There are times when Harry can’t decide if he is relieved or regretful that the Dursleys never took him camping. Of course, the Dursleys wouldn’t be caught dead camping out in the woods, or a field somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but it might have been a useful skill, he thinks. At present, Hermione is the only one who has ever been camping before, and even then she admits it wasn’t often. She’s having to dust off memories and skills she hasn’t thought of in at least ten years.

 

Just this time last week, Harry thinks, we were still at Grimmauld Place, safe from prowling Death Eaters, warm, safe, well-fed by Kreacher. Wistfully, he remembers the onion soup they ate the night before everything went pear-shaped, and the meal that they never got the chance to sit down to. It’s hard to believe just how much has changed in so short an amount of time, but then, nothing has been really right ever since last June when Dumbledore . . . when Dumbledore was . . .

 

Shaking his head, Harry forcibly breaks off that line of thought and peers off into the trees again. He has no idea what forest Hermione has brought them to this time, but it appears to be a fairly old one – the trees are thick and close together, their top-most branches overlapping in a delicate weave so that the late afternoon sunshine casts a lacy-looking shadow on the ground.

 

For the past five years, at this time of year, he has been at Hogwarts by now, settling down to the schedule of classes, talking and laughing with friends, exchanging insults with Malfoy, trying not to antagonise Snape too much . . .

 

Harry’s fists clench tightly. What he wouldn’t give to be able to antagonise that rotten traitor right now. When he’d seen the announcement in the paper the previous week, he’d been so angry it had burst into flames in his hands. He’d had to find another one to take back to Ron and Hermione. Snape will never be the Headmaster that Dumbledore was.

 

Harry’s whole posture droops. Of course Snape won’t be better than Dumbledore – no one can ever match up to the man who, in Harry’s mind, is and will always be the Headmaster of Hogwarts. How strange to think that there’s a whole new crop of first years who will never know the man. Who will never be dazzled by the outrageously coloured robes he wore, or be bemused by the incredibly nonsense words he liked to utter. Who will never be amazed at the fact that he seemed to know everything, or be awed by the brilliantly magical things he could do.

 

Those first years will never know what they’ve missed out on, Harry muses, but the other years know, and hopefully the legacy will live on, no matter what Snape tries to do to the school.

 

Of course, he’s aware that Albus Dumbledore wasn’t a saint. The stories about his past notwithstanding, Harry still resents the Headmaster for not telling him everything he needed to know about Horcruxes sooner. If Dumbledore had shared more, perhaps he and Ron and Hermione wouldn’t be in this position now, on a secret mission, hunted by Death Eaters and the Ministry – although they are really one and the same at this point – struggling to feed themselves.

 

With a sigh, Harry remembers all the wonderful feasts that Hogwarts used to have. Even the regular meals would satisfy him now. Sitting in the Great Hall for dinner, classes over for another day, Hermione yet to start nagging them about doing their homework, Neville, Seamus and Dean all talking, Lavender and Parvati giggling over some incomprehensible girl-thing, and Ginny . . .

 

Harry sighs again. What he wouldn’t give to see Ginny again, even for only five minutes. Just to assure himself she’s okay. He knows she is, of course, Mr Weasley’s Patronus told them that, but he’d still feel better if only he could see her for himself. Harry instantly feels guilty that he isn’t so concerned about the rest of the Weasleys, but Ginny is . . . Ginny. She’s special. He hopes that she’s doing okay at Hogwarts, and that Snape or the unknown Carrows haven’t cracked down too hard on her.

 

A tree branch cracks somewhere to the right, and Harry is instantly on his feet, wand out and aimed, a spell waiting just behind his lips as he waits to see what danger might be approaching. He doesn’t know how far the centaurs range, nor Aragog’s children who may have started expanding their territory now the old spider is dead, or perhaps it’s Grawp trying to find something to eat or play with. It’s not yet full dark, and no full moon tonight, so it couldn’t be werewolves . . .

 

Harry all but smacks himself in the forehead. This isn’t the Forbidden Forest. The most dangerous thing he’s likely to meet here is a deer. He thinks. Granted, he isn’t actually certain of that, and come to think of it, stags can have wickedly dangerous antlers – his own Patronus is proof of that. But still, the danger is a lot more likely to be manageable here in this unknown forest.

 

When there is no further sound, Harry sinks down again. He’s quite thankful they aren’t in the Forbidden Forest. He can’t imagine having to spend a night camping in there! Although, he’s been in that Forest several times, and always managed to come out unscathed.

 

He smiles, remembering Mr Weasley’s old Ford Anglia and how it rescued him and Ron from Aragog’s children. He wonders what happened to the car after that, whether it still trundles happily throughout the Forest, or if it ran out of petrol, or whatever Mr Weasley used to make it run. Perhaps it got lonely, and went off looking for another car or two, Harry thinks, and stifles a giggle in his sleeve. Merlin, he must be more tired than he thought if he’s thinking things like that!

 

His thoughts turn to Ginny again. He wonders if she went looking for him on the Hogwarts Express, or whether Mr and Mrs Weasley had told her not to expect him or Ron. Ron’s parents might not know the exact mission they had been tasked with, but they were part of the Order, and could surely make a reasonable guess that “Undesirable Number One” could not take the chance of appearing on Platform 9 and 3/4 when it was the first place the Death Eaters would think of finding him on September 1st.

 

Hopefully Ginny would have been safe, maybe spending the trip with Neville or Luna, or her other friends. Harry scowls. Hopefully Michael Corner and Dean Thomas had stayed well away from her. Being his friend, he thinks Dean might tread warily around his girl, but the obnoxious Ravenclaw boy . . . Of course, Harry isn’t there this year, but surely everyone had seen them at the end of last year – they had spent so much time together, surely everyone knows by now that Ginny is his.

 

Harry almost drifts off again, thinking of those wonderful summer days when all he’d had to do was relax with Ginny. He imagines, once this war is over, having the freedom to invite her to Hogsmeade with him, or perhaps . . . well, he doesn’t know where adult wizards and witches go. Somehow, he can’t see Diagon Alley having a quiet place where they can sit and talk and get to know one another again. Perhaps Remus might know a place, Harry thinks. Maybe somewhere that he’d taken Tonks? No – Harry shakes his head – that’d just be too weird. It’s at times like this that he really misses Sirius. Sirius could have helped him with all this stuff that Harry is supposed to know, yet doesn’t.

 

Sirius could have helped them on this venture, too. After his year on the run, he would surely have been adept at finding food for them, and then perhaps tempers wouldn’t run so high.

 

Harry feels a dull ache in his heart as he thinks of how his godfather would have enjoyed this adventure. It’s barely fifteen months since he saw Sirius fall backwards through the Veil, and although the first sharp pang has long been worn away, it’s still sometimes hard for Harry to believe that his godfather isn’t out there anymore, bursting with life, enjoying life, sharing tales of the parents that Harry doesn’t remember and never got to know. It also sometimes feels as though an age has passed since he last saw Sirius, the intervening months have been so hectic.

