Severus Snape stared at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his robes over his clothing. The cold and damp of the dungeons were at the point where he had taken to wearing Muggle clothes beneath his robes to ward off the chill. He adjusted his collar and straightened the sleeves of his crisp black shirt. Even his clothing was impeccable; his sense of style at least, was as sharp as his mind.

Foolish bird, the voice in the back of his head whispered. Vain raven. As if anyone is even going to see what you wear beneath those robes. As if anyone is going to care. Why waste your time?

How true. Snape sneered at his reflection in the mirror, pushing back his long, greasy hair. Over the years he had garnered a rather vicious reputation. Slytherin snake, slimy bastard, greasy git. Yes, he had heard them all, heard the whispers when his back was turned, saw the notes get passed, the rumours started. He knew, and he wondered whether the ache in the pit of his stomach was because he cared too much, or because he was afraid. Afraid that he wasn't able to care about anything anymore.

It had been years since Dumbledore had brought him back to Hogwarts. Years since he had taken up his new tasks as spy, returning again and again into the ranks of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. True to her word, McGonagall had returned to Dumbledore's office and dealt single handedly with all three men, Crouch, Fudge and even Moody, who had wanted Snape back in Azkaban as soon as his usefulness ran out. Even now Snape was uncertain as to just how McGonagall had been able to talk down Fudge and convince them all that the ex-Slytherin Death Eater would be of more use to them without threat or provocation.

Probably told them I'd rather turn myself in as a traitor to Voldemort before I went back to Azkaban, he thought as he pocketed his wand. Not far from the truth, either. I've used that killing curse so many times and often wondered if it would work if I cast it on myself. Better that than returning to the dementors.

Somewhere along the lines he had come to terms with his new existence. No, not quite. He had learned to accept it, had become quite good at it, actually, but he had never come to terms with it. Not a day went by that he didn't see the faces of the men and women he had helped to main, to torture and to kill. And every troubled memory was accompanied by the knowledge that he would eventually return to play out the part of the very man who had done these things. He knew he was no longer the same person; though the Dark Mark still stained his arm with its damning leer, the Death Eater that he had been died the night he had run from the horrors of Voldemort's orders.

It had taken quite some time before Dumbledore was able convince him of this, and even longer until Snape was able to look upon his scarred arm without a tremor of fear that its hideous face would call him back.

"You ran because you were repulsed by what you saw, by what you did," Dumbledore had told him. "If you had truly the heart of a Death Eater you would never have felt that way. If you were truly a coward then you would have kept silent, for no few followers of Voldemort serve him out of fear. And if you weren't truly certain of your loyalties to us, then you would never have placed yourself in the danger of returning as spy."

Snape refused to let himself believe in his own sincerity. "I agreed because I was afraid, because I would do anything before I went back to Azkaban."

Dumbledore had leveled those cool blue eyes at his own and asked: "What was it that the dementors left you with back in Azkaban?"

"Her." Snape shuddered. "The girl who died by my potions. I kept hearing her scream, kept seeing her die-" He stopped as he realized the implications of what he had just said. Dumbledore had nodded and smiled. "The dementors rob you of every thought or memory that bring you happiness, leaving you with nothing but your worst fears and greatest nightmares. In your case, the worst memory you could have been left with was the vision of the child you helped to slay. You're no more Death Eater, Severus, than I am."

That had been years ago. So much had happened since then, including the death of the old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, requiring Quirrel to take his place. That had been two weeks before the start of the new term, and after the shuffling and reassignment of the remaining teachers, Hogwarts was left with a gap in the Potions position.

Dumbledore raised a few eyebrows when he assigned you to teach, the annoying little voice mused as he straightened the papers and books on his painfully neat desk. Though the classroom was located in the dungeons, Snape kept everything in impeccable order so that even as the spiders wove their traps in the corners and across the stoppered bottles, every container down to the most base ingredient was lined up strict as a military regiment. He permitted no clutter down in his small part of the castle, nothing was laid out that was not strictly necessary.

Then again, at least the general public was spared the knowledge of who would be teaching their precious children.

At Dumbledore's request, Snape's dubious record was kept secret from the rest of the wizarding world. As a result, only about a dozen people in the world knew of Snape's previous profession.

So now you can be shunned and avoided as the bitter, sadistic Potions Master instead of the bitter, sadistic Death Eater. Makes you feel loads better, doesn't it?

