Of all the holidays Severus Snape detested, a number which included practically every holiday one might care to name, none was more loathsome to him than Halloween. It was the day the Dark Lord had been temporarily unbodied, true, and he had once made a point of toasting that fact privately ever year. However, the man—no, the fiend—had returned, so as far as Snape could see, there was no longer any cause for celebration. Besides being the anniversary of Lily's death (as if that on its own were not reason enough to loathe the day) it was also the day when the veil was thinnest. Any number of spells, potions, and rituals concerning the dead could be enhanced by completing them on this day, most of them dark or nearly so. There were even a small number that would be unsuccessful on any other day of the year, all of them illegal.

Any sensible adult in a school full of dunderheaded children would have spent the evening assuring that no such spells were attempted. But Dumbledore, great wizard though he was, did not quite fit the definition of sensible. Instead of tightening security, he held a feast, extending curfew and thus ensuring that there would be enough low-level chaos in the evening to make it difficult to spot a student plotting.

Perhaps, Snape mused after finding yet another student out of bed after hours and sending the wandering Hufflepuff to the hospital wing to secure a potion for his stomach ache, Dumbledore's idea was not so much to entertain the students as it was to thwart any nefarious plans by causing widespread indigestion throughout the student body.

Thankfully it was only a few minutes to midnight. Soon the danger would have passed and Snape could retire to his chambers for a glass of firewhiskey and a private toast to Lily's memory.

Or perhaps not, he thought, eyes narrowing as he felt the thrum of magic within an unused classroom. The door was locked from the inside, but that was easy enough to counter, as the classroom doors had long ago been spelled to resist the more effective locking charms unless cast by a professor. After casting a silencing charm on the door and a disillusionment charm on himself, he eased the door open and slid inside.

Potter. Of course it was Potter. The boy had inscribed quite a complicated runic circle on the floor and was standing in the center as it gathered power. In front of the circle Potter stood in was a smaller triangle of conjuration. Whom was the boy attempting to summon? For a moment, Snape considered the possibility that it might be Lily and his heart beat faster at the thought of seeing her again. He took an involuntary step closer, stumbling over a book as he did so.

He glared down at the offending object and froze in abject terror. He knew that book. Worse, he knew that ritual. Had he not researched it extensively in his sixth year? The ritual had been devised by a witch who wished to seek amends with the son who had died in an accident. Something involving the unintentional mixing of two very reactive potions and an experimental charm. Her notes indicated that he had come to her and she had been forgiven. Upon reading this, Snape thought he might use it to make amends for his slip the previous year and get back into Lily's good graces, however he soon learned the ritual had a darker side. With the exception of that original casting, every other record of the ritual being performed had been written by someone other than the one who performed it, because in each case the caster had perished.

And now Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the blasted, bloody savior of the wizarding world was about to perform a ritual that might as well be considered nothing better than a particularly painful way of committing suicide. Using instructions found in Snape's own book—in Snape's own handwriting!

Snape might hate the arrogant, strutting boy who considered himself above the rules, but he had pledged himself to protect the child. And now, with the magic in the room reaching a crescendo, Snape knew there was only one way to do so. Sparing only half a sneering thought for how very un-Slytherin his actions were, Snape ran the short distance between himself and Potter, shoving the boy with all his might to knock him from the circle.

As soon as Potter's feet had cleared the ring of runes, Snape began the incantation, only half-surprised that he remembered it after all these years. Absently, as he spoke the Latin words, he wondered if Potter had even bothered to translate them. Probably not, arrogant fool that he was. "I call upon the spirits of those whom I have wronged!" He reached down and picked up the athame and, willing himself not to think about the fate that surely awaited him, pushed up the left sleeve of his robe and drew the dagger swiftly from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, neatly bisecting the Dark Mark with a shallow cut that nevertheless began to bleed rather profusely. Ignoring the pain, he continued, "Come determine the price I must pay to atone for my sins. I submit myself to your power and await your judgment."

"No. No, stop!" the boy shouted, but it was too late. Snape sneered at the brat, but not for long; there were more important things to worry about than expressing his disdain to the author of his imminent demise. That, and the skin of his right forearm had split open under his robes. The wound would mirror the one he had inflicted on himself, he knew.

The dead had heard and had answered. They were coming, and he would die.

Out of the corner of his eye, Snape saw Potter turn away and was glad for it. He wanted no witness to this travesty. Perhaps the idiot would even attempt to leave. As it was Potter's magic that had built the circle, the boy's leaving would cause the dome of magic to shatter, killing Snape instantly. Given the accounts that he had read of failed attempts of the Ritual of Atonement, instantaneous death would likely be a blessing.

Meanwhile, misty forms were coalescing in front of him, visible only to his eyes. Some he had known in life, such as his father, who now stood in front of him with a scowl on his face, a belt in one hand and a bottle in the other. Others he barely recognized from his past: classmates he had hexed who had died in the war, students he had tormented who had met an untimely death. The majority, however, were far more frightening. They were a nameless multitude, and the malevolence from their numbers was suffocating. His eyes darted from face to face, searching for some memory of how he had wronged them but finding nothing.

A chill ran down to the base of his his spine causing his lungs to seize as it passed them by. Potions. These were people who had been hurt or killed by potions of his making.

His breath came in quick, painful gasps as a tall, burly man steps forward from the gathering throng. With great deliberation he placed one thick-fingered hand on Snape's arm right over the bloody slash. Immediately Snape's insides were riddled with burning, stabbing pain. Intestinal Inferno, he realized, gasping against the pain. He remembered the night he presented his invention to the Dark Lord, basking in the momentary praise.

"Enjoying a taste of your own medicine, are you?" the man drawled.

Another spirit stepped forward, this one covered with open wounds. She laid her hand next to that of the burly man, and Snape felt as though deep gashes opened all over his body, though he looked down and saw only the one on his bare arm and blood from it's partner still hidden under his robe. Still, it felt like Sectumsempra. Oh, how proud he had been of that spell. Fool! "You may not have cast the spell, but you created it," the spirit said. "It took me hours to die, and I was in agony the whole time."

He didn't see the spirit third step forward until a charred hand that was more bone than flesh slipped into his field of vision. Now it wasn't just Snape's insides that were on fire but his whole body. "You helped devise the potion that cause the fire to resist all efforts to extinguish it. I died with the screams of my husband in my ears."

A wave of nausea crashed over him from the pain, but when he opened his mouth, it was not just the contents of his stomach that escaped. As his arms bled, and his stomach muscles cramped, and the phantom gashes screamed in pain, and his flesh burnt without burning, Snape began to scream.

When Snape had knocked him out of the circle, Harry's first reaction had been fury. Well, once he picked himself off the floor and figured out what had happened, that is. Snape had ruined weeks of careful planning. Now he would have to wait another whole year to try again. That is if the nightmares plaguing him, many of them featuring Cedric and Voldemort, failed to drive him insane first.

Damn Snape. Why did he have to ruin everything? The spiteful git probably did it on purpose judging by the sneer on his face. Only that sneer was incredibly short lived and was replaced by a look of pain.

