A snake in the grass, the turn-coat, the traitor…the murderer. Yes, those are accusations with which I am very familiar--intimately familiar, really. And I could go on: the two-faced spy, the back-stabber…I have even been called an inhuman monster. For what, I ask? What have I, Severus Snape, done that others in the Order of the Phoenix have not done? What makes me so vile in comparison to my fellow servants of the Dark Lord?

I claim not innocent purity--but nor will I say that I am as despicable and debased as I am continually painted by the Ministry idiots and Order members, so biased and narrow-minded that they can only see what they want to see.

At this time, a narration from me--an entirely truthful, honest narration--is not unexpected. The Dark Lord and Harry Potter have met for their last time--the Dark Lord is vanquished and Harry Potter lies dead in the heat of battle, the Dark Lord's hopes for immortality lying in pieces beside him, in the form of several destroyed Horocruxes. Pathetic as he was in nearly all intellectual pursuits, Potter, I admit, did have a certain boldness (reckless stupidity would be an even better phrasing) and sacrificed his own life for that of his captured friends, the two youngest Weasley's and the Mudblood Granger. That similar act of sacrificial love--the same love which gave him that scar--finished the curse that backfired on the Dark Lord sixteen years ago when he attempted to kill Lily Potter. As soon as the Avada Kedavra touched Potter, the Dark Lord was as good as dead.

While the wizarding world celebrates the death of the feared wizard and mourns the loss of their precious Boy-Who-Lived, the remaining Death Eaters that weren't killed or apprehended in the raid by the Order members, the Calvary sweeping in for the rescue, late as usual, have gathered at the emergency hiding place, the graveyard in which the Dark Lord returned to his moral body more three years ago.

Looking around me, I see Crabbe having a panic attack, insisting that there was no way--simply no possible way, he continues repeating--that the Dark Lord could be dead…that a mere seventeen-year-old wizard could triumph over him! Dolohov is fixing his wounds with lack-luster charms that would shame a third year--he was always more adept with mindless hexes and curses that inflict as much pain as quickly as possible. Bellatrix is, unbelievably, the most quiet of us all, staring blankly in front of her, in shock. The master she had served, the master she revered, the master--I believe--she'd been secretly infatuated with in her own distorted, twisted way for the last twenty years, is gone forever. She only vowed a solemn oath of vengeance upon the Order that took her beloved Lord and hasn't said nary a word since. I find more menace and threat to that promise than her usual fiery, impassioned theatrics; Bellatrix's ravings could have brought thespians down on their knees, but only made me wish I could use my invented Muffliato charm on her.

Yet, while all this anguish, confusion, and pain is around me, where does the double-crosser stand? What does he do? Calmly takes up the quill, for a final debriefing to the Order of the Phoenix members that are bound to find our somber, defeated group.

Before continuing with this narrative, whoever is reading this, do not continue from this point if the readers are laboring under the belief that this is the memoirs of a conspirator. For one, I never have liked memoirs…people who consider their lives of such importance that they must let the world read about them--why should I care about their subjective point of view of every pointless topic? And what of the people who read memoirs earnestly? They must be true Dunderheads to not have enough brain capacity to create unique, individual thoughts and therefore desire to purloin the thoughts of another.

Also, the stories of my espionage I could tell on this piece of parchment would hardly be anything worthwhile…most the work I did was merely reiterating stories to fit the ears of those I was informing…and, before I am labeled as a traitor to Dumbledore or the Dark Lord, let me just freely admit that neither of them ever heard the whole of the truth from me. That was what always confused both the Order members and the Death Eaters, those beings who so ferociously and devoutly, like crazed zealots, devoted themselves to their sides, their leaders…which side was I on, they continually asked. I was very simply on my side, the side that would best serve my best interest…and my life.

This is not a confession to clear my conscious, either…or, even better--what Dumbledore and his fellow soft-hearted, weakling friends embrace heartily--an apology. I admit nothing--I deny nothing. And I refuse to bend to the pressings of any passing sentiment to make me apologize to any man. If those that believe in religion and the afterlife are correct about the damned meeting their maker in the end, then I will submit only to the guardian of Heaven, as I will be unquestionably sent to the fathoms of fire bellow. Until then, I will never yield to mere mortal men.

