Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December, 1998

There was something off about the inky darkness of the Forest of Dean tonight. Nocturnal animals, whichever could bear the cruel winter cold, hooted and rustled the few scarce dead leaves and branches, and Harry wished almost desperately they would stop. The three-or-so sweaters layered on him did little to ease the shivers that quaked his body, the involuntary, crisp chatter of his teeth occasionally slicing through the near-silence. The young wizard tightened his hold on the unfamiliar wand in his hand almost subconsciously, drawing his knees closer to his chest. 

Sitting at the mouth of the tent provided little warmth, and he suddenly envied Hermione. She had long since retired for the night, leaving Harry to his thoughts and sanity with only her wand. But the stick of vine wood and a dragon heartstring core just felt foreign in his hands… the Lumos Charm — currently one of his few solaces — lit a small perimeter around him, barely a yard. Paired with his poor eyesight, he felt himself on edge. He could have sworn he'd heard the rustle of robes against leaves not once before, as had Hermione, but they had established that it was just their paranoia and the snow toying with their imagination.

Still, something felt inordinately different about tonight. He felt eyes searching him out from the shadows, but the direction varied. He'd had the same feeling before they had aparated here just a few hours ago, but common sense reasoned that a foe would have already seized their opportunity to strike. 

Harry's lids were growing heavier, as though anchors had been dropped on them, sinking deeper and deeper. Several times, he jerked awake from either a hoot or another rutle of snow or leaves, but the more time passed, the more he grew accustomed to the sounds. Besides, their wards had held up this whole time… why should they fail now?

Then, his subconsciousness gave him a waking jolt as his eyes censored a bright light just ahead. He was on his feet in seconds, the cry for Hermione's name on the tip of his tongue—

But something made him halt. It was strange, like a feeling of deja vu, but also not quite, at the misty light he now came to understand as a patronus. It shifted and morphed into a beautiful doe, and for reasons unfathomable, Harry's breath caught in his windpipe. There was something so familiar about it, yet also not, as though the animal were an old acquaintance he had forgotten to meet with. 

With measured steps, he slowly inched closer, simultaneously stretching out his hand. He was inches away from the doe's delicate nose, and she let him touch it, nuzzling into his palm. Something akin to calm and elation washed through Harry; it filled him with assurance and trust, and he knew then that the doe had no malicious intent or ulterior motives. It was pure energy… love, radiating off of her. He knew her… her presence, her aura… he had known it before… only he couldn't seem to remember.

Then, the doe turned and began walking away. As though hypnotized, Harry followed. Snow crunched beneath his feet, soaking his tattered trainers, but he didn't care. The ethereal creature left no prints in its wake, its movements so graceful and alluring. Something tingled in the depths of Harry's memory, and for a fleeting moment he thought of James Potter. But before some alleged tendrils could make a connection in his brain, the moment slugged from his grasp, like wet sand through fingers.

After some odd fifteen minutes of walking, the doe stopped at the bank of a small pond. They stared at one another with an even gaze, before the animal bowed its head downward, her nose a centimeter away from the thin ice. And just like that, it vanished. Harry had nearly called after her to come back, but caught his tongue at the last moment. He was suddenly all alone, a feeling of inexplicable loss overcoming him. Harry shook his head, confused, cold, and focused on his current predicament. Another rustle of tell-tale robes against snow; Harry held his breath…

But nothing happened. 

trying to gather his racing thoughts, he readjusted his grip on the Lumos-lit wand and carefully trudged over to the spot the doe had pointed to.

***

The Death Eater watched with a heavy heart as Lily's-turned-his patronus formed from the shadows of the thick-trunked trees. The night was especially cold, and the boy looked positively freezing, his body quaking with shivers. 

He was in full control of the beautiful doe; could maneuver her movements and make her speak, and he surprised himself when he allowed for Lily's son to touch his mother's patronus. Familiarization dawned in the emerald-green eyes, and it almost physically hurt to endure the scene. Severus felt his heart constrict; too many emotions and memories, some bitter and some sweet, were threatening to penetrate his carefully-erected Occlumency shields. 

He longed to help Harry, his hands were practically itching and his chest ached. It ached to know that the son of the woman he'd always loved struggled so. It ached to know that son's horrifying fate that Dumbledore had burdened upon his shoulders. It ached to know he had spent the last seven years showing nothing but hatred and spite to the boy, a mere cover instructed by his late mentor. 

No, he'd never hated the child. The masks of resentment and disgust had always been just that. Despite his past with James Potter, Severus had found that there was more Lily in Harry than James. His withdrawn mannerisms at the table, his evident desire to be apprised and not kept in the dark, his humble character and unwavering loyalty… even the way he walked or sometimes scrunched his nose in thought — all Lily's. The only semblance of James he bore were the round frames and windswept chestnut hair. Perhaps at first, when Harry had only begun at Hogwarts, Severus had felt genuine resentment towards the boy… but it had quickly dissipated.

But Severus was a Death Eater and spy. Dumbledore had always had his strategic chessboard moves planned five seasons ahead. He'd specifically tasked Severus with showing resentment and injustice towards Harry for the sake of maintaining his spy cover. This had been difficult for Severus to bear, especially when under the vow to protect and watch over the son of Lily Evans Potter. 

But as the years flew by, he'd grown to care more and more for the reckless Gryffindor. How could he not? During Quidditch matches, his hands had always been occupied, one clutching his ebony wand, poised at the ready, and the other squeezing the bunched-up fabric of his cloak, knuckles white. Oh, the number of times he'd tried to expel Harry Potter! He'd come so close in second year, in hopes of sending the boy back to the protection of the Blood Wards. Hogwarts hadn't been safe for him, if that previous year's events were anything to go by. But, with the help of the insufferable, meddlesome old coot and the tabby cat Animagus, Harry had stayed.

To keep up appearances, Severus had often resorted to only seeing James in Potter, literally forcing his brain to seek out all and any James Potter traits. It had worked, but only for the first few years.

Harry's Second Year: Severus had taken up following Harry around the castle, watching from the inky shadows for any sign of danger. With every paralyzation incident, he had grown increasingly worried… In the end, he discovered that Harry had had a near brush with death by having jumped down a sodding loo pipe with that Lockhart imbecile. To say it had been a shock for Severus to discover that ily's son had bested Tom Riddle and a whole Basilisk had made his head spin would be an understatement. But at the same time, he'd felt something akin to pride swelling his chest, only he'd psychoanalyzed what it truly was belatedly.

Third year, Severus had done his damnedest to ensure the Black mut didn't get to the boy. Of course, he now sneered at his naivete in retrospect. In the end, he'd stood between the Golden Trio and a werewolf, uncaring for his own safety. All to protect Lily's son. It had warmed his heart immeasurably when Harry had latched onto his arm for protection as he hid behind him. After all, the boy would never touch him willingly, let alone out of anything but disgust.  

A year later, and the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been utter torture for Severus to bear witness to. He'd pleaded with Dumbledore not once to see reason and either allow Severus to aid the boy or to disallow him to compete altogether, but to no avail. 

As though it were yesterday, he could vividly remember the raw fear clawing at his chest when the stands and himself had held their breath, awaiting any sign that Harry Potter had escaped the Hungarian Horntail on his Firebolt… 

Then, the suffocating sensation, as though he were underwater himself, as his dark gaze meticulously searched the surface of the water… It had been just over an hour — too long… 

Harry suddenly appearing out of the maze: bloodied, distraught, and near hysterics, all while clutching the dead body of Cedric Diggory. Severus had been on his feet in seconds, rushing forth, neck in neck with Dumbledore. He'd pleaded to see to Harry's injuries, silently hopeful to drop his masks of coldness and resentment, but then the truth had come forth; it had washed over him like a bucket of ice: the Dark Lord had returned. His Mark burned.

But if he'd thought that Potter's Fourth Year had been torture, he'd been heavily mistaken. The school year just after that, when he'd been subjected to teaching Harry Occlumency, once more under Dumbledore strict orders not to cave in to emotion. He'd hated it, causing Lily's son such discomfort as he shifted through his mind. He'd loathed himself for the vile hatred in those emerald-green eyes that had stared back into his own, so unbecoming of the boy. Even Lily had never looked at him like that, and her beautiful eyes in her son had felt like a dagger to a wound. 

Severus had peeked at his worst memories, and his heart had further ached that he had been, and still was, unable to do nothing about it. It was on that one Occlumency evening when Draco Malfoy had interrupted their lesson, something about peeves wreaking havoc. He should have known better than to store his worst memories in the pensive and in the same room as Potter with Lily's inane curiosity. 

Upon return, something in him had snapped. Everything he'd worked for over the last five years had been all for naught, had the boy witnessed all the memories stored in the pensieve. All of his inner turmoil and endurings of Dumbledore's persistent dictatorship would bee all for naught if the boy knew…

He'd lashed out. Such anger like he'd felt only a handful of times in his life had overtaken him. He'd seen the fright and hate in those emerald-green eyes, just before Lily's son fled. At that moment, he'd been appalled by his own behavior.

Then came Sixth Year. Severus had never considered himself a drunk; the mere thought of drinking had always revolted him, stirring unsavory images of his so-called-father. But the night Dumbledore had burdened him with the boy's inevitable fate, everything had come crashing down on him. Harry would die, and Lily's legacy would be no more. Severus would fail in his vow, and that would serve him no further purpose to live. It was out of his hands, he knew, and yet he hadn't been able to help the feeling of deep remorse, as though the boy had already died on him and Lily was sneering down at him from the heavens above. 

That night, he'd drunk himself to an unconscious stupor, oblivious to the wet staining his gaunt face. And in light of all that, he had still had to return to class the next morning, countless Charms used to conceal his red-rimmed eyes and slacken jaw. He had been unable to look Harry's way properly since, and his signature sneer at him had taken a monumental effort from that day on. 

That night in Dumbledore's office…

“You've been raising him like a pig for slaughter!”

“ But I had never thought… have you genuinely grown to care for Harry , and not just Lily's son ?”

He hadn't been able to respond. His windpipe had closed up with gut-wrenching grief and fury. Fury towards the man who had kept him away from the boy, but had the audacity to stand there and pose such a question to his face.

“Expecto… Patronum!”

The silver doe sprang from his wand and merily pranced around the circular office, before finally disappearing out the window. 

“Lily,” Dumbledore whispered.

It had been answer enough. His love for Lily had always been unwavering. Always. And through loving her, he truly had come to care for her son. For the boy. For Harry.

The night of Dumbledore's death had nearly made him fling himself off Astronomy Tower. The look of disgust and hatred behind the green eyes — Her eyes — had caused him near-physical pain. The boy had glared at him with uninhibited loathing and betrayal. Before the dreadful deed, Severus had gestured for Harry to stay silent and concealed, and he'd listened, only to watch his professor murder his mentor and flee with the other Death Eaters. 

The boy had chased him to the grounds. 

"COWARD! FIGHT BACK, YOU COWARD!"

The words had wounded him like poison-tipped arrows. The Death Eaters had been watching. He still loathed himself for firing those spells at Harry, though they had been harmless and mostly defensive. 

“I am the Half-Blood Prince,” he had voiced to him, but behind his mask, his face had been contorted with pain. He couldn't have turned back then. Not after everything. 

When he'd next returned to Spinner's End, away from any soul or prying eyes, just hours before Pettigrew's set arrival, he'd allowed himself a rare reprieve, and let his shields and tears fall. For Lily, for her son, he poured his grief and sorrow out… for Harry, who would never get a chance to know Severus with amity. Harry would forever see him as Dumbledore had intended from the very beginning: an enemy. 

Any hopes at making amends with the young-man had withered away, and Severus had since accepted his fate, though it hurt. He still had no idea how he would tell Harry the truth of his destiny; that he would have to die in the end. He dreaded the day, and cursed Dumbledore's name for leaving him to such a disarray of predicaments and burdens.

Hogwarts was left under his silently-unwilling rule, and Harry and his two acquaintances were on the run (though where the Weasley was now left him baffled). Severus was simply fulfilling orders from the snake-faced sadist and Dumbledore's talking oil painting. Day and night, he worked tirelessly, holding onto a fading sliver of hope that he and Dumbledore had missed something, that there was a loophole in the dreaded Prophecy or a way to spare Harry's life… He often didn't sleep or eat.

And now, here he was: guiding Harry through the forest to where he had hidden the Sword of Gryffindor. Under the order's of an old wizard's oil painting, no less. Tracking the Granger girl and Harry had been difficult, and he'd eventually located them, but they had sensed danger and relocated. Wise for Gryffindors, Severus would hand them that. 

Snaking between trees as inconspicuous as the crunchy snow and dry leaves and twigs would permit him, he guided the doe to the small pond. The animal then dispersed, and Severus felt a sorrowful frown anchoring his mouth. He stood still and silently behind his thick tree trunk, barely daring to breathe, waiting both patiently and impatiently for the boy to solve the test. It was cruel, bluntly put, but it had to be done. 

Stupid Gryffindors with their stubbornness and recklessness. Why couldn't have Harry been sorted into Ravenclaw?

Harry circled and paced the bank of the pond, hugging himself for warmth. Severus carefully observed Lily's calculative eyes trapped behind the round spectacles. At one point, he'd tried Summoning the sword (Severus had barely repressed his exasperated sigh), but that obviously hadn't worked. 

At long last, the boy began stripping himself of his layers, all down to his boxers. The hidden wizard shudders involuntarily just at the sight of the freezing boy, who looked cautiously around once again before finally breaking the thin sheet of ice and trying the water. His body visibly shivered at the small contact. With a few steeling breaths, Harry backtracked, took of at a run, and plunged himself into the hellish water.

Then, there was silence. Suffocating silence, as though the woods themselves held their breath. 

A minute passed.

Two minutes.

His heart rate sped up painfully in his ribcage, breaths becoming shallow. 

Come on, Harry. Come on. Surface. Please, surface. 

Another minute. The surface of the water was still. Severus felt bile rising to his throat. 

Screw Dumbledore. Screw his cover. Screw Harry's resentment towards him and everything he was risking by doing this… Severus ran. He covered the few yards between the treeline and the pond in record time and unthinkingly dove in. Nothing mattered, not the hellish cold that pierced at his skin in agony, not the ill-prepared breath he had inhaled a bit too late, belatedly having remembered how to breathe again…

There he was, limp and afloat, eyes shut and some sort of locket he hadn't noticed before around his neck, appearing to be strangling him. He felt his heart nearly stop, and wasted no time in pushing his way through the water to the boy. The ruby-encrusted hilt glimmered just below him, and he grasped it at the same time as he grasped Harry's bony wrist. With all his strength, he dragged them both to the surface as quickly as he could, his limbs screaming and aching. 

Breaking the surface, his face seared from the biting frost. He unthinkingly flung the Sword into the bank and twined his arms under the unconscious boy's shoulders, dragging his body to shore. His thick robes were anchoring him down, heavy and restricting his movements as they stuck to his frame. He managed, however. 

Laying Harry on his back, the slightly-twitching locket caught his attention again. It was almost vibrating with powerful, dark magic, radiating it. Severus trusted his gut, as it had never once led him astray, and viciously ripped it off Harry's neck, carelessly tossing it whichever way. 

Moron-headed idiot, diving with such a dark artifact!  

Severus then fumbled for his wand in his sleeve and quickly began running diagnostic spells over the prone form. His lips were tinged with blue and his fingers felt like icicles to the touch. A quick Anapneo later had the still-unconscious boy hacking up absurd amounts of water. He spit and sputtered and Severus unthinkingly reached over to support the back of his head so he didn't choke, patting his back. 

