So this is death.

Severus felt the poison moving through his veins. He could picture it crawling up his arm, aiming for his heart.

Oh happy dagger.

Hysterical laughter, unable to bubble to the surface. He was a cauldron that was simmering when it should have reached a boil.

I can teach you to bottle fame…

Eyes green as a bottle. An emerald? Two of them, jewels, his treasure.

Brew glory…

He never thought he would go like this. Alone, perhaps. Shrieking Shack with Harry Potter, no.

Even put a stopper in death.

So much for pretty words. Farwell, my…

*****

So this is death.

This aching in his chest, the part he thought had hardened.

Hand clutching, reaching, but for what? To whom?

Muggle medicine on a shelf, gathering dust.

For your heart, she had told him.

What heart?

She had married Weasley. He could have stopped her, made some grand gesture. He was not dramatic when it mattered.

The Healers had told him his heart was too weak; the venom had sunk in too deep. His heart would never heal.

As though that were news.

He understood aching: longing, loss. But this was something else…

So this is death.