There--I have landed on the point of this narrative, the crux of it all. I am a damned man, no question about it. Do not hold dear to your tender hearts, Order members, some evanescent hope of my salvation--I don't want to be saved. I was born into blackness, I have lived in the blackness, and so will my darkened, sin-eroded soul depart. Let those with halos remain in ignorance of just how deep and dark the gutters of humanity can reach.

This letter is an explanation--an explanation of why there never was any hope of changing me into Dumbledore's stooge, a rehabilitated Dark Wizard turned do-gooder. I was already a sold man…sold not to the Dark Lord, nor to the Dark Arts, as so many believe…but to the servitude and obedience of one woman.

It's not a secret that I didn't enjoy the popularity that both James Potter and his son so flaunted during their years of school…and, besides the unwanted pranks played by those four hated Gryffindors, I didn't mind my isolation. As an only child living in a secluded home, I never was able to interact with children…and therefore never pined for their company. Certainly, there were moments of inevitable loneliness felt by a young first year…but by fourth into fifth year, I started to fully embrace solitude, finding that my knowledge--and, thus, my only asset in this unjust world of ours--came from this very source. With privacy as my cloak, my skills and intelligence developed themselves, remaining mostly out of the public's eye.

However, there was one particular human being whose contact I never warded away--the young Narcissa Black. By the time we were approaching our sixth year, she was the most desired lady of all of Hogwarts. Fantastically beautiful, sophisticated, popular, and the youngest daughter of the wealthy pure-blood Black family, Narcissa seemed to be born under a blessed star, indeed…the world itself would practically spit up a red carpet wherever her dainty foot stepped, to help her along her exalted way.

Naturally, being the opposite of all those winning qualities, Narcissa and I rarely communicated…only on the terms of acquaintances, for the briefest of times, about the most trivial of things. Also, the concept of my being madly in love with her from a distance would be a tempting one for the Order members, I'm sure, considering their romantic and entirely unrealistic tastes…but I was merely attracted to her as all young men my age were attracted to her…nothing more. But--really--how could even I, who lived in so much seclusion from humanity as a whole, condemn Good-Fortune personified into the pale, refined features, blonde locks, and sparkling blue eyes of Narcissa Black?

Usually, I scoff the general idea of a single moment changing a person's life…a death, an accident, or anything else sudden and horrific can leave distinct impressions, yes…but other small, unimportant details before and after help to change their determined path into something entirely unforeseen. But I did not see that night coming…there wasn't a warning of any kind…I just bumbled into it without realizing that a single moment, quick as a lightning bolt, would set my life to an all-new purpose--to a single, glowing concept. And it all happened in what was less than a minute--a mere moment in the endless expanse of time.

The young Death Eaters, such as Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Black, Narcissa Black, and myself, would meet in the school's expansive dungeons at midnight at least once every other week, to discuss the latest news about the Dark Lord, and to show the younger ones (like our youngest member, Narcissa) new Dark Arts curses, especially the Unforgiveables. While I failed to charm like Lucius Malfoy or lead like Bellatrix, I did have an incredible knowledge of the Dark Arts, the only reason I was admitted into the elite group with my inappropriate bloodline. And I taught them well…keeping only a few of my own unique creations to myself.

One night--it had to be nearly the end of my sixth year at this point--we were seriously talking about dropping out of Hogwarts. Why stay when our Lord needed us so desperately? Myself, I had no real opinion; by this point, I already knew more about the Dark Arts than my instructor (he quit the end of that year for circumstances not fully known) could teach and what more did I need in Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions that I hadn't already mastered in days spent alone? However, Narcissa, just approaching her OWLs and very nervous about them, insisted--against the believes of her husband-to-be, to everyone's shock--that it was very well and good that we could think about leaving…but what about her? Indulgently, they comforted Narcissa the best that they could, not even thinking of what a vain, arrogant statement that was. They--myself also guilty at times--pampered to Narcissa's idea that the world revolved around her…that Hogwarts woke and slept at her very whim. I don't think that that bubble has ever been burst for her to this day.

Suddenly, our watch, Walden Macnair, told us that Slughorn and Kettleburn were on their way, on guard that evening after Filch had thought he heard voices in the dungeons lately. We hadn't been careful or very quiet…and now we were receiving our due for our poor diligence.

