After the last snow had melted, revealing cold and bare earth, asphalt, cobble-stones, pebbles or other street pavement, there would be warmth again. The term changed from winter to spring like every year, delivering everything one associated with this season. Bare, bone-like tree-branches twisting in the wind would be soon covered with fresh leaves, spurting seemingly out of nowhere. Young grass would shoot out of the ground, unmarked and vital. The birds would be twittering their happy songs and wizards and witches would cover their eyes smiling from the first sight of the brilliantly coloured plants. Bright green would flash in the new-found sunrays, teasing, flirting.

Spring always stood for a new beginning, a new energy, a new love. And spring always began with new life, with life-bringing green. Spring and green and life were as inseparable as Harry Potter and Voldemort and death. Unconsciously or not, everybody connected the words with each other, they belonged to each other. Only if life itself ended would spring stop being green. And only death could part Harry Potter from Voldemort. It was like some twisted kind of marriage, with Potter being the bride and being tied to Voldemort by his scar. Maybe unwilling slave would be a better term, though.

Avada Kedavra was an open mocking, pure blasphemy in itself. The green lightning curse brought one's downfall. Corrupted green colour, standing for death instead of life. And yellow envied it. Paradox, indeed.

Harry's breath hitched, his heart-beat sped up, while everything around him seemed to slow down, unnaturally. For the second time in his life, the green curse came spiralling towards him, for the first time he actually saw and understood the meaning behind it. The vortex was too slow, far too slow, Harry could tell, but it seemed so right. Why should it be fast? Only a few meters were between the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Live-Much-Longer and the Avada Kedavra, but it seemed as if everything lay amidst this distance. His life, his hope, his everything. But unfortunately not his wand.

"The Dark Lord will be very pleased, indeed," a cold voice said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Harry strained his ears, he had difficulty hearing with all the buzzing and the heavy pressure coming from all directions, trying to squeeze his head to a bloody pulp. Or was it just his imagination? Psychosomatically inflicted pre-death experiences?

"Our dear celebrity vanished under uncanny circumstances," the silky voice of Hogwarts' Potions Master went on. "Can't you just see the headline in the Daily Prophet, Potter? Oh, no, you can't see the headline with all the Killing Curse in your line of view." Severus chuckled, darkly.

"I should have guessed," Harry grit out slowly, as if he were under a trance, the kaleidoscope drawing closer, "that you'd enjoyed every second of it. And you do, don't you?"

Too slow, too green, it was as if Harry looked into a mirror. His own eyes showing him the inevitably future. Divination for beginners. How ironic. Irony was definitely nothing Harry Potter was too fond of, nor too keen on, whatever.

"Why shan't I?" Snape snapped, angrily. His eyes narrowed at the still paralysed boy who'd soon be history, if he hadn't been for all of his short life anyway. "The last seconds of famous Harry Potter," he spat, disgusted, "are something oh so very precious to me that it would be a felony not to thrive on every moment of it. Thriving, indeed, as this moment shall be burned into my memory forever, more life-bringing than divine ambrosia itself."

"You are sick," Harry said, tiredly, closing his eyes briefly. "I always knew it, but the extent is somewhat unsettling. Even for me, who I have seen far more than-"

"Not more than me, boy," Severus cut him off, infamous silk-covered steel in his voice. "Don't presume you have seen more than me or I'd be forced to take off 20 points from Gryffindor for your impertinence." He frowned, pseudo-thoughtfully. "It wouldn't matter anyway, now would it?"

Harry ignored the words and instead opted for bracing himself for the impact of the curse as it came in touching range, if he could have moved his arms, that was. Crucio was a painful curse, no doubt about that. But how would Avada Kedavra feel like? Would it be quick and painless? Most likely not. Would it be as painful as the Cruciatus Curse, maybe even worse? Possibly. Probably. Almost certainly. Oh well. Oh joy.

"Don't despair, Potter," Snape's voice reached his ears only instants before the curse hit home. "We shall soon meet again."

A hot summer day neared its end, the air still filled with heat and a fierce dryness. Fireflies buzzing around and mosquitoes making the lazy time of Muggles and Wizards more exhausting. Lakes were beautiful, beyond any doubt, especially shortly before the sun set, but these feisty little creatures were hard to endure.

Nevertheless, many a couple sought out such romantic places to end a hot day, whether if it was a quiet little pond in the backyard, or the gigantic dimensions of the Pacific ocean, it made no difference. The sun glowed red in the last stages of the day as it slowly sunk down below the horizon, playing with the water surface and letting it shine vibrantly for a short but precious amount of time. The blue of the sky shone red as well, looking as if the air was on fire, and the water played along.

