And In the End

Very Rare Pre-Chapter AN: Grab tissues...

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Chapter 15 – And In the End

September 1991

Snape had managed to avoid Quirrell for most of the summer, but tonight, of all nights, the turban-headed professor had taken the seat directly next to him. His left arm tingled and burned, as if he had slept on it awkwardly all night, being so close to the presence of his former Master.

The stuttering fool wanted to talk, on and on, about absolutely nothing. The quality of the wine, the adorable shining faces of the first years... An off-hand comment about the bushiness of one little girl's hair in particular nearly caused Snape to quit the table.

It was the first time he had looked upon her face in eleven years, and seeing her there, oversized front teeth worrying her lip in nervousness, not yet grown to her adult height, completely oblivious to his presence, was startling. As the Sorting Hat called her name, she raced to the stool, nearly ripping off the brim of the hat with the force with which she brought it down over her head. He mouthed "Gryffindor" along with the hat as he reached for his water goblet, almost knocking it over with shaking hands.

"Are you qu-qu-quite well, S-s-severus? You do not s-s-seem to be enjoying the S-s-sorting."

"Sod off, Quirrell."

Yelling at Quirrell felt good. It was the closest he ever got to staring the Dark Lord in the face and telling him off.

As Harry Potter walked up to the stool, looking more terrified than all the other children put together, a flash of dream raced through his brain. But this bespectacled James, with those eyes staring up at him... It was distressing in its own way.

Though he was sitting in his seat, his life lurching ahead with yet another tug, the room around him carried on as it did every year: the children took their seats, Dumbledore muttered some nonsense, and the first years' collective gasp rushed through the room at the appearance of their feast. Harry Potter sat at the Gryffindor table, finally looking happy. To his right was the Longbottoms' boy and another dark-haired child whose name he would have to learn. Across from him, the only Weasley child he honestly could not stand: Percy.

And to Harry's left... Hermione. He could not take his eyes off her... Seeing her again brought every emotion he had tried to leave behind back to the forefront of his mind, and he pushed them away, fearing that somehow the ghost of the Dark Lord sitting next to him would know.

The Dark Lord, however, instead of somehow Legilimizing him through Quirrell, seemed fixated on Potter, if Quirrell's intense stare were any indication. In the next instant, Potter grabbed at his forehead, a look of pain shooting across his face. Quickly, Snape turned to Quirrell, trying to stop the situation.

"Quit hoarding all the potatoes, Quirenius!"

For an instant, as Quirrell's eyes locked with his, he saw the eyes of the Dark Lord glaring back at him. Then Quirrell blinked, and he seemed bewildered.

"I'm s-s-sorry, S-s-s-everus?"

"Potatoes!"

Quirrell passed them along, looking confused as to why he was being yelled at.

Snape sighed and kept himself from looking at Hermione. He could feel the Potter boy's gaze fixed upon him, and he ignored the boy. Potter probably thought him a monster already. And judging from his journals, his first Potions class would seal in that reputation for a very long time.

It was the first of many times Snape would intervene to keep Potter from harm.

~~&&~~

June 24, 1995

He stayed just long enough to get Pomfrey to their newly discovered Mad-Eye Moody. As he strode out of the castle, he forced himself to clear his mind. It had been years since he had had to play this game, to stare the Devil in the face and not flinch, and now that he was older, he hoped he had the strength for the years to come.

Pressing an index and middle finger to his Mark, he winked out of existence.

He was greeted by utter chaos. Death Eaters unmasked, screaming at each other. The Dark Lord watching over it all serenely, waiting for his followers to calm themselves, giving them far more consideration after all these years than Severus had ever thought the Dark Lord capable of. Taking a deep breath, he walked through the melee, eyes locked with his Lord's.

"Nice of you to bother showing up, Snape." A voice whipped through the crowd. Snape did not flinch, ignoring the challenge, and knelt before the Dark Lord, newly reformed.

"Severus, did you take care of loose ends as we planned?" The Dark Lord's form was hideous; only a shadow of his former handsomeness remained. His eyes burned red, his nose two slits, his skin paler than death.

"Yes, my Lord. Dumbledore believes Crouch to be the only perpetrator. As we speak, a Dementor is en route to Hogwarts to dispose of Crouch's soul. Dumbledore will be livid, but knowledge of our plans will die with Crouch." Yes, plans that he and the Dark Lord had invented prior to that fateful October, his Master completely unaware of just how greatly he was being fooled.