Immediately, a chorus of us whispered "Nox," extinguishing our lit wands. After that, as agreed upon when we began these meetings, it was every witch or wizard for himself.

Well familiar with the comforting walls of the dungeons, after spending so many nights wondering them and practicing spells in the chilly quiet, I had no trouble finding a very small hallway.

Sighing slightly, I congratulated myself on my swift escape and couldn't help smirking at my fellow students, who were so familiar and confident of their knowledge of the sun-lit school above and so lost in the dark fathoms of Hogwarts' underbelly.

An anguished, distressed sigh awoke me from my smug thoughts.

Narcissa Black was standing just in front of the hallway…but in the dark, she couldn't see a hallway unless she knew what she was looking for it. I was about to call for her to come, when I saw the twinkling of wand-light ahead.

It was Slughorn and Kettleburn, all right…there was no mistaking the Potion Master's stumpy, plump body and Kettleburn's wiry muscle frame--and, of course, his missing right arm.

Narcissa, instead of attempting to run, froze stiffly, her blue eyes wide with a terror that reminded me of a cornered animal. And the teachers were so close…any moment now, their wand-lights would land upon the frightened Narcissa.

At this point, I can't speak for the actions that I took…my mind seemed to be altogether disconnected with my body. The only distinct thing that I remember was her large blue eyes…they were so fearful, so timid, like those of a child. Narcissa had always had her family to spoil her, her sister and friends to protect her, her endless money to nourish her…she'd hardly had to lift a finger in her entire fifteen years of life without the assistance of someone. And, at that point, she was alone--truly, totally, on her own--for the first time…and she was scared.

It was a look I was well-familiar with…a desperate, petrified look that stared out of my memories.

And then I leaped for her.

Realizing full well that I was quite possibly putting myself in full view of Slughorn and Kettleburn, I put my hand over her mouth and dragged her into the hallway with my other. If I would have moved a second later, they would have spotted us.

With Narcissa wiggling around to see my face, I released my hand from her mouth and placed a single finger over it, signaling her mandatory silence. We watched, pressed against the wall, as Kettleburn and Slughorn passed us, with only a cursory glance into the hallway. She and I waited in breathless silence for a moment until the wand lights traveled far past us. I released her and sat down on the floor of the hallway, pocketing my drawn wand.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a trembling voice.

"Sitting," I answered, not in the mood for talking, "Wishing to enjoy the quiet."

I thought that perhaps she would grasp my meaning, but if she did, Narcissa didn't want to be quiet. Instead, she groped the wall and sat down beside me.

"Don't you want to go back upstairs to bed?" Narcissa asked.

"No," I replied, annoyed, "I like walking around here at night…it's soothing--because it's so quiet."

While I knew there was no way for her to miss that, she continued on anyway. "Do you walk down here often?"

"Often enough," I elusively replied, not wishing to be joined on my nocturnal adventures with a chatty fifteen year old witch, "Don't you want to go up to bed?"

"We can't, remember?" she said, "Lucius was the only one that learned the new password…we all missed it because we came down here earlier. And he said he'd let us all in the Common Room when we came back."

Cursing softly, I knew she was right. "Then sit in front of the door…it always gives in to you when you don't know the password."

"But what if Kettleburn and Slughorn check the all the Common Rooms tomorrow to find out who was let into their dormitory's so late…Slughorn likes Bellatrix, not me, and I'll be stuck in detention until next year."

"So--what--you're going to sit out here all night?" I asked, incredulous.

"You do," Narcissa snappily replied, "Why shouldn't I?"

I had no answer to that and, instead, fumed in silence, wishing that I had just let that blasted girl be caught.

We sat in silence for a long time--so long that it surprised me that she was capable of such quiet. Then, Narcissa peered up at me in the dark.

"Why do you seek solitude, Severus?" she asked. The first thing that struck me was the use of my first name--no one called me "Severus" except teachers and a few of my fellow Slytherins, only when in the presence of teachers or other higher-ups, to make us appear to be friendly with one another.

"Why do you always assume solitude is a thing to be detested?" I asked in return, "Solitude allows one to learn--to understand--to think--how in the world do you think in that noisy rabble that constantly follows you around?"