But why would he be in pain? There had been nothing in Madame Campbell's account of the Ritual of Atonement that mentioned any pain beyond that of the two cuts to the forearms. She had cast the circle, called for the judge, met her son, and been forgiven.

Had something gone wrong? He had drawn the circle perfectly, he was certain of that. He had triple-checked the runes and everything. And Snape's pronunciation of the incantation, what he had heard of it anyway, had sounded right. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that Snape had not been the one to draw the circle or summon the power to sustain it. After all, was it not Harry's wand that lay in front of Snape pointing east at the triangle of conjuration?

Snape grimaced. The expression was fleeting, but Harry saw it. He needed to get help. Dumbledore would know what had gone wrong, surely. He had only taken two steps when a sound behind him seemed to glue his feet to the floor.

Professor Snape had begun to scream.

No, this was all wrong. The one you had wronged were supposed to come, and you asked for forgiveness and then they forgave you…right? Only—and he wondered that he had not thought to ask this question before—only what if they didn't. And Snape was a Death Eater. He had seen the man's Dark Mark at the end of last year. Maybe he had turned spy as Dumbledore insisted, but Harry wasn't certain he believed it. He was certain that Snape must have done a lot of things that he needed to atone for. Even if there was the odd person willing to forgive their murderer, he couldn't imagine they all would. And Madame Campbell hadn't elaborated on what might happen in that case. Judging by the professor's screams, it was nothing good.

All he had wanted was to make things right with Cedric so that maybe the nightmares would stop. Now it was all going wrong. He had to fix it.

He had no idea how to fix it.

Tentatively he put a hand out toward the circle, only to be thrown back against the wall with such force that his head was left spinning from the impact. When the stone walls stopped dancing in his vision, Harry stood, eyes darting around the room looking for something, anything that might be of help.

Gah, how could he have forgotten? The best source of help was in the castle. He had been about to leave to find the headmaster when Snape had begun to scream. Still somewhat unsteady on his feet, Harry made his way toward the door.

And paused. Walking away from the circle felt wrong. He had never experienced the sensation before, but the only way he could think of to describe it was a sort of stretching. It was as though part of him was tethered somewhere behind him and every step caused the connection between that part and the rest of him to thin. He took another step. Then another. A third and he was almost at the door, but the stretching was growing more and more uncomfortable. By the time he reached the door the feeling was becoming painful. But Snape's screams indicated the man was in a great deal more pain than Harry had likely experienced outside of Voldemort's Cruciatis Curse. Under other circumstances Harry might stop, but Snape was being tortured in a ritual circle Harry had prepared. Despite not quite knowing what was happening, he did know he had to do everything in his power to fix it. He would continue on despite the pain.

The click of the door latch was followed immediately by the dull clunk of the door's bolt against the frame. Snape must have locked it when he entered. Harry reached into his pocket for his wand to cast alohamora only to find his pocket empty. Damn, he had forgotten that his wand was in the circle. How was he supposed to get help now?

The noises behind him were making his stomach twist with guilt and helplessness. Upset and tired from weeks, no, months of sleepless nights, Harry gave into his frustration and kicked at the ancient oak. It remained locked. All that he had achieved was to make his toe hurt.

Harry's ears rang with silence as Snape's screams cut off without warning. Was it over? He turned to see the circle was still intact. Walking back towards the circle he saw that Snape's expression was no longer one of pain but of fear.

Snape whimpered in response to nothing Harry could see or hear.

"Professor, what can I do? How can I end it?"

The fathomless black eyes of his Potions professor met his own and Harry thought that the anguish he saw in them would haunt him for the rest of his life. So would the words that followed.

"You can't…end it," Snape panted, his normally smooth voice hoarse from his screaming. "The ritual…must…run its course."

"There must be something I can do to help," Harry pled. Sitting and doing nothing while someone, even his most hated professor, was being tortured was unthinkable.

Snape gasped and stiffened, but managed to say, "Yes. Don't watch," before yet another scream tore from his lips.

H~*~P

Snape struggled to think through the blinding pain. There was something he should do. Something to do with the ritual. It hovered just on the edge of his thoughts, out of reach yet tantalizingly close.

His eyes focused through several spirits on the triangle of conjuration. The triangle where the judge would be summoned to preside over his fate. There was supposed to be a rune, yes, there it was. The boy had at least done that much correctly. He reached out his left hand toward the chalked symbol, only to have it seized upon by two spirits, each eager to administer a measure of retribution. His arm jerked and spasmed in response, but in doing so several drops of blood landed on the rune he had been reaching for. The white powder flashed a blindingly incandescent red and then vanished as a softer answering glow began in the triangle.

Snape had not believed the judge could spare him, but he had hoped that whoever it was might grant him the mercy of a swift death. Now, as the swirling mists coalesced into the form of one of his childhood nemeses, Snape was forced to abandon all hope. Of course Potter would have chosen his father to stand as judge.

"Snape." The tone was not menacing exactly, but neither was it in any way friendly.

He gasped as two spirits traded places and the pain of several deep gouges vanished to be replaced by the feeling of being kicked repeatedly. He recognized the hex as one he had created for Black. It was originally designed to give a swift kick in the arse: painful but not overly damaging except maybe to one's pride. It was Bellatrix who had found a way to amplify it to administer a dozen kicks at a time. It had been her favorite hex for a week which, given her mercurial moods, was an impressive time for a spell that wasn't an Unforgivable Curse to hold her attention.

At last he managed to catch his breath and muttered, "Potter."

"I have more reason than most to dislike you, Snape. I cannot fathom why you would call me as your advocate, and at the moment I cannot think of any reason why I should remain here and act as such. Tell me why I should not just let them have at you."

"Professor? Professor, what is it?" Drat. The boy had heard.

"I wasn't…" his words cut off as he felt the sensation of a bone breaking, then another, and another. It was odd to feel his bones break while knowing they remained whole, but that only added confusion to the pain, and Snape was rapidly losing the ability to concentrate.

"Enough! Let him answer," called the elder Potter, and all at once the pains ceased, leaving Snape gasping in shock at the release. The crowd of spirits moved back, though they still exuded anger and menace.

"Professor Snape, what's wrong?" Harry called, sounding increasingly upset. "What do you need?"

At least he could form a coherent answer now. "I am in need of nothing, Mr. Potter. I was not speaking to you."

Harry looked confused. "Not talking to me? Then who?"

At the same time the elder Potter sneered and said, "Oh, that's rich. Not talking to me, were you? I ought to…" It seemed that just as the younger Potter could not hear the spirits that had been summoned, they could not hear him.

"Please, Mr. Potter, this is not something you need to witness."

"Yes, sir" replied the boy, skepticism coloring his tones.

His father was less charitable, biting out, "If you want me to leave, I will. You were the one who called me here."

"James, shut up and use your brain for once!" came a new voice.

Snape closed his eyes and bit back the groan. Of course she would be here. Had he not wronged her most egregiously? He bowed his head, fighting for composure, but she did not speak to him. "Look," she commanded.

