Author's Note: An attempt to stay in canon, to deal with the death, and to explain it. As someone who loved Albus and Snape and them both together, I'm in mourning. I may have to return to Harry Potter fandom to amend this. Read, and review.

Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

The Wake

By: Lady Erised

Wake: (n) To cease to sleep

To keep vigil over

An aftermath

It's a beautiful day, the kind where the sun has reached its ascent with lazy, well-meaning innocence. It streaks across the sky, casting the heavens into a brillant blaze of blue painted by white clouds, and countless birds that touch the beauty. The white sunlight has made the grass outside even greener, made the trees look regal, made Hogwarts look proud.

And you wish you could feel that, the birth of hope, of contentment such a day would usually bring to you. You stand there for a moment, staring out into the world, begging with it silently to make you feel again: something, anything other then the dark, cold detachment you have been feeling for the past few days.

And the world scorns you. It will give you no peace, not today, maybe never again.

So you curse it quietly, childishly because it's all you can do before turning to face the room and the horrible, damning truth that rests there.

Albus Dumbledore has laid in state now for days, his body protected and cared for until such a time as those who loved him, knew him, respected him, should come, some walking, some shuffling, all hurting, to say goodbye.

His hands are clasped over his waist, his good hand shielding the withered, blackened hand from view, which is something he never would have done in life. Albus Dumbledore, vain? Foolishness. The robes he wears are pressed, immalculate and white. They are creased around the body, still holding the stiffness of the newest. Not at all lived in. He is without his glasses.

And you turn, more on instinct then anything, to supply your Headmaster, your boss, your friend with something he needs. The Headmaster's bedroom has been cleared and straighted up: house elves? Somehow you doubt Albus would approve of such order. He's a man who likes creative choas, likes blurred lines, and easy laid back discpline. The way the room feels now: a collection of sharp lines, closed up wardrobes, and stripped bed draped in black makes it feel...certain.

And you remember again, Albus Dumbledore is dead.

No, you correct yourself, Albus Dumbledore is murdered.

You find his glasses on the desk, amid prefectly posed, hand written letters that are half-finished. Some are to your co-workers, one's for you, most are written to Dumbledore himself: to remind him of things he will never complete, to remind you all of things you always seemed to forget in the hustle of everyday life, and the strain of a war you pretended didn't exist.

You linger just long enough to read over his letter to you. He's asking you to be easier on the first years, to smile more, make yourself more avaible to the students. It's during this time, he has scribbled, when we need to make a point, make a stand, make a choice. And you remember suddenly, the speech he gave when the Diggory boy died. We would all have to make a choice, between what is right, and what is easy.

Choices. Stands. You curse those words like you've cursed the world. If this is the price of such things, it's too high, too heavy.

You push the glasses into his hands, and it looks for a moment that he has taken an afternoon nap. Gingerly, you reach over, stroking his old, care-worn hands, tracing the viens that jut just above the skin. You take them into yours, fighting back tears and refusing to think, speak or feel. You simply hold his hands in yours, and stroke them. Lovingly. Meaningfully. You take his withered hand into yours and flex his fingers carefully, as if aiding him. For a moment, you stare at them, unthinking and feeling nothing more the then the sudden urge to be enfolded in these arms that will no longer move. It's foolish to want this. You have never felt him hold you. There had never been a need. You were a member of his staff, a friend, a dance partner. You were never a confidant, never a lover, but yet, somehow, it feels like you were. You feel your heart twist in your chest and you want to scream. Murdered. How cruel, how...

Your hand slips tightening around his hand, and flexes the fingers at an unatural angle. Frightened, you drop his hand and stumbled back.

"Don't worry," You hear a voice whisper softly, "He can't be hurt now."

And you turn to meet the eyes of his killer.

Severus Snape is standing just inside the treshhold of the bedroom. The door behind him is ajar. His wand is nowhere to be seen. He's dressed as a Muggle, dark jeans, and a short sleeve shirt. His hair has been pulled back, away from his face. On his left forearm, there's a outline, an old scar you can't remember seeing before. Your eyes linger on the Mark for a long time, before pushing your eyes to his. He's watching you intently, curious and unmoved by you.

"The Aurors are just outside." You tell him. "The Ministry..."

"Yes, I know." He tells you simply, moving now like a snake across the water: purposefully and delicately and not ungracefully. "But I have not come for them."

You act before thinking, stepping forward to block his means to the body- to Albus you correct yourself. He rears up, stopping for a moment, and studying you, not unkind but not amused. "You mean to stop me?" He asks.