Narcissa shrugged. She was the most popular Slytherin by far…and always had a flock of giggling females and handsome, smirking Quidditch players surrounding her. "I guess I really don't think when I'm with my friends…but I guess you don't have many friends beside us, do you?"

By this time, my annoyance with her had decreased…I enjoyed her frank candor to any polite small-talk that we had had before that evening. "You consider me a friend, Narcissa?" I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"We're fellow servants, aren't we? I might talk to that 'noisy rabble' as you call them…but in a few years our paths will change dramatically--I'll marry Lucius and I'll help him in whatever way the Dark Lord leads him. And you'll be with him, too…so, certainly, you can be considered a friend."

"Right," I darkly replied, "So, tomorrow morning, if I walk into your elite little group to just say hello, you'll warmly include me in your little gang of friends, just like I'm one of the crowd? I doubt it."

Narcissa lit her wand. I could see her beautiful face worked up into a passion. "Not that you'd want to be invited, anyway! I've seen you--I've watched you scorn people that could be friends. It's not we that cast you out--but you that won't let anyone in!"

I did not defy her statement…I decided that, in her present fervent mood, I would only be raged at, which could lead to shouting…and perhaps discovery.

"You've been waiting to say this for quite a while," I reflected slowly, looking at her steadily, my face an impassive mask, "Haven't you?"

"Yes," she said firmly--almost proudly.

"And tell me, Miss Black," I coldly said, "Why do I have the honor and pleasure of taking up some of your…charming thoughts?"

"Because"--for the first time in her questioning she faltered, "Because--you're different."

While I will always recommend Narcissa's beauty, her thinking sometimes fails to dazzle.

"Different?" I echoed.

She flushed under my sardonic gaze, a look that I had mastered by that time. "Yes…different. From all the other servants."

"You mean my blood? The Dark Lord has already made it clear that those of improper blood that he has allowed to join his ranks should not be considered less worthy--"

"No, no," Narcissa interrupted, "I didn't mean that…I meant your motivation." Before I could interrupt with one of the many sharp comments circulating in my mind, she continued hastily. "The others--Lucius, Bellatrix, myself--are joining the Dark Lord because of what we believe about pure-bloods being more privileged than common Mudbloods…and, also, our parents are greatly supporting it. But you never talk about your parents…or about pure-bloods…so why are you risking so much to join the Dark Lord?"

I couldn't look at her any longer--her stare was too intense--too seeking.

"I suppose because…because I don't have anywhere else to focus my interests…my--devotion."

"The Aurors would love to have you," Narcissa said, "With all you know of the Dark Arts--"

"That haven of Gryffindors?" I asked, nearly spitting in disgust, "Are you mad? Death would be more pleasant."

"You could teach here."

I snorted. A fate surely crueler than death--to teach the snot-nosed brats, with hardly an ounce of thought in their petty adolescent minds. It's strange how much things change.

Narcissa sighed slightly and continued looking at me thoughtfully. "You are the most brilliant student in your whole year…and you have no real plans for the future?"

"My future's a bit more difficult to see than yours, Narcissa," I replied.

She didn't seem to be offended by my comment. "You're right, of course…I assume you haven't a fortune to depend upon or a marriage to ready yourself for…unlike me. But you've never liked much attachments, have you? You prefer your solitude."

I didn't answer her. Hadn't I been indulgent enough to answer all the rest of her questions? I was tiring of this game, and I was about to force her to go back to the Common Room, when she finally said, "You have no family, no friends, no teachers you particular like, and, thus, you go into the service of the Dark Lord because you have no one else to answer for but yourself. Yes, you've achieved solitude, Severus Snape."

Believing that she was finished, I rose to my feet, glad that that uncomfortable conversation had reached its conclusion. But Narcissa had not finished.

She rose as well and, as I turned, walked right up to me, standing so close that I could feel the tips of her long blonde hair brushing my arms. Obstinately, Narcissa stared right at me, looking into the depths of my being for answers. Rooted to the ground by feelings that were entirely foreign to me, I could only stare right back into her blue eyes, realizing for the first time just how captivatingly beautiful she was.

