Chapter 1

Sectumsempra

It is a quiet night. One of the precious few I have these days. It is quite irritating, how war can take up so much of one's private time. Tonight of all nights I am rather pleased with the fact that very few of my… colleagues know of my humble place of residence. It is rather amusing a notion, actually, that should I ever be as bold and highly pain-resilient as to persistently ignore the Dark Lord's traditional form of summons, the greatest Legilimens of our age would have trouble finding me. Unless Lestrange went on a gossiping rampage about "that horrible little shack in a Muggle backwater, our poor dear Severus, but then, what else could he afford on a teacher's salary, haha". Yes, that would be so like her, telling inconsequential gibberish to anyone who would listen, or rather, be either unable to run away or too apprehensive to hex her. Even Azkaban failed to curb her tongue.

I amuse myself for a few moments with the imagery of Bellatrix screaming insults at the Dementors. She never tired of praising herself and her undying loyalty to heaven, however inappropriate the metaphor appears in the context. But how much could she have really endured in Azkaban? What bad memories could she have? She seemed to have always been enjoying herself so thoroughly at her… job, that it would make some older Death Eaters a touch uneasy. Let alone the youngster I used to be then. I was far from being frightened by her, not least emboldened with the knowledge that I could probably beat her should we ever duel, yet… watching her made my skin crawl, in a highly unpleasant way. That was back in the old times. These days, whenever I find myself in her presence, I simply perform an exercise, hardly necessary anymore, in self-restraint by resisting the urge to Scourgify myself.

I have often questioned my seemingly unjustified attitude for the woman, being almost surprised with the repugnance she always seemed to inspire in me. The conclusion I have arrived at was unexpected, to say the least. It would seem that the main reason for my, mildly put, dislike of Bella was her, mildly put, complete lack of moral fiber. Quite a statement to make of a Death Eater, by a Death Eater. And yet… Everyone, well, mostly everyone had some thing about them, some splinter in the long-forgotten heart and soul. With enough leverage applied to it, sooner or later, they would bleed. My theory was reinforced by the knowledge of Rudolphus Lestrange perishing in Azkaban long before his widow and other public-spirited inmates enacted their daring escape. Rodolphus, who had always seemed impenetrable, at times more so than Lucius, did not survive the torment by his own mind, the most ingenious torturer imaginable, while Bella emerged, appearing unscathed. It is all in the mind.

If that is indeed so, how long would I last in Azkaban? I find myself wondering. A week? A month? How long would I resist insanity through sheer arrogance, before even that would be taken away from me? The system is flawed. It relies on the assumption that everyone has a multilayered core of guilt in their soul, and the gradual stripping of every layer will eventually drive anyone, anyone insane with the weight of their deeds pressing on them, day and night. Yet not all of us seem to have that core. And who knows whether at the root of the inexplicable revulsion at such people lies simple envy, the wish to be able to have it so easy as well.

Lost in thought, I fail to notice the small cauldron in front of me boiling over until the table is semi-covered in the would-be-potion, now resembling the gunk often found in the crucibles that students had the nerve to submit as work results.

Evanesco, I grumble and leave the study, closing the door to prevent the still-lingering fumes from penetrating the rest of the house. I do not intend to start over, working on wasted effort being against my principles, however interesting my experiment was and however useful the result could have been. Were it not for my uncalled-for introspection on the nature of morality, I could have brought forth the little fancy of mine I had been contemplating for weeks, never finding the time to do it between the hardly pleasant duties and far less pleasant forced social intercourse.

An enhanced version of the Dreamless Sleep potion, subtle alterations serving to remove the slight addiction side-effect, and ingenious, even if I say so myself, manipulation of ingredients to create perfect correlation between the dosage and the length of rest. Were I successful tonight, I could have quite easily ended up with a sleeping potion so accurate that its effect could be timed by minutes.

It is past midnight, yet I feel not at all tired, many years of near-nocturnal existence paying off. I silently muse whether any of the faculty ever wondered why I was so adamant about Potions, and in the last year, Defense Against the Dark Arts, usually being among the last classes of the day. Quite possibly they would never have ascribe night-owlishness a place among my flaws, and attributed my frequent absences at breakfast to general avoidance of the noisy event it usually is, owl post and all. No one would dare entertain the notion of their Potions Master oversleeping.

I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the window and notice it sporting a little smug smirk. It fades rather quickly, though, as more thoughts creep into my mind.

Ex-Potions Master. Ex-Head of Slytherin.

Just two more 'ex' particles to add to my eternally growing collection of titles abandoned. Ex-Death Eater. Ex-spy. Ex-friend. Ex-traitor. Or can you ever stop being one?

Nevertheless, I would be always willing to accept some of more 'ex's in exchange for a few of the old and dusty 'never's. There is much less of those. From a logical perspective, it would suggest that my life had been full of various experiences, very little left beyond my grasp. That, I suppose, is one way to put it.

My eyes fall on the window again. One would have thought I should have learned to put out the light whenever I am visited with the wish to look at the darkness outside. Otherwise, all the glass shows is what lies within.

I reach for my wand and point it at the nearest torch when a movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. However mirror-like the window may be at this time, there is no doubt about whatever is out there not being my imagination.

Hesitating momentarily, I refrain from extinguishing the torch. True, remaining in the dark would give me a tactical advantage over the intruder – and an intruder it is, for the last thing I would expect of my colleagues would be dropping by for a cup of tea, for the sheer belief in their self-preservation instincts if anything.

However, choosing to use the advantage would mean combating the impertinent trespasser on his terms, therefore accepting the challenge. Thank you very much. In my house, I do things on my own terms.

I walk to the hearth, leaning to the mantelpiece leisurely, posture evidently relaxed, wand held loosely at my side. Nothing encourages foolishness like seeing it taken seriously, and vice versa. And the very fact of foolishness is confirmed by the fact that my late guest allowed me to notice him. Hmm. It would not be a female, would it now? The last thing I would want right now is having the questionable pleasure of another emotional therapy session with Narcissa or whoever else she could have recommended me to as someone to turn to in times of emotional turmoil. I failed to catch the moment when any of my occupations suddenly entailed counseling.

'Bombardo!' a familiar voice sounds from the other side of the door. I cannot suppress a sigh. Suddenly an evening with Narcissa sounds almost attractive.

'Alohomora would have worked just fine, Mr. Potter,' I remark, shaking a few pieces of wood from my robes.

'Then again, your signature lack of subtlety has long ceased to amaze.'

The boy stares at me with the furious expression I have almost come to forget after, what, somewhat under a year? Has it been that long? No wonder I seemed to regain some peace of mind, if the phrase can be even remotely applied to my life. Somehow, having Potter out of the picture, despite my full awareness of the fact that he could never be out of it completely, even if he wished, made it rather easier to do my duty… for both sides. I did not know how many of my anonymous owls the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix believed, and I would not dare sabotage enough missions to let anyone perceive even a hint of a trend, yet… Yes, I owed them nothing. Everyone I had ever owed anything to is dead, my last duty fulfilled "what, somewhat under a year" ago, put so delicately to lull myself into thinking I would ever be able to forget that night.

And very definitely and absolutely uncompromisingly, I owe nothing to the boy pointing the wand at me right now.

'There's time and place for subtlety, and this isn't it!' he declares, doubtlessly insulted by my attitude.

'Really,' I suppress a yawn, watching him with a bored expression, while trying to work out some form of strategy for this conversation. I need not pretend that I was not expecting this meeting. However, after all this time I would have expected his vengeful righteousness to cool down somewhat, at least to the level of reasonable doubt. Reasonable, Severus? You gambled your plan for this meeting and what is to follow it on Potter being reasonable? You have either taken leave of your senses or gave him too much credit, or rather both, as the latter would only be possible given the former. Or have you simply refused to plan for this meeting, refused to think about it, hoping to improvise? Then again, any plan would have to rely on some of the boy's more predictable traits. Fortunately, those are aplenty. I observe the boy, waiting for him to make the first move and prove me right.

He does that very quickly by attempting a non-verbal so crude I can almost see "Impedimenta" written over his face in large letters.

Expelliarmus, I think calmly, barely flicking my wand in his direction, and watching his fly through the air as he is thrown back on the floor.

'Pathetic,' I remark, approaching him at a speed that gives him enough time to either crawl back or stand up just for me to hold at wandpoint. Unsurprisingly, he does the latter. He is clearly not afraid, mainly for the anger, which is easier to work with than either pure fear or pure pride. With the right leverage, anger can be channeled appropriately, and the sheer fact that I have never done that regarding Potter indicates only my unwillingness to deign him worthy of manipulation.

'Now was there something you wanted to say?' I inquire calmly, reluctantly forced to admit that, in a way, I find the challenge oddly enjoyable. There is something deeply satisfying about pulling the right strings and watching someone move in the precise direction you have chosen for them, while nurturing the proud belief of making their own choices. As expected, anger flares right up, this time tinged with heroism around the edges.

'Yes! I don't care if you kill me now-'

'Hmm?' I cannot suppress a smirk. Does he not care because he is willing to make a pointless sacrifice to his own vanity, being killed in an attempt to have revenge, irresponsibly abandoning the war for a personal cause? Or does he simply think that I would not kill him right here and now, which would be a grave misconception, given his mostly justified mental image of me as a murdering traitor.

'Except that you wouldn't anyway, because you'd rather deliver me to your master.'

It turns out he has an even greater misconception than I had thought, then, expecting me to take a risk for the reason of personal gain by delivering him to the Dark Lord and earning favor for myself instead of simply dispatching him now, risking to suffer displeasure yet guaranteeing the war's outcome. Not only a murdering traitor, then, but a vain and stupid murdering traitor. Sheer impertinence.

'What this comes down to, then, is that the brave hero comes to accuse the cowardly villain, maintaining a firm belief in the fact that the latter will not kill him on sight for the sake of allowing him to deliver the classical speech titled "the world shall tolerate your wickedness no longer". All that, rather than doing what must be done and being prepared to accept the consequences. Heroic, indeed.'

The boy is silent, almost appearing to consider the point of view presented. Being given the chance to observe your actions from the side is not entirely pleasant, is it, Potter? Giving him a minute to dwell on that, I continue.

'Silence is good. It almost makes me believe you have learned something. Now, let us get this over with. You have come to kill me, no doubt. Well then…'

I Levitate the boy's wand back into his hands and take a step back, my own wand lowered.

'Go ahead.'

The boy stands still, eyeing me, then lowers his wand with a barely audible sigh.

All too predictable… Had you changed at all, I would be dead seconds ago, or quite possibly before I knew what hit me. Yet exacting vengeance, as the majority of the heroic deeds, requires the opponent to know what he is paying for. The difference between heroes and villains is immaterial, really. Both categories are hopelessly dramatic.

'Just as I thought. You would rather talk than act.'

As obvious as his feint is, given his complete ineptitude of non-verbals, I need an effort, if minimum, to remain completely still with a wand pointing at my face. Certain events in my life have made me rather… allergic to being at the receiving end of curses of people I… dislike.

'Very well,' I sigh, 'it is obvious that we shall have to do this… your way.'

'As opposed to your way, killing people in silence?' he snaps at me, the disdain of my last two words hitting the mark carefully outlined by my earlier words.

'You obviously give me too much credit, Potter. As you may recall, I have no yet mastered the Killing Curse in an inverbal form.'

His face is immediately distorted with such pure hatred, I feel tempted to take a step back. Almost. A wand slashes through the air before I can react. Almost.

Sectumsempra!

The rebound from my non-verbal Shield must present the boy with a lesson on casting attack spells in enclosed spaces. He barely manages to dodge the spell, which, according to my estimation, even rebounded, would be enough to gash his left shoulder open. I appreciate his agility for saving me the trouble of having to heal him, lest the blood loss dilutes his judgment capacity.

'How many times do I have to TELL you, Potter? Using MY spells will do you no good. It is still as true as on the day you have entered Hogwarts. You believe you can afford to not pay attention.'

'While you believe that you can afford to treat me as if I was still a student of yours, Snape! Stupefy!'

I feel an urge to immobilize him to cease this tedious Shielding business. I am saved the trouble again, as he dodges the rebound less elegantly this time, failing to notice a chair behind himself.

'As long as you act as one, I can afford anything, Potter,' I reply, approaching the boy, wand raised. This time, by the time I reach him, Potter is trying to scramble to his feet, groping around for his wand. I assist him by kicking it aside and pressing the point of my own wand just below his chin.

'How else do you expect me to treat you? Always the childish petty ambitions, arrogance, cheek, and not a shred of behavior worthy of a grown man'.

My glare at the end of the sentence makes him flinch slightly, as if the very words are a curse.

I take a step back and observe him with unveiled despise before lowering the wand.

'You want to fight me. Then fight like a man, acting on thought, and not your pathetic impulses!'

The boy remains silent, holding my gaze before looking away. I shake my head ever so slightly. Who would have thought that this case would be so completely, utterly hopeless. A part of me, and not an inconsequential part, advocates giving up on the boy. There is nothing I can possibly tell him that he will hear, blinded by his own self-proclaimed righteousness. I should have known better. Nevertheless, I continue, it not being in my nature to waste my work.

'But you have not given it much thought, have you, Potter? You are… hurt, and the most natural thing to do is to lash out on the one you believe to have caused you the pain.'

And this is so true. You of all people know.

'Ever tried to work it out, Potter? Remember the time when we met last? Did not anything strike you as odd when you were crouching in the corner under your precious Cloak?'

Potter gasps, faint traces of thought that were just beginning to form on his face, gone immediately. For a moment, I wonder whether I may have overdone it a little. The boy's voice comes out almost a growl.

'How-'

'…dare I accuse you of being a coward?' I supplement helpfully. He is glaring at me with the same genuine, undiluted hatred as a short while ago.

'Or do I even? Maybe it is just your guilty imagination?'

At that moment, Potter lunges forward, catching me off-guard. I lean aside just in time, but not fast enough. His fist barely brushes my cheekbone as the blow aimed for my face misses and he staggers forward past me, almost losing his balance. The brief contact is more than enough, however.

My reaction is one of a complex nature, an infernal mix of emotions: surprise, fury, hint of humiliation, and even more fury spurred by it. Having taken a step back to keep my balance, I almost raise my wand. There is nothing, nothing in this world that I want more right now than to shower the insolent brat with every forgivable curse I know and possibly finish up with one particularly attractive Unforgivable. To leave him writhing on the floor in agony, to finally collect the long overdue revenge for… everything he had done. For everything he is. To revel in his helplessness, and…

A realization strikes me so hard I am almost fooled into thinking that Potter had picked up his wand and Stunned me. No, he is eyeing me, seeming almost frightened with what he had done, justly expecting swift retribution.

I lower the wand. I will not do anything to him. Because no matter how sweet revenge would seem, the aftertaste would be unbearable. Because I already know one person who would torment people for what they were and revel in their helplessness.

Besides, my thoughts helpfully guide me into a safer venue, was it not I who was lecturing on rational thought and pathetic impulses just a few minutes ago? Of all names Potter may want to call me in his mind, I would not give him the satisfaction of adding 'hypocrite' to the list.

Suppressing an instinct to wipe the place where his fist grazed my skin, I speak, weighing every word as ounces of the precious Acromantula venom.

'Have you worked it out of your system, Potter?'

Potter is staring at me as if I had suddenly addressed him in Parseltongue. He obviously expected something… different.

'Now finally do yourself a favor and think ONE sentence through before blurting the words out. One at a time. It may seem an alien concept, but thinking before speaking does help sometimes.'

The boy is silent for a few seconds. An improvement, it seems, because he genuinely appears to think.

'I have seen everything with my own eyes,' he speaks, obviously fighting back emotion. The odds are, of course, not in his favor.

'You murdered Dumbledore,' he finally says, his voice trembling with… Hate? Anger? Well-concealed grief?

Grief. Well-concealed, yes, but not well enough. Not for me. I need no Legilimency to read him. I stare him squarely in the eye. Pain. Writhing, unbearable pain of losing one of the precious few cornerstones in the never too stable foundation of life. Who would have thought… Who would have thought that he was capable of such feelings... ones that match my own so dangerously closely.

'Yes,' I answer, keeping my voice level.

'You betrayed him,' he continues, barely audible. I was expecting him to shout this in my face.

