(with a kiss)
It’s dim in the library, and Snape knows Potter’s out on the Quidditch pitch, and it’s safe to assume Black’s there too – which means that Pettigrew and possibly Lupin are almost certainly accounted for as well – but he waits, standing in the shadow of the shelves, watching as Lily settles down at an isolated table with her texts and quills and parchment. There’s always the possibility of Lupin, given their exams… but no, he can tell by the way she places her things, by the way she allows them to spread out around her in a manner that just borders on haphazard, that she’s expecting to be alone tonight, at least for awhile.
Her right side is toward him, and he carefully edges so that he’s behind the line of her peripheral vision (although he doubts she can see him in this light, & hidden as he is behind the books), then waits a few minutes more to err on the side of caution. Right as he’s about to begin to make his way ‘round the shelves, Lily sighs heavily, sends one last glare down at the parchment she’s spread in front of her, and turns on the bench, looking directly at the shelves he’s standing behind (and he's very nearly convinced she can see through them).
"I know you’re there, Severus," she comments almost drily, sighing once more before she gets up and begins to walk toward him. He’s gone stiller than he already was, if that’s even possible, but he somehow manages to turn slowly toward her as she rounds the corner and walks toward him. He takes a step forward, but stops quickly, because they’re almost too close now, and she opens her mouth to speak, but the words jump out from between his lips almost before he realises it:
"Lil, Lily, please- I- you know I-"
"I thought I made it clear last night that this conversation was over," she says, almost gently, without the contempt he’s expecting, and he can’t tear his eyes away from hers in spite of the stab of anger that goes through him when he sees the pity in them (he tells himself he doesn’t want her pity, has never wanted anyone’s, and yet he would be lying if he said her pity for him isn’t part of the reason he loves her: she’s one of the few who has ever cared enough to pity him at all).
"You did," he says, resignedly, "but I- I just wanted-"
His gaze and his focus and his ability to speak are snatched away because she’s dropped her head and lifted it again and a bit of her hair has fallen in her eyes, and before he can stop himself his arm is stretched out and he’s brushing it back behind her ear. And he could swear, swear by the way her eyelids flutter not quite imperceptibly and the way her head drops just a bit to the side and ever-so-slightly increases the pressure on the hand that he’s not yet drawn back, that this time, her sigh holds a note of contentment and a bit of hope.
His hand tangles itself in her hair and then her eyes meet his again, and the spark of whatever it is that flashes within them somehow takes over his body and moves it so that suddenly his arms and his hands and his eyes are full of her and his lips are on hers and he’s breathing her in and himself out, and everything – his doubts and fears and pain and love and hatred and questions and explanations and apologies and pleas – everything is poured into this kiss, poured out into her, and she’s kissing him back, one hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, the other clinging to his cheek.
He pulls back, finally, out of breath and having said, really, what he came to say, although it was without words, and she steps back, out of his arms and away. And when he meets her eyes again, the spark is gone, and the pity is drowned by a cold, hard, dead understanding.
"Oh, Sev," she says, softly. "You’re such a coward."
He has never been one for the clichés of romance, but for the rest of his life he will think of this moment as the one in which he learned what it feels like when one’s heart breaks – slowly and quickly (somehow) and infinitely painful. But he is steady on his feet, unflinching, and he looks into her eyes and replies, "I know." She bows her head then, and as though they have been given a cue, they both turn away in the same moment, and Snape strides out of the library, robes billowing behind him as he makes his way down to the dormitory to meet Avery and Mulciber as the three of them have planned.
(with a sword)
It’s dim on top of the Astronomy Tower – at least it should be, with how dark and bright it is all at the same time: dim should be the solution to the sum and so Snape decides it is, or would decide if he wanted to give it more than a moment’s thought. Which he doesn’t, because right now the important bits of his life are flashing before his eyes, and he thinks bitterly how odd that is, given that he’s not the one about to die at the moment, not physically. But he supposes that isn’t really what counts anyway.
Bits and pieces of conversation are flashing and echoing about in his mind, and although the part of him that does count isn’t going to be completely killed this time ‘round, he’s trembling, paralysed at the possibility of ripping it again, tearing off a piece when too many have already been torn. His soul has still got a bit more life in it yet, possibly unfortunately, but it’s life he’s grown to be protective of, for reasons he doesn’t delve into because they are very possibly either purely selfish or entirely altruistic, and Severus Snape is neither.
It’s greenly dim, he suddenly realises, and he bites back an utterly inappropriate, ironic laugh, because sometimes he thinks that some higher being must have decided that green ought to be the theme colour of his life. Green makes him think of her eyes and her eyes make him think of the last time he truly saw them, and suddenly he sees her more clearly than the shrivelled man before him, hears her telling him he’s a coward.
His own voice echoes, "I know," in his head, and then she’s gone: Dumbledore’s there again, and in his memory, he hears the old man’s voice affirming the fact that he is not a coward at all. (Somehow, here, wand at the ready, Lily’s remark seems preferable, and he wishes he could back out of this, wishes he could turn over the responsibility to someone else now and salvage his own soul.) He meets Dumbledore’s eyes then, and there is no pity or understanding, only a plea for reason and mercy, and it makes Dumbledore’s voice echo in his head once again: You alone know whether it will harm your soul.
But he doesn’t know, not anymore, because Dumbledore’s recent revelations have muddled everything up, and he toys once more with the idea of saving the old man’s life instead of ending it. Hatred bubbles up within him, toward Voldemort, toward Dumbledore, toward himself and what he is about to do, toward everything but her, and he realises he can do nothing but trust this man whom he is about to kill, trust that all this must be done so that the world can be set to rights.
He raises his wand and nearly shouts the curse, and a flash of green drowns a formerly twinkling blue in a swirl of silver, and he, braver now and having experienced it twice previously, expects the slow-yet-quick infinite pain of heartbreak (but the expectation and experience do not lessen the pain of causing and watching the fall of one of the few people whom he has ever loved). Suddenly and strangely, the green-lit dim seems almost comforting, and he sways for a moment under the heady mix of heartbreak and unexpected healing before he turns, barks an order, and strides off the tower, robes billowing: a brave man leading a crowd of cowards.
Killed the Things He Loved by Marzenie
Chapter Notes: And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
Oscar Wilde