"Yet," she softly said, her voice barely audible, "If you've really cut yourself off from humans--from understanding other people--why did you pull me into the hallway?"

"I--I--don't--" The smooth, sarcastic air was gone now and the only thing that was left was a stuttering sixteen-year-old who was actually acting his juvenile age.

"You could have easily been caught," she continued, almost breathlessly, "And it would have been much simpler to let them find me. So why did you do it?"

I'd always commended myself for my lies over the course of my life…some people have talents on the Quidditch Field, others are skilled with magical creatures, and others find their knack merely with people…but my special talent was lying--I was good at it even before I mastered Occlemency. My poker-face was nothing short of fantastic.

But, in that spot in the dungeons of Hogwarts castle, on a warm summer evening, staring into the beseeching, gorgeous eyes of Narcissa Black, I couldn't have lied if threatened with a hundred Avada Kedavras. It was one of the few times I was ever completely honest with another human being during my life.

"Your eyes," I stammered, "Your eyes--they--they looked frightened and…and hopeless. Like your life was coming to an end--like you were alone. And--and I didn't want you to think you were alone like--like I know I am." I paused to take a reassuring breath. "I just couldn't stand the look in your eyes. Please, I--I don't want to see them like that again."

There was a long, endless moment of silence that felt like an eternity, as she continued to stare up at me--the deep melancholy in her eyes--hidden so well behind her glowing smiles and definite declarations of her future. I didn't want to look at her…it was making breathing next to impossible and my heart was actually physically throbbing. But, like a dying man in the desert staring at what he knows is a mirage, I couldn't look away from the exquisite torture.

A moment later, she pulled the front of my robes and kissed me.

Oddly enough, after I'd taken the plunge, I actually felt my heartbeat slow…and once I recovered from my original shock, I think I met Narcissa's challenge quite well.

After a few fantastic moments, we released. Her hand gently brushed my cheek for a moment as her eyes showed no signs of repulsion or regret for her actions. Disentangling herself from my arms (which, at one time or another, had gone around her waist), Narcissa smiled at me and quietly said, "The new password for the Common Room is Belladonna. Lucius told me on the way down."

And then she left me, standing in the darkness of the hallway, as her lighted wand disappeared into the upper floors of the castle.

We never spoke of that meeting afterwards…and I can assume that Narcissa is not one to kiss and tell…especially when her fiancé, Lucius, was extremely protective of his prospective bride around other men…not that he'd ever think of me worthy of competition--an unattractive half-blood like myself? No--the thought never even entered his thick, pretty head.

Why do I recount this particular scene in my life, while others, such as how I convinced Dumbledore that I was on his side, or what was going through my head as I raised my wand against the Headmaster that night in the tower, or what information I gave to the Dark Lord, would interest my readers so much more? Those moments were memorable, yes…but this was the moment that changed my fate.

Oh, yes, I can hear the thoughts running through the minds of my readers now--Snape fell in love with Narcissa Malfoy! Snape's head over heels for her!

No, no, and again no! I don't love any human on this earth…love is meant for idealistic fools who actually think highly of humanity, unlike myself. I have no spent precious hours dreaming of a life with Narcissa or--God forbid--children we might have. On the contrary--thought of marriage with her appalls me to no end. I am not in love, infatuated with, or secretly obsessed with Narcissa Malfoy--not before that night, not that night, and not after.

That moment is memorable because it's the only time I've ever been happy.

Happiness is the dreamy fog that those same impractical twits who believe in love enjoy floating aimlessly in…and if they're not in the happy fog--Depression! Agony! Woe! Life, as they know it, is coming to a close.

I've remained out of this fog and remained in the clear, cold view of reality. It's not pleasant…but at least, unlike the fog of bliss, one can see the danger before it's too late.

But the one, single moment I was in that fog, when Narcissa and I were kissing the nearly pitch black hallway…it was the best in my entire life. There was no concern about being caught by teachers--no worries about my potions or Dark Arts--even my horrible memories at home were blanked out, unimportant. For one minute, I was not Severus Snape, the genius misanthrope, the brilliant recluse, but simply Severus, a sixteen-year-old boy who was having the time of his life.

From that point on, I had only one goal in my life: to try to repeat that brief bit of happiness any way that I could. I knew it wasn't likely…Narcissa was married, a mother…and I had no desire to sweep her off her feet at all.