Once Harry had calmed, Severus quickly dried him and spelled the boy's discarded outfit onto his shivering body, muttered a heating Charm, and finally covered Harry with his thick, warm cloak. Berating himself for not having done so sooner, he quickly erected some wards around them. Finished with his spell-casting, muttered a Lumos , the light of which clashed with the unfamiliar wand's laying beside him.

Only when the boy's breathing evened out did Severus allow himself a breath of relief and the luxury to dry himself and lean back on his palms, the implications of his actions only now catching up to him. He'd disobeyed Dumbledore. He should leave, he couldn't let the boy see him. He was safe now… But he was also alone. How could Severus just leave him to his own devices like this? No, he couldn't leave. For once, Severus didn't care about Dumbledore. He only cared for Lily's child. Because upon his own death, Severus was more afraid of facing her disappointment and scorn than Dumbledore's manipulative reprimands.  

And because he cared. He genuinely cared. He'd spent the last seven years trying to protect and watch over this child, though treating him with unwarranted spite. He wished to tell Harry the truth, he wished to make amends he had thought he would never be able to… but what of his impending reaction when he awoke? In his eyes, Harry knew only hatred towards him for Albus Dumbledore's murderer. Should Severus leave? But he couldn't… but he should…

But what was the point?

Just then, more coughing aroused him from his thoughts, and he turned to find emerald-green eyes widening at him. 

***

He was lying on something hard and solid. A warm weight was holding him down, and the sweet, crisp scent of early-morning forest stung his lungs. He tried to inhale just a bit more, but a sudden coughing fit overtook him and shook his shivering frame. He lifted himself on his arms, feeling cold, wet soil beneath his palms, and snapped his head first to the left, where the Locket and Sword of Gryffindor lay, and then to his right, at which a blood-curdling-and-freezing sight met him. 

“YOU!” he rasped out, suddenly backing away and scrambling to his feet. His throat felt like it was on fire, and he instantly regretted having inhaled the winter air so deeply. Either the world around him or his feet swayed as he stood, but fighting the disorientation and vertigo only worsened things. That black figure remained in his blurred vision, and incomprehensible anger seared hot through his veins. Alarm bells were going off in his head like sirens. Hermione's wand, still lit, lay on the ground, beside the pouch containing with mother's letter, the shard of Sirius' mirror, and the old snitch. He thought of making a mad dash for it, or away from Snape, but decided it would be futile. 

Wait — how was he clothed?

“Potter—”

“TRAITOR!” he bellowed, fists balled at his sides and trembling with rage. “Slimy bastard, you dare show your face!? How DARE you — How did you–!?” Harry saw red. There stood the man who had killed Dumbledore, who had belittled and belabored him through his Hogwarts years, who had lied and betrayed them all. But Harry had always known. No-one had believed him, but he'd always known.

Snape was also on his feet and stood quite stoically, his face betraying not an iota of emotion. He appeared calm, and this both fueled Harry's anger and unsettled him. “Potter, calm yourself—”

“Come to gloat, haven't you?” snarled Harry viciously, the image of Dumbledore's body flying off the tower still raw in his retinas. “Let me guess, your Death Eater cronies are just behind the treeline? Or have you come to kill me personally? Just like you killed HIM—!?”

“Dumbledore—”

Harry exploded. “HOW DARE YOU SPEAK HIS NAME!? HE TRUSTED YOU! DUMBLEDORE TRUSTED YOU! THEY ALL DID, YOU BLOODY COWARD!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. A flock of birds screeched and took off somewhere in the distance. His vocal chords felt like they might burst, and his whole body was trembling with shivers, but he was beyond the point of caring, too far-gone. He wanted to cause this man — no, this bloody traitor — pain. Had he had a wand on him, he was almost afraid to imagine what he would have done to the Death Eater standing before him by now. The wizard's face remained unchanged, but had Harry not been so blinded by loathing and fury, he would have noticed the tiniest flicker of pain in the dark orbs. 

Snape took a careful step forward. “Potter, if you would simply listen for one sec—!”

“Bastard! Coward! I knew you were a traitor! I knew you were one of them all along! What do you want? What are you doing here!?” he spat, crossing his arms over his chest to try to ease his trembling frame. He couldn't allow Snape to see him as weak, or at least weaker than he already perceived him to be. He racked his brains for what to do. The wand was much closer to Snape than him, so he could kiss his chances of acquiring it goodbye. 

Unfortunately, Snape followed his line of sight downward and he non-verbally Accio-ed the snow-covered wand into his long, thin hands. His eyes alternated between observing the young wizard and the piece of unfamiliar wood calculatively, before finally setting Harry with an even gaze. “You may have the wand back on the condition that you let me explain. I realize you have no reason to neither believe nor trust me, but I mean you no harm. Had I malicious intentions towards you, you would have long since been writhing on the ground under the Cruciatus.” His voice was low, calm, and measured, but Harry wasn't falling for it. He wasn't a moron. 

“Nice try,” he snarled again. “Why don't we just get to the part where you Stupefy me and cart me off to Vol—”

“DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME, YOU DUNDERHEAD!” Snape suddenly bellowed, loud enough to cut Harry off. “It's tab—”

“OH? And why shouldn't I?” Harry sneered at the git's left arm. “Is it because it burns?” he asked scathingly. “Is it because it causes you pain? Well, VOLDEM—!”

“HIS NAME IS TABOOED, POTTER!”

Harry faltered slightly at this. What was happening? Why wasn't Snape attacking him? Why was he telling him this? Where was his Death Eater backup? His head whirled with question and warning. What was going on? He realized he might have shown his skepticism, so he squared his shoulders and took a small step back. 

Snape, who had been holding his wand at his side the entire time, as though in a placating gesture, suddenly gave it an elegant flourish. Harry took another step back on impulse, but felt his jaw slacken when the beautiful doe from earlier sprang from the tip. She pranced the perimeter of the small pond a few times before finally stopping in front of Harry. The Gryffindor was rendered speechless as he stared at the doe in shock and question. It seemed as though time had stopped, neither moved. 

“You— it was you… You guided me to—”

“The sword of Gryffindor, yes,” confirmed Snape composedly, gazing between the doe and his face with…something unnamed in his eyes… but Harry couldn't exactly pinpoint it.

“Why?” the question had tumbled out before he could censor it. Harry just barely resisted the urge to touch the beautiful creature, its presence so warming to him for some unfathomable reason. 

To his surprise, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Potter, if you would just let me explain—”

“What is there to explain?” he spat again through gritted teeth. “You killed Dumbledore—”

“—On his personal orders!” finished the dour man. He lifted his gaze back at Harry, suddenly looking older and worn-out. Either Harry was hallucinating from his ice bath, or something softened in Snape's visage. “You are cold. The Heating Charm is wearing off. Allow me to re-cast it.”

Harry couldn't care less. “What do you mean 'on his orders'?” he asked testily, more inquiringly than hotly, unwilling to believe his ears. There was no way! He had to be lying! 

Sighing softly, an almost painful expression flickered across his gaunt features. Snape flicked his wand in Harry's direction, and in the next moment, he was clutching his round rims in one hand and Hermione's wand in the other. Caught off-guard, Harry slowly lifted the rims up to his face and slid them up the bridge of his nose. Everything suddenly became sharper, including the doe and the older Wizard. Confusion threatened to drive Harry insane and he opened his mouth several times, but nothing seemed to come forth.

He had Hermione's wand! The first thing he did was jerkily Accio his pouch to him. The sword lay a little ways away, but it was immune to Summoning spells. Should he run for it? Should he attack? He had a weapon, but Snape was obviously more powerful and skilled than him. Were Snape's intentions really sincere? Was he bluffing? Was this a trap? How did he find them? How—?

“For Merlin's sake, Potter, I am not here to kill you or to 'cart you off to the Dark Lord'!” he snapped irritably. Harry bulked.

“Get the fuck out of my head!” he hissed accusingly, putting one foot forward menacingly in hopes of conveying warning. 

“Your emotions are far too easy to read Potter,” the Legilimens replied calmly, though with a slight edge to his voice. “Please. Allow me an explanation. I guarantee you I mean no harm.”

But Harry was still skeptical. He dropped his gaze back to the doe standing before him, and he was again filled with an unexplainable warmth. Wasn't the Patronus a Charm of pure energy? He was starting to doubt the cautioning voice at the back of his head. He felt almost captured by the silver mammal's aura… something so familiar about her… her… Wait—! No, the epiphany slipped away from him as soon as it had appeared.

Shifting his hard glare back to Snape, he knew not why he bobbed his head almost imperceptibly. “You have five minutes.” And he wasn't too confident about the 'or else' part.

Snape didn't waste a moment, but surprisingly made no move to Banish his patronus. “Albus Dumbledore was gravely injured last summer — his blackened hand, if you recall? He knew his time was limited and he also knew of Draco Malfoy's task to murder him. He held no desire to soil the boy's soul by allowing him to carry out such a gruesome deed, and thus the job fell to me.” Bitterness laced his words toward the end, and a scowl appeared on his features. “I am a spy, and have been operating on Dumbledore's — well, his portrait's, actually — orders since my appointment as headmaster. My loyalties have always been with the light.”

Harry felt his jaw slacken and his knees weaken. “B– but you were there when I was leaving Surrey!” he argued, remembering how George had lost his ear from Snape's infamous Sectumsempra. 

“I had no other choice than to participate, and my aim was another Death Eater,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Dumbledore had instructed me to feed a faux and the real date of your relocating purposely. Also to give Fletcher the idea of Polyjuicing seven Potters.”

“So— But how do I know you're not lying?” he questioned sharply, shifting his body into more of a battle stance and raising his wand. “Prove it. Otherwise, it's just empty words. I could say now that I'm a bloody House Elf in disguise.”

Snape nodded understandingly, to his surprise. “Your caution is commendable, Potter…” he began carefully, thinking. His obsidian orbs settled back on the doe, and this time Harry knew he hadn't imagined the flash of emotion across his face. “Your mother's Patronus was a doe.”

Those six words seemed to have made time halt. The blood rushing through his adrenaline-fueled body seems to freeze, and the silence that ensued was only broken by the sound of his heart pounding against his ribcage. It felt as though his legs had been amputated, and his fingers had gone numb. The piece of wood in hi shand fell to the moist forest detritus. 

There was no doubt in the man's integrity. He KNEW, in his gut, that he was sincere. It all clicked together in his head, and he stared at the beautiful doe before him in a completely new light. The feeling of familiarity, the deja vu… the inexplicable warmth and assurance…

“H— How?” he breathed out, voice thick and coarse. He reached out to touch the doe gingerly, and it nuzzled familiarly into his hand. A grieving smile tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“It is… a long story,” he answered haltingly. Again, Harry couldn't care less. 

“I'm in no particular hurry. You said you would explain,” he said flatly, unwilling to retract his hand from the doe just yet, almost fearing the loss of contact. It provided him strength and warmth, and it was almost palpable in the chilly air. 

Snape's gaze seemed unfocused and vacant for a moment, as though looking right through Harry. He blinked twice and refocused on his face. Harry was growing tired of not being able to read him, but he waited. Anything. Anything to know more about his mother. This connection between the greasy git and her.

The wizard sighed decisively. “Now is neither the place nor time, Potter,” he said almost apologetically. “Perhaps one day. Suffice to say, your mother and I had been… good acquaintances.”

An image of Tonks' new Patronus suddenly swam to his mind, and how it had changed due to her feelings towards Remus… Had… Had Snape fancied his mother!? The mere thought of it seemed surreal to him and made him dizzy. If that really was the case, he understood then what people meant when they said the world is a small place.  

But he could understand how it made sense. From the memories he'd seen in Fifth Year, he knew Snape and Lily had gone to Hogwarts together. He also knew that Lily had defended him, and Snape had thrown it all back at her with that unforgivable word… But Harry had never particularly dug deeper. He never knew the whole story, and if Snae and his mother really had been friends, of course his mother would have defended him like that.

Harry was at a loss for what to say. He desperately wanted to know more, but at the same time feared knowing the truth. If he didn't seize this opportunity, who knows when, or if, he will ever get it again? Snape was a spy, or at least so he claimed, and that put him in a dangerous position. The truth would die with him, and Harry would never know. 

Snape held his statuesque position, his face stoic, as always. But something about the way he was looking at Harry… observing him, as if this were the first time he'd ever laid eyes on him. But in the soft Lumos light, Harry thought there were new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

***

Severus studied the boy closely, upholding his Occlumency shields in spite of the storm of emotions burling inside him. Regret and relief were the dominant ones, pulling him this way and that like some sick game of tug of war. Why had he stayed? Why hadn't he left? Why was he telling all these things to Harry? 

But the boy hadn't fled nor retreated. He'd complied to listen. The reckless, stubborn Gryffindor was literally shining through him, so much like Lily. After all these years of a facade of animosity, they were finally having a civil conversation… or, as civil as Severus could have hoped for.  

The heart-wrenching moment had been when Harry continued to doubt his intentions, and he was left with no choice but to resort to Lily's Patronus. He'd watched as she erupted from the tip of his wand, cringing when Harry had assumed, naturally, that he wished him harm. He'd allowed her to be pet and to provide the boy comfort, though as the minutes stretched on, Severus started to grow wearier. The Charm required much of his concentration on his happiest memory, but paired with his inner turmoil that task was easier said than done. 

Still, he dared not retract the doe. The dawn of revelation in Harry's emerald-green eyes was worth it. It made him realize that Harry had never had that look before in his presence, let alone that that look was caused by him. If only it hadn't been for Dumble— fucking —dore…

So what was he to do now? What was the point of him divulging these things to the boy? Exactly. There was no point. It would just be another burden to plague Harry's shoulders. And yes, they would both, inevitably, perish in this war, but some things were better left unsaid. 

He could, however, try to help Harry with what he knew. 

“Potter. I might be able to help you,” he offered carefully. Severus didn't know the specifics, only that the Golden Trio was on the run and were searching for something that would essentially lead to the Dark Lord's demise. He'd already tried to figure out, to piece the puzzle pieces together… but he couldn't see the picture without the missing pieces, of which there were too many. 

Still, he was knowledgeable in many corners of the Dark Arts, and perhaps he had the pieces Harry needed, and the other way around.

He wasn't surprised when a scowl appeared on Harry's face. “Why? What's your catch? You can't think I will blindly trust you just because you miraculously have my mother's Patronus,” he snapped, not budging from his spot. “Besides, you're a Legilimens. You could easily be making all of this up,” he added, though Severus could hear the sliver of skepticism in his voice. But if he were to make the first move on this board of chess, so be it.

“Before his death, Dumbledore had replaced the real sword with an identical, nearly indistinguishable copy in the inevitability that the Ministry would confiscate it. This was the same faux that was later returned to Hogwarts and which Longbottom, Weasley, and Lovegood had attempted to steal. Following this gallant endeavor , the Dark Lord instructed to have the Sword relocated to Lestrange's vault in Gringotts. Upon discovery of your location, Dumbledore instructed me to have it passed on to you, though it needed to be recovered 'under conditions of need and valor'.”

“Hold on— how did you find us?” Harry asked distrustfully, adjusting his grip on his wand. 

“Phineas Nigellus's portrait,” he answered simply. “You were overheard.” Severus thought he heard the boy swear a string of profanities. 

Harry bit his lip indecisively. Severus could tell his defensive walls were slowly crumbling. Moments trickled by, a few early morning birds squawking in the distance. All seemed to hold still, awaiting the Gryfffindor's verdict.

”W— what do you know about horcruxes?"

The term rang no bells. "I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with such a term, " he responded with a slight shake of his head. Harry shifted his weight, and it didn't get by Severus that the boy inched just a little closer, seemingly unconsciously.