Last chance to reestablish yourself as the villain he had always perceived you to be. In a way, it would be even a kind of mercy. Do you think he can handle the truth? Let him keep hating you. Despise you for being a Death Eater. Or… try him and see whether Dumbledore's trust in him was not ill-placed?

'No.'

His head shoots up from staring at the floor, from reliving the events of that night. Silence. Then…

'I don't understand.'

I silently thank him. For breaking the silence, for giving me another perfectly legitimate excuse to berate him.

'You don't, do you, Potter? I would not expect you to. Not you, who is always right'.

I stare at him, not bothering to conceal the hatred in my eyes. Not that I ever did. He meets my gaze. As usual. But not quite… Less arrogance. Unbelievable, but true. Looking not to stare me down, but almost trying to understand. Giving me the benefit of doubt. Him? No!

I turn and take two steps towards the window. Congratulations, Potter. For the first time in six years, you have beaten me in a staring match.

'I still don't understand,' I hear a low mutter from behind.

I take a slow deep breath in a way that does not show. Control yourself. You could do it in front of the Dark Lord. You can do it in front of Potter.

'Never learned much about research, have you, Potter?' I ask almost casually. The boy flares up immediately, predictably so.

'What does this have to do with anything?'

'Typical,' I remark just loud enough for him to hear, then turn to face him again.

'Had you known anything about research, the true nature of it, you would have remembered that… You do not assume a hypothesis and discard every single shred of evidence against it. You consider all sides of it, you THINK, you ANALYZE, you TRY to unearth the TRUTH, and not what YOU believe it to be because you have SEEN it with your own EYES!'

The eyes in question are directly in front of mine now. I cannot even remember moving across the room. Steeling what remains of my heart against the piercing green, I speak quietly this time.

'You have three options, Potter. One,' I lift my finger and his gaze switches to it, thankfully.

'You pick up your wand again, and we continue this, for lack of a better word, duel. Two,' another finger extended, 'you pick up your wand, turn on your heel, walk out that door' (I point. He does not look.) 'and close it very quietly behind you. Three, you keep your righteous anger to yourself for some time, and do something you had consistently failed at for six years – listen. Decide already.

My manipulation is so hopelessly obvious at this time it isn't even manipulation. Only one excuse available. He also knows perfectly well that despite the options presented, he has only one.

'Fine,' he says after a few seconds, pushing my straining self-control to the limit. 'I will listen to you, but-'

That little word was one too many. Self-control shatters spectacularly.

'But me no buts, Potter! You are in no position to state conditions, nor sound as if you are doing me a favor. It is YOUR interest to hear what I choose to tell you, not mine to waste my time enlightening you on the issue!'

Maybe I finally did give him a reason to include hypocrisy amongst my innumerable flaws.

'Now sit yourself down,' I Levitate a chair from the corner with an off-handed flick of the wand, then pocket it. The boy complies reluctantly, but not before picking up his own wand from halfway across the room, where it was flung during his last attempt to attack me magically. This gives me a few seconds to gather the swiftly fleeting resolve.

How low you must have sunk, Severus Snape, I muse to myself, to choose Potter of all people as your confessor. How desperate you must have become if you grabbed at this chance to, believe it or not, redeem yourself, even if it is in the eyes of… her son.

'There is something I am… compelled to admit to you, Potter,' I begin, eager to get this part out of the way. It is something that must be said. Now is not the time for personal stabs, but for unadorned and objective truth. And if there is one person I am objective about, it is, regretfully, myself.

'I was not being entirely just on your account earlier during our conversation,' I manage, boring his face with my eyes, daring him to look surprised or sarcastic. Well, at least the boy had finally learned what is good for him.

'I refer to my words of you not being one to understand the circumstances surrounding Dumbledore's death. While you certainly lack the mental capacity to comprehend the issue without detailed explanations, which, fortunately for you, I am going to provide – you are not alone in failing to understand the truth. The reason being, only two people had known the truth all along. One of them is now dead.'

'And the other one, conveniently, is you. Not what I would call a convincing alibi,' the boy sneers. I turn. Slowly.

'Alibis, Potter, alibis I would offer to the Wizengamot. The best I can offer you is the truth.'

'Your version of the truth, you mean.'

The snarky tone becomes too much, again. I lean over him menacingly.

'THE truth, Potter. Complete and unadorned. You have the last chance to walk out that door now! Or listen and speak only when I ask you something!'

His jaw squared, he nods stiffly. Good enough. I resume my slow pacing. It is always easier when I pace…

'Do you recall anything unusual about the Headmaster in the last year, Potter? Anything about his looks that was out of ordinary?'

For a short time, he seems to restore the image in his mind, then mutters softly,

'His hand…'

'Outstanding. His hand, Potter, had suffered so as a result of a powerful curse protecting a Dark, very Dark artefact he had attempted to destroy. His attempt was successful, but the curse took over. I succeeded at containing the curse to one hand, yet not even my skills would keep it dormant forever. According to Dumbledore's and my estimates, he had somewhat under a year before the curse continued to spread like cancer, bringing with it slow and painful death. He was doomed from the moment he destroyed the… artefact.'

The boy's eyes are fixed on me in a fashion that is almost unnerving. In six years of tutoring him in and out of class, I have never been subjected to such attention. Resisting the urge to clear my throat, I continue.

'Ever since you have returned clutching the Triwizard cup and Diggory's body, I have been a spy in the Dark Lord's camp. Just as I was before the end of the first war.'

Saying that out loud makes it somehow… irreversible. Almost frightening in its simplicity. I silently urge Potter to interrupt me. He is silent, staring at me and looking as if he is holding his breath. I stop pacing and fall silent as well, looking back at him.

'But why…' the boy starts speaking, but the words come out a barely audible rasp. He coughs painfully. Without thinking, I reach for the wand, Levitating a glass from my desk and muttering Aguamenti. In a moment I find myself holding a glass of water, and ridiculous though I feel, the only logical thing to do seems giving it to Potter. He takes it, his hand less than steady, and makes a few sips before looking up at me in what appears to be amazement beyond words.

'You were saying, Potter?'

'Why did you kill him… when you did?'

'Because I promised,' I reply, looking anywhere but at the boy.

'Dumbledore asked you to KILL him?'

Reprimands, retorts and ridicule are lined up just behind my lips as I turn to Potter again. However, only one word escapes.

'Yes.'

'And you agreed?' the green eyes look huge in a mixture of shock and disbelief.

'I assume that you would not,' I sneer. 'You would never do such a thing, am I right?'

'But… There must have been another way…'

'There was NO other way, Potter! How difficult can it be to understand that there are times when there IS no other way? Or would you rather let him be killed by Draco, or Lestrange, or Greyback, or the Dark Lord himself? Would you rather watch him tortured? Would you rather endure seeing him tormented into insanity? Have him watch the Death Eaters taking Hogwarts apart stone by stone? Or see him force fed Veritaserum and tell the Dark Lord everything he ever wanted to know, including the easiest way to dispose of you? Although that required no Veritaserum, even. Tell me, Potter,' I lean over him again. The boy seems to try to disappear into the back of the chair, his face a mix of emotions I cannot quite place.

'Would you have the strength to stay put if the Dark Lord announced he would kill Dumbledore unless you surrendered? Would you have the strength to NOT try to rescue him? Or would you have either handed yourself over or got caught in a reckless rescue mission, and have Dumbledore watch you tortured and killed?'

'Would you have the courage?' I demand in a hoarse whisper. The boy seems to be shaking. His lips form an inaudible answer.

'No.'

My mouth curls in a snarl. I push myself away from the chair and walk towards the window briskly. I know that my back is straight and betrays no emotion. While my fingernails are close to drawing blood from the palms.

It must have been some time before I trust myself to turn, maintaining an expression worthy of a gargoyle. I need not have bothered. Potter is slumped in his chair, his face buried in the palm of one hand, his glasses clutched in the other. After a few seconds, he looks up, sensing my look. Some unwelcome part of my mind notes that this was the first time I see him with no glasses on. He looks curiously helpless and several years younger, and… for the first time ever, nothing like his father. I blink, attempting to shake off the illusion, to no avail.

'You… you never told… anyone…' he mutters. I arch an eyebrow.

'All these years… And after his death… It is not possible!' he suddenly cries out, staring at me.

'Not possible, Potter, as I have told you before, for fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves.'

He slumps back again, his lips forming words I cannot and do not want to hear. There is no end to my regret that this conversation has taken place at all.

'Now you know everything that you need to know,' I say coldly. He looks up again, this time more obviously having trouble speaking.

'Professor… I…'

He is looking at me as if he had never seen me before. It takes me a few moments to notice a strange shine in his eyes. Holding back an expression of utter shock could have easily been the most difficult thing I have done in months.

'You… you're right… and…'

He swallows, for the first time in the years I had known him looking vulnerable and… repentant? Impossible. Getting up from the chair, he loses his footing, and… I manage to stop my hand that has already started reaching out to catch him. Not noticing any of this, he gets up still looking at me with positively tearstruck eyes.

'I…'

'For goodness' sake, Potter, spare me your sentimentality!' I snap, aggravated beyond measure by struggling to stop myself from… reaching out to him, looking at him with sympathy, allowing him a moment of weakness, waiting for him to calm down, and accepting the apology I can see him trying to form… Just what a man would do for… his son. Unthinkable!

Our eyes meet again, his flaring up immediately, no sign of the renegade emotions of a few moments ago. He turns and bolts, no other word for it, out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to bash open a half-closed window.

I watch the window thoughtfully as it slowly creaks back and forth, letting in a still-chilly wind that ruffles some parchments on my desk. I sink into the chair Potter got out of, having no will to close the window. A gust of wind catches a small piece of parchment and tosses it towards the fireplace. I watch idly. There is nothing on that desk worth saving, worth moving a muscle at this moment. The parchment tumbles through the air as I find myself thinking what it could actually be. Some random scribble? Note of a meeting? Note passed to me in a meeting? It turns to me for a moment before landing in the fire, and I freeze for a split second before knocking the chair over and bolting – no other word for it still – to the fireplace, sticking my hands into the flames up to the wrist.

It is barely damaged when I grab it, yet I pull out my wand and whisper an incantation used to restore things damaged by fire. Kneeling in front of the fireplace and holding a little picture of a red-haired woman in my burned hands, I weep. Just as a man would do for… his wife. It seems a little less unthinkable, however.

Chapter 2

Alohomora

No time passes. No time has ever truly passed in this house. Passing of time means change. And nothing ever changes here. Fire burns low, leaving glowing embers behind. Cold air from the window still hanging ajar permeates the room. But those things do not qualify as change. Change – real change – only ever happens within. And that is something I am both blessedly exempt from and painfully robbed of.

I get up from my knees, replacing the chair in its place, Repairing the glass knocked over along with it, then turn my own armchair from facing the desk to facing the window. The darkened glass is now out of the way, and I can look out into the night without being confronted with a mirroring surface.

Time for the daily – or rather, nightly – exercise, one I had been trying hard to teach to Potter, only to find him as inept at it as at other innumerable things involving discipline. Empty your mind of all emotion. Good practice for someone who is still learning Occlumency, and a helpful exercise in control even for an accomplished Occlumens. For me, however, it had been unnecessary for many years now. Except possibly the month following Dumbledore's death, when I took meticulous care not to interject a mournful feeling into the atmosphere of exuberance surrounding the Dark Lord. The Only One He Ever Feared defeated, The Boy Who Lived robbed of his most powerful defender, Hogwarts virtually open for the taking… all that, by the hand of the now reestablished faithful servant. One of the most, if not the most faithful one, apart from possibly Bella the belle, whose devotion to him had long taken a turn towards something both sickening and sickeningly obvious.

The corner of my mouth curls up at the memory of her expression, of her barely concealed – oh, Merlin! – blush at my snide remark as to her failure at the Ministry. Women. Strange creatures. There is no understanding of their reasons for liking some men and not other, and no end to the most bizarre attractions imaginable. Instead of choosing someone who would be a good father for their children – the most natural instinct for selection of a mate – they are infatuated by power, swept away by popularity, or drawn in by morbid fascination… I feel a strange burning feeling on the left of my chest and reach in the inner pocket of my robes to see whether the picture kept there is spontaneously combusting for some melodramatic reason. There is no fire there, except for the flying red hair, so I tuck it back, musing that it would be a very poetic way to dispose of someone who holds the murderer dear. Present them with something small, silly and sentimental, with a likewise request to carry it over their heart, and watch them slowly succumb to a treacherous curse that would wear out their heart slowly, while they remain completely unaware and assured that the pain is coming from within their soul…

This picture holds no curse, however – no magical curse, that is – so the logical conclusion of the reason for my pain coincides with the illusion just described. I draw a breath and empty my mind. Cold, rational thought, no room for emotions or impulses, the only way to preserve one's sanity. Yet something is wrong. My mind is empty, yet it does not help in the least. My thoughts are cold and rational, but they are a picture of straight, clear lines drawn on a backdrop of a mind-boggling chaos. Explosions of indescribable colors where there should be solid blackness, as if a desperate artist had flung an entire palette of fluorescent paints into the dark waters of a still lake, ruining the perfect harmony of black surface and white moonlight.

For the first time ever I seem to understand what Dumbledore meant by saying that mind and soul can be one and the same.

It is dawning. I have not moved from my position, nor closed the window, despite the deep chill that usually settles in the body at the same time as the dew falls outside. It matters not whether one is inside or outside, naked or under several blankets – the chill comes from the inside, as if blood itself slows its flow in the veins. At times like this, having held another night's vigil over an unfinished essay, an unsteadily bubbling crucible, an unconscious prisoner or an uncomfortable thought, I would reach for a cup of hot tea, spiced up with cloves, cinnamon or Firewhiskey, depending on the circumstances. An influx of warmth would almost fool one into believing the feeling to be something more just than a hot liquid poured down the throat, and provided no one was around – in any case, I would not admit to this minor concession to the flesh in anyone's presence – I could close my eyes for a few brief and precious seconds, savoring the warm feeling and sometimes, very, very rarely, allowing in a smile, my highly infrequent visitor.

However, I am not feeling up to it right now. I am simply… tired. Another weakness of the flesh I have never shown to anyone. Maybe I should not break the tradition no one knows about. Maybe I should get up to my feet just enough to summon the large black kettle, restore the fire, and see if I have any of that bread left in what, for want of a better word, I call my kitchen.

I grasp the armrests, willing myself to get up, just a few seconds before a sound of footsteps appears barely beyond the edge of hearing. Am I imagining them? Fortunately, imagination is not something I possess in abundance. My movement halted, I remain seated.

From my position, I cannot see anything that is happening in the room. However, the careful creaking of the door and deliberately quiet footsteps tells me that my early visitor is alone, hesitant and has much to learn about moving stealthily.

I speak without turning my head.

'Came to have another stab at it, Potter?'

A creak of a floorboard out of rhythm indicates that my voice has startled the intruder. There is no reply, from which I surmise that Potter it is.

He approaches slowly, and I can see his face reflected in a corner of the treacherous windowpane. Pale, the scar on his forehead showing more prominently than usual, hair wet and sticking out at odd angles. The eyes escape my scrutiny.

He stops just behind my right shoulder and out of direct view, his left foot a few inches away from my wand, carelessly abandoned on my way from the fireplace. I make no attempt to reach it. Unless he points his wand at me and speaks Avada Kedavra, I can defend myself easily. Should he do that, however, I would just make a mental note to explain some things to Dumbledore should I meet him in whatever afterlife there is. At length.

There is no movement, no sound except for that of careful breathing. I just hope that the boy is not considering another attempt of anything heroic or melodramatic. In either case, I doubt I would be able to restrain myself enough not to throw a full Body-Bind at him, Levitate him out of the window and leave him to his own devices from there on.

Well? Go ahead, say what you want to say, and do me a favor by relieving me of your company. I never expected you to believe a single word I said. And how could you have, always the dashing hero, the savior of the day, believe that a coward like me could have done all that?

The thought rushes through my head, and I am grateful for my own advice of thinking before speaking. Were it not for Potter's presence, I would have smirked at myself. Who would have thought, Severus, that after all those years you still had it in you to be offended, nay, insulted by a seventeen-year-old. Did he hit a raw nerve? I was not aware you had any left.

Growing weary of the ridiculous silence, I break it with something better balanced.

