How do you keep a promise you can't remember?

----

The Wizarding World often put its faith in the wrong places, it had trusted Tom Riddle, it believed that a one year old child could save them and it condemned a curmudgeon spy whom was not really what he seemed.

The dark clad man walked out from under the shadows cast by the towering heights of Hogwarts. His long dark robes brushed against the freshly dewed grass and wildflowers as it struggled to keep up with the man's long strides. Unconcerned with the fact that his robes were getting ruined by the thick moisture, the man walked stiffly forward. The soft cold wind whistled past the man, silencing any sound he was making in his careless trod toward the lake.

He moved steadily forward, his thin dark form slicing though the air with a grace acquired from years of withstanding battles and indignities. His hands clenched at his sides, the long fingers digging treacherously into his palms. Despite the graceful movement, the man held himself taut, his gait stiff and his dark eyes fierce. Long strands of oily dark hair slung on to his face, shielding his expression from possible onlookers. His fists clenched one last time, before his fingers uncurled as he finally reached his destination.

Severus Snape came to an abrupt stop, his heavy boots trampling on the small white flowers at his feet. The dark figure of Severus Snape stood a dark blight on the uniform field of white flowers. The only movement in the otherwise tranquil environment was the deep life sustaining breaths that fluttered across the man's frame.

In the dusk, Hogwarts' lake glimmered dark blue but was otherwise still, the surface disturbed only the soft wind. Tiny ripples danced across the surface reflecting the dark sky above. But the man was not gazing at the picturesque image before him. Instead the man was gazing steadily at the unremarkable white flowers at his feet.

For several hundred heartbeats, he simply stood there, his arms folded and his silky voice muted as if charmed by the mundane field of wildflowers. The fields were flush with unassuming white flowers, blooming uniformly as if tended to by an invisible gardener. There were no patches of weeds, no patches from whence a certain girl used to picked them to braid them into her dark red hair.

It had been twenty years since Lily Evans had run through these fields, twenty years since her pixie like form had practically floated over the flowers, leaving them as flourishing as if she had never touched them.

Nearly two decades ago, he had followed her, running after her into this particular field of flowers, his own boots had trampled the field, killing every single flower in his wake. But he had scarcely noticed then, his mind had been elsewhere.

For Severus Snape it seemed like no time had run at all. During the summer months when Severus' thoughts circled around the years he had spent here with Lily, he found it disturbingly easy to forget who he had become and what had occurred to his companion. Years had passed since those days yet he suspected that the summer would always bring with it the image of a flower or a playground and the beautiful girl that loved them both. In those moments he felt fifteen again, never unblemished but relatively unsoiled by dark deeds. It was as if all the subsequent dark years had never passed, as if he were still standing amongst the ridiculous flowers Lily so loved. Such thoughts made his reality all the more galling.

He closed his eyes. Even now he could almost sense her, her presence emanating with that childlike warmth from when they were children and friends. Dark eyes opened, almost expecting to see the image of the girl he had attempted to protect. But there was nothing. Sweeping his black eyes over the field, he gazed for the first time at the lake, not truly seeing it.

Severus' thoughts jumped towards the Headmaster, the complex caricature that Severus did not presume to know nor understand. It was not in his role as a spy to question every singular incoherency in his master's deranged plots. But he had seen enough of lying wizards and witches, their syrupy words promising paradise while their actions spoke of cruelty, to know when Dumbledore himself lied.

Not to so long ago, he had argued against Dumbledore, he had fought on behalf of one boy, the sole remnant of the woman he had loved. If his hand were forced, Severus knew he would choose the ungrateful boy above all else. His mutinous thoughts still circling in his head, Severus turned and gazed at Hogwarts. Glancing up, Severus was swift enough to catch the retreating form of a bearded figure watching him from the high tower of the headmaster's abode. Dark eyes narrowed.

His face tightened, the eyes that had previously held warmth were vacant and circled by the deep purple of prolonged sleeplessness. Deciding he had idled enough, he turned towards Hogwarts a new determination fueling him.

Raising his booted feet revealed two large patches of flowers dead and broken under his feet. Behind him a trail of flowers lay fallen from whence he had trod upon them. He kneeled irrationally attempting to save them, but the petals only yellowed under his ministrations. Nothing had changed.

Albus Dumbledore ducked, moving his frame out of the window's view and hid from the dark piercing eyes that had gazed up at him. The light streaked into the tower for a moment before the curtains closed shut bathing the room in darkness. Dumbledore stood perfectly still, his eyes dark in the sparse light.

"Why are you doing this, Ms. Evans?" Albus had asked her, his hands folded before him as he gazed at her seated form.

"Potter" she had corrected automatically, shifting in her chair before answering him. "Because I believe in him."

Something in her voice was off. She had gazed at him then, so convinced, fire in her green eyes as if challenging him to argue. He did not disappoint.

"You have no reason to." He had said in rebuttal to her argument. The incredulous expression that lit up her face betrayed the fact that she knew Severus to be the spy. She knew Severus to be the one to warn them of Voldemort's intentions and knew that Dumbledore had hidden this from the Order. She had looked at Dumbledore then, her emerald eyes fixed upon his own, as if daring him to use Legimency to verify her words.

Dumbledore had looked away, ashamed by her distrust and ashamed by his own. Then she had uttered three words that would forever sound like an accusation to Dumbledore.

"You know why."

Feeling incredibly old, Dumbledore paced about his office glancing for a moment at the empty space where he had once kept Miss Evans' last item. Determined he pulled out his chess set and began to carefully arrange the pieces. The well-worn figures were beautifully carved but Dumbledore scarcely looked at them.

His fingers flitted across the board, expertly putting each piece where he deemed it to belong. The chess pieces mumbled under their breath at being manhandled. Dumbledore ignored them, his thoughts elsewhere. Severus would understand him when the time came, as would Harry. After all, it was for the greater good.

Humming under his breath, Dumbledore tapped the black rook over the head as he once again, prepared to play himself.