"A horcrux is a vessel for a soul. It's an object that essentially makes you immortal, and it's near impossible to destroy them… you need something really powerful, like the Sword of Gryffindor," he explained, toying with his fingers absentmindedly. "It's why Vol— HE hadn't died that night in Godric's Hollow. Dumbledore thought HE had created seven of them. Tom Riddle's diary and Marvolo Gaunt's ring were horcruxes. We've also found Slytherin's locket."

Severus felt the color drain from his face as the missing puzzle pieces formed. The wizard's cursed hand… the ring and the sword… when Severus had asked him about it, Dumbledore had brushed it aside. 

The Sword of Gryffindor… Dumbledore had destroyed the ring with the sword… but how had the diary been destroyed?

Of course! — it had been stabbed by a Basilisk fang, if his memory served him well. The fang of the venomous beast… Harry had slain the Basilisk with the Sword… the Sword was Goblin-made…

It was a weapon of destruction, and quite possibly the only one, against the horcruxes.

Severus turned sharply to where the locket lay innocently on the ground. This explained everything! 

But Harry had been wearing that bloody — somehow, everything else was suddenly drowned out in his mind. "You foolish Gryffindor, had you zero brain cells to dive with a bloody soul piece of the Dark Lord!?" he growled, taking a menacing step forward. Harry took one back. "You could have DIED!" How could the boy have had such a poor lack of judgment? Hadn't not been for Severus, he would have drowned!

"Well, I'm very much alive still, professor ," he retorted sarcastically, splaying his hands, "all thanks to you, no better. What do you want, for me to drop to my knees and thank you? And I didn't know the bloody thing would react like that," he finished defensively, though his cheeks slightly rosier. "Besides, what's it to you? I bet you'd love to see me dead. I mean, were I not the bloody Chosen One ."

Severus couldn’t reply for several moments, just stared at Harry. He wanted to scream at him that it was the thing he dreaded most; he wanted to argue that his safety was his first priority; he wanted to expel the truth, that he'd never hated him, and reveal Dumbledore's ultimatums…

But he couldn't. Not only would it burden Harry, but Severus dreaded him spitting in his face, rejecting the truth. 

"Potter," he tried again, voice significantly calmer.  There was no spite nor bite behind the name, and he vowed to himself there never would be again. His eyes fell on the ruby-hilted sword laying on the ground, then on the locket. "You can destroy it." It was a flat statement, an acknowledgement. 

Harry followed hia general line of sight, "Yes." His eyes fixated back on Severus, he slowly approached the objects, not daring to let down his guard. Seveus held still, his hands relaxed at his sides in an impassive manner. The boy collected the sword first and eyed it scrunitisingly, his brows furrowing. Then, in a begrudging demeanor, he approached the older wizard and held out the weapon in his palms, offering it. Seveus parted his lips in inquiring surprise.

"It wasn’t me who actually retrieved the Sword. It was supposed to be taken under conditions of need and valor. It only makes sense that you should destroy it."

Caught off guard, Seveus shook his head. "No. Dumbledore said—"

"It doesn't matter what Dumbledore said. Take it and swing it, for all I care. It's just…right. Besides, the sword might not even work for me. So I will open it, and you stab it."

He looked at Harry searchingly, and then the sword. It was quite ironic, Merlin forbid anyone ever knew. The head of Slytherin, Voldemort's right-hand man, Death Eater and spy wielding Gryffindor's precious mascot relic. But taking the sword felt wrong, as if he would stain it with his sinful Death Eater hands; a Slytherin, no less.

But Harry had a point: the sword might not respond to him. And if destroying the cursed vessel was dangerous, which it probably was, he'd rather himself do it than Lily's son. 

Skeptically, he received the offered weapon gingerly. Were it not for his Occlumency, his hands would have trembled. Harry — still wary — knelt down and poised his hands at the horcrux, ready. With a measured glance at Harry, Severus slowly approached the prone locket. The closer he neared, the more it writhed and twitched, as if the soul fragment trapped within could feel its doom was near. He scrutinized the serpentine S with disgust. With a steeling breath, Severus drew back the sword, prepared to demolish a small piece of the Dark Bastard.

"On three," said Harry. "One… two… three…" A strange but familiar hissing sound suddenly emerged from his mouth.

Behind the glass panels, an eye blinked, something so eerily familiar about them that it sent a shiver down the Death Eater's spine. It blinked up at him as the point of the sword dangled right above it… but something was holding him back. A hissing voice suddenly emerged from it, the sound seeping into his bones.

"I know your sorrows and deepest desires, Severus Snape."

"SNAPE! Don't listen to it — STAB IT!"

" A mere pawn, neither dark nor light, so lost and purposeless… Not even loved by your own mother, who ended her life out of despair. A childhood friend, who'd left you for better; whom you had betrayed and killed. Owned twice by two masters, yearning redemption and respect…so alone and bitter… "

" A child boring the face of your nemesis, a child who was meant to be yours. So much regret and remorse, a hopeless life filled with guilt and contrite. And to hold such a burden, the truth of fate… Lies, secrets, masks… a grievous mistake etched upon your left arm… "

"SNAPE!"

Severus felt as though he'd died and awoke in hell. He stood stock-still, gaze transfixed upon the locket, sword dangling from his limp hand. Two figures suddenly blossomed from the locket. 

Lily with James. Her beautiful body locked tightly within her husband's embrace, her auburn hair more fiery and her face more breathtaking than his memory served. 

"Shameful," she spat with such venom, it was almost palpable in the air. "How could you, Severus? I had a family. How could I ever have loved you, a filthy Death Eater? I was your friend, I was always there for you! And you chose darkness over me. And Harry? You've treated him no better than my awful sister had."

"DON'T LISTEN TO IT! STAB IT— STAB IT! COME ON!"

Lily tilted her head back to kiss the bespectacled man, who then sneered at Severus smugly and mouthed the loathed moniker 'Snivellus' .

Severus' chest filled with searing anguish, but some duty-bound subconsciousness seemed to gather whatever willpower he had left in him. With hatred, grief, and rage, he plunged the silver blade into the gruesome eye for all he was worth. Metal clanged against glass; an ear-splitting scream from the depths of Hades erupted, but it lasted all of a moment. There was nothing left to fight, and deafening silence reigned. He didn't even feel his knees buckle and himself slump to the harsh, unforgiving ground. 

Numb and distraught, his chest heaved uncontrollably as his heart pounded against his ribcage like the clappers of bells. The image of Lily in his retinas was so engraved that the man was too far-gone to censor a voice calling his name. A million thoughts and emotions buzzed in his head like a hive of Horntail wasps.

"...You chose darkness over me…"

Those words… the blunt reality of it. He really had, hadn't he? And for what? 

"Snape? Professor?"

Severus finally snapped his dark orbs to the source of the voice, but the green emeralds that met him felt like a punch in the gut. He didn't deserve to look into them. Or was it meant like a torture device, a painful reminder of what he'd lost from his own foolish actions? For a long moment, neither spoke, Severus belatedly realizing with shame that he was indignantly on the cold, wet ground. This was probably the most vulnerable anyone had ever seen him in nearly two decades.

But what did it matter anymore? How could he even think of dignity after the crimes and sins he'd committed? He was a despicable being, a sorry excuse for a man. He'd been forced to torture, kill, lie, spy—

A presence appeared right beside him: not too close, keeping about a meter of void between, but it was there. He turned his head slowly to gaze at Harry… not in the eyes, but at his drawn, exhausted features, his messy and overgrown hair, and the worn-down sweaters he wore. A pang of sympathy and guilt struck his chest. How could he have treated this child so deplorably, even under Dumbledore's ultimatums and orders?

For a while, the early-morning forest sang. It was still pitch dark, but the wilderness was slowly waking. Its  tranquility belied the raging war, the cries of students being tortured by the Carrows, the Dark Lord in power. It was mockful to the anguish and sorrow that whirled within the dark-haired man, yet he didn't know if he envied or despised it.

"Sir?" spoke the boy, his voice directed at him softer than Severus thought he'd ever hear. "Did you… were you and my mother close?"

No… He would not burden the boy. One day, perhaps… just not today. Severus couldn't afford more time to waste. His long-term absence in the middle of the night could have already been noticed, and he couldn't risk the Dark Lord getting suspicious. He had to gather himself in his hands and do what was right.

Spurred by the sudden urgency, Severus climbed to his feet, Harry following suit. Without warning, and throwing all caution to the wind, he grasped the thin shoulders firmly yet gently, and forced himself to meet Harry's eyes, hoping to convey the urgency of what he was about to say.

"Potter—" stay safe… I'm sorry… don't die… I am proud of you… "continue searching out the other horcruxes. We've just destroyed the locket, and paired with the ring and the ring and the diary, you have only three left. As of recently, the Dark Lord has been keeping his snake under many protection charms and spells, you might want to consider the possibility of it being a horcrux. I must take leave now. No-one must know of this."

Before Harry could form a response, Severus let go of him and spun sharply on the spot, disappearing with a resounding crack .

***

Harry stood frozen in place, though not from the chill of the early morning, still caught off guard.

He was still overcome with shock from the scene of 'Lily and James', and the things that  'his mother' had said to Snape. Somehow, try as he might, he just couldn't seem to comprehend all that had just happened. Snape had always been on their side, had an extensive history with his mother, and had just helped him get the Sword of Gryffindor and destroy another horcrux. It was a lot to wrap his head around, but through all that, Harry just couldn't seem to surface the old resentment towards the man. Whatever Snape had done in the past, the only thing that mattered anymore was that the older wizard clearly had a history with Lily Potter, and Harry was beginning to see that perhaps there was more to him than an evil, greasy-haired bastard.

But now, he was gone. And Harry was alone. He wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes caught by the small puff of steam shimmering in the feeble turquoise light. The Sword lay a little ways away from the shambles of the locket, and there remained no sign of another's presence. Harry could have imagined the whole thing even, for all he knew.

Shivering and releasing a shuddering breath, the wizard went to collect the locket and sword.

But just as he’d about to head back, a familiar voice called out to him.

"Harry? Is that you?"

Harry couldn't believe his eyes. 

"Ron!"

Back at the tent (after Hermione had nearly slaughtered Ron for leaving them), the trio filled each other in on everything that's happened. Ron had wanted to return to his friends as soon as he'd left on that stormy night, and had been led to them by his bequeathed deluminator. He said he'd heard a loud crack of apparition just as he'd found Harry in the woods by accident, but Harry denied there being one: ("Maybe you'd heard a thick log snap?")

The young wizard had decided to refrain from mentioning Snape to his two friends. He wasn't sure how they would perceive the news, and he himself was still figuring things out for himself. What mattered now — and what he had divulged — was that a silver doe had led him through the woods to a small pond, where he'd then had to dive for the Sword of Gryffindor, and that another horcrux was now destroyed. 

Thus, the Golden Trio reunited once more, they began plotting their next course of action.

Chapter Text

2nd May, 1998.

Somewhere beyond the grimy, half-shattered windows and the weathered walls, beyond the quaint village of Hogsmeade, a battle raged. Tortured yells and cries of pain echoed through the night, accompanied by booms of explosions and crumbling of stone. Severus Snape had witnessed the atrocities of the First Wizarding War, though by far they were nothing in comparison to the current now. He'd seen the bloodshed, the casualties and the destruction left in the wake of the plethora of spells and curses that filled the smoke-filled sky. He himself had tried to aid his ex-colleagues and students in his desperate attempt at finding the boy.

He had not had a single encounter with Harry since that night in the Forest of Dean. But he knew the young wizard was there, at the castle, fighting valiantly alongside everyone else. Alas, keeping his head down, defending himself, fighting back, and looking for one Harry Potter in the middle of a battlefield had been like looking for one particular ant in an anthill. 

And then, he'd received his Master's summons. 

His stoic facade bellied the anxiety he felt in his chest. He had to find Harry. He had to tell him the truth, no matter how hard and loathsome the job would be. He had to carry out the job he had been set with, for the fate of the entire Wizarding World very well relied on it. 

Severus could feel it in his heart that both Harry's and his own breathing hours were slowly ticking to a close, slowly but surely. But if what his gut was hinting at him was, indeed, the truth, the older of the two was to precede the younger. 

The Dark Lord smoothly paced the length of the dingy room of the Shrieking Shack, twirling the wand Severus recognised to have once belonged to Dumbledore. The sight of it was unsettling, so he diverted his steady, obsidian gaze to the gruesome snake, warded beyond measure in her protective, enchanted cage. Nagini's body coiled in fluid motions, floating mid-air, unsupported. Severus had witnessed the creature devour his ex-colleague, Charity Burbage, and the gruesome visual had stuck with him since.

It was with forced patience that he waited for his master to inally speak, hardly daring to move a muscle. He stood still, an Occluded statue. He had only one objective on his mind: find Harry at any cost. He only had to acquire permission to search out the boy.

“. . . my Lord, their resistance is crumbling—”

“—and it is doing so without your help,” interrupted the Dark Lord in his high, clear voice. “Skilled wizard though you are, Severus, I do not think you will make much difference now. We are almost there. . . almost.”

Severus tried again, careful to keep any emotion out of his deep, silky voice. “Let me find the boy. Let me bring you Potter. I know I can find him, my Lord. Please.”

“I have a problem, Severus,” said the monster softly, his red eyes fixating on him, ignoring his plea.

“My Lord?”

The Dark Lord raised his wand, holding it as delicately and precisely as a conductor’s baton.

“Why doesn’t it work for me, Severus?”

“My—my lord?” asked Severus blankly, caught off guard by the unexpected question. “I do not understand. You—you have performed extraordinary magic with that wand.”

“No,” said Voldemort. “I have performed my usual magic. I am extraordi- nary, but this wand. . . no. It has not revealed the wonders it has promised. I feel no difference between this wand and the one I procured from Ollivander all those years ago.”

The conversation was treading dangerous waters…

“No difference,” said Voldemort again. This confused the black-clad man.

“I have thought long and hard, Severus. . . do you know why I have called you back from battle?”

Severus kept his eyes carefully trained on the snake, slithering within its enchanted cage, an unsettling pit slowly forming in his stomach. He had to find Harry… “No, my Lord, but I beg you will let me return. Let me find Potter.” Time was limited, and so was his master's patience. But Severus was desperate to deliver the information to Harry… not even that, but perhaps to see him one last time. 

“You sound like Lucius, so worried for his son. Careful, my faithful snake, or I just might start to doubt your loyalties,” he mused silkily, still pacing the length of the room, the rotten floorboards creaking softly under his weight. “It is his weakness, you see — Draco…” 

“My loyalty stands firm with you, my Lord,” assured Severus, heart gaining speed.

“Hmm. Neither of you understands Potter as I do,” the bastard moved on. “He does not need finding. Potter will come to me. I knew his weakness you see, his one great flaw. He will hate watching the others struck down around him, knowing that it is for him that it happens. He will want to stop it at any cost. He will come.”

“But my Lord, he might be killed accidentally by someone other than yourself—”

“My instructions to the Death Eaters have been perfectly clear. Capture Potter. Kill his friends—the more, the better—but do not kill him,” he cut across sharply.

“But it is of you that I wished to speak, Severus, not Harry Potter. You have been very valuable to me. Very valuable.”

Severus's gut twisted. He NEEDED to find Harry! “My Lord knows I seek only to serve him. But—let me go and find the boy, my Lord. Let me bring him to you. I know I can—”

“I have told you, no!” said Voldemort, a glint of red in his eyes as he turned, his cloak swishing, the sound mixing with the snake's slithering. He could almost feel Voldemort’s impatience burning out, and knew he was bordering on thin ice. “My concern at the moment, Severus, is what will happen when I finally meet the boy!”

“My Lord, there can be no question, surely—?”