'Do whatever you came here for, then, and leave me to enjoy the solitude you have disrupted in your very typical fashion.'

Because my much abused patience on your account has about run out.

The boy clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to another, causing me concern for the safety of my wand.

'No, I didn't. I mean, did not come to… have another stab.'

'Noble of you,' I intone under my breath, unable to not notice the change in his voice. It may just be the effect of wandering under the rain, but somehow it sounds as if its owner has gained several years of age overnight.

'I came to say that…'

Do you expect me to urge you on? You give me too much credit, Potter. My eyes do not leave the now visible brown bark of the tree just outside the window.

The boy draws breath, almost angrily. I hide my amusement.

'That…'

Did I hear something along the lines of 'damn' under his breath? Never had much experience at admitting something for a change, had you, Potter? It tends to hurt, just so you would know.

'I believe you,' he finally manages. I assume an ironic expression, raising my eyebrows just enough for him to notice, should he have figured out that he can see my face in the window. Something shatters inside my chest, something that was stretched taut for hours? months? years? I ignore it.

'What a relief,' fortunately, making each word drip with disdain is a skill I had mastered long ago.

A relief indeed, is it not, considering that I was losing my sleep over the issue. Come to think of it, I was, interrupts the blasted objectivity. I ignore it, boring Potter's reflection with my eyes. He stares back. Silence lingers. I let out a carefully weighted exasperated sigh.

'Was that your only purpose here? Then let me congratulate you on successfully accomplishing it.'

Now get out. Get out before you start crying and apologizing again. No more teary-eyed stares. No more awkward attempts at words that are reserved for others.

A memory floats out of nowhere. Tearstruck green eyes.

"Sev…"

I look over my shoulder, frowning.

"Sev, wait, please wait!"

I stop and do not turn. She circles me, trying to look into my eyes. Finally, she manages to push my hair aside, clinging onto my shoulder with her hand. It is difficult for her, as I am much taller. I make no attempt to make it easier.

"Sev, I'm sorry."

"That's alright."

"No, it isn't, I know it isn't, I know I should never have said that!"

"Everything is fine, Lily."

I try to free myself. She hangs on, making breaking free impossible without hurting her. I stand still, and she takes advantage of that by turning my face to look at her. I try to avert my eyes, to no avail.

"Sev… Please forgive me for saying that, I never meant to insult your mother, I just wanted to say that she should have taken better care of you, because…"

"Because?.. "

"Because…" it is her turn to look away.

"Because no child should be abandoned like that."

"She never did abandon me, Lily," I speak in a hollow voice. "My mother was a kind woman, and it is not the lack of letters from her that was making me unhappy, but the abuse she had to suffer at the hands of my father."

She stares at me for a few seconds, her eyes widening.

"Was?.. Sev! Sev, you… you never told… anyone…"

Looking down, I swallow. Suddenly she throws her arms around me, crying.

"I'm so sorry, Sev…" I can barely make out between the sobs.

"It's alright, Lily. It is I who should be sorry," I whisper, holding her. A few tears find their way down my cheeks and get lost in her sweet-smelling hair.

I come to my senses with a start, only to find the boy still standing where he was. Damnation. No more words reserved for others, Potter. Don't you dare. Don't you dare remind me whose life should have been a neverending plea for forgiveness.

I shoot him a burning look. Potter looks a little taken aback and makes a few uncertain steps backwards.

'Right… Right. Er. Thank you.'

I huff scornfully. One gratitude long overdue.

'I'll just get back to my job, then. Goodbye, Professor.'

One last chance… Let him walk away. Just one more death on my conscience. Why does it matter? Why does it matter now?

The boy turns, heading for the door slowly. Just a few more seconds, and it will be over. Even if you change your mind later, your pride cannot possibly survive running after him. Let him go. There is no forgiveness to be earned from the dead, and you care not for that of any of the living.

'Do not disappoint me even further, Potter.'

I'll be damned. I am damned. So why does it matter now?

'I did not know that was still possible,' the boy retorts, looking surprised, however. My reflection frowns at his, which appears lost for a moment before adding unsurely,

'Professor?'

Some part of me is laughing at the rest of myself as one would at a funeral of the enemy who never learned. I ignore it, continuing.

'There are a good many things in this world, Potter, that you are not even remotely aware of.'

'So what is this new way I can disappoint you in, sir?'

Expectation. Curiosity. Hope?

'By making me believe that your mother's brains were completely wasted on you.'

'In what way?'

Confusion. Frown. I stand up and for the first time during this part of the conversation, face him directly, crossing my arms. Defensive body language, the same part of me sneers. I keep ignoring it.

'Because I was under the impression that in order to receive even the meager grades you have, you had to have at least a rudimentary sense of logic.'

The mentoring voice feels easier to do, something I had gotten used to over the years. Potter looks at me in genuine puzzlement, an expression so often assumed by most of my students. I let out a sigh again, exasperation requiring no weighing and measuring now.

'What I am trying to say here, Potter-'

'Is that you thought I was smart?' he immediately cuts in, eager to return to his usual role of the cheeky student worthy of… damn it. Worthy of one person I should rather keep out of my mind now, if I intend to follow through with this plan, truly Gryffindorian in its stupidity and recklessness. The thought of Gryffindor helps me come up with a temporary retort, however inappropriate and petty.

'You do realize that by this alone you would have lost your house several dozen points, don't you?'

'I do, but we're not at Hogwarts anymore,' he replies immediately, pointedly leaving the end of the sentence void of any appellation. An example of subtlety I would not have expected from Potter of all people. Enough word games, then, lest you want to lose by virtue of underestimating your opponent.

'Thank you for stating the obvious. Now if you would be so kind to let me continue?..' I request with pointedly icy politeness. The roles reasserted, I permit myself a barely noticeable nod at his suitably wary expression.

'Had you had the capacity to think about this situation logically, you would have realized that in order to defeat the Dark Lord…'

Since when have simple words become so intimidating? Damn the reasserted roles, an interruption would have been very helpful at this moment. Another weakness of yours, Professor – relying on others' predictability to remain perpetual.

'…you are going to…'

Stop expecting helpful prompts already. You gave none, why should he?

'Yes, Professor?'

Surprise and impossibly reluctant gratitude hidden, I conclude,

'Need my help.'

Some quarter of an hour later, Potter is staring at me in a mixture of disbelief and skepticism, leaning to the back of same chair he had occupied previously.

'Do you actually expect me to do what you ask?'

'I have known you long enough, Potter,' I reply, 'to neither expect nor ask you to do things. I have offered you one chance to bring down the Dark Lord and, quite possibly, escape with your life. It is up to you to accept it or not.'

'But this… plan… it’s impossible, no other word for it!'

'Indeed? And what makes it so impossible? Pray enlighten me, Potter.'

I am not surprised. It would be typical, to waste my time and breath relaying the plan to the boy who never acknowledged any authority except his own questionable pride.

'You expect me to surrender to you-'

'Wrong, Potter! Wrong from the very beginning!' I cut off.

'As usual, you have failed to grasp the fundamental principle, rendering the understanding of the whole impossible.'

'Have I?'

'You can only surrender to an enemy, Potter.'

'And?'

I draw my wand and hold it so that the point is just below his chin, again. His face remains calm.

'And, were I your enemy, what reason would you give me not to blast you into oblivion this very moment or at any other point during our conversation?'

'As I said before, you would get more credit for delivering me to Voldemort in person.'

'What did I tell you about the Dark Lord's name? Locomotor Mortis!' I snap and watch Potter try to keep his balance.

'What about now, Potter? Why should I not simply deliver you to the Dark Lord, concluding this pointless discussion?'

He appears to consider the question.

'Because many details of the plan still must be discussed?'

'Outstanding grasp of logic there. Maybe I should have used this spell on you during class. It seems to manifest a yet unregistered effect of brain activity stimulation. Locomotor Libera. '

'Now relay your understanding of the plan again, this time with more thought.'

The boy sighs despondently.

'I am to allow you to put a Body-Bind on me, after which you deliver me to…'

'Yes?..' I prompt threateningly.

'Are you going to hex me every time I say the name?'

'Try me, Potter.'

'Fine! You deliver me to your… Lord, and stand by his side as he entertains himself at my expense. Then, I am told, you attack him from the back when he is least expecting it, while I am expected to take care of the snake.'

'That would appear to sum it up, generally correctly,' I nod. 'What seems to be the problem, then?'

'The main problem, Professor, is that you expect me to trust you.'

'Oh. Of course. How could I have forgotten. You do not trust me, Potter. Do you?'

Potter shifts his gaze to his none-too-clean footwear, looking agonized. I watch, arms crossed in front of me.

'I… I don't know anymore,' he finally manages.

'That is a definite improvement, Potter, which indicates a marginal increase in your intelligence. Only arrogant fools are completely certain about everything. However, from the very fact of you standing here looking uncertain I surmise that you have permitted yourself to trust me enough. Just enough not to ruin the entire scheme.'

'What do you mean?'

'Were you foolish enough to trust me completely, which would have been a grave misconception on your part, given the circumstances, you could have given it away by appearing too bold before the Dark Lord, shooting hopeful glances my way or, Merlin forbid, crying for help-'

'I would not cry for your help!' he snaps angrily. How many Gryffindor lioncubs have perished as a result of their pride? Many, too many.

'Your nerve is commendable. Your arrogance, less so, even though it will prove useful in the situation. However, my assertion remains valid. Should your courage fail you-' he opens his mouth again, ready to deliver an angry retort.

'Do not interrupt me, Potter! Greater men would break down in front of the Dark Lord. You have no idea of what he is capable of…'
And blessed you are.

'So… should my courage… fail me?..'

'It will not disrupt the plan. It will only be a natural reaction. You are free to beg for mercy as much as what remains of your pride after a few Cruciatus curses will allow you.'

'What if…' he swallows, trying hard to appear calm, which is not an easy task with the Unforgiveables looming ahead of one.

'What if he kills me with one curse and calls it a day? I mean… you won't have enough time then… will you? To handle both him and the snake? Or…'

'Or will I bother to battle him at all in that case, is that what you are trying to ask, Potter? Good. I can see you finally using your head. It would be far too foolhardy to assume my unconditional alliance. Now to your question. I would act according to the circumstances, but, and that is major "but", Potter, I do NOT think the Dark Lord will dispose of you easily. He owes you too much humiliation for all the narrow escapes. Besides, he had failed to kill you with the Killing Curse twice already. Were I him, I would rather employ several less sophisticated curses to the same effect. You would not believe how efficient the simplest spells can be in disposing of the victims. Take the simple Leg-Locker I used on you a few minutes ago. With just a minor adjustment it can easily be used to stop the heart or the lungs. A slight modification to a Bubble-Head charm will fill the sphere with a poisonous gas instead of air. Now, creative use of Reducio and Engorgio can…'

I stop, noticing that the boy looks rather sick. Vivid imagination can do that to people.

'If you are planning to throw up, Potter, the bathroom is over that way,' I point, making a face.

'I'm fine. Can we get back to the plan?'

'I believe the main idea should be clear now. Any questions?'

'Yes, actually. What are you planning to do about all the Death Eaters? It isn't like they will simply stand there and watch you curse… him.'

'Have you been listening attentively, Potter?'

'I think so…'

'Wrong again. You have missed a very important detail. I did say that this was your one chance. The reason being, tonight all Death Eaters are going to storm the current headquarters of what remains of the Order of the Phoenix. While I am to remain on duty, guarding the Dark Lord. And that, Potter, is another reason for him to delay your death somewhat. He would rather kill you publicly. Which does not mean, certainly, that he would refrain from torturing you for his own pleasure.'

'This is insane…' the boy mutters under his breath, rubbing his face with his palm.

'Your pardon?'

'I am actually going to hand myself over to Voldemort for torture and killing, and count on you, on you of all people to help me out! I must be mental.'

'That, or brave enough,' I agree. He stares.

'Then again, one does not necessarily rule out the other, especially in a Gryffindor.'

'Yeah…' he nods distractedly, then starts with a realization.

'What about the Order? What will happen to them? I must go and-'

'What you must do, Potter, or rather what a person in your position must do, is take the chance to strike in the heart of the enemy instead of dying a pointless death trying to protect your friends,' I speak coldly, staring him in the eye.

'No…' he looks away, shaking his head. 'I cannot do this. Something must be done… There must be another way…'

He slumps down in the same chair, burying his face in his hands. I observe.

'Except that there isn't, is there?' he looks up at me. I shake my head, feeling almost sympathetic with his anguish. So do you have it in you, boy? Show me what Dumbledore always insisted you had.

Sunlight flows in from the window as the sun makes it way through the morning sky. I walk over to the window and pull the curtains close, then rearrange the parchments on my desk, pick up the quills, cover the inkpot. Everything looks exactly the same as every day in the room now. Except that there is a black-haired boy sitting in one of the chairs, his head held in his hands as he painfully tries to figure out the right way to act. Should you survive this day and night, Potter, you will live to find that the right way can never be figured out. Right and wrong is one area where logic is rarely helpful, and this means something, coming from me. Logic has gotten me nowhere. But then, neither had my heart. Perhaps you will be more fortunate. Should you survive, of course.

'Well, Potter?' I ask quietly after there is nothing else left to tidy up in the room. He looks up.

'Have you decided?'

He bites his lip, closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before looking at me, his face a picture of what appears to be genuine self-loathing.

'Yes.'

'Well done, Potter,' I say something he gave me no reason for the almost seven years I have known him. This time, however, it may just barely qualify as deserved.

'Er. Thank you. What must I do now?'

'Now, Potter, and this is of vital importance to the plan, you must get out of my sight and let me work on the details. Or did you labor under the delusion that my whole life up to this point was hanging on the probability of you blasting my front door off the hinges?'

Looking slightly uncomfortable at the reminder, the boy gets to his feet.

'Er. Right. When should I come back?'

I consider this, and am forced to a very unpleasant conclusion.

'Regretfully, Potter, I believe that it would be safer if you went nowhere until it is time for us to act. Wherever you may be based right now, this house is safer. You can go out in the yard if you wish, yet I recommend a Disillusionment charm, or that Cloak of yours, if you still have it. This is a Muggle area, so a low profile must be maintained at all times. Actually,' I note as I realize something, 'I highly discourage you from performing any magic with that wand unless specifically instructed by me or in case of true emergency. Therefore, the Cloak is compulsory should you wish to go outside.'

'Why?' he frowns.

'I will explain. Later.'
I glance at the grandfather clock in the corner.
'It is now quarter past nine. I am expected to assume my post with the Dark Lord in less than twelve hours. It would be unwise to appear before that time because of the risk of running into some Death Eaters. Therefore, find something to occupy yourself during this time. Be so kind as to stay away from my books, however. If I were you, I would savor the boredom, as it may be your last chance. '

The boy nods absent-mindedly, looking as if he barely comprehends my instructions.

'Potter!' I snap. He focuses on me. 'Did you understand everything?'

'Do not leave the area, wear the Cloak if going outside, do not use magic, stay away from books, enjoy the boredom,' he mutters.

'Correct. One more thing. You may not be aware of it, but you look as if you are about to collapse. I am not looking forward to Enervating you before time. The kitchen is through this door. There should be some tea and bread left. I assume you are capable of manipulating the fire and kettle without magic?'

Chapter 3

Reparo

The boy finally gone, I return to my armchair. Were it not for my usually firm grip on reality, I would have believed myself to be masterfully Confunded. That would certainly be easier than trying to wrap my mind around the notion of cooperating with Potter, especially considering his obedience, however reluctant.

I attempt to line up the hordes of questions in my head and categorize them into relevant and irrelevant. Why did he return? Irrelevant. Why did he believe my words? Equally so. Why… Damn it, Severus, are you too blind to perceive a trend in your own thoughts? It seems that every question starting with "why" is not simply irrelevant, but highly irrelevant and does nothing to aid your current predicament. Do the world a favor and finally ask yourself something intelligent instead of analyzing motivations – his, yours or those of anyone else.

How to time my actions in a way that would minimize the risk of being confronted with my colleagues while at the same time avoid being late for my post, or late enough to suffer the Dark Lord's displeasure? What exact moment to select for Apparating to the Malfoy Manor, late enough for everyone to have left on their mission, but not early enough for them to realize the depth of the trouble and call in the reinforcements, namely the Dark Lord and myself? The last thing I would wish right now would be finding myself in the fray, the reason behind my reluctance being beyond lowly self-preservation, but rather the unwillingness to waste the only opportunity in weeks.

