Hobson's Choice

The silence that followed was punctuated only by the sounds of harsh breathing. Then, with a few quick flicks of his wand, Snape ensured that the room was secure before lowering himself heavily onto the rickety armchair.

Slowly, methodically, he raised both hands to his face, and brushed back his limp black hair, pushing back one strand at a time. Halfway, he stopped, trembling.

The night's events' flashed before him. Stunning Flitwick, pushing past the others fighting on the stairs, bursting out onto the parapet, only to see Draco and the other Death Eaters surrounding a wizened Dumbledore.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he gave a long shuddering sigh. He could clearly picture Dumbledore: for the first time since Snape had known him, he was stooped, half slumped against the wall and looked every inch of his 150 years.

'Severus,' Dumbledore had beseeched, his voice betraying no little amount of uncertainty and panic.

Eyes still closed, Snape clenched his fists together so tightly that they shook. He could not get the image out of his head. The whole nightmarish scene was replaying in his mind like some potions experiment gone horribly wrong. He could hear Dumbledore again, his gravelly voice more pressing than before. 'Severus, please.'

They had gone over that same tired debate multiple times before, never having resolved the issue. But now, looking at Dumbledore, who was too frail even to stand without support, Snape knew that Dumbledore had won the argument. There was no more time to lose; there was no other way. He saw himself on the parapet again, narrowing his eyes and pursing his mouth into a thin hard line as he raised his wand and pointed it directly at Dumbledore.

'Avada Kedevra.' The green light had shot out of his wand and hit Dumbledore straight in the chest.

He remembered how Dumbledore had been flung up into the air, off the parapet, and how he had plummeted to the ground, his long florid robes slapping uselessly about his deathly still body.

Snape bowed his head. His hair, so carefully tucked away from his face, fell loose again, partially obscuring his gaunt face.

The night's events continued their relentless march in his mind's eye, tormenting him. He saw himself deflecting Potter's pathetic attempts now, while the boy yelled, 'Kill me like you kill him, you coward -'

Snape's face contorted with wrath then. 'That insolent brat!' He spat aloud to the empty room, 'How dare he call me a coward! HE KNOWS NOTHING! NOTHING!' Suddenly insanely angry, he whisked out his wand and slashed at the air. There was a thunderous explosion as a row of books flew off the shelves and crashed onto the floor, their dusty pages churning up clouds of dust.

The dust slowly settled, but his anger was not satiated. He lifted his wand and repeated his slashing motion, again and again. An entire bookcase full of books blasted off the shelves, smashing against the floor with a reverberating clamor.

As the spirals of dust stopped their violent swirls and lethargically sank back to the ground, Snape smiled a thin smile that did not light up his fathomless black eyes. The irony of the situation did not escape him. Regardless of what that wretched Potter boy had thought, he had not wanted to kill Dumbledore; he had not wanted to raise his wand against him. He had been fully prepared to meet the consequences of that Unbreakable Vow. Snape welcomed death. It would have been a release from 15 years of bottled up grief, of remorse. In death he could finally be absolved of his sins and rid himself of this treacherous life, this perilous balancing act.

He cursed Dumbledore for forcing him into a corner, and staining his hands with still more innocent blood. The blood of the one man who had believed so completely in him, that he placed his life literally in his hands. Snape snorted; yet, he knew that there could have been no other way. Dumbledore was dying, and the old man had entreated him to complete the Unbreakable Vow. Much as he wanted to fight the old man's reasons, he could not disagree with his logic. There was only so much an old man of 150 could do. It was much too imperative for Snape to remain alive.

Scowling, Snape stood up and surveyed the wreckage disgustedly. He had wasted enough time, sitting there and mourning like some sentimental fool. There was no time for such frivolity. Before reporting to Voldemort, he still needed to contact the Order. For, much as they distrusted him, and much as he despised them, those simple-minded nitwits needed him. Time was running out.

Grimacing at the mess, he flourished his wand and muttered, 'reparo.' The books zipped back onto the bookshelf, their order restored. Satisfied, he disapparated, the second time that night.