In memory of the greatest character of all time, and my true fictional idol.
The first thing he wants to see when he wakes up in the morning is her. Her red hair spilling off the pillow in a graceful, fiery waterfall. Her bright, almond-shaped green eyes shut, the black lashes twirled naturally around them. Her soft, pale body curled up inside the comforter. Her full lips gracefully parted in sleep.
The first thing he wants to hear when he gets out of bed is the sound of kitchen pots moving around. He wants to hear the light padding of small feet moving across the parquet. He can almost hear her cloak swishing around as she made him breakfast.
The first thing he wants to smell is the freshly cooked pancakes, the result of her perfect charms work. He wants to smell her, her lovely floral scent mixed in with the smell of parchment. He wants to be able to turn his face into her pillow and smell the lilac shampoo she always uses.
The first thing he wants to feel is her kiss on his forehead as she leaves to go to work, as she hurries over to the Auror office. He wants her to squeeze his hand lightly and promise she will be safe, that no one will harm her when she's away from him. He wants her to climb into bed and curl up against him as he whispers the words that will lift away her fears.
The first thing he sees in the morning is a black bed and a gruesome tattoo. He sees his crooked nose in the mirror. He sees his greasy black hair that he had always wished was brown and silky. He sees the narrow, cold black eyes that he always wished were hazel. He can't look away from the skinny, pale body, the one never enhanced by being a chaser in a Gryffindor Quiditch team. He sees the missing crooked smile on red lips, the missing mischievous glint in his eyes.
He hears the silent screaming in his head. He can also hear the tortured voices in the pensive. The word Mudblood is repeating over and over again in his head, the word that ruined it all. He can also hear the mean, nasal voice. It is his voice, the one that spoke the word, and the voice that wasn't a charming, affectionate one. He can hear the mark on his left forearm speak to him, promising. Severus Snape release me, your master…I can give you the girl…I will spare the girl…
He smells sulfur and burnt potions. He smells death and pain and agony. He smells the dirt in his hair, the cold hatred on his arm. He smells the invisible sweat, the one not earned by broomsticks or sports, but the one earned by the dreaded nightmares of beautiful redheaded girls, the ones of cold, high voices screaming curses.
He feels nothing. He feels emptiness in his heart, emptiness in his soul, and emptiness in his mind. There is no point to live, other than that to protect her son. The one she had with that toerag. The toerag that didn't call her Mudblood, the toerag that was ever faithful to her. Her son is the reason he is empty. Her son is the reason she is dead.
And though he is empty, in his soul, mind, and heart, he carries on. He protects her son, the son with Lily's eyes and James's appearance, because it is the right thing to do. He knows that when his task his done, he will forever be with her, and the emptiness will be full. Full of Lily's love.
So he finishes his task. And he is with her.