Archive of Our Own

The first time is a few weeks after the Potters are murdered by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

Severus hadn’t felt anything in the days following the tragedy except for an all-consuming grief that seeped into the marrow of his bones and ate away at them like acid. He’d broken down in Dumbledore’s office the night it happened, and a few times more in the privacy of his own rooms, but now his tears have run dry like a creekbed in a drought, leaving behind nothing but cracked clay and dust. All he feels is a uniform numbness.

He moves through the days mechanically, making appearances in the Great Hall for meals, showing up to teach his classes, but otherwise staying sealed away in his chambers. He doesn’t talk to anybody and no one talks to him. Just as well.

Severus doesn’t want to be there. He doesn’t enjoy teaching, nobody trusts him as far as they can throw him, and his colleagues don’t even pretend to like him. He doesn’t get invited to the staff outings to Hogsmeade, no one asks him to join their chess games or betting pools, he’s never offered a drink in after-hours get-togethers.

Why is he still around? Clearly no one wants him around.

The only person who ever did is dead, now.

Severus gathers a series of ingredients from his storeroom with stiff hands and sets up a cauldron one morning. He prepares the potion, stirring in each carefully measured quantity until it hisses in satisfaction, and he leaves it to simmer while he goes to teach class.

His classroom demeanor suggests nothing of his intentions for the potion brewing in just the next room. The last class is dismissed and the students file out of the classroom, grumbling about the research paper he has just assigned them.

He never intends to grade it. Let the next Potions Master take care of that.

Severus tidies up his desk for the last time and retreats to his lab. The potion has finished maturing by now, and he ladles a generous portion into a goblet, taking a moment to admire his work. It swirls darkly, a thick purple poison, and oh!--it smells sweet. He raises the goblet in a mock salute and brings it to his mouth.

He stops. Should he really do this? He’s young still, and they say the best years of his life are ahead of him yet. Should he give it a chance? The Dark Lord is dead--

--but so is Lily.

With no further hesitation, he parts his lips and allows the contents of the goblet to slide down his throat. Dizziness overtakes him and he is falling, falling, and the world goes black.

He opens his eyes to find himself standing in an open field, dotted with wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze.

Standing in front of him is Lily.

At first Severus is confused, but memories return with violent abruptness and he realizes that he’s dead. For once in his life, he’s succeeded at what he set out to do.

She stares at him silently, unmoving. Even the breeze doesn’t dare disturb the copper hair that falls over her shoulders, the loose strands that frame her face, the hem of the stark white gown draped around her body.

She is an angel.

All of the color in this world is concentrated in her eyes, verdant and brilliant in a way they never were in life. He searches their depths and finds only accusation.

“Lily…” he breaks the silence.

Still she says nothing.

“Lily, I’m sorry.” He takes a halting step forward and she matches his step backwards. “I’m sorry!” he repeats. She continues to back away. He reaches out a hand but the lines in this world have started blurring and all of the colors are running together and…

Severus chokes and his eyes fly open. He is on his back in his lab and something hard has been forced down his throat. A bezoar, he realizes with horror, and frantically tries to spit it out, but a hand is clamped over his mouth and someone his massaging his throat and he can’t fight his body’s reflex to swallow.

He is helped into a half-sitting position and accepts a glass of water with shaking hands.

The person shifts and Severus catches sight of garish lilac robes and he’s never resented Dumbledore more than in that moment.

He tries to be good, he really does. Dumbledore has been watching him like a hawk ever since that incident in the lab, and Severus doesn’t want that meddling fool to stick his nose any further into his life than he already has, so he gives him no cause for suspicion.

It only takes a few months, though, for everything to fall apart again.

Even though he hasn’t spoken to Lily in a good six years, it was enough to know that she was out there somewhere, living her life, happy (even if it was with James bloody Potter), and some part of him held out hope that they could reconcile one day.

But now that will never happen because she’s gone forever and Merlin, he misses her.

He wants to see her again, and he knows just how to make that happen.

In the dead of night Severus steals away to the top of the Astronomy Tower. He approaches the edge and leans over the low wall. The ground is miles away. He is not nervous.

This isn’t the first time he’s been up here seeking oblivion. He remembers standing in the same spot as an angry, frustrated teen, having just been told that there would be no consequences for the attempt on his life the Marauders had played off as a “prank.” It had been clear to him then just how much his life was worth, but he’d lost his nerve.

That won’t happen tonight.

The wind whips his cloak and he unclasps it, letting it pool on the stone floor. He hoists himself up on the parapet and balances for a moment on the edge. He inhales--the air is clean and sharp at this height--exhales. Keeps his eyes open. He will not die a coward.

Severus leans forward and lets gravity overtake him.

The fall seems to take forever, and the ground rushes up at him in slow motion. He is ready. He is ready. Why is it taking so long he is ready--!

And suddenly it’s only been an instant since he stepped off the top of the Tower and now he is on the ground, and there’s a terrible crunch of bones but he doesn’t feel any pain but his chest is tight and he can’t… breathe...

He stands in the open field once more, and Lily is before him, in that same white gown.

“Lily,” and he smiles hesitantly.

She doesn’t look as hostile as she did the last time he saw her, which is a vast improvement.

“You can’t be here,” she tells him, and his face falls.

“I’m here because I want to be!” he protests, and she sighs.

“I know.”

They stand there in silence for a long moment, an arm-length apart, with the breeze stirring the hems of their clothing.

“It’s time for you to go back.”

“No!” he shouts, a little desperately. “No, I want to stay here! I’m sorry...”

“It’s time for you to go back.”

Her edges dissolve and Lily blends into the bleeding colors of the landscape.

“We’ve got him back!” a voice declares somewhere above his head and another cries in relief, “Thank Merlin!” A steady beeping underpins the noises of the room and Severus groans at the realization that he’s in the Infirmary.

Nothing for it now. He opens his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey looms over him, and the moment she realizes he’s awake, her face contorts in anger, but is underscored by concern.

“Severus Snape! What were you thinking? No--” she holds up a hand to forestall any response, as if he could answer her anyway; he’s been immobilized. “Clearly you weren’t. Do you know that anyone could have found you? A student, maybe? You’re lucky that didn’t happen! As it is, it took us four hours to stabilize you!”

Severus’ eyes slide over to the other figures in the room, a group of Medi-wizards wearing the robes of St. Mungo’s, and back to Madam Pomfrey.

“--is worried sick. It’s a good thing we put those dampening wards around the Tower so that geniuses like you can’t swan dive into the afterlife--”

Severus winces. She huffs.

