Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor am I affiliated with it in any way.

Note: This was written for my Major & Minor Arcana Assignment #9: Write about the end of a long life.

I have a reputation for writing tragedy. I'm quite handy with a tearjerker, in fact, but what I love most of all about tragedies is what comes from them: hope. So, please, as a semi-apology for all the sad, tormenting stories I write, enjoy a little piece of hope.

Word Count: 936

Always

There had been no kindness in the act. No mercy. There had been no respect or reflection. The words spoken to him had been flowery and flattering, but there was no pretty poetry in Severus Snape's death. A moment of terror, a burst of aggression, and a slow, panicked descent into darkness were all he had earned.

As with his death, there been no poetry in his life. The universe, it seemed, had always had a purpose for this man—this condemned soul who was allowed no solace while he walked the earth, and no dignity when he was forced to leave it. He'd had misery thrust upon him, leading him down a path that could only have ended in this way.

It has been speculated that a man's life flashes before his eyes when he dies—that he relives all of his experiences before he shuffles off this mortal coil.

It isn't true, which a small grace for men like Severus Snape who lead damned lives in service to some higher power.

It isn't true, unless, of course, you are a man exactly like Severus Snape, who—at the time of his death—looked up and into the vivid green eyes he knew so well, yet not at all. Some men give their lives in order to better the world they leave behind, but Severus Snape didn't care one whit about the world or the part he played to save it. In his whole, wretched life, he'd only ever cared about one thing, but had he obtained it, he wouldn't have become a man with the strength to gather around him the most painful memories he possessed and bleed them into the hands of the boy who would finish what he had started.

Severus Snape watched his life pass in front of his eyes before he died not because he was a hero or because it was the right thing to do. He did it for the same reason he had done everything else. He did it for her. He did it because every breath he had drawn—every sling and arrow he had suffered—had been dedicated to the memory of the love he had lost.

Life had been a torment for Severus Snape, and death was the only rest he had ever known.

It was quiet in the blackness, which was itself a curious thing. How could a state of oblivion be measured by any mortal sense? How could death be silent or black? How could it feel isolated?

It can't.

Even a dead man cannot be aware of his own nonexistence. Awareness is the very antithesis of nothingness, and Severus Snape was aware. He felt nothing; he saw nothing; he heard nothing, but the fact that he felt or saw or heard at all was miraculous.

And then there was sensation, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

A child's laughter.

The scent of strawberry shampoo.

A tiny hand in his.

Another hand, both gripping at his, tugging. Pulling faintly.

"Come on!"

The voice echoed in the darkness, shook him to his bones.

"Come on, dummy!"

The memories he had held close only moments ago were slipping form him with every chime of the child's voice that struck against him. He clutched at them, grasping desperately for each wisp of memory as they escaped, but the voice was calling, and the hands distracting.

One by one, the memories drifted into the emptiness, immune to his attempts at retaining them. When the last one floated before him, it came with a vision. The watery illusion of Lily shimmered before him.

She was smiling.

She said nothing, but she needn't have said a word. Something in her eyes told him to stop struggling. Something told him he didn't have to fight anymore. Something reassured him that all would be well if he only let go.

And so he did. The vision vanished, leaving a light pressure against his mouth as it did. An instant of bliss he hadn't known in this life.

The hands holding his gave a finally tug, and this time he followed where they led.

"Come on!"

The boy looks up and shakes his long hair out of his face to look at the girl yelling at him. She's been trying in vain to drag him to his feet from his cross-legged position on the ground. He smirks at her and she drops his hand suddenly and unceremoniously, planting her hands on her hips a little bossily.

"Are you coming or not?" she demands, her lips pouting slightly in annoyance.

He grins at her, getting to his feet and closing the book he'd been reading.

"I'm coming," he says patiently. "I only wanted to see how long until you made that face, anyway," he teases.

She crosses her arms over her chest, scowling with all the might her ten-year-old face can muster.

"Fine, whatever," she says heatedly. "You can come or don't, Scorpius, see if I care."

She turns and marches away.

"Now, hang on, Lily," he says, trying to hide his smile. "I'm coming."

She turns suddenly to look at him, clearly still irritated. "You'll behave yourself?" she demands.

He disguises a laugh as a cough. "I will."

"You'll do whatever I say?"

He nods.

"You won't complain about what games I choose?"

He shakes his head, looking serious. "I wouldn't dream of it."

His answers seem to satisfy her, and her posture begins to loosen. She looks at him skeptically before asking her final question.

"You'll follow me wherever I go?"

He chuckles a little at this.

"Always."