'And he's the best fuck that ever walked. He's beautiful - rich, in money and everything else; he's a rockstar to boot, trapped in the body of a fighter. And how he fought; at a state of turmoil with himself - somewhere inside his soul that only she...
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♱
'Spring rusts on its skinny branch and last summer's lawn is soggy and brown. Yesterday is just a number. All of its winters avalanche out of sight. What was, is gone. There in my jabbering dream I heard my own angry cries and I cursed you, Dame keep out of my slumber.
My good Dame, you are dead. And Mother, three stones slipped from your glittering eyes. Now it's Sunday's noon and I would still curse you with my rhyming words and bring you flapping back, old love, god-in-her-moon, all fairest in my Lang Syne verse, the gauzy bride among the children, the fancy amid the absurd and awkward, a dove's cheek among the stones, my Lady of first words, this is the division of ways'
CW: Snape's worst memory, I've adapted some key points to the plot to fit my narrative because that's fanfiction, I understand that certain themes to what happened could be potentially triggering; there's a lot of debate around the Marauders behaviour (rightfully so, I don't support some of the actions James and Sirius exhibited, but I couldn't leave it out because it was essential to my writing)
The silvery stuff within began to swirl very fast. Harry leaned forward over it and saw that it had become transparent. He was, once again, looking down into a room as though through a circular window in the ceiling... Unless he was much mistaken, he was looking down upon the Great Hall...
At once, the floor of the office lurched, tipping Harry headfirst into the Pensieve; he was falling through cold blackness, spinning furiously as he went, and then... He was standing in the middle of the Great Hall, but the four House tables were gone.
Instead, there were more than a hundred smaller tables, all facing the same way, at each of which sat a student, head bent low, scribbling on a roll of parchment. The only sound was the scratching of quills and the occasional rustle as somebody adjusted their parchment. It was clearly exam time.
Sunshine was streaming through the high windows onto the bent heads, which shone chestnut and copper and gold in the bright light. Snape had to be here somewhere... This was his memory... And there he was, at a table right behind Harry.
