Sorrow


Snape was a man with many regrets. Far too many to even count. He had spent the better half of his life intoxicated with anger and hatred that drove him to commit mistake after mistake until there was nothing left.

It didn't come as a surprise when the first selfless decision he made turned out as a catastrophic failure. He lived through too much to even think otherwise. But it destroyed him nonetheless. In a fit of madness, he had thrown everything aside and groveled in front of both Dumbledore and his Lord to save Lily. He had begged them to spare her life. Spat on his own pride. Bared his deepest secrets. In an attempt to do the right thing.

They did not.

Seeing Lily's corpse on the cold floor holding her lifeless firstborn broke him. Time became meaningless to him inside this room.

When slivers of reason returned to him, he came to learn that his Lord somehow perished too under the hands of the Longbottoms soon after slaughtering the Potters, however, he was too stricken with grief to care.

A clock stopped ticking that day.

McGonagall had whispered that there was no rest for the wicked upon seeing him. He couldn't do anything but agree.

Afterwards, he was given a duty by the headmaster, and like a puppet, he followed through the motions. From that moment on, weeks, months, and years blurred together without any intention to stop their pace.

There was no happiness nor peace in Hogwarts, and yet he had wanted to laugh when the year he had finally started to come to terms with his damned experiences his black mark started to burn once again.

Voldemort had returned.

Snape wanted to die.

Even so, duty called. So he decided to give his all to this final purpose for his worthless life. He would finally rest either way.

Snape played the role of the antagonist in this new theater play. A vindictive man still loyal to a dark lord. And he was successful in his endeavor. Everything went according to plan during the following years. Dumbledore's protégé was shaping into what they needed pretty nicely.

The young Longbottom had foiled not only once but thrice the machinations of Voldemort.

Snape was satisfied with the progress.

Imagine his dumbfoundedness when an albino materialized out of thin air after a malfunction of the ancient artifact in the prelude to the third Triwizard Tournament he would help set.

The masterful mask he wore for years instantly crumbled with his rotting occlumency shields. Tears poured down his emotionless face like a freight train and for an instant, he felt immense relief despite his growing pile of responsibilities.

It was as if he had let go of a breath he was holding all this time at last.

Observing the pandemonium that was let loose in front of him, as he heard the faint tick of an unseen clock, Snape thought that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself hope for a little closure.