 

A murmur in the tent behind him disturbs him, and Harry casts a glance back over his shoulder at it. Ron appears to be talking in his sleep. Maybe tomorrow Hermione – or even Ron – will have come up with a plan of action, somewhere they can go to with a specific purpose. Harry has been wracking his brain over the problem, but is sadly coming up with nothing. If only Dumbledore had told him more, told him earlier, then perhaps they would know what they were doing. Harry faces the forest again, that anger against Dumbledore building inside him again.

 

Honestly, they are only seventeen! How did Dumbledore expect them to be able to accomplish anything on their own without his guidance? Much as they might protest that they’re all grown up, in reality they have only just become legal adults, Harry less than two months ago. They should really still be in school, not traipsing around Britain trying to find something . . . several somethings . . . when they don’t know exactly what they’re looking for. Voldemort could have made a Horcrux out of any old thing and stashed it in a hundred different places. If one Horcrux had badly wounded the greatest wizard the world had ever known, how were three teenagers supposed to destroy more of them?

 

Perhaps, Harry thinks, frowning, Dumbledore was expecting Harry to deal with them as easily as he’d dealt with the diary back in Ginny’s first year. Not that it had been easy, but he supposed to Dumbledore it might have seemed that way. Stab a basilisk, use it’s fang to stab the book. Job done. Except . . . if it hadn’t been for Fawkes, and his healing tears, Harry would have died down in the Chamber. You didn’t stab a basilisk through the roof of its mouth and come away unscathed unless you had a lot more luck than Harry had had – or an impenetrable suit of armour.

 

Shaking his head, Harry reluctantly pushes the thought aside. It’s no good worrying about how they’ll destroy the Horcruxes when they haven’t even an idea of where to start looking for one. The only place he thinks Voldemort would have hidden one is Hogwarts. Actually, he supposes there could be one hidden in Riddle Manor, too, where Voldemort stayed – he can’t really say lived at that point – during the year before the ritual to get his body back. He doesn’t think Voldemort was all too attached to it, given his attitude towards his father, but it is at least a place to start. Provided it isn’t crawling with Death Eaters, of course.

 

As for Hogwarts, even ignoring the Death Eaters there, too, Harry has no idea whereabouts in the castle Voldemort might have ventured whilst he was a student. It’s been fifty years, after all, and Harry doubts the layout of the castle is exactly the same as it was then, no matter how slowly everything else in the wizarding world moves. And despite what Snape thinks, he is not stupid enough to walk right in to Hogwarts and ask one of the professors who may still remember.

 

It seems this is another way that Snape is nothing like Dumbledore. Whereas Snape underestimates Harry’s intelligence, Dumbledore apparently overestimated it. Or maybe he just thought there’d be time enough for him to explain more. To help more.

 

How different would this year be, Harry wonders, if Dumbledore hadn’t fallen to Snape’s treachery? The Ministry may still have fallen, but the attack on Bill and Fleur’s wedding wouldn’t have happened, and Harry, Ron and Hermione wouldn’t now be on the run. They might, at this very moment, have been sitting down in the Great Hall, eating the house elves’ marvellous food.

 

Wonderful – now he is starving again.

 

Grimacing, Harry gets to his feet and begins pacing around the tent, trying to make himself stop thinking about Hogwarts’ feasts. He could perhaps try calling Kreacher, or Dobby, but he has no idea what may have happened to Kreacher once the Death Eaters gained access to Grimmauld Place – although he hopes the elf would have been able to take care of himself and is now somewhere safe – and he isn’t sure how closely watched Dobby may be, working at Hogwarts as he is. Dumbledore never seemed to pay much attention to the house elves, but maybe he knew more than Harry thinks. Or Snape may be keeping a closer eye on everything in the castle, including the house elves.

 

Snape may not know that Dobby became a free elf because of Harry, but he would surely recognise a former Malfoy elf and begin to wonder if it is brought to his attention that Dobby is taking food out of the castle.

 

The hoot of an owl somewhere close by makes Harry jump. He squints at his watch before giving up and casting a quick Tempus. Time to wake Ron for the next watch. As he ducks back into the tent after giving a last look round, Harry desperately hopes that they won’t have to camp out for very long. Surely they can come up with an idea of where Voldemort may have hidden his Horcruxes. Really, with a bright witch like Hermione on their side, how hard could it really be?

It is amazing how much junk Albus managed to accumulate that used to belong to other people. Shaking his head, Severus Snape clears out a cupboard that holds a box marked ‘Black Family – better not to look’, a set of leather-bound books with the name ‘Marlene McKinnon’ inscribed on the title page of each, a set of flowerpots all tied up in a neat bundle with a label that says ‘To Albus, Merry Christmas, from Frank, Alice and Neville’, a scroll that is sealed with the Dearborn family crest, a floppy straw hat with daisies around the brim that he vaguely remembers Dorcas Meadowes wearing to Order meetings before the Dark Lord killed her, and a set of small vials filled with a silvery liquid and labelled simply ‘Pettigrew’.

 

Puzzled, Severus sits back on his heels and studies the vials curiously. There are two mysteries here. First of all, why does Albus have anything belonging to Peter Pettigrew? He can understand items from families that have died out – the mangy mutt Sirius Black was the last living Black, Caradoc Dearborn was an only child who had no family of his own when he disappeared, and Dorcas Meadowes had a younger sister who was also killed some years later. But Pettigrew’s mother was still alive at the time he was supposedly killed by Black, if Severus is remembering correctly – everything he owned should have been returned to her.

 

And secondly . . . these look like pensieve memories. What memories could Pettigrew have had back in those days that would have necessitated him keeping them safe and away from himself? And how did Albus end up with them?

 

Severus glances up at Albus’ portrait, but it is empty. Albus is no doubt off somewhere meddling in some other poor blighter’s life. Still, he can at least satisfy part of his curiosity. After all these years, it’s not as if Pettigrew could object.

 

Lurching to his feet, Severus moves across the office to where the Headmaster’s pensieve is shut away. Tapping a certain sequence on the cabinet door with his fingers and whispering the password – Lily died for him – he removes the pensieve and carries it over to his desk, placing it on top of a pile of papers sent to him by the Ministry. He doesn’t care if anything gets spilt on the papers; there isn’t anything important about them.

 

Selecting a vial at random, he uncorks it and pours it into the pensieve. Allowing it time to settle into the clay bowl, Severus then lowers his head until he feels the familiar sensation of falling.

 

He lands in a room that is so sickeningly crimson and gold it can only be the Gryffindor common room. Bright sunshine floods through the windows, and yet the room is strangely empty, so Severus can only guess that it is either the middle of a weekday and everyone is in class, or it is the weekend, and everyone is outside enjoying the sun.

