Chapter Text
“When the sun goes down on the 25th of December, the Dark Lord ascends to absolute power. Unless the one who is Chosen finds a way to call his enemy friend, those he names friend will die.”
Harry Potter gazes at the old wizard with the long, white beard as Trelawney’s image finishes her latest prophecy . There is no one more unlike Father Christmas, except for the twinkle that used to lighten Dumbledore’s eyes.
“Which enemy?” Harry asks, showing no surprise at this development. There were so many, though none that Harry had provoked to hate him. Dudley and Umbridge, the Malfoys-
“Professor Snape.”
Ah.
Harry blinks as Dumbledore grimaces slightly. Harry settles back in his chair, his elbows balancing points on the padded rests. It is obvious that Dumbledore expects him to rage and bellow at him that he will not do it. Perhaps he waits for Harry to destroy his office like he did after Sirius died. But he is past such tantrums now. He has been gliding for months now.
Alive, but not living.
And so Harry waits for the puppeteer to pull his strings.
“You will have to trust him with your life, Harry.”
Harry almost smiles at that. Easy. His life means precious little.
“Do you trust me, Harry?”
The blue eyes try to pierce Harry through, but they cannot go where there is nothing. Harry nods; it is not a lie. Dumbledore will do what needs doing. Harry will follow where he is led. There is no reason any longer to question this arrangement.
Harry has a vague urge to ask what Snape will want from him, but he doesn't. Dumbledore will tell him only what he wants him to know.
“Severus, good evening.”
Harry doesn’t turn around.
“Headmaster.” Snape’s voice in unusually subdued, and Harry thinks he is layering the single word above a deep anger—or resentment perhaps. Harry recognizes that Snape doesn't agree with Dumbledore’s plan. But he has no choice either.
Dumbledore turns back to Harry now; his gaze sweeps over the still and silent boy. “You will need to do everything Professor Snape tells you to do, Harry. Whatever he tells you to do. The world depends on it. Do you understand that?”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.” Of course he understands. That’s what he’s been groomed to do since before he could speak—to become the Savior of the wizarding world.
“He cannot possibly understand,” Snape says from behind him.
Dumbledore makes a noise of disappointment, but Harry has already turned to face the towering professor.
“The sooner he dies, the sooner it ends,” he says quietly. He knows that both Dumbledore and Snape believe he means the war. “I will do what you say,” he adds, making the words sound like a vow so that Snape will have no reason to doubt him.
When Snape’s eyebrows rise, Harry almost sighs in relief. There is a tiny break in the dark clouds he’s been seeing since he watched Sirius fall into the Veil.
Only twelve more days. Twelve more days and he can finally stop pretending to care. He will finally get his peace.
“Give me your hand, then,” Snape says with no further explanation.
“We will need a sample of your blood, Harry,” Dumbledore explains quietly, but Harry is already extending his palm toward Snape. Snape uses his wand to make a jagged cut; Harry winces in pain as his blood is squeezed into a vial full of black liquid. When it begins to smoke, Snape releases Harry’s hand.
Harry draws his arm back toward his chest before Snape can heal him; he curls his fingernails into the wound and watches, fascinated despite himself as Snape puts the vial to his lips and drinks the black liquid. Snape grimaces, perhaps from the taste. The vial disappears.
A heavy sigh echoes through the large office.
“It is done,” Dumbledore announces.
“Come with me,” Snape directs, the words sharp now, almost as if he's reached some sort of breaking point. Harry stands.
The urge to ask where they’re going has left—he cannot even summon enough curiosity to ask about the potion Snape just quaffed. What matters is that the end is so near that Harry imagines he can hear their voices. His dad and mum. Sirius. They’ll be waiting for him.
“Harry,” Dumbledore says quietly, in the gentle voice he often reserves for the worst news. Harry doesn’t react, save to turn back toward the Headmaster’s desk. Harry watches Dumbledore’s white beard as it dips toward his desk while the old wizard searches his eyes. “You must trust Professor Snape to be your protector.”
There are so many layers to the old man’s voice; more even than Snape’s. Harry knows he should feel fear at the words, but he feels nothing. Just like any other day.
“I will, sir,” Harry agrees. This time, Snape makes no disagreement.
“Good luck, my boy,” Dumbledore says fervently; he leans forward. Harry lifts his hand obligingly and allows Dumbledore to take it. He feels the pressure of the wizard’s wrinkled fingers, but it means nothing to him. He finds no comfort.
