A young wizard pushed his way through the crowd of new and returning students on the train station platform. His black hair was cut short, but in an attractive fashion, and it shone like silk in the light of the fading sun. Soon it would be dark and the Hogwarts representative would arrive to herd them into horseless carriages - except for the first years, who would get a free ride across the Black Lake.

The young wizard was not a first year. This was his third year returning to Hogwarts at the urgings of his parents. He huddled inside a volumous black school robe to conserve heat in the bitterly cold weather. The students moved about him, stomping and breathing out clouds of breath. As underage witches and wizards, they were unable to use magic until they passed the wards of the school grounds. The young man's pale face and hands stood out starkly against his dark clothing. He did not look at anyone, satisfied to remain unnoticed.

****

A young wizard was jostled about by the crowd of new and returning students on the train station platform. His dark hair was short and stuck up rebelliously in all directions. It did not look to have been washed in a week, which proved to be the case. He looked through large, scratched glasses at the fading light of the sun. Soon it would be dark and the Hogwarts representative, Rubius Hagrid, would arrive to herd the students into horseless carriages - except for the first years, who would get a free ride across the Black Lake.

This young wizard was not a first year. It would be his third year returning to Hogwarts despite the unfortunate attacks on his person that had taken place in previous years and the loud disapproval of his Aunt and Uncle, whom he lived with during the summer. The young man slid his hands further into the pockets of his black school robe and wondered if it got colder each year. The students about him moved to keep warm, rubbing their hands and stomping their feet as they blew out clouds of cold breath. As underage witches and wizards, they were unable to use magic until they passed through the wards and onto school grounds. The young man's face paled as he thought about what this new school year could bring him. He did not look at anyone, satisfied to remain unnoticed for as long as possible. Maybe, if he kept his head down, the first years would not see his infamous scar right away.

A single tear slid down the face of a young wizard. He stood on the top of the Dark Tower, leaning out over the edge so that he could look down at the students moving around far below him. They looked like ants scurrying towards Hogsmead in a ragged line of movement. He wanted to go with them, but could not find his permission slip. With another tear of anger, the young man realized that one of his bunkmates must have stolen it. They were probably down there, in that line, laughing at him. His jaw clenched painfully. They would get their own, he swore.

Hours later, near the end of midnight's last chime, the young wizard took his wand in hand and snuck out of bed. He suspected one of the seventh years had taken his permission slip. He tiptoed towards the bed and without making a sound, rifled through the boy's possessions. It did not take him long to find the desired paper. He stared at it in the dull torchlight of the room and smiled an evil smile. He would get his revenge, and he would never forget what he boy had done to him.

****

A single tear threatened to fall, glittering precariously in the green eye of a young wizard. He stood in the clock tower; hidden behind misted glass, and watched his classmates moving below in the courtyard. They were laughing and joking in small groups as they made their way in a ragged line towards Hogsmead. He wanted to go with them, longed to go, but knew that it could not be. He did not have a signed permission slip to present to the teachers. The tear finally fell as sadness enveloped him. He wished for the millionth time that his parents were still alive and that he was a normal child.

Hours later, near the end of midnight's last chime, the young wizard took his wand in hand and snuck out of bed. He felt too awake to fall asleep just yet and the room was beginning to feel stifling. He tiptoed down the stairs, across the common room and through the doorway without making a sound. It did not take him long to descend the moving staircases and find a friendly, long corridor to walk down. He studied the pictures that he passed, in the dull torchlight that lit his way. They always had fascinated him. A sudden sound alerted him to the arrival of Mrs. Norris and he turned quickly to return to the tower before he was discovered.

The fifteen-year-old wizard bowed low before the Dark Lord. He kept his anger at the world and all of those in it behind a tight mask of stoicism. The young man presented his left arm without hesitation, wanting the power that the Mark would bring among his peers. Finally he would be respected and feared.

