A/N: For reference and/or inspiration, look to page 548-9 of the American version of HBP or to various Rowling interviews on mugglenet. Severus is my favorite character. He exudes, by far, the most depth. Even if that's a bit of a paradox.
James had everything and knew it not, and I hated him for that. It killed me to see a man of his caliber live out my aspirations and show no gratitude, and it killed him in the end, through what I believe is the most regretful mistake I've made in my life.
Not telling him would have been like a son betraying his father--his master--and, essentially, the Dark Lord was my master. Thus, I barely chose to tell him; I did it simply of mere intuition. I would not have questioned its consequences then. I was far too naive, far too unaffected by the horrors of the world, despite the blood on my hands. I listened outside the door, I understood the message, and I passed it on. There was no way of knowing which boy he would choose, which family he would choose. But saying it was not my fault would be a ghastly misconception.
It was all my fault. The younger Potter's misery is all my fault. My misery is all my fault. I, however indirectly, murdered the only woman who ever meant anything more to me than a passing glance or knowing smile. Ah, but of course, it was in my nature to destroy everything and anything about which I ever gave a bloody damn. I was destined to destroy her. Especially when I gave so much more of a damn than the man who actually won her affections. Or so I believed.
He died trying to save her, and she died trying to save them. Their own genetic combination. That boy whom I rued to no end, because he should have been our combination–mine and hers. But if it had been that way, then perhaps the boy would not have earned his name. She could never have loved me in such a manner–the manner in which she loved her bastard of a husband, that reckless man, the manner in which I loved her. And I loved her so much it killed her.
Upon discovering my Lord's intent, I was crushed indefinitely. My emotions at that moment knew no human or wizardly bounds. I pled with him. I begged him for his mercy. I threatened him to the best of my ability, which ultimately palled in comparison to his. But my attempts could never have instilled once more that aspect of human dignity and morality within him. For a reason unknown, nevertheless, he gave her a choice. It was the least he could do for a loyal subject. He gave Wormtail a hand; he gave me her choice. But damnit, it backfired. It was expected. She did what any mother would have done.
So her son's life cost her own, and for that, I hate him. I hate Harry Potter. And yet, I owe him an intrinsic allegiance. I owe him an allegiance to his mother. I owe him my apologies, first and foremost. But an apology most often avails a certain measure of self-content, of forgiveness, and that I still have not achieved. How can one even forgive oneself of one's deepest loss when it is difficult enough to forgive another for it? The boy certainly has not forgiven me. And although I hate him for what he could not prevent, I still yearn for that. I yearn for his forgiveness simply because that basic hate is incinerated whenever I look into his eyes. His mother's eyes.