There was silence for a long moment before James Potter's voice sounded at just above a whisper. "Harry?" The dead might not be able to hear the living, but apparently they could see them. Then the softness was gone from his tone, "You bastard, you're making him watch this?"

Meanwhile, the younger Potter seemed to have reached a conclusion of his own, for he asked, "Professor, are my parents there? Were you talking to my dad?"

Snape's head was spinning. After the torture he had just endured, it was too much for him to be able to accurately parse the conversation of the three Potters, one of whom was unaware of the other two. He shook his head to clear it before repeating his order for the boy not to watch. He added, "And no matter what I say, don't turn around," hoping that the boy would obey.

He did, and Snape watched him turn around with some relief. A sharp crack finally made him return his attention to the more urgent matter at hand, and the sight that greeted him was enough to bring a smirk to his lips. Lily was standing in front of her husband looking vengeful. James Potter, for his part, was holding a hand to his left cheek his expression one of perfect surprise.

It took a few moments before the penny dropped, as the ghostly Potter looked between his wife, his son, and Snape. "Why would Harry…? He's just a boy, what does he have to atone for?"

"Very little. But there are undoubtedly those among the Death Eaters who died would hold him accountable for their loss. I did not think it wise to find out," Snape finally replied, when it seemed that the man actually expected an answer.

"And you…you took his place? On purpose?"

"Yes."

James looked at his son again, then raised suspiciously most eyes to meet Snape's gaze. "You are a good man, Severus Snape. I wish I could have known that in life." Not breaking the connection, Potter bowed and intoned, "I will serve as your judge; I will stand as your advocate."

"So it was said, so it will be done," said Lily, in equally formal tones, and the ghostly multitude surrounding them echoed her words.

"I—" Snape began, but faltered. The entire evening had taken on an air of the surreal, but it was still difficult to put aside his pride to make a request of James Potter, even an oddly repentant-looking James Potter. The man was looking at him, waiting, though, and Snape decided to press on. "For the boy's sake, if nothing else, make it quick. He has been witness to enough torture already this night."

He nodded, his face grim. "I will do what I can, for both your sakes." Then James Potter looked up to address the gathered crowds. "Let all those who have a grievance come forward and present themselves before the judge."

…James Potter looked up to address the gathered crowds. "Let all those who have a grievance come forward and present themselves before the judge."

The crowd of spirits erupted into chaos, shouting their accusations and pushing forward to make themselves heard over the voices of their fellows.

"SILENCE!" bellowed James Potter, his voice magically amplified to a level that caused Snape to cringe. The decibel level dropped as some of the shades complied, but others continued to yell and shove and ignore all pleas for order.

As the cacophony continued, Snape saw Potter's eyes narrow dangerously until, after about a minute had elapsed, he raised his hands and a rush of magic swept over the crowd followed by a silence so profound that Snape felt the need to shake his head as if that might clear whatever was blocking his ears.

"Much better," Potter commented in a tone of false sweetness that Umbridge could only hope to emulate. "Now that we are all paying attention…it seems that the circle caster specified a trial by the scales," and Potter indicated a set of brass scales as tall as Hagrid that had appeared to Snape's left.

"As judge, I can determine when you may place your grievance on the scales, but I cannot deny you the right to do so. However, be aware that the scales judge guilt differently than you might, and they cannot be reasoned with. If the wrong done against you is counted by the scales as an act of good, there is no recourse."

There was some shifting at this, and several spirits whose voices were still silenced by the spell Potter had cast were moving their mouths in soundless protest.

Now Potter turned to Snape, "Once we begin, you will be allowed to speak after each presentation to justify or explain your actions, but no other interruptions will be permitted. Do you have any questions before I hear the first accuser?"

What good would curiosity do him? The trial would be held, his many misdeeds piled on the scales, and he would have to face judgement. Well-deserved judgement, he knew. Still, there was one thing he wished to know. The traditional scales of justice had two pans; if one pan was to hold all his misdeeds, what would the other hold? "What is used as counterbalance on the scales?"

Potter actually smiled at that. "Ah. Silly of me to leave that out. That pan is for the acts of good you have done throughout your life."

There was no way the balance of his life would be good.

"Anything else?"

Snape shook his head.

"Very well, then let us begin. You in the Hogwarts robes," Potter indicated a shy looking young woman standing toward the back of the crowd and apparently studying the floor, "you first."

The child squeaked and nearly fell over, and a spark of recognition flared in Snape's mind. Julius Worsfold, a Ravenclaw whom he had taught for three, no four years. Then one year he had not returned. What had happened to the child? Had he even bothered to inquire? He rather doubted it. Snape had his Slytherins to manage and paid little attention to the other children. After all, it wasn't entirely unheard of for a family to move or for a student to be transferred to another wizarding school.

"I- I- I didn't…" The boy trailed off, taking a deep breath. "I didn't mean to come. I saw what they did to him before you got here and I don't want to do that!" he said.

"That's okay. The ritual brought you here for a reason, but you don't need to approach the scales if you don't want to."

"Can I…can I just talk to him a bit?" the boy asked.

"Of course."

Snape suppressed a grimace. He remembered the young Mr. Worsfold as a hard-working and articulate student who wrote excellent essays and had absolutely no talent for actual brewing. Snape had not been kind to the boy, frustrated as he was by the disconnect the child exhibited between his near-perfect theoretical understanding and his inability to follow the step-by-step directions to brew a simple potion. Torture might be preferable to a conversation with him now.

Worsfold met Snape's eyes for a second before dropping his gaze to the floor again. After a lengthy pause, he seemed to have gathered enough courage and looked back up to say in a shaking voice, "You are a bully. For some reason you were given authority over children and you abused it."

It was hardly a revelation.

"Well?" Worsfold asked when Snape did not immediately reply. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Very little," Snape admitted. "You have said nothing untrue."

"Why?" and that word was laden with enough pain that Snape felt a twinge of shame.

"I…" Snape was quite practiced in deception and had no qualms about lying if it meant preserving his life, however he loathed excuses. He did not accept them from his students and he would not stoop to that level himself. Given that his demise tonight was a certainty, he saw no reason to try to justify himself to his former student. "I was the victim of bullying at school, and I cannot imagine many explanations that would soothe the hurt of it. I will not offer you false words here. I have little tolerance for incompetence, especially incompetence that puts others in danger, such as your sloppy brewing did on a regular basis. I was harsh on you because I could not fathom how someone as intelligent as you were could be so bad at following instructions."

Worsfold snorted. "You were right, that doesn't make me feel better at all. Yet you have come here to ask for atonement. How would you atone for your wrong? Will you promise to cease your bullying and help your students instead?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You assume I will be alive to do so."

"And why not? I'm not going to demand your death; you did nothing to me bad enough to deserve that. I would like to see you be a little nicer to your students, though."

Could he? With the Dark Lord gathering his followers and working his plans and with the very students Snape sought to protect spying on him (and each other) to curry favor with their maniacal master any change in behavior would be reported. With Bellatrix whispering in the Dark Lord's ear, he could not risk any actions that would be judged suspicious.

"Even if you assume that I will survive tonight, your request is both reasonable and impossible at this time," Snape answered at last.