“Well, that’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it? Don’t bother being shy about it, not with me. But I’d better not see you back here for that same stupidity again, understood? Now,” her voice softens, “You need to get some rest. You broke a lot of bones in that fall so you’ll need some time to recover. Here.”

She hands him a paper cup filled with a milky looking liquid. He looks at her questioningly.

“Your dose of Skele-Gro. Drink up!”

He puts up a show of resistance but he knows she’ll win. It’s ironic; for a Potions Master, he really doesn’t like being on the receiving end of potions.

It’s Halloween and the students are celebrating--the holiday and the fall of the Dark Lord.

Severus sits at the head table in the Great Hall with all of the other professors. The Hall is decorated with floating pumpkins and warm candlelight. Students and staff alike are chattering cheerfully. The ghosts are putting on a performance. The house elves have really outdone themselves this time with the feast. And he can’t partake in the festivities at all.

Severus is mourning.

Tonight marks one year since his best friend was murdered at the hands of a madman thanks to information that he provided, and he hates himself for it.

Severus pushes his chair back from the table and stands abruptly, taking his leave of the Hall. He can’t stand the celebratory atmosphere a minute longer, not when he feels like imploding on himself.

(He doesn’t notice Dumbledore silently slip out behind him.)

He’s blessedly alone in his quarters. He remembers his first Halloween at Hogwarts, how he and Lily had carved pumpkins and told each other ghost stories with the other first-years over an obscene pile of candy.

Now, he’s a year older than she’ll ever be.

At least her death was painless. That’s what they say, anyway. He wonders how it would feel to get hit with Avada Kedavra.

He wants to find out.

You can’t cast an Unforgivable on yourself… not directly. That’s a law of magic. It just doesn’t work. But Severus is a clever man, and he thinks that if he casts it indirectly, he might succeed.

He stands in the middle of the room, in front of a large mirror, staring down his reflection, his own wand pointing back at him.

“Avada--”

It’s hard to say the words. He tries again.

“Avada Ked--”

He swallows. He’s done a lot of awful things, but he’s never used this curse before. He takes a deep breath, steels himself. Raises his wand, points it at his reflection.

There is a noise behind him, movement. In shock, he turns to see Dumbledore standing in his doorway, looking every inch the powerful wizard legend says he is. He must be, to have disabled his wards.

Severus is determined to get it right this time though, and he won’t let the old man deter him. He spins around, raising his wand at the mirror once again, and without hesitation shouts the incantation.

“Avada Kedavra!”

“Expelliarmus!”

The jet of red light hits him from behind and his wand hand jerks. The green light still bounces off the surface of the mirror and hurtles toward Severus (just as he predicted) but it’s gone off course, and when it makes contact it doesn’t hit him in the chest but grazes his neck instead.

He’s thrown back with the force of the spell and a black veil falls over his consciousness.

Severus is standing in the field of wildflowers. The sky is a clear blue and the air is heavy with the scent of grass.

His breath hitches. Lily is there. He isn’t sure what to say.

“Today was--was the one year anniversary of...”

“Yes.”

“The world is a lonelier place without you in it.”

She smiles.

“I’m sure the same could be said about you, Severus.”

He laughs, humorless.

“No. The world is… is better without me.”

She shakes her head.

“We can’t keep meeting like this. Go, live your life. Let the dead rest.”

“I’m dead, too!” he reminds her.

“Severus--”

“I’m sorry! For everything,” the words tumble out of him unbidden but he needs to make her understand. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but please just… believe that I’m sorry. I had to talk to you. I had to tell you myself.”

“I know. But you can’t stay here.” She remains maddeningly calm. “Do something for me, will you?”

“Anything!”

“Try to find happiness.”

“What? Lily, no, I… I’m dead, see? Lily!”

But she has already melted into the swirling landscape.

Severus wakes up staring at the canopy of his bed, and Dumbledore is waiting patiently by his bedside. He turns and buries his face in his pillow, thoroughly disgusted, but he’s not sure if at the Headmaster or at himself.

“Welcome back.”

“Sod off.”

“You didn’t really think that would work, did you, my boy?”

“If you’d just left me alone then perhaps.”

“Do you need me to fetch you a pain potion, Severus?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and for once it’s true. He’s in no discomfort save for a slight prickling where the Dark magic had brushed his skin. At least this misadventure had yielded some data for him: an Avada Kedavra (or at least a partial one) is confirmed painless. “Just… go.”

Dumbledore leaves, and Severus discovers that he can still cry after all.

It becomes a routine. Sometimes it’s because he misses her: he wants to see her and talk to her again. Sometimes it’s fueled by his regret: he wants to apologize, he wants to punish himself by looking into her face with the knowledge that he sent her to her grave.

She rarely speaks to him, merely staring at him with sadness in her eyes and offering tight smiles when he appears in her field.

God or Dumbledore (he’s not sure what the difference is these days) won’t allow him to stay with her though. That is his fate, his perdition. He supposes he deserves it.

He doesn’t cease his attempts entirely, but as the years drag on, the frequency decreases.

The day Harry Potter arrives at Hogwarts is the day Severus knows he’s done for.

He’s spent all summer psyching himself up for this, trying to get used to the idea that the son of James bloody Potter (and Lily…) will be his student. He thinks he’s got this, that he’s ready to face whatever Fate has in store for him.

The minute he locks eyes with the boy across the Great Hall, he realizes how very unprepared for this he is.

That evening, as he steadily polishes off a bottle of bourbon, he can’t get those eyes out of his mind. They’re so very much like Lily’s, it’s haunting. He doesn’t want the ghost of her haunting him for the next seven years in the form of her son.

The thought manifests as a physical pain somewhere behind his sternum. He can’t do this. It’s not fair, he’s not ready, he’ll never be ready.

It’s a cursed dagger this time, a Dark artifact he acquired during his service as a Death Eater. He seats himself at his desk and his hands do not shake when he brings it to his chest and slips the blade between his ribs. He is prepared for the pain but it still elicits a sharp gasp, and he falls forward, slumped over his desk.

“Severus, no.”

Lily stands before him in the field of wildflowers, and the breeze is strong this time. It whips her fiery hair around her face

Severus brings a hand to his chest but the fabric is not torn, his fingers come away clean. He looks up at her.

“Lily?”

“You made a promise, Severus. Is your word not good?”

“It is!”

“Then go back. Watch over him. Protect him. You know what’s coming.”

“But…” He drops his eyes and whispers, “He has your eyes.”

She smiles. “Then know that I’ll be watching.”

The colors blur.

The main disadvantage of a cursed dagger is that no matter how Dark the artifact, every curse has a countercurse. And no one can break curses like the great Albus Dumbledore.

It’s Halloween again.