What is it that I would do, had the boy not made his appearance in such an uncharacteristically timely fashion? Would I have seized the opportunity, taken the chance to strike in the heart of the enemy instead of dying a pointless death? Slipping into irrelevant questions again.

I rub my forehead with my fingers, only to wince in pain. The next few minutes are spent in fruitless attempts to rest either elbow on the armrest and lean my head on the respective hand, thwarted by the several already formed blisters and the general skin condition I am inclined to classify as second degree burns. Slumping down somewhat to lean the head on the back of the chair instead, I observe my hands resignedly, once again presented with the usual result of doing something needlessly melodramatic. It would have been easier and possibly faster to use my wand to retrieve the object I had willingly injured myself for. What was it - letting the Muggle instincts to get the best of me, or simply not bothering to use my head? Either would be appalling.

As is analyzing the events I no longer have the power to influence, instead of rectifying the consequences, I remind myself. The logical solution at this point in time would be procuring some essence of Murtlap tentacles and letting my hands soak in it for possibly an hour, before applying a spell similar to the one used to remove fire damage from objects, with appropriate modifications for living tissue. I have neglected minor injuries akin to this before, but not before an important battle in which I could not afford to risk the result through dropping the wand because of a sudden unexpected pain.

Unfortunately, proceeding with the logical solution would involve overcoming two difficulties, one of them being the necessity to retrieve a bowl and therefore, to bear the sight of Potter in my kitchen. The other difficulty lies in the need to actually get to my feet to fetch both the bowl and the essence. I feel reluctant to use the wand for a charm as mundane as Summoning, for the same reason I have instructed Potter against using his.

Suppressing the temptation to bark an order in the direction of the kitchen and have both items delivered to me, I rally what strength I have and will myself to stand up. Inexplicably, the effort reminds me of the fact that the night preceding last I had also spent awake for some obscure, but perfectly legitimate reason, the nature of which seems to escape me at this time, somehow … Just get up…

My head snaps up as I hear a quiet voice just to the side of me.

'Episk-'

Not fully comprehending the situation at the moment, but acting on an instinct that proves right, I move my hand up just in time to knock the wand out of the hand holding it.

The next second, it all comes back to me. I must have fallen asleep during my unsuccessful attempt to get up and fetch the Murtlap essence. Pathetic. Not to mention… embarrassing. I glare at Potter, who is staring at me with an expression of acute confusion, his wand lying on the floor.

'What did you think you were doing there, Potter?' I demand. He leans down to pick up the wand, then turns to face me.

'I, uh, just thought…'

'That is a definite improvement to the quality of your usual mental activity,' I sneer. His effort to restrain the usual reaction of snapping back is clearly visible and almost commendable.

'I thought,' he continues, 'that you could use some healing there.'

'Well, Potter, your chivalry continues to remain unsurpassed,' I reply with a smirk. 'A pity, however, that your judgment is preserved at its previous level. Not to mention your ability to follow direct instructions.'

The boy leans on the windowsill, his expression suddenly composed.

'What did I do wrong this time? Sir.'

'There are two sides to that question, Potter. Fortunately for you, I have enough time to elaborate on both of them. I will address the technical side first, unless you object.'

'Er. No.'

'From what I have gathered, you attempted to cast Episkey on what, even to a completely untrained eye, appears to be tissue damaged by fire or heat. Episkey, Potter, is a spell used for minor tissue damages, such as cuts, bruises and bumps. One healing spell is not like the next, and had you given it some thought, despite the lack of specialized knowledge, you would have found it obvious. Damage spells can be less sophisticated in that respect: for example, one can put Diffindo to the same uses that some people seem to prefer solving with Sectumsempra. While the extent is, obviously, less profound, and the healing is simplified significantly, the damage is of a mostly similar nature – cutting. However, you could hardly use Reparo to truly "repair" the sliced tissue, even though I have seen the spell put to this use and, when applied with some skill, working as a temporary, if crude, measure to prevent excessive blood loss. Incidentally, Potter, should you ever find yourself on the receiving side of the inexplicably favored by you Sectumsempra, you will find that Reparo may indeed save your life in the manner just described, for the reason of it being not a healing spell in nature. As you may have realized, the tissue damaged by Sectumsempra resists the majority of common healing spells, apart from the unique countercurse that – and you may take my word for it – is known to very few people. You must have heard of the temporary remedy for wounds used by Muggles, administered in form of stitches. Reparo will serve similarly until you manage to locate either an extremely proficient Healer or a person with the knowledge of the countercurse.'

I of all people should know, having spent almost two days after one less than successful rebound Repairing my own arm and sipping self-brewed Blood-Replenishing potion until finally figuring out the proper countercurse.

'Anything unclear up to this point, Potter?' I ask, studying the boy's face. He appears thoughtful, as if memorizing my lecture.

'All clear, Professor.'

'Astounding. Now, do not be led into believing that Reparo will be a universal temporary solution, as using it, for example, to "repair" a broken bone may result in some highly unpleasant further treatment, unless you are dealing with an extremely neat breakage in plain sight, which is hardly ever the case. Proceeding to your favorite Episkey now. As I have mentioned before, it is sufficient for superficial damage, and that is exactly where it is usually applied. However, with extremely accurate application, it can indeed be used for deep wounds, provided the entire scope of the wound is visible. In this case, the knotting properties of Episkey can be employed to seal every layer of the damaged tissue consecutively, in the exact order of the layers. Fail to observe the sequence, and you may close the wound on the surface while possibly allowing profuse hemorrhage inside, believing to have saved your hapless patient while in fact dooming them with almost complete certainty. In fact, when armed with nothing but Episkey and facing a probable deep injury with little surface damage, as may be caused by certain spells aiming at internal mutilation, it would be advisable to actually cut the wound open to guarantee visibility and sequential healing. However unpleasant the procedure may be for both the healer and the patient, there are cases when damage must be done for the healing to have its effect.'

I stop talking, almost surprised at my own verbosity. Then again, it must have been one of the very few cases when Potter would be so kind as to refrain from interrupting me.

'That is all on the subject of using elementary healing spells in more serious cases. Any questions?'

The boy shakes his head.

'No, sir. That's… that sounds very useful, actually.'

'I'm flattered. Now, as you may recall, I mentioned there being two sides to the question of your application of Episkey. The technical side should present no complications now, so I shall proceed with the side that pertains to our particular case. What were my explicit instructions, Potter, for the duration of your stay in this house until we leave?'

'Is this about "do not use magic"?' he sighs, looking down with an all too familiar expression of someone who had just melted a cauldron by adding fifteen ounces of armadillo bile instead of five.

'Yes, Potter, your acuity is truly beyond comparison. May I inquire as to the reason for your violation of the few rules I have insisted you observe for the whole of unbearably long twelve hours of your stay?'

'I… I forgot,' the boy mutters with the same expression. I shake my head.

'Typical. Simply no other word for it. Nevertheless, an explanation was promised, and so I will present one. There was a very simple reason for avoiding to use magic with your wand, Potter, and even you could have perceived it with relative ease. Imagine a somewhat unlikely, yet theoretically possible probability of the Dark Lord being in the mood for some entertainment tonight and choosing to duel with you. Do you recall the phenomenon observed the last time such was attempted?'

'It's called Priori Incantatem, isn't it?'

'Indeed. Last time, the effect of Priori Incantatem was suffered by the Dark Lord's wand. Imagine, however, what would become apparent, should your wand be subject to it. The last spell you would have cast would have been a healing spell. And for whose benefit? How long do you think my tale of having overpowered you in a duel would last after that? You would have to act very quickly indeed to defeat the Dark Lord in the few seconds he would devote to disposing of me, and quite deservedly so, given the stupidity of the endeavor to present a ploy so transparent!'

Potter is looking down silently, while I am doing my best to sort another question into the "irrelevant" category, another question starting with a "why" that has been knocking on the inside of my head throughout the entire speech of mine.

'Sorry, sir,' he finally manages. 'It was… rather stupid, I guess.'

'Give me that wand of yours,' I hold out a hand. He places the wand in it with a sigh.

'That's not necessary, you know. I wouldn't do anything more.'

'I did not think you would,' I reply, holding the wand in front of my eyes and recalling the spells cast by the both of us during the course of last night. Bombardo. Impedimenta – unsuccessful, possibly unrecorded, Expelliarmus on my part. Sectumsempra – Shielded. Stupefy – Shielded. That would appear to be all. Hardly sufficient to present a semblance of a valid duel, even though the rebounded spells will have been recorded as those successfully cast.

'Now, Potter, what I intend to do right now is create a believable illusion of there having been a proper duel between us, and one that did not involve the use of one's fists. Watch closely now, for this is something you have been attempting for so long, with minimum success.'

I point the boy's wand at the outside of my left forearm. Potter's eyes are fixed on the wand.

'Sectumsempra,' I speak in a level voice while making a fast slashing movement with the wand, nevertheless careful to avoid the elbow and wrist joints. I hear the boy gasp in what sounds genuine shock.

'What… what are you doing?' he stammers.

'You did not think I would give you the pleasure of doing that, did you?' I ooze through gritted teeth, leaving his wand on my lap and reaching for mine as blood soaks into my sleeve. Over the years, I have almost forgotten how painful this bloody invention of mine is.

'Surely there must've been-'

'Another way, no doubt?' I snap, distracted from my countercurse and having to start it over. Having stopped the bleeding, I turn my gaze to the boy's face. He is eyeing me with a mixture of awe and… sympathy? Pitiful. I fling his wand to him.

'Now have fun tossing some Stunners or whatever else strikes your fancy, out of the window. Do some Shields while at it, and whatever you find appropriate to have cast, were we indeed dueling.'

While Potter executes a surprisingly wide assortment of the spells, his hand, however, less than steady, I complete the restorative procedure on my arm, my thoughts returning to the days of my invention of both the curse and the countercurse. The latter had certainly been useful to me over the years, given my inexplicable lack of skill with Episkey, no matter how much I could lecture on its nature and creative application. Some part of me wonders whether my reluctance to have it cast on me by Potter of all people was somehow related to the unwillingness to accept the fact of him actually excelling at something beyond my grasp.

'That will do,' I speak, and the boy lowers the wand, turning to me. 'The next step would be the Body-Bind, but assuming the minor probability of my wand undergoing scrutiny, and even in that case, the low sensitivity of Priori Incantatem to temporal discrepancies of the spells reproduced, the primary focus being on the sequence, I can afford to cast it directly before Apparition. Incidentally, that also saves you the trouble of spending the next eleven hours petrified.'

'Seven, sir.'

'Your pardon, Potter?' I frown. He points at the clock behind me.

'It's two in the afternoon. From what you said, I gathered we'd be leaving around nine.'

Two? I am inclined to have a look at the clock with my own eyes, but the view of the sun out the window is enough for me to realize the boy is telling the truth. Not only have I dozed off like an old man, but managed to sleep for a whole of five hours. Brilliant, Severus. Bloody brilliant.

'You gathered correctly,' I remark grimly. 'What have you been doing all this time, may I ask?'

'Mostly enjoying the boredom,' he sighs. 'And well, I did have that tea, as you said.'

'It is indeed a welcome change to have at least some of my instructions followed. I can but hope that you will continue to do so until the plan is either complete or results in the death of either of us.'

'Er. Right. Would you… um, like some too?'

'What?' I raise my eyebrows, observing the boy's strange expression of discomfort.

'Tea?'

For some peculiar reason, I feel possibly more taken aback than at any point during the last night and this morning. The situation seems to be making very little sense, and I feel tempted to cast something at myself to verify my being awake. He did not just offer me tea, in my own house for that matter, did he?

'I… don't think so,' I manage, boring the boy's face with my eyes. 'However, should you be possessed by a sudden wish to make yourself useful, Potter, you may fetch a bowl from the kitchen, and a yellow bottle labeled "Murtlap" from the glass-fronted cabinet, second shelf on the right. You will also oblige me by not touching anything else.'

'Right,' the boy replies and walks away. I suppress a sigh, staring out the window blankly. I should not have let myself fall asleep. Now I am unable to shake off the feeling of having woken up to a different reality.

After a minute or two, Potter returns bearing the two requested items, and something in addition. I glare at him darkly, quietly cursing myself for forgetting myself enough to actually instruct him to open my cabinet. Whatever in this world or the next could have possessed me enough to do that?

'What is this, Potter?'

'Dittany, sir.'

For goodness' sake…

'I was under the impression that you were going to follow my instructions, Potter, but somehow the very first thing you do is disobey a direct precaution,' I reply, taking the bowl and both vials from him. He shrugs non-committally.

'Just a thought…'

The pause that starts feeling highly uncomfortable is interrupted by the boy suddenly yawning, barely managing to cover his mouth in time.

'What did I say about the dubious pleasure of reviving you before time, Potter?' I demand.

'You are going to have enough trouble enduring the torture you will undoubtedly be put through as soon as the Dark Lord sets his eyes on you. There is hardly any need for you to weaken yourself further. Get out of my sight and put your head down somewhere. This instant.'

Potter gone with welcome obedience, I turn my attention to the bowl and vials in my hands. Dittany. Who would have thought. Not only does he listen, not only does he remember, but he actually bothers to take initiative. Nobility embodied.

With a resigned sigh, I unstopper the flask and smear the extract over my recently healed arm. Foregoing the opportunity would be foolish if anything, even if such opportunity is presented by virtue of – who would have guessed – sympathy. A sentiment long forgotten for giving and even longer – for receiving. A sentiment one can learn to do without.

As I lean back in the chair, hands slowly soothed by the Murtlap essence in the bowl, some of Dumbledore's words on the deeper nature of people come back to haunt me. I do my best to banish the notion from my mind. The last thing I require now are sentiments one can and has long learned to do without.

After an hour passes, according to my estimates, I put the bowl aside and cast the spell, pleased to find the healing quite efficient. The pain in the arm seems gone as well, the credit for which, however grudging, goes to dittany.

I finally get to my feet and turn to the clock. Six hours to go. Potter is nowhere to be seen, until I walk across the room towards the kitchen and find him sitting on the couch, asleep. Good riddance, for his presence is the last thing I need in order to do what I intend.

Once in the kitchen, I close the door, considering sealing it with Colloportus, but settling with Muffliato on both the living-room and backyard doors to isolate all sound. Once the precautions are observed, I take a deep breath, as if it ever helps against the pain.

'Expecto Patronum!'

I observe the white doe as she trots around the kitchen, looking at me with eyes so full of… peace, and trust, and solace, and every single sentiment I have long learned… I thought I have long learned to do without. After all this time. A human is unable to feel anything after all this time. A human should not be able to feel anything after all this time.

'Vox Mutatio,' I intone quietly, thinking that the spell is mostly superfluous, given the fact that no one would recognize my voice right now even without it, my throat too constricted to speak in my normal fashion. Nevertheless, I clear my throat and speak to the doe,

'Moony. There was a message that there would be an attack on the Headquarters this night, at nine o'clock sharp. The message should not be neglected, lest you shall doom your friends, and your friends' children. Believe my words as have they. Friend…'

I am forced to take a breath before continuing,

'Friend of Lily Evans.'

The doe looks at me with the same expression of trusting innocence.

'Go now,' I whisper. 'You know where to find him.'

She turns and trots off, but not before nuzzling my hand with her nose lightly. I sink to my knees and remain motionless for a while.

Friend of Lily Evans.

Friend of Lily Evans who is about to take the son of Lily Evans to the very man she had thrown herself in front of, the man she had died trying to protect her son against.

Friend of Lily Evans who has inexplicably made the son of Lily Evans believe his words and trust him against all odds, possibly more so than Lily Evans herself.

Friend of Lily Evans who will watch the son of Lily Evans die.

Had Lily Evans known about the depth and full meaning of your friendship, she would rather be your enemy for ever and ever.

She returns. She always returns after delivering a message. I never saw any other Patronus do that. But she always returns. Returns to walk around me slowly. To bathe me in the silvery glow, which should be cold as all white light, but is nevertheless warm, warm enough to permeate the very soul. I reach out my hand. However corporeal a Patronus, it is never tangible. You cannot touch it. You cannot hold it. Yet I always reach out.