Worsfold humphed. "Well, I still won't call for your blood. You've suffered enough this night." With that the boy turned to the great scales. "I waive all claims against this man," he said and touched his right hand to the base of the scale. The pans remained level as the boy faded from view.

Another spirit immediately took his place.

This one, a witch who declared her name to be Helena Boyd and whom Snape did not recognize, was covered in scars and was less disposed to be forgiving. She had died in a fire that had been magically enhanced by a potion Snape had invented to be nearly impossible to put out. "He should suffer as I did!" she insisted when James Potter pointed out that Snape himself had not done her any harm.

"What of the ones who threw the potion? Don't you think they bear the majority of the guilt? If Snape had never invented that potion do you really think you would be alive today?"

"There's plenty of guilt to go around," Boyd insisted.

They argued further but it seemed to Snape that Potter made little impression on her. It took several long minutes for Potter to convince the woman to let Snape speak in his own defense. As if there could be a defense for that particular potion. It, like Sectumsempra had no redeeming value. Still, she turned to him arms akimbo, waiting with an air of one determined to be displeased.

"I wish I had never developed that potion," he admitted.

Boyd snorted. "That's it?"

Snape shook his head, absently noting as he did so that he was beginning to feel the loss of blood from the gashes on his forearms. "What else is there to say?"

"What else? Well, let's start with the obvious question. The same one that boy just asked. Why did you do it?"

It was unlikely that she would like the truth, and it certainly would not buy him any favor from the others watching, but they deserved to know. He began his explanation, wondering as he spoke if there wasn't some compulsion charm woven into the ritual. Snape had never spoken so openly about his motives to anyone, not even to Dumbledore.

"I was an angry young man searching for a way to gain respect and influence as I felt both had been denied me my entire life. I joined the Dark Lord's followers because I thought that was the way to achieve my goals. In the beginning, I invented potions to prove my worth. Did I wish harm on you specifically? No. But I knew the purposes to which the potions would be put and I made them anyway. I believed myself to be on the right side of the war, fighting to liberate wizards from the chains that bound us into hiding from muggles despite our obvious superiority. The Dark Lord assured us that the casualties were a regrettable but necessary evil and that once in power things would be so much better.

"After some time, I began to have doubts, but one could not just leave the service of the Dark Lord. I continued inventing potions then in the hopes that by gaining his favor, my mistake would turn out not to be a mistake after all. Perhaps things were better for those he trusted, I thought. Besides, the Dark Lord and the other Death Eaters scarcely needed potions to kill or maim or harm. If they already had fifty ways to kill someone, what did it really matter if I handed them one or two more?"

"What. Did. It. Really. Matter?" Boyd repeated, anger dripping off every word. "You're pathetic, you know that! First you tell me that you wish you hadn't created the potion and then you say that it doesn't matter. How nice to know my life doesn't really matter to you. I would have died anyway, so you don't need to feel guilty, is that it."

"I regret the part I had in your death," Snape reiterated, "but once the Dark Lord decided to kill someone, the ultimate outcome was merely a matter of time."

Boyd spat in disgust—a gesture that was rendered much less impressive due to the fact that the phantasmic saliva vanished the instant it passed her lips—and took her turn to face the scales. "I demand the petitioner pay for the role he had in my painful death."

Snape closed his eyes as she put her hand on the scale only to snap them open again as she screamed, "No!"

The pans had moved, but not nearly as much as Snape had feared.

Boyd was still yelling. "That can't be all! He must pay for ha—" and she, too faded from sight. To Snape's surprise, so did several others.

"What?"

"I think that was everyone whose only grievance was that you invented that potion. You can hardly be held guilty for a single act a dozen times," Potter reasoned. Snape hoped he was correct.

The parade of spirits continued on. In the first war Snape had not been on the front lines. He had skulked around pubs and spied, invented spells, and brewed potions at the request of those who were more inclined to the more up-close and personal kinds of violence. The guilt for each potion and spell might not be much, but they added up. Too, as the procession continued there were more people like Helena Boyd than like Julius Worsfold. Privately, though, Snape thought it wouldn't matter in the end. The bleeding from the wounds on his arms had slowed but it had not stopped; given the number of people still in the queue the odds were high that he would bleed out before a decision was reached.

The next person Snape remembered. Of course he remembered her, he had killed her less than a month ago. Until this woman, a woman whose name he had never learned, all of the people who had confronted him had either done so over bullying as a teacher or indirect harm from his potions or spells he had created in the first war.

She looked at him with disgust, something for which Snape did not blame her. "I have nothing to say to you. You can give me no excuse that I would care to hear." With that she turned and placed her hands on the scales…which shifted toward the good.

"No. That's not right!" She turned to James Potter. "What the hell just happened?"

Potter looked as gobsmacked as the woman, who was even now fading from sight, and turned to Snape in confusion.

"Avery had…plans for her," Snape said, letting his tone imply the nature of those plans. "I—" he stopped and took a breath to steady the shaking in his voice. The blood loss was affecting him, it had to be, there could be no other reason why he had so little control of his emotions right now. "I could not save her any other way than by sparing her," he shifted his gaze to where the astonished woman had been standing, "the pain and the days of torture that would have followed." She had been spared, but Snape had not, and he shuddered somewhat in remembrance. Avery had been furious at Snape's carelessness with the prisoner, and with the Dark Lord's permission had subjected Snape to several curses.

"Damn," Potter said, with a gusty sigh.

"Indeed. And I cannot even do that much most of the time without drawing suspicion upon myself."

Potter shook his head. "I can't even imagine."

Snape looked at the next spirit and shook his head, trying to clear the double vision. It didn't work. The spirit still had a fuzzy outline. He looked like a teen, but also like a young man in his early thirties. It was making Snape's head throb. Or perhaps that was the blood loss again.

Then he looked into the spirit's eyes. They were brown and nothing noteworthy until he saw, like the flashes of lightning deep within a cloud, a blaze of red. And then he remembered where he had seen the teen's face before. It was in a memory that Dumbledore had shared with him several years ago.

Perhaps he wouldn't die from his wounds after all.

Then he looked into the spirit's eyes. They were brown and nothing noteworthy until he saw, like the flashes of lightning deep within a cloud, a blaze of red. And then he remembered where he had seen the teen's face before. It was in a memory that Dumbledore had shared with him several years ago.

Perhaps he wouldn't die from his wounds after all.

~H*P~

Harry sat on the cold stone floor of the classroom staring at the wall. His professor had asked him not to watch, and Harry had respected that, albeit grudgingly. Unfortunately, looking away didn't stop him from hearing everything Snape said. At least there had been no more screaming, but that didn't mean the situation wasn't awkward. It felt rather like he was eavesdropping on a phone call, or perhaps a confession before a priest. There were long periods of silence followed by what Harry believed to be Snape's attempts to explain his actions. Explain, he noted, never excuse. And never did he plead for forgiveness. Altogether, Harry was impressed.