Years have passed…and Narcissa never forgot my request that night…to never let her eyes look desperate and frightened again. And, when the problems of life piled too high for her to handle, she ran for me.

The first visit was a few years after her marriage. I was working in Diagon Alley at the time, at the Apothecary, at the Dark Lord's orders--I'd have access to all potion ingredients that way.

Narcissa came to me one night, in hysterical tears. She and Lucius wanted a child--actually, to phrase it more accurately, she wanted a child and Lucius wanted an heir. But it seemed that conception was not as easy for her as it had been for her fellow married pure-blood friends. She knew the problem had to be with her…knew it instinctively. Could I help her?

It was a dangerous potion--the fertility potion. I suggested what the Muggles used, but she refused with an ardor that would have made her forefather's proud. So, with caution and continuous hard work, I made her the potion over a several month period. Eventually, her continual visits for more of the potion ceased without explanation…and I heard, through conversation with Death Eaters, that the next heir of the Malfoy Manor was on his way.

Did I feel happiness then? No…I felt a brief flicker of hope…but at least I had settled her deep fears of being childless.

Other favors followed…dragging Lucius out of a few shady Muggle bars, tending to a broken arm that a tiny, squalling four-year-old Draco had, following one of Lucius' particularly violent drunken rages…watching out for her son at school…I even smuggled letters in and out of Azkaban (do not ask how I managed--no one wants to know) so Narcissa could know that Bellatrix was still sane--as sane as she ever was, of course.

Yet I had no reward for my toils save a gracious glance from her blue eyes…I received no moment of happiness for my works…but I never gave up the hope of someday achieving it.

My final test came two summers ago, when Narcissa Malfoy knocked on my door, just as I knew she would. She asked me to do the impossible--to help her son complete his mission of killing Dumbledore, a mission that Draco was supposed to fail, and, should Draco be unable to do it, that I give the fatal blow. It was a promise to be signed with my very life.

I never hated Dumbledore--certainly, we hardly saw eye to eye on anything, and I found his constant belief in love triumphing over all rather ludicrous. But I never truly hated him…the old man trusted me like no one else has ever trusted me.

But when he was between me and potential happiness…Dumbledore was disposable. I would murder him--my employer, my protector, and, yes, begrudging friend--for the single hope of another wonderful, glittering, shinning moment in the sun of Narcissa's glorious and grateful blue eyes…

After the dirty deed was done, Narcissa hardly even glanced at me, too concerned about her imprisoned husband and suddenly depressed son to even consider the man that had burned all the bridges between he and the Order as a spy, that had given up his safe teaching job forever, that had murdered the only good man (and Dumbledore was a good man--if there is such a thing as good, it was him) he had ever known.

Yet, I know, if I were in the situation, I'd make the same promise again.

Sirius Black, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, accused me of being "Malfoy's lapdog." Well, I've certainly become a lapdog…but it is not to Lucius Malfoy…

And now, this narrative has reached its conclusion, with the readers forever scorning Severus Snape, the man who murdered one of the greatest wizards who ever lived for a heartless woman who will never return to the favor. But it is the truth--for once in my life, I have told nothing but the honest truth.

After I finish this, I will place it in the rigid arms of a stone cherub on one of the grave stones--an angel with a most saintly face, I believe…it reminds me of the expression Narcissa had that night so long ago--reminding me how much things have changed.

I plan on meeting her, in a location that, of course, I will not reveal--have I not proved my devotion to her happiness enough already? There were rumors that she had been captured…and questioned by the Ministry. Could this be a trap for me? Could she have bargained her life--or Lucius--or Draco's--or all--for mine, by agreeing to pull me out of hiding?

Quite possibly--I wouldn't doubt it.

But I'm going anyway.

Sometimes when I look in the mirror in the morning, before the settled air of reality places itself firmly on my shoulders, I am disgusted by what I see. The most brilliant young man in his year--a proud son of the lineage of the Prince's--is a mere slave to the whims of a single woman that he can never have.

Dumbledore was always so fond of the idea of one following his heart…well, I followed it--followed it to the dark, twisted end.

And I ask one, simple question--where has it led me?