Every October 31st is hard for him, but this one is particularly difficult. It’s the ten year anniversary of Lily’s demise. He has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that they were born the same year but he’s a full decade older than her now.

So much life that she’ll never experience.

And what has Severus done with his time? Wasted it in dusty dungeon classrooms on idiot students who couldn’t give less of a damn about the one subject that gives him any semblance of joy in this miserable life.

He ruminates on this bitterly as he stalks back to his quarters after the business with the troll. There are hazardous work environments, but this is ridiculous! He’s just a professor, he doesn’t get paid nearly enough even to teach those ungrateful brats, much less run around the school trying to make sure they don’t get clobbered by a troll.

Forget it. Let Quirrel do what he wants; he’ll never get past the tests guarding the Philosopher’s Stone anyway. Severus didn’t sign up for this nonsense.

He yanks open the door and heads straight for his storeroom, grabs the first poison on the shelf, and downs it in one go. As his vision begins to swim, he lowers himself onto the ground in the most dignified position he can manage before closing his eyes, and he waits.

He is not disappointed. He opens his eyes to find himself in that familiar field, with the increasingly familiar sight of Lily before him in all her glory.

She doesn’t look a day over twenty-one, the age when she was killed, and Severus suddenly feels very old himself. Lily doesn’t look pleased to see him. But does she ever?

“You gave me your word,” she says, harshly.

“My word?” he echoes, unsure.

“That you’d stay and keep him safe. So why are you here?”

“I--I wanted to see you again. It’s been ten years now. I just…” he trails off.

“This is flattering, but you have a job to do. You are not the only one who suffered a loss that night.”

“Harry. The Death Eaters.”

“Yes. There are dark forces at work as we speak. You must remain alert.”

The colors fade.

Severus is pleased to find himself still on the floor in his “dignified pose” and not in a hospital bed or somewhere equally distasteful. He is even more pleased to find that he remains alone in his quarters.

He sits up and finds he’s still clutching the empty vial. He holds it up to the light, examining the label, and makes a note to rid his stock of potions that have passed their expiration dates.

He discovers the mirror one lonely night as he’s making his rounds in search of students breaking curfew. It’s quite by accident, he doesn’t mean to gaze into it, but once he does, he can’t tear his eyes away.

He sees himself reflected--eyes less shadowed, fewer lines around his mouth--and she is standing by his side.

It’s the Mirror of Erised. He’s heard Dumbledore allude to it, and he is familiar with its nature, but at the sight of her by his side he still forgets how to breathe.

She seems so real, like he can reach over and feel the fabric of her cloak or grasp her hand, and he tries but meets nothing but air.

Severus chokes back a sob. This is Tantalus’ torture.

He spends hours there that night, his rounds forgotten, and he’s not even sure if she can hear him but he tells her everything that’s happened since she’s been gone, anyway. She doesn’t leave his side.

He comes back the next night, prepared.

Severus stands before the Mirror and in the reflection, Lily steps forward out of the shadows to stand beside him as she did the night previous. He sinks to his knees, trailing his fingers down the glass, wishing he could fall through the barrier and stand on the other side with her.

He reaches into his cloak and withdraws a silver dagger. This one isn’t cursed; it was a gift from Lucius, many moons ago. The handle has an ornately carved serpent with emeralds inset as eyes. Dramatic, in typical Malfoy fashion. It’s easily the most expensive thing Severus owns.

He slowly unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve and pushes it up his arm. He presses the tip of the blade into the crook of his elbow, then glances up at Lily in the mirror.

She shakes her head. He does it anyway.

“Lily! Oh god…”

She is still shaking her head, but now he can hear her when she speaks.

“That was foolish, Severus.”

“I had to,” he explains, an edge of despair to his voice. “I couldn’t bear…”

“That mirror is dangerous, do you know that?”

“How so?”

“Severus Snape, you are not that dense!” she snaps. “Or maybe you are, considering you just tried to kill yours--”

“Don’t!” he warns, then mutters, “I’m perfectly aware of what I just did. It’s… for the best.”

“If such an artifact can prompt you to do this, how do you think it’ll affect others?”

“That fool!” Severus hisses, eyes wide in comprehension. “You’re right. What is he thinking, keeping such a thing in this castle, with the students? I ought to…”

“Go back and give him a piece of your mind.”

Severus looks up sharply. “I want to stay here!”

“No. What if Harry should find this mirror? He’s just a child, Severus. Watch over him.”

He closes his eyes, knowing he’s already lost this argument because of course he’ll do as she requests.

When he opens his eyes, he’s once again in the abandoned classroom that houses the Mirror, and his robes are sticky with drying blood. His arm is grasped firmly in the wizened hands of the Headmaster, who presses the tip of his wand to his wrist and mutters string after string of healing spells.

He’s been having nightmares. Not of his Death Eater days, as he usually does, or the echoes of his childhood abuse, which creep into the corners of his mind now and again, but of the unhappy days of his youth spent at Hogwarts.

There is a mathematical theorem that states that a given system, after a finite amount of time, will return to a close approximation of its original state. The universe itself is one such system, and Severus fully believes that it has completed its cycle, because the past has come back to haunt him.

Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban and is rumored to be heading to Hogwarts, and he knows from experience that the man is capable of murder. Meanwhile, Black’s fellow Marauder, Remus Lupin, has been hired on staff as the DADA professor-of-the-year.

Severus is a nervous wreck.

All he needs now is to bring Pettigrew and Potter back from the dead, and then they can all have a nice little class reunion. Maybe the Marauders can have a go at Severus, four-on-one, all in good fun of course. Just like old times.

He turns fitfully in his bed but he can’t shake the feeling of dread that’s taken up residence in his stomach like a stone. It’s bad enough that he has to face the werewolf as a colleague, but forcing him to brew Wolfsbane every month? Dumbledore has always loved to add insult to injury, the sadistic bastard.

Of course, who else could brew it skillfully and discreetly? There really is only one man for the job.

This thought almost pacifies him--almost, until the day he hears about an interesting event in Lupin’s class on boggarts.

It starts in one of his Potions lessons. He’s lecturing, and the Gryffindors are snickering behind his back. He ignores them, until he picks out his name. He whirls around, silences them with a glare, and continues lecturing. A few minutes later, it starts up again, and he thinks he hears the words “Snape” and “grandmother’s clothing” in the same sentence. Everyone loses points.

Next class, he confiscates a crude drawing of himself in a dress with a fur stole and a hideous hat from a Hufflepuff. Detention.

The whispers follow him in the halls, becoming bolder as word spreads, and it’s not long until someone has the nerve to shout after him, “Wouldn’t your arse look cute in a tight skirt, Professor?” followed by a round of laughter.

