At first the feeling is slight shock, an I actually did it, though he isn't really sure why this surprises him, because he was ready, he always knew he was ready. And then there is that odd sensation in his stomach, almost nausea, the feeling he thought he was immune to, the feeling that the cool, calm part of his mind disapproves of with icy detachment. It tells him that this was what he needed to do, at least he's still alive, and isn't that the important thing?
And then of course his senses sharpen. Everything is acutely in focus, he can see every crease in the old man's face as he falls backwards, every grey hair stands out against the night. Colours become garishly bright, reds of pain and greens of death. The lights burn his eyes. Expressions are cartoonish, people are mannequins with pale, porcelain-fake faces, lips that move soundlessly, forming words in bubbles above their heads. Nothing is quite real. And then-
Run. Odd that he hasn't thought of that yet.
Run away, speed away, fly away. Into the darkness. No one will find him here, where the night envelopes him like an invisibility cloak, no one will find him if he becomes one with the shadows. The air is cool. His face is cool. His mind is cool. Although he is running fast, he cannot hear the fast pitter-patter in his chest. Maybe now that he is a murderer, he no longer has a need for a heart.
And Potter is running after him, and he wishes he wouldn't, because he doesn’t want to hurt him, because even if he looks and acts just like his father, he still has green eyes…
He doesn’t pay much attention to what Potter is saying, because he needs to get to the edge of the school boundaries, and that's all that matters. But then a voice screams at him: coward, and that makes him angry, and he says he isn't a coward, he isn't…and he says it because he knows that deep down he really is.
But he doesn't have time to think about this any longer, because they have reached the edge, and the hippogriff flies at them, scratching his arm. He raises his wand…
Silence. Thank Merlin for silence.
He looks around him. He is in the middle of the forest. There is only the boy with white-blond hair. The others have probably Apperated closer to headquarters, and he imagines them sneering at him for missing his mark. And then he realises that no one would be sneering at him now, not after what he had just done…but for some reason this brings him no thrill.
He points himself purposely in the direction he thinks headquarters are, and begins walking rapidly, almost jogging.
His eyes adjust to the darkness, as a creature of the night's do. The trees are shadows, beckoning him forwards with thin twisted fingers. A bird screeches a prophecy of doom. He can feel the forest watching him with invisible eyes. There is no moon tonight, and clouds cover the stars, the sky is merely a stretch of endless black velvet. He stumbles further into the heart of the night.
And as he walks briskly, he thinks of halos. An odd thing to reflect on at a time like this.
Not the halo he has seen once, on a painting of a veiled woman cradling a baby in her arms: some important muggle figure no doubt. No, he is thinking of everyday halos. The ones that form around the sun on a crisp winter morning, that circle street lamps when your eyes are fogged with rain, that shine on fiery red hair as the light hits it…
Halos are ridiculous things.
He slows his steps ever so slightly, and the boy slows with him like a faithful (or is it fateful?) shadow. He had forgotten he is there.
And then he thinks about the boy, and how they really should have prepared him better, and if it hadn't been for him the kid would be dead. And then he remembers that's probably what they wanted, and so he feels just a tiny bit of pity for the boy, but not much, because this is his destiny and the sooner he learns to deal with that, the better. It's no use trying to change the course of the river, you just have to let the current take you and try to swim as best you can.
As he strides purposely ahead, his thoughts drift back to halos, and he wonders why. After all, he has let go of all light and taken the plunge into darkness. That was his decision. Thinking of halos must just be a sort of instinct, like a moth that flies towards a candle flame.
In his mind, he flits towards a memory of a halo.
She is sitting at the end of the lake. He doesn’t really watch her, he doesn't want to, he watches her hair. It is a golden-red, cascading down her shoulders like a waterfall of fire, and he thinks it beautiful. Not her of course, the hair, because she is a mudblood, and can never, ever be beautiful.
And then the sunlight breaks through the trees and shines on her head. And there is a golden halo, nestled on the fire…
Ridiculous things, halos, he repeats to himself firmly.
A slight rain begins to fall, so light and depressing it is almost mist.
They walk into a clearing, and he suddenly remembers his wand and uses it to cast a light, thin and silvery so that no one tracking them will see it. And there is something in the centre of the ring of trees, something growing, a plant, a flower…
And he realises what it is, and he almost looses it, almost looses control, almost gasps in fury. It's a coincidence, a damn coincidence, he tells himself, but then he remembers that these things are never coincidences.
Why did fate follow him still? Couldn't it just leave him alone? No, the past could never stay in the past, it must always resurface in the present, it must haunt him forever. He is cursed, cursed for being born a half-blood, cursed for being lured into the Slytherin house, cursed for admiring fiery red hair. He would forever fail at everything he set out to do: he had wanted to rid the world of muggles, but was half one himself; he had joined the Order, but had killed their leader; he had fallen in lo-
No, no, no. Never think of that.
He aims his wand at the plant, and conjures up a flame that licks at the leaves. He doesn’t really care if any one sees him now, doesn’t really care what the boy is thinking, and the rain will extinguish the fire eventually anyway.
He walks away from the clearing, the boy trotting silently at his heels.
Behind them, the ashes of a lily blow away in the wind. For a brief instant the moon appears and shines down on the dying embers, a faint silver halo surrounding its milky white face…
Halos by Striped Candycane
Chapter Notes: I have never written Snape before, and I really want to know how this turned out…I don't think he is nasty enough.