SPOILER ALERT! Those who have not gotten past Chapter 33 in book seven, come back later!!

I just finished Harry Potter seven and I had to write Snape's side of his death because I have no idea why. It just seemed like a story that needed to be told.

Disclaimer: Are you kidding me? Does it sound like I own Harry Potter? Yeah, that's right, I don't.


The Dark Lord hissed something to his pet, and Snape let out a terrible scream. It was coming towards him, towards his exposed neck, and there was no fighting the fangs that sank into his flesh, releasing the venom into his blood. He collapsed to his knees, feeling the rush of cold that often accompanies death.

"I regret it," the cold, high voice said. The snake was pulled away from Snape's neck, ripping bits of flesh and muscle with it, and Snape unintentionally sprawled sideways on the floor. His hair and clothing were already dripping with his own blood, but all of the feeling in his body was giving way to numbness. Futilely, he pressed his hand to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named then left, ironically deserting Snape to die in a place where he would have died all those years ago, had his worst enemy not interfered . . . .

Was it his imagination, or was the ghost of James Potter suddenly there, come to mock him even as he slipped away? The same hair, the same build, even the same stupid glasses he always had, it must be him . . . but no, those bright green eyes gave it away — it was his son, her son, Harry Potter.

He knew what he had to do. It was his job, he had to tell the boy, needed to tell him . . . everything . . . but there was so much to say, and he could feel the time passing through his fingers with every surge of blood that slid down his neck and face.

As a final effort, the Headmaster conjured up all of his memories of her, all of his pain and love and regret, and excreted them out of his eyes, his ears, his mouth, anything really . . . . The boy bent over him curiously as he did this, and Snape took the opportunity to latch onto his robes and pull him closer.

"Take . . . it . . . . Take . . . it . . . ." His voice gurgled with bile and blood, but Harry didn't flinch back. Someone had handed him a flask, and the boy silently, almost reverently, collected the memories with his wand.

As Harry capped off the bottle, Snape felt an enormous relief, lightheaded and strangely free. But . . . but he longed to see one last thing before the end . . . .

"Look . . . at . . . me . . . ." he whispered thickly, even as his hand loosened its grip.

Harry obeyed.

Then it wasn't Harry staring down at him, frightened and determined, nor was it James — it was Lily, watching him with those green eyes, eyes that always seemed to understand him.

He knew, somehow, that he was being forgiven by her . . . and, for a moment, he felt absurdly happy . . . .

Then, there was nothing.

I cried a ton during Snape's death and his memories. I always liked him, even if he treated Harry like the scum of the earth. And I love Snape/Lily one-sided pairings as well.