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.'