Lucius Malfoy slipped to the front of the crowd, kneeling before the Dark Lord. "My Lord, am I to understand that your return has been orchestrated by Snape? Snape, who did not even come tonight when you called us?"

Snape was always surprised by how quickly a person's body could fall to the ground as a result of the Cruciatus Curse. Malfoy, in all his pureblood glory, was no exception.

"I have already spoken of my disappointment with you, Lucius. Do not make me remind you."

With a flick of his wrist, the punishment ended. Lucius struggled to stand, his normally icy glare looking merely sullen in his pain.

The Dark Lord stood from the tombstone he had been sitting upon and cast a quick Muting Spell on his gathered followers. The Death Eaters' complaints and conversations stopped mid-sentence. They turned to face their Master, some with guilt, others with rage.

The Dark Lord looked from follow to follower, and as he did, they sank to their knees. He looked last at Severus, already kneeling, and instead, extended his arm towards him, his pale-white hands beckoning Severus to his side.

"My... faithful followers. I have returned, as Severus so long ago had forseen. Tonight, he has proven himself more valuable to me than any of you. I am never to hear one of you question him again, is that clear?"

Even without voices, the shock at this pronouncement could be heard from the rustling of robes to the stomping feet.

The Dark Lord gave them all one withering stare before waving his hand, Disapparating them all back to whence they came.

Severus barely kept himself from sucking in his breath. The Dark Lord had become far more powerful than he had in his previous body. Even with this ringing endorsement, he would have to walk a far narrower line than before.

The Dark Lord held out his arm to Severus in the position most often used for Side-Along Apparition. "Severus, come with me. We have much to discuss."

In a whirl of disorientation, Severus found him in his very own sitting room. The Dark Lord had never seen fit to come to his home. Severus was relieved that his journals had forewarned him of this. He had hidden some of the more obviously Muggle devices, though the radio and turntable cabinet he kept out of defiance, planning to explain it away as a novelty wet bar if need be.

Severus struggled to remain calm, knowing he was forever to return to his scripted life. The ensuing years since the Dark Lord's first downfall had been fairly miserable, but nothing, not even his journals, could have prepared him for the anxiety coursing through his body.

He realized he had lost himself in thought when the Dark Lord cleared his throat. Severus quickly offered his Master a seat before using the ritual of making tea as a distraction while he waited for his Master's interrogation.

The ticking of his watch drove him to distraction. He wondered if the Dark Lord was purposely setting him on edge or just failed to realize that most of his "friends" saw it as certain death to speak first in a conversation.

"Severus..."

Oh, thank God!

"... how have you been?"

In hindsight, Severus kicked himself for dropping that spoon. The noise was deafening in the quiet home. But how was he to have expected such a... nonchalant question from the Dark Lord?

He swallowed thickly before responding.

"Continuing your work, my Master. I have remained at Hogwarts as we planned..."

His master's raised hand cut him off.

"No, Severus, how have you been?"

Severus really wished his future self had warned him this question was coming. It was the kind of question he would prefer to have had a canned answer for.

"Oh... well... fine, I suppose. Doing my own research, fixing up my house in the summers..."

The Dark Lord snorted, his opinion of the "fixing up" abundantly clear.

"And seeing your juvenile Mudblood at school? That must have been... interesting? Especially given the circumstances under which you last saw her?"

At heart, the Dark Lord really was a nosey parker. Severus grasped at anything that would not give away his sentiments.

"The Mudblood is an insufferable know-it-all. The absolute dross put forth by her other Gryffindor classmates barely mitigates her own behavior." Severus used the opportunity to bring the tea things to the table.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "You always had a soft spot for Gryffindors..."

This was getting far too personal, far too quickly. This conversation was very different from the kneeling and scraping required of him in the old days. Severus' new position of authority, while less painful, was far more uncomfortable.

"I believe you're confusing a soft spot with my younger self's need to get laid." His eyebrows came together in the scowl that most terrified his first-years, hoping it would have the resulting effect...

"No need to get crass, Severus," the Dark Lord snapped. "Obviously, I value you far more than ever, now that I have returned. How is my... Horcrux?"

"Safely residing in Harry Potter, my Lord."

"And does anyone suspect?"

"Dumbledore may... but he finds suspicion in everything, so chalk it up to one more conspiracy theory rattling around in his old head."

This seemed to please his Master. "And the next step of the plan?"

"The Department of Mysteries, my Lord. My journals indicate it is time to test Lucius Malfoy's loyalty..."