It wasn't that Snape struck him as a man who would beg and plead for his life—and the professor had said more than once that he expected to be dead by the end of this night—but wasn't it natural for people to attempt to put their behavior into a positive light? True, Harry could only hear half of the conversation, and Snape's characteristic terseness left him a little short on details, but it sounded as though the man fully accepted whatever was being accused of. Introspection was not Harry's strong suit, he knew, but for a moment he wondered how things might have been different if he had been so accepting of his own failings in the past. Would it have improved matters to have fessed up and accepted the consequences without a fuss? No, probably not he concluded. It likely would have made Snape even more angry with him had he shown up to an Occlumency lesson and said, "No, Professor, I haven't been practicing clearing my mind because I don't understand how to practice or what it means to clear my mind, and anyway I have a lot of homework. It is my O.W.L. year after all."

These musings could only occupy his mind for so long, however. Harry pictured Snape still kneeling in the center of the circle, a few smears of blood on the ground and more dripping down the man's fingers from the cuts on his forearms. Worse still, he didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Snape was growing weaker by the minute; he could hear as much in the man's voice. The professor's comments about his imminent death reinforced what Harry had gathered from Snape's tortured screaming earlier; rather than having robbed Harry of his chance for absolution, Snape had saved him from something horrific. It was unconscionable, therefore, for Harry to simply sit and listen to his professor's demise, no matter how much he hated the man. He had to try something.

The book!

He couldn't remember any notations in the margin of the book that talked about how to end the ritual prematurely, but admittedly he hadn't been looking for them. It was possible he had overlooked them focused as he was on the complexities of the ritual itself. Hoping he could avoid drawing Snape's attention and ire, Harry edged back from the wall towards the runic circle and the book that lay near it. It would have been easier if he could have turned around, but he had been asked not to watch and so he would not look…not until he could do something more than look, anyway. After a minute, he found the book and scrambled with it back to where he had been sitting.

Over the last few weeks, Harry had read over the ritual so many times that the book practically opened on its own to the proper page. As he recalled, the scrawled notes were minutely detailed on the procedure of the ritual itself, but there was little information beyond that, and Harry was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was nothing here that would allow him to stop the ritual without killing the processor in the process.

If Hermione thought Harry had a "saving people thing" when he wanted to rescue Sirius, he wondered what she would call his current efforts on behalf of Snape. Odd, really, how desperate he was to save a man who had done so much to make his time at Hogwarts miserable. Snape was a bully who was unafraid to abuse his power as an instructor to humiliate his students, and Harry had caught more than his share of undeserved humiliation through the years. The pensive incident and learning that Snape had just cause to revile the Potter name had given Harry some insight into his professor's actions, but it never really excused them. If Ron were here, he could just imagine him saying that Snape was simply getting what was coming to him and that Harry should stop worrying so much. But Harry wasn't Ron. He might not like Snape, but neither did he wish the man dead.

Professor Snape's voice interrupted his musings. Harry tilted his head, listening as the potions master explained how he had been attempting to devise a potion to reverse the nerve damage caused by the Cruciatus Curse when he had accidentally discovered a potion that incapacitated a person's somatic motor neurons. Harry only understood about half of what he was saying, but gathered that the potion had been turned over to Voldemort recently at Dumbledore's suggestion because he wanted the megalomaniac's trust. It was disgusting, handing weapons to the man who was terrorizing all of wizarding Britain and (although they didn't know it) a good part of muggle Britain as well.

Spy, Harry reminded himself. Snape was a spy. He might have doubted before, but he couldn't after tonight. No Death Eater would have willingly sacrificed his own life for Harry's when there were no witnesses there who would expect such an act. It would not have been difficult to wait a few seconds until Harry had cast the circle and then run to Dumbledore claiming that he had been too late to prevent it.

Shaking his head, Harry refocused on the text, squinting in confusion when he spotted something unfamiliar in the ritual he had nearly memorized. Only then did he realize that he had flipped past the pages detailing the Ritual of Atonement. His eyes darted back up to where a title might reasonably be but all he saw were the words "for enemies" scrawled above the instructions. Thinking back to when he had first perused the book he had a vague memory of having glanced at this page, but at the time he had been much more interested in the atonement ritual than anything geared towards revenge.

Returning to the ritual itself, he scrutinized the procedure and the notations that accompanied the few differences between this and the Ritual of Atonement. As he read, a knot formed in the pit of his stomach, small at first, but soon Harry was fighting the urge to be sick. By about halfway through Harry realized that what he was reading wasn't just based on the Ritual of Atonement, it was the Ritual of Atonement cast by one person as a trap for another. The alterations all seemed to center on making it so the caster could be inside the circle without being the target of the spell.

The Half-Blood Prince had known! He had known the Ritual of Atonement was a horrific rite and had adapted it so that he could trap an enemy and watch them suffer. Harry twisted violently away from the book because there was no stopping the bile that was rising in his throat after that thought. He hadn't eaten much at dinner, so it wasn't long before his stomach was empty, though it cramped twice more after that bringing up nothing but a thin stream of acid. At last he felt recovered enough to turn back, although he wished he had his wand to vanish the puddle of sick behind him.

This was a good thing, he assured himself, talking careful, deep breaths. Not that he had failed to realize that his grand plan for this evening apparently amounted to little more than a fancy magical form of suicide; that was entirely bad. So was the fact that he had been beginning to idolize the previous owner of this textbook despite Hermione's warnings. The Half-Blood Prince had to have been fairly Dark to have modified an atonement ritual (even though it had a tragic conclusion, it was at least cast by choice) into a vicious, deadly trap. A trap the Prince could then observe in minute detail. No, what was good was there was every chance that the Half-Blood Prince's modifications might help Harry in devising his own similar alterations. If he could only divine meaning from what had changed and what had not, he might be able to find a way to stop the ceremony. Or intervene. Something!

Over the last two years, Hermione had helped him improve his Latin, but it was nowhere near good enough for him to be sure about what he was attempting. However, after some working out he had something he thought had decent odds at working. He stood and faced the circle, stepping forward until he was only about half a meter behind Snape, who was either worse off than he looked or completely absorbed by the proceedings as he had failed to notice Harry's movement.

He took a deep breath and focused There was a chance this would backfire and kill him or Snape, or possibly both of them, but Harry had been the cause of enough deaths and he would not sit idly by now. Of course, his wand was in the center of the circle, so he might achieve nothing at all. But he had once cast Lumos when his wand was nearby and not in his hand and that had worked. He tried to concentrate the way he needed to for casting spells nonverbally in the hopes that would help.

Snape was speaking again, and Harry took that opportunity to begin the incantation. He really didn't want his professor to try to stop him. Taking great care over his pronunciation he spoke the incantation that he hoped translated as "may the circle that I have cast allow me entrance to observe."

He felt a pulse of magic as he finished the incantation. Dear Merlin, he hoped that pulse meant the spell had worked; he had no wish to repeat the incident earlier when the circle had thrown him into the wall. With some hesitation, he stepped across the chalked boundary of the circle and had to suppress a gasp at the sight that shimmered into existence. Harry was standing on the edge of a crowd of…what, exactly? They weren't ghosts, that was for sure. In fact, they looked quite normal except that they gave the impression that they lacked real substance.