The sparking fire was mirrored in the couples that loved to watch these sunsets together, that loved to just be together, that plainly loved each other. Hearts thumping wildly and profusely sweating palms were only the clearest indications.

Red was the colour of love and passion. Love was one of the oldest emotions, even older than hatred. And passion was the physical embodiment of the pure love. True love and passion weighed each other out, they balanced each other and avoided the equilibrium to get disturbed. There was no need to worry, for there was no negative side to the fire to get burned if it was pure.

But only the lily stood for purity, not the red of the dusking sun, nor the red of the burning emotion. Even red was corrupt, but at least not deceiving. Red could also show you where the danger lay ahead; if it wasn't already too late for it, that was.

"Fuck," Snape cursed softly, after the vomiting had ceased somewhat to a more tolerable level. Even swearing wasn't that colourful as the blood that pooled in a puddle larger than necessary.

"My, Severus," the icy voice of Voldemort hissed in a twisted mixture of glee and barely controlled anger. "No need to be so vulgar. It is 'Fuck, Master.'" A playful smile crept onto his face, looking as out of place as Vegeta in high-heels only to match Bulma's height. "And fuck what? Fuck you?" he pursed his lips condescending, "thanks, but no, thanks. Fucking the dead is not quite as amusing as it used to be. It gets so tiresome after a while, no resistance no fun, you see? And you don't seem as though you'd last for more than five minutes with my superior company, anyway. Or did you mean fuck me? Time is precious, Snape, yours even more than mine, as I should think you would know by now. You have to be more precise, indeed. After all, I can't read your mind to know what you meant. Wait. Actually, I can." A calculating gleam entered Voldemort's eyes as he studied his wand, carefully stroking the glossy surface with one bony finger. A powerful energy surged through his hand, his arm, eagerly wanting to be released to wrack havoc.

Voldemort sighed and pointed his wand at the prone figure of Snape. "Legillimens," he muttered, lazily, prying into his victim's mind who was too weak to steel himself against the assault against his privacy.

Violent jerks, no coherent thoughts, anarchy reigned inside Snape's head. Every thought seemed to merge into the next or break up suddenly, as if Severus had forgotten what he had been doing at all. His mind was out of order, a colourful swirl of nothingness that led in a regular pattern back to a few major topics. Red. Blood. Pain.

Voldemort dug deeper, forcefully prying his way into the foreign environment. But there was nothing he could work with. Random experiences, random memories, random thoughts. There was nothing at all. Voldemort's grip tightened around his wand as he forced his murderous impulses back; at least for the meantime. There was only one way Snape could have accomplished that, but this sole way also meant conclusive that he had known what had been laying ahead. And this led to only one conclusion in the Dark Lord's train of thought: That this meantime would last a bit longer than he had thought at first.

"Crucio!" he cried, shaking with the afford not to merely utter the Avada Kedavra which would end it all. Oh, how he wished he had summoned the other Death Eaters to watch this spectacle. It would have been so much more fun. The more the merrier, didn't they say so? But as this was a Muggle saying, Voldemort would have the fun all for himself.

"Flipendo!" Voldemort uttered and watched satisfied as Snape's nearly unconscious form rolled roughly unto his back. Blood-crusted hair was glued to the pale face and neck of the Potions Master, his breathing came in shallow gasps, trying against all human logic to not pass out. Cuts and bruises covered the exposed skin, as the once intimidating robes were now left nothing but shreds due to the various curses he had been under for the last hours. Snape's vision was blurry and sticky blood ran over his cheek, screaming for all who would listen that the life was leaving this body. But the walls were deaf.

Little tremors ran through Severus' body as Voldemort cast the next spell on him. The effect was less than anticipated, but this was due to Severus' exhaustion and not Voldemort's lack of torture skills, which were, by any means, quite sophisticated.

"You should have known better," the Dark Lord whispered. "Killing the boy and thus depriving me of my prerogative? Tut. Where shall I get my pleasure from now? ANSWER! CRUCIO!"

Another jolt went through the weakened wizard's body. Voldemort scowled in obvious displeasure as his little project uttered nothing more than a weak sigh instead of a thoroughly tormented scream. Where were the good old days when one could torture some victim or another and one's Potions Master delivered concoction after concoction to keep the poor soul by full mind and body awareness? These things were predestined to happen when one tortured the Potions Master himself. Pity. At least, it hadn't been too awfully quick. Snape had lasted longer than Voldemort would have given him credit for beforehand, though, and that meant something.