The Dark Lord's face remained passive, but his eyes gleamed. Snape knew this was the final step in completely earning the Dark Lord's trust. After Lucius' behavior tonight, Snape knew that the Dark Lord was looking for any excuse to publicly humiliate Malfoy. And Snape had just the tools needed to ensure that end.

~~&&~~

June 1996

"A werewolf? A half-breed. Lucius let a monster distract him away from the one assignment I have given him all year? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk."

As amused as Severus was to have been able to set up Lucius so brilliantly, he winced with every click of the Dark Lord's tongue.

"And to then be arrested... I was led to believe I could trust the Malfoy family to serve me. Please, explain to me how this was possible?"

Narcissa Malfoy's gaze never left the tiled floor in front of her. The Death Eaters surrounded her in a semi-circle, their Master's idea of further intimidation. From the set of their jaws, the Dark Lord's followers felt nothing more than sympathy for her.

Narcissa's eyes were nearly swollen shut from weeping. As much as she tried to hold herself steady, Severus could see that her legs were shaking. After interminable seconds, she opened her mouth to respond.

"Crucio!"

An explosion of red light blinded Severus. Narcissa's cry of pain was so strong that everyone in attendance, save the Dark Lord, flinched. As the spell lifted, Narcissa's slight frame quaked and shook on the floor, and everyone knew from experience that she was holding back sobs.

"You will bring your son before me tomorrow evening, Narcissa Malfoy," the Dark Lord hissed. "I have a very special assignment for him. Maybe he can bring some honor back to your family."

~~&&~~

March 23, 1998

Severus paced through Dumbledore's...his...office. This was the night he had been dreading: the night Hermione would be tortured by Bellatrix. All had to go according to plan...he knew this...yet the soon-to-be worn carpet in his office showed how much energy he had expelled not Apparating to Malfoy Manor.

After weeks of absence, Headmaster Black appeared in his portrait.

"Did they get out, Phineas?" Snape breath hitched. In spite of knowing exactly what would happen that night, he still found himself doubting.

"Why hello, Severus, and how are we tonight?" As always, the portrait seemed annoyed that the proper pleasantries had not been exchanged.

"About to pour turpentine on you if you do not answer my question, Black!"

"Potter and Weasley are fine. Miss Granger will need some healing but is otherwise stable. Surprisingly, there was only one casualty."

Severus started. His journals had said nothing of a casualty. Had Potter managed to take down a Death Eater during his escape?

"Who?"

"Dobby, the house-elf."

He felt his eyes well up uncontrollably. Of all the pure souls to lose in this war... Dobby had been close to his heart. Ever since that blasted night so long ago when he had heard that cursed prophecy, Dobby had cared for him whenever possible, healing him after nights of being tortured, feeding him when he would forget to take care of himself. Keeping watch over Harry and Hermione when he could not...

"Calm down, Severus. He was just an eccentric little house-elf."

Black's pureblood sentiments drove him over the edge. A glass of water from his desk somehow found his way into his hand before smashing against the former Headmaster's portrait.

"Leave me, now!" he bellowed.

Before he could see if the portrait acquiesced, he swept from the room, the back of his hands brushing the tears from his eyes. Ripping the now-tattered spiral-bound journal and Biros from a well-warded drawer in his bedroom, he poured out his grief to the only person who would ever know his heartache.

~~&&~~

May 2, 1998

Snape was terrified. For nearly two decades, he had lived his life according to a script, cobbled together from his diaries and the materials he had stolen from the future. And now, the last night, he went in knowing the result but few of the details. The Dark Lord would accuse him of being the Elder Wand's master, Nagini had to kill him, he had to give Potter his memories. How they got from the former to the latter, no one had ever written down, been able to write down. The problems of a one-on-one audience with a psychopath.

Everything had to go to plan...he had to die, but what if he did not say the right things? What if he responded in the wrong way and, for some reason, did not actually die?

The stress he was feeling from lack of control was almost worse than knowing that today was his last day. At least this would finally all be over.

And yet, without notes, he felt as if all he could do was fail.

From the battle, he was summoned to the Shrieking Shack. Of course it would be here. The Fates had to be given their due. He had cheated death twice here, once as a boy, the other only a few years prior. At least this time, no werewolf would add to the terror of his last hours. He would die here. He wondered: if he had died in his youth, would that have solved all manner of problems?