"I can't even imagine." That short phrase, spoken by a voice familiar despite his having heard it last over a year and a half ago, drew Harry's attention to the two figures standing in front of Snape with a set of gigantic scales behind them.

"Dad." It escaped without conscious thought, but although he felt his lips form the word the little sound that escaped him was overpowered by a sudden intake of breath by Snape.

It was then that Harry tore his eyes away from his father's form and recognized the man next to him. Unlike the others, this…spirit, phantom, possibly specter?…was blurred, almost as though two people were occupying the same space, but one of those two was a face he would never forget. It was the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle who had inhabited the diary and had nearly killed Ginny in his second year.

"Bollocks." That wasn't a whisper, and Harry felt the weight of the stares as all attention turned towards him.

The crowd stirred like a hive of angry bees, and several voices rose above the general noise of angry muttering.

"What in Merlin's name?"

"How did he get inside the circle?"

"Potter, what have you done?" That was Snape, and he did not sound tired at all. In fact, he sounded livid.

Before Harry could formulate an explanation, one of the specters advanced on him shouting.

"Begone! This is a court of Death, the living have no voice here."

A bolt of sickly yellow light shot from the specter's outstretched hand at Harry. Before he could marshal his wits to dodge it, another specter darted in between him and his aggressor, deflecting the spell. A feminine voice began arguing with his attacker, but Harry understood none of it over the rushing in his ears, for in front of him stood the man whose death had inspired him to attempt the ritual in the first place.

"Sirius. Oh, Sirius, I'm so sorry, I never meant…" he choked on the words, blinking back the tears that blurred his view of his godfather's face.

Sirius placed an insubstantial hand on Harry's shoulder. It wasn't cold like a ghost's hand would be. It was…nothing. No weight, no warmth, nothing; just another reminder that his godfather could no longer be in his life. "I know, kid. You've got to stop blaming yourself, but now is really not the best time for this conversation," Sirius replied. His words were reinforced by the cold, high voice that interrupted them.

"This is a touching scene, is it not? Harry Potter reunited with those he has lost during his attempt to rescue his professor."

Voldemort liked attention, Harry knew, and so he grit his teeth, deliberately ignored the taunt, and turned towards his father. "If the living have no voice, why is he here?"

"He's not dead?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Snape beat him to it. "Though many would wish otherwise, the Dark Lord is very much alive."

That brought gasps from everyone, Harry saw, his father and Sirius included. Had no one here realized they were looking at Voldemort except himself and Snape?

"Yes, that I am, my traitorous servant. Despite this child's supposed victories, I live and thrive."

"If you are not dead…not wholly dead…" James began, but was cut off.

"I killed you once, I will not hesitate to do so again," Voldemort snarled. He extended his hand and vicious red light shot from his fingertips.

James waved the spell aside and answered with one of his own.

Clearly wands were not necessary for the dead and Harry watched in awe as his father dueled with the wizard who had killed him. Though Voldemort's blurry outline made it hard to focus directly on him, Harry saw the instant that the Dark wizard resorted to the killing curse. Harry shouted a warning to his father, but it was unnecessary as James waved that spell away like he had all the others.

"I am the judge here, and your magic cannot triumph against me," he said, casting a spell that knocked Voldemort back several steps though it did not seem to cause any real harm.

"Very well," came the reply. Voldemort then raised his hands above his head and brought them down with a spectacular clap and a wash of magic. Harry did not know how he had done it, but all at once the other specters were pushed out of the circle and confined behind a magical barrier. A second spell silenced the shouting, leaving Voldemort, Snape and Harry in near silence.

"I shall deal with you later," Voldemort said with a dismissive wave of his pale hand in the direction of the crowd. "Now, traitor, you have asked for atonement from those you have wronged. What price is enough for betraying your master?"

Harry watched, fear pulsing through his veins like ice. He had the feeling that whatever had been done to Snape to have elicited those horrible screams earlier would soon be inflicted on his professor and himself in even greater measure. But years of Harry Hunting had led to ingrained habit. Wise or not, when faced with someone capable of overpowering him with force, Harry automatically resorted to words.

"How exactly has Snape here betrayed you? You were entrapped in a diary over 50 years ago, before he was born, and killed before you could escape, so you couldn't ever have interacted with him the way your older self did."

The brown eyes flashed a menacing red and a sudden flash of excruciating pain ripped through Harry's scar. "Foolish boy, do you think that the veil is enough to keep Lord Voldemort, the greatest wizard alive, away on this of all days?"

Was there some connection between this memory of Voldemort and the Voldemort who was alive? Harry's mind put that thought aside for contemplation in the future. Right now, he had more important things to deal with.

"We've had this discussion before, Tom," Harry said with a scoff. "Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard alive, not you. I mean, how great can you be if Snape here has been lying to you for years and you never realized?"

"Proclaiming loyalty to Dumbledore in the hopes that he will send his wretched songbird to you again, Harry Potter? Not even phoenix tears will save you tonight. Crucio." Voldemort's long-fingered hand extended toward Harry leaving him to dodge the jet of red light the emanated from his fingers. Harry landed hard on the ground next to Snape and he knew he would be unable to dodge the next spell from this position.

"Crucio!" Voldemort cast again, but this time the curse dissipated inches from Harry's chest.

"Losing your touch, Tom?"

In front of him Snape hissed, "Potter, have you lost your mind?"

"Avada Kadavra!" the enraged Voldemort shouted. Snape reacted before Harry could, yanking Harry down interpose himself between Harry and Voldemort. Harry flinched as the green light approached, but this spell scattered just as the other had.

Looking up from his prone position, Harry saw Sirius and both his parents behind the magical barrier. He smiled at the expressions on their faces. "I think you should take a look over there," Harry said, pointing behind Voldemort to where James Potter stood, arms crossed and looking ineffably smug. "You may have moved him, but he is still the judge."

Voldemort snarled in rage before vanishing with a crack.

Harry made to rise, but Snape caught his arm and pulled him back down. "He's still here. Look at the barrier."

There were spells that did not need the presence of their caster to stay active, Harry knew, but before he could suggest that was the case here he was seized by a red-eyed serpent, bound in coils of pain, and controlled by its will.

"The judge may have prevented me from harming you, but he has no power over the boy. Will you kill me, Severus, before I kill you?"

No…he could not let the creature force him to harm Snape. He had entered the circle to save him, not to kill him. Harry struggled against the pain, fighting to remember how he had escaped the creature at the ministry, but as his mind grasped at the edges of the thought, the creature tightened its coils. Images that were not his own flashed through his mind and then there was nothing but pain and the creature that was bound around him so tightly that they were as one.

No light reached his eyes, for the red-eyes of the serpent stole all the light before it reached him. The only sounds he heard were the thoughts of the creature as it used his mouth to speak. His muscles felt as though they had been pierced by a thousand needles; his lungs were on fire as the agony suffocated him, but through the haze of pain he felt his arms move. His hands were clenching around flesh…a neck?

"Will you not even fight back? Kill me Severus. Kill the boy and you will be free. I will even grant you a swift death."

Yes, please, Snape. Kill me and end the pain.