"Don't despair, Snape," Voldemort whispered, unknowingly using the same words Snape had said shortly before his curse had killed Harry. "I won't let you die on me. Not today, anyway. Even though you have disappointed me so deeply with your lack of foresight, you are very precious to me. Really. What would I do without the Wizarding World's best Potions Master? Don't let yourself be flattered, though." He put a Stabilising Charm on Severus, not wanting to let him die, but not quite ready to allow the torture to be over with. The sight was too beautiful and the pain was far too delicious. Closing his eyes, Voldemort sucked in a shuddering breath as Snape's pain morphed into his pleasure, sending delightful jolts through his inhuman body.

Snape was too intelligent for his own good. One day, it would be his downfall.

Severus coughed, nearly choking on his own blood, and rolled to the side, wincing while doing so. His heart beat agonisingly slow and forceful, making the breathing even more painful.

His mind was blank, no thoughts breaking to the surface. It was odd; and Snape didn't know why. He must have let almost all of his memories in his Pensieve at Hogwarts, though why was beyond him. It was likely that the 'why' was important, as well, so he didn't really care. After a countless number of Crucios and various other curses, Severus hadn't got the strength anymore to really care. He was in a state of nearly absolute blissful ignorance, his body was mercifully numb, despite the aching of his lung and his heart.

Tiny droplets of rain froze in mid-air into icicles, falling faster towards the ground, glistering like little diamonds. The sky was crowded with dark grey clouds, covering the beauty of the icy blue air. It was silent, no thunder could be heard in this mute hail. In some places, the sun peaked through the thick layers of clouds and tickled the ice pieces. The rays of light split up upon contact, sending the colours of the spectrum in every direction.

The temperature, though, was far too low that there could be any spectator out there to watch the scene. It was serene, and the fact that the ground was mostly untouched, made it even more beautiful.

The landscape would be soon covered with a high coat of snow and the seas and ponds, still shining proudly in their blue colour, would be shortly frozen over. Children would use it then to skate on the ice, but not yet. Now was this short period of time, when autumn merged into winter, when there really wasn't much to do outside, when Muggles and Wizards alike preferred to stay at home. Depressions settled over many of them, as they watched glumly as the days went by, oh so slowly. Without the sun, the energy was mostly spent, and to feel blue was nothing extraordinary.

Blue as the colour of sadness and depression, blue like the beautiful sky, or blue like the dangerous ocean. The colour was adoptable and quite able to surprise. If it was out of the blue, that was.

"Crucio," Voldemort muttered lazily, expressing his thanks to Wormtail. His red eyes gleamed in bemusement, as the ragged man writhed on the floor. "You should have told me earlier. I wouldn't have wasted so much time on Snape, well, not at this moment of time, anyways ..." his voice petered out, his mind clearly reliving the glorious moments of exquisite pain. Pale white skin, dark black robes and bright red blood. It was the perfect picture. The most delicious combination of self-inflicted and alien pain was almost enough to send Voldemort into fits of ecstasy.

"Now make yourself useful and bring me the Spell Book before I change my mind and test it on you first!" Voldemort hissed and kicked Wormtail, who crawled away hastily, not wanting to anger his master any further.

"Pathetic," the Dark Lord murmured. It never ceased to amaze him how incredible dull and weak his followers were. Your average light bulb was brighter than Pettigrew, Crabbe and Goyle combined. Pathetic. It was the perfect word. Most of his Death Eaters couldn't use their brain properly without his help. It was enough to make you weep. How this bunch of dunderheads ended up on his side in the first place was definitely beyond him.

A small smile crept onto Voldemort's face, he pointed his wand at Snape and muttered an "Enervate" to bring the Potions Master back to consciousness. Wouldn't want him to sleep through this glorious moment, now would he? After this little mission was accomplished, he would need to discipline his Death Eaters a little more.

"Uhn," Severus groaned, slowly coming back to his senses; especially his pain sensitivity. The attempt to turn his head only slightly had been a very wrong decision, for the Potions Master wasn't someone who enjoyed a roller-coaster ride; least in his current condition. Various coloured fireworks exploded behind his tightly closed eyelids, spinning around, making him even more nauseous due to the association with the Weasley pranksters. As if the torture session hadn't been enough for his strained nerves.

The ground beneath him was cold and hard, reminding him were he was exactly. And how he got there in the first place. The Dark Lord had been immensely displeased with him. He didn't know anymore what he had thought. It was clear as day that Voldemort wouldn't be overjoyed when he was not the one to kill the irritating Potter brat.

