* * * *
His mother, his own mother was cowering at his feet, begging him not to do what Voldemort was ordering. Snape stared down at her and, not for the first time, he marvelled at how much he looked like her. She was beautiful though, where he was nothing but another plain face in the crowd. Her black hair was soft and beautifully full, Snape had let his grow dirty and greasy, a result of ignoring his own hygiene to perform tasks for the Dark Lord. Her pale skin was soft and slightly flushed, his was waxy and sallow. The sweat on his forehead seemed to roll off his skin like it was oil, splattering the ground where his mother cowered. Her black eyes had always sparkled with feeling and warmth, Snape's had grown cold.
"They weren't always that way," Alcmene Snape said, knowing his thoughts before he spoke them. "Not even a year ago they were so warm, so beautiful." She reached toward her son's face and for the briefest of moments Snape almost allowed her to touch him. He craved the feeling of his mother's touch and his eyes fluttered closed, waiting for the warm palm to cup his cheek. If she could touch him then he couldn't be that bad. If she could still stand to touch him then maybe he was still human.
"Snape," the cold voice came to him. "Don't. Just be rid of her."
He snapped back into reality, his eyes hard, his face empty and his heart broken. Did he really want to become a Death Eater if the price was his mother's life? His mother had been his support system from the time his father had died, Snape had been young and vulnerable and his mother had always been there.
"Severus," she murmured, her hand dropping onto his forearm. It heated his skin dangerously near his Dark Mark, the serpent and the skull. The black branding on his arm, the mark that proved he was just part of a herd. Voldemort's herd.
"No," he whispered fiercely, wrenching his arm from her grasp.
Alcmene's eyes filled with tears. "Severus, I'm your mother."
Snape met her eyes and he hated himself. He hated what he had become, hated that he was going to let down his mother after everything she had done to him. He saw himself in those eyes, the person that he had once been, the man that he could still become if he just turned back now. If he refused to kill his mother then everything would turn out fine. Voldemort would be defeated and he would live his life the way it was supposed to be.
Alcmene got to her feet. She had seen the uncertainty in his eyes, she could read those eyes better than anyone would ever be able. The depths of his eyes, the dark, liquid pools that his students would one day find so frightening. She looked in those eyes and she loved him.
"Mum," he whispered, his fingers entwining with hers. "Oh Gods, mum, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry."
"Shhh," she murmured, pulling him close. "Severus, everything will be fine."
At eighteen he was already much taller than she was and he had to bend his head to reach her shoulder. Alcmene pulled him in tight, her arms wrapped around his lean body in that perfect way that mothers always had. His body shuddered uncontrollably, though from cold or fear she couldn't tell. A smile touched her lips and she tousled his hair gently. He was still her son, his soul was still in that body that she had given birth too.
She was so sure that she had won her son back, so sure that only she could comfort him that she didn't see the dagger that slid out of his robes. She didn't feel the movement of his hand until the blade slid between her ribs and pierced her heart.
"Severus," she whispered, blood filling her throat faster than he would have imagined.
"Oh mum," he murmured a final time, then dropped her body to the floor of his bedroom. Her smile was still fading from her lips as she died. Blood seeped over the floor and toward his shoes. Snape took a step backward, then turned and made his way down the stairs. His mother's blood was on his hands, his mother's blood was on his clothes, the dagger that killed her was tucked in his belt.
He was a murderer. Severus Snape was a cold blooded murderer and for it, he would rot in hell. But first, he had the world to take over.
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he stepped into the street. A dangerous grin that felt so right on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, blood smearing on his forehead. His mother's blood . . . his mother's blood . . .
Snape woke up with a start, examining his hands for blood stains the moment his eyes opened. Nothing, there was nothing. His hands were clean and his face was wet. He angrily swiped at the tears, hating their presence even more than he hated himself. His weakness disgusted him, infuriated him to the point where he would clench his fists so tightly that blood would begin to drip down his fingers. He resisted the urge to cut tiny half moons into his palms that morning.
Pretending the tears weren't there, Snape threw back the sheets from his bed and paced the room. He hated the dreams, hated that they affected him so profoundly and that they would affect Kendra just as deeply. He hoped that she was lost in her own dreams, too far gone for her mind to connect to his.
As he thought about this, Snape slowly raised his eyes to the window and watched as the sun struggled to burst over the horizon. The days had slowly begun to get longer and it was only a matter of time before the snow would melt and the students would be out on the grounds, endangering themselves without even realizing it. Snape wanted to cancel every thing he could; trips to Hogsmeade, Quidditch matches, even the classes that took place outdoors. He didn't want the body count to begin to climb, three dead people were enough. They didn't need anymore proof that Voldemort was about to start a war.
The sun finally broke over the horizon and orange light flooded his bedroom, pouring over the dark walls until it reached his feet. Snape stood there, on the edge of the sunlight and he stared at it. It was just like his life, always dangerously perched between the dark and the light, always leaning more toward one than the other, but never staying there for long. Whenever his emotions would betray him he would ricochet back into his sarcastic and cynical shell, the protection he had adopted after betraying Voldemort.
As he stood there, deep in thought, the sunlight crept over his bare feet and up his legs, warming them slightly. With a shiver, Snape moved away from the window and slowly dressed, pulling his robes over his shoulders and tucking his wand into the folds. The school would still be empty, but that was the way he liked it.
He would walk the halls and hope that his thoughts would not spiral once more into the depression that war always brought. All he had to do was tell himself that this time, Voldemort would be defeated and would be gone forever. He would tell that to himself and now all he had to do was believe it.