Perhaps a window happens to shatter then, but of course Severus wouldn’t know anything about that, would he?

They don’t mean anything by it, he knows, it’s just the typical immature humor the students seem to favor, he tells himself, but he is humiliated. And livid. He graciously agreed to brew that damned potion for the wolf, and this is how he shows his thanks? By making a public mockery of him? Getting the students to join in?

It’s like the Marauders, round two.

Dumbledore didn’t do anything to help him then, and he won’t lift a finger now, not against his precious Gryffindor alum, so he doesn’t even voice his complaints to the old man.

But when he hears laughter in the halls, it’s the voice of Sirius Black that rings in his ears.

One night he is brewing Lupin’s potion, and some of the ingredients are very toxic so he must be careful, and it would be very unfortunate if some of them were to find their way into his nearby glass of wine and he were to take a sip, and…

“I won’t stand for it, Lily! They’re making a fool of me. Why would I expect him to have outgrown his childishness when… when…” he splutters in rage as he vents to the redhead standing placidly across from him.

“There’s no need to get so worked up, Severus,” she soothes.

In reply, he rips a flower from the ground and begins to shred it. After a moment, he speaks again, voice low and resolute.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Now Severus, Remus didn’t--”

“Not Lupin. Black.”

“Severus.”

“He betrayed you! He’s the reason you’re dead! Don’t you know that? No one was happier than me when he was sentenced to Azkaban, and now he’s on the loose! I won’t hesitate.” Severus meets her eyes. “He’s after your son. He’s after Harry. I promised to protect him Lily, and I will, I swear it.”

“Do you know what murder does to the soul?”

“Mine is thrice damned anyway, so what does it matter?” he spits bitterly.

“I know you’re angry, Severus, but please, try to exercise restraint. Gather all of the facts first. This is what I ask,” Lily implores.

Severus nods, reluctantly. He still can’t deny her anything.

She’s already been washed into the landscape.

When he rejoins the land of the living, he is greeted by a stern reprimand.

“You really must improve your safety protocol.”

“...Of course, Headmaster,” Severus agrees. “How careless of me to allow potions ingredients to contaminate my drink while working in the lab. A novice mistake, truly.”

“A mistake, you say?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Completely accidental,” he confirms.

“In that case, it’s a good thing I employ a Potions professor who brews such effective poison antidotes. Else you may have been in real trouble.”

Dumbledore offers him a hand and helps him off the ground and he brushes the dust from his coat. He turns to leave but stops when the old man speaks again.

“I have a difficult time believing that the foremost Potions Master in all of Britain would accidentally poison himself, when I know him to be so attentive that not even the most inept first-year would meet the same fate in one of his classes.”

Severus swallows hard.

“See that you are more careful in the future.”

He can’t stop shaking.

It’s dawn now and he didn’t get a wink of sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees those yellow eyes, so feral, so inhuman. He sees those razor-edged fangs, he sees the hulking, scarred body, he sees the claws like blades, he hears the growl of a predator…

...and Severus is the prey.

He kept his promise to Lily, he kept himself in check and didn’t kill Black the minute he saw him, he knows now that Black was framed (he’ll never believe him to be innocent), and Pettigrew got away, the rat.

He protected the children, even if the ungrateful whelps attacked him. He’s done his duty.

But he can’t erase the image of the transformed Lupin from his mind. It tracks him every moment, hunts his consciousness doggedly (like a wolf, like a wolf).

He can’t even face the man, and the real traitor is still out there, and Black is safe, avoiding consequences as usual.

He should still be in Azkaban, Severus’ opinion, not for a crime he didn’t commit, but for one he did--the attempted murder of a sixteen year old boy, passed off as a “prank.”

A sixteen year old boy made to suffer the silence of those who were supposed to protect him.

The gnashing of teeth, the scraping of claws, the growl of a predator, and Severus was the prey.

Again, he is asked to keep the secrets of those that pose a threat to the school.

Salivating jowls, pupils narrowed to slits, the growl of a predator, and Severus will be the prey…!

He surrenders.

He can’t bring himself to throw himself at the werewolf, fitting though it would be. It’s too risky, there’s a chance he would merely be bitten, and that’s a fate worse than death. So Severus presents himself to the Whomping Willow instead. It’s a symbol of the Shrieking Shack and all that went down there; it’s close enough. And judging by the state of Mr. Weasley’s battered Ford, he’s confident it’ll do a thorough job.

He stops before the tree, the air heavy with anticipation. He takes a step forward; the Willow stirs. He takes another step; it shifts, preparing to drive back the intruder. He takes one more step; a branch whips him in the shoulder. He stumbles, falls, and before he can regain his balance, another lands squarely on his back, forcing him to the ground. A final hit as a branch connects with his head and he dimly registers a sickening crack before all goes black.

“Thank Merlin, it worked.”

He exhales shakily, laughs, and there’s a thread of hysteria in the sound.

“Oh, no. What has happened to you?”

Lily’s voice is laden with sorrow, and Severus knows he must be a sorry sight but can’t find it in himself to care.

Instead, he tells her about his latest encounter with the werewolf, about the nightmares, about how the terror consumes him. He tells her how he can’t stop shaking, how he can’t sleep, how he can’t eat, and how once again Dumbledore has asked him to keep Lupin’s secret. He expresses his frustration with how the Headmaster puts lives at risk and in grave peril just to protect one man (beast) and he doesn’t care about the danger to others or collateral damage and at the end of his speech Severus doesn’t know if he’s advocating on behalf of the student body as a whole or just himself.

He tells her about how Sirius Black was framed but never innocent, not in Severus’ eyes--that the man is cursed never to face any consequences for his actions and he is under Dumbledore’s protection now... and Severus pays the price, he always does, he’s always left to pick up the pieces.

He tells her how he failed to avenge her death and Pettigrew got away.

He’s trembling and suddenly his legs won’t support him anymore and he falls to his knees, clutching the fabric of her white gown as if it is a lifeline, an anchor. He is wracked with soul-wrenching sobs. Not a living soul has seen him cry, but Lily isn’t a living soul, and so he doesn’t hold back. He cries for boys who never had a youth, for children who spend their lives in survival mode, for the ones betrayed by those sworn to protect them, for all the victims who are silenced.

Lily rests her hand on his head and lightly tangles her fingers in his hair.

“Oh, Sev,” she murmurs over and over. “They did you wrong, Sev.”

Eventually he’s cried himself dry, and he weakly pushes himself to his feet, swiping at the last tears on his cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” He looks away. “I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay.”

“I--I couldn’t stop Pettigrew. He got away. I failed you.”