He stood before his Master, who was rambling on about how he was no longer necessary. Try as he might to be brave, Snape found himself begging to leave, to go find Potter, to get away from the Shack. The fear the room already inspired in him was multiplied a hundredfold. The walls felt as if they were closing in, the air so heavy he felt he could barely breathe.

He desperately fought to remain composed, knowing that Potter, Weasley, and, especially, Hermione were watching at some point during this conversation. He felt like the world's worst craven, wondering if the rumors of his cowardice were finally going to be proven true. Keeping his voice steady, in spite of the words, the pathetic begging words, was nearly impossible.

Then the subject changed, as he knew it would. His eyes flicked to where Nagini was being held in her protective sphere. The end was coming fast.

"Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?"

Because you are not the wand's master, you idiot.

"I – I have no explanation, my Lord."

At the end of it all, it came down to that bloody wand. He should have broken it when he had the chance, snuck into the tomb before Voldemort had the chance and incinerated the bloody twig.

I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.

Severus felt the blood rush from his face. The last thing that needed to happen in these final moments was for Voldemort to realize that Snape was a member of the Order, that he was the one orchestrating everything tonight. He poured what little of his resolve he had left into his Occlumency shields, on the off chance that his Lord was picking up on any of his thoughts.

The conversation felt as if it would never end. Severus knew his time had come, and like with everything else, the Dark Lord was dragging out the conversation for dramatic value. And they didn't even have an audience to impress.

"The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot be truly mine."

Well, the Dark Lord was half right. He did kill Dumbledore. Yet Severus knew he never could have been the master of that wand. As strong as he was, he liked to think that he was not quite evil enough to be the master of the Death Stick.

Here it goes. The big finale.

"My Lord!" he responded. He raised his wand for good measure, hoping the flick alone would be enough for the Dark Lord to sic his snake on him. It was not. The madman continued his pontificating.

"It cannot be any other way," said Voldemort. "I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last."

He watched as the Dark Lo...Voldemort, for he would not go to death calling him anything but his chosen name...slashed Dumbledore's wand through the air. Bracing himself for the end, he could not help the look of relief that passed over his face. And then the hiss that spoke his doom.

As the snake lunged towards him, a beam of light caught Nagini's fangs, making them appear more horrifying than he thought possible. He did not feel the teeth that plunged through his neck at first, as the shock was too great. And then the most horrifying pain of his life, burning like fire, as his body finally felt the tearing of flesh, the poison seeping into his veins. The anti-venin he had taken was strong enough to keep him alive for a few hours, but not strong enough to ultimately allow him to live. Uncontrollably, his hands came to his throat, trying to stop the blood, to gain more time, to keep from dying before the three saviors of the wizarding world could find him.

The whisper of Voldemort's robes as he swept from the room. The sound of footsteps as Potter and Weasley approached, Hermione behind them.

As Harry bent over him, Snape panicked, not knowing how he was to give his memories...some real, some enhanced so the boy would believe the tale that Dumbledore had demanded of him in return for asylum...to the boy.

With what little strength he had left, Snape seized the front of his robes and pulled him close.

"Take... it... Take... it..."

With the last slivers of magic left in his rapidly fading body, he pushed every important memory to the forefront of his mind, focusing on his temples. He hoped his magical body would understand. He felt the memories course from every orifice in his head, save his nose.

A flash of light caught his eye...light bending off a conjured flask.

Hermione.

He watched as Potter siphoned his memories into the flask, his body blocking any view, save Potter's eyes, full of tears, behind those horrible black glasses.

He had one chance to see Hermione before he died. His body was useless...the last of his strength leaving with his memories. And yet he still tried.

"Look... at... me...," he managed to whisper.

Potter's face came closer, completely obscuring his view of anything else. Giving up, he drew within, completely prepared to die. His hand lost all of its strength and fell to the floor, the thudding sound deafening in the empty room.

The sounds of Voldemort's voice invaded what little of his self was left, the high, cold voice speaking horrible things to the boy. The Trio must have thought him dead, as they talked quietly to each other without giving him any further consideration. As they made to leave, Hermione glanced at him one last time.

The last thing he saw before the darkness overtook him was her face.

The Trio left, crawling back through the tunnel, where he should have died as a boy, leaving him to die a broken man. A sharp, stabbing pain ripped through his face, and his nose began gushing blood, like all those years ago. He began to feel cold, in spite of the warm spring air surrounding him in the stifling old house, and he knew it was time.

And then he knew nothing.

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All bolded material is taken directly from my copy of Deathly Hallows.

My betas are awesome. They know who they are.