 

A sniffle comes from behind him. He jerks around to face the direction it came from, and then freezes, his heart leaping up into his throat. Curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs in a corner near the fire is Lily Evans, her friend Alice Longbottom (although, of course, she hadn’t married Frank yet in this time) sitting on the arm, stroking Lily’s hair every so often in what appears to be a vain attempt at comfort.

 

“Oh, Alice, why would he say such a thing to me?” Lily sobs.

 

“Because he’s been hanging around Mulciber and Avery too long,” Alice says, frankly. Then she scowls. “And because he’s just a stupid boy.”

 

Severus’ blood runs cold. Obviously this is very shortly after their disastrous Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., shortly after he ruined everything by striking out at Lily and allowing that unforgivable word to leave his mouth. He should never have let his anger and embarrassment get the better of him like that, no matter how much the Marauders bullied him . . .

 

That thought reminds Severus that this is Pettigrew’s memory he is in. Pettigrew must be somewhere nearby, but the two girls obviously think they are alone in the common room. Spinning around again, he searches every nook and cranny. Finally, he discovers a large rat, huddled in a dark corner near the portrait entrance. Why is Pettigrew up here, sneaking, when he should be outside somewhere with the rest of the Marauders, crowing about their victory over Snivellus?

 

Severus frowns to himself as Alice finally convinces Lily to go outside with her. Once Pettigrew is sure they’re gone, he creeps out from his hiding place and shimmers upwards into his human form. He has a very strange look on his face – even for him – a mixture of gleeful and contempt. Wringing his hands together, he stumbles off towards the staircase that must lead up to the dormitories, and the memory starts going grey, before fading to black.

 

Severus finds himself back in his office, straightening up away from the pensieve. He is still confused. Why would Pettigrew need to remove that memory from his head? And why would someone consider it worth keeping?

 

Scooping the memory back into its vial, Severus writes a quick label for it, just a few words that will remind him if he needs to find the memory again later. He then places it to one side, away from the ones that he has yet to see. He glances up again at Albus’ portrait, which is still empty. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t be able to help him anyway. Albus might not have known what it was he had. It appears that a lot of items were sent to him after people passed on. He had probably been too busy to look at everything.

 

Pouring the next vial into the pensieve, Severus considers it as it settles. This memory strand has a slightly darker tint than the previous one did. He wonders if this has any bearing on the type of memory it is. Cautiously, he tips his head forward and falls in.

 

This time, he lands in the library. Surprisingly, considering just whose memory this is, he is in the Restricted Section. And – judging by the clock that he can see on the far wall – during the daytime, no less. Severus finds this very strange. He can’t imagine Pettigrew asking any of the Professors for a pass, nor them granting one. And it would be the height of folly to try and sneak into the Restricted Section when Madam Pince is hovering, ready to swoop down on anyone who is not following the rules of the library.

 

And unauthorised access to the Restricted Section is definitely not following the rules.

 

Severus glances around himself. Surely this journey must have been precipitated by Black and Potter. This is just the kind of thing they’d enjoy attempting to get away with. But, unless they’re somewhere nearby underneath Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, there seems to be no sign of either Potter or Black.

 

Of course, there’s no sign of Pettigrew, either.

 

“Here, what d’you think about this one?” he hears a voice ask from somewhere nearby. It does not sound like Pettigrew. Severus strides toward the voice, secure in the knowledge that the people involved cannot see him now.

 

“Nah, too good for ‘em,” another voice replies, and now Severus’ stride falters. That voice he remembers. Evan Rosier. So his companion must be either Mulciber or Avery, or perhaps Wilkes. The four of them had been inseparable. “We want something that will make them think twice about encroaching on our world.”

 

Alarmed now, even if there is nothing he can do about it, Severus turns a corner, and realises just what part of the Restricted Section the four Slytherin boys are in. Not just the Dark Arts section, but the Black Arts section. Here, there are books holding spells that have no justification for use at all. Even attempting one of the milder spells can lose a person their soul if they are not careful . . . if they have one to lose at all.

 

Rosier, Avery, Mulciber and Wilkes are critically examining the books, which are not bound with leather, but skin. One book is even surrounded by a cage of bones, which are obviously human, but too small to be an adult’s. Severus desperately hopes this particular section is not still at Hogwarts. He resolves to find out immediately, and remove it if necessary. Perhaps he can claim he is making a gift of it to the Dark Lord.

 

A small sound from the other side of the bookcase reminds Severus that Pettigrew is here somewhere. His old roommates appear not to have heard anything. He leaves them to it and goes in search of the rat.

 

He finds Pettigrew in the Mind section. What in Merlin’s name can Pettigrew be up to, Severus wonders. Perhaps he is looking for something to cast on himself? If so, he obviously failed, since the Pettigrew that Severus has seen just recently is as useless and worthless as ever.

 

Pettigrew clambers onto a nearby desk and reaches up for a book that is bound in dark-green silk, edged in solid silver. Based on the colours, Severus can’t help but wonder if Salazar Slytherin himself wrote it. Pettigrew is having trouble actually touching the book – it is buzzing, and blurring as it appears to jump around all over the shelf, making it hard to judge where it is to physically take hold of it. Pettigrew is obviously getting angry, as well as flustered and embarrassed, and he snaps out a phrase that Severus does not hear. Instantly, the book stills with a tiny squeak, and Pettigrew finally grabs it. He glares at the book as he clambers back off the desk, and slams the book down on the desktop. The book appears to sigh, and falls open obediently.

 

For some reason, Severus is unable to get close enough to see what book it is that Pettigrew is studying. He can’t tell if it’s something gone wrong with the memory, or whether that particular book doesn’t want anybody else finding it. Eventually, however, Pettigrew seems to find what he wanted, and he shoves the book back onto the nearest shelf, nowhere near where he first found it. The book shakes itself, irritably, and blurs back into position on the higher shelf.

 

Pettigrew, meanwhile, is hurrying away from the Mind section, heading for the entrance to the Restricted Section. He passes two bookcases away from the Slytherin boys, and pauses, shrinking down into his rat form before creeping closer. Severus’ old school friends are still looking for various spells. From their conversation, they are looking for spells to hurt Muggles, or perhaps even Muggleborns.

 

Severus watches as Pettigrew scuttles backwards, and presses a small paw to the spine of a book. The book floats down to open itself in front of the rat, who brushes it with his whiskers. Pages flip, and then, with a nudge of Pettigrew’s nose, the book rises into the air, and floats over the bookcase to land with a thud! in front of the Slytherins.

 

“Look!” Avery cries, grabbing hold of the book. “Oh, this one is perfect!”

 

“Let me see,” Mulciber demands, snatching the book from him and scanning the page. He chuckles, and it sends a shiver down Severus’ spine. There is nothing good about that laugh. “Oh, yes. This one will do for that McDonald cow.” The boys huddle around the book and begin whispering.

 

Severus is tugged away from them as Pettigrew exits the library.

