Selfish
by Riley

The priestess's voice was a soft, soul-numbing drone as she circled the grave, chanting.

Severus Snape stared silently at nothing, letting the ritual words wash over him, knowing they would never wash away the pain, the grief.

My fault. All my fault. Oh, Minerva.

He stood apart from the other Hogwarts teachers and the students, past, present, and future (the younger siblings or young children of the past and present ones). The black garments were a staple with him; for the first time, he regretted that there was no outward distinction he could make as a display of mourning.

Only the tears, that would not come. Not here. Not before others.

Only with her had he ever managed to cry. And alone. Of course alone.

Always alone.

A hand on his shoulder, the weight familiar, yet, as always, a surprise. Normally he would have at least tried to acknowledge the Headmaster's presence, to be grateful for the contact.

Today he couldn't manage it.

Oh, Minerva. It should have been me.

The hand left his shoulder as Dumbledore went forward to stand beside the grave. "Today we honor a fallen colleague," he said softly, his voice nonetheless carrying to the corners of the graveyard. "A witch whose courage and determination are an example for us all."

An example. A beacon. Minerva....

"A witch whose selfless sacrifice brought down the greatest evil the world has known in generations...."

And broke her heart. He broke her heart--- him.

I never had a chance.

He tried to dredge up some bitterness against the still form inside the shroud. Couldn't. He had loved her knowing what he'd get in return; it hadn't mattered. He knew better than to think it could have been otherwise.

Dumbledore's voice swept on, but Snape could no longer hear, could no longer think.

Across the graveyard, the ghost stood in shimmering silence.

They were not tied to their place of death; but even if she had been she would have found a way.

Oh, Severus.

Eternity was a long time to live with such a thing on one's conscience.

Most people would not have understood death as selfish. Perhaps one had to be a ghost to appreciate the selfishness of such a gesture---

No! She made a sharp, impatient gesture, reminiscent of her living self. She would not allow herself that excuse. She had known, and done it anyway.

She had known....

******

Minerva McGonagall looked up as the door to the staffroom banged open.

Severus Snape swept in, his cloak billowing around him like an extension of the thunderclouds in his eyes. "Severus---"

He looked up sharply, then his expression cleared slightly. "Minerva---" The corners of his eyes relaxed a little. "I was looking for you."

One look at him told her this was not a conversation to be had in a public place. She got to her feet. "Come along, then."

It was also not a conversation to be had immediately. Not that she minded, precisely. He was incredibly... thorough... in this sort of mood.

She had grown rather too familiar with it in recent months.

Afterward, they lay together, squandering the size of his canopied bed with their closeness. She rested her head and one hand on his chest, above his heart--- not an idle gesture.

Good; some of the tension was gone, at least. Not all; never all.

His fingers toyed with her hair, combing through the dark strands gently. She couldn't help the comparison that always sprung to mind at such times--- though Severus was incontrovertibly his superior.

In this and other matters. "What is it?" she asked, settling herself closer to him, using the warmth of her body to try to relax him.

He sighed deeply. "The usual, that's all--- does there have to be anything else?" She knew he hated his duties as Dumbledore's spy--- knew that their relationship was both the only thing that made it bearable for him and one of the worst obstacles. Without her, he would have sunk into the darkness. And the darkness was a necessity.

There was more of it at the moment. "Now I know there is," she said gently.

Muttered wordless snarl; he hated being transparent to her--- at least on the surface. She was observant enough of him to suspect that he also appreciated it. So few people had taken the time to note his moods, before her.

"Do you really want to hear it?" He tipped her chin up with his long fingers, looking into her eyes.

She met his gaze, feeling a fleeting stab of tenderness for him. He was always so careful of her feelings on that score, mindful of her past and how much it hurt her. There was no way to make him believe that it was... he... who had hurt her, and not Severus. "It's all right," she told him. "Go on."

"All right--- we have a problem." His arm around her shoulders tightened. "The poison I've made."

"You're finished?"

"Yes--- much good it will do me." She raised an eyebrow. "He's moved past the point of taking in nourishment--- close enough to immortality that he doesn't need to eat any longer." Severus' fist clenched against her shoulder. "It would have worked too."