“Sev, listen to me,” and she fixes him with a hard stare. “Peter Pettigrew is not your fault nor is he your responsibility. The blame rests solely on James and I for putting our trust in the wrong person. It was our mistake. There is no need for you to feel guilty.”

“But I want to hurt him! I want to…”

“Then avenge my death by protecting my son and working against the cause Pettigrew sold us out to. Work to bring down the Dark Lord. In the end, he is the one who bears the blame.”

“...I will do my best.”

“You always do, Sev.”

The last thing he sees is her smile before she’s whisked away.

He comes to consciousness and is greeted by a supernova of pain in his skull. He’s in a cot in the Infirmary, partitioned off from the rest of the ward, and sunlight is streaming through the windows. It’s too bright, and he groans in misery.

Immediately Madam Pomfrey is at his bedside, tilting his head back and pouring a cocktail of potions down his throat. He gags, forces himself to swallow, and the pain recedes.

“How are you feeling, Severus?”

Her voice is gentle, unlike the last time he was here. She must not know. Whatever she believes, he won’t correct her.

“‘M bet’r.”

“You’ve sustained multiple bruises and a nasty concussion. You’ll be pretty sore for a few days. It’s never pleasant to stray too close to that Whomping Willow! I know you like to wander the grounds collecting your potions ingredients, but do be more mindful of your surroundings next time.” She pats him on the shoulder and he winces. “Sorry dear. Get some rest.”

Before Severus slips into a twilight slumber, he realizes that Lily had referred to him by his childhood nickname, “Sev,” instead of his formal name. The thought warms him, and for the first time in months, he achieves a peaceful sleep.

All of his worst fears have become reality.

Voldemort has returned.

Severus knew there was something fishy about that Tournament, and when Potions ingredients went missing from his stock—not just the gillyweed that he’s still certain the blasted boy stole, but for Polyjuice as well.

All year the Mark has been growing stronger and so has his dread. When the Summons finally sears his arm, he knows the worst is yet to come.

Fear makes its home deep in Severus’ heart and his blood runs cold.

Perhaps he is as cowardly as Karkaroff, running away from his duty like this, but he doesn’t know if he can play the game a second time around.

He knows about the Room of Requirement and at the moment he requires privacy.

Inside, the air is chilled and an empty tub awaits him. The Room senses his will, it is reluctant, but Severus is not.

He takes his time peeling off his many layers, feeling distinctly exposed in nothing but his shorts, and settles into the tub. With a flick of his wand, it’s filled to the brim with enchanted ice.

The shock of the ice on his bare skin sends violent tremors through him. He tenses but makes no sound. The cold seeps under his skin, working its way into his muscles and bones. Severus trembles, and he imagines he can feel his tissues crystallizing.

His pulse is sluggish and he has long since gone numb and all he feels is sleepy, now. His eyes flutter closed.

“You’re back.”

Lily wears an expression of resignation, like she expected to see him here this time.

“H-He’s back,” Severus manages.

His breaths are shallow and panic threatens to overwhelm him. Her hands are on his shoulders, guiding him to the ground, she’s sitting beside him in the grass now, and he focuses on the intonation of her voice as she calmly instructs him to breathe in, breathe out.

The pastoral field of wildflowers exudes calm, and it is catching. He relaxes.

“You knew this day would come, Sev.”

“...I’m scared.”

He hasn’t admitted this to anyone, not even Dumbledore, and he hides his face behind curtains of long black hair in shame.

She brushes aside his hair, forces him to meet her gaze.

“You’re strong.”

Her words are earnest and he can tell she believes them, even if he feels so very weak.

“Harry is in grave danger,” Lily informs him, as if he didn’t know. “They need you now more than ever.”

She’s right, of course. She always is.

“Have courage, Sev.”

Tears prick the corners of his eyes but do not fall. The colors of the field are blurred by his watery vision.

He is frozen at his core but layered in warmth. Cracking open his eyes, he finds himself cocooned in wool and flannel blankets, reclining on a couch by a hearth. It radiates heat and he feels safe.

“Drink this.”

A glass of amber liquid is pressed into Severus’ hands and he looks questioningly into the face of Minerva McGonagall. She smiles wryly.

“Finely brewed Scottish potion.”

His nose crinkles as the scotch slides past his tongue but soon warmth is creeping through his veins and feeling has returned to his extremities.

He mutters his thanks, sits up.

Minerva levitates a tray of tea in front of him. It is piping hot and chases away the last vestiges of that bone-deep chill.

She eyes him critically.

“In these trying times, it is essential that we present a unified front against the forces of evil. That means sticking together, no matter how hopeless things seem.”

He squeezes his eyes shut against the judgement he fears he’ll find in her gaze.

Her tone softens. “We’re all afraid, Severus.”

Severus Snape, the spy once again.

He plays his part to the Dark Lord and does his job for the Order.

Spying is grueling, thankless work. It’s not even a profitable occupation, but he pays a heavy price to maintain the farce.

It takes his toll on his health. Sickly complexion, dull eyes, brittle hair. The stress keeps him on edge, making him nastier and more short-tempered than usual. Suddenly Moody doesn’t seem so paranoid after all—his motto, “Constant vigilance!” is solid advice.

It’s also terribly lonely work. Over the past several years, he’s managed to build a cordial relationship with some of his colleagues. He wouldn’t quite call them friends--he still lurks on the fringes, there are some rifts he can never bridge--but unlike his early days as a professor, he does get invited to staff outings in Hogsmeade or after-hours drinks in the lounge now.

But he knows he can’t confide in anyone, for both his own safety and theirs.

Not everyone trusts him, and he’s fine with that. After all, it would be foolish to trust a known spy. Only Dumbledore trusts him implicitly, and the level of trust the rest of the Order extends to him is stretched and thin, wavering between his past and the circumstances which force their reliance on him.

He makes his appearance at Black’s home, gives his report, and leaves.

It’s hard living a double life, and no amount of compartmentalization (no amount of alcohol) will make it any easier. He’s constantly practicing Occlumency, it’s the only way he can keep his sanity.

And it’s so utterly exhausting.

Severus doesn’t want to keep fighting, he doesn’t have the energy. He just wants to let it engulf him.

In the twilight space between evening and nightfall, he makes his way across the grounds toward the boathouse. He ducks into the entrance and takes the stairs down until he is standing beside the canal around which the boathouse is built.

He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves and slips beneath the still surface of the water.

Immediately, his cloak becomes waterlogged and the weighted fabric drags him downward. There is fire in his chest and heaviness in his limbs and he doesn’t have the strength to save himself even if he’d wanted to. As he plunges toward the lakebed, the faint light recedes.

Severus stares into Lily’s ever-youthful face. He’d give his best cauldron to be half as rested as she looks.