How pathetic must a man get, to be pitied by his own Patronus?

It hurts even more than the summoning, but I close my eyes and let her go. The illusion of the warmth fades, as my lips form a name.

She cannot hear you, even if she would care to listen.

Get. Off. Your. Knees.

And do it now, unless you want Potter to walk in on you and offer to do something helpful…

In one motion, I bring myself back to my feet and walk over to the cupboard. Some tea should help. Or provide an illusion, at the very least. Then again, illusions help too.

Over the tea, I steeple my fingers and concentrate. It would not do to fail at the simplest mind exercise twice in the course of one day. One can hardly call oneself a good Occlumens if one fails to conceal one's thoughts from oneself. Even if one happens to be a surprisingly adept Legiliment as well.

When the sun sinks towards the horizon, I get up, leaving the untouched cup of the now stone-cold tea, and walk back to the living-room, only to find the boy exactly where I saw him last. I look around the room, going over the plan details in my mind again, although it is not a plan that involves bringing anything with me. Once everything is clear in my mind, I call.

'Potter.'

His head snaps up immediately, almost as if he has been simply lost in thought rather than sleeping.

'Yes, Professor?'

'It's time.'

'Right.'

He stands up. I approach him, my hand held out palm up.

'Your wand.'

He knows that once he does that, there is no turning back. The struggle in him would be visible even to a barely skilled face reader. To me, it is a picture painted in bright colors – hesitation, fear and… guilt? With a suppressed sigh, he places his wand on my palm. I nod and point mine at him.

'Do you remember everything?'

'Not much for me to do, is there?' he shrugs. 'It's up to you, really. I'm just a bait.'

The bitterness of the last word would not be concealed even if he tried.

'Any last words, then?'

'I hope it's worth it.'

'I am sure, Potter, than anyone you have fought alongside with would not hesitate to lay down their life if it meant demise of the Dark Lord.'

His face flushes. His voice, however, is level.

'That's not what I meant. I don't mind… dying, I remember the prophecy. I just hope that… at least someone survives after the Death Eaters' attack.'

Ah… I eye the boy, concealing my interest, genuine at this moment. It may be just possible that he is braver than I gave him credit for. Just.

'Well, Potter, I personally am rather confident in the survival chances of the Order, at the very least tonight.'

'How high can their odds be, against all Death Eaters at once?'

'Exactly as high as the odds of their heeding a message relayed yesterday and confirmed earlier today. Let us hope that the… addressee does not disappoint.'

The boy stares at me with wide open eyes.

'You… you warned them?'

'After everything I have told you, Potter, you may have concluded my lack of belief in pointless deaths.'

'They're not going to die, then…'

'They stand a fair chance, yes.'

'And you made me believe that…' he glowers in a highly amusing fashion. 'You made me think they were going to die! You…'

'I – what, Potter?' I smirk. He shakes his head, looking away.

'You're lucky I don't have my wand right now, that's all… Professor.'

Righteous anger is rather entertaining. As are empty threats.

'So, after everything I have told you, Potter, you were actually expecting fair play? I am insulted. Petrificus Totalus.'

Chapter 4

Protego

I lean against the wall, both my and Potter's wand clutched in my fist, my arms crossed lest the slight tremor of my hands becomes obvious.

'Where is your strength now, Potter? Crucio!'

The boy tries to dodge. In vain. One can retain only so much agility after the long minutes of torture that seem to last forever even to me. He grasps at thin air, his face distorted.

'Where are your defenders? Crucio!'

I clench my teeth, inexplicably feeling as if I was the true object of the curses hurled around the room in the past quarter of an hour. The Dark Lord lowers the wand and slowly approaches the boy, who is gasping on the floor uncontrollably.

'Even as we speak, Potter, my Death Eaters are finishing off the remnants of your allies. Those who survive this night will learn of their hero's fate in the morning. Tell me, boy,' the black-robed figure leans over Potter, whose face is almost blank, eyes appearing empty as they stare past the enemy. I have seen such looks on people's faces before, usually not long before they would leave this world – one way or another. By the enemy's hand or by their own.

'How does it feel to die knowing that your death brings an end to everything that some great men and women fought and died for, and lays the beginning for another greatness, much more terrible than anyone can imagine?'

I close my eyes, trying to keep track of time. In several minutes the majority of the Death Eaters should become trapped, provided that the Order were not foolish enough to discard my warning. Gambling almost everything on the trust of others. Who would have thought I would ever consider such a… Dumbledore thing to do. The plan is far too imperfect. Far too many assumptions of the nature of others, which I may have learned already to be too fickle to be counted upon. Yet this is the only way. Had Potter not barged into my house yesterday, I would soon find myself on the battlefield fighting alongside the Dark Lord, and very quick to fall. If I know anything at all about the Order, given the certain events, many of them would rather finish me off before doing anything else. So I would have to battle them to death – or allow them to kill me. Not yet. However much I would relish being relieved of my life, it is not up to me to decide whether I am free to leave. There are debts to be paid. And every day of my life, I feel as if I have barely begun.

A change in the Dark Lord's voice catches my attention, and I curse myself for this uncalled-for wallowing in self-pity, now of all times.

'Ever since you escaped our last meeting, Potter,' he hisses, his voice lowered, 'I had wanted to let you die slowly, so you could fully appreciate your foolishness for daring to place yourself in my way. However…'

The Dark Lord steps back, lifting his wand, and at this very moment I am filled with the kind of dread I had not experienced for many years now. The dread at the knowledge, at the complete confidence in the fact that something is about to go horribly wrong, and there is nothing, nothing that can be done about it.

'I have thought long about this meeting, Potter, and I realized something. In order to close the circle, to seal the fate you have been running from all your life, our last meeting should match our first exactly. This, I believe, is a good likeness: those who could have died for you, have died already, just as they have before, and you have been delivered to me by the hand of my faithful servant, whom I doubted, yet who had proven his loyalty by the ultimate betrayal - just as before.'

I know what is about to happen. I have seen this happening dozens, hundreds, thousands of times, when I would wake up with a scream, with an unanswered plea, with a name on my lips.

The wand stops rising and points directly at Potter. The boy seems to be transfixed. The Dark Lord smiles.

'Avada Kedavra!'

I step forward, for the first time in my thousand dreams able to move, to speak, to act. Just as a green jet of light appears at the tip of the Dark Lord's wand, I shout 'Protego!', pointing both of the wands in my hand at Potter.

Protego? Protego?? some part of me screams. You brain-addled fool, no Shield can save one from a Killing Curse, and you have just doomed both yourself and the boy! What, what on earth stopped you from shouting the very same words he just uttered, and hope that your curse is faster?

The knowledge that no matter what I would throw at the murderer now, it would not save the boy. Why the Shield then? Because that is what I would shout in my dream, inexplicably, only to find myself voiceless.

Equally inexplicably, the dark figure staggers back. It would be too much to hope for the rebound to be sufficiently deadly, but the boy is alive. Alive and back to his senses, his face no longer the mask of hopelessness I was loathing minutes ago. I find myself under the stare of two pairs of eyes: dazzling green and livid red.

'So…' the Dark Lord hisses, and his voice seems to be carried over to the dark corner nearest to me. Not needing to look to know what is about to strike, I point my own wand at the Dark Lord, shouting 'Impedimenta!' in a desperate attempt to win a split second of time, and throwing Potter's wand overarm to the boy. His fingers close on it just as I feel the bone-crushing embrace of Nagini.

She winds herself up my body until her head is level with my face.

'Kill the traitor, Nagini,' the Dark Lord speaks, his eyes narrowed, his face distorted in a smile that makes it even less human, if possible. I have no time to be surprised at the order being given in human speech, nor the strength to hold on to the wand as my right arm is crushed, the pain of what feels like a broken bone almost irrelevant. A heartbeat before the strike, I manage to throw my left arm up in a pointless attempt to delay the inevitable. The last thing my mind registers before the snake's fangs pierce my flesh, is that the Dark Lord's attention seems to be entirely on me this moment, devouring the sight greedily. Now, Potter. Now!

I collapse, my mangled shoulder no longer an obstacle, and watch almost calmly as Nagini's jaws, now red with my blood, prepare to close on my neck.

'SEVERUS!' I hear someone shout from the middle of the room, the voice clearly bordering on insanity. The next moment, the snake's head flies away from the body, as if slashed by the sharpest blade in existence. Non-verbal Sectumsempra, my mind registers. Brilliant and pointless. There is a flash of red light, and a cold voice says, 'Stupefy'. Another flash, and I see and hear no more.






I wake up to the smell of blood and impossibly, revoltingly sweet perfume.

'Snivellus…' a female voice sneers. Only one woman had ever called me that… consistently. No wonder I feel like vomiting.

'Bella.'

I open my eyes, only to find her face a few inches from mine. Inexplicably, I am reminded of my encounter with Nagini.

'I knew. I always knew,' she whispers, her voice trembling with what appears to be utter jubilance.

'I always told the Dark Lord that you were not to be trusted, that you were nothing but a lowly traitor, a coward whose only talent was lying his way up to those with the power, and now he can finally see how right I was!'

'Such devotion.' I remark with a smile. 'It is rather tragic, that he had never listened to you, is it not, Bella?'

Her features horribly distorted, she slaps me across the face with all her might, causing me to fall over on my right side, on the definitely broken arm. I swallow a groan of pain, looking up to the woman who is now towering over me, her hair frazzled, her dress burned in several places. By the look of it, she has just escaped a battle, and very narrowly at that. However inappropriate it may be at this moment, I feel a note of satisfaction: they did heed the warning, which means that at least someone did not fail completely tonight.

She points her wand at me, looking well beyond the insanity horizon and reminding me of old engravings of she-demons in ancient tomes I would smuggle out of the Restricted section of the library in my school years. We would have made an impressive tableau: her, with hair flying around her head like an evil halo and eyes burning with hatred beyond anything I had ever seen or felt, and me, lying at her feet with no means of defending myself except sarcasm. I cannot help but smirk at my own thoughts. Indeed, one's mind can work in truly puzzling ways. Bellatrix, in her typical egocentric fashion, takes my expression on her account.

'Believe me, Snape,' she hisses, appearing as if she is about to abandon her wand and resort to more physical violence, 'there is nothing I want more right now than to make you pay for every single thing you have done, and feed you every word your filthy half-blood mouth has uttered against me or any other truly noble family whose boots you are not fit to clean!'

'Why, Bella,' I reply, 'never in my life have I had less trouble believing you than now. Not that this is the first time I hear you expressing these sentiments.'

'Do you know, then, why I have never given you what you richly deserve?'

'Do tell.'

'I wanted you to reveal your true nature, and suffer the consequences as befits a traitor and a half-blood such as yourself – and serve as a lesson to everyone who would ever consider betraying the Dark Lord or placing their trust in a lowly creature like you!'

'So what you are saying, Bella,' I speak with as much hauteur as I can muster with the pain in the arm slowly yet steadily becoming less and less bearable,' is that you have never pressed the matter until I would be so kind as to provide solid enough evidence. You were deliberately biding your time, waiting for my betrayal to become apparent, permitting me to leak the information on the Dark Lord to the other side and allowing Potter escape again and again…'

I pause, letting my words sink in and using the opportunity to take a breath.

'I am convinced that the Dark Lord will be truly thrilled to find out that you have been jeopardizing the outcome of the entire war for the sake of your personal triumph. I cannot tell a lie, Bella – never have I seen such a dazzling display of loyalty.'

At this moment, I am almost entirely convinced that she is going to throw her theatric vengeance plans to the winds and kill me. Her wand held like a dagger, she kneels next to me.

'Maybe you're right, Snivelly…' she whispers. 'But I don't think that you will be able to talk your way out of it this time. However, we can't be too safe. I can always say that you were killed in an escape attempt. The Dark Lord will be unhappy, yes, but at least he will still have Potter to suffer enough for the both of you.'

She touches my left arm with the tip of her wand, pressing down hard. Something in my face must have changed just enough to tell her of the pain, as she bares her lips in a smile.

'Not feeling well, are you, Severus?' with her wand, she tugs at the bite holes in my sleeve, now hard with dried blood, while her hand turns my head so I could see the burning welts on my shoulder.

'See these little bite marks left by our Lord's pet? He knitted your wounds so you would not die of blood loss... before time. However, I may just be believed if I say that your desperate attempts to free yourself have ruptured this little bandage. Tragic. Foolish. You bled to death, and when I came in, it was, regretfully, too late…' She smiles again, the wand point directly over the wounds now.

'Diffin-'

'Bella!'

Her head snaps around to the blonde woman that has just burst into the room. Narcissa Malfoy looks but a shadow of her old self, as if it was not Bella, but her who has spent all those years in Azkaban. She gapes at the scene, open-mouthed.

'Bella, I want to know what is going on here, right now!'

'Well, Cissy, I thought you were already aware of the situation,' the darker woman replies, standing up. I let myself slump on the floor, as if barely conscious, while taking care to watch the two women carefully.

'I heard shouts, and sounds of a battle…'

'But did not dare to venture from your boudoir, where you must have huddled, clutching your precious son to yourself,' Bellatrix sneers scornfully. 'Battle, Cissy, battle is now taking place outside, and now that the Dark Lord has joined it, it is but a matter of time before the enemy is crushed.'

'He had to join the battle? I thought it was going to be an easy victory?'

'It appears that we have been sabotaged, sister. And I am certain that the Dark Lord will punish the one responsible in a fitting way.'

Narcissa's gaze switches to me, and it seems that only now recognition dawns.

'SNAPE?'

Bellatrix laughs.

'What have I told you, sister? But have you listened? You came running to him for help, you pleaded with him, you confided in the traitor! Who would have thought that you believed in the better nature of people, you of all people, born Black and married to Lucius!'

'Lucius!' Narcissa gasps. 'Where is he?'

'Where he should be, where the rest of you should be – fighting at the Dark Lord's side. He was battling three Aurors the last I saw him.'

'For someone who is not in the fray, you speak loudly, sister!' Narcissa snaps, but her face has become even paler, if at all possible. Bella's sallow cheeks flush.

'I would be, sister, oh yes I would. Yet I am here to watch the prisoners, on our Lord's orders. He does not trust anyone else to deal with them. Both of them are far too important.'

'Both?..' the blonde woman looks around the room, and by her widened eyes I can easily tell where Potter must be, blissfully unconscious. I block any thoughts of the boy, and shut out the insistent whisper in my ear: (He saved your life.) You made him trust you. (He saved your life.) You have failed him. (He saved your life.) You have failed her. Again.

I shift ever so slightly to inflict more pain in my arm, in the hope that it overshadows the thoughts. The women, fortunately, pay me no heed.

'Bella, what happened? One moment everyone leaves on a mission destined to succeed and not to worry about, the next – the Dark Lord has to join them, by the look of it having battled with… Snape and Potter?'

'Don't ask me, sister,' Bella snarls. 'They were here when I Apparated to warn the Dark Lord…'

I watch Narcissa's face carefully from my prone position. Thoughts are moving very quickly under her ivory skin. She sighs softly, taking her sister's hand.

'I am sorry, Bella. I worry about Lucius. And you.'

'Since when do you care about me, Narcissa?' the darker woman smirks.

'Whether you remember it or not, Bella, you remain my sister, and one of the precious few relatives I have left'.

'It took you a while to realize that, sister,' Bellatrix drips the last word with acid, but her face softens a fraction.

'I am sorry, Bella, I truly am. I should have listened to you. I…' suddenly, Narcissa gives a great sob and throws her arms around Bella, who looks mildly disgusted. Intrigued beyond measure despite my predicament, I watch as the older sister extricates herself from the younger's grasp.

'Calm down, Cissy. And let go of me, I am scorched all over. Blasted Moody.'

'You need to lie down, Bella.'

'Are you mocking me, sister?' Bellatrix stares at Narcissa with disdain. 'I am under orders, even though the notion may seem unfamiliar to you!'

'Sit down, then, at least, you're falling on your feet. I'll get you something to drink,' Narcissa waves her wand, Summoning a chair from the other room, then walks out. Her sister sits down, flinching. I make no move, giving a realistic impression of having passed out on the pain.

Not daring to open my eyes anymore, I listen carefully to the clatter of Narcissa's heels on the floor, to the sound of glass, of wine being poured. After a few seconds, Bellatrix speaks, and I can hear the glee in her voice.