 

He blinks, and finds himself back in his office again. Staggering over to the chair behind his desk, he falls into it and rubs a hand over his face. Dear Merlin, that must have been the spell cast on Mary McDonald, one of Lily’s Gryffindor friends. The poor girl’s insides had been rearranged, so that her vocal cords and digestive tract were reversed. Severus himself had not found that particular ‘prank’ funny in the slightest, but with Lily angry with him, he had not wanted to set himself against his entire House, either.

 

And now he knows where Avery and Mulciber had found the spell. He would never have guessed that Pettigrew, of all people, would have known it, or where to find it, never mind actually show it to anyone in Slytherin.

 

It appears the Dark Lord turned Pettigrew well before anyone suspected.

 

Removing and labelling this memory, Severus spends some time staring at the remaining vial. This, too, is darker than the others, and he is unsure whether his curiosity is deep enough for him to stand seeing whatever it may be.

 

Eventually, he persuades himself that if it was anything approaching the activities of a Dark Revel, the memory strand would be much, much darker than it is. And considering how many Revels Severus has been forced to attend – and pretend to enjoy – he can surely cope with this.

 

He discovers himself back in the Gryffindor common room. Once again, it is all but empty. Pettigrew is slumped in a chair near the dormitory staircase, pretending to be deeply absorbed in a thick Charms book, but in actual fact he is peering intensely over the top of it at the figure hunched over the desk underneath the window that overlooks the Quidditch pitch.

 

Once again, the figure is Lily Evans. She is scribbling madly on a piece of parchment, but it appears that whatever she is attempting to write is not going well, as she frequently huffs in exasperation, scratches out a word or a sentence, or simply screws the parchment up into a ball, tosses it over her shoulder towards the fire, and starts again.

 

“Argh!” Lily suddenly utters a growl of frustration, and buries her head in her arms on the desk. “Why is this so hard?”

 

“P-p-problem, Lily?” Pettigrew asks, and for a horrible moment, his slight stutter reminds Severus of Quirrell from six years before.

 

Lily jerks upright as though she had forgotten she wasn’t alone – or maybe she hadn’t noticed Pettigrew in the first place. She sighs when she sees who it is.

 

“I’m trying to write a letter to Severus,” she says, and Severus’ heart practically stops beating. If this memory is after their O.W.L.s, he never received any letter from her. “But I just can’t get the wording right.”

 

“What do you have so far?” Pettigrew asks, and moves closer to where Lily is sitting. Severus notices that his book is held oddly – perfectly level in front of Pettigrew, the top edge of it facing Lily, not quite closed, as though Pettigrew has used a quill as a bookmark.

 

Or is hiding his wand, Severus realises with a jolt! He is swamped with panic, before realising that whatever Pettigrew does – did – it obviously doesn’t harm Lily that much. She was not in the Hospital Wing for any length of time during the remainder of their fifth year, nor any of their sixth.

 

Lily sighs and gathers up the scraps of parchment in front of her. She clears her throat and begins to read out loud. “Dear Severus,” she begins. “First of all, I want to say that I am still disgusted by that word that you used. I won’t sully myself by saying it again – we both know what word I mean. I honestly don’t know how you could even think of calling me that. I thought you were better than that, Sev. I thought you believed all that nonsense about blood purity was just that – nonsense.

 

“But if you can call me that, then maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. And that hurts, Sev. Because if you lied to me about that, then what else have you lied about?

 

“I know I said I was never going to talk to you again. But I think we do need to talk. And maybe you’ll be able to come up with one hell of a good reason for using that word. Notice I said reason, not excuse!

 

“I do miss you, Severus. Or at least, I miss the person I thought you were. I hope you still are that person, somewhere inside.

 

“If you agree to speak with me, I’ll be by the Lake, at our spot, on Saturday, during the last Quidditch match. Nobody will miss us then . . .”

 

Lily’s voice trails off into a wistful sigh. Unseen behind her, Pettigrew’s face twists into a disgusted grimace.

 

“I see why you’re having problems,” he murmurs, quietly. “But don’t worry, it’s not like Snivellus will ever get to read the thing.” His wand is suddenly poking out from the end of the book, aimed at the back of Lily’s head. Severus attempts to jump in between them, but it is a fruitless endeavour. Nothing he can do can change this now.

 

“Obliviate totalis familiaris Snape!” Pettigrew suddenly says, sharply, and a flash of bright light envelops Lily. She slumps forward onto the desk with a sigh. Pettigrew snatches up all the scraps of parchment and throws them into the fire.

 

Severus finds himself back in his office, reeling away from the pensieve with a choked cry. He ricochets off a cabinet beside his desk, and his knees buckle, dumping him to the floor, where he kneels, his face buried in his hands, gasping for air.

 

Lily had been going to forgive him! Lily had wanted to meet him, to make up with him. All these years, he had thought that he had destroyed everything himself, that something in him – whatever it was that had caused that word to slip out – had disgusted Lily so much that she had turned her back on all their years of friendship.

 

And instead it was Pettigrew! Pettigrew had stolen all the warmth Lily had ever felt towards Severus – obliviated it from her mind and her heart. Severus can’t wrap his mind around it. He’s fairly certain Pettigrew didn’t like Lily that way. Was he perhaps hoping to gain favour with Potter by removing Severus from the picture? Except it appears that Pettigrew had already been turned at that point, so why . . .

 

Severus suddenly wonders if the Dark Lord instructed Pettigrew to do it because of him. His attachment to Lily had been well known, and it was only her friendship that had prevented the Dark Lord from successfully recruiting him – once she’d withdrawn that friendship, it had been ridiculously easy for the other Slytherins to swoop in and draw him in.

 

Severus shudders deeply. This is all the grief he can allow himself, despite the fact he wishes to rail and scream and cry. The Dark Lord believes he got over his ‘infatuation’ with the ‘mudblood’ once he learned that she’d rather die to protect her baby than live for him. Severus can never let on that his love for the red-haired girl burns just as brightly inside him now as it did twenty years ago.

 

He staggers to his feet. He will deeply occlude seeing those memories, so that he all but forgets that he has, then he will dispose of Pettigrew’s memories. Goodness knows why Albus kept them anyway.

 

And then . . . he has Ministry paperwork to do.

Harry closes his eyes and attempts to force his brain to sleep. He tosses and turns for what feels like hours, yet when he checks, turns out to be less than ten minutes. Sighing, he stares up at the ceiling, although he cannot see much of it in the darkness. He should sleep, tomorrow will be a busy day, but he is too keyed up. Too many things could go wrong, and his brain insists on going over each and every one of them.

 

The Polyjuice could fail. Hermione might not be able to handle Bellatrix’s wand. Someone in Diagon Alley might spot Harry and raise the alarm. Griphook might raise the alarm, just so he can steal the sword from them. Someone who knows Bellatrix – a Death Eater – might come across them and realise that something isn’t right. They might not get past the goblins at the counters. Something might happen to them on the way down to the Lestrange vault. Something may happen to them in the Lestrange’s vault. The Horcrux may not be there, either because it never was, or because someone removed it. Even if they succeed that far, they may not get out of Gringotts again.