“I’m just so tired,” he tells her. “So very tired. I never know a moment’s peace.”

She is sympathetic to his troubles. They sit side by side in the grass and he talks while she twines wildflowers in his hair, like they used to do back when they were children, back before before war stole their innocence.

“I’m tired of the lies, the subterfuge. I…” His shoulders slump in defeat. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You’re invaluable,” she reminds him.

He knows there is no one else in the Order who has either the past or the skill set to make such a convincing spy. He knows he’s the only one who can fill that role.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she says.

He hangs his head and accepts his duty.

There is a great pressure on his chest. He feels his body convulse and then he’s retching, throwing up foul lake water, until his lungs reluctantly accept air once more.

A large hand tilts him into a sitting position and thumps his back a few times. He coughs painfully.

“Alright there?” Hagrid asks in concern.

Severus can’t speak, so he nods. He lets out an inarticulate yell a moment later as he’s hoisted over the half-giant’s shoulder. He kicks once in protest, but Hagrid is five times his size and the slim spy knows to pick his battles.

“Now calm down, ‘Fessor. I’m takin’ yeh back ter my place. Gonna get yeh all fixed up.”

Displeased, he resigns himself to the trip.

When they reach the hut, a fire is blazing in the hearth and he’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s soaking wet. He works off his boots and hangs his cloak to dry by the fire. Hagrid seats him at a rough-hewn table and places a bowl of homemade soup in front of him.

It smells delicious. He tentatively takes a spoonful.

“Was comin’ from the Forest and I saw ya headin’ to the boathouse,” Hagrid explains. “Now I be knowin’ yeh can’t swim, so I followed yeh, ter make sure yeh was okay, in case summat happened. Good thing too.”

“How…?” he rasps. His throat feels shredded from the harsh water and he soothes it with another bite of soup.

“All firs’ years come across the lake in those boats. You was jus’ a scrap of a boy then, ya were. Nearly went overboard ‘nd I had ta catch ya and you was so frightened ‘cause ya dinna’ know how ter swim. Told me so yerself.”

“You… remember?”

“‘Course I do,” Hagrid smiles warmly, then his expression sobers. “I ain’t gonna ask why yeh jumped inter that water tonight. Figure it ain’t none of my business, ‘less ya want ta tell me.”

He shakes his head tersely.

“Dinna’ think so. Thas’ okay. Jus’ wanted ter let ya know that if ya e’er want ter go inter the more dangerous parts of the Forest, lookin’ fer yah rare potions ingredients, me ‘nd Fang would be happy ta come with. There’s some nasty creatures out there, ‘nd I wouldna’ want ya ter get hurt is all.”

Severus knows the Forbidden Forest just as well as the Gamekeeper and is perfectly capable of defending himself against Dark creatures, but he appreciates the gesture all the same.

“Yer welcome ta stop by fer a spot of tea or some soup anytime, ‘Fessor. Hope yeh know that.”

Severus is only able to buy Dumbledore about a year, maybe less. It’s borrowed time.

He wants to hex the “wise” wizard for ever putting on that cursed ring. He can write a series of essays on all the reasons why that was a foolish action--in fact, he has outlined each reason in excruciating detail to Dumbledore’s face, repeatedly.

But no amount of ranting or raving or raging at the man will change the fact that he is dying.

Or that he has appointed Severus to be his executioner.

He will never forgive the old man for that.

They’ve just discussed the specifics of the plan--again--and he so very much does not want to do this. He will not. He cannot.

Severus slams his office door and leans back against the wall, dropping his head into his hands. Doesn’t the coot know what this will do to him? To murder his boss, his mentor, his keeper, the only person who trusts him, who knows who he really is?

It will turn everyone against him, it will leave him well and truly alone in the world.

There is an envelope on his desk, yet another invitation to dinner from Minerva, Filius, and Pomona. “Heads’ night out.” He tosses it into the fireplace with a sound of irritation.

It’s just a thinly veiled plea to get him to eat more. He’s grown lean in the past few months, and his absence at meals has not gone unnoticed. He’s not trying to be that way, it’s just that he hasn’t had a proper appetite since the night he contained the curse to Dumbledore’s hand.

The knowledge of what’s coming makes him sick, and he can’t share this terrible burden with anyone. They’ve noticed something is eating away at him, they’ve tried to get him to talk, and it’s all very touching....

But soon he’ll be the most reviled man in Britain, and they’ll regret ever offering him their concern.

With a shout of rage, Severus sweeps everything off his desk, thin lips twisting with grim satisfaction at the sound of breaking glass. A fistful of vials are smashed on the ground, and he doesn’t even care what potions they contained, but he crouches to recover the shards anyway.

His Occlumency shields fold like parchment against the maelstrom of emotions. He is furious, he is terrified, he is grateful, he is miserable. There is a broken vial in a shaking hand and he is drawing the sharp edge across his wrist, pressing down as hard as he can, willing everything to just stop, Merlin, stop!

It’s a slow process, but he finds that he did manage to hit something critical after all.

“Lily, you won’t believe what the old man has asked me to do.”

“What’s going on, Sev?”

“He wants me to kill him to gain the Dark Lord’s trust.”

His delivery of the statement is flat, with no emotion.

“Merlin! Why would he do that?”

Severus and Lily sit across from each other in the tall grass and he fiddles with the hem of his robes while he tells her about the curse and the ring and the Dark Lord’s plans. He sighs deeply.

“He asks too much of me this time.”

“It’s war. Sacrifices must be made. He knows this, and so do you.”

“But what of my soul?” he asks in despair. “I’ll never be whole again. It’s not enough that I risk my life; now, my very soul is the price he demands. And for what?”

“What is the alternative? That young Draco pay that price in your stead?”

He looks up sharply.

“Never! I will not allow that to happen. I’d tear my soul to shreds with my own two hands if it meant I could keep the soul of an innocent intact.” He glances sideways. “Draco can still be saved. It’s not too late for him. I was lost long ago.”

“Oh Sev.” Lily shakes her head sorrowfully. “A lost lamb, separated from the flock, is not condemned to exile forever.”

His brows furrow in confusion, but before he can make sense of her words, she is gone.

He opens his dark eyes to find blue ones staring back at him, lacking their customary twinkle.

“I need to know I can count on you, Severus.”

“You can,” he replies tonelessly, helplessly.

He stares down at his wrists--the slashes are healed, but his cuffs, usually a stark white, are stained a deep crimson, and the red smudges on his hands are an omen of what is to come.

After blasting the Headmaster off the Astronomy Tower (and oh how he wishes he could follow him over the edge), Severus flees.