"Shut up," Snape whispered, slamming a vial of dragon's blood down on a shelf. "The last thing I need right now is a bloody narrator in my own head."

"Severus?"

Snape whirled, his hand diving into the pocket of his robes for his wand before he realized it was only Professor Sinistra. He took a deep breath as he released his wand. Got to take a break until I cool down, he thought to himself. I'm hair triggered as a result of going back. Thank whoever's listening that the school term starts today and spying comes in second to teaching. It wouldn't look good if Snape kept disappearing at any given hour when he was supposed to be teaching. That was how rumours started, and at this point in time a rumour was all that was needed to bring Snape's reckoning.

"Dumbledore sent me to tell you that the Welcoming Feast is about to begin. I didn't mean to interrupt anything- I heard you talking with-"

"Thank you, I will be down in a moment," Snape said crisply. Sinistra looked startled at his abruptness, but ducked out. Snape grimaced. He did not need other teachers to hear him arguing with himself. They avoided him enough as it was for being Snape the one-time Death Eater without thinking he was Snape the crazed Slytherin who talked to himself.

Come on, now. If they all avoided you, at least you'd have some peace-

Snape spun and stormed out, slamming the door behind him without even bothering to respond.

The Great Hall was as noisy as he ever remembered it. Students were everywhere, talking, laughing, chatting and gossiping. Those who hadn't seen their friends since the end of last term were rapidly catching up on new relationships, new spells and new adventures. The noise made Snape's head spin, but at least it drowned out that irritating little voice.

He took his place at his usual seat, scowling at no one in particular and everyone in general. It seemed to him a long time before Dumbledore stood and silenced the gathered students and longer still until the Sorting began and it was quiet enough to think again.

The seemingly endless list of names droned on. Snape barely even looked up when a student was sorted into his own House, Slytherin. When he had become Potions Master, Dumbledore had placed him as Head of Slytherin House as well, for lack of a more suitable teacher. As it was, Snape had been the only Slytherin out of the entire resident faculty.

Suddenly, a name caught his attention.

"Potter, Harry!"

Snape looked up so fast he heard something in his neck snap. Ignoring the pain, his eyes darted over to the Gryffindor table where he caught a glimpse of a too familiar face adorned with a set of bright green eyes. At that same moment, the Dark Mark on his arm began to burn as it had when Voldemort wished to call his Death Eaters to him. Gripped with a sudden horror, Snape jerked the sleeve of his robe up, baring the hideous skull, fearing the worst. The last time his scar had burned so the night had ended badly. He hadn't ended up in the Hospital Wing that time, but rather in Dumbledore's office after having clawed his way through a series of nightmares. As he broke eye contact with the boy, however, the burning faded away. He glanced up again and saw that the boy was grimacing and rubbing at the oddly shaped scar that marred his forehead. Snape looked back at his arm, but the Mark was slowly fading back to its dormant state. Odd.

He had known the Potter boy was coming to Hogwarts, Dumbledore had mentioned it in passing. Somehow, though, it had slipped his mind with all the goings on that had been taking place recently. And all because of the boy.

Snape knew the story, of course. Everyone did, but he had a unique perspective on it all. After Voldemort's disappearance that directly followed the death of James and Lily Potter, Death Eater activity had escalated, then declined sharply. The remaining Death Eaters had gathered immediately at Lucius' orders, Snape included, to discuss what was to be done. Without any information as to the whereabouts of their master, however, there was little they could do. They had gone away unsatisfied and uncertain.

At least now Snape could breathe easier knowing that no summons from the Dark Lord would be imminent. The Death Eaters still gathered every once in a while, but it was mostly by invitation to the Malfoy Manor for a little of what Lucius liked to call "fun." More often than not Snape declined these invites but dared not persist in extended absence.

Now Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, was here at Hogwarts, seated not thirty feet from where sat the one man who carried a hatred lasting almost as long as he had, but who also owed him more than he could ever repay.

And if there was one thing Snape hated, it was to be in anyone's debt.

"Our new- celebrity."

Snape's silky voice practically dripped with sarcasm and contempt. It was the first day of the new term and Snape found himself with a double Potions class: Gryffindors and his very own Slytherins. It was going to be a very interesting year.