'Soon, very soon, the Dark Lord will be back. And the only thing I wonder is whether he first disposes of this traitor scum or of his precious charge. I, personally, would rather make Snivellus watch. Who would have thought that our dearest Snape had a heart. One would think it was long since floating in one of his beloved potion jars.'

She snorts, highly amused at her own joke. I wish, Bella. I wish.

'I still don't understand…' Narcissa speaks in a low, thoughtful voice.

'What?'

'It makes no sense. I have heard enough from Draco to know that Potter would be the last person in the world Severus would protect. He loathes the boy. He would be more than happy to see him dead.'

'You don't still believe his little story about not arranging for the boy's death simply for the fear of falling out of Dumbledore's favor, do you?'

'I don't know, Bella… It is not like him. He made Potter's life miserable for six years, much to Draco's delight. You wouldn't believe the stories I've heard. Six years of such meticulous acting, good enough to fool everyone… Snape's hatred of Potter is genuine. I would probably treat the brat the same, given the chance.'

'Well, Cissy, men are different from us. Take Lucius, for example…'

'Lucius is different, Bella!' Narcissa snaps, sounding flustered. 'He is hard on Draco, but he… loves him, in his own way.'

'Of course, of course…' Bella agrees mockingly. 'Now can you be quiet for a few minutes? My head… dizzy…'

She trails off, and I hear a tinkle of glass on the stone floor. No sound of surprise comes from Narcissa. I hear her footsteps approach me, a rustle of silk as she kneels next to me, a quiet voice,

'Mobilicorpus.'

I feel lifted in the air a few inches above the floor. Narcissa levitates me over to the wall and leans my back against it. I hear a muffled gasp as she lifts my head, seeing my face, hair and the front of my robes covered in blood, both mine and Nagini's.

'Aguamenti.'

A light stream of water is directed at my face. A few seconds later, I make an act of coming to my senses.

'You should not have bothered, Narcissa,' I cough, looking slightly unfocused. 'Your sister will not appreciate this, and to me, the difference is now immaterial. But still… thank you.'

'I owe you this much,' she mutters, looking uncomfortable and presenting a picture of the all too familiar to me feeling of doing something for some reason obscure even to oneself, yet somehow necessary.

I shake my head.

'No, Narcissa. You do not owe me anything.'

'Severus…'

'Narcissa,' I look at her sternly. 'You owe me either nothing, or more than this slight pain relief, however welcome it is. It is up to you.'

Yes, it is most dangerous to gamble on one's predictability being perpetual. And yet, it is my last card. Possibly. A few minutes ago I did not have even that. Who knows what may transpire later?

'What do you want me to do, Severus?' she looks at me pleadingly. 'I owe you my son's life. But anything you can ask me will only result in his death. Is this how you want me to repay you?'

'Narcissa…' I look at her as kindly as I can manage, which is neither something easily accomplished nor often attempted. 'I do not ask you for anything. You must have misinterpreted my words. I am sorry.'

'Sev… erus…' she stares. 'What happened to you?'

'Foolishness, that is all.'

'Tell me,' she looks at me intently, her hands squeezing my shoulders. Involuntarily, I wince as her fingers press against the broken arm, then shake my head reassuringly as she looks from my face to the shoulder.

'It's nothing.'

Predictably enough, she cuts my other sleeve open with Diffindo, frowns at what she sees and mutters Ferula… Sarcio…

The bone set and mended, she Repairs the sleeve. I shake my head, frowning.

'I could not be more grateful, but is this wise? Surely the Dark Lord would not approve of your actions.'

'Tell me what happened,' she demands, ignoring my warning.

'Very well. I suppose I owe you that much for your kind treatment.'

'Just tell me. I need to know,' she mutters, averting her eyes.

'Of course. It started simply enough, Narcissa. No later than several hours ago – at least, I suppose so, as I have no idea how long I have spent senseless – I had a most unexpected visitor at my house. Let me assure you that the visit was not nearly as pleasant a surprise as yours had been.'

She looks highly uncomfortable again. Paying no heed to the effect of my innocent remark, I continue.

'Just as I was getting ready to assume my post at the Dark Lord's side – you may remember that I was selected for guard duty tonight – none other but Potter smashes down my front door and attempts to duel me to the best of his highly limited ability. Needless to say, I Disarmed the boy, put a Body-Bind on him, and proceeded to deliver him to the Dark Lord, along with his wand, as I suspected that our Lord would be eager to examine it as his leisure, after all the trouble it had caused him.'

'But…'

'But this certainly does not explain my current position? Yes, Narcissa, I agree. A little patience.'

'Please continue,' her gaze on me is even more intent. I remain unperturbed.

'The Dark Lord, certainly, was most pleased by my… offering,' I let in a smirk in the corner of my mouth. 'Eager to repay Potter for every failure he had caused, he tortured the boy.'

'What did you do?'

'I remained on guard as ordered, of course. But I have made a great mistake, Narcissa,' I sigh gravely. 'I was so bold as to decide that Potter's wand was an irrelevant detail at that point, and could be presented to the Dark Lord after he had concluded his… business with Potter. However, I was mistaken, and gravely so.'

I look down, presenting my best expression of high reluctance, even torment that my next confession is causing me. No significant effort is required on my part, however. In any other circumstances, I would rather die than admit it. Especially in this particular fashion.

'The question may seem odd to you, Narcissa, but you must remember the werewolf, Lupin? He was at Hogwarts at the same time as we. A Gryffindor, of course.'

'What does he have to do with this?'

'Nobody knows it, especially now that Dumbledore is dead, but… I was almost killed by him once. He was already cursed when he came into Hogwarts, and, suspicious as to what he may be up to, I attempted to investigate… I do not pretend that to have been highly intelligent behavior on my part, but nevertheless… Another Gryffindorian, his friend and your relative, deliberately let slip in my presence where Lupin could be found during his regular absences. My inquisitive nature taking the best of me, I have fallen for this highly amusing prank, and almost walked in on the werewolf in his true form.'

'How did you survive?' Narcissa looks at me in horror.

'James Potter,' I spit, needing no pretense whatsoever to loathe the very sound of my voice. 'He had learned of the prank, and got cold feet, realizing the consequences their gang could be facing. He pulled me out at the last moment. He… saved my life.'

'I don't see how this would…'

'Isn't it obvious, Narcissa? I had a life debt! A life debt to Potter, and after he died - to his son! That is why I never attempted to kill him – for the knowledge that I would be simply unable to do it! I have researched the issue and found out that the bonds formed by life debts become stronger when passed over generations. I am highly fortunate to have never had children, for I shudder to think what kind of link might have formed between my child and Potter's. And tonight, when he burst in on me and attacked me, I had mistakenly believed that the very attack nullified my obligation, and delivered him to the Dark Lord, and observed as he sent the Killing Curse his way…'

'You interfered?'

'In a way. Against my will, I cast a Shield charm between him and the Dark Lord.'

'A Shield charm? Severus, this does not make any sense! No Shield can-'

'Potter's wand, Narcissa! It was still in my hand!' I throw my head back in frustration, ignoring the collision with the wall.

'Obviously, the Dark Lord believed me to be acting against him, and he set Nagini on me. Desperate to defend myself, I killed the snake, certainly not earning any more forgiveness with that act, even were any available.'

Narcissa is silent, examining my face.

'What will you do?'

I laugh mirthlessly.

'Do I have many options?'

'You could try…'

'Explaining myself to the Dark Lord? Narcissa, dear, have you taken leave of your senses? And even should you imagine a completely impossible probability in which the Dark Lord listens to me and believes my words, do you think he will have much use for a servant with a life debt to his greatest enemy?'

'Have you not paid it already?'

'Were I saving James Potter's life – possibly. In this situation, I do not know.'

The woman looks at me, then at the boy's lifeless form in the corner. I do not follow her gaze. I cannot afford to let in the whisper in my head again.

'Is he…'

'He must be alive. The Dark Lord would not let him die so easily after this.'

She nods thoughtfully, but I can see her thoughts are not about the matter between Potter and the Dark Lord.

'Tell me, Severus…' she finally speaks, every word weighed and measured, 'what would you do if you were free to leave?'

I look squarely into her light eyes, making sure that my voice is exactly as balanced as hers.

'The first thing I would do, Narcissa, would be making sure that whoever aided me in the escape, would be safe from the consequences. They, and whoever they hold dear.'






'Have you gone out of your mind, Mother?' I hear a drawling, arrogant voice, tinted ever so slightly with worry. I quickly step away from Potter, having checked his pulse and forehead. The boy appears to be in a deep faint that might have been expected as a result of a Stun preceded by prolonged torture. The heartbeat is even, however, if slowed, and no signs of delirium. The only thing out of norm is what would appear a minor skin irritation around the scar – the conditional, unfortunately, being the main problem. Nothing of what the boy had been subjected to during the last twenty-four hours to the best of my knowledge should have caused this. Damn.

I have just enough time to return to the wall where Narcissa left me when she went to fetch her son. She was kind enough to dispel my bonds, and thoughtful enough to collect both my and Potter's wands and take them with her. It is good to see that however clouded her judgment is, not without my aid, the basic precautions are observed.

When the woman enters the room, a tall, blonde boy is dragged by the hand behind her, wearing an expression of mild disgust.

'Mother, I don't know what you think you are doing, but…' he falls silent, noticing me just as I raise to my feet with slightly more pronounced effort than I would otherwise.

'Draco!' Narcissa hisses, nudging her son towards me. Predictably, he hesitates just long enough, and I am on my feet a few seconds before he is close enough to offer his reluctant help.

'Good evening, Draco,' I give him my best teacher look, fully aware of the extent of its bizarreness given the surroundings.

'Professor? What are you doing here?'

I arch an eyebrow barely noticeably.

'I mean… I'm rather surprised to see you…'

Narcissa waves the boy into silence, addressing me.

'We are ready, Severus. Are you strong enough to Apparate?'

'Certainly,' I reply, sounding much more confident than I feel. There is no choice, however. Of the three of us, I am the only one with the knowledge of our intended location and one I would trust to Apparate myself anywhere.

'My wand?' I proffer my hand to Narcissa, whose battle on this last threshold would be invisible to anyone with less face-reading skills than myself. She hands me both mine and Potter's wand, saving me the warning I was ready to present regarding the possession of the latter.

'Mobilicorpus', I pocket Potter's wand and point mine in the boy's direction. His body is lifted in the air and floats slowly towards the three of us.

'Severus…' Narcissa whispers, eying Potter as if he was something inexplicably revolting, like a cockroach or centipede. A sentiment all too familiar, indeed. Draco looks as if he is going to ask something again, his hand almost reaching for the wand. I shoot him a glance, which he correctly interprets as "keep your mouth shut".

'Shouldn't you… I mean… is it wise… I mean…' Narcissa fumbles with words. Who would have thought I could retain my power to intimidate even in my current sorry state? Inappropriate amusement hidden, I reply,

'Potter can be a valuable… leverage at this point, Narcissa.'

'Against… the Dark Lord?' she whispers in horror.

'The Dark Lord. Order of the Phoenix. Himself,' I shrug. 'I will judge on the circumstances. At this moment, my main advantage is what I know and others do not.'

'Wasn't it since your first year at Hogwarts?' she smiles a little sad smile.

'When you have very little, you learn to use it well,' I reciprocate her nostalgic expression. 'As I was saying, I am the only one who knows the full meaning of the situation I am in. Both Potter and the Dark Lord know only what they have seen – I have saved the boy's life.'

And the expression on Draco's smug face alone is worth saying that out loud.

'There is no reason why Potter should know of my little debt… Therefore, with minimum effort, I can create a believably melodramatic reason for saving his skin, and gamble on our little hero's nobility, even invoke the subject of his life debt to me,' I smirk. 'Equally, I can hand him over to the Order of the Phoenix, should any of them survive, and demand something in return – not protective custody, Merlin forbid, but at least the freedom to hand him over, walk away unscathed and remain so. Should both prove impossible for the reason of Potter being uncharacteristically perceptive of my motives and the Order utterly wiped out tonight, I can always lock Potter up in a Fidelius-protected place, myself the Secret Keeper, obviously.'

'You intend to protect him?'

'The knowledge of his whereabouts may be my only chance, should I ever be captured. You do remember, Narcissa, that the nature of a Fidelius charm is such that the Secret cannot be retrieved by any forceful means, up to and including Legilimency, memory charms or Veritaserum. I certainly do not intend to try and earn my way back into the Dark Lord's… grace. I would neither forgive nor believe myself in the circumstances, and we are both aware of how generous and forgiving I am in comparison to our Lord. However, I trust myself enough not to be willing to reveal Potter's location for anything except a full pardon and freedom, come torture or whatever else. I also trust the Dark Lord enough not to kill me while being fully aware of the impossibility to find Potter without my help. Should the torture be beyond my strength, I can always find a way out. Yet I will tell you no more. Our time grows short, and the sole reason I have told you what I have is so that should you ever be questioned, you could reveal everything you know without any hesitation.'

I look around the room, at the unconscious Bella in the chair, at Nagini's remains in a faraway corner. The only thing I regret at this moment is my inability to observe the Dark Lord's return. Very soon, someone is about to learn how to snivel.

'Hold on to my arms. And will someone grab Potter and try not to lose him on the way.'

I close my eyes and concentrate on my target. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Chapter 5

Homenum Revelio

We part in the dark, dusty corridor, as I give hasty instructions about the house's location ("It is Muggle London out there, so you should be careful in case you decide to leave"), the house elf ("You must remember Kreacher, and he will be more than happy to serve you again"), and the way to contact me if necessary ("Just send a Patronus to Spinner's End, I will leave a sensory charm there to tell me of any disturbances").

'You will be safe in here,' I conclude. 'This place is, in a way, unique. It is also under a Fidelius charm.'

'Who are the keepers?' Narcissa asks as Draco wanders off to torment the house-elf with some demand.

'Whoever remains alive of the Order of the Phoenix, and myself.'

She gasps, and I smile condescendingly.

'Worry not. The Order dares not set a foot here now, expecting it to be the most logical place for an ambush – exactly because I know of this place. Yet I have never told of it to anyone… for reasons of my own. It is, therefore, on neither side. Just like myself.'

'Severus…' Narcissa looks at me, catching the carefully injected bitter aftertaste at the end of my speech. 'I… I am sorry.'

'You have nothing to be sorry about. My position is no one's fault but my own. But I do not intend to become a side on my own, nor do I seek to redeem myself. All I want is keep myself alive until this war is over… one way or another. Then… I will see.'

'You know, Sev,' she suddenly smiles, calling me a name I have never heard from her lips since… my third year, I suppose.' I often wondered how you managed to stay alive between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, convincing both of your undying loyalty… Now I see.'

Dearest Narcissa. She always thought she could see through people. If only she knew.

I smile back at her and bring her hand to my lips. Then I take a step back, bow my head and Disapparate, holding Potter by the scruff of his shirt.

I have certainly learned more about Narcissa tonight, I muse, walking across my back yard, through the kitchen and barely preventing the collision of Potter's body with the doorframe. Who would have thought that she had a place in her mind reserved for me, her of all people, the white queen of Slytherin, whom Lucius has marked for his own ever since he set eyes on her? "Sev". "Often wondered". My, my. Why is it that I never get involved with women, yet somehow end up taking care of their children?

I carefully maneuver one of the children in question to the couch in my living-room, draw up a chair and sit down, looking at the boy closely. The irritation around his scar seems to be more pronounced, his breath has become labored. This is bad.

I lean my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands. Concentrate, Severus. Concentrate. Think. Analyze. Ignore the fact that your worst expectations seem to have come true. Ignore everything but what is completely necessary. Do not submit to the relief that your body is about to flood with at the realization of being saved, resist the weakness it brings. Time. Need more time. None left. Think fast and act. Now.

I wave my wand to Summon a vial of Blood-Replenishing solution from my cabinet. I cannot afford to feel faint now. The vial slips from my fingers as I remove the cork, and shatters on the floor. I clench my fist, feeling almost physically sick at the disgust with myself. Complete loss of control. Utter decompression. Springs unwound. In short, a nervous wreck. Repulsive.

