Disclaimer: anyone you recognise is -not- mine, but the brainchild of J.K. Rowling and owned by her. This story was inspired by admiration for her tales. No money is derived from it, no copyright infringement is intended.
Andolyn
When Hell Froze Over
It was cold, in Hell. Very, very cold.
Just his damn luck.
Severus Snape drew his cloak a little tighter round his lean frame. So much for not being corporal in the afterlife. And he was hungry, too.
There was no nightfall here, only some odd greyish gloom, penetrating all.
Dust. Rocks. An overcast sky and no stars. No shadows. Just the endless horizon and the cold.
He wasn't even sure he was dead. Really completely dead and all. Sometimes he could hear voices, carried by the harsh cold wind in his back that never seized, trying to call him home. But they were gone when he turned.
To hear Dumbledore cry- that had been the worst.
This had to be hell. He was suffering from frostbite on the broken lips, his toes held no feeling and when he dared look, two of the fingers of his right hand were turning black.
He should cut them off, really.
But he had no knife.
He had no nothing.
There was nothing, not out here.
Except for this freezing desert.
And a little somewhat darker spec in the distance.
A spec in the distance?
Slightly to the left, so Snape changed course, somewhat. Even if it were the Devil himself awaiting him, he could not care less. Anything was better than this endless nothingness. At least he would find the reason -why- he was here. All those who cared for him had told him he -had- suffered enough. Had paid his due for past crimes. All his friends had told him that. Except for his own conscience. But that had never been a friend, now had it?
Unbelievable, the spec grew! The spec became a wooden shack of planks, primitively hammered together. Where in hell had the person or persons unknown who built it found the wood?
Where in Hell indeed.
And there was a chimney- a brick -smoking- chimney! Warmth in Hell, how ironic. He knew there was a smirk on his face. The same smirk he had shown Voldemort at that last battle. Where he had given the Weasly boy time to escape and get Dumbledore and Harry and the whole heroic lot of them.
Oh he had known it had been too late for him, he had known his wounds were mortal- Well, perhaps if Voldemort would not have picked him up to drag him back to the torture chamber, he might have lived- But that damnable bastard had been dragging him of as a kind of trophy, cackling like mad- snapping Severus's wand in two in his face- not checking if Snape had brought more than one fang into battle.
One scratch with the deadly blade, no larger than his finger, had been enough- It had been his own brew, that poison, so he had known -exactly- how deadly it was.
Instantly the creature had dropped him, fallen to his knees, realising far too late he had severely underestimated his Severus. That Severus had not been fighting to survive, but to get close. Close enough for his small blade to hit the mark.
Just one small scratch.
Voldemort had even died before him, Severus remembered. His last word pitifully unimportant.
"Why?"
The filthy light in those red eyes had gone out with one last blink- and Severus had heard the footsteps of the others- the shouts of still fighting Death Eaters- But it had been too late. Too late for them, lost without their master. Too late for him, without the strength to hold on.
Of all the last sights he had hoped to see of the world, it had -not- been the concerned face of the Potter boy bending over him, while the redheaded Weasly kid kicked the monster's corpse.
On the other hand, that had been somewhat amusing.
Damn those boys. Damn them for falling into Voldemorts trap. Damn them for coming back for him. Damn Voldemort for setting it al up in the first place. Damn him to Hell!
Dead on his feet, well he would be if he had not been dead already, and chilled to the bone, desperate for something, anything different from the grey monotone surrounding him, Severus knocked the door. It swung open. Snape stared up at the man inside, and with wide eyes stepped back, his mouth forming an unspoken -no-.
Tall, skeletally thin, a hairless face whiter than a scull with livid, scarlet eyes and a nose as flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils, there he stood. Before Snape could turn and run, a spidery hand shot out, caught the front of his robes and pulled him inside.
"Fancy meeting you here," said Voldemort.
Andolyn
When Hell Froze Over
It was cold, in Hell. Very, very cold.
Just his damn luck.
Severus Snape drew his cloak a little tighter round his lean frame. So much for not being corporal in the afterlife. And he was hungry, too.
There was no nightfall here, only some odd greyish gloom, penetrating all.
Dust. Rocks. An overcast sky and no stars. No shadows. Just the endless horizon and the cold.
He wasn't even sure he was dead. Really completely dead and all. Sometimes he could hear voices, carried by the harsh cold wind in his back that never seized, trying to call him home. But they were gone when he turned.
To hear Dumbledore cry- that had been the worst.
This had to be hell. He was suffering from frostbite on the broken lips, his toes held no feeling and when he dared look, two of the fingers of his right hand were turning black.
He should cut them off, really.
But he had no knife.
He had no nothing.
There was nothing, not out here.
Except for this freezing desert.
And a little somewhat darker spec in the distance.
A spec in the distance?
Slightly to the left, so Snape changed course, somewhat. Even if it were the Devil himself awaiting him, he could not care less. Anything was better than this endless nothingness. At least he would find the reason -why- he was here. All those who cared for him had told him he -had- suffered enough. Had paid his due for past crimes. All his friends had told him that. Except for his own conscience. But that had never been a friend, now had it?
Unbelievable, the spec grew! The spec became a wooden shack of planks, primitively hammered together. Where in hell had the person or persons unknown who built it found the wood?
Where in Hell indeed.
And there was a chimney- a brick -smoking- chimney! Warmth in Hell, how ironic. He knew there was a smirk on his face. The same smirk he had shown Voldemort at that last battle. Where he had given the Weasly boy time to escape and get Dumbledore and Harry and the whole heroic lot of them.
Oh he had known it had been too late for him, he had known his wounds were mortal- Well, perhaps if Voldemort would not have picked him up to drag him back to the torture chamber, he might have lived- But that damnable bastard had been dragging him of as a kind of trophy, cackling like mad- snapping Severus's wand in two in his face- not checking if Snape had brought more than one fang into battle.
One scratch with the deadly blade, no larger than his finger, had been enough- It had been his own brew, that poison, so he had known -exactly- how deadly it was.
Instantly the creature had dropped him, fallen to his knees, realising far too late he had severely underestimated his Severus. That Severus had not been fighting to survive, but to get close. Close enough for his small blade to hit the mark.
Just one small scratch.
Voldemort had even died before him, Severus remembered. His last word pitifully unimportant.
"Why?"
The filthy light in those red eyes had gone out with one last blink- and Severus had heard the footsteps of the others- the shouts of still fighting Death Eaters- But it had been too late. Too late for them, lost without their master. Too late for him, without the strength to hold on.
Of all the last sights he had hoped to see of the world, it had -not- been the concerned face of the Potter boy bending over him, while the redheaded Weasly kid kicked the monster's corpse.
On the other hand, that had been somewhat amusing.
Damn those boys. Damn them for falling into Voldemorts trap. Damn them for coming back for him. Damn Voldemort for setting it al up in the first place. Damn him to Hell!
Dead on his feet, well he would be if he had not been dead already, and chilled to the bone, desperate for something, anything different from the grey monotone surrounding him, Severus knocked the door. It swung open. Snape stared up at the man inside, and with wide eyes stepped back, his mouth forming an unspoken -no-.
Tall, skeletally thin, a hairless face whiter than a scull with livid, scarlet eyes and a nose as flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils, there he stood. Before Snape could turn and run, a spidery hand shot out, caught the front of his robes and pulled him inside.
"Fancy meeting you here," said Voldemort.