And suddenly, you are afraid. Staring into those black eyes, you realize you have never seen this man before. Not this specter who stands graceful, assured as he does. The Snape of memory, of friendship, stalked, never walked. He moved with the purposefulness of a plauge: hunting, hungry and never at peace. How many times had you stared into those dark eyes, and felt a swell of pity for him. How many times had you wished that he smiled, that he laughed. That he realized the war was over and he was among friends.

But this man isn't the Potions Master. This is the Death Eater, the Half Blood Prince.

The man who murdered Albus Dumbledore.

And he seems to see himself in your eyes. He recoils a little and stares at the wand that has appeared in your hand. He seems to be debating if it's worth his time. This is foolishness and you know it, he could arm himself, and hex you in the time it takes for you to think of the proper jinx.

He decides you aren't a risk, and moves towards the body: a scavenger picking at his prey. You step between them, blocking him from view. "Get out." You hiss. "Get out you coward."

"Coward." He repeats, staring hard at you. For a moment, his face darkens, hardens. "Am I coward then, for obeying my Master when no other would?" He demands. "I did what I had to."

"What you had to do? Severus," You murmur, and the name tastes like poison. "Severus, do you see who are now? Do you even know who you've killed."

"A man. No more worthy of life, or less deserving of death then you."

Your mind is reeling from that statement. Albus Dumbledore was more then a man and if you could, you would gladly take his place. You feel like your heart will tear from your chest. "Severus, he saved your life!"

"Yes, once more, he has."

"And who the hell are you to measure up to him? Who made that choice that you are more worthy of life then he was? He was Dumbledore, Severus. He was-" You stop. The pain has taken over, throwing you off balance and reeling. You're amazed it can hurt this much. "He was suppose to...save us."

And you realize Severus is holding you. You would have fallen otherwise. His arms are coiled around you, steady and strong but not coarse. His voice is just above a whisper. "He lied."

You rip away from his gaze staring at him. "No." You hiss. "You did."

The Death Eater has stopped and is looking at you, curiously. "Did I?"

Your mind begins to race for the time Severus told you, maybe hissed, maybe announced that he would protect you, that he would fight the good fight. You dive to find the time he swore he would stand up to the Dark Lord, swore to fight beside Dumbledore regardless of the costs, or the thought of injury. You search for the time he said he'd be there, he'd make it right, make it better, make it worth it. But you cannot. You can't even lie to yourself about it because you know. Severus is not the hero Albus was, not even the man he was. Snape was a man: simple, unrefined, and plain. He seldom spoke, and he never lied.

Severus sees your resignation and pushes pass you. He walks towards the corpse, marveling at it. His hand moves towards Dumbledore's, brushing the fingers slowly. Then, he moves his hand upward, towards the crown.

"No," He says to the corpse, "I did not lie. I kept my word. Above all else, regardless of all else, I kept it. You asked if I was prepared, if I was ready. I told you I was. I meant it." His face darkens, tightening in anger. "Did you think I wouldn't?" He demands. "Did you think I couldn't? This war will take everything before it's done, will destory everyone, but I won't let it have that. I kept my word."

You watch him with morbid curiousity. Is that pain you hear in his voice? Anger? Regret? You watch as he stares down at the corpse, black eyes taking in all that was once Albus Dumbledore: searching and discerning. You wonder what it is that he is looking for. Absolution perhaps, or maybe forgiveness. Maybe he is searching for his lie there. Maybe, you begin to hope, just maybe he is hoping that he has stumbled, has failed.

Severus does something out of his nature then. He looks up, and his eyes are shining. He looks around the room, eyes darting hungrily over the stonework, to the hall and out into the rest of the school, then towards the window and the vast world beyond Hogwarts: and he understands, just as you do. There's nothing left for him here.

You don't know why he came today, as they laid his victim to rest, but you know what he takes with him. He has now the knowledge that despite his intentions, his dreams, his fears, his hopes: the war has won. He has nothing else now.

Maybe he already knew that, and this is just affirmation, or maybe this is his revelation: but staring at him now, you see Severus has nothing left but his word.

And his Master's wishes.

And you realize, despite this death, Severus Snape will continue to fulfill those wishes.

He leans down now, and very gently, with more humanity and compassion then you have ever seen him possess: Severus kisses Dumbledore's brow.

Then, he does not linger, does not meet your eyes, or cast another look towards the body. He stands, straightening his clothing, eyes forward and unreadable. He moves to pass you.

And like that, he is gone.