Author's notes:
Some dialogues are taken directly from the original books (namely, Order of the Phoenix and Deathly Hallows).
Hogwarts and Hogsmeade are situated in Scotland. Some characters therefore speak with a Scottish accent and use Scottish words and turns of phrase. I will include a glossary at the bottom of each chapter for readers who are not familiar with Scottish English. However, please note that I am not a Scot myself; I am just fascinated by different accents and dialects as a linguist. If you are Scottish and notice that I got something wrong, do let me know and I will correct it.
Green to black
"Look… at… me…"
Those green eyes were the last thing he saw before everything went dark.
Yet, even then, in that almost unconscious state, no rest came. He would have welcomed complete oblivion, a final respite from long years of grief, but he found he could still feel excruciating pain. It seared through his body with unbearable intensity, crushing his limbs, burning his bones. His throat, especially, felt raw, mangled and unbearably hot.
Then, in the midst of physical agony, came the nightmares, over and over, relentlessly tearing at his mind, reliving his life's worst moments.
He was on the Hogwarts grounds again, surrounded by the bullies, humiliated, as Lily spoke sternly to them. Fury was eating at him, and he spat out the dreadful words, "Filthy Mudblood". Lily's stony look pierced right through him and he knew that he had irrecoverably lost her.
She was glaring at him, hands on her hips. "You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine." And he wanted to explain, to make her see he only just wanted to be great, to deserve her, but she had climbed back through the portrait hole, which swung shut, leaving him alone in the dark corridor.
He was watching Lily waltzing with James Potter at the Yule ball, painfully beautiful in teal dress robes that swirled around her, a high bun revealing the nape of her neck where wispy copper curls danced. Every sweet smile she gave Potter was a dagger through his own heart, and hatred seeped through his veins. He wished Potter dead, and hated himself for wishing it.
He was receiving his Death Eater mark, knowing full well he was throwing himself in a dark pit, beyond all redemption. At least, he would be powerful and feared – but he knew deep down that would never make him whole.
He was listening, aghast, to the Dark Lord's musings about the prophecy. "Of course… of course. 'Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.' The Potters' boy was born at the end of July. I will go and resolve this… little hitch." The young Death Eater cloaked his mind, yet could not help but ask, "My Lord, the woman..." – "You want her, Severus? You can have her… I'll spare her so you can have her."
He was begging Dumbledore to save Lily… "If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?" – "I have – I have asked him –" The second he uttered the words, he knew how despicable he sounded. The older wizard regarded him with sheer loathing. "You disgust me." And he was disgusted with himself too… But no matter the cost, Lily had to be protected. "Hide them all, then. Keep her – them – safe. Please." – "And what will you give me in return, Severus?" – "Anything". Damn, he would beg on his knees, no, on all fours like a dog, if only the pompous old git would save Lily.
He was in Dumbledore's office and the Headmaster confirmed what he had been dreading: "He killed them both, Severus. They are both dead." And his heart was ripped from his chest, torn to pieces, wracked with guilt and grief so immense he would collapse under the weight of it, as he wailed like a wounded animal.
He was crying out, "Lily… oh, Lily", over and over. Yet did he still have a mouth, a voice, lungs? Or was it only his soul, condemned to this highly deserved punishment?
Hours, or days, passed – he could not tell, drowned in physical and emotional pain.
Gradually he became aware of smells: damp and mold, acrid woodsmoke, the unmistakable tang of brewing herbs, and, regularly, another scent, sweeter, that reminded him of Lily's skin and hair when he sat close enough to her, so long ago: a hint of fern shoots unfurling in the spring. This puzzled him. How could he, in that place of agony, also smell something so pleasant?
From time to time, he felt an arm slide under his neck, raise him up, and some bitter liquid poured down his throat. The smell of ferns came with it, then grew fainter again. Somehow, he thought, he must still have a body, still be alive. This was not hell, not just yet.
He opened his eyes, but either the light was dim, or his sight was impaired somewhat: shapes were blurred, and he could not make out where he was. He discerned an orange glow on the left, which was where the woodsmoke smell originated from. A vague yet somehow familiar silhouette came in and out of his field of vision: a slender figure wearing a witch's robes, a cascade of wavy red hair that seemed to catch the glow of the fire. Lily? He must be dead after all, he must have joined her in death. Or were these visions more cruel dreams, sent to torture him even further?
Yet sensations gradually became more vivid. He could hear the clatter of pots, the grinding of mortar and pestle, and a low humming voice.
Severus drifted in and out of consciousness, never quite awake enough to fully take in his surroundings. Deft hands were handling him, wiping his hot face with soothingly cool water, rubbing some kind of salve unto his throbbing neck. The pain in his body was no longer a constant. Whenever he opened his eyes, he looked for the reassuring figure and the red hair, but soon sleep would take him again and the nightmares would resume.
Eventually, he woke to find everything had a sharper quality than before. As he opened his eyes, he realized he was in the Shrieking Shack, where a fire had been lit in the old fireplace, a pewter cauldron hanging over it. Various pots and utensils, and a wide assortment of plants, both fresh and dried, had been laid on the rickety table.
Suddenly he spotted her, the woman with the red hair, as she walked to him.
"Lily…" he rasped.
"A'm nae Lily", came a low female voice. "Ma name is Morag".
He saw deep, soft brown yes, and caramel-toned skin, surrounded by long copper curls. The woman looked young, in her mid-twenties perhaps; her features were delicate and dotted with golden freckles.
She brought a bowl to his lips. "Drink this". But as he tried to raise his head, he winced in pain.
"Still bad, is it? Let me take it frae ye."
She sat beside him and placed a hand on his collarbone, just below a thick dressing that covered his neck. She left her hand there for a few seconds, then lifted a thin, frayed, dirty grey thread from his skin. She pulled it gently and started to wound it into a ball as if it were yarn. As she unraveled more and more grey thread, his pain gradually decreased to a dull ache. He had never seen that kind of magic before and watched her, fascinated. After a while, the thread got thinner, Morag gave a sharp tug and it snapped free.
Getting up from the bed, she held the ball of pain as carefully as if she was handling fragile china, and tossed it in the fire, were it glowed a dull white for a few seconds, then vanished.
"Ye ken me name noo. Whit's yers?" she asked.
"Severus. Severus Snape."
She tilted her head and eyed him with curiosity but said nothing.
He wanted to ask more, to know how he came to be alive, and above all, whether Dumbledore's plan had succeeded. But exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Glossary of Scottish words and phrases
A'm – I'm
frae – from
ken – know
ma - my
naw – no
nae – not, no
noo – now
whit – what
wis – was
ye, yer, yers, yersel' – you, your, yours, youself