Harry had, in the rare moments Hermione had let them relax in their search for the horcruxes, often fantasised about what he would do when he found Snape, all the subtle tortures and unsubtle agonies he would wreak on the man who had killed the greatest wizard Harry had ever known. It had kept him sane (or mostly sane) in the pain of losing yet another person to Voldemort’s regime, and it had given him something to cling to even when their task seemed absolutely hopeless. It had given him someone to blame other than himself.

Because they needed Dumbledore. They were failing. He and Ron and Hermione - they were failing. It was up to them to save the world and he was starting to think they couldn’t do it, and it scared him as he had never been scared before. He wished Dumbledore was alive, wished he was just a normal kid who didn’t have to defeat a Dark Lord who seemed unbeatable.

And then suddenly he was here, on a dark, lonely moor with the stars peering down and dawn approaching, weary and heartsore and searching for a cave he didn’t think was here - and Snape stood in front of him, pale and thin and tired. His wand was in his hand before his brain had begun to think, before Snape could draw his own. They froze a moment, the wand between them, and suddenly Harry wasn’t angry anymore, suddenly he didn’t want to hurt Snape, he just wanted to know.

“Why did you kill him?”

Though there was impatience in Snape’s eyes, there was no sneer on his lips. “Potter, this is not the ti--”

“Just answer me, Snape. Why did you kill him?” He waved his wand in clear threat. “He trusted you and you killed him. Why?” He wanted to believe in Snape. Needed Dumbledore to have been right. Needed to believe Dumbledore hadn’t made a mistake which had cost him his life and might cost them the war.

“Because he was dying anyway,” Snape spat. “Because he made me promise.”

“But why?” Harry pleaded, desperate to understand, willing to beg because he was so confused and lost. “He trusted you! And you-- you-- He believed in you but you’re just another stinking Death Eater and I don’t understand why!”

“Because he made me promise!” Snape snarled, face twisted into an ugly expression that almost looked like pain. The expression broke and the defiance drained out of him. “Because he--” Harry had never heard Snape falter before. “Because he loved you more than he loved himself.” A whisper. “Because I loved him.” The man sank to the ground as if his knees would no longer hold him. Harry followed him down, surprised to see pain on a face which had only ever exhibited disdain and hatred. “He said it would help the war. He knew what Draco’s task was. He knew that finding the horcrux would kill him. He knew-- He begged me to kill him. Did you hear him? He begged me. He was poisoned and he was dying and he begged me. I killed him.”

Harry had never thought to be here on some remote moor with the sunrise turning the sky to fire while Snape unburdened his soul to his most hated student. He realised suddenly that Snape had never had the chance to grieve, that he had loved Dumbledore with that same desperation Harry had loved Sirius and then he had killed the man - not by accident, but on purpose - and gone to live with Death Eaters who saw every reason to celebrate and none to mourn. Everything he’d felt would have had to be bottled up inside because there was no one who would have understood, worse than even the Dursleys because any slip would kill him. He didn’t think Snape even knew it was Harry before him, only that he was someone who could (finally) be spoken to freely without fear.

“I loved him. He was the only person I had, the only person I cared for and the only person who cared for me. I would have died for him, I risked death and torture for him. All he had to do was ask. I’m not a hero. I didn’t spy because I wanted to help people. I spied because he looked at me and he cared when no one else would. Do you any idea what that meant to me?”

Harry remembered his first meeting with Hagrid, when he’d willingly followed a complete stranger simply because of the warmth in his eyes, and murmured, “Yes.”

“I loved him. I would have died for him. But that wasn’t what he asked. He asked me to let him die. He asked me to kill him. I killed him.” The open horror in his voice made Harry feel sick. He couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have stood there and fired that spell. If Harry had been in Snape’s place, hewould have failed. Harry wasn’t that strong.

Tears trickled down Snape’s face and were ignored. Harry made no sound nor movement. He simply sat there, a quiet presence, and let the man grieve. He’d hated Snape. Hated him. But it was hard to hate the man who sat in front of him, so hurting and vulnerable and far beyond breaking point, even knowing what he’d done. He’d killed Harry’s mentor, he’d been so harsh and cruel and awful - and still he was a tired, broken man who had destroyed the only person he loved because Dumbledore had asked, because it was what was best for the fight against Voldemort.

“Do you know why I hated you, Potter?” Startled, he looked up to meet Snape’s eyes. Those eyes had always been cold and angry when he looked at Harry, shark-like and harsh and full of hate, but now they weren’t. Now they were guarded and wounded and human.