He had begun with his usual "welcoming" speech- it hadn't changed since the first time he delivered it. He gazed with unhidden scorn at the young students who laughed and talked amongst themselves- none of them would ever understand the true magic that lay behind the curtain of steam rising over a boiling cauldron. They wanted magic they could cast and see the immediate results. Not one of them saw the potion making for art it truly was, and none of them ever would. He was wasting his time here.

Class began in earnest as he drilled the first years in basics of potions, making certain to humiliate Potter by asking him questions no first year would know. Except maybe that irritating Granger child.

A band of painful pressure had constricted around his temples before the class was more than half over. If it wasn't Potter's irritating presence generated simply by being there, it was Granger's know-it-all bossiness and her need to prove it to others or Neville Longbottom and his uncanny knack to have everything he touched go wrong.

Longbottom. There was a name Snape remembered all too well. He hadn't been there when the Death Eaters got hold of Frank Longbottom and his wife but he'd seen the results first hand. He heard now they resided at St. Mungo's. He admitted to himself that he wouldn't have had the need to be so hard on the poor boy if it wasn't for the unpleasant memories he brought with him. As he snapped for the countless time at the terrified boy, the voice in his mind returned.

You're being irrational, and you know it. It's not his fault you can't sleep at nights. You just want someone on which to take out your own fear.

Snape brushed the voice aside impatiently. It was right, of course, even Snape would admit to that, but his pride kept him from changing his behavior. It helped that the boy was unbelievably clumsy, it at least gave Snape half a reason to direct his anger on the hapless first year.

Between the hopeless antics of several first year students and the persistent nagging of the voice in his head, Snape was more than ready to down one of his own potions by the time class was dismissed. It didn't matter which one.

As he leaned over to clean up a puddle of armadillo bile, the direct result of a scuffle between two Slytherin and Gryffindor girls, Snape was only minorly surprised to find his thoughts drifting back to the green eyed boy who had caused him so much pain and at the same time saved him from more than he could ever imagine.

Harry Potter.

The rational part of his mind knew he was being unreasonable, that Harry was no more to blame for Snape's anxiety than Neville was. But every time he looked up and saw those awkward glasses, the unruly hair, he was overcome by the memory of a voice calling out to him, a warning in the dark. The voice of his most hated rival and the man who saved his life.

That was what stung the most. The wounds of his body could not compare to those of his pride. James Potter, the boy whom everyone looked up to, whom everyone admired. The boy whom Snape had hated more than anyone in the wizarding world. Brave, handsome and popular, James was everything Snape could never be. The only area in which he could ever hope to even match him was intelligence, for when it came to cool, practical logic, Snape was the undeniable master. Even so, it hurt all the more when Potter received the accolades that should have been going to him.

Some small part of Snape longed to join the group of friends who called themselves the Marauders. He watched with mixed envy and annoyance each time they carried out one of their notorious pranks, knowing both that they were being childish and at the same time that with his help, they could have achieved unrivaled fame in the halls of Hogwarts' mischief-makers. But Snape was a Slytherin, a world apart from the Gryffindor boys. What was more, he was a Snape, one of many in a long line of known Dark Wizards, a boy to be feared and shunned from all sides.

Yet Potter, to Snape's immense horror, showed once again his selfless, honorable nature. Snape, rejected and alone once more, took to following the Marauders on their dubious haunts, waiting for the moment when he could report them and their rule-breaking antics. Then Black, damned dog, managed to convince him that he had figured out the way to uncovering Lupin's secret and sent him into what he must have known was certain death. But James Potter, Hogwarts' hero and soon to be Head Boy, warned him away, saving him from death at a werewolf's claws.

It had been the final straw. Now Snape owed Potter his very existence, a debt he could never hope to repay. Rather than turning his attitude towards the Gryffindor, this debt seemed to only deepen the resentment Snape harbored. Potter, the damned honorable boy treasured by nearly all of Hogwarts and top of his class had saved Snape's life.

And Snape hated him for it.

Crash. A bottle slipped from Snape's long fingers, falling to the floor where it shattered on the smooth stones. Snape stared at the pieces of glass for a long moment, heedless of the gunk that was spreading out in a fetid puddle at his feet. Slowly, wondrously, he picked up a shard of glass and held it, gazing though it into the warped light that lay behind it. He gripped it tightly, so tightly the razor edge bit into the heel of his hand, sending a trickle of blood unheeded down his wrist and into his robes.

He stared at the shard for another long moment, fear, anger and hatred warring on his face. Then, with a cry of inhuman despair, Severus Snape dropped the shard and fled.