“—but there is a question, Severus. There is.”

Voldemort halted, Severus eyeing his smooth movements as he slid the wand through his white fingers, staring at him eerily.

“Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?”

“I—I cannot answer that, my Lord.”

“Can’t you?"

“My wand of yew did everything of which I asked it, Severus, except to kill Harry Potter. Twice it failed. Ollivander told me under torture of the twin cores, told me to take another’s wand. I did so, but Lucius’s wand shattered upon meeting Potter’s.”

Severus returned his gaze. “I—I have no explanation, my Lord.”

“I sought a third wand, Severus. the Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

His heart sped up with shock and what was the beginning of dawning realization. His end was nearing, wherever the Dark Lord was leading this conversation to. “My Lord—let me go to the boy—”

“All this long night when I am on the brink of victory, I have sat here,” said Voldemort, his voice barely louder than a whisper, keeping ignorant, “wondering, wondering, why the Elder Wand refuses to be what it ought to be, refuses to perform as legend says it must perform for its rightful owner. . . and I think I have the answer.”

Severus did not speak.

“Perhaps you already know it? You are a clever man, after all, Severus. You have been a good and faithful servant, and I regret what must happen.”

No… No no no no no— It couldn't be! Find the boy! He must find Harry! He had to get away. “My Lord—”

“The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, Severus, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine.”

The wizard felt bile rising to his throat, his heart drumming reverently against his ribcage. This was it, he knew it. It was not death he was afraid of, but the ramifications of it for the child he'd grown to care for, and the war. “My Lord!” Severus protested, raising his wand, a hint of desperation having crept into his voice.

“It cannot be any other way,” said the dark wizard calmly. “I must master the wand, Severus. Master the wand, and I master Potter at last.”

And the Dark Lord swiped the air with the Elder Wand. For a few confusing seconds, nothing happened… until his intention became clear when Nagini lunged at him at breakneck speed. It encased him in its protective cage, and the Dark Lord's cold, high-pitched voice spoke a single syllable in the infamous snake language.

***

There was a terrible scream. From where he was crouched, Harry saw Snape’s face losing the little color it had left; it whitened as his black eyes widened, as the snake’s fangs pierced his neck, as he failed to push the enchanted cage off himself, as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

Harry also screamed. He screamed and yelled the professor's name, knowing it was useless under the Silencing Charm his friend had cast earlier. He was wildly flailing his limbs, failing to shake off Ron's and Hermione's death-grip on him. He had been like this ever since his vision had become his own once more, and not Voldemort's. 

He wanted to rush to the dying man, help save another innocent life. He couldn't lose Snape, the man who had sacrificed his life in the name of Lily Potter and the Greater Good. He could not lose another person to the war, not to mention his last link to his late mother.

"HERMIONE, LET GO! I TOLD YOU ALREADY, HE'S ON OUR SIDE!" he screamed, but at that exact moment, he heard the snake bastard's final words.

“I regret it,” said Voldemort coldly. Harry followed his movements with pure loathing. He turned away; there was no sadness in him, no remorse. It was time to leave this shack and take charge, with a wand that would now do his full bid- ding. He pointed it at the starry cage holding the snake, which drifted upward, off Snape, who fell sideways onto the floor, blood gushing from the wounds in his neck. Voldemort swept from the room without a backward glance, and the great serpent floated after him in its huge protective sphere. There was a loud crack.

At last, Ron's and Hermione's restraints over him let up. Harry cursed loudly, ignoring their cries of protest and confusion. He savagely snatched his wand back from his redhead-friend's grasp, and was already moving past the crate that had been concealing them.

" — Harry, please!" cried Hermione.

" — You're delusional, mate!" hissed Ron.

But Harry didn't hear them. He dropped down by Snape's side, who's long fingers were trying to staunch the bloody wound at his neck. Obsidian eyes suddenly widened as they met the emerald. Harry bent over him, intent on trying to help to staunch the bleeding, and Snape seized the front of his robes and pulled him close.

A terrible rasping, gurgling noise issued from Snape’s throat.

“Take. . . it. . . . Take. . . it. . . . ”

" —Sir! What—?"

Something more than blood was leaking from Snape. Silvery blue, neither gas nor liquid, it gushed from his mouth and his ears and his eyes, and Harry knew what it was, but did not know what to do—

A flask, conjured from thin air, was thrust into his shaking hand by Hermione. Harry lifted the silvery substance into it with his wand. When the flask was full to the brim, and Snape looked as though there was no blood left in him, his grip on Harry’s robes slackened.

"No— sir, hold on. We'll help you," said Harry desperately, wracking his brain for what to do. He turned frantically to look at his friends behind him, but a weak tug on his collar brought his attention back to Snape.

“Look. . . at. . . me. . . . ” he whispered. A lump formed in Harry's throat when he thought he saw something akin to fondness flashing in the man's tunnel-like eyes. Was it the blood loss? He was further alarmed to see the man's face twist in what was a mix of pain and anguish, and tears began to leak out of his eyes.

"Forgive… me… Harry. I'm… proud… of… y— you," he rasped out. 

"No. Sir, stop. Look, we can help you, alright? Just lie still," said Harry shakily, drawing his wand with a healing charm on the tip of his tongue, when Snape gave his collar another weak tug… a significantly weaker one. Harry halted in his movement.

"Harry… look… at… me…" he requested softly, acceptance in his dark depths, and something so uncharacteristic in his tone. Harry couldn't explain the tightness in his throat, nor the sting in his eyes, but abided by the dying man's wish. The green eyes found the black.

"You have… your mother's… eyes."

After a second, the hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more.

"NO! No, sir— NO! no no no no no—!" cried Harry, bunching up the man's dark suit and shaking him hard. He remained unmoving.

" … Harry…"

"Help me! Hermione, c'mon! There's got to be a spell or— or something that could—! Maybe he's not—!?"

He felt two different hands settle on both his shoulders, and that was all the answer he needed. Harry's face crumpled and he buried it in the ebony fabric of the brave man's cloak. His body trembled with quiet sobs, sobs for another innocent life so wastefully lost, sobs for yet another person who had died protecting him, sobs for a brave hero, whom he had once thought of with hatred and loathing… sobs for his last chance at getting to know the woman who had loved him dearly and had sacrificed her own life for him on that fateful night in Godric's Hollow.

But his moment of lamentation didn't last long, for the loathed cold voice of Voldemort filled the air, warning them of one hour.

Chapter Text

Severus had no clue of his whereabouts, and at the same time, he recognized the place like he was here just yesterday.

It was a playpark, rustic and old, an old, twisted tree situated atop the small hill not far. Two children, appearing to be no older than ten/eleven, could be seen and heard from where he stood, engrossed in an animated discussion. The sight made his heart skip a beat, catching the thirty-eight-year-old's breath and making it hitch in his windpipe.

His windpipe… His not-bleeding neck… His unpunctured skin… 

Severus brought up his hands to touch at his neck, only to find unblemished flesh beneath soft fabric. Glancing down, he was caught off-guard to discover himself wearing a dark velvet suit and robes, stylish and soft. Despite his confusion, he reached for his left arm, rolling up the sleeve…

It bore no mark.

Letting out a shaky breath, a few memories cascaded down into his head to replay. He had died. He WAS dead, wasn't he? Was this heaven?  

The boy had been there. Harry had appeared at his side to witness his last living moments. The thought warmed Severus. He had done his job; he had given Harry the crucial information in memory form. If this truly was heaven, he would see Harry soon enough, though he didn't know if he dreaded or awaited the moment.

His loyalties to Dumbledore had cracked in his last moments of life, a spontaneous decision. This had been the moment, that 'some day' when he would tell the boy the whole truth. The truth that he'd been concealing behind his mask for close to a decade.

"Severus."

His head swiveled around before his body at his dead mentor’s voice. He'd almost forgotten what it sounded like, mellow and caring, belying the high power that radiated off the ancient wizard.

"Albus?"

The man, he didn't forget, who had used him and Harry like pawns for spare.

He had to tread carefully to satisfy his own curiosity.

"Am I dead?" he inquired blankly, keeping his shock carefully-concealed under his stoic mask.

Albus Dumbledore smiled. He was also well-dressed, noted the Slytherin, dressed in those infamously-bright periwinkle robes with a gold, elaborate trim. His hand, the one which had been cursed, was once again normal. The man himself looked to be perhaps just a few years younger, for no longer were those frown and worry lines so deep and carved.

He chuckled amusedly. "Perhaps… Perhaps not. Consider this a crossroads, dear friend."

Confused, Seveus twisted his head over his shoulder to pry at the redhead girl and scrawny boy back at the playpark, his younger self now pushing Lily's swing, her flamey hair ablaze in the sunlight… strange, as the entire environment around them appeared to be almost colorless, but when he looked closely, save for the two small figures.

"You have done me proud, m'boy. Truly, you went far and beyond my expectations. "

For a small moment, Severus was rendered speechless. Speechless at the old codger's words, at his audacity , to express his pride over him. What pride? What was there to pride such a man as him on? And of all things— after what Albus had done? After the way he had used and played Severus as though he were a mere puppet… It was disgusting.

Severus felt a rush of hatred within him for the man he'd once considered his mentor, his lip curling. "Save your nauseating sentimentalities, Albus, or is it your only means of expressing remorse, should you even be capable of it?" he sneered coldly but smoothly. The old wizard's mellow smile faltered, the small twinkle in his piercing-blue eyes diminishing.

"I can tell you are less than pleased, Severus," Dumbledore acknowledged, as though he was discussing the weather. This ignited something within Severus. Something deep.

"Less than please…" he mused in a dangerously-low tone, as if testing how the words tasted on his tongue, taking a small step forth. " Less than pleased , Headmaster, by the impending outcome? Less than pleased by the boy's inevitable fate? Less than pleased by the onerous position in which you had placed me in FOR YEARS? Or perhaps by the way you have used and raised Lily’s son like a pig for slaughter!? All for the Greater Good!?" His voice had since risen, but he couldn't care less. Matter of fact, he was tired of keeping all of his anger and frustration toward the old codger pent up. 

Dumbledore sighed heavily, suddenly looking twice his age. "Severus, my reasons—"

" —severely lacked consideration of others," he cut across sharply. A mirthful squeal from behind made him glance over his shoulder, a pang in his heart to see his younger self and Lily laughing over something beside the swing. Turning back, "I trust that you are quite pleased with the outcome, however?" he retorted icily, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Harry has acquired my memories of our conversations regarding you-know-what. Within the hour, I presume he shall join us here, and the rest of the Wizarding World shall rejoice in their faux victory," spat the Slytherin, voice close to cracking. He ducked his head to the side, the tightness in his throat closing up his windpipe. 

He had failed Lily. No matter what Dumbledore said, no matter if the Dark Lord died, no matter if the war would be over soon, he had failed Lily, and not once. He had vowed to keep her son alive, had vowed to watch over and keep him safe, to see him through to the end of the war, ensuring his survival.

But it hadn't even been for Lily by the end of it all, he knew. He had genuinely grown to care for the child, a scarred child who had been forced to grow up too quickly. 

His chest was tight with emotional dissonance. The memories he had given Harry, they weren't only of the crucial information, but also of the truth. The truth of Severus' spying, the truth behind his mask of hatred through Harry's last seven years, and everything in between. He had been on the verge of death, after all; it had been a lose or lose situation. It didn't matter if the boy knew, or how much either. Harry's fate was inevitable, and he deserved to know the truth; the whole story.

"I had pleaded with you, begged you to let me help him in his hardships, assist him in any way I could. All you did was play me like a puppet fool for TWO DECADES!" he exploded suddenly.

"Severus, though it is difficult for you to see, you know I had no other choice," replied Dumbledore sorrowfully. "Your position as a spy to me — to the Order — was invaluable. Putting this fact aside, I doubted you would be able to provide the boy with what he truly needed — do not take this the wrong way!" he hastily held up a hand. 

"There stands a simple question, Severus: had I given you carte blanche with Harry, would you have provided for him? Would you have filled his parental gap, what with your own less-than-savory childhood? Harry needed stability, someone who wasn't involved in life-risking endeavors with Voldemort." Seveus flinched at the name. "The chances would have been too hight of Voldemort discovering you through his connection with Harry, which would put the both of you into a rather difficult situation."

Severus stared, not quite with shock, but more with a lack of words. Albus had never explained things like that, though he could tell that the man had also had his own, other, ulterior motives.

"M'boy, please understand that I was not trying to hurt neither you nor the boy. In fact, all might not be lost," the elder said. Severus scoffed, but something in the elder's eyes prompted his curiosity.

"What do you mean?" he asked with trepidation.

A new voice appeared behind them, this one sending Severus an unpleasant chill down his spine. He turned around to see young Petunia Evans approaching the other two children, complaining about something. Severus was too far away to make out the words. 

"Do you know why the Dark Lord killed you, Severus?" asked Dumbledore softly, coming to stand beside the dark-clad man to observe.

"Yes. He presumed I was the Elder Wand's master, given I had bested you in battle. I had never known that you even possessed such an object, let alone that it existed. Now, the Wizarding World might just well be doomed."

"Ah. But you see, it was Draco who had dissarmed me on the tower. The wand had rightfully belonged to him from that very moment," replied Dumbledore somewhat merilly, as if excited about solving a puzzle.

"Had?"

"Until Harry Potter disarmed him at Malfoy Manor. Which would mean—"

"—That Harry is the master of the Elder Wand," finished Severus blankly, eyes slightly wider. "And you are saying he will best the Dark Lord in battle?"

"In the long run, yes. However, he needs to die first, and by the hand of Voldemort himself."

Severus' head snapped to his late mentor's aged face. "I see you have finally gone senile, old man!" he snarled. He had held hope, once again, that he had missed something, that perhaps not all was lost… foolish and naive, of course. Now, the old codger was suggesting Harry would kill the Dark Lord dead—

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "Perhaps… But you misunderstood me, dear boy. Ah, you will understand everything soon enough. Right now, you must make a choice," he said cryptically.

Severus wasn't watching his younger-self and Lily anymore, but was looking Albus straight in the eyes. "A decision? Albus, why am I here in the first place? Surely, the blasted snake has killed me?"

That twinkle was back in the wizard's eyes. "I do not believe so. This place…" he trailed off, craving his head to look around, "Is a crossroads between life and death. You are being offered another chance at life, Severus… You can choose to remain here, of course, in peace, and watch over Harry from above…" The man turned around fully to look behind, Severus turning with him in curiosity. There, some yards away, was the Hogwarts Express.

Severus's lips parted in bemusement. "And where would it take me?" he intoned mildly.

"On."

Albus then smiled at him softly. "Or. You can choose to go back, help Harry come to terms with what he must. You would no longer be under obligation to neither myself nor Voldemort, you know. You would have a chance at closure, and a life beyond."

Closure… But what life? thought Severus. What life would he have if he were to go back? "But is it not too late?" he found himself asking carefully. Dumbledore smiled at him in answer.

"I don’t believe so. However, the details are for you to find out. You still have a vow to fulfill, after all. And one will never know unless they try."

Chapter Text

he castle was completely empty; even the ghosts seemed to have joined the mass mourning in the Great Hall. Harry ran without stopping, clutching the crystal flask of Snape’s last thoughts, and he did not slow down until he reached the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office. The flask felt heavy in his hand, heavy and sticky with the man's blood. He had sobbed into his dead professor's robes all throughout Voldemort's 'one hour' warning, the endeavor feeling like an expelling of some of the shock and grief he'd experienced so far that night. And then, he'd seen more dead bodies, lined up in neat rows in the sentence of the Great Hall, the Weasleys mourning and the Lupins pale and lifeless, amongst countless others.