The coils around him tightened further and Harry wondered that his ribs had not broken from the pressure. And then there was light. His eyes had been freed to look at the face of his professor. He saw his own hands tightening around Snape's neck as the man put up not even a token resistance.

"You won't fight back? Won't you beg for mercy from Lord Voldemort?" The creature used Harry's mouth to say.

Snape was not a nice man, but as he watched his professor accept death rather than harm him it occurred to Harry that despite Snape's faults (and they were many) he might just be a good man. Something within Harry shifted. He could not say that he liked Snape, but a sense of admiration and respect bloomed within him.

The creature hissed in pain and loosened its grip on him. Though it did not release Harry completely, he managed to wrest some control back of his body. Enough, at least, to remove his hands from around Snape's neck before it reasserted control.

The professor took a gasping breath, not breaking eye contact with Harry. "You have your mother's eyes," he rasped.

His mother. Both his parents and Sirius were standing behind the barrier watching him. Helpless to save him. His heart flooded with love for his family and as the emotion swelled the creature's control over him waned. The pain lessened then vanished, and Harry, no longer supported by the will of the serpent, collapsed into his professor, knocking them both to the floor.

All at once there was a cacophony of voices and running feet.

"Harry? Harry, are you alright?" somebody was speaking, but he was barely paying attention. It took nearly all his concentration to fight against unconsciousness. There was something he had to do…somebody he had to help. Nearby he heard a voice…his father, he thought…asking Snape if he was well.

"Harry?"

It took more effort than it should have, but he managed to turn his head just enough to see the woman kneeling at his side. A woman with red hair and bright green eyes.

He managed a small smile, "I'm alright, mum."

And then he let the darkness sweep him away.

Snape was dimly aware of the cacophony of voices that broke out around him after he collapsed to the floor with Potter the younger half sprawled on top of him. Although the hands of the Voldemort-possessed-Potter were no longer around his neck, his throat still felt constricted and every desperately drawn inhalation caused a fresh wave of suffering. For a few moments he lay still, hardly daring to believe that he was alive, or that a boy who could not grasp even the most rudimentary aspects of Occlumency had mentally bested the Dark Lord.

He was drawn out of his musings by a persistent voice near his ear. With great effort, he focused only to hear James Potter's irate tones, "…swear to Merlin, if I were corporeal, I'd slap you. Now is not the time to lay down. There is no healer to help either of you; there's only you. Get up, man!"

Still gasping for the breath that had been choked out of him, Snape waved off James Potter's concern. And wasn't that an unexpected turn, hearing the elder potter—any Potter, really—sounding concerned on his behalf. He struggled to sit up, mumbling an imprecation at all male Potters as he worked to maneuver himself out from under the younger Potter's weight and into a sitting position. The intended insult came out as an incoherent grunt followed by a gasp as the pain of attempting to speak shot through him like a Cruciatus Curse. By the time he recovered, James's attention had been commandeered by a crowd of specters all demanding to be given an explanation thus leaving Snape free to tend to the worryingly inert form of Harry Potter.

Sitting up had resulted in the world spinning about him for several moments, but as soon as he was able, Snape reached out to the unconscious teen, pressing fingers to the boy's neck. Yes there was a heartbeat. With unsteady hands, Snape then pulled back one of Potter's eyelids thinking that it was just as well to be sure.

Green, not red.

A tension he had not been aware of bled from his body with a shuddering sigh, loosening his jaw and shoulders. The tension returned in almost equal measure, though, when he took in Potter's pallor and shallow breathing. He reached for his wand, fumbling slightly when the blood on his hand made the smooth wood unexpectedly slick. The basic first-aid charm required a somewhat complicated gesture that Snape only managed to coerce out of his weakening body on the fourth attempt. It was not a spell meant to diagnose specific injuries but rather to identify areas of major concern so that a healer could cast more targeted diagnostics. Snape did not know what he expected the result to be, but he definitely was unprepared for the pale pink haze hovering over Potter's entire body. What did that result mean again? Something systemic, clearly. It was bad, he knew, but at this moment he could not recall why.

"Shock," a voice supplied, and Snape glanced up long enough to meet the eyes of Sirius Black's specter and nod. That was it. He might find the Potter brat infuriating, but his focus right now was on saving the idiot's life and he hardly cared who had supplied the answer to his dilemma. Now what was one supposed to do for shock victims? Seek a qualified healer, of course, but that was not an option at the moment. A shiver wracked Harry's frame, so Snape cast a warming charm. He was certain there was something else he should do, but he could not recall what that might be aside from monitoring the boy's condition and hoping he would not get worse.

Having done all he could for the moment and seeing that the boy was stable, Snape took the opportunity to glance around. James Potter stood just far enough away that Snape could not make out what he was saying to the remaining specters who were all grouped around him. Based on the frustration evident on the man's face he was having some difficulty with whatever he was attempting to convey to the muggles in front of him. Kneeling next to the supine form of the younger Potter were Sirius Black, looking more somber than Snape had ever seen him, and Lily Potter. Snape tore his eyes away from Lily's form; he was ashamed of his past and had no desire to see that shame echoed in her eyes. Unfortunately, that left him looking at Black.

The two men stared at each other for a minute in silence, not that Snape had any desire to speak again so soon after his last agonizing attempt.

"I don't like you, Snape," Black said at last.

Although he could not speak, Snape was still capable of sneering.

Black continued, unaffected by the expression. "I never did, and I'm confident in my belief that the feeling is entirely mutual. In fact, I cannot imagine any world where we would have gotten along. You were a bastard in school and have continued to be a bastard as an adult."

That was rather too like the cauldron calling the kettle black in Snape's mind, and he glared at the boy who had done so much to make his school years a living hell.

Unaccountably, the man appeared somewhat flushed and lowered his eyes in what, in anyone else, Snape might have thought was embarrassment. "But, well, death can broaden your perspective if you let it. And I, um, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I was a bit of a bastard too."

At least three sarcastic retorts came to Snape's mind but he forced himself to be content with a derisive sniff.

"More than that, I really should not have sent you into the Shrieking Shack, no matter how obnoxious you were being with all your sneaking around trying to get us into trouble. I doubt you're ready to forgive me for that, or anything else, really, and that's okay. I know that I deserved at least half of what you dealt out at school.

"But the scales are even there, as well, since I'm not ready to forgive you yet, either. Your role in my friends' death and your treatment of my godson…well, if our positions were reversed, would you forgive me?"

Snape shook his head, not as an answer but out of shock that he was having this conversation. If you could call it a conversation, that is. Black took the gesture as an answer, though, and Snape didn't bother to attempt to correct him.

"All that aside, Harry needs a protector, and you have fulfilled that role better than anyone else in his life. Better than I could as an escaped convict confined to Grimmauld Place, certainly. Better even than Dumbledore, who has a tendency to dismiss the sufferings and sacrifices of individuals so long as they serve the greater good.

"I know of at least one time you saved Harry's life, and I suspect that he would be dead half a dozen times over without your assistance. Even now you are watching out for him." Black tilted his head to indicate where Snape had rested his hand on Potter's chest so that he might be aware at once of any change in the teen's breathing patterns. "I believe he has a better chance of surviving this war with you alive, and so, for his sake—his, not yours!—I will not claim a grievance."