Minerva turned her head to press into his chest, offering sympathy even as her heart wrenched. Her mind might know that Tom Riddle was dead in every meaningful sense of the term, but her heart was more deluded.

Snape, with the peculiar instinct he showed for her feelings, touched her back gently. "I'm sorry."

She forced a laugh. "It's absurd of me," she murmured. "As if my feelings could possibly make a difference---"

His fingers trailed her spine. "If it makes you feel better---" bitter mockery in his tone---"he still remembers you."

"Wants my blood, no doubt." She swallowed against the old pain.

Snape was silent for a long moment. "I rather think not."

It was too cruel, she told herself. Too brutal to make him tell her--- but she had to know. "What do you mean?"

"He showed me a ring last night. A family crest on it that wasn't Slytherin's: a cat rampant with an owl holding an olive branch above it." He looked down at her. "He said it had been given to him by a witch who could have had the world at her feet, had she chosen to claim it."

For a moment, Minerva couldn't speak, could barely even breathe. For a long and guilty moment, all she could see was Tom's face, shadowed by moonlight, looking down at her, earnest and tender.

Do you want to come with me into this? The words, spoken so long ago and never repeated, flowed over her like hot water-- or oil.

"Oh." It didn't sound like her voice even to her own ears. She got a breath, then another, rolled onto her back, looking up at the green brocade of the canopy. "It was my father's," she said quietly. "A betrothal ring from bride to bridegroom--- the McGonagalls were always rather egalitarian that way."

"That would have appealed to him--- strong women are very much in the Slytherin tradition." Severus stroked her hair gently, not judging as so many would have, for which she was grateful.

"I know." She turned back to him, raising herself on an elbow to look at him. "He told me about the women of Salazar Slytherin's family." She traced her fingers over the back of Snape's hand, lying between them on the bed.

"I'm glad you know some good of our House." Bitter edge to his voice.

She raised herself up so that she looked down on him. "I know a great deal of good of Slytherin," she said seriously.

And kissed him.

He did his best. But she couldn't stop thinking.

He was tired after this time, needing sleep and finally able to get it. She was at once glad and resentful.

Glad, because she could let the memories play unobstructed. Soft neat dark hair and laughing green eyes. Hands playing lovingly over her and the tender look he had only for her---

And resentful, because it was painful to be left alone with the memories... and the reflections.

After a time, though, Severus woke--- he seldom slept very long or very deeply. "What is it?" That strange, gentle awareness he had of her feelings!

For a long moment, she didn't answer, just let the shadows play themselves out in her mind.

It was a good plan.

That was the hell of it.

Well, it mightn't even be possible....

"Does he still eat?"

Snape started at the unexpected question. "I--- yes; he said it would continue for some months, until the changes finish taking effect."

She felt her stomach knot. A few months; not as much time as she'd hoped. Well, perhaps that was for the best....

Especially with what she had planned.

*****

It was cold in the Sanctum, though that wasn't what made her shiver.

Snape led her wordlessly through the tunnels. The set of his shoulders told her he was still unhappy with the plan. Still, it had to be done. And she was the only one who could.

They came to a pair of huge double doors with iron serpents for knockers. Snape stopped, turned back to her.

"He is... not as you remember him." A last, futile attempt to persuade her to change her mind, while remaining in character. His eyes spoke volumes.

She longed to gather him into her arms and soothe that wounded, terrified look. But she couldn't; not here.

After. Yes, after.

She summoned a cold look with surprising ease. "I did not expect him to be." Snape backed down before her, almost cringing. "Now, take me to your Lord."

Slowly, he drew himself up, until he looked down at her, matching her ice for ice. "As you command, my Lady," he said bitterly.

He reached up, seized a knocker, let it fall.

At once the door swung open. Snape turned back, gave her a mocking bow. "My Lady."

She inclined her head, swept forward, head held high.

And tried to ignore the knot in her stomach.

It was a throne room they entered, empty but for the throne itself and a huge fireplace just behind it.