“Because of my father?” he ventured.

Snape waved a dismissive hand, imperious despite the tears lingering on his cheeks. His voice was rough, but his manner was almost academic. “At first, certainly, but it was soon clear that you’re not your father. I’m not blind, Potter. No, I hated you because Albus loved you.” Harry stared at him blankly. “Here you were, this innocent boy who could do great things, some precious hero, bright and bold and beautiful. You hadn’t killed anyone, you didn’t have a dark, hideous past, you hadn’t made any ghastly mistakes. How could I compete with that? He was so proud of you, and what had I done to be proud of? I hated you because I wanted him to look at me with that warmth and be glad when I had accomplished something. I wanted to be the boy he loved. But that was you.”

Harry was genuinely bewildered. “But - but why would he care about me?”

Snape laughed. It was wet and bitter, but it was a laugh. Harry had never heard him laugh before. “Potter, you draw people in. Even if they don’t want it. Besides, you were precisely what he was looking for, a golden-boy hero who breaks all the rules but only because he wants to do the right thing. Much more lovable than a bitter, twisted, vampiric Death Eater spy. So I hated you.”

“I never asked for anything from him,” he said, suddenly desperate, he’d never-- never--

“I know. I hated you even more for having what I longed for and not even wanting it. I hated you because he loved you enough to die for you. But I’m the one who killed him. I don’t deserve to hate you.”

“No, I’m the one who killed him, really,” Harry said slowly, painfully. He didn’t like to remember that night. “I made him drink that potion. He made me promise, so I did. You just took away the pain. And he didn’t die for me on the Tower, he died because of what Voldemort wanted Malfoy to do. No one even knew I was there.” He dropped his head, tears heating his eyes. He’d never admitted it before. “I killed him.”

“He died for you, Potter, but you didn’t kill him. He knew he was dead when he took you to fetch the horcrux. He died because someone had to and he would not let it be you. He didn’t care that getting the horcrux would help the war, he wanted it because it would help you. He died for you. He loved you.” Snape looked away and whispered, “Only you.”

“I - I don’t see why he couldn’t have, um, loved both of us,” Harry said, feeling a little odd. He was trying to make Snape feel better. Not to mention how uncomfortable it was to talk about love with him. What could Harry know about love when he’d grown up without it? “I used to think parents could only love one child and it was Dudley, but Mr and Mrs Weasley have lots of children and they love all of them. Hermione said love is the only thing that never runs out because no matter how much you give away you always have more. And I think he must have loved you, Professor, because he trusted you so much. He never let me say anything bad about you, and he was always saying that you were beyond doubt. I don’t think you can trust someone that much and not love them. He trusted you like I trust Hermione and Ron. And - I do love them, Professor, so I think he must have loved you.”

Snape glared at him as if trying to catch him in a lie, but Harry believed it. Snape looked away again, but Harry saw hope in those dark eyes. “I’m not your professor anymore, Potter.”

He laughed, a kind of gallows’ humour. “Guess you shouldn’t have taken the DADA job, then.”

Snape smiled grimly. “Perhaps not, Mr Potter.”

“Harry.” Snape looked at him. “We Dumbledore’s men ought to stick together, don’t you think, Professor?”

There was something in Snape’s eyes that was almost warmth, though before today Harry would never have thought it possible. “I knew I could have liked you, Harry, if you’d been in my house. It made me hate you more.”

Harry could understand that. He put down his wand, which he’d forgotten he was still holding on Snape. “I don’t know what it was made Professor Dumbledore trust you. I don’t - I don’t think I need to. He trusted you and I trust him.”

“Trust by proxy?”

Harry shrugged. “I could be wrong. But I’d rather believe Professor Dumbledore wasn’t a fool.”

Snape stood. “Perhaps you are not a fool either, Po-- Harry.” A wry smirk lurked in the corner of his mouth. “We will see each other on the final battlefield if we do not see each other before. And no matter where I stand, I will be hoping for you to win.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you, Professor.”

Snape considered him a moment. “My name,” he said delicately, “is Severus.” He turned and walked away.

He’d only gotten half a dozen metres before he turned back. “And Potter?”

“Harry. Yes?”

“This conversation never happened. I did not cry,” his mouth twisted distastefully, “and I certainly did not use the word ‘love’.”

“Understood, sir.”

Snape smiled briefly before his face went back to the cold mask Harry had always known. “It’s Severus, Harry.”

Harry sat and watched the thin black figure traipse across the moor, disappearing into the blaze of the newly risen sun. “Severus,” he murmured to himself, and smiled.