The specter of Black reached out and allowed one hand to brush past the shoulder of his unconscious godson. Without any further words, or even a backward glance, Black then walked up to the golden scales, spoke a few words that were too quiet for Snape to make out, and vanished. To Snape's great surprise, the scales tipped towards the good.

James was still dealing with the other specters, so Snape turned towards the one person he both longed and feared to see, fixing his eyes on her hands. He had several vivid memories from his fifth year of her expressions following his utterance of the unforgivable word—first pain, then disappointment, and later, as he tried to apologize, anger—and he did not think he could face that again. Not even the desire to look on her face again was strong enough to overcome his reluctance.

"You betrayed our friendship," she said, her voice oddly flat considering the harsh words. "You apologized, yes, but we were beyond words, Severus. If you had only tried, even just a little, to show me in your actions that you were sorry, that you…that you cared…" her voice broke on the last word, prompting Snape to look up at last.

For years as a spy he had witnessed heinous crimes and casual torture by Voldemort and his fellow Death Eaters without once betraying his distaste for what he saw, but glare Lily Potter was giving him caused him to flinch away in pain and remorse.

She cleared her throat before continuing, "But you didn't. Instead you sunk deeper into the darkness. You became a Death Eater! You joined an organization whose goal it was to destroy people like me! Perhaps I was wrong to give up on you, but I could see no way to continue when you valued my opinions, valued me so little."

Assurances of his unflagging care for her flew through Snape's mind followed by explanations and justifications for his choices. He opened his mouth, willing to suffer the pain of speaking for this, but snapped it shut a moment later. Although he wished to make her understand the lonely, hellish, depressive morass that had been his life at the time he knew no way that he could he explain to the vivacious, charming, popular woman that belonging to a group—any group—had been like a lifeline to a drowning man. More than that, he knew he would be attempting to defend the indefensible. Thought it had seemed the only reasonable way forward to his eighteen year-old self, he had long ago admitted to himself that joining the Death Eaters had been a mistake for more reasons than simply his role in Lily's death.

Guilt, ever present when he thought of those events, overwhelmed all sensation for several seconds. "I'm sorry," he whispered, unable to force his abused larynx to a louder volume, and grimacing at the pain even that little bit of sound caused.

"I know. And you did find your way back to the Light eventually, once you realized what you had done. When attempts to mitigate what you saw as the worst of your actions failed, you pledged to protect my son. Without you Harry would have been dead many times over." She shook her head, sadly.

"I am beyond angry with you for your mistakes, Severus Snape. And so, so proud of how you have worked to correct them." She reached out a ghostly hand, stopping just short of Snape's cheek. "But you cannot continue to live as you have been. You cannot live your life for one who is dead. I understand, you wish to atone, but I assure you that from my perspective you have done so several times over. You are forgiven for any harm you caused me, Severus. Now, you must find it within you to do the right thing simply because it is the right thing, not for the sake of a memory or a promise made to a manipulative bastard taking advantage of a moment of grief."

Dumbledore, Snape realized after a moment of thought. Lily was angry with Dumbledore.

On his behalf.

He could hardly credit it.

"You made a promise earlier to cease being a bully should you survive this night. I will hold you to it, Sev. I forgive you for what you have done to me, but for the way you have treated Harry…If you ever again, and I do mean ever treat my son in the despicable manner that you have done for the past years, do not doubt that I will make your life, or your afterlife, a nightmare beyond anything Voldemort could imagine. I believe you can do better."

Lily approached the scales, nodding to her husband as she passed him, and declared her forgiveness. Just before she vanished, she turned back to Snape. "Go in peace, my friend."

Snape could count on one hand the number of times he had cried since Lily's death: on her birthday the year after she had died, the first two anniversaries of her death, and upon returning to Hogwarts the night of Voldemort's return after having been tortured and forced to debase himself to regain the madman's trust. At her words, though, tears that he hadn't the energy to suppress welled up, spilling down his pale cheeks. Not even the face of James Potter standing in front of him could stop the silent flow.

"The others have gone," Potter said. "Most of them needed no convincing once the last war, Voldemort's atrocities, and your role as a spy were explained. It is only us now."

Snape waited, wondering where Potter would start his litany of the injustices Snape had perpetrated against him.

"You needn't look so worried, Snape. By agreeing to stand as your advocate, I abandoned any claim of grievance against you." Snape's face must have betrayed his shock, for Potter continued, "You didn't realize?"

Snape shook his head, instantly regretting the action. Spots had begun to swim in his vision even before he made the motion, and now they had multiplied. It was becoming more difficult to breathe as well, he noticed.

"My final job is to present any remaining acts of atonement before standing as the judge. This might be my last chance to speak to you on my own behalf, so I merely want to ask what my wife and my friend already have: should you survive, continue to watch over Harry. He has so few people in his life he can rely on."

The moment was too solemn for a nod, and Snape did not want to risk another dizzy spell. Bracing himself against the pain in his throat, he croaked, "I will."

James nodded, as though he had expected nothing less, and turned to the scales. "I come to present the full measure of the acts of good performed by Severus Snape, those undertaken out of remorse for prior misdeeds and those done for their own sake. His actions as a spy for Dumbledore: risking his life to obtain valuable information, obfuscating the plans of the Light, surreptitiously thwarting the actions of Voldemort and the Death Eaters in the heat of battle. All this and more I present to you on his behalf.

"His work as a potions teacher and researcher: every invention and advancement that has saved or bettered a life, every student who was better able to perform their jobs because of his standards of excellence. All this and more I present to you on his behalf.

"His actions as a teacher and protector of his students: saving the life of my son, his subtle but persistent actions to dissuade the children of his house from succumbing to the darkness. All this and more I present to you on his behalf.

"Severus Snape has made mistakes, some more grievous than others, but has worked assiduously to right his wrongs. As his advocate, I present the evidence of his repentance and seek the mercy of the fates."

Potter laid his hands on the scales, which shifted in response. The change was more than Snape expected, but he was unsurprised to see that the weight of his good deeds was not enough to balance out the evils he had perpetrated.

He looked away. This was the inevitable conclusion, the one he had known was coming from the moment he stepped into the circle, but it still hurt to see it there so baldly. Somehow a tendril of hope had managed to creep into his heart over the last hours as several of the shadows of his past forgave him.

Potter stirred under his hand, and Snape roused from his contemplation of his fate long enough to remember why he had undertaken this suicide mission in the first place. He cast another warming charm and the boys eyelids fluttered slightly but did not open.

It was then that Snape noticed a glow in his peripheral vision. A golden light, bright enough to hurt his eyes, had built around the scales and was now coalescing around the form of the elder Potter and fading to the point that Snape could now look directly at it. The man turned, surrounded by a gentle golden nimbus with a brighter glow having replaced the usual brown of his eyes.

The man in front of him was no longer James Potter. Snape was face to face with the Judge.

Snape bowed his head and waited for the pronouncement of his fate.