The rotating in his head slowly ceased, indicating that Snape had been given a blood restoring potion; otherwise the queasy feeling would have lasted way longer. But unfortunately, there was no pain relieving potion circulating in his blood stream.

"Welcome back in the land of the living, figuratively spoken," Voldemort said, hissing only slightly. "I take it you rested well?" he added, not waiting for a reply. "Good. Now get up."

Snape had quite to struggle to his feet, his knees felt as though they had been under the Jelly-Legs Jinx for too long. Dignity was not really an option, but fortunately, Voldemort had turned his back on him to arrange something on a large stone altar he had just conjured out of thin air. Severus grabbed his wand that had fallen out of his pocket long ago and shoved it back into its shelve. He didn't dare to cast any spell to improve his condition; no need to anger his master any further. A second torture session in less than twelve hours (except he had been unconscious longer than he thought) was definitely not that high up on his wish list for Christmas.

After he had regained his footing again, Snape took a cautious step towards the Dark Lord, not quite knowing what to expect.

A door creaked open and Wormtail crept back in, carrying an old book in his artificial claw-hand. "M-master, here it is. The spell is called Ergasarius. And I book-marked-"

"Enough," Voldemort hissed, ripping the tome out of Wormtail's hand. "Stay back. But don't you dare pull something like that again or the consequences will not be reversible with this spell. Understood?"

The man nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Master!" Then he fled quickly into a corner of the dungeon they were in.

Voldemort's mien changed from one of anger to one of barely concealed glee as his eyes met with Snape's. The eeriness emitted from them made Snape's proverbial hackles rise and his inner mode change to 'overly alerted'.

"Come nearer," Voldemort hissed, crooking one index finger in a coaxing manner, beckoning his servant closer. This manner didn't suit him in the least, though nobody would ever mistake him for the wicked witch. "I want you to watch and I want you to watch closely. Maybe you will learn something on how to do this kind of job properly."

Severus swallowed and limped towards the Dark Lord, the nearer he got the farer away he wished himself; this was a natural impulse. As the altar came into better view, the Potions Master's stomach threatened to turn. He was still a bit sensible.

On top of the stone structure lay the still form of Harry Potter. For all the world it would seem as though he were merely asleep. But his chest wasn't moving, indicating that his lung wasn't working and his heart wasn't beating. He was as dead as he could be. He looked peaceful, as if nothing bothered him anymore, nothing could shake his world anymore. And it was true.

Snape tried to hold back his sneer at the sight. No matter how and in which however ridiculous situation, the brat always managed to get the better of him. Always. There was no being rid of him. Just like those damn Muggle Yo-Yo's. Always coming back. Damn him!

Voldemort shut the book with a thump and put it to the ground. "You seem to not quite being finished yourself," he hissed, smirking diabolically. "The Avada Kedavra was indeed a bad choice for all the troubles the boy had caused us during his whole life. Why ending it so awfully quick?"

"Yes," Severus answered, his dangerously gleaming eyes still transfixed on the Boy-Who-Died. "Too awfully quick. There was no time to enjoy it."

"Tell me more," the Dark Lord encouraged quietly, sick interest thick in his voice. "How was it? The instant he faced his death?"

"His eyes were wide," came the reply. "I could positively feel his fear and his underlying anger. His eyes gleamed green, more intensive than ever before. But whether it was because the Killing Curse was mirrored in them or due to the mixed emotions, I'm not sure. It was over so soon and left is only the memory ..."

"Only the memory," Voldemort gritted out through his teeth. "After this you will answer me a few questions; and they'd better be good."

"After-" Snape began confused, but then cut himself off as the Dark Lord raised his wand towards Potter, muttering a spell under his breath. A blue stream of magic surged forward and Snape took a sudden step backwards, nearly losing his balance. Confusion was clearly evident in his eyes, but the underneath lurking dawning horror would soon break through the surface.

"Merlin," he whispered, hoarsely. Not wanting to see anything but not able to close his eyes either, Snape felt as though he was being ripped apart. In his days as a 'real' Death Eater, he had seen many things, too many things indeed to be healthy, but this was beyond anything.

Harry's body convulsed spasmodically, twitching and twisting violently. Suddenly, his back arched upwards in a beautiful curve, his mouth opening and emitting a stretched scream, which seemed to last forever. The scream was nearly drowned in Voldemort's high-pitched laughter of utter delight.

Severus covered his ears, trying with all his might to shut out the terrible noise. He fell to his knees, but his eyes wouldn't be persuaded from the scene in front of him. Voldemort was coated in an aura of blue magic which shot through his wand towards Potter and flew into the boy. The glowing was eerie in his ghostly resemblance, but in a twisted kind of way beautiful.