 

Or not alive, at any rate.

 

Harry has to wonder why on earth he came up with such a crack-brained scheme . . . or why everyone agreed to go along with it. Don’t they realise their chances of succeeding at this are miniscule – and that only if they are extremely lucky and are granted a miracle.

 

No, he tries to convince himself. The plan will work. It has to work!

 

Has Hermione studied Bellatrix enough? Sure, the woman tortured Hermione, but it’s not as if they’re planning to go in and torture the goblins. Can Hermione pull off the crazed carelessness well enough to fool the goblins? Of course, she doesn’t have to hold the pretence for long, just for a few seconds until Harry is able to put the goblin under the Imperius curse.

 

And that brings its own problems. Harry has never cast the Imperius before – how do they know that he’ll succeed? Can he even manage to cast it properly on a goblin? Understandably, Griphook didn’t want Harry to test it on him, so if Harry’s spell is likely to fail on the day, they will have no warning, and no back-up plan prepared.

 

But they won’t need a back-up plan, he argues with himself. He’ll put the goblin under the Imperius, and they will be shown down to Bellatrix’s vault. And then they’ll just have to get past the dragon.

 

Harry snorts quietly. Just have to get past a dragon. Griphook assured them that the dragon is secured, and he knows exactly how to get past it without injury. At least it won’t be a free-range nesting mother, such as he faced during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament three years ago. They won’t have to rely on his broom to outfly the thing.

 

Not that they could even if they wanted to. Harry’s beloved Firebolt was left behind at Grimmauld Place months ago, when they had to flee. With the Death Eaters gaining access, no doubt it ended up as kindling.

 

Ron gives a snorting snore, and Harry restlessly rolls over to peer at his friend through the dark. How can Ron sleep at a time like this? Isn’t he the least bit nervous about the part he’ll have to play? Unlike Harry, he will be visible, on show.

 

Wonderful – now Harry has a new worry. What if they run into someone who suspects that Ron isn’t who he says he is. Ron is supposed to be a foreign wizard, come to check out Voldemort’s way of doing things. What if they bump into a real wizard from whatever country they pick, and they expect Ron to know the language?

 

Harry feels his heart starting to beat faster. This plan seems to become infinitely more complicated with every person added to it. Perhaps it should just be himself and Griphook who go down to the vault . . . except he needs Hermione to pass as Bellatrix, since her wand won’t work for Harry.

 

Maybe that traitor Snape was actually right when he kept harping on about Harry’s reckless disregard for putting his closest friends in danger. Harry hates to admit he even thought that, but it does seem that knowing him constantly puts his friends in danger. Because of him, they are on the run – have been for months. Because of him, Hermione’s parents don’t remember they even have a daughter. Because of him, Ron’s older brother has lost his ear. Because of his angry dismissal of what Ron had said about Voldemort’s name being Taboo, Hermione was tortured.

 

And then there’s the people who have been killed because of him – Dobby, Cedric, Sirius . . . his parents. And he can’t forget Quirrell, who he personally killed, even if he didn’t actually mean to.

 

Harry’s breath is starting to come faster. No, no, nothing like that will happen this time. They will get through Diagon Alley, they will get into the bank and down into the vaults with no major problems whatsoever. If wishful thinking can make something happen, then Harry will wish it with all his might. They will succeed in getting the Horcrux. They will make it out and destroy it. They will – they must.

 

Voldemort has likely forgotten about this particular Horcrux – after all, Gringotts is supposed to be the most secure place to hold something in the world. Except . . . Voldemort himself, through Quirrell, proved that isn’t true. The only reason he came away empty-handed on that occasion was because Dumbledore had ordered Hagrid to collect the Stone earlier that day.

 

But surely, Harry tries to convince himself, the goblins would have added extra protection after that attempt. Precautions that Griphook knows well but Voldemort will know nothing about. It will not be a trap, because Voldemort is not aware they are chasing Horcruxes, apparently does not feel when one is destroyed. He will not be more careful of the remaining ones, because he does not know that half of them are gone.

 

Attempting to slow his breathing, Harry forces himself to go over the plan yet again, step by step, and think of ways to help if something goes wrong.

 

And yet they haven’t even left Shell Cottage in his mind before he finds half a dozen ways their plan could fail miserably. And it wouldn’t just be him and Ron and Hermione, and Griphook, of course, in danger, but Bill and Fleur, too.

 

Harry’s breath speeds up again, and he rolls over, burying his face in his pillow to hide the sound of his gasps from Ron. His heart is pounding as though he has run for miles, and adrenaline is causing his body to shake with chills. His stomach churns with anxiety. This is ridiculous, he tells himself, he is worrying over nothing, everything will be fine . . .

 

But what if it isn’t?

 

His imagination insists on seeing them felled as soon as they set foot in Diagon Alley, a horde of goblins descending on them as soon as they enter Gringotts, being tipped out of the cart at the top of the track leading to the underground vaults, being unable to distract the dragon sufficiently and being burnt to a crisp, getting locked in the Lestrange vault and suffocating . . .

 

No! Harry thumps his mattress with a fist, deliberately throwing those images out of his mind. He will not think of that, or that, or that . . .

 

But the images creep back, worse than ever, until Harry is shaking, burying his head under his pillow and gasping for air, his heart going like a jackhammer. All he can see is himself captured, Ron injured, Hermione dead . . . or, even worse, prisoners of Voldemort, paraded so the entire wizarding world can see just how useless their hopes are, how stupid they must all be to pin their hopes on a child and expect him to triumph.

 

He will triumph! He must! Dumbledore believed in him, so Harry will do his best to live up to that belief. No matter that apparently Dumbledore – one of the most powerful wizards in the world – couldn’t beat Voldemort; he wasn’t meant to.

 

Of course, Snape easily beat Dumbledore, and Harry proved unable to even finish a spell against him . . . but Dumbledore was dying already, Harry can admit to himself. And Snape had not even tried to teach him Occlumency, so no doubt he could read every single thought Harry was having.

 

That’s the only reason he couldn’t even beat Snape . . . not the fact that he is twenty years younger than the traitor, with that much less knowledge and experience . . . not the fact that he is weaker than Snape, and so completely not a threat to Voldemort.

 

Harry emerges from under his pillow, and rolls onto his back, trying to keep his desperate gulps quiet. His chest aches now, as though a belt is wrapped around him and being pulled ever tighter. Starting to panic, Harry pushes himself upright to sit on the edge of his bed, his head hanging almost between his knees as his lungs spasm.

 

His heart is now beating hard enough that it hurts his ribs, and the pain is spreading up into his left shoulder. Tiny sparks of light are dancing their way up and down at the edge of his vision. They look almost like fireflies, although Harry knows they are not, as they are still there even when he closes his eyes.