* * * *
His mother, his own mother was cowering at his feet, begging him not to do what Voldemort was ordering. Snape stared down at her and, not for the first time, he marvelled at how much he looked like her. She was beautiful though, where he was nothing but another plain face in the crowd. Her black hair was soft and beautifully full, Snape had let his grow dirty and greasy, a result of ignoring his own hygiene to perform tasks for the Dark Lord. Her pale skin was soft and slightly flushed, his was waxy and sallow. The sweat on his forehead seemed to roll off his skin like it was oil, splattering the ground where his mother cowered. Her black eyes had always sparkled with feeling and warmth, Snape's had grown cold.
"They weren't always that way," Alcmene Snape said, knowing his thoughts before he spoke them. "Not even a year ago they were so warm, so beautiful." She reached toward her son's face and for the briefest of moments Snape almost allowed her to touch him. He craved the feeling of his mother's touch and his eyes fluttered closed, waiting for the warm palm to cup his cheek. If she could touch him then he couldn't be that bad. If she could still stand to touch him then maybe he was still human.
"Snape," the cold voice came to him. "Don't. Just be rid of her."
He snapped back into reality, his eyes hard, his face empty and his heart broken. Did he really want to become a Death Eater if the price was his mother's life? His mother had been his support system from the time his father had died, Snape had been young and vulnerable and his mother had always been there.
"Severus," she murmured, her hand dropping onto his forearm. It heated his skin dangerously near his Dark Mark, the serpent and the skull. The black branding on his arm, the mark that proved he was just part of a herd. Voldemort's herd.
"No," he whispered fiercely, wrenching his arm from her grasp.
Alcmene's eyes filled with tears. "Severus, I'm your mother."
Snape met her eyes and he hated himself. He hated what he had become, hated that he was going to let down his mother after everything she had done to him. He saw himself in those eyes, the person that he had once been, the man that he could still become if he just turned back now. If he refused to kill his mother then everything would turn out fine. Voldemort would be defeated and he would live his life the way it was supposed to be.
Alcmene got to her feet. She had seen the uncertainty in his eyes, she could read those eyes better than anyone would ever be able. The depths of his eyes, the dark, liquid pools that his students would one day find so frightening. She looked in those eyes and she loved him.
"Mum," he whispered, his fingers entwining with hers. "Oh Gods, mum, I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry."
"Shhh," she murmured, pulling him close. "Severus, everything will be fine."
At eighteen he was already much taller than she was and he had to bend his head to reach her shoulder. Alcmene pulled him in tight, her arms wrapped around his lean body in that perfect way that mothers always had. His body shuddered uncontrollably, though from cold or fear she couldn't tell. A smile touched her lips and she tousled his hair gently. He was still her son, his soul was still in that body that she had given birth too.
She was so sure that she had won her son back, so sure that only she could comfort him that she didn't see the dagger that slid out of his robes. She didn't feel the movement of his hand until the blade slid between her ribs and pierced her heart.
"Severus," she whispered, blood filling her throat faster than he would have imagined.
"Oh mum," he murmured a final time, then dropped her body to the floor of his bedroom. Her smile was still fading from her lips as she died. Blood seeped over the floor and toward his shoes. Snape took a step backward, then turned and made his way down the stairs. His mother's blood was on his hands, his mother's blood was on his clothes, the dagger that killed her was tucked in his belt.
He was a murderer. Severus Snape was a cold blooded murderer and for it, he would rot in hell. But first, he had the world to take over.
A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth as he stepped into the street. A dangerous grin that felt so right on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, blood smearing on his forehead. His mother's blood . . . his mother's blood . . .
Snape woke up with a start, examining his hands for blood stains the moment his eyes opened. Nothing, there was nothing. His hands were clean and his face was wet. He angrily swiped at the tears, hating their presence even more than he hated himself. His weakness disgusted him, infuriated him to the point where he would clench his fists so tightly that blood would begin to drip down his fingers. He resisted the urge to cut tiny half moons into his palms that morning.
Pretending the tears weren't there, Snape threw back the sheets from his bed and paced the room. He hated the dreams, hated that they affected him so profoundly and that they would affect Kendra just as deeply. He hoped that she was lost in her own dreams, too far gone for her mind to connect to his.
As he thought about this, Snape slowly raised his eyes to the window and watched as the sun struggled to burst over the horizon. The days had slowly begun to get longer and it was only a matter of time before the snow would melt and the students would be out on the grounds, endangering themselves without even realizing it. Snape wanted to cancel every thing he could; trips to Hogsmeade, Quidditch matches, even the classes that took place outdoors. He didn't want the body count to begin to climb, three dead people were enough. They didn't need anymore proof that Voldemort was about to start a war.
The sun finally broke over the horizon and orange light flooded his bedroom, pouring over the dark walls until it reached his feet. Snape stood there, on the edge of the sunlight and he stared at it. It was just like his life, always dangerously perched between the dark and the light, always leaning more toward one than the other, but never staying there for long. Whenever his emotions would betray him he would ricochet back into his sarcastic and cynical shell, the protection he had adopted after betraying Voldemort.
As he stood there, deep in thought, the sunlight crept over his bare feet and up his legs, warming them slightly. With a shiver, Snape moved away from the window and slowly dressed, pulling his robes over his shoulders and tucking his wand into the folds. The school would still be empty, but that was the way he liked it.
He would walk the halls and hope that his thoughts would not spiral once more into the depression that war always brought. All he had to do was tell himself that this time, Voldemort would be defeated and would be gone forever. He would tell that to himself and now all he had to do was believe it.
* * * *