From the far end of the room, from the throne, a voice echoed. "Snape." It wasn't--- precisely--- Tom's voice: a sibilant, soft hiss that nonetheless had enough similarity to her memories to make her shiver.

"I have--- brought her, Master." The trembling in his voice pained her almost as much as the servile whine. No wonder he loathed his service to the Dark Lord; even an otherwise-honorable master who demanded such obeisances would become intolerable.

"Very good." It was a rich, soft chuckle. "You may leave us."

Snape didn't like that, but of course it was necessary. He bowed low, almost cringing. "Yes, my Master---" He turned and swept toward the door, pausing only to shoot her a pleading look.

She didn't return it. There would be time to make everything right--- after.

She turned her attention to the throne. "It's been a long time." Her voice softened without thought, she felt a smile touching her lips.

Well, it was for the best.

"Far too long." The voice warmed, becoming more what she remembered. The shadowy shape on the throne stood up. "Minerva."

"Tom---" She forced a laugh. "Or do I call you Lord Voldemort, with the rest?"

A deep rich laugh--- like the one she remembered, and not. "Only for you, Minerva. Yes, call me Tom." The shadow drew closer. "Though you'll find I'm not the man you remember."

"Only in body," she said steadily. "Snape warned me about the external changes."

"He did, did he?" This time the chuckle was not so pleasant. "He wants you for himself."

"Does he?"

"Of course." He chuckled again. "What man of taste would not?"

She felt herself blushing--- just like old times, when he'd say such a thing. She let her head duck, the way it used to.

"You still remember." It was a throaty purr. "Ah, Minerva---"

"Tom." She let off her nerves in a soft laugh. "It's good to say your name again."

"It's good to hear you say that." He stopped, halfway across the room. "Won't you come to me?"

Up until that point, she had felt as though she were dealing with Tom Riddle, her childhood sweetheart and more; now, with the soft thread of command in his voice, she was incontrovertibly reminded that it was Lord Voldemort she dealt with now. "I already have, haven't I?" she said boldly.

He chuckled. "Ah, Minerva--- you've taken the first step; I've met you---" he chuckled, turned his head to look around--- "halfway." He held out his hands. "Come to me."

She looked across to the shadowy figure. Have to play this right.... "And what will you give me if I do?"

"What I offered you once before," he said, and there was no mistaking the earnestness in his tone. "Come with me into this. Now."

She tipped her head up. "It's not like you to forgive a refusal, is it?"

"Lord Voldemort does not forgive, nor forget," he acknowledged, something cold and deadly in his tone. Then his voice softened. "But Tom Riddle did. Once. For you, Minerva." Soft chuckle. "For you, I will be what I was."

She shivered at that, at the soft promise in his tone.

And for a moment, the guilty longing crept up on her, abetted by memories of summer sun and kisses like spring water and laughter---

She forced the memories back. "And for you, I will... forget what I have been."

And crossed the distance to him.

They stood at arm's length from one another; his face was still in shadow. Then he sighed, with satisfaction. "Ah, Minerva---"

A moment--- then he threw back his hood.

Her stomach lurched for a moment; she was profoundly grateful to Snape for warning her.

The face was like nothing so much as a snake, like a horrible half-Transfiguration. Red lidless eyes looked down at her from a scaly, blunt-nosed face.

"So this was the price for your immortality," she said thoughtfully.

"A small price for the reward," he murmured, reaching out to brush her cheek with one gloved hand. "I will miss your beauty, Minerva--- but it is a small price, after all."

"So you will bring me into this with you?" She reached out, deliberately, and traced his scaled cheek with her fingers.

"Of course." He sounded almost offended that she would have to ask. "It's what I offered so long ago--- and I do not forget my promises."

She shivered at the sound of his voice. To keep her mind on business, she forced herself to find a question. "How does it work?"

The lipless mouth curved in what might have been a smile. "It begins with a form of Transfiguration---" the red eyes were intent on hers--- "it would have gone so much faster with you to help me."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, feeling an actual pang at the thought--- then cursing herself inwardly.

