Bawling my eyes out and wearing black just didn't seem to be enough, so I wrote this vengeful fic in hopes of easing the pain. Maybe it will help you too, cuz I'm sure you're all in the same spot with the tragic ending...ugh.

Snape made his way along the dark, musty corridor, robes swishing wildly with his confident stride. A self-satisfied smirk curled his pale, thin lips, a cold fire burning in his fathomless black eyes. If asked, I don't think he could possibly have expressed the level of euphoria the past hour had brought him.

Rapping upon the door, he waited impatiently, listening to the silence within...then a cold voice hissed, the thick door making it almost inaudible. "Enter."

A light shove set the door to swinging on its rusty hinges, and Snape stepped inside with the confidence of familiarity. He spared not a glance for the sentries, standing on either side of the entrance and giving off the pungent odor of rotting flesh, but walked easily towards the right, no fear of stumbling in the almost nonexistant red haze of light. It was eerie enough when you didn't know what caused it, but somehow knowing made the fear infinitely worse. Not that Severus Snape was in the least bit bothered. The Dark Arts had long since become a dear friend to the greasy, sallow-skinned man.

"Where is the boy?"

Snape froze for a moment, slightly taken aback by the blunt question. He was expecting something more along the lines of praise. "Downstairs, awaiting your...presence." The red light burned in his eyes, a fierce fire that accented his cold sneer.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, a slit of red peering from his shriveled and distorted face. "Downstairs?" he hissed, and at that moment Snape began to realize that something was wrong. "I would have thought you would bring him up here, to recieve due acknowledgement for his assistance."

Snape showed no outward sign of surprise at the word "assistance", but there was much beneath the surface. "The boy is senseless, babbling and blubbering nonstop. His failure seems to have...unsettled him. Surely you would rather speak to him later?"

Voldemort smiled; a more blood-chilling sight you could not find if you searched the deepest and Darkest corners of the Earth. "You've been managing my appointments for me, Snape. How thoughtful."

Thoroughly unsettled by this turn in the conversation, Severus decided that the moment was ripe for revealing his success and collecting his reward. "Dumbledore is dead, My Lord," contempt curled Snape's lips, as though he was speaking of some foul insect he had crushed beneath his boot, "and an easier task, I have never encountered. He groveled at my feet before the end, still desperately clinging to the delusion I planted in his senile mind. Harry Potter is exposed to your attack." With a sneer and a silent growl, he added, "No thanks to Malfoy."

Voldemort rested his hands on the rim of the steaming and bubbling cauldron, the white spiders gleaming as though bathed in blood. The sickening smile remained on his lipless face. "What terrible news. I can hardly believe that Malfoy failed. Lucky you were there, Snape, ready to shove him out of harm's way. Otherwise, I fear young Draco would have been lost to us forever."

Snape's pallid face lost another shade of color, though it was hard to tell in the blood-red glow from the potion. "I merely stepped in when it became clear that your orders would not be carried out."

The silence was defeaning, making every bursting bubble and every moan from the Inferi echo in Snape's ears, his heart beating an uncomfortable tattoo against his ribcage. With the ease of practice, he wiped his mind blank of all thought, clearing it as easily as though he had siphoned all the thoughts with his wand, which he now clutched convulsively in the inner folds of his black Death Eater's robes. It seemed an eternity before Voldemort spoke.

"My orders?" His voice was utterly calm, save for the barest hint of anticipation. Voldemort was a seasoned predator, savoring the desperate squeaks and struggles before eating his prey alive. "Did my orders include the making of the Unbreakable Vow? Did my orders ever imply the protection of Malfoy? Did I ever suggest that you involve yourself in his mission?"

Snape's hand twitched visibly beneath the robe, his wand burning eagerly against his flesh. It was hard to believe that he had entered this room in good spirits. Somehow managing to keep his voice level, Snape replied in a low voice. "My Lord, Dumbledore--"

"It is not Dumbledore I wished to see dead. I had every opportunity to kill the pest at the Ministry last year, yet I did not, for there were more important matters to attend to. Do not pretend to understand my plans, Snape, for your sluggish brain obviously cannot grasp them. Why would I expect a useless, pathetic worm such as Malfoy to accomplish anything of worth?" His eyes burned a fierce red that undermined the glowing vapors, piercing through Snape's mind, breaking his shield of Occlumency like a thin sheet of glass. "Your interference has not aided the plan, it has destroyed it!"

"Narcissa..." mumbled Snape, as blinding pain and a flash of memories engulfed him.

"Ah, yes...Bellatrix told me of Narcissa's betrayal. She is no longer an obstacle...but you, Snape..." A wand appeared in Voldemort's hand, and he pointed it lazily at Snape, voice calm but eyes burning. "For far too long you have considered yourself my favorite, my confidant, my equal," he said the last word as though it was bile in his mouth. "A few irrelevant simliarities have swelled your pride, given you confidence that is completely unfounded. You fail to understand, as so many before you, that you are merely a pawn, as insignificant and dispensible as the sentries you passed on your way in. You are nothing, Severus Snape."

Without any semblance of warning, white-hot agony siezed his body, liquid fire burning in every vein and every inch of skin. Snape wasn't aware of hitting the ground, he wasn't aware of anything but the pain he knew so well as the Cruciatus curse. The torment doubled with every second, his body writhing and twisting wildly as though straining for release, random and sickening memories surging through his mind until only one remained, echoing again and again, silencing his unuttered scream.

"Severus...please..."

"Severus...please..."

"Severus...please..."

And then it was gone, leaving him momentarily paralyzed as his heart stood still and his lungs refused to breathe. A sharp kick to his head broke the spell, and instantly his body convulsed in wild and uncontrollable shaking, blood choking him and salt water streaming down sunken and death-pale cheeks. The tears were not a sign of remorse, merely the body's helpless attempt to cope with such an immense shock. Snape didn't know if he had been tortured past the point of sanity...he didn't know what sanity was anymore.

"No doubt, you are thirsty?"

The sentence traveled slowly from his ears to his brain, and even when they reached it, Snape registered only one word.

"Water..." he groaned, voice dead from screams he had not even heard. "Water..."

Desperate to quench his cruel thirst and sooth his torn throat, he swallowed gratefully as the goblet touched his lips and liquid, cold as ice, spilled into his mouth. His relief soon died.

Voldemort smiled expectantly, watching Snape with excitement reminiscent of old days of torturing playmates; the only difference now was that his methods were more creative, and far more effective.

The reaction was instantaneous, the damage immediately fatal and completely unrepairable. Snape's black eyes opened until white surrounded the irises on all sides, his body stiffened, his face registered terror beyond anything any human being could survive, the tears swelled, his mouth formed a silent scream--

In a blinding flash of red, nothing remained of Severus Snape; Potions Master; torturer of James and Harry Potter alike; murderer of the only person who believed in him...but a pile of empty robes, charred and shriveled remains concealed in their depths. Snivellus was no more.

Voldemort's robes swirled around him with inhuman grace, brushing the abandoned clothes carelessly as he stepped onto them and made his way past the Inferi, who gazed with milky-white and sightless eyes, awaiting orders. His mouth curved slightly, his eyes burning with a hunger that would never be satisfied. Perhaps it was time to speak with young Draco.