Chapter Text
In the middle of the night, in one of the Slytherin dormitories, a strange student woke up from a strange nightmare – Severus Snape.
He stared wide-eyed into complete darkness, then sat up abruptly. Disbelieving, he reached for his neck while fumbling for his wand with the other hand. “Lumos!”
The tip of his wand glowed faintly. He looked at his hand – it was damp, yes. But not with the expected blood, only with sweat, and yet his stomach turned. He looked around the room in disbelief, as if only now becoming aware of his surroundings. The Slytherin house, his dormitory, his roommates sleeping peacefully in their beds. He didn’t understand – just now, right now, he had been lying alone on the floor of the Shrieking Shack with his throat torn open.
His nausea returned. He tried to stand, but dizziness overwhelmed him. He had to sit down again. After a few breaths, he tried once more, carefully bracing himself on the nightstand, then the wall, and on unsteady feet made his way to the house washroom. He made it just in time.
He rose from the toilet and slowly walked over to the sink, splashing water on his face. He lifted his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. At first, he saw what he always did: a skinny teenage boy with a large nose, his dark eyes wide and red. But within moments, the image shifted – and now it was the face of an adult man staring back at Severus, his expression exhausted and his neck drenched in blood.
“He killed her, he killed… it was my fault, I killed her,” the boy began whispering to himself. “For Merlin’s sake, I…” he started to sob, tears streaming down his cheeks. As if he hadn’t already shed enough of them before going to bed. He began to tremble, perhaps from the cold night air, perhaps from the surge of emotion. He tried to understand what was happening – the image in the mirror kept changing, frightened boy one moment, exhausted man the next. But he couldn’t focus; reality blurred with the strange dream. He tried to organize his thoughts, but they shifted too quickly. His mind darted wildly – he recalled the humiliation James Potter had subjected him to that day, only for the memory to be shoved aside by one of Potter being pulled from his Pensieve. Potter, with green eyes. The same shade of green Lily had. The last thing he saw. “Look at me…” he whispered. Guilt consumed him – he hadn’t saved her, nor her son. He had failed in his task. He had not repaid his debt.
“No. That won’t happen! She won’t die!” he suddenly shouted in fury. “I’ll stop it, it won’t happen, it won’t, do you hear me?” His fist smashed into the mirror, a large shard broke off and fell into the sink. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but the boy paid no attention to the injury. He stared only at the broken mirror – the image of the man was gone; only his own face looked back. He swallowed. He now understood what he had to do to end the chaos, to stop the constant waves of guilt and helplessness that washed over him. He picked up the broken shard, stared at it, clenched it in his hand, and ran from the washroom.
A half-mad boy ran barefoot through the silent halls of Hogwarts. Clad only in a nightshirt – faded and too short – he paid no attention to the portraits and statues. He just ran and ran. All the way to the seventh floor, to the entrance of the Gryffindor tower, to the portrait of the Fat Lady.
“Is Lily all right? Is she in her dorm?”
The Fat Lady yawned. “She doesn’t want to talk to you! She’s already told you—”
“Is she in her dorm? Is she all right?” Severus repeated his question. “Is she all right?”
The Lady rolled her eyes. “Yes, she is. She’s fine! Now go back to your dormitory at once before I alert the professors that you’re running through the castle!”
The Slytherin student let out a heavy sigh. “She’s still alive, alive, there’s still hope…”
He lowered his head and again looked at the sharp shard. His entire palm was cut, but he paid no attention to the pain. Physical pain was something he’d long grown used to. The pain in his heart, in his soul, was far worse. He walked away from the portrait with slow steps. There was only one path he had to take. He had considered it several times before, but had always had hope. Now, that hope was gone. If he joined Lord Voldemort, he would be killing Lily, becoming her indirect murderer. And that hurt more than his father’s beatings or the bullying from classmates. But refusing to become a follower of the Dark Lord would mean more and more suffering for him. He had no money, no connections. So only one path remained.
He lifted one of the tapestries; he knew there was a small alcove behind it. He had often waited there in his first year for Lily – until Potter and his cronies discovered the hiding place. He leaned against the cold wall, but his legs gave way. He stretched out his left arm, staring at the spot where the Death Eater’s mark would eventually be. In his right hand, he clenched the shard...