"I didn't deserve what he did."

Snape sat stolidly in a chair by the window of Dumbledore's office. As he stared outside, he heard sounds of tea being poured behind him and accepted the steaming mug automatically, without looking back. Outside the day was crisp and clear, the sun just beginning to set behind the castle bathing everything in warm, golden red light. A chill breeze blew through the window, stirring Snape's hair and robes with its mid-September kiss.

"Didn't deserve which? His saving you that night, or his burdening you with the duty you now have?"

"Both. Either. I don't know and I don't care." Snape put his mug down and rested his head in his arms on the sill of the window. "I hated him then because when he saved me; I owed a life debt to the boy I hated most. Now I'm not so certain. Perhaps I hated him because deep down, I knew I wanted to die." He closed his eyes, breathing in the light scents of fall. How he had longed for the quick death of a werewolf's bite all those months in Azkaban instead of the slow wasting that had taken hold of him.

"No," he said at last. "I don't think so. Not then, not as d- did in Azkaban." Snape cursed himself mentally, he had come too close to stating his true thoughts, that he longed for death even now. He glanced at Dumbledore, but the old Headmaster did not seem to have noticed his slip.

"I remember when I heard they died," Snape continued hastily. "I- didn't know what to think, really. Except, the first thing that truly registered was that now that James was dead, I was cleared of the life-debt." He stared back outside and the swiftly darkening grounds. "Selfish to the last. Not two days dead and all I can think of is that I don't have to hate him anymore. What does that say about me?" He asked it rhetorically, but somewhere in his heart he hoped that Dumbledore might answer, might offer him some solace or at least the absolution that he denied himself. But no such reply was forthcoming.

"Something went wrong, though, didn't it?" Dumbledore asked softly, sipping his tea. "You weren't cleared from the debt, as you put it, were you?"

"No." Snape shook his head bitterly. "No, even his very death continued my persecution. He saved my life once, but I was unable to save his. Dammit, Albus, I might even have helped to kill him."

"Impossible. You were already here when Voldemort found them. You were working for us-"

"I might not have been there, but I left things there, Albus! Potions, schemes, information- I helped Voldemort more than you could ever imagine! God, no matter how hard I try or how far I run I will always be part of them, don't you understand?" Snape clenched his fists so hard he was afraid to move them for fear that something would snap. "I helped to kill the man who saved my life."

Silence hung between the two men for a time where the only sound that could be heard was the soft rustling of the branches from the Forbidden Forest. Dumbledore cleared his throat quietly and ventured to speak. "This is where the young Potter boy comes in, isn't it?"

"Yes." Snape hissed the word as if it were a bitter sound to make. "Yes, that damn boy." His black eyes snapped. "The debt didn't die with James as I thought, but increased tenfold instead. Now, because I couldn't save his father's life, I must always guard the boy's." He took a long draught of tepid tea. "It's a bitter pill to swallow. God above, I envied that man. He had everything I could never have. And then- then he had to go and save my life after all I did to them, after I was determined to rat them out every chance I got. The man was always so damn noble." His jaw clenched as he stared out the window, snarling into the darkened grounds.

Suddenly, he stood, nearly spilling what remained of his tea onto the floor. "Thank you for your time, Albus," he said stiffly, striding towards the door. "It's late. I'm sure you have other things to attend to other than one wayward teacher."

"Severus?" Dumbledore stood and waved the chairs back into their original positions. "You know my office is always open if you need me."

"Yessir."

"And Severus?"

"Sir?"

"Try not to dwell too much. Things often have a way of working themselves out if we let them."

"Yessir." Snape turned and shut the door behind him without another word. As he made his way back to the dungeon, his mouth twisted into a sneer of self-loathing. Things often have a way of working themselves out if we let them.

Oh, but you don't know the half of it, Albus, Snape thought as he descended the stairs down to his office. I hate that boy more than you could ever imagine, and it has nothing to do with his father. He had come to this realization soon after the Welcoming Feast as he retreated to his chambers for the night. The flare of his scar that night had made it all so painfully clear.

I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are more than your father was, because you are everything I hated about him and more. I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are the only one who survived Voldemort's touch, you came away unscathed, something I could not do. That scar is just a scar, it holds no hidden past, no memories you wish you could forget. I hate you, Harry Potter, because you are the Boy-Who-Lived.

I am the man who died.