Hogwarts isn’t safe for him anymore, and doesn’t know if he’ll ever return.

Despite a conflicted history, it was the closest thing he ever had to a home. He finds himself now in a place that is his house but was never his home.

Spinner’s End.

He enchants the place with wards that will blast an intruder six ways to Sunday. The adrenaline has long since worn off and now he is left alone with Dumbledore’s last words ricocheting around his head.

Severus please, Severus please…

“PLEASE!”

He doesn’t recognize his own voice. He begs for mercy.

“Please…”

He stumbles into the kitchen, yanks open a cabinet and pulls out a long-forgotten rope his mother used to dry laundry on. The plaster on the ceiling has fallen away in some places, exposing the rafters, and he stands on a rickety chair to fix the rope to the beam.

Long, slender fingers fumble the knot before securing it, and then they scrabble at the buttons on his collar before he pulls it loose.

The chair is easily kicked over and his body reacts to the sudden tension, clawing vainly at the air, a strangled cry, a tunnel of darkness closing in…

She greets him in the field as always.

“Lily!” his voice cracks and he steadies himself on her shoulders. “I did it. I can’t believe I did it. I’ve… I’ve killed…”

“Shh, Sev.” She rubs his shoulder gently. “You did what you had to. It’s okay.”

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, sobbing faintly, too overwhelmed with the reality of what he’s done to properly express his grief.

Another hand lands on his shoulder, and he whips around to find himself staring into the face of the very man he murdered just hours earlier. The last time Severus saw those eyes, they were empty and devoid of life. Now they glitter with an intensely youthful energy.

“Severus, my boy, I knew you’d come through! Congratulations on a job well done.”

He stares at Dumbledore blankly before launching himself at him, fists flying, ready to throw down Cokeworth style--but Lily holds him back.

“You--you--heartless bastard. Motherless son of a… you complete and utter… do you know what you’ve done to me? Motherfucking… You disgust me, you do!”

He points one spindly finger at the old Headmaster as he stammers inarticulately, his usual eloquence having deserted him in his fury. To his consternation, Dumbledore merely smiles benignly.

“We are all pawns in the chess game of war. My death was a strategic move, one that has given our side a hidden advantage--you, like a snake in the grass, unseen and ready to strike. The battle may be over, but the war is not yet won, Severus.”

He sags in acquiescence, and Lily releases her grip on him. He stands before his old mentor, regarding him with fathomless eyes. Dumbledore calmly returns his gaze. Silent understanding passes between them.

“Stay strong, my boy.”

“If anyone can do this, it’s you, Sev,” a gentle voice from behind him says.

He closes his eyes as the colors begin to run.

He lands hard on the rough wooden floor. The tendril of rope wrapped around his neck falls away--it snapped. Of course it bloody snapped.

He coughs hoarsely, rubbing at the tender flesh of his throat that’s already darkening in a nasty bruise. He silently thanks Merlin that he favors high collared clothing, otherwise he’d have an embarrassing, difficult to explain situation on his hands.

Not that the Death Eaters would be particularly curious in the first place. They don’t care about things like that.

Severus is keenly aware of his solitude in this house. He’s woken up alone after his “visits” to Lily before, but always had the option of seeking someone’s company if he so desired. He remembers Poppy’s fretting, the scotch Minerva gave him that one time, Hagrid’s offer to accompany him into the Forest as he gathered potion ingredients, a standing invitation to tea...

All of the times Dumbledore pulled him back to this side of existence, and that final time--he can still see the blood on his hands from the broken vial.

He knows that even the most caustic potion can’t scrub them clean again.

Severus never expected to return to Hogwarts, least of all as Headmaster.

The school has become a prison now--military formation, oppressive atmosphere, a far cry from the carefree jubilance of days now past. This isn’t entirely in his control; it is a necessary evil.

He resolutely ignores the resentment in Minerva’s eyes on the day he’s confirmed to the post. He pretends that the hostility from the staff--his former colleagues--doesn’t bother him.

The Dark Lord has made a miscalculation by installing him as Headmaster, he thinks derisively, because now he can work against the “revised” Death Eater-approved curriculum. Now he can safeguard the students from within (not that they’ll ever know).

It’s easy to undermine those buffoons, the Carrows, and they’re so daft that they’re none the wiser. He wonders if any of the students catch on to what he’s doing when he sends them to serve their detentions with Hagrid instead. He can’t save everyone, not all the time, but damn if he isn’t doing his best.

Still, he’s rarely seen outside the Headmaster’s tower. He takes his meals privately and rarely holds audience with staff, never with students. He used to stalk the halls of Hogwarts with the air of someone who belongs there; now, he paces his office like a caged animal.

It’s a tenuous, fragile existence. He does what he can but it’s not enough, it’s never enough, and sometimes he catches himself praying for the end.

He does what he’s asked though, when Dumbledore’s portrait commands him to deliver the Sword of Gryffindor to the trio. He stays long enough to ensure Harry retrieves it, then disapparates.

There is a sense of finality to it. Now they have the means to destroy the horcruxes, and there’s nothing more for him to do. It’s out of his hands.

It is evening. The students and staff are eating dinner in the Great Hall and there’s no one here to stop him. No one left to stop him.

He presses the tip of his wand to his neck.

“Sectumsempra.”

For a moment, he feels nothing. Then, the entire room shifts on its axis and he faintly registers shouts of alarm from the portraits of Headmasters long dead. Flickering consciousness and a dim question: will his portrait join them? Is he worthy? He doesn’t think so.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he opens his eyes to that lovely field.

“Who knew that you could get promoted by killing your boss?” Lily teases. Severus flinches, she frowns. “Sorry Sev, it was just a joke.”

“I know.” They’re quiet for a moment. “Who knew that an odd, creepy little Slytherin like me would end up Headmaster of Hogwarts?”

“You’re not that creepy,” she smiles. “Only a little.”

“Thanks,” he returns flatly, but amusement tugs at the corner of his lips too.

The sunlight plays softly across Lily’s features, and everything is calm and peaceful in this field. He doesn’t want to go back to the chaos that is currently Hogwarts.

“You can’t stay here, dear Severus.”

He turns to see Dumbledore in flowing blue robes that shimmer ethereally.

“If you wanted a chat, you didn’t have to do this, my boy! My portrait is right behind your desk.”

“I never wanted this!” he returns bitterly. “I was content with being a Potions Master. I never desired to be Headmaster!”

“Nevertheless, the castle recognizes you as a legitimate Headmaster. You have a duty to the school.”

“I have lied, spied, and died for this cause. Will it ever be enough for you?”

“You have successfully played your role, but they still need you,” Dumbledore admonishes.