The Mark burned into his pale skin painfully, but he refused to acknowledge the sensation. It would pass soon enough and he would not show weakness before his new Master.

Minutes later he stood in a dark room. With a sneer of superiority, the fifteen year old muttered a curse that would end the life of a young child. He watched, unmoved, as the warm body hit the ground never to move again. It had been at the direction of his new Master that he had acted thus.

***

The fifteen-year-old wizard watched in horror as the Dark Lord approached. He kept his anger at the world and at his situation in check behind a mask of stoicism. The young man raised his left arm without hesitation and pointed his wand at the man who had brought him both fame and torture. Greatness and personal loss.

An invasion into his mind seared painfully through his defenses, but he refused to let it take hold. With an almost superhuman push he was able to take back control of his mind and break the Imperius curse. He refused to show weakness before the man who had ruined his life; the young wizard pushed himself up off the floor where he had fallen.

Minutes later he stood in view of the Dark Lord. With a sneer of disgust, the fifteen year old muttered a curse that would end the life of his enemy. He watched in disappointment as the green light of the curse dissipated before reaching the target. His anger and hatred had not been enough to commit the act of murder.

Severus Snape stalked into the potions classroom. Behind him the door bounced off the wall from the force of his entrance. His black cloak billowed around his body as he quickly took his place at the head of the classroom. His long oily black hair swung as he jerked his head from one side to the other so that he could take in all of the cowering first years seated before him. His gaze settled with especial malice on the little boy with dark, messy hair and large glasses. A well of hatred filled him from the mere sight of the boy - James Potter's son. His lips twisted up in an evil grin. He never forgave an offense against his person and James Potter had definitely offended him on more than one occasion. James may be dead, but his son could still pay for the humiliation he had suffered.

***

Harry Potter watched in horror, unable to move, as the unsavory potions master raised his wand and prepared to kill Albus Dumbledore. The young wizard's invisibility cloak was wrapped tightly around his body, keeping him hidden against the side of the building. The scar on his forehead burned at the proximity of so much evil. His gaze settled with hatred on the back of the potions master. A well of hatred filled him as he remembered all of the offenses he had suffered at the hands of the Slytherin man. He watched, eyes widening in horror, as Dumbledore was killed and flung off the side of the tower from the force of the curse. In that moment he vowed to find justice for his mentor.

The battlefield was dark red with spilled blood, slippery under the feet of the survivors. The world of magic had faced an Armageddon and made it through with a horrendous amount of deaths on both sides. Unwilling to go down without a fight, the Dark Lord and his loyal Death Eaters had done the most damage they could before being captured or killed by the agents of the Light.

A man in torn, dark clothing made his way through the debris. He stepped wearily over the bodies of the dead and dying to make his way off the field. His soul was cold and unmoving at the sights and sounds around him. He had died a long time ago at the hands of a madman – his Master.

****

The battlefield was dark red with spilled blood, slippery under the feet of the survivors. The world of magic had faced an end day and persevered. There had been a horrendous amount of bloodshed on both sides, but now, finally, it was over. Unwilling to go down without a fight, the Dark Lord and his minions had done the most damage before being killed or captured. They were no longer a threat for the agents of the Light.

A young man, battered and torn with blood running down the side of his face from a particularly dangerous hex, made his way through the debris. He stepped wearily over the bodies of the dead and helped to find medics for the dying as he made his way towards one side of the field. His soul felt numb from all of the sights and sounds around him. He had survived though all of the odds had been against him.

****

That day, at the end of a battle to end all wars, two men came to an exhausted stop next to each other. Neither immediately noticed the presence of the other, but when they did it was to do no more than to just stare.

Severus Snape, double agent and spy, looked over at Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived and Vanguard of the Light. No illuminating spark of recognition was exchanged. No acknowledgement of past grudges. Instead, they simply shared the look of two men who had survived through a lifetime of darkness. They had made it to this moment, and neither was looking back.