Bringing the dead back in the world of the living was darkest Dark Magic that existed, if it really existed in the first place. There was no evidence for all Snape knew. But if this really should bring Potter back for the sole reason that Voldemort could have his wicked way with him and torture him back up the Styx river, then he should be prepared to pay the accurate price.

Suddenly, Severus heard something through all the loud screaming and laughing. A faint noise, like something breakable shattering into pieces, but in a far distance. A noise he shouldn't be able to hear. And then, Severus was grateful that he was already on his knees as something attacked him. An unexpected surge of magic rushed into his body, making him slightly dizzy. Everything clicked into place, the puzzle solved itself quickly enough, and Snape grabbed his wand. Voldemort was still concentrated on bringing Potter back, and the Potions Master made good use of this circumstance. He cast a body binding spell on Wormtail who had crawled nearer to watch the spectacle. The spell hit the man out of the blue and he was left with no chance, laying unmoving on the cold floor of the dungeons of the Riddle House.

Voldemort's laughing subsided gradually, as he realised that something was terrible wrong. He couldn't stop the spell, the energy leaving his body and pouring into Potter not ceasing to flow. This shouldn't be happening, this was not planned. No way! His wand shivered fiercely, but the grip wouldn't loosen up, try as he might.

Severus smirked at the picture of the thoroughly displeased Dark Lord. At least, he wasn't at the receiving end this time. His amusement sobered as he lay his eyes on the awakening boy. Of course. What had he said about never being rid of him?

The pain was obvious in every movement Potter made, but Severus could take no pleasure in it. He could already see it clearly. How the Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died-And-Lived-Again had rescued the Wizarding and the Muggle World from You-Know-Who. The old and new celebrity to the society. How the boy who was only that, a boy, a small child, had lived up to his name. How Potter had come up with the ingenious and of course incredible stupid idea to let himself get killed and see if Voldemort would take the bait they had laid out for both him and Pettigrew; a very Gryffindor way to get down to a task of this dimension. But Dumbledore had lastly conceded. What had Snape expected? Dumbledore himself was a Gryffindor, as well. At least, Snape had had the pleasure of killing Harry in the first place. A small pleasure in comparison to the pain he'd had to endure afterwards.

He would make sure to pay Potter back. Even if it only was through taking points off Gryffindor.

The Order of the Phoenix had taken down the Death Eaters that were on the ground of the Dark Lord's house, as the Dark Lord himself drained himself from his essential life. There was no stopping the inevitable, and slowly he reversed the situation, bringing Potter back to life with a part of his own body. The only difference was that he wouldn't survive the process.

Two weeks later, the Christmas holidays ended and the students once again filled Hogwarts. The school was now as safe as the homes of any of them, as they weren't threatened by the Dark Lord anymore. A few Death Eaters had managed to escape, but they were still branded and would be found, eventually.

Snape sat in his office, grading the first essays of the new year. A new year which was indeed a whole new beginning to the entire world. Rubbing his Dark Mark absently, he thought how good it had felt to kill Potter, to have the power to take his life, just like that. Of course, if it had been an actual duel, Potter would have most likely won. He didn't play dirty, but he was the more powerful wizard. Snape would never admit that out loud, though.

Up to now, Potter behaved quite like himself, there didn't seem to be any negative side effects on him due to the Dark Magic. Obviously, only the caster was affected.

"Come in," Severus sighed, and the door swung open, revealing a beaming Albus.

"Why, I haven't even knocked." Albus walked into the office, his brightly coloured robes swishing elegantly.

"You didn't have to," Severus replied, pointing towards an armchair.

The headmaster took a seat and surveyed Snape's desk interested.

"I fear I have to disappoint you," Severus drawled. "There aren't any lemon drops hidden."

"Not even some skittles?"

Severus only glared at him. "I'm not a sweets shop."

"Pity," Albus sighed, then fished for his emergency smarties. Throwing a few of them into his mouth, he sighed contentedly.

"What can I do for you?" Snape tried not to sneer too openly.

"I only came to bring you something," the headmaster said, pulling a small box out of his right pocket. He put the box on the desk in front of the Potions Master and then leaned back.

"I am in no mood for guessing games."

"It's a new Pensieve. A replacement for the one I ... had to break."

Snape nodded and put the box into a drawer to open it later. He had been quite troubled with his memories for the last two weeks because Dumbledore had destroyed his old Pensieve in order to make him remember the plan.

"If that was all ..." Severus said, waving a hand over the stacks of parchments. "I have a lot to do."

"Yes, that was all."