Each move under meticulous control, I get to my feet and move over to the cabinet to retrieve another flask of the solution, which I was foresighted enough to store in single portions. I down the potion and firmly close the cabinet, ignoring the desperate wish to wash it down with a glass of Firewhiskey. Coupled with my borderline state, alcohol will only serve to emphasize the weakness and render me completely helpless, now when all of my concentration and skill is required. As usual, one is expected to do one's best when he is the least capable of such. And as usual, such pathetic excuses never apply to myself.

I reach inside another cabinet, after lifting a complex self-invented locking enchantment. This one holds the most dangerous items in my house, and these words mean something, given the fact a place here was not granted even to vials with such ingredients as basilisk venom, unicorn blood (procured through middlemen) and phoenix tears. I discard the longing thought of the latter spurred by my throbbing shoulder. I would expect Nagini to be… have been venomous, but most of the poison must have been purged from my body by the Dark Lord so that I would not be on my way prematurely. At any rate, the precious healing vial must be saved for a more desperate hour of need.

Now, this cabinet holds possibly two dozen vials, most of them quite small, as their contents are such that do not depend on the quantity. Over half of the vials hold poisons, each of them deadly in its own way, each requiring only one doze to bring about death in a few seconds, minutes, hours or days, depending on the type, and none of them countered by any antidote invented up to date, including bezoars. Some other bottles contain infusions that would bring one back from the death's very threshold, but only, and only if administered in the correct order and at correct time intervals, instant killers otherwise. Reaching past the poisons and cures, I recover a small vial of black glass. Were it not locked securely in this cabinet, it could have accumulated a layer of dust, as it has been there for over a year now.

I stare at the vial for a few moments. I hoped I would not have to do this. A sound of painful intake of breath behind my back makes me wince. Maybe I will not have to do it after all. Maybe the boy dies now.

Holding the vial carefully, I turn around. One look at Potter tells me enough. His eyes are open wide, but he is far from consciousness, possibly farther than ever. His face empty, he stares at the ceiling, appearing very much alike to a victim of a Dementor's kiss. Except that his case is possibly worse.

I approach him, wand alight. Even with the light right over his face, his eyes remain motionless, pupils dilated. To a casual eye, the boy looks if not dead, then only a few moments from his end. Wand at the ready, I conceal the black vial in the pocket of my robes and look for the pulse on his neck, noting that his skin is cold as ice.

The moment my finger comes in contact with his body, his hand closes on my wrist, faster than a snake's strike, the grip unbreakable. I react immediately, bringing my wand down to deliver a Stinging hex. This gives me just enough time to take a few hasty steps back, barely avoiding tripping over the chair and the edge of my own robes. Potter… or rather, something that is currently occupying the boy's body, starts rising from the couch, moving unsteadily. Now I am reminded of an Inferius.

'Snape…' a voice speaks, and I need no time to recognize it. The empty eyes are staring past me, unfocused.

'It is very unfortunate that in the course of one night, I must lose both of whom I believed to be my most loyal servants…'

'Indeed,' I reply, raising my wand.

'Stupefy!'

The boy's body is thrown backwards, collapsing by the couch again. I pause for a few seconds. No movement. No sound. No breath.

A full-blown Stunning spell in the state of possession immediately following a previous Stun preceded over a quarter of an hour of practically incessant Cruciatus, all of the above layered on top of emotional overload and intense fatigue. In short, every possible way to sever the mind from the body. The only way to kill him with a higher level of confidence would be using Avada Kedavra.

I stand stock still, wand lowered, my head strangely void of thought, except one, ringing like a dull church bell. This is it.

I doubt if I was ever more afraid of anything than of approaching the lifeless body sprawled on the floor. Only when the wand creaks dangerously in my hand do I realize how clenched my fists are. One step. Another. I kneel by the boy and try to turn him around. As I do, a groan escapes his lips.

My movements suddenly swift, almost desperately so, I sit him up against the couch. Breathing. Strangely enough, I feel even more hollow than a few moments ago, when I was sure I had killed him.

'Damn it, Potter,' I growl, pointing the wand at him.

'Ener… '

I stop myself just in time. Damn it, have I lost what little remained of my mind after the past day and night? Having almost caused the boy's death through magical shock, I have just tried to revive him magically still. Pathetic fool. Despite myself, I laugh. It would have been ironically suitable, to save his life so many times only to kill him with a healing spell.

Throwing the wand aside, I administer a more Muggle approach to revivification by means of a light… moderate slap. The boy winces and opens his eyes just as I am ready to deliver another.

'About time, Potter,' I snap, standing up briskly enough to leave the wand abandoned on the floor.

He blinks a few times and raises his hand unsurely, dragging his stained and miraculously intact glasses off his face. As he rubs the glasses on the not much cleaner sleeve of his, I stand a few feet from him, resisting the overwhelming urge to sink in the chair. Finally managing to put them back on after several failed attempts, he shakes his head a bit, as if trying to shake himself to reality, clutching at his forehead immediately after. Not appearing to see me, he looks nowhere, no doubt trying to restore the events in his mind. When he does seem to notice me, his eyes widen for a moment, only to darken slightly as he frowns, asking me a question I wholeheartedly did not expect.

'Why?'

I expected ''how" or "what happened" or maybe "what are we going to do", even though the latter would be quite a question to ask ten seconds after coming around. But this "why" is not even a question. It is a demand.

'Why what, Potter?'

'Why did you do it? I thought you were supposed to finish off Voldemort?'

Momentarily taken aback, I let the name slip. Do my ears deceive me or is this boy now telling me off?

'Excuse me, Potter?'

'No, YOU excuse ME…'

Call me either Severus or Snape, and I swear I will…

'Professor,' Potter finishes, starting to get to his feet. I extend a hand. He does not take it, standing up somewhat shakily.

'What have you done?' he demands, eyeing me furiously.

'I believe I have saved your ungrateful skin twice in the past few hours, Potter, and you-'

'Should be thanking you on bended knee, I suppose?'

He advances, and I catch myself in time not to take a step back. Being used to towering over people, I am rather surprised to find Potter's face almost level with mine.

'Since when do you care whether I live or die? Since when does it matter? I did not go along with your plan because I needed someone to save my ungrateful skin, I did it because YOU said it was the only way to catch Voldemort off-guard, and then you ruined everything with your own hands! His back was turned to you, you could have killed him easily, and what did you do?'

'Would you rather be dead, Potter?'

'Yes! I would rather be dead,' he stares me squarely in the eye. There is no pathetic heroism in his look, only grim determination. I realize that he would rather be dead. Well, his wish may just come true.

'Calm yourself, Potter,' I order coldly. He looks far from calm, but obeys enough to shut up. I continue.

'First of all, allow me to remind you that YOU also had a chance to kill the Dark Lord, yet for some obscure reason preferred to behead Nagini. I could not possibly care less about your motivations, yet whatever they were, your performance could not be called flawless either.'

'I suppose that YOU would rather be dead too, wouldn't you?'

'Yes, Potter. I would. Now unless you suggest that we draw our wands and dispatch each other neatly, therefore making both our wishes come true and saving the Dark Lord a considerable amount of trouble, listen to me. We have little time, and I must relay some very important information to you. Sit or stand, I care not, but listen and answer my questions. Is that understood?'

'Yes.'

'Good.' I sigh inwardly, trying to summarize the necessary information as tersely as possible.

'Tell me, Potter, what do you know of Horcruxes?'

He does not miss a beat.

'Voldemort made seven.'

Now that was terse. I miss no beat either.

'I assume you meant six, Potter.'

He pauses, looking at his fingers.

'Right. Yeah. That's what I meant. The last piece of his soul is in him.'

'And I assume you have seen to it that all of them are destroyed?'

'Now with the snake gone, yes. Only one piece remains.'

I close my eyes for a second. I knew I would be facing a difficulty here, but was blissfully unaware of its extent.

'Two, Potter.'

'What?'

'You said that the Dark Lord made seven Horcruxes. In fact, you were right.'

'There's another one? And that's why you did not kill Voldemort? But if you knew, what was the point-'

I lift a hand. He falls silent.

'I did not know, Potter. I suspected. As did Dumbledore. He was sure, in fact. I, however, was not. I thought there could have been… another way.'

'Where is it, then? What is it?'

'A living being,' I look at him intently. I will not avert my eyes. He slowly lifts his hand to the forehead, touching the scar.

'You mean…'

'Yes.'

He is the first one to look away.

'I thought as much,' he mutters. 'That's why your Occlumency never worked for me. After all, how can I close my mind against something that is… in my head?'

I remain silent, letting him work out the next step. I would rather have him say the words. The boy frowns slightly.

'I was… possessed just a while ago. Wasn't I?'

'Yes.'

'He… he killed Bellatrix. He was… furious. And then… I saw you. He wanted to kill you.'

'Yes.'

'And you…' Potter pauses, his expression suddenly growing fierce.

'You saw I was possessed. So then you knew I was a Horcrux. You could be sure.'

'So?..'

'WHY THE HELL DIDN'T YOU KILL ME?' he shouts, advancing again. This time I have no choice but to take a step back.

'You knew I was a Horcrux, and you did nothing! So you didn't let Voldemort kill me because you were not sure! Big deal! What difference would it make? I should have died back there! But you saved me, brought me here, and then you failed to kill me AGAIN! If you knew you didn't have the guts to do it yourself, you should've left it up to Riddle! You are pathetic! You're nothing but a-'

I do not know what stops him from saying that last word. Maybe the memory of what happened last time he called me a coward. Yes, this was the word he was going to throw in my face again, only this time accusing me not for the act, but the lack of. Potter and Dumbledore, saints and martyrs the lot of them, so happy to throw their lives on the altar and not giving a damn about the one who wields the knife. You have is so easy. All you have to do is die in the happy knowledge that you are doing it for a cause. You do not wake up in the middle of the night. You are remembered as heroes. Not traitors.

And yet… I look at Potter, my own words echoing in my ears. "Would you have the courage?". It seems that he underestimated himself in answering that. I, on the other hand…

Suddenly, I feel very old, as someone who attained eternal life, but not eternal youth. I turn away from the boy and walk to my armchair, still facing an open window. I sit down heavily, not bothering to conceal my weariness. Weary of life. Of the world. Of myself.

'You're right, you know…' who would have thought I would ever utter such words. And to whom? Yet, they come easily. It does not matter.

'I am nothing but a coward,' I finish calmly. For some reason, I feel like laughing.

Not only a coward, Severus, but a hypocritical attention-seeking martyr with a deeply rooted uncompensated hero complex.

Now stop breaking down like a teenager unable to bear the weight of the world on his frail shoulders, get up and do what you have been doing for the past sixteen years. What you must.

The words that had always worked before suddenly sound empty and meaningless. For the first time in those awfully long sixteen years of doing what must be done, I feel that… I can't.

You know, Snape, the voice in my head continues, you should be glad that the boy acted so much like his father all that time. It made it much easier that way, did it not?

'I don't think so,' says another voice, behind me, and I need several seconds to understand whose voice it is and what it is referring to. When I do understand, I wish I did not.

It did make it much easier that way.

'You don't, do you,' I say blandly, just for the sake of saying something meaningless. There is no reply for a short while.

'Can I have my wand back?' the boy suddenly asks, something about his voice strange, but what exactly - I am unable to place. Did he decide to kill himself now? No objection on my part, I retrieve the wand and hold it up.

'Thank you.'

The tone is still the same. Before I can think more about it, however, I hear Reducto! and find myself on the floor in the pile of dust and wood shavings that remain of my chair.

Springing to my feet immediately, I spin to face Potter, small debris fragments flying off my robe.

'If this is your idea of a joke, Potter…'

His expression is calm, unnervingly so. He understands. He understands everything. Hell and damnation.

'Your wand, Professor,' hand held palm up, the boy proffers my own wand to me.

'Thank you,' I reply, the compulsory sarcasm lost somewhere on the way. At this moment, albeit brief, I cannot find it in myself to hate him.

Our eyes are locked, typically trying to outstare each other. He looks away first. Willfully.

'Now fix that chair.'

And wipe that smug expression from your face.

I sweep out of the room and into the kitchen, where I select an hourglass from an array of different-sized ones, ranging from a minute to half an hour. The one now held in my hand has enough sand for ten minutes, both bulbs carefully marked at minute intervals.

Upon reentering the room, I find the chair fixed and Potter examining the contents of the less secure cabinet.

'Anything strikes your fancy, Potter?'

'I trust your judgment.'

'About time. Close that cabinet. There is nothing you need there.'

I take the vial out of my pocket. The boy looks at it, possibly unaware of the fact that he is biting his lip.

'Funny,' he mutters. 'I always thought I'd die in battle.'

'The manner of death does not detract from its meaning,' I reply. 'Or your courage.'

Courage to do the right thing. Courage without pride. Possibly, the most rare kind. And I'll be damned if I give him that compliment, however deserved it may be.

The words I have said, however, are enough to make him stare.

'I've never been more afraid in my life.'

'Exactly,' I hold out the vial. He takes it from my hand carefully and holds it up to his eyes.

'Well… I guess there are worse ways to die than poison.'

'Trust me, Potter, there are.'

'How… how fast? I mean, how long does it take to work?'

'Ten minutes. Then your heart stops.'

Considering the mercy on his pride deserved at this time, I refrain from assuring him that it should not hurt.

'If this is going to stop my heart, why can't it be done with one of those creative curses you mentioned? Would be faster than poison, too.'

'Any potion, Potter, can be applied or abused in a way that will turn it into poison, when by poisoning we understand causing harmful and irreversible, or highly problematically overcome, effect on the body or the mind. What you hold in your hand is in essence similar to the Draught of the Living Death, with a more pronounced content of asphodel. Administered indiscriminately and thoughtlessly, it causes the near-lethargic sleep induced by the classical formula of the Draught to transit into death, by stopping the heart completely instead of slowing its beating to the minimum level required to preserve life in the Draught-induced state. However, appropriate precautions and timely administration of restorative measures may prevent the damage from being… permanent. When one stops a heart with a spell, Potter, one usually has no intention of making it beat again, therefore, no reversal is possible.'

'You mean… you will try bringing me back to life?'

'What I intend to do, Potter, is strengthening your heart muscle to prevent it from taking permanent damage, and after the time necessary for the certain destruction of the Horcrux has elapsed, attempting to reverse the effect of the potion. But for the purposes of your understanding the… experiment, yes, Potter, I will try bringing you back to life¸ however ludicrous the claim may sound from any reasonable perspective.'

'What are the odds?'

'Slim.'

'Right.' He looks at the potion in his palm, dragging the fingers of his other hand through his hair. I look away, allowing him a moment with his thoughts. Ten seconds should suffice.

'Ready?'

'Yes.'

I lift the wand and point it at the boy's heart.

'Wait,' he says, looking as if he suddenly remembered something important. I look at him imploringly, wand held still.

'Before… before we do this, can I… ask you a… favor?' he stammers the last word, digging through his pockets with the free hand.

'Damn… Never mind.'

'I suppose you are looking for this,' I pull out a folded piece of parchment from my own pocket. He stares at it.

'How…'

'This fell out of your pocket shortly after the battle.'

'You… you didn't!' he looks accusatorily angry and severely embarrassed at the same time.

'I did not. But rest assured that this will find its way to young Ms. Weasley, should you be unable to deliver it yourself.'

Anger faded, only embarrassment remaining, he mutters,

'Thank you… I guess.'

'Augeo.'

A dim light leaves the tip of my wand. He winces slightly as it penetrates his chest, fading.

'Pain?'

'Just a weird feeling. Now for the main part…'

He removes the stopper from the vial and swallows the potion in one swig, his hand steady.

Damn you, Voldemort. Damn you.

The boy lowers his hand, regards the empty vial for a few seconds, then replaces the stopper and twirls it in his fingers, unsure what to do.

'Give me that,' I say, taking the vial from his hand. I walk over to the cabinet and place it on the shelf – in the less secure cabinet, no more need for the precaution arising. There is, in fact, very little need for tidiness at this point, either, yet I am reluctantly forced to admit to grasping at this excuse to turn away from Potter. I do not want to see his face right now. I truly do not.

However slowly I can afford to move without appearing unnatural, I do have to close the cabinet and turn to the boy. He has not moved, standing still, his gaze turned inward, his face a strange picture of… unease, possibly apprehension. But neither fear nor panic nor the wish to undo what he has just done.

'You should lie down,' I speak, not moving from my spot either. He looks up at me, nods distractedly and proceeds to lower himself on the same couch he had last risen from as… something else.