“Password?”

“Dumbledore!” said Harry without thinking.

When Harry burst into the circular office, he was somewhat surprised to find any change. The portraits that hung all around the walls were empty. Not a single headmaster or headmistress remained to see him; all, it seemed, had flitted away, charging through the paintings that lined the castle so that they could have a clear view of what was going on.

Harry glanced hopelessly at Dumbledore’s deserted frame, which hung directly behind the headmaster’s chair, then turned his back on it. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to see the old man right now, not after everything he'd found out about him lately. Since Rita Skeeter's 'Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore', and his encounter with Snape, he'd done a lot of thinking about the man whom he'd always perceived as flawless and innocent.

The stone Pensieve lay in the cabinet where it had always been. Harry heaved it onto the desk and, trying to quell his sense of trepidation, poured Snape’s memories into the wide basin with its runic markings around the edge. What could Snape have left him? His thoughts and memories, but of what on earth? Perhaps a key to defeating Voldemort? Something crucial Dumbledore had left him to tell Harry?

The memories swirled, silver white and strange… Harry dived.

He fell headlong into sunlight, and his feet found warm ground. When he straightened up, he saw that he was in a nearly deserted playground. A single huge chimney dominated the distant skyline. Two girls were swinging backward and forward, and a skinny boy was watching them from behind a clump of bushes. His black hair was overlong and his clothes were so mismatched that it looked deliberate: too short jeans, a shabby, overlarge coat that might have belonged to a grown man, an odd smocklike shirt. Harry recognised him immediately for his late professor.

“—Lily, don’t do it!” shrieked the elder girl of the two.

But the girl had let go of the swing at the very height of its arc and flown into the air, quite literally flown, launched herself skyward with a great shout of laughter, and instead of crumpling on the playground asphalt, she soared like a trapeze artist through the air, staying up far too long, landing far too lightly.

“Mummy told you not to!... Mummy said you weren’t allowed, Lily!”

“But I’m fine,” said Lily, still giggling. “Tuney, look at this. Watch what I can do.”

Lily had picked up a fallen flower from the bush behind which Snape lurked. Petunia advanced, evidently torn between curiosity and disapproval. Lily waited until Petunia was near enough to have a clear view, then held out her palm. The flower sat there, opening and closing its petals, like some bizarre, many-lipped oyster.

“Stop it!” shrieked Petunia.

“It’s not hurting you,” said Lily.

“It’s not right… But how do you do it?” Petunia added, and there was definite longing in her voice.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Snape could no longer contain himself, but had jumped out from behind the bushes. Petunia shrieked and ran backward toward the swings, but Lily, though clearly startled, remained where she was. Snape seemed to regret his appearance. A dull flush of color mounted the sallow cheeks as he looked at Lily.

“What’s obvious?” asked Lily.

Snape had an air of nervous excitement. With a glance at the distant Petunia, now hovering beside the swings, he lowered his voice and said, “I know what you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re…you’re a witch,” whispered Snape.

Harry continued observing the scene before him unfold with shock and disbelief. He couldn't even bring himself to internally process what he was seeing, but instead stood and watched. 

…The scene ended with Petunia leading Lily away, still looking affronted by what Snape had called her. The greasy-haired boy had a bitter, dissapoimted look on his face, clearly not having been expecting things to go this wrong…

The next several scenes followed in a similar fashion…

"...We’re all right. We haven’t got wands yet. They let you off when you’re a kid and you can’t help it. But once you’re eleven…”

“...How are things at your house?”

“Fine.”

“They’re not arguing anymore?”

“Oh yes, they’re arguing. But it won’t be that long and I’ll be gone.”

“Doesn’t your dad like magic?”

“He doesn’t like anything, much.”

“Severus?”

A little smile twisted Snape’s mouth when she said his name.

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about the dementors again…”

They were now on the Hogwarts Express…

“...I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Tuney h-hates me. Because we saw that letter from Dumbledore.“

“So what?”

She threw him a look of deep dislike.

“So she’s my sister!”

“She’s only a – “ Snape caught himself quickly; Lily, too busy trying to wipe her eyes without being noticed, did not hear him.

“But we’re going!” he said, unable to suppress the exhilaration in his voice. “This is it! We’re off to Hogwarts!”

Harry was taken aback by the sudden appearance of James and Sirius… the origin of Snape's prejudices and dislike of both Potters…

The Great Hall, a million candles afloat and tables groaning under the weight of all the food…

"Gryffindor!" 

Lily was welcomed by the Gryffindor table… Snape watched disappointedly… Then it was his turn.

…Slytherin!” cried the Sorting Hat…

The scene shifted, the redhead and Slytherin both slightly taller.

“…thought we were supposed to be friends?” Snape was saying, “Best friends?”

“We are, Sev, but I don’t like some of the people you’re hanging round with!

…"

And the scene dissolved…

Harry watched again as Snape left the Great Hall after sitting his O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts, watched as he wandered away from the castle and strayed inadvertently close to the place beneath the beech tree where James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew sat together. But Harry kept his distance this time, because he knew what happened after James had hoisted Severus into the air and taunted him; he knew what had been done and said, and it gave him no pleasure to hear it again… He watched as Lily joined the group and went to Snape’s defense. Distantly he heard Snape shout at her in his humiliation and his fury, the unforgivable word: “Mudblood.”

The scene changed…

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Save your breath…”

Lily would not accept his forgiveness. She eventually retreated back into the Gryffindor tower, leaving Snape alone…

The corridor dissolved, and the scene took a little longer to reform: Harry seemed to fly through shifting shapes and colors until his surroundings solidified again and he stood on a hilltop, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the wind whistling through the branches of a few leafless trees. The adult Snape was panting, turning on the spot, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, waiting for something or for someone… His fear infected Harry too, even though he knew that he could not be harmed, and he looked over his shoulder, wondering what it was that Snape was waiting for – Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. Harry thought of lightning, but Snape had dropped to his knees and his wand had flown out of his hand.

“Don’t kill me!”

“That was not my intention.”

Any sound of Dumbledore Apparating had been drowned by the sound of the wind in the branches. He stood before Snape with his robes whipping around him, and his face was illuminated from below in the light cast by his wand.

“Well, Severus? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”

“No – no message – I’m here on my own account!”

Snape was wringing his hands. He looked a little mad, with his straggling black hair flying around him.

“I – I come with a warning – no, a request – please – ”

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Snape faced each other.

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”

“The – the prophecy…the prediction…Trelawney…”

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything – everything I heard!” said Snape, with distraught self-disgust. “That is why – it is for that reason – he thinks it means Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July – ”

“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down – kill them all – ”

“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”

“I have – I have asked him – ”

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore, and Harry had never heard so much contempt in his voice. Snape seemed to shrink a little, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child? They can die, as long as you have what you want?”

Snape said nothing, but merely looked up at Dumbledore.

“Hide them all, then,” he croaked desperately. “Keep her – them – safe. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return, Severus?”

“In – in return?“ Snape gaped at Dumbledore, and Harry expected him to protest, but after a long moment he said, ”Anything.“

The hilltop faded, and Harry stood in Dumbledore’s office, and something was making a terrible sound, like a wounded animal. Snape was slumped forward in a chair and Dumbledore was standing by one of the tall windows, back turned to the distraught man, looking grim. 

After a moment or two, Snape raised his face, and he looked like a man who had lived a hundred years of misery since leaving the wild hilltop. His gaunt face glistened with wet, and greasy hair was a disheveled mess… Harry felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him.

“I thought…you were going…to keep her…safe…” he croaked out brokenly.

“She and James put their faith in the wrong person,“ said Dumbledore, not turning around. ”Rather like you, Severus. Weren’t you hoping that Lord Voldemort would spare her?“

Snape’s breathing hitched, shallow. He looked to be almost on the verge of hyperventilation, eyes unfixed.

“Her boy survives,” said Dumbledore.

With a tiny jerk of the head, Snape seemed to flick off an irksome fly, and then his face twisted with pain and sorrow.

“Her son lives. He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and color of Lily Evans’s eyes, I am sure?“

“DON’T!” bellowed Snape with heartbroken remorse. “Gone…dead…”

“Is this remorse, Severus?”

“I wish…I wish I were dead…“

“And what use would that be to anyone?” said Dumbledore coldly. “If you loved Lily Evans, if you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear.”

Snape seemed to peer through a haze of pain, and Dumbledore’s words appeared to take a long time to reach him.

“What – what do you mean?”

“You know how and why she died. Make sure it was not in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.”

“He does not need protection. The Dark Lord has gone – ”

“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.”

There was a long pause, and slowly Snape regained control of himself, mastered his own breathing. At last he said, “Very well. Very well. But never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! Swear it! I cannot bear…especially Potter’s son…I want your word!”

“My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?” Dumbledore sighed, looking down into Snape’s ferocious, anguished face. “If you insist…”

The office dissolved but re-formed instantly. Snape was pacing up and down in front of Dumbledore.

"...Almost killed by a troll — A TROLL— Albus! Hasn't gotten even past First Term, and he's already nearly died under my—"

"Harry is quite alright though, as you can see, dear boy," assured Dumbledore, turning a page of his Daily Prophet. "I am quite pleased to see that Harry has found himself such loyal friends — they much remind me of Lily: Miss Granger's intelligence,  Harry's bravery, and why not even Mr. Weasley's fiery hair?"

Snape looked indignantly for a moment, as though unbelieving of the Headmaster’s audacity.

A whirl of color, and now everything darkened, and Snape and Dumbledore stood a little apart in the entrance hall, while the last stragglers from the Yule Ball passed them on their way to bed.

“Well?” murmured Dumbledore.

“Karkaroff’s Mark is becoming darker too. He is panicking, he fears retribution; you know how much help he gave the Ministry after the Dark Lord fell.” Snape looked sideways at Dumbledore’s crooked-nosed profile. “Karkaroff intends to flee if the Mark burns.”

“Does he?” said Dumbledore softly, as Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies came giggling in from the grounds. “And are you tempted to join him?”

“No,“ said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.”

“No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon…”

Snape seemed momentarily flustered hy the comment, but recovered quickly with an air of indifference. 

"Headmaster, the Second Task is nearly upon us — would it not be prudent for someone to assist the boy? You are quite well-aware of the dangers it will pose—"

"I have told you no, Severus. Your concern for young Harry is commendable, but you are duty-bound, and with the dreaded event on the horizon, I don't believe it would be wise…"

"I would able, Headmaster. I beg of you, ellow me to assist Harry—"

Harry did a double take at the professor's use of his given name, never having heard it not spoken with contrition or spite.

"My decision stands, Severus," interjected Dumbledore more forcefully. "After all, you weren’t so keen about him a few years ago — what has changed?"

They kept their eyes locked for a while, before Snape gave a jerky, curt nod, and strode away, looking stricken.

The scene shifted, and before Harry formed the circular office once again. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, hands steepled, peering through his half-moon spectacles at the dark-clad wizard. Snape was standing intimidating, his arms crossed over his chest, anger and frustration evident in his features and evident body tension.

"... ever even taken an interest in the boy's life outside school, Headmaster?" he spat.

"To what are you referring, dear boy?" inquired Albus.

"Harry's home life with Lily's vile sister," he snarled. "The boy is incapable of keeping up the shortest mind shield — warranted, for the way in which you've ordered me to train him. Our recent lesson has allowed me more glimpses of his home life—"

"I am well-aware of your theory, Severus,  and what you are trying to imply. I'm afraid my answer is still no. You are needed as spy, and should Voldemort peer into Harry's mind, he would uncover your true loyalties."

With a begrudging stance, Snape seemed to relent, though a considering look on his face. "Promise you will see to the matter, Albus," he nearly pleaded. "Knowing Petunia— Lily's son… It is unacceptable."

Dumbledore looked him straight in the eyes, though something not quite genuine about him. The wizard gave a reassuring nod. Snape surveyed him awhile, then left.

The room morphed around Harry, but when everything settled, he found himself in the exact same circular office… It was nighttime, and Dumbledore sagged sideways in the throne like chair behind the desk, apparently semiconscious. His right hand dangled over the side, blackened and burned. Snape was muttering incantations, pointing his wand at the wrist of the hand, while with his left hand he tipped a goblet full of thick golden potion down Dumbledore’s throat. After a moment or two, Dumbledore’s eyelids fluttered and opened.

“Why,“ said Snape, without preamble, “why did you put on that ring? It carries a curse, surely you realized that. Why even touch it?”

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring lay on the desk before Dumbledore. It was cracked; the sword of Gryffindor lay beside it.

Dumbledore grimaced.

“I…was a fool. Sorely tempted…”

“Tempted by what?”

Dumbledore did not answer.

“It is a miracle you managed to return here!“ Snape sounded furious. ”That ring carried a curse of extraordinary power, to contain it is all we can hope for; I have trapped the curse in one hand for the time being – “

Dumbledore raised his blackened, useless hand, and examined it with the expression of one being shown an interesting curio.

“You have done very well, Severus. How long do you think I have?”

Dumbledore’s tone was conversational; he might have been asking for a weather forecast. Snape hesitated, and then said, “I cannot tell. Maybe a year. There is no halting such a spell forever. It will spread eventually, it is the sort of curse that strengthens over time.”

Dumbledore smiled. The news that he had less than a year to live seemed a matter of little or no concern to him.

“I am fortunate, extremely fortunate, that I have you, Severus.”

“If you had only summoned me a little earlier, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!” said Snape furiously. He looked down at the broken ring and the sword. “Did you think that breaking the ring would break the curse?”

“Something like that…I was delirious, no doubt…“ said Dumbledore. With an effort he straightened himself in his chair. ”Well, really, this makes matters much more straightforward.“

Snape looked utterly perplexed. Dumbledore smiled.

“I refer to the plan Lord Voldemort is revolving around me. His plan to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me.”

Snape sat down in the chair Harry had so often occupied, across the desk from Dumbledore. Harry could tell that he wanted to say more on the subject of Dumbledore’s cursed hand, but the other held it up in polite refusal to discuss the matter further. Scowling, Snape said, “The Dark Lord does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius’s recent failures. Slow torture for Draco’s parents, while they watch him fail and pay the price.”

“In short, the boy has had a death sentence pronounced upon him as surely as I have,” said Dumbledore. “Now, I should have thought the natural successor to the job, once Draco fails, is yourself?”

There was a short pause.

“That, I think, is the Dark Lord’s plan.”

“Lord Voldemort foresees a moment in the near future when he will not need a spy at Hogwarts?”

“He believes the school will soon be in his grasp, yes.”

“And if it does fall into his grasp,” said Dumbledore, almost, it seemed, as an aside, “I have your word that you will do all in your power to protect the students at Hogwarts?”

Snape gave a stiff nod.

“Good. Now then. Your first priority will be to discover what Draco is up to. A frightened teenage boy is a danger to others as well as to himself. Offer him help and guidance, he ought to accept, he likes you – ”

“ – much less since his father has lost favor. Draco blames me, he thinks I have usurped Lucius’s position.”

The pair continued to discuss Draco Malfoy's mission, and how Snape would be the one to carry it out, should it come to that…. Dumbledore would soon die of his cursed hand…

“...That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?...”

Dumbledore didn't answer.

The office disappeared, and now Snape and Dumbledore were strolling together in the deserted castle grounds by twilight.

“What are you doing with Harry, all these evenings you are closeted together?“ Snape asked abruptly, a hint of worry lacing his tone.

Dumbledore looked weary.

“Why? You aren’t trying to give him more detentions, Severus? The boy will soon have spent more time in detention than out.“

“Which I do on your orders, you hypocrite — !”

“I spend time with Harry because I have things to discuss with him," Dumbledore quickly supplied, "information I must give him before it is too late.”