 

The room suddenly feels too large, as though Harry is nothing more than an insignificant speck of dust, free floating through nothingness. He suddenly longs for the safety of his cupboard – the one he’d left when he was twelve. To have boundaries, and know what they are. To not have anyone counting on him. To not hold the responsibility that he is in no way ready for, no matter what anyone else believed.

 

To not be expected to kill.

 

His chest burns, and Harry is quite surprised that his struggle to breathe has not disturbed Ron yet. Is it just that his gasps are not as loud as they sound to Harry’s own ears, or is Ron leaving him to sort himself out because he knows that whatever happens tomorrow – or today, by now – will be all Harry’s fault.

 

No, surely Ron wouldn’t think that. Yes, he left them. Yes, he let the Horcrux and the lack of food and plans get to him, and he ran away. But he came back. He’d wanted to come back almost immediately. He is with them now, with them to the bitter end, whatever end it may be.

 

Strangely, this thought actually helps. Harry does not have to do everything alone. He does have help. Ron and Hermione will stand with him, and whatever may go wrong, they know that it will not be his fault. They choose to stand against Voldemort. They choose to be Harry’s friend.

 

Harry can feel his chest muscles loosening as he thinks about this. Ron is a brilliant strategist. Hermione is one of the – if not the – brightest witch of their age. And Harry . . . well, Harry seems to work best by instinct and under pressure. Combine the three, as they did way back in their first year going after Quirrell and the Stone, and they will – one way or another – win through and emerge triumphant.

 

Finally, Harry’s heart rate is slowing down again. He is not wheezing for air like a sick old man. In fact, he is rather calm now, and completely sure that today will go well. One way or the other, they will succeed in obtaining the Horcrux from Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault, and they will deny Voldemort yet another part of himself.

 

Nodding to himself, Harry lies back down, closes his eyes and readies himself to drift off into sleep.

 

Really, he has no idea what he was worrying about.

I watch the moonlight guarding the night,
waiting till morning comes.
The air is silent, earth is at rest –
only your peace is near me.

 

Watching the stars appear one by one in the night sky, Severus is as still as the non-existent breeze. He is weary, but strangely, he is also not tired. He is weary of the war, of the deception that he must practice. He is weary of the looks given to him by friends and colleagues who should know him better – but, for the sake of the deception, cannot.

 

It seems lately that nights like these are the only times Severus can be himself, relax and let his guard down. It doesn’t help to still his worries, but he doesn’t have to work so hard to hide them.

 

More students are disappearing every day. Those cretins masquerading as professors, the Carrows, seem to become more unhinged every day. No doubt they’d get on swimmingly with Bellatrix Lestrange. It is all Severus can do to distract and divert them, so that they fail to notice when students, especially the younger years, aren’t punished quite so heavily as they wanted.

 

It is a very wearying dance he does, trying to keep one side happy whilst protecting the other, without either being aware of it. He is amazed that he has managed this long. The disappeared students are at last alive. It could be much worse. They could all be dead.

 

Severus knows, however, that the end is coming. He will not have to do this penance for much longer. News reached the castle just that afternoon of the break in at Gringotts. Severus shakes his head, unsure if he is amused at Potter’s audacity, or horrified at the risk they all took. Really, he’d thought Miss Granger at least had more brains than that.

 

But, somehow, the reckless, hair-brained children managed to pull it off, although he does not know if they succeeded in . . . acquiring what they were after.

 

And now the Dark Lord has warned him that Potter and his cronies will be making their way to Hogwarts. Severus has no idea why on earth the brat would come back here, unless to confront him yet again over Dumbledore’s death. But the Dark Lord is certain, and it is a foolish spy indeed who argues with the Dark Lord.

 

So plans have been made, traps have been set, and Severus just hopes that he will manage to get his hands on Potter long enough to pass along Albus’ final message.

 

Looking up at the brightly shining stars, Severus wonders just how much of his life’s work has been in vain, if Potter has to die. His penance, his atonement for getting his best friend killed, has been to protect her child. Except he cannot, apparently, protect the boy from this. The spymaster, the chess master, the puppet master, has spoken. And like a good puppet, he will dance to the tune pulled on his strings.

 

Knowing the end is nigh, Severus decides to take what might be his last stroll around the castle. He is not seriously checking for misbehaving or amorous students out of bed at this hour, but more saying his goodbyes to the castle that he has called home for almost twenty years now – closer to thirty if he counts his school years.

 

He has done these rounds so many times that he doesn’t need to light his wand anymore. Portraits sleep on, undisturbed, as he glides past them. He spies the gleam from a cat’s eyes at the end of a corridor, but it turns away with a haughty flick of its tail before he can be sure whether it’s Mrs Norris, Minerva, or just a student’s familiar. When this is all over, he hopes that Minerva will at least not think too badly of him.

 

On the fourth floor, he comes across a house elf, busily polishing a suit of armour.

 

“Is there anything Jancy can be doing for the Headmaster?” it asks, softly.

 

“No, thank you,” Severus answers, but then pauses. “Yes, actually, there is. Kindly ensure that the best food is served every day. After all, every student is growing up and needs feeding.”

 

The house elf blinks at his subtle emphasis, then nods firmly, once, twice. “Jancy shall be passing along the message, Headmaster,” it replies, and vanishes with a quiet pop.

 

Satisfied, Severus continues his stroll. He is unsure whether the hidden students are managing to feed themselves, but this way – for a day, anyway – he can be sure of it. He just wishes he’d thought of it earlier.

 

Ascending to the Owlery, Severus finds it almost deserted, except for the nesting mothers. It is midnight, and all the other owls are out and about, hunting on the grounds, or else far away from here delivering mail. He hopes they all manage to survive the upcoming battle unscathed, and makes a mental note to get Hagrid to move the nests somewhere else. They are not running an owl breeding business, he will snootily inform the half-giant. And he will not have children running up to the Owlery at all hours to get glimpses of the eggs, or the chicks, so they will simply have to go.

 

Minerva would leave the birds there just to spite him, to let them suffer their own fate. The Carrows would eagerly blast the adult birds and smash the eggs. Hagrid, though, will tenderly move the nests and ensure the birds come to no harm. At least, Severus hopes so.

 

He leans out of the Owlery window and studies the stars. He was never very good at Astronomy, and the name of all the constellations eludes him now. Two stars directly overhead seem to be twinkling more than any of the others nearby. Severus wonders if that is a sign that Albus is watching over them all. At first, he is comforted by that thought, but then realises that if Albus can watch, then so can others who have gone on, and the thought of some of those watching him is less comforting.

 

Severus slips from the Owlery and continues his nocturnal wandering. He ends up this time in the dungeons, standing outside the classroom that once was his, and now belongs to Slughorn. There is no ward on the room, so he enters it, striding to the front as though he is getting ready to teach yet another bunch of dunderheaded students, who think they know better than him.

