Notes: Wow. I was distracting myself by sorting through old (and I mean old) files and found this. It's not quite finished and has no real conclusion – so stop reading if you don't like that kinda thing. It's a WHAT-IF Snape got killed by a werewolf. The last Harry Potter story I ever wrote.
The Burning Sky
The pub was small, seedy, and darkly lit. The type they preferred for these nightly rituals, where no one would recognize them, where they could drown their mistakes and misery in a drink or two (or twenty, one of them counted after a particularly bad day).
"Hey," the first of them slurred, waving a dirty glass of firewhiskey, as his companion approached. He was still wearing his cloak, hood covering most of his face except for a bitter smile. "I thought you weren't coming, with the war and your Order and all."
There was a pause as the second man, also cloaked, took a long swig. "You know they don't let me do anything."
"Ah," A low mirthless chuckle escaped his lips. "They don't trust you, huh? After all this time?"
"Always," The other also chuckled, causing some of the drink to dribble on his chin. "And it's not just because of you either. You know Lily Evans is one of them?"
"Careful, Prongs, wouldn't wanna let that slip in this sort of place." Sirius cast his dark eyes around. "Then we'll kill another one too."
A long silence followed. With these type of nights, when the atmosphere was murky and ominous, and the cool air pervaded their cloaks and the whiskey in their bones, it was inevitable that conversation turned to Hogwarts…and Snape.
Looking back, James knew that once Sirius got the ball rolling, there had been no stopping it. The moment Snape walked into the willow, he'd been doomed.
The entire night got out of hand.
James hadn't been strong enough, quick enough. Sirius hadn't told him soon enough. Peter hadn't listened well enough.
Remus did everything too much.
Severus was slaughtered in a minute. Splintered bones and gaping wounds and bloodbloodbloodblood.
Hours later, when Remus had transformed back (and promptly retched) and James had bawled the hell out of Sirius, the second worst thing happened: someone saw them.
A couple of seventh years out in the early morning doing god-knows-what saw them carrying the bloodied, mangled body out the shack for a hasty, makeshift burial. The two had immediately gone running for a professor.
By breakfast, the whole school was abuzz with the news. Despite the many versions floating around, one thing was clear. The marauders had done it. They (finally) killed Severus Snape.
It was known, of course, that they had it in for the Slytherin boy, that they'd been relentless in their pranks (verging on cruelty if one were honest), and that no one did to stop it (except Lily, oh god, Lily).
The whole school was all to blame really, everyone who, in their silence, had given consent. And, as any human would do in the face of staggering guilt, they pointed their fingers and called for punishment (punishment!) to assuage their own conscience.
An unfamiliar wave of fury and accusation met the four after they cleaned up and went to breakfast. Not a single friendly face could be found.
The Slytherins were out for blood. One of their own had been killed by some reckless Gryffindors and they wanted justice (revenge). In their minds, Dumbledore's calls for tolerance and understanding burned away as hypocrisy. Lucius Malfoy had never seen a more perfect opportunity for recruiting.
The vast Potter fortune (nor the Black, if the family bothered) could nor save them. Dumbledore (his face etched with fury and sorrow) could not save them. All their previous rapport with most of the Hogwarts population was gone in an instant.
Lily Evans, a kinder person you would be hard-pressed to find, had marched up to them just outside Dumbledore's office. Sobbing and enraged, paying no heed to the families and professors, she spat in all their faces and very coldly stated that she hoped they all died. "I'd kill you myself, if I could."
The four of them were expelled. Remus sent to Azkaban. Peter to wander on aimlessly, to never make anything out of himself. And James and Sirius to live in the aftermath of the destruction, drown in drink and disgrace, tied together by a common, colossal mistake.
End.