"It's of no moment--- not now," he murmured, and suddenly the outward changes made no difference, because it was Tom looking at her out of those eyes, and she felt her knees weaken and her heart ache. "We're together--- as we always should have been." Satisfaction in his voice--- he always was insufferably smug at times like this---

No, she scolded herself. There had never been a time like this before. Nor would be again.

His arm was around her waist now, and he was beside her. "Come--- come with me."

He led her to the end of the hall, to the throne--- the double throne. "It's been waiting for you," he said softly. "I've kept it out of sight of the others--- but it's been here for you--- waiting as long as I have for my queen to claim her rightful place."

He handed her gently into the chair, took his seat beside her, leaning that scaled head close to her. "Someday, the hall will be filled," he whispered. "Filled with wizards and witches, all looking to us, to their lord and lady. The world will be ours, Minerva."

"Yes." Automatically, her hand slipped into his; it was a visceral shock to find, not the warmth and strength of Tom's familiar fingers but the scales of Lord Voldemort.

And it was that, more than anything else, that gave her the strength to do what she must.

"Let us drink," he said softly, "to the future--- while we still can." He chuckled softly, snapped his fingers. A pair of goblets appeared, and a bottle of wine. "From the cellars of Slytherin himself."

"Seems almost a shame to give it up," she said, grateful that her voice didn't shake. The moment of truth.... She gave him a direct look. "And what else must we sacrifice?"

He looked up from pouring the wine to meet her gaze. "The pleasures of the body are not possible in this form--- not as such. But there are... compensations." His eyes held hers, and she felt a pleasurable brush of tendrils of magic, touching not her body, but her source of power, her magic.

"Yessss," he hissed as she gasped. "The ultimate pleasure of power---"

And for a moment, she was weak, weak with longing for him, for the love they had shared and---

Not for what he offered; but for that he offered it to her.

And she knew how it would be.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. This would be the hardest part, in terms of technique. The poison was contained in a sac under her nail--- clever invention, like a snake's venom sac; appropriate in the end.

"Let me make the toast," she whispered, raising her hands in the old ceremonial gesture, passing them over his goblet, then hers. "To forever."

He chuckled. "Appropriate---"

He took the cup. Drank.

The poison took effect at once.

It was barely a breath later that he realized. "You---"

The rage she'd expected--- but she almost recoiled from the look of shocked betrayal on his face. "You left me no choice, Tom. I won't condone genocide, to say nothing of the rest of the atrocities your creatures have committed." She said it flatly, calmly, even as a part of her mind screamed.

He stared at her in horror--- then fumbled for his wand. "I would have forgiven you anything," he hissed, the red eyes bright. "Anything---" the hideous face hardened--- "but this. And I will not lose you now---"

He got the wand out, pointed it at her. She sat steadily in the throne, looking him in the eye.

"One last chance," he whispered. "Take my wand--- if you can."

She didn't move.

He stared at her for a long moment--- then spoke.

"Aveda Kedavra."

Flash of green light---

Perhaps he was took weak to do it properly, or perhaps his heart wasn't in it, but she did not die instantly.

She lived to see him take his last breath.

But that was all.

*****

The ghost watched as her living body was lowered into the ground.

It had been an act of selfishness. To die with him, rather than live... with someone who loved her, who needed her.

She could claim it as an act of atonement, a fitting end for a witch who had almost sacrificed her honor to become the Dark Lord's consort.

But it had been for herself that she had done it.

She had destroyed him; she had no wish to live thereafter.

The mourners began to drift away, in little clumps. Except for one.

She could go to Severus. Tell him the truth.

But that would be an even greater act of selfishness.

Let him mourn her in peace. Let him believe that she had died a hero.

Her conscience did not deserve his absolution. And he did not deserve to suffer her betrayal.

The ghost watched until the solitary black-clad figure had finally turned from the grave.

Then, in silence and stillness, she took her selfish conscience into the darkness with her.

A/N: Tom's offer to Minerva is in the same words Lestat uses to his mother Gabrielle in (DUH!) The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice. Snape's reaction to stress is also characteristic of Nicholai Hel in Trevanian's Shibumi.