something, but it wasn't.
"Lily!" he shouted, to no reply. He knew there wouldn't be. She was gone. They were all gone, Lily and James and the baby and his master, because he knew, looking at the house, that they couldn't have survived that. Perhaps his master. But no one else. And his master wasn't coming out either. And there was no Dark Mark.
There should be a Dark Mark, because Lily was dead, and there shouldn't be, because Lily was dead and the Mark was a celebration of a victory, and Lily being dead could never be anything but a loss, could it?
Suddenly, he was shaking so hard that he had to lean on the charred fence post in front of him to stay upright. "Lily!"
Nothing, and he wanted to call for her again, because there had always been magic around the number 3, but even magic couldn't help him now.
He called anyway. "Lily!" There was still no answer.
And then he knew for sure, and he could feel something contracting in his chest, like he was imploding, and it hurt. "No," he whispered, the words coming out softly even though part of him wanted to shout them, because he simply didn't have the breath to shout any longer. "No, Lily, I love you. I love you. You can't be dead." And there was no answer. It was too late, all over again.