 

He wonders how long it will take for the standards for Potions to slip. Currently, Hogwarts students who take their NEWTs in the subject score higher than those from Beauxbatons, or Durmstrang. His students are much in demand, because they are used to brewing to his exacting specifications. He only accepted the best into his class, but already, Slughorn has lowered the grade a student must reach to be able to take the NEWT.

 

Looking around at the empty classroom, Severus’ imagination fills in the young, boisterous students. He can see Draco Malfoy, preening and smug as usual, Pansy Parkinson all but draped on his arm. The disaster that is, or was, Neville Longbottom, getting ready to explode yet another cauldron. And of course, the Golden Trio. Albus’ pets.

 

Sometimes Severus wishes that Albus had been even a fraction that kind to him. Things could have been very different, if only Severus had not felt like he had been shrugged off as unimportant. Perhaps it had been too long since Albus was young, and he had forgotten just how fragile a child’s ego can be, especially on the cusp of adulthood.

 

Severus slowly wanders around the room, brushing his fingers along the top of various desks. Slughorn wouldn’t stop boasting about Potter’s skill in Potions last year. Of course, after the debacle with Malfoy, Severus knows very well that it wasn’t Potter’s skill that Slughorn was seeing. Such a shame that Slughorn was too focused on the fame to notice the actual underlying talents – or lack thereof.

 

Meandering his way back up to the Entrance Hall, Severus pauses to study the hourglasses that hold the House points. The point system has rather fallen by the wayside this year, and only Slytherin’s glass is anywhere near full. Indeed, Gryffindor’s glass is emptier than Severus has ever seen it. He wasn’t even aware the hourglasses could get that empty. Just how many points have the Carrows been subtracting from Gryffindor that Severus wasn’t aware of?

 

He shakes his head. “Ten points to Gryffindor, Potter,” he murmurs, and turns to continue his stroll. “And you’d better make them count, boy.”

 

Aware that there’s a good chance the Room of Requirement is in use – after all, there are only so many places in Hogwarts that will hold the number of students that have disappeared – Severus avoids the seventh floor in his trek over the castle. He makes sure to cover everywhere else, though.

 

Good, bad and neutral memories – all flow through his mind as he silently communes with the place that will not be for him much longer. Whether Potter comes or not, whether the Dark Lord takes up residence here or not, Severus knows that he will not survive the upcoming battle. Even if he does, by some miracle, he will be captured as a Death Eater by the Ministry afterwards. If they are lenient, the best they will give him will be life in Azkaban. At worst, he will receive the Dementor’s Kiss. Severus hopes he is felled in battle – at least it will be quick.

 

Half past five in the morning finds him outside in the grounds. He spent some time wandering the fringes of the Forbidden Forest, but it is strangely quiet. Not even a centaur appears. The Forest inhabitants, too, know something is coming.

 

Severus is beside the Lake as the first hints of orange touch the western sky. Birds are beginning to sing somewhere behind him, and he can see some of the owls coming home to roost after their hunt.

 

The clouds in the sky look like wisps of spun sugar, tinged a delicate shade of pink. The orange stretches upwards, outwards, and gains a hint of red. The dew that has been soaking into Severus’ boots is glistening in the pale light, but the day promises to be scorching hot, and it will not last long.

 

More birds join in the early morning chorus as the whole sky seems to burst into light. Absorbing the spectacle, Severus feels himself relax completely. He is ready for whatever will come. He hadn’t realised it, but there was a little spark inside of him that wailed that he didn’t want to die. The spark is gone now – he has accepted that his time is almost upon him.

 

For one moment, the stress and the years fall away from Severus, and he stands there as the young man of only thirty eight that he is. Maybe someday there will be a life that will be as carefree as this moment. Maybe somewhere else there is a world where Severus did not need to atone for anything. He hopes, though, that this particular moment is the same across all time.

 

The first rays have been creeping up the lawn towards him, and now Severus raises his face to bask in the light. He doesn’t know if he will see any more sunrises, so he will enjoy this one while he can.

 

He even feels like bursting into song, although he represses that urge.

 

The glorious burst of the awakening sun passes, settles into the more common daylight. The birds all around the castle are singing madly, greeting the day. With a sigh, Severus accepts his burdens again, and turns to face the castle. It appears to be split in half, part of it glistening in the sun, the other half in deep shadow. It is a good analogy for himself, too, Severus thinks.

 

Step by step, he enters the darkness of the castle, wrapping it around himself like a cloak. It will go well with the mask the Death Eater must wear.

 

I watch the sunrise lighting the sky,
Casting its shadows near.
And on this morning bright though it be,
I feel those shadows near me.

Severus uses the panic that he is running out of time to pass on Albus’ message to clutch hold of Potter’s robes and pull the boy towards him.

 

“Take … it. … Take … it. …”

 

He has no idea where his wand has fallen, nor does he have any vials for the memory anyway, and even if he did, he has no time. So Severus does the best he can, and forces the memory out of him.

 

Ah, but he needs to show the boy – who has somehow grown into a man whilst he wasn’t looking – just how that conversation came to be. So he needs to go back further to the start of his spying career . . . but that won’t work either, because Potter needs to see why he agreed to spy in the first place . . . and why Severus was so desperate to save his mother.

 

He thinks a few more memories than he means to let go of slip out, but really, at this point, it does not matter anymore. He will have no use for any of his memories in a very short time.

 

Potter is scooping the silvery strands into a flash that Miss Granger has hastily conjured. A bright girl – she will go far. There is a faint furrow between Potter’s brows, a look of deep concentration on his face. It is just the look that Lily used to have, whenever she was trying something difficult for the first time.

 

And now – now, when it does not matter – Severus can admit to himself that perhaps Potter is not entirely a clone of James Potter, but that perhaps he shares traits with Lily, too. It just took maturity for those traits to show up. Which isn’t surprising . . . Lily was always more mature than James had been. And it allowed Severus to keep his cover of detesting the boy. He would have found it much harder if he’d seen Lily in anything other than the boy’s eyes from the start.

 

It is a shame that he will never know if they ever manage to defeat Voldemort for good. Ah, yes, at last, he can dispense with that ‘Dark Lord’ nonsense. And if Albus is right, then Potter will never know, either.

 

He wonders how much Potter will rant and rave before doing what must be done. After all, the hard work so far has been left on Potter’s shoulders. It is not hard to imagine that most people will stop, and stare, and wail in grief, and be cut down, once they learn that Potter, their precious saviour, their Golden Boy, is dead. How many will fight down panic, and despair, to carry on fighting the monster who has been terrorizing them all for years?

 

Really, Severus wonders idly, just whose fault is this entire mess anyway?

 

 

---

 

 

The force of Snape’s grip is surprising to Harry, considering how much blood Snape is losing. His skin has gone even whiter than Malfoy’s, which is saying a lot, and his hand is now trembling – Harry can feel the tremors against his throat.

