lizbee | Ficlet-by-request, for penwiper26

The Forbidden Forest was never still, but it was quiet. Snape had always considered this an aberration. He thought, although his experience with woodlands was limited and primarily theoretical, that a forest should be noisy, full of animals and birds and rustling leaves.

But here, the only sound was his feet rustling grass and leaves as he moved through the trees, seeking out the familiar red and black leaves of flayweed. Silent, he thought, as the grave.

He favoured cremation himself, but he doubted he'd get a choice in the matter. A mass grave outside Azkaban was his most likely destination, with the company of his comrades-in-darkness for eternity.

This thought didn't bother him, precisely. There was no point in railing against the consequences of his choices, and anyway, he hadn't been able to feel fear since Dumbledore's body had tumbled over the tower.

There would be no white tomb for Severus Snape.

It was rather a shame, but – he thought, trying to shake off his morbidity – he'd always had ambitions above his station. It was one of the things his mother had admired about him. He remembered her voice, here in this very forest, all those years ago.

"Severus," she'd told him as her clever hands stripped the leaves from the flayroot plant, "half-Muggle you may be, but you're as good as any pureblood in the ways that count."

The plant had raised welts on her fingers, and the welts turned into blisters, but she continued working and talking nonetheless. She had once collected the blood in a small vial, and performed experiments on it, writing the results down in a small book. He still had that book, somewhere. But her blood, however pure, had no special properties, and she had abandoned the line of inquiry.

"I don't mean money or status, but you'll be as powerful as any other wizard when you're grown, and you have a good mind." She'd straightened, gimlet eyes glittering behind her limp hair, blood dripping between her fingers. "And you can do what needs to be done. I have a lot of respect for that."

Her approval was rare, but always sincere. She'd been dead before he was ten, leaving him to the dubious mercies of his Muggle father, but he could still remember every expedition they'd made into the Forbidden Forest, and every word of praise she'd given him.

He did what had to be done.

Not with any particular grace, granted, but the work was always completed. None of them understood that, those Gryffindors, perpetually mewling about the unfairness of the world. They would go to their graves, their silent, honourable graves, without the slightest shred of comprehension.

Pathetic.

He thought, sometimes, that Potter might have the capacity to understand, but the world would grow old waiting for Potter to fulfill even an ounce of his potential.

Flayroot grew at the foot of an oak tree, ancient and malevolent. Snape's hands bled as he harvested the leaves, and he thought of his mother, and of all the things that needed to be done before he could die.

end