Lily guides his attention back to her. She squeezes his shoulder and fixes him with an intense stare.

“Protect him, Severus. Protect them all.”

He knows he must.

“...nera Sanentur. I don’t see why we’re doing this, Pomona. For him? Ought to just let him bleed out--”

“Poppy! No matter how Seve--Snape… betrayed us, if we let him die, we’ll be no better than he is. A life is a life. You swore an oath, you should know this.”

“Vulnera Sanentur. You know, it’s ironic. He’s the one who taught me the healing spell I’m using right now. Did you bring the dittany?”

“Right here. And besides, no fewer than three portraits requested immediate medical aid to the Headmaster’s office. You can’t exactly deny them that.”

“Vulnera Sanentur. I didn’t see Dumbledore among them.”

“He looks like he’s asleep.”

“I think the traitor will live.”

“Let’s go.”

He waits for a long time after they’ve gone before hauling himself off the floor. Dumbledore’s portrait opens his eyes, having only been pretending to sleep throughout their exchange.

“Welcome back, Headmaster Snape.”

Severus does not dignify that with a response.

Severus doesn’t correct Voldemort when he assumes that Severus is the master of the Elder Wand. Perhaps he was the one to kill Dumbledore that night, but Draco disarmed him, and the wand’s loyalty is to the younger Malfoy.

He keeps his mouth shut, protecting the students until the very end, though no one will ever know.

He thinks back on his duel against Minerva and Filius mere hours ago with a pang of regret.

“You’ll do no more murder at Hogwarts,” Filius had said.

Neither had noticed he’d only used defensive spells, blocking their attacks, refusing to hurt them. Neither had noticed all he had done to contain the Carrows. Damn it, neither had noticed how things could have been so much worse under Death Eater rule, if not for his interference!

He Occludes against the realization that his colleagues, people he had considered something close to friends, were so quick to dismiss him, automatically assuming the worst of his intentions and sparing no critical thought or analysis of his actions.

Did he really mean so little to them? Did they only ever see him as some pantomime villain?

It doesn’t matter. The hissed words fill his heart with dread, and he doesn’t need to speak Parseltongue to understand the command.

“Nagini, kill.”

The force knocks him back and he is pinned against the wall as the blasted snake strikes him again and again. He feels fangs pierce skin, rip flesh, tearing into him and then… it’s over.

Voldemort is gone, assured of Severus’ demise, and he is left to bleed out on the floor in peace.

He almost chokes on the irony of it all. The Head of Slytherin House, felled by a snake. To die in the Shrieking Shack after all, twenty-two years after Sirius Black attempted to murder him in this very room.

He does choke on the blood flowing from his torn throat. Nagini’s venom courses through his veins, and he imagines he can feel the tissues breaking down. It’s painful. There’s nothing to do but wait.

Time loses meaning. It may have been hours, it may have been seconds, but suddenly there is a face in his field of view, wavering in and out of focus. His mind struggles to place a name. Familiar green eyes… framed by those glasses, so wrong… oh. It’s Harry Potter.

A hand is pressed against his neck in a vain attempt to staunch the steady stream of blood that continues to flow down from his neck, pooling in his collarbone, soaking his cloak, staining everything…

It’s Harry. All is not lost. He can tell him what he needs to know to defeat Voldemort…!

But there’s not enough time to convey the necessary information with words. Already he can feel himself slipping.

A tear streaks down Severus’ cheek before he can stop it. He can feel the magic in it, the essence of memories, and he realizes this is how he can communicate with the boy. He is weak and unfocused, and his attempts to imbue the tears with the necessary memories are imprecise. He knows that personal memories have slipped in, but there’s no time to worry about that now.

Another tear joins the first.

“Take... them. Take… them!” he gasps, gesturing to the tears. Someone is fumbling in a bag and he registers the clinking of glass. He doesn’t realize how feverish he is until the cool vial touches his skin, and he sighs at the sensation.

His mind feels sluggish and his pulse is unnaturally rapid, shallow, thready…

He doesn’t want to die, not like this, not alone. A bloodstained hand darts out, catches the boy. He musters the energy for one last plea--not for absolution, but for understanding. Recognition.

“Look… at… me…”

Harry complies, to the surprise of both of them. The boy has no reason to grant his treacherous professor’s last wish, no reason not to abandon him to the lonely end he’s earned, but he stays by his side.

In that moment Severus does not see James, only Lily.

He wakes up to find himself staring up at a boundless blue sky through the branches of a tree. He is half propped up, his back against something hard. He remembers being in the same position somewhere recently--rough wooden floor, dirty windows. But this place is different.

He stands up and nearly falls down again when he realizes where he’s at.

It’s Cokeworth.

But it’s not the Cokeworth he remembers--the filthy buildings, the cramped, broken streets, the polluted river. This Cokeworth is clean and bright. All of the grime has been scrubbed off the bricks, and the air does not hang low in a sickly haze. Everything gleams white.

Movement catches his eye and he spins around. Emerging from behind the tree is Lily.

Hair like burnished copper, gown white and pure as her namesake, and those green eyes full of… acceptance.

His chest constricts.

“Lily…”

“Severus.”

They stand in silence, just looking at each other, for a moment.

“Did I…?”

“You didn’t make it.”

“So I’m…”

“Dead.”

He closes his eyes and breathes a silent prayer of gratitude to a god he doesn’t believe in. He doesn’t notice the quiet tears streaming down his face until her hand brushes them away.

A thought occurs to him.

“Where’s Dumbledore?”

“He had another appointment to keep.”

“I see.” He can guess at who the old man has gone to visit. He turns away, filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, Lily. I couldn’t keep him safe. I tried, but the plan was always for him to die. I didn’t know. If I’d known…”

“Sev.”

“I did everything I could. I know it wasn’t enough, but…”

“Sev.”

“And I don’t expect you to forgive me. I am… irredeemable. If this is the afterlife, then I have already received more than I deserve, just being able to speak with you, because people like me do not go to the same place as people like you, and…”

“Sev.”

He stops rambling, finally looking up, and is astonished to find Lily smiling at him. He cannot fathom why. She takes his hand.

“You did so well, Sev. I am so proud of you. Come with me.”

“I… I can stay?”

“Yes. You can stay.”

“With you?”

“With me.”

“But I… my sins, I…”

“You are forgiven, by all. Dumbledore, Harry… even me. I forgave you a long time ago, Severus. The only one who hasn’t forgiven you... is you. But we have all of eternity to work on that.”

Her laugh is musical, and everything in this place is beautiful. He hesitantly returns her smile.

“It’s over,” she says, “You can rest now.”

And it’s like her words break some perennial curse.

For the first time, Severus knows peace.