Disclaimer: The characters, settings, etc. represented herein do not belong to me. They are the property of JK Rowling, and company, and I'm only a visitor in her magical world.
Author's Note: This is my first foray into the world of fan fiction. All reviews will be most appreciated.
He was dying, his blood pumping out of the gash in his neck onto the floor, poison replacing it in his veins with each slowing beat of his heart.
Severus Snape had known it would come to this. The Dark Lord was fickle, at best, and utterly mercurial about the necessity of keeping anyone alive. He knew that: as well as anyone, better than most.
He had been a double-agent, a triple-agent, a chess piece in this game of war – he had been brave for Dumbledore, and self-serving for the Dark Lord, and miserable for himself. And now it was at an end, and he was ready to finish it.
Still, he lingered, suffering in his death, appropriate as he had suffered bitterly in life. Symmetry.
Death in the Shrieking Shack waiting for him like a Grim, twenty-two years after he had first faced death in its passage way. Symmetry in that – he could not escape Black, and Lupin, and Potter, and… Lily, always Lily, even in death.
The Dark Lord killed him for a wand that may or may not owe him his allegiance. He never knew much of wand lore, no one really did except the wandmakers themselves, but he hadn't defeated Dumbledore - had killed him at his behest - and surely that tipped the scales differently? Did mercy killing count as killing, and defeat – irregardless?
He felt cold, with apprehension of death now, and the blood loss, and the poison.
Had Dumbledore known? Known that even as the Dark Lord had celebrated his victory, had honored him for his defeat of Dumbledore, that he would watch him jealously as well? That anyone should do what the Dark Lord could not, or had not, was not to be borne – and Dumbledore, it was whispered, who was the only one he ever feared…
The Order would have killed him for what he had done, and so would, so had, the Dark Lord – ironic, this back door agreement. Symmetry.
And then there were Lily's eyes floating above him. Had he died? Had he missed that moment, that last heartbeat? Was death this painful? And then he noticed the glasses around the eyes, the thin face and untidy black hair, and realized it was her son standing over him.
Such a bitter thing, her son, with her eyes and his father's appearance. And that scar on his forehead that meant, more than anything, that he had survived when she had not, and that she had died for him, had loved him more than life itself…
Harry Potter. The Boy-who-Lived. Couldn't he leave him alone? Did he come to gloat at his death? Did he know he was never worth the loss of his mother?
How long had he been laying here dying? Minutes, hours, years?
The boy. He had something to tell the boy, a message, yes. Dumbledore had had very specific directives for the boy. He must tell him. Finish this war. Except then the boy would die and he had protected him for Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily with her beautiful green eyes. He wanted her to know the truth, that it was all for her always – that he would have died for her.
And he was. And he could feel his mouth move. What was he trying to say? The truth, he wanted to tell the truth. How? How could he say so much? He could show her, yes, he could show her…
Take it.
Look me in the eyes.
Please.
Lily…
To be continued...