“Information,” repeated Snape. “You trust him…you do not trust me.”

“It is not a question of trust. I have, as we both know, limited time. It is essential that I give the boy enough information for him to do what he needs to do.”

“And why may I not have the same information? Perhaps it is unwise to burden the boy's shoulders with more bite than he can chew?” He glanced around, before lowering his voice. “If you would only let me, I could assist the boy, Headmaster. He is but sixteen, and does not possess merely enough knowledge to—”

“I prefer not to put all of my secrets in one basket, particularly not a basket that spends so much time dangling on the arm of Lord Voldemort.”

“Which I, again, do on your orders!”

“And you do it extremely well. Do not think that I underestimate the constant danger in which you place yourself, Severus. To give Voldemort what appears to be valuable information while withholding the essentials is a job I would entrust to nobody but you.“

“Yet you confide much more in a boy who is incapable of Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who has a direct connection into the Dark Lord’s mind! I could have taught him properly. I could have guided him—!“

“Voldemort fears that connection,” said Dumbledore, ignoring the last few lines. “Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly sharing Harry’s mind means to him. It was pain such as he has never experienced. He will not try to possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lord Voldemort’s soul, maimed as it is, cannot bear close contact with a soul like Harry’s. Like a tongue on frozen steel, like flesh in flame – “

“Souls? We were talking of minds! Of Harry's mind, first and foremost, and his sanity—!” Snape sounded outraged

“In the case of Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other.”

Dumbledore glanced around to make sure that they were alone. They were close by the Forbidden Forest now, but there was no sign of anyone near them.

“After you have killed me, Severus – ”

“You refuse to tell me everything, yet you expect that small service of me!“ snarled Snape sarcastically, and real anger flared in the thin face now. ”You take a great deal for granted, Dumbledore! Perhaps I have changed my mind!“

“You gave me your word, Severus," replied the elder calmly. "And I doubt you would leave your duty to Lily's legacy so easily — help to finish what was started sixteen years ago: a grievous mistake. And while we are talking about services you owe me, I thought you agreed to keep a close eye on our young Slytherin friend?”

Snape looked angry, mutinous. Dumbledore sighed.

“Come to my office tonight, Severus, at eleven, and you shall not complain that I have no confidence in you…”

They were back in Dumbledore’s office, the windows dark, and Fawkes sat silent as Snape sat quite still, as Dumbledore walked around him, talking.

“Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?”

“But what must he do?” asked Snape sharply.

“That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely, Severus. There will come a time – after my death – do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake.“

“For Nagini?” Snape looked astonished.

“Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry.”

“Tell him what?”

There was evident concern and worry now, the man's fingers twitching, but his face a mask.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort’s soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsed building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and it is that which gives him the power of speech with snakes, and a connection with Lord Voldemort’s mind that he has never understood. And while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.“

Harry seemed to be watching the two men from one end of a long tunnel, they were so far away from him, their voices echoing strangely in his ears. Snape's eyes were bulging wide, a suspicious, glistening sheen to the obsidian orbs. His mouth was slightly agape, and he seemed at a loss for not even words, but a reaction.

“So the boy…the boy must die?” asked Snape numbly, barely a whisper.

“And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential.”

Another long silence. Voice thinner, Snape replied, “I thought…all those years…that we were protecting him for her. For Lily,” he said brokenly, evidently holding something back.

“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength,” said Dumbledore, his eyes still tight shut. “Meanwhile, the connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.”

Dumbledore opened his eyes. Snape looked horrified and on the verge of a breakdown.

“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?“ he said more than asked, voice too steady and composed to be considered sane. It was eerie… something dangerous impotent.

“Don’t be shocked, Severus. How many men and women have you watched die?”

“Lately, only those whom I could not save!” exclaimed Snape. He stood up. “You have used me!” he snarled, hurt and anger swirling in his eyes.

“Meaning?”

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son — HARRY — safe! Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—!?“

“I do not consider it in such a vile way, no. I have tried to give him as normal a life as I could have, but everyone has their fate, Severus. I sorely wish it weren't like this… But I had never thought… have you genuinely grown to care for Harry , and not just Lily's son ?”

Snape voiced no verbal reply. He closed his eyes momentarily, and in his silky, slightly shaky voice. ”Expecto Patronum!“

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe. She landed on the office floor, bounded once across the office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded he turned back to Snape, who's eyes were full of tears.

“After all this time?”

“Always,” croaked Snape. His knees gave away suddenly  and he slumped backward into one of the cushiony armchairs. He leaned forward, head bent and cradled in his hands, his long fingers stressing his greasy locks. There were several moments of silence, broken only by the man's shallow breathing.

"Surely… surely, there must be a way, Albus?" he choked out weakly.

Dumbledore shook his head in genuine remorse. "I'm afraid this is the only way, dear boy, and the sooner you come to terms with this—"

Snape suddenly shot out of the chair. Harry could once again see his gaunt face properly: a mixture of pain and grief, but something defiant in his eyes ablaze.

"I refuse to accept these terms," he bit out, fists clenched at his sides and black eyes pinning the blue with a stare of death. "Plan your little chess game however you wish, I have NOT just spent the better half of my life trying to assure Harry Potter's survival just to stand aside and witness his slaughter!"

"And what do you propose we do, Severus?" asked Dumbledore calmly from behind his desk, standing, one hand poised atop the wood. But Harry could sense danger. "There is no loophole — believe me, I have searched—"

"I will flee the country with him," declared Snape suddenly. "The Dark Lord and the Wizarding World be damned, Harry is NOT a piece of meat! He is a boy; a child. Lily's child—"

"If you proceed with such an endeavor, Severus, I assure you, the consequences will be dire."

"Is that a threat?" sneered Snape, crooked teeth bared.

"Oh, no. Merely a word of caution." 

Dumbledore and Snape stared into each other's eyes, and there was a clear warning of pushing limits in Dumbledore's orbs of blue. Harry could sense the danger in the air, and Snape could obviously, too. Wisely, the dark-clad man spun on his heel and slammed the office door behind him. 

And the scene shifted. Now, Harry saw Snape talking to the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk.

“You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s,“ said Dumbledore. ”Not to do so will raise suspicion, when Voldemort believes you so well informed. However, you must plant the idea of decoys; that, I think, ought to ensure Harry’s safety. Try Confunding Mundungus Fletcher. And Severus, if you are forced to take part in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly…I am counting upon you to remain in Lord Voldemort’s good books as long as possible, or Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows…“

Now Snape was head to head with Mundungus in an unfamiliar tavern, Mundungus’s face looking curiously blank, Snape frowning in concentration.

“You will suggest to the Order of the Phoenix,“ Snape murmured, ”that they use decoys. Polyjuice Potion. Identical Potters. It’s the only thing that might work. You will forget that I have suggested this. You will present it as your own idea. You understand?“

“I understand,” murmured Mundungus, his eyes unfocused…

Now Harry was flying alongside Snape on a broomstick through a clear dark night: He was accompanied by other hooded Death Eaters, and ahead were Lupin and a Harry who was really George… A Death Eater moved ahead of Snape and raised his wand, pointing it directly at Lupin’s back.

“Sectumsempra!“ shouted Snape.

But the spell, intended for the Death Eater’s wand hand, missed and hit George instead.

And next, Snape was kneeling in Sirius’s old bedroom. Tears were dripping from the end of his hooked nose as he read the old letter from Lily. The second page carried only a few words: could ever have been friends with Gellert Grindelwald. I think her mind’s going, personally!

Lots of love, Lily

Snape took the page bearing Lily’s signature, and her love, and tucked it inside his robes. Then he ripped in two the photograph he was also holding, so that he kept the part from which Lily laughed with Harry, throwing the portion showing James back onto the floor, under the chest of drawers…

"I'm s— so sorry, Lily," he choked out in a moan. "I have t—tried to protect him, have tried to find a way for him to survive— I have failed you so many times before… Lily… Forgive me. I— I do not deserve to be here; it is your place, here on earth, not m-mine!" His cries were heartbroken and woeful, sounding even worse than that night of the Potters' deaths. Harry's heart clenched, feeling his own eyes begin to sting….

And now Snape stood again in the headmaster’s study as Phineas Nigellus came hurrying into his portrait.

“Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean! The Mudblood – ”

“Do not use that word!”

“ – the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!”

“Good. Very good!” cried the portrait of Dumbledore behind the headmaster’s chair. “Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valor – and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s mind and see you acting for him – ”

“I know,” said Snape curtly and coldly. He approached the portrait of Dumbledore and pulled at its side. It swung forward, revealing a hidden cavity behind it from which he took the sword of Gryffindor.

“And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important to give Harry the sword?” said Snape as he swung a traveling cloak over his robes.

“No, I don’t think so. He will know what to do with it,” said Dumbledore’s portrait. “And Severus — remember: no-one must know. Harry must not know of your true loyalties. And Severus, be very careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance after George Weasley’s mishap – ”

Snape turned at the door, giving Dumbledore's portrait a wide berth.

“Yet again, you ask so much of me… But to ease your oil painted anxiety, I have a plan…” And Snape left the room.

The scene shifted again, and Harry was caught off-guard by where he was. A house, so familiar and destroyed, the roof caved-in. It was night, windy; thunder was rolling somewhere off in the distance. Snape stood before the structure, gaunt face pale with distress and anxiety. Eventually, he broke into a half-run for the house. Harry followed.

Inside was a mess, silverware shattered on the floor and the laminated floors littered with debris that had rained down from the ceiling. Snape made for the stairs, stopping momentarily to gape at the deceased body of James Potter laying on the first steps, eyes behind the spectacles unseeing and empty. Harry felt his eyes water, but forced himself to follow Snape upstairs.

The infrastructure here was severely damaged, wreckage from the roof littering the floor. Snape's footsteps grew smaller, more hesitant. A light shone from a door at the end of the corridor…

And finally, Severus' knees caved. He sank to the floor, sliding against the splintered doorway. Harry's view was no longer obstructed, and he could clearly see Lily Evans Potter on the floor, her brilliant-green eyes also as blank as her husband's. The one-year-old was awfully quiet in his crib, taking everything in with shocked, confusion-filled eyes. 

Harry kneeled down and watched with heartbreak as Snape scooped the woman in his arms and  lamented into her fiery-red hair, choking out indecipherable words of remorse. His grieving cries echoed through the room, and both Harrys soon joined him, one wailing harder than the older. 

The room began to shift, but just as Harry thought the memory sequence was over, the scene warped slightly around him. Still in the circular office, nothing much had changed, except for its occupants. Dumbledore was no longer there, but Snape was. The wizard sat, hunched over a piece of parchment, in the high-backed chair that had once belonged to Dumbledore. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes…

Wiping his eyes with the back of his filthy sleeve, Harry kept closer out of curiosity to peek at what the man was writing. Why had he chosen this memory to show Harry?

Up close, the paper was long and full of a spider scrawl. Snape held a black quill in his hand, poised at the ready to write, a droplet of ink growing at its tip…

But just as Harry had begun to read, Snape gathered the parchment, rolled it up into a neat scroll, and began to cast several charms on it in a foreign language; they sounded complex. Seemingly satisfied, the Slytherin headmaster stored the writing in a drawer of the large desk, with only a bit of hesitation before sealing it locked with his wand…. the world contorted and warped.

Harry rose up out of the Pensieve, and moments later he lay on the carpeted floor in exactly the same rooms Snape might just have closed the door.

Finally, the truth. Lying with his face pressed into the dusty carpet of the office where he had once thought he was learning the secrets of victory, Harry understood at last that he was not supposed to survive. His job was to walk calmly into Death’s welcoming arms. Along the way, he was to dispose of Voldemort’s remaining links to life, so that when at last he flung himself across Voldemort’s path, and did not raise a wand to defend himself, the end would be clean, and the job that ought to have been done in Godric’s Hollow would be finished: Neither would live, neither could survive.

He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. How strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the harder, valiantly keeping him alive. But it would have to stop, and soon. Its beats were numbered. How many more would there be time for, as he rose and walked through the castle for the last time, out into the grounds and into the forest?

Terror washed over him as he lay on the floor, with that funeral drum pounding inside him. Would it hurt to die? All those times he had thought that it was about to happen and escaped, he had never really thought of the thing itself: His will to live had always been so much stronger than his fear of death. Yet it did not occur to him now to try to escape, to outrun Voldemort. It was over, he knew it, and all that was left was the thing itself: dying.

Dumbledore’s betrayal was almost nothing. Of course there had been a bigger plan; Harry had simply been too foolish to see it, he realized that now. He had never questioned his own assumption: that Dumbledore wanted him alive. Now he saw that his life span had always been determined by how long it took to eliminate all the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had passed the job of destroying them to him, and obediently he had continued to chip away at the bonds tying not only Voldemort, but himself, to life! How neat, how elegant, not to waste any more lives, but to give the dangerous task to the boy who had already been marked for slaughter, and whose death would not mean calamity, but another blow against Voldemort.

And Dumbledore had known that Harry would not duck out, that he would keep going to the end, even though it was his end, because he had taken trouble to get to know him, hadn’t he? Dumbledore knew, as Voldemort knew, that Harry would not let anyone else die for him now that he had discovered it was in his power to stop it. The images of Fred, Lupin, and Tonks lying dead in the Great Hall forced their way back into his mind’s eye, and for a moment he could hardly breathe: Death was impatient.

And then there was Snape. Of all people of all the witches and wizards, it had to be Snape. Where to even begin? It was still a shock to Harry that the man had loved his mother, and had… cared about him… He didn't know how he felt about that.

Dumbledore had also manipulated him, Harry could tell. Snape had simply abided by the wizard's rules under threats and the promise to look after Lily Potter’s child…

And that's when Harry remembered.

Shakily clambering to his feet, Harry approached the mahogany desk. He wasn't sure what he was expecting or anticipating to happen, but given the way his life was going so far, he bet nothing could surprise him anymore.

How wrong he was…

As soon as his hand grazed the drawer from the memories, there were several loud clicks. It opened, and the familiar roll of parchment floated out. He accepted with unsteady hands, and gaped down upon the neat, spider scrawl.

Harry,

Presumably, if you are reading this, I'm dead. Perhaps for the better. This letter may come to you as a shock This letter was rather unplanned, and would be frowned upon by Albus Dumbledore, but I felt the need to tell you. You deserve to know the truth, the whole story, and upon reading this, I hope you will have a better understanding of your last seven years.

I have never hated, loathed, nor despised you. In fact, quite the opposite. In looks, of course, you truly had inherited your father's appearance, but you have your mother's emerald-green eyes too, and perhaps even nose and cheekbones. She was a phenomenal witch; kind, powerful, and a true Gryffindor at heart. She was my closest friend from before our First Year at Hogwarts. It was I who had told her she was a witch, though Lily had taken it as an insult at first.

Though we were separated by House, she and I continued to be good friends until the incident in our Fifth Year, which you had seen in my pensieve (ironically in the same Year). I cannot put into words how much I regret that day, alongside many other. I have always loved her, Harry, and it was I who had driven her away.

Regretfully, she died of my cause. I had overhead half a prophecy one night, seventeen years ago, predicted by Trelawney. Like the loyal Death Eater I was, I relayed it to the Dark Voldemort. Subsequently, he went to hunt down you and your parents. I turned to Dumbledore for help, and thus why your family had gone into hiding.

Her death had been beyond devastating for me. Since then, it has been my biggest regret. That night, I made a vow to protect and watch over you in your mother's legacy.

The first decade after crawled by, and then you came to Hogwarts. Regretfully, I had seen only James Potter in you, blinded by hatred and prejudice. However, the closer I looked, the more I began to realize how you are so much like your mother in character. Not only do you have her eyes, Harry, but her spirit, which continues to shine through you even in the darkest of times. I would know, for I have observed from the shadows and behind a mask.

