Coward

D/n: Do not own.

He was not a coward. In fact, he was far from being one. Always being told to follow instructions, and one faulty step on either side would get him killed.

But he held firm. He was stoic. He was the half-blood prince.

Rain was pounding on the ceiling of his home in Spinners End, and a few leaks had sprung. Yet Severus Snape could care less. He sat in an upholstered chair, shoulders hunched and elbows at his knees. He was nursing a glass of muggle alcohol – vodka they called it, he recalled.

Dead. Albus was dead. By his own hand.

His lips curled upwards in a bitter smile, dark eyes bleak as he tossed back the contents of the glass.

The Dark Lord was please. Oh, he was so very pleased.

He had no choice…no choice at all. And yet Harry Potter believed him a coward.

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, then another, until he was howling with crazed laughter, shaking with it. And the laughter turned to tears, the tears of heaving, shuddering sobs as the empty glass slid from limp fingers, shattering on the wooden floor.

Damn James and Sirius. Damn Tom Marvolo Riddle. Damn Albus Dumbledore, and most of all, damn Harry Potter.

He hoped they all rotted in hell.

And yet…Potter and Dumbledore were his only hope for salvation.

He did what he had wanted to do after the forbidden curse had left his thin lips. He howled with rage and grief at the life he was living.

The most valuable double agent, and he was a 'coward'.

As he continued to sob, his fingers clenched the chair arms tightly. He would not be forgotten, he vowed silently.