PWP.
He and Voldemort and Snape, the abandoned boys, had all found home here...
The moment the blow came, and the two fangs slid sweet and hot into his jugular, Severus Snape was not as amused as he thought he would be when his death finally came. It was surprising, and almost disappointing, that Voldemort had not cursed him, killed him with his own hand. Dispatching Nagini, it added final insult to fatal injury.
Yet his surprise was only furthered by the sight of Potter appearing from thin air, crouching over him, vainly attempting in that classical fool hardy way of his to stop the furtive expulsing of blood, Snape’s eventual exsanguination.
He knew, in those final seconds before the mist overtook him, as the boy’s head was bowed to him, what he wanted, what he needed and rasped, “Look…at… me…”
In a way that only death can slow time, warp and bend it, Snape saw himself gripping the boy’s robe and felt his mouth opening in time to the registration of his thoughts, watching him.
When her green eyes moved up, caught his and looked into his own, wide and as beautiful as he remembered them, Snape would have smiled.