Author notes: This story has religious themes, I am not a religious person, nor a Christian but this story is an attempt as Christian!Snape. Please flame if you have nothing better to do but it will fall on deaf ears.

Grace

Kneeling before the breaking wave, Snape wondered again about the worst possible fate (and wondering can be as dangerous as wishing.) In the remaining moments, he thought about that man who was stuck to two planks. Truthfully, that man had not been eaten by a slow, life-ebbing potion; not stretched upon the rack, scarred by coals and forced to scream traitorous admissions; not made to watch his family drop one by one until the crazed Death Eater turned finally to him.

Still, Snape believed that that man had suffered the worst terror of all - so terrifying that the man could believe that his immortal father had abandoned him at the last.

For this was the man who had knelt in the garden begging for the cup of suffering to be taken from him, if only it could suit that great will. This was the man of wild stories and miraculous touches, whose very life was an immaculate philosophy. This was a Muggle whose magic's extended far beyond that of any wizard. No one could have loved life as he did and no greater loss could have been inflicted on any creature of the universe.

No wonder he was resurrected, Snape mused as the breaking wave swelled over and around him. Its speed bit at his eyes and face, and its power lifted him from the sand, tumbling him backwards. As the world spun he caught a fading glimpse of purple sky. He took a mouthful of salty water. The brute, roaring liquid dumped its plaything against the submerged ground and he surfaced - mouth open and eyes wide.

He made a noise - half breathing, half laughing - and raked his long black hair back from his face. Sometimes he yelled now, but today he was quiet. Today he was escaping from other thoughts, and he was here for the beauty more than the adrenaline.

Standing slowly, on shaky legs, he turned from the ocean for the beach. The water dragged at his feet. When the remnants of big waves reached him, he would flop forward, making his body straight for the whitewater to carry him in. It was a slow process. His ever-active mind danced from thoughts of his own redemption, to recognising aches in his body, to gratitude for finding this place where the rough seas met shallow sand.


When am I coming back here? He consulted an imaginary calendar in his head and decided he would let it be three days at most.

The water was ankle-shallow now, letting him begin a trot up to the firm sand. There, he turned and began a run that would take him along a kilometre of beach before climbing to the distant cliff top. True, it was too cold with the sun gone. The view would be worth it, though. His waterlogged ears and the sea-wind created a stormy roaring in his head that grew louder as he picked up speed.

Perhaps one of the shoreline houses was close enough to make out the solitary silhouette on the cliff top, resting against a tall rock. Had anyone the eyes to see, they would have beheld a young man who worshiped life.

Snape couldn't believe his luck or fate, that he, the one whose soul was tainted by sin would be given such a resurrection. He mused, how thankful he was to be living this life, yet how at odds, he knew he was not worthy. Penance, it seemed, was more difficult than he could ever imagine.

He will not allow himself the subtlies of life. He owed every moment of happiness to something else, to a God he – a reasonable man – had no reason for. He would not allow finding himself in a passionate, breath-snatching embrace with a girlfriend. Or eating good food at the best places with his favourite people, savouring the taste of each delicacy. Or wailing lyrics to his favourite songs. Or laughing with his family. Or taking a hot, long shower no matter how early he was running. Or reading until his eyes refused to cooperate without sleep. Or feeling the touch of silk across his chest. Or composing brief bizarre poems, because he had no time for ballads. Or smiling and talking one-by-one to everybody at a party.

He was undeserving.

He would not allow it. He was a fool, a powerful fool, a lonely fool, and an embarrassed fool. Voldemort had been a vision, a false God. The Dark Lord had offered him power, life, fame, glory and love. And Snape? He had believed it all.

It was a horrible, life-shattering moment. Snape imagined vaguely that in a movie the hero would have been beyond the horror and the pain, and would set about facing the rest of the plot with grim determination. But this was not a movie, this was his life. He had felt as if his whole life had been taken away from him in one humiliating, abusive day. The terror was unbelievable.

He looked out over the edge gripping it tightly. These memories were painful. He could even feel the wanting: to throw it all away, throw himself off the edge to the waiting waves below.

Faith could make a mind resilient. He pushed himself slowly back from the edge. His mind tumbling with thoughts of rebuilding his life after going to hell and back. He laughed at how cliched his thinking was.

The breeze was cold yet it felt good. Snape looked over to the horizon, it was playing host to the morning sun. The day was clean and the sun was bright, welcoming the day. Snape enjoyed the quietness of the cliff top. He was almost aware that his joy was being fed by the absolute denial of what had occurred. That was why he was hesitant as he rose to return to school. He knew that the sight of the joyful, young, free, trusting students would be hard to bear.

They knew him as the strong potions master. Yet as he rose to face them fear shot through his body. If people had gathered to watch they would have seen him tremble a little on his legs. No one was there to catch him as he fell to his knees. He was crying.

He collapsed onto his side and shivered, clutching at his chest, with his legs curled beneath him.

In his shocking grief he again realised the irony of it all. Snape under Voldemort's control was a damned anonymous plaything of the devil that had demanded all things from God.

It was Dumbledore who showed him. Would led him into the dark confessional. Snape realised that all things already were given to him and then given again.

Inside Snape's head there was chaos. It was not a storm - it was a hurricane with wild, wild winds. Sometimes words drifted into consciousness, but mostly it was raw, harsh emotions.

Yet, it was here on this beach that he could feel that storm calm. He could feel God's imaginary hand lift him and brace him to return. Snape offered a rare smile but there was no one there to receive it. And no one noticed the swish of a cloak.