Forcing practically every motion, I walk over to him and pull up a chair to approximately the same place where I had sat the previous time, urging myself to concentrate and ignore the reality of my worst expectation. I wonder how I am supposed to ignore it now, exactly.

As an afterthought, I Levitate another chair towards me and place the hourglass on it, along with my wand. My eyes fixed on the pouring sand, I reach for the boy's hand, which he immediately wrenches out of my grasp, distracting my attention from the hourglass.

'What seems to be the problem, Potter?' I arch an eyebrow, genuinely puzzled about the reasons for his positively scandalized expression.

'I… I don't need you to… hold my hand!' he sputters, articulating the last three words with an affront that seems highly amusing, however inappropriate the setting.

'Give me your hand, Potter,' I sigh, 'and believe me that such melodrama has never begun to cross my mind.'

A glance at the hourglass tells me that a little over a minute has passed since the potion started its subtle work. That does not leave long, then.

He extends the hand warily and watches my fingers close around the wrist.

'Your pulse, Potter,' I explain wearily, 'I must monitor your heart's behavior. There is no reason for the effect of the potion that I have described to be different, yet I lack a reliable basis to say that such exact effect is guaranteed.'

'Oh. And how many…'

'None.'

'Oh.'

'Or have you perchance thought that I deal with human-enclosed Horcruxes on a daily basis?'

'No…'

The sand is past the second mark, the third minute rapidly coming to a close now.

'I shall now cease to tire you with this conversation, Potter,' I speak, knowing full well how true my words are to reality, whether or not my intentions correspond.

'Before I do that, though, I would like to use the opportunity to commend your mastery of non-verbal combat spells, however long overdue. As your, albeit former, Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, I was pleased to see that my painstaking efforts had not been entirely in vain.'

Quite possibly, this is the most pronounced expression of amazement I had seen on his face throughout the entire course of the last day and a half.

'Nevertheless,' I continue before he can come up with an answer, 'I feel compelled to remind you that not even the aforementioned success excuses your flagrant familiarity… Harry.'

The shocked look is, if at all possible, intensified, yet the hauntingly familiar – even across some twenty years – glint of laughter seems to flash somewhere deep in the green eyes. The boy almost grins for a split second, before his eyes close. I turn mine to the hourglass. Three and a half minutes. The timeframe of the effect seems to be in perfect order.

Not a second too soon. You are truly hopeless, Severus.

Four minutes. My hand registers a rapid hastening of the pulse.

You would not survive saying anything positive if there was a reliable chance of the boy living to remember it. Would you?

Five minutes. The heartbeat peaks.

You have seen enough to understand his behavior. That which you understand you have always been able to manipulate easily.

Six minutes. The heartbeat starts slowing. Level of normal consciousness.

Why, then, are you so afraid of him?

Seven. Level of normal sleep.

Or is it because you could see that now he understands as well? Understands much more than you would let anyone in on.

Eight. Classical Draught-induced lethargy.

Why, then, did you bother saying anything at all? He knew enough to regard you as an ally. He needed no sympathy or reassurance from you. You of all people.

Nine. Thready pulse.

He did not need those words. Did you?

Ten minutes. No heartbeat.

With my free hand, I turn over the hourglass and reach for the wand, banishing any superfluous notions from my mind. The only way to bring him back now is to mirror the process in reverse. After the Horcrux is destroyed. Two minutes should do it. Two impossibly long minutes.

The sand seems to have stopped, each grain appearing to float in the bottom bulb. Mistrustful, I find myself counting seconds.

Thirty…

There is no heartbeat to monitor. I do no move my hand.

One minute…

There is no reason why I should fail. I have had similar cases before. Not like this, true, but requiring similar measures.

One and a half…

Every second that slips away makes it more difficult to bring him back.

Forty…

Acting too soon, however, may prevent the Horcrux from being destroyed.

Forty five…

Have fifteen seconds ever mattered that much? It should have been enough... No. Hold still.

Fifty…

Ten seconds. Barely anything for the accursed shred of the accursed soul, and quite easily the life for its unfortunate host.

Fifty five…

If you act too early, you will know whether you failed. If you act too late, you will never know.

Two minutes. I take a breath and point the wand at the boy's still chest, quietly intoning the restorative spell, and silently glad for it not requiring any wand movement. Never in my life have I seen my hands shake so badly.

I force myself to relax the grip on his wrist somewhat, lest I do not feel his pulse at all if… when it reappears. It is a sweet and merciful illusion shared by so many – that holding someone's hand will actually prevent them from leaving somewhere from where no amount of magic can bring them. Shared by many, but not by me.

'Recupero.'

No pulse.

The sand seems to be possessed by something, as it now flows impossibly fast. Three minutes already.

'Recupero!'

No pulse.

Knocking over my chair, I kneel by the couch, the wand's point pressing against the boy's chest.

'RECUPE-' my voice cracks, ruining the spell. I watch in horror as the sand fills the bottom hourglass bulb to the fourth mark. Too late now.

My eyes close themselves, while the rest of my body seems to be suspended in time. Frozen.

Now that would be an unusual yet deserved form of hell, the eternally watching part of the mind remarks.

'Recupero…' I whisper, all other parts of my mind gone and none left to listen to the observer.

Something seems to give a light start under my fingers. It can't be… I stare at the wrist clasped in my hand. Was that a heartbeat? Barely beyond the brink of imagination, faint, fleeting and not believable enough except to someone utterly desperate.

Another. And a third one, after what seems a lifetime.

Daring to move the wand away for an instant, I flip the hourglass and start moving the wand in concentric circles over the boy's heart. Slowly. Slowly. Gradually. Do it too fast and he dies instantly.

Eyes fixed on the hourglass, I continue the circular motion, whispering the spell and hastening the movement a fraction at the end of every minute. The pulse is very difficult to monitor, with my own heartbeat deafening me.

Lethargy… Another minute… Normal sleep… Another. Normal consciousness.

Now a brief leap to the heart rate – and breath. Nothing more I can do here. Except look on silently.

Breathe.

Breathe, damn you.

Just breathe.

Please.

The last of the sand pours out. The boy draws a breath. I sit back on my heels and narrowly avoid stabbing myself with my own wand as I press my hand to my face.

Staring ahead of me blankly, I lift the wand slowly and point it at the hourglass.

'Confringo.'

The miniature explosion feels oddly satisfying. Some of the sand lands on Potter's face. He winces slightly, his eyes still shut tightly, and stirs, appearing simply asleep now. I watch vacantly, something striking me as unusual in the picture in front of my eyes. When the realization does arrive, however, it fails to cause the impact expected otherwise. I regard the sight again and let go of the boy's wrist.

All I want to do right now is remain where I am and do nothing. Except possibly turn to lean my back on the couch, lower my head on my knees and… drift off. Am I not allowed just one request? Grant me the simple, human right to be tired. To have had too much for the moment. To permit myself slipping in the bliss of unawareness that the majority of people take for granted.

That's three requests you have just made, Severus. The answer is no. To all of them. Incidentally, no one is supposed to care for what you happen to wish. Now get on your feet lest you want your ex-Lord to Apparate in on this touching scene. Your work is not yet done.

What I have refrained from telling Potter lest he became too horrified to do what he has done; what I have been trying hard to avoid thinking of myself, lest I utterly fail the slim chance of bringing the boy back; what has struck me now with a full force of a Stunning spell now that I finally let the notion back into my mind is that the boy being alive, in fact, means nothing at this moment. Only after he wakes up completely will I be able to tell whether it is him who came back, whether it is his soul that remained, or whether I have simply killed him and salvaged the other with my own hands.

And should the latter be true, I can afford no hesitation. It should not be difficult if I act fast enough. And remain steadfast. After all, there can be no hesitation. I will be able to see whether it is him or… the other one. I will be able to point the wand and speak but two words.

To see the green light reflected in the green eyes before they are forever closed, and go on eternally wondering whether I was mistaken, whether there was something I could have, should have, must have done differently, whether there was another way, and… how she would look at me knowing that I had sold her, and then made her son pay the price. Enough…

I wrench myself on my feet and shake Potter's shoulder, holding him at wandpoint. The boy slowly opens his eyes, focusing first on me and then on the wand pointing straight at his face. The disorientation transits into puzzlement rather quickly.

'Professor?..'

'Answer me, Potter,' I demand, looking at him darkly, 'what was my alias during my time at Hogwarts?'

'Snivellus?' he blurts without thinking, then looks desperate to bite the word back. 'Er. Um. Uh. Erm.'

While this is not the answer I was looking for, the expression of acute embarrassment is enough of a giveaway. Voldemort would never be able to perform an act this convincing.

'I mean…'

'Save it,' I lower the wand and sit down on the floor, my back turned to Potter so that I can close my eyes.

There is silence behind me, except for the shuffling as he sits up.

'I… I'm…'

'Yes.'

'Is it… gone?'

'Yes.'

The silence is resumed. I hold the wand in front of my eyes thoughtfully, then point it towards the cabinet. The previously examined bottle of Firewhiskey floats across the room, followed by a glass. After a moment's thought on my part, a second glass follows. With a flick of the wand, I pour two glasses and send one in Potter's direction.

'Why?' he asks, but from the lack of a crash I surmise that he retrieved the glass from mid-air.

'Thought you could use some of this now. I know I do.'

I regard the glass, thinking what a pathetic display I must present at the moment, then swallow its contents. The burning feeling of the drink down my throat is barely noticeable. It does restore some of my mental capacity, however, removing part of the empty ringing in my head.

Well? Say something. There is a seventeen-year-old boy here, who has just come back from, effectively, the other side of death, and all you can offer him for his bravery is a glass of Firewhiskey and your silence. What can you say, though? What can you possibly say to him without sounding fake or sarcastic? Does he really need any words? Do you?

My flow of thought is interrupted with the sound of the bottle on the brim of my glass. I follow the movement with my eyes and find Potter sitting on the floor a few feet from me, facing the same direction.

I raise an eyebrow in lieu of any question.

'You do look like you could use some more of this, Professor.'

'And you?' I look at his still-full glass.

'Well, I trust your judgment still,' the young man says, taking a sip, but not before raising the glass half an inch. I watch him for a second or two and reciprocate the gesture.

We remain in silence, each with his own glass and his own thoughts. I am fully aware of the fact that regardless of what had happened, of the unbelievable fact of success and the survival of both Potter and myself, there is still only so much time available before the race is resumed. Before the Dark Lord… Voldemort tracks me down. I have no illusions. I know I am going to die. Now, however, I inexplicably feel that I can finally afford it.

Little time left before I must be on my way. Little, but some. And however short this time is, I can feel it passing. I can feel it have passed. For the first time. For passing of time means change.

My eyes roam the room idly before being caught on something that appears… out of place.

'Potter?'

'Yes, Professor?'

'What happened to my door? I recall it hanging on half a hinge after your graceful application of Bombardo.'

'Well… I fixed it. Back in the afternoon.'

I turn my head just enough to give him a questioning look.

'Following instructions has never been your forte, has it, Potter?'

'No, not really. But not in this case. I didn't use magic.'

'Oh. That was rather… prudent on your behalf. Uncharacteristically so.'

'Thanks, Professor.'

I nod and return my attention to my glass. As does he.

In what feels like several minutes, the recently discussed door swings inwards so violently that it appears to render Potter's painstaking efforts on it in vain.

Before either of us can react, two figures burst in the room, wands pointing in our direction. I initiate a non-verbal Shield aimed at Potter, yet abandon the attempt after recognizing the guests. Well, well. It must truly be the time for… friendly reunions.

'Harry!' Hermione Granger cries out, lowering her wand as she stares at him. The gangly Weasley boy is looking between me and Potter with a look of utter amazement. I rise to my feet.

'Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley,' I nod to each of the youngsters in turn. 'How may I help you?'

'P-p-professor?..' the girl stammers, finally tearing her eyes away from Potter, whom I notice to also get to his feet and give me a look of uncertainty.

'Yes, Miss Granger?' I prompt. Her eyes are moving over the scene quickly, noting everything in her signature fashion that had kept her on top of every class throughout the six years I had been able to observe.

'Blimey…' Ronald Weasley mutters, obviously failing to keep up with his companion, yet stepping between the girl and myself, wand not lowered. I conceal a smile.

Granger pushes him somewhat to the side, continuing to examine Potter and myself. I can almost see the details line up in her mind: Potter's unscathed if pale appearance, my robes still covered in blood, an abandoned wand on the floor, just next to an open bottle of Firewhiskey, and the glasses, both in his hand and mine. I am rather intrigued to see what the usually clever girl is going to make of it.

However, whatever short time I have allocated myself for breathing room has just run out, and I am silently grateful for the visitors for the cue. I finish my drink in one swig and send the glass to land on the floor next to the bottle with a light flick of the wand, turning to Potter.

'Well, Mr. Potter, I believe that concludes our business,' I say, him meeting my eye as soon as I start speaking. The young man nods quietly. I reach inside my robes.

'This, I believe, belongs to you,' I note, wishing there was a place to lay down the still-folded parchment, yet forced to hand it to him directly.

'Thanks,' he replies, pocketing the letter. I nod and turn to Granger and Weasley, who observe the scene silently.

'Miss Granger. Mr. Weasley. Have a nice day.'

I sweep past them, and neither dares to make a move to stop me, whatever they may be thinking at the moment. A part of me reminds me that this is my house I am, in fact, leaving. However, it would hardly be… elegant to show the trio the door in the situation at hand. One thing I do know for sure is that I would rather face Voldemort immediately at this time instead of either providing explanations or observing Potter do that. Sometimes, doing things on one's own terms requires actions that would appear foolish to an ignorant eye.

As I reach for the door, I hear voices.

'Harry, what's going on? What happened? You left a note saying-'

'You got some nerve, mate, to swill Firewhiskey while we go out of our minds-'

'Ron!'

'What? I thought that you, that we all thought – well, didn't you too, Hermione?.. Merlin's beard, Harry, wasn't Snape supposed to be the traitor? Since when have you two become friends?'

I grin darkly. This type of thinking, Weasley, is the reason you would usually arrive closer to the bottom of the class. That, and your affinity for oversimplification.

'Hold on, mate,' Potter's voice finally sounds, strangely quiet.

'You'd better explain what-'

'I said – HOLD ON!'

I wonder about the sudden metal in his voice as I close the door behind me and make my way across the front yard and on the street. I turn a corner before I hear the sound of running feet behind me.

'Professor!'

There is no time for this.

'Professor!'

No time to explain, no time to talk, how difficult can it be to understand, Potter? Can you not handle even that on your own? I am trying to save your worthless life again, or do you want to face Voldemort now, in your current state? Have you actually remembered to bring your wand?

'Damn it, Severus!'

I freeze in mid-stride. A hand grabs my arm, turning me around halfway and forcing me to face the pursuer. Potter stares at me with a look of undisputable… anger. Frustration, even, obvious in the light of a streetlight overhead.

'Yes, Mr. Potter?'

'What do you think you're doing?'

'Exactly what makes you think you have the right to question my actions, especially in that tone of voice?' I inquire icily. His gaze is steady.

'A number of things.'

'Very well. Let me tell, you, Mr. Potter, that I am leaving the area and advocate that you and your friends do the same as soon as possible.'

'What are you running from?'

I take a deep breath to suppress the urge to hex the insolent boy and Disapparate.

'I am not running, Potter. However, I know the Dark Lord well enough to understand that he will prefer to pay me a visit before returning to the unfinished business between the two of you. I feel reluctant to save him the trouble of locating you.'

The green eyes study my face in a fashion that is highly uncomfortable for some reason.

'I thought you didn't believe in pointless deaths?'

'Which is exactly why I am leaving, Potter.'

He shakes his head, then looks away with a… chuckle – no other word for it. I stare. No other word for it still.

'I never thought you'd do something you mocked me so much for.'

'Your… meaning… Potter?..'

Potter is silent for a few seconds. I am acutely aware of each of them, of the time growing shorter and shorter. The very tableau of us standing in the middle of the street under a streetlight is utterly ridiculous. Needless, pointless drama serving only to endanger everyone, to waste so much effort. What is he trying to achieve?

Finally, he stops regarding me with a look of what, against all logic and reason, appears to be… condescension?

'My meaning, Professor… Stop acting like a hero.'