I treated you the way I had unwillingly. Dumbledore had always disapproved of the idea of you and I growing close. It would have been unwise, given my spying duties and your connection to Voldemort. For what it is worth, I want you to know, Harry, how remorseful I am over my maltreatment of you. I had tried to teach you Occlumency properly, had begged with the Headmaster to relent and allow me, but his stance was firm.

Had I been able to, I would have done more, Harry, believe me when I say this. It pained me, forcing such hatred on you. At times, associating you with your father had helped to keep up my facade, and it had worked. But it was always a dreaded job, to hurt you in such vile ways. I wish things were different.

With this letter, I do not expect your forgiveness. I merely wish to express how sorry I am for the ways I have wronged you and Lily Potter. I hope you know how proud I am of all your endeavors, even if most of them were reckless and had nearly caused me heart attacks, and I hope you know how much I have always cared. I will see you in another lifetime, Harry.

— Sincerely, S. S.

Harry was oblivious to the tears that were streaming down his cheeks. The world around him was somehow bigger, more confusing, and unfair. Snape really had cared for him all this time, had been forced and manipulated by Dumbledore, blackmailed and played like a damn pawn in this war!

The large chair behind him broke his fall when his knees gave out. Clutching the now-wrinkled parchment in his hands, Harry sobbed at the injustice of the world. He sobbed in grief over the man who had always cared for him, had always protected him… who was now DEAD! Just like everyone else: DEAD. Gone… Dead… And Harry was alone.

He never got a chance to thank the man…

For a fleeting moment, a sweet thought of suicide flitted into his mind. He didn't wish to endure such pain anymore, didn't wish to suffer from such a life… He would join his parents, Snape, Remus, Sirius, and everyone else he'd lost…

Oh, but the irony. He was destined to die anyway. And how different would it be from suicide, really? He would be willingly walking to his death, would willingly not defend himself, and would willingly let the snake bastard incantate the two words that would end his pathetic life.  

Letting Voldemort kill him; commiting suicide… the line between was blurred, the context of one leaking into the other.

With a shuddering breath, Harry slowly picked himself up. Before his march to his death, he had to leave the information about Nagini with someone beside Ron and Hermione, a backup of sorts. He only hoped a fitting candidate would show him-or-her self.

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet and still, eerie and appearing dead. A heavy fog hid the farther trees from sights in the distance, and all seemed dead. Not even the usual hooting and chirping of nocturnal animals could be heard. it seemed as though all life had forsaken the Forbidden Forest.

A small stone was clutched in Harry's hand, its weight heavier than anything he'd ever felt. It made it harder for his feet to comply, put one before the other — a monumental effort. He had just seen his parents, Remus, and Sirius, summoned from the dead hy the Resurrection Stone Dumbledore had hidden in the Snitch.

'I open at the close.'

The conversation had given Harry strength, and had assured him that everything would be alright. At that moment, he had felt like a small child asking if it hurt to die. The dead had answered 'no', and that it was 'faster than falling asleep'. Now, Harry was left to follow deeper into the forest to his death. But it was alright, Harry mentally assured himself, he would soon be reunited with his parents, godfather, and Remus... Even Snape.

It had been a rather sadistic move of Dumbledore's, Harry missed, to have left him the Resurrection Stone. While it had provided Harry with a sort of closure before his impending doom, it still stung to know that his late mentor had always known of his fate, his destiny… the feeling was hard to explain, but betrayal bit at Harry's mind.

The warmth of seeing his loved ones had since dissipated, leaving Harry cold and alone. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering, and let the Resurrection Stone fall to the forest floor. With a final bracing breath, Harry took his first step… 

"Harry."

As though on a triggered tripwire, he swiveled his head and body around in surprise. Harry suddenly staggered backwards, caught off-guard by sight that met him. His dead professor was standing before him, looking like death himself, but alive. He appeared a disheveled mess, his collar and bottom of the face stained with deep red. His tunnel-like eyes were not empty, but filled with such emotion Harry had never seen before.

"Wh—? H—How—?" croaked Harry out, shaking his head and talking a few small steps back. This couldn't be… Snape was dead!... wasn't he?

"Y—You're… alive."

Snape voiced no reply, only observing Harry as though he were an enigma. His mouth was slightly open, as though he wanted to say something but couldn't. Emotion clearly swelled in the black tunnels that were his eyes, the despondent look reminding Harry of the memories he'd seen in the pensieve.

“...H— Harry.” His name was choked out in a rasp. “You… know?”

It took a second to realize what the man was referring to. Harry nodded slowly, the reminder feeling like a hard crash with reality. For another few moments, the two stood there, neither knowing how to react. Harry was filled with dissonance at what to do. He had just found out that Snape had always cared for him and had watched over him all this time, and that all the hate and prejudice had been a mask established by Dumbledore. Harry wanted to thank Snape, of course, but it just didn't feel enough… 

And suddenly, someone was upon him, seizing him in a tight lock. His first thought was danger; he had to retaliate and get away—!… until he realized he wasn't getting attacked. His body was being pressed against another, cold and slim, but not unwelcoming, and something was tickling the bridge of his nose. Strong arms were holding him securely around his shoulders, almost in a possessive, protective embrace. Snape's form trembled against Harry's, but no sound was forthcoming.

For a few moments, Harry was overcome with shock. And then, when his body caught up to his brain, and with the knowledge that he had nothing to lose, that he would soon be dead, and that he was being offered a measure of comfort he'd always craved, Harry wrapped his own arms around the Death Eater. His throat was scorching and his eyes stung, but in his chest, Harry felt warmth. So, with nothing for it, he buried his face into the bony shoulders (the collar fabric crisp with dried blood) and clung tighter to the dark, velvety robes. The smell of iron filled his sinuses, and it only served to remind him of all the horrors he'd seen in a few hours alone. And as his own body began to tremble, wet drenching the soft fabric under his cheek, he realized he felt safe. He hardly knew Snape — the real Severus Snape —, but nothing but the truth mattered — that the man cared.

"I'm… S—So… sorry. For ev— rything. Harry… Harry, I— I'm so…" 

Harry shook his head firmly against his shoulder. "No. It— It was dumbledore. H— He set everything up. You didn't… It wasn’t…" But the words seemed stuck. There were too many things to be said, and not merely enough time to voice them. But, then again, perhaps there wasn't a need for words. There was definite mutuality in their unwarranted embrace, and both that

knew that the other one knew: the truth.

After Merlin-knew how many minutes, Harry gathered the will to extricate himself from the embrace. Snape didn't resist, but the sudden loss of contact made him shiver. Harry ducked his head to the side, wrapping his arms around his torso. Snape also looked uncomfortable, the man clearing his throat but looking straight at Harry. When the Gryffindor lifted his eyes, he caught Snape's: bloodshot. A face of a man who'd lived a hundred years of sorrow and misery.

Harry had to go. He had to let Voldemort kill him before the hour was up, and growing attachment was far from making things easier. So he cleared his throat to recompose himself. Voice coarse, he broke the lengthy silence. "Sir. I… It's far from much, but I just wanted to thank you for everything you did for me… and my mother. I never thought that… well, all these years that you…" he swallowed, “... cared. I read your letter.”

Snape kept both his hands on Harry's shoulders, a firm grip. His eyes darted away from Harry's, maybe in shame. “I do not expect gratitude,” he rasped out slowly. “I was merely doing my duty; it is what your mother… would have wanted. But, Harry,” he said gently, bringing up a hand as if to ghost over Harry's fringe, but quickly retracting it, “I hope you realize how proud I am of you.”

And Harry was sure he could see it in the dark eyes. He nodded woodenly, annoyed by the sudden lump in his throat and smarting in his eyes. "I have to go," he said shakily. And though he was loathe to admit it, a small part of him was silently pleading with Snape to stop him, to tell him he didn't have to die, to tell him there was another — better — way…

But he'd wanted to die, hadn't he? He had accepted his fate, his destiny… 

Snape nodded forlorning, his lips a tight line, as if trying to accept the fact himself. He gave Harry's shoulders a final squeeze and pat before letting his hands drop to his sides. "Go, Harry," he said softly. And he didn't stop Harry, for both knew there was no alternative. "Tell your mother…"

"Sir?"

"Tell her that I regret everything," he whispered. 

Harry wanted to say more on the subject, but decided it was getting far too late. He nodded at Snape in understanding. "Goodbye, sir. It's been good knowing you, even though we didn't have much time."

"I wish to escort you," he almost pleaded suddenly. The offer was tempting, and it caught Harry by surprise. He would love to have a comforting presence by his side during his walk to death, but he had to do this alone. And he worried for something happening to Snape too.

"I'm sorry, sir. This is something I have to do alone. But thank you."

Snape looked ready to argue, but then held his breath. Eventually, he sighed, slightly shaking his head. "Goodbye, Harry."

And thus, the boy willed his feet to move. He tried not to look back (and didn't). But had he, he would have missed the dark figure crumpling to the forest ground just as he disappeared behind the trees.

The minute Harry disappeared from his line of sight, Severus's knees gave in. He fell into a heap, cradling his heavy head in his cupped palms. The urge to follow Harry was overwhelming, but at the same time he didn't think he would be able to endure watching his death, just meters away from helping avoid what must happen. It was a strange concept, the feeling you were about to suffocate on air. Any moment now, there would surely be a sign of the momentous occasion, and Severus almost wished the blow would both come quicker or not come at all.

And then it came: the yell of " Avada Kedavra! ", echoed through the deep, dark woods, sending a wave of chill with it. The surroundings were ephemerally illuminated with a poisonous green light, before dying out, and jeers erupted. A sound emerged from Severus' torn throat, a cross between a choked sob and a pitiful wail. He'd failed both Lily and Harry, and whatever Dumbledore had said about 'not all being lost' was a falsity. Severus had gotten his closure, but was left with a gaping hole that resembled a lack of purpose in life.

Some few minutes passed… but something wasn't right. More victorious jeers followed. Shouldn't the bastard be dead? Dumbledore had said the boy must die in order for the Dark Lord to die. If the monster was still alive… Did that mean Dumbledore’s theory was wrong? Or was Harry still alive?

Footsteps, like a stampede of horses in the distance, vibrating through the ground. A horde of Death Eaters marching in the direction of the ruined castle with more laughter and jeers. Severus could see their dark forms from the shadows that concealed him, with their white skull masks and dark robes. 

Much like my own, he throught with a revolted sneer. Severus flexed his hand and watched as his mask materialized in it. Without a second though, he hurled it down on the ground, brandished his wand, and aimed. A bright red light later, it was reduced to ashes, which were blown away by the breeze.

It took him a fee moments to recompose himself and get back to his feet. The sky was slowly turning a deep shade of turquoise, and the surroundings weren't as dark as before. Severus could make out the Dark, receding outlines of the Death Eaters. Should he follow?

They had Harry. And if Harry was alive by any chance, Severus needed to know. If he really was dead, then Severus would have to just finish what the boy had started.

Severus moved as stealthily and quickly as the discomfort in his neck wound allowed. When he had come back from… the crossroads place, he had discovered not only a red-gold Phoenix feather but also that he couldn't feel any pain in his neck. The wounds were still there, though the bleeding had magically stopped.

However, the more time passed, the more his wounds became a problem. The feeling of discomfort was slowly returning, occasionally accompanied by sharp shots of pain. It was bearable, but only time would tell for how long.

Within twenty minutes, Seveus had reached the demolished courtyard, concealed in the shadows of some stone rubble in the corner. His obsidian eyes observed the sight before him of bodies, tens if not hundreds, lying about the scorched ground. People were carrying them inside the Great Hall, from what Severus could see, where the corpses were laid. The castle itself was in a heavy state, most towers and the great front entrance destroyed. 

Seveus suddenly squeezed his eyes tightly, for he could surely not have seen the newly-wed couple Lupins amongst the sea of corpses from where he stood. Realization hit him that he had outlived the Marauders… but he felt hollow at the thought. How could one rejoice amidst such loss? 

And then, a voice cried out a warning. Everyone quickly scrambled to their feet and hastened outside the entrance. Crossing the bridge was the Dark Lord's army, with Voldemort at the head. Behind him trudged Hagrid, looking so haggard and sorrowful that Seveus had barely recognised. In his arms was Harry, the boy's limbs completely limp. A lump rose to Severus's throat, but he latched onto that tiny bit of hope he had left…

But what were the chances?

"Harry Potter is DEAD!" Declared Voldemort proudly, flinging his pale arms wide in celebration. More of the same laughter and jeers from his army… Amidst the Death eaters at the front were Lucius and Narcissa, the pair's eyes darting frantically between the crowd of students and staff.

No… No, Harry, please… Move; come back! he internally pleaded…   But Harry wouldn't budge. Not even a muscle. Severus's chest felt like a tribal drum bucket, and someone was pounding against it with stone mallets. It felt like the Forest all over again, only this time there was no hope.

Harry was dead. 

He really was dead. 

“NO!”

The Death Eater watched with a heavy heart as Ginerva Weasley shrieked out in protest and charged forth, the brave but stupid Gryffindor. Her father held her back, however.

“Stupid girl! Harry Potter is dead. From this day forth, you put your faith into me !” announced the Dark Lord. 

“NO!”

This scream was more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that Minerva McGonagall could make such a sound. Bellatrix was laughing nearby; Severus knew that the vile gloried in others' despair.

“SILENCE!” cried Voldemort, and there was a bang and a flash of bright light, and silence was forced upon them all. “It’s over! Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!”

Harry was gingerly lowered onto the grass.

“You see?” said Voldemort, striding backward and forward right beside the place where he lay. “Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!”

“He beat you!” yelled Ronald Weasley, and the charm broke, and the defenders of Hogwarts were shouting and screaming again until a second, more powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.

“He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds,” said Voldemort, and there was relish in his voice for the lie, “killed while trying to save himself —”

Severus saw red. Driven by raw grief and fury, he charged headfirst, ebony wand drawn. Gasps and shouts carried through the air. The Ex Death Eater only had eyes for one being — no. Creature. 

“Avada—!”

But he never got the chance. the Dark Lord had seen it coming. Another bang, a flash of light, and a grunt of pain. Severus was blasted backward, hitting the ground in the hard rubble. He squinted open his eyes, feeling weak, and realized he was wandless. His ebony wand had rolled away… the Dark Lord effortlessly summoned it and threw it aside.

The Dark Lord gasped softly. “My, my, and what is this?” he said in his soft snake’s hiss. “Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost? Ah, Severussss. My sly little Snake. Dear Bellatrix has always suspected you, insistent that you are a wolf in sheep's clothing. Do indulge me, however did you survive?” The bastard's tone was casual, amused. Severus held his gaze locked with the red beads in the monster's skull, dropping his mask to expose his pure loathing and hatred for him to see. 

“Snape!”

“Slimy git!

“Filthy Death Eater!”

Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh. “Ah-ha!” she squealed, bouncing on her feet like a child. “I would never let down my master,” she bowed deeply, grinning sadistically at Severus. 

“And you shall be cordially rewarded, Bella,” said Voldemort, looking down at his ex-right-hand man, who had since risen to his feet, unarmed and unprotected, standing in the no-man’s-land between the survivors and the Death Eaters. “For whom, Severus?” Voldemort asked silkily. “For that mudblood? I must admit, you had me fooled…”

“A pity,” he tsk-tsked. “You had been invaluable to me, or so I had thought. You could have had more… And you see now? The boy lies dead at my feet,” he purred.

“Could have had more…?” drawled Severus furiously, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. “You slaughtered me! Taking the Mark has been my deepest regret, you sadist!”