 

Snape does not have much time, and obviously knows it if he is leaking memories everywhere. Whatever it is he wants Harry to know, it must be important.

 

Harry is still in shock at the events of the previous few minutes. Snape had been Voldemort’s right-hand man, headmaster of Hogwarts, murderer of Dumbledore, and yet Voldemort obviously had no compunction about getting rid of a so-called ‘rival’. He actually feels vaguely sorry for Snape. He knows that Snape isn’t the master of the Elder Wand, so the man will die for nothing, as Voldemort will discover to his cost.

 

Surprisingly, though, Snape does not look frightened of dying, now that he has given his memories to Harry. Instead, he looks . . . calm. Harry supposes that the threat was always there. Voldemort is, after all, not the most stable person in the world.

 

Pressing his free hand against Snape’s throat, feeling the man’s life blood still spurting against his palm, Harry wonders why Snape didn’t take precautions against Nagini. After what happened to Mr Weasley two years ago, you’d think a Potions Master would have prepared a vial of anti-venin for himself.

 

Then again, how would Snape have managed to procure the venom? He doubts Voldemort would have given any away – unless it was for a poison of some sort. Just how often did Nagini kill for Voldemort anyway? Aside from the attack on Mr Weasley, and now this one on Snape, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen the snake used as a weapon before.

 

Just because he didn’t see it, he reminds himself, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

 

Feeling the blood slowing under his hand, Harry looks down in alarm.

 

 

---

 

 

Severus’ body is numb. He cannot feel his legs now, and is rapidly losing what little strength he has in his upper body. His lungs are gasping for air but none is getting through his torn windpipe. Darkness is encroaching on the edges of his vision. Desperate, he gives his hand a little jerk, pulling Potter’s attention up to his face.

 

“Look … at … me. …” he whispers, the words tearing out of his throat in a horrible gurgling rasp.

 

Potter’s bright green eyes meet his own black ones.

 

Lily’s eyes.

 

Oh, Lily, Severus thinks, as his mind begins to drift and the numbness creeps further up his body towards his heart. I did all I could to protect your child. I hope it was enough. Have mercy on me.

 

The green eyes stare unblinkingly at him, then are suddenly lit from within by a warmth that Severus has not seen directed at him since he was fifteen. His heart gives one last leap. Lily has come for him!

 

He does not feel it when his heart stops beating, and his hand falls away from Harry’s robes to land on the floor with a thud!

 

 

---

 

 

The whiteness of this ghostly King’s Cross station is fading from around Harry. Dumbledore is already gone. Except suddenly, it almost seems to reverse, and Harry suddenly finds himself on the Hogwarts Express as it sits at Platform 9 and 3/4. Surprised, Harry looks around himself. Did he somehow make the wrong choice after all?

 

“Ah, Potter. Good, you’re here,” a voice says from the compartment entrance, and Harry’s gaze shoots to the doorway to see Severus Snape leaning there. Considering the professor bled to death barely an hour or two ago, he looks remarkably calm and healthy. Harry gapes at him.

 

“Professor . . . what . . . ?” is all he can manage.

 

Snape strolls in to the compartment and seats himself opposite Harry, casually leaning back in his seat and crossing his long legs. “You received the message I was supposed to pass on from Dumbledore, yes?” he queries.

 

“Yes, Professor, I did. Uh, thank you,” Harry adds, hesitantly. He glances around himself again. “I just spoke with Professor Dumbledore, actually. I was supposed to be heading back—”

 

“Don’t worry yourself, Potter,” Snape said, casually dismissing that with a wave of his hand. “I just wished to have a last word with you before I . . . move on.”

 

“Oh.” It is amazing how all of Harry’s vocabulary deserts him as soon as he is face to face with Snape.

 

“I am relieved to hear that you are returning,” Snape starts. “It just means that you will have to be much more careful in the future, since I will not be there to watch over you anymore.”

 

“Well, I’m sure I will be, once Voldemort is finally gone,” Harry says, shrugging his shoulders. “After all, it’s all been his fault, one way or the other.”

 

Snape lets out a small, amused chuckle. “Very true, Potter, very true,” he says. “But, still, a little decorum in future, please. No more flinging yourself in where angels fear to tread. I’m sure Miss Weasley will appreciate it.” He raises a pointed eyebrow at Harry, who promptly blushes and no doubt confirms his suspicions.

 

“Professor . . . thank you for looking out for me all these years,” Harry says, slowly but sincerely.

 

“It was the least I could do to make up for killing your mother,” Snape says. He suddenly looks slightly horrified and peers at Harry. “You did see that memory?” he asks.

 

Harry smiles at him, and Snape clearly relaxes. “Yes, I saw that, but it wasn’t you who struck her down, Professor, Voldemort did. And his time is coming,” Harry finishes in a growl, his hands clenching into fists. Perhaps in the next life, Tom Riddle will think twice about trying to gain immortality. Or perhaps he will learn not to go after supposedly-unprotected babies.

 

“Still, if I hadn’t—” Snape starts to say, but Harry interrupts him.

 

“Then it would have been another Death Eater, and perhaps my parents and Neville’s wouldn’t have had any warning that he was coming. It could have been much worse, Professor.”

 

Snape frowns, obviously not really believing that, but does not argue.

 

“Things could have been different as well if I’d let the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin as it wanted to,” Harry continues, wondering if Dumbledore ever told Snape about that.

 

It appears he didn’t. Snape looks suitably horrified. “The Hat . . . you . . . in Slytherin?” he croaks. Then he draws himself up and looks down his nose at Harry. “I should have retired – or expired – on the spot!” he declares.

 

Harry throws his head back and laughs, and after a moment, Snape joins in. The laughter is cathartic, and once they stop, the air hums with a silent contentment that is not awkward in the slightest. Things were as they were, and they both did their best.

 

Snape suddenly tilts his head as though listening to something Harry cannot hear. He suddenly uncrosses his legs and sits forward.

 

“I believe it is time you were getting back, Mr Potter,” he says.

 

Harry stands up, and spends a moment just looking at the man who has spent so long looking after the child of a woman who didn’t love him, who spurned his friendship after just one word uttered in the heat of the moment.

 

“Thank you, Professor, for everything,” he says. He holds a hand out, and Snape looks at it for long enough that Harry begins to think he should withdraw it, but then suddenly Snape wraps his long fingers around Harry’s.

 

“A pleasure knowing you . . . Harry,” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up in a faint smile. “A shame it couldn’t have been for longer, or better.” He finally drops Harry’s hand and gives him a little push towards the door. “Goodbye, Potter.”

 

“You, too, Professor Snape,” Harry says. He half turns back, and wonders if he is imagining the fact that Snape suddenly appears to be rapidly de-aging, and if the flash of red hair he sees out of the corner of his eye is merely a spark of light. “Goodbye . . . sir.” Snape smiles widely at the honorific.

 

Harry steps out of the compartment, and the world fades to white, and then goes black.