“Thank you, sir,” Harry says politely. Dumbledore releases his hand.
Snape’s black eyes rake over Harry’s perfect posture. And then he pivots toward the Floo. Harry follows.
From across the room, Dumbledore’s eyes look wet. Harry moves his gaze to Fawkes’ cage and waits until the fire consumes him.
As soon as they stop spinning, Snape steps out of the fireplace and onto a dirty floor. Harry needs no prodding to follow. Snape turns around so abruptly that Harry nearly topples as he loses his balance. Snape grabs his arm to keep him upright. Once he’s steady, Snape hisses against his ear, “Believe nothing you hear." Before Harry can blink, Snape utters a spell and Harry’s wrists are bound and a patch of adhesive sits squarely over Harry’s lips. Unable to stop the reflexive reaction, Harry jerks away, but Snape’s fingers tighten until he squeaks in pain.
“Be still, you filthy little blood traitor, or I will bind your legs as well,” Snape snarls; Harry blinks in surprise.
“Se-Severus... You’ve ar-arrived.”
Wormtail is just entering the room. He smiles nervously when he sees Harry. Harry stares at him
“The Dark Lord will be so pleased,” Wormtail stutters. “You did it.”
“The boy is under my complete control,” Snape tells him. “Dumbledore is a fool,” he adds with a sneer.
Wormtail nods eagerly.
Snape gestures for the little man to join them. Wormtail steps toward Snape, keeping out of reach of Harry, as if Harry plans to spring at any moment and attack. He does not realize that Harry has no reason to.
Once Wormtail is beside them, Snape nods. Wormtail shakes his left arm so that his forearm is exposed. Snape’s long fingers press the skull on Wormtail’s arm; the snake begins to writhe from the skull’s mouth.
Snape yanks Harry closer and turns on the spot.
Harry feels for all the world as if he is being squeezed through a pin-sized tube. Not until he’s squeezed out again does he see where Snape has brought him.
The graveyard where Cedric was murdered.
Again, Harry’s muscles betray him and he struggles against Snape’s hold. Snape’s fingers clamp against both arms now, forcing Harry to turn his back to him and face the ones who want to kill him.
They are standing in a circle of Death Eaters.
Trust eludes Harry now. He wants to turn and spit in Snape’s traitorous face, but Snape holds him fast. And Harry knows now that his death will be meaningless.
“Kneel before your Lord, half-blood swine,” someone jeers and Harry is forced to his knees; Snape holds him down, his hands hot and heavy as they dig into his shoulders. Pain engulfs him—in his scar this time. He understands now that Dumbledore really is a fool.
“Bow to me, Harry Potter.” The ephemeral voice glides over the graveyard.
The command is obeyed immediately. Harry is shoved toward the ground with so much force that he can’t breathe. He struggles against the icy ground, but a booted foot holds him down. He can only turn his face to the side. He watches, shivering as Voldemort steps into the circle.
“You have done well, Severus,” Voldemort says, his eyes only for Harry.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape simpers, and the booted foot quivers against Harry’s back. It belongs to Snape.
Voldemort’s toes are almost touching Harry’s lips now.
“He is yours now?” Voldemort asks, his voice full of curiosity.
“Yes, my Lord,” Snape whispered. “The blood transfer is complete. Dumbledore can no longer protect him.”
Harry strains to understand the words as the dampness begins to seep into his jumper.
“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort says quietly. His bare foot presses gently into Harry’s cheek, prodding it. Harry looks up, hoping he looks unmoved. Voldemort smiles. “I am truly sorry it had to come to this, Harry. You should have died when I first tried to kill you. You would have known no difference then.”
Harry says nothing, only continues to stare. Death will be still be the release he craves, even if it is for nothing. He wishes though, even as the dark clouds close tightly over him that he could have done what he was meant to do. So that no one else would have to die.
Voldemort points his wand lazily at Harry. “You have cheated death for too long, Harry Potter.” The words are a caress.
Harry closes his eye. There is no hope. There is no fear either. Despair for those he loves. Despair for his own failure.
Harry waits.
Voldemort’s foot moves sharply so that Harry’s face is turned up toward the sky. He opens his eyes instinctively. He is looking into Snape’s face now. Snape’s jaw is clenched and trembling. There is pain in that face.
Harry keeps his eyes open now, those eyes anchoring him, even as he hears Voldemort’s snarling, “Avada Kedava.”