The Dark Lord was unperturbed. He stood still, twirling the Elder Wand in his long fingers. “I see. Ah, but how insignificant. You shall die now anyway, and the Elder Wand shall truly belong to me. This time, there will be no return… Ah, I know.” He turned to address the crowd. “Severus Snape here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me!”

Voldemort waved his wand, though not at Severus. Seconds later, out of one of the castle’s shattered windows, something that looked like a misshapen bird flew through the half light and landed in his hand. He shook the mildewed object by its pointed end and it dangled, empty and ragged: the Sorting Hat.

“There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School,” said the wizard. “There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won’t they, Severus?” With a flick of his wand, he caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.

And now, he pointed his wand at the spy, gasps split the dawn. Severus stood still and tall, accepting of his fate. After all, he had served his purpose… the thought that, any moment now, he would see Harry and Lily almost made his lips twitch upward. He glanced at the prone form of Harry one last time, mouthing 'I'm sorry'.

And then many things happened at the same moment.

There was a wild uproar from the crowd. Someone made a grunt and shouted “Confrigo!” The spell was fired but bounced off Nagini's protective cage. Severus' heart nearly gave out.

Harry. Alive. 

The Dark Lord's response was immediate. With shock and fury written all over his features, he started wildly flinging curses and spells at Harry. All hell suddenly broke loose, and chaos reigned. The opposing sides charged at one another, but the Dark Lord had eyes only for the Chosen One. 

Multitasking the offensive and defensive, Severus spied in his periphery as fire shot out of the Elder Wand, blasting the columns of the veranda apart. Harry was running for the castle… Everyone was being buffeted in… some Death Eaters were fleeing… dust and rubble littered the air. Severus tried in vain to follow the boy, but his passage was blocked, and he could barely keep up with defending himself from the onslaught of harm from either side. 

Chapter Text

Harry stumbled back, nearly tripping over the large chunks of stone rubble. Everything was dark, and a veil of debris hung in the air, limiting his sight. Voldemort was at his heels, he knew it, but he had to get himself and the monster alone. He had to finish things for good. The time had come. In the rampage of people, Harry had seen Neville wielding the Sword of Gryffindor, and he knew his friend was after the Snake. He only hoped he would find a way to kill in time.  

With his wand drawn, Harry held a battle-ready stance, glancing around vigilantly for any sign of Voldemort. He was there, watching, waiting to catch him by surprise… It was eerily silent. The corridor ahead appeared desolate. He turned again, his breaths sounding like explosions that would surely give his position away…

Suddenly, there was a flare behind him. Harry turned and fired a non-verbal spell. It hit the corner of a wall, damaging it further… but his instincts had deceived him. The sound had merely been carried from the raging battle in the distance…

And then, following his gut, he turned to run down the side corridor, his ears searching out any potential hint of his enemy… And then he stopped. He was at a corner wall behind which was a large, grand staircase. He heard footsteps, soft and barely audible… he knew who it was. His heart sped up, and he took a moment to compose his willpower.

And then he emerged, firing a non-verbal at Voldemort. His spell caught his arm, but it was rendered ineffective. The wizard merely grunted in surprise, cold loathing in his features. That is when a wand duel broke out between them. And onslaught of green was being hailed at Harry. The younger wizard defended well, taking the defensive. He was being pushed back up the stairs from the blows, and Voldemort was fast advancing on him. 

He was momentarily caught off-guard, and he had just barely managed to cast Expeliarmus at the same time as Voldemort cast the Avada Kedavra. Somehow, they swapped sides, and now Harry was being pushed down the stairs. Their spells collided and held, neither overruling the other, just they had in the graveyard that night. Behind him, Harry half-sensed, half-heard Nagini slithering up to him. The connection was bound to break at any moment, and with a wild idea, Harry suddenly directed his wand upward. The ceiling cracked and crumbled, stone hailing down on Voldemort. Not wasting a moment, Harry seized the Basilisk fang he'd acquired earlier and charged for the Snake.

But a surprise attack was fired at him, and the boy was blasted back, falling and rolling down the adjacent stairs. The fang landed just within his arm's reach, but before he could reach for it, the weapon was incinerated by a flash of green.

Harry ran. He ran with no plan in particular in mind. He was now on a tower, with wooden walkways being held up by a network of chains. Before he could catch his breath, a dark figure Appirated in front of him and fired. The platform beneath him destroyed, he fell with it the stone floor below, thankfully not a far drop. He scrambled to his feet, but black ribbons were suddenly latching themselves around his wrists, his ankles, and his neck. As much as he struggled and grunted, they wouoldn't relent.

He was hovered up to Voldemort, who was flexing on hand in control of the suffocating traps. Just as Harry saw his vision going black in his periphery, he was released and dropped unceremoniously to the floor, right at Voldemort's feet. Again, he scrambled to his feet, but his face was suddenly grasped by a long-fingered, sharp-nailed hand, the skin reptilian and pale. He felt the nails digging into his cheeks, but refused to give the bastard the satisfaction of knowing so. 

“Why do you live!?” hissed Voldemort mutinously, staring right into Harry's emerald-green eyes.

Harry drew a shaky breath. “Because I have something worth living for,” he replied.

Voldemort resorted to something Harry had always thought was below him: physical violence. Like a drunken man, the wizard kicked and punched, grabbed Harry by the scruff and hurled him against the nearest wall.

“Hey, y— you were right—”

The older slapped a blow; Harry staggered back, uncaring.

“When you told Professor Snape that wand was failing you—” he clambered clumsily to his feet. “It will always fail you—”

Voldemort yelled frustratingly and fired another spell. They had somehow ended up on the balcony of the tower by now, Harry backed up against the battlement.

“I killed Snape!” he declared, confident in himself. “I bested him!”

“But he's not dead, isn't he? And what if the wand never belonged to Snape?” challenged the Gryffindor. He was vaguely aware of the steep drop at his heels, a long, long way down. The ruined battlegrounds bellow were quite distant. “What if its allegiance was always to someone else?” They were now standing extremely close together; Harry could feel the wizard's vile breath on his face.

“Come on, Tom,” Harry dared bravely, “Let's finish what we started—” And without warning, Harry latched his arms around the gruesome creature. “Together!”

And they were falling, hurtling toward the ground at breakneck speed. Their screams were barely registable in the wind rushing in their ears. And suddenly, they were flying. Harry clung to Voldemort for dear life, and the close proximity made his scar flare. In a cloud of black smoke, they navigated uncoordinatedly over and through walls and towers, painfully catching a few.

Just when it felt like he would lose consciousness, they touched solid ground, the now-desolate courtyard where they had started. The landing was hard, the impact painful. Both rolled, but ended up on opposite sides of the battlefield. Harry grunted as he struggled… He thought he heard someone calling his name, a familiar, deep voice… 

Eventually, Harry lifted his head. The Elder wand was not far from its faux master, and Harry's was just within a few meter's reach. He knew what he had to do. 

With every last tendril of strength he could muster, Harry started crawling for it, mostly relying on his forearms.Voldemort started for the Deathly Hallow too, a gleam of desperation and determination in his serpentine slits. They grasped their weapons simultaneously, and lifted themselves to their shaky feet.

Before Harry could fully sensor what was happening, a bright-red Expeliarmus erupted from his wand at the same time as the vivid-green Killing Curse did from his opponent. Again they collided, in a bright sphere of energy. Unfortunately, Voldmort's curse was overwhelming Harry's…

But then, something changed. The connection suddenly broke, and Harry's breath hitched. He could feel it, in his soul, that  another Horcrux had been destroyed, and while the feeling may have caught him off-guard, it renewed hsi hope and determination.

Voldemort had staggered back, briefly bringing his hand up to his chest. Realization dawned on him, and he looked both frightened, mutinous, and scared. And like the madman he was, he drew back his wand and fired again. Harry retaliated with his signature spell. Voldemort's soul, or what was left of it, was now truly alone and exposed. Harry just had to finish it off…

As the connection held, he began to notice the peculiar phenomenon: not only was his red light overruling the Avada Kedavra, but Voldemort's armed hand was turning to stone. Like a cancerous disease, it spread up his arm and to his body. The connection broke; the Elder wand was flying through the air… With expert Seeker coordination and experience, Harry caught it and stood back to observe.

The Dark Wizard was decaying right before him and the crowd of spectators who had emerged to watch at some point. He staggered forward, a stricken expression on his snake-like face. His features were caving in, and his alleged screams came as nothing but fearful rasps…  And then, his body turned to ashes, which were carried away by the breeze of dawn, highlighted by the first rays of the rising sun.

And Voldemort was no more.

Suddenly, ear-splitting cheers erupted from behind, and before the hero knew it, he was being hugged, sobbed into, and kissed by an onslaught of people, even by those whom he didn't even know. He wasn't fully aware how, but he was brought into the Great Hall. There was crying, grieving, celebration, and embraces. He reunited with Ron and Hermione (who announced they were now a couple), and praised Neville for his impeccable timing with killing the last Horcrux. 

Harry felt as if a monumental weight had been lifted off his shoulders… but that was exactly what it was. He was free. He had freed everyone from the sadistic madman. And despite his immeasurable exhaustion, he wanted nothing but to hibernate for the next two-hundred years.

In all the commotion, Harry had completely forgotten about one person he now longed to see: Severus Snape. After, eventually, finally managing to break free from the crowds of well-wishers, Harry peered around for a familiar dark-cloaked figure. He began to grow worried, as he remembered the man was still gravely wounded. With hastened steps, Harry exited the Great Hall and started randomly down an arbitrary corridor. 

But no sooner had he rounded the first corner, he was suddenly enveloped by the familiar strong arms. After his initial, brief moment of shock, he exhaled in relief and buried his face in Snape's shoulder, whose body was shaking and trembling. This time, the man's weeping was audible, but neither cared. Harry also cried; he cried all of his pain, trauma, discomfort, fear, and exhaustion out, like water gushing from a broken dam. An outlet of relief. Snape's hold on his tightened protectively, as if the man was scared of losing him if he didn't cling tightly enough. 

And at that moment, Harry felt safe. He let himself go limp in Snape's embrace, the man who had always secretly cared for him. The older wizard's breathing was choked and raspy, and his cries were a strange concoction of joy, relief, grief, and remorse. He tried to say something several times, but his rambling was indescribable. 

The two stood there for Merlin-knew-how-long. Harry wasn't sure how, but they were now somehow seated on the stone floor, leaning against the wall shoulder-to-shoulder and gazing out the shattered windows opposite them, watching the beautiful sunrise pastels in silence. 

“Harry,” Snape whispered. Their heads turned to face each other. It was the first time Harry could clearly see the man's face, and vice versa. The obsidian eyes roamed over him scrunitisingly, and a crease appeared between his brows. “You should have Pomfrey check you out; you're badly hurt,” he said worriedly. 

“Oh.” Harry automatically raised his hand to touch at his face, and then hissed, drawing it back to inspect the thickened blood on his fingertips. “It's fine,” he replied uncaringly. “I've had worse. Besides. many other patients need her more than I do.”

Snape thinned his lips in thought, making up his mind. Without warning, he hoisted himself from the floor and offered Harry a hand. “Then come.” Curious and too tired to care, Harry accepted. He was led down the familiar path to the chilly dungeons. Harry shivered, feeling deja vu overcoming him. 

“Sir? Are you okay?” he asked. “How are you alive? I never got to ask… and your wound…?” he wasn't sure how to eloquently pose his questions. It felt awkward.

Snape remained silent, but continued to lead them deeper down. Eventually, they reached a dead-end… or so Harry thought, until the man pressed his palm flat against the stones, and just like the entrance to Diagon Alley, they began to shift and turn to reveal a hidden doorway. Snape unlocked it with his wand and motioned for Harry to follow through. Curious, he complied.

Inside was a quaint brewing laboratory/office. The right-hand side was set up more like an office, with a large desk and floor-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls, and a small seating area with a fireplace. On the left was a brewing set up, composed of a few work benches and counters. Above were cabinets and shelves full of jars and vials of colorful liquids and solutions.

Snape silently guided Harry over to an armchair in front of the fireplace, which he lit with a flick of his wrist. The Potions Master removed his slightly-torn cloak, covering Harry with it, and strode over to the brewing stations. Harry had only then noticed that a cauldron was already set up, steaming lightly, with a few ingredients scattered around it. His eyes followed the man as he consulted a few shelves and storage spaces, and then returned to the boy's side. He scooted the other armchair closer and laid out all his supplies on the coffee table.

“Drink this,” he instructed, offering a Blood Replenisher. Harry, with utmost trust, downed it. The next minute passed in a similar fashion, with Snape handing him this potion and that. By the time Harry had drunk the last one, he felt nauseous, but physically better. He was sure a Nutrition potion and a Calming draught had been thrown in the mix.

Both seated before the warming ambers, Severus then proceed to summon two crystal tumblers and a bottle of Firewhiskey. As he was filling both, Harry softly re-asked his earlier question. “Sir, how did you survive?”

The man handed Harry his drink and mutely reached into an inner pocket, removing a small flask of red liquid shimmering with metallic gold specs. It was unlike anything Harry had ever seen. “I do believe my survival was ensured by Dumbledore's phoenix,” he said in his smooth voice.

The answer took Harry by pleasant surprise. “Fawkes?”

He nodded. “After I… When I regained consciousness, I found that my maladies were, for lack of better word, numb. It is… hard to explain. Lying beside me was a feather. If I am correct in my presumption, the pheonix tears had extracted the venom from my system, byt the wounds were left open. Normally, I would have bled to my death, but the wounds had somehow been rendered… impotent…” Harry could see the man was struggling with his wording, but he was sure he understood. So he nodded for Snape to continue.

“During your celebration with your adoring fans,” he said sarcastically but without spite, “I was able to concoct an antidote with the feather hairs. Thankfully, I had already had the base premade in my stock.”

“And… you're going to be OK?” asked Harry worriedly, leaning forward in his chair. To his relief, Snape nodded.

“Yes, I do believe I should be.”

Sighing in relief, Harry leaned back against the soft cushion. 

“Harry.”

He peeked his eyes open, looking at him sideways. “Yes?”

“I… I hope you know how proud I am of you,” said Snape slowly but sincerely. Harry suddenly remembered all that was everything else, and found a small lump in his throat.

“You are?”

“Immeasurably.”

Harry smiled lightly in reply. He knew a long and tiring conversation between them was impending, but he wished it would come after he had hibernated for those sweet-sounding two-hundred years. 

Snape hesitantly laid a hand down on top of Harry's, as if testing if the boy would retract in disgust or rejection. Quite on the contrary, the comforting gesture was welcomed. As if reading his thoughts, he said, “We have a lot to discuss, but will have ample time later, if you wish. Now, we both require rest. You may retreat to the Hospital Wing or Gryffindor Tower, though I doubt there will be any peace of mind with all the commotion. All the same, I can easily Transfigure a cot for you down here.”

Harry felt the corners of his lips turn upward, chest swelling with warmth that didn't come from the fire or the cloak still covering him. The offer was extremely tempting, and his mind and body longed for some uninterrupted rest. So, he nodded gratefully.

The Firewhisky long-since forsaken, Harry's chair was now an adequate-sized cot. He sat upon it, Snape's warm cloak still draped over his shoulders. Without further thought, Harry let his head fall back. A hand removed his cracked glasses and placed them on the coffee table. Before Harry allowed his mind to fully surrender to sleep, he managed out, “Thank you, sir. F'r'everythin'...”

Snape sighed and pulled the cloak to better cover Harry's shoulder. “Always. Rest, Harry. You're safe. ”

And never before had Harry trusted a few words so much.