The Order was gathered around the kitchen when Snape slammed a broken, charred chalice sharply on the table. Harry started, watching its two black halves come apart upon impact.

“The last Horcrux,” said Snape, glancing coldly at the assembled Order members. “Now. Let me explain to all of you why the destruction of this chalice -- the cup of Helga Hufflepuff -- marks a turning point in our strategy.”

And, as if giving a class lecture, Snape explained the existence of the Horcruxes.

“The Dark Lord,” Snape said, glancing around the room, “is now mortal.” Snape hesitated uncharacteristically; his gaze flicked to Harry for a split second before he continued. “If you have been wondering why Dumbledore preferred to hold back rather than strike, but the answer is simple: had the Dark Lord been killed any time prior to now, he would simply have reformed. Now, however... we shall go on the offensive.” Snape’s eyes were dark and cold. “It is time to kill him.”

Silence. Harry was confused, almost disbelieving.

“And as you’re so clearly in the know, Snape,” said Moody, pushing himself off the wall, “how do you suggest we go about that?” He gave a predatory leer, fully expecting to disagree with Snape’s answer.

Snape’s lip lifted in a cruel, anticipatory smile. “The Dark Lord knows that he is now without protection, and he is not one to risk death lightly. He will withdraw to Malfoy Manor, shut himself within, do nothing until he has found some other way to secure his immortality. Therefore, we must draw him out.

“You have all noticed,” continued Snape, “how closely he has coveted his little puppet government. He has always wanted to rule the world, and he will not relinquish control lightly...”

“So what, we try to take control of the Ministry?” Moody scoffed. “Even Dumbledore couldn’t do that. Half the government are Voldy’s sympathizers.”

“We won’t take control,” said Snape delicately. “We’ll level it.”

Moody’s living eye went wide. After a beat of silence, the Order was in an uproar.

“Please,” sneered Snape over the ruckus, as if he were talking to a group of unruly first-years. “The Dark Lord has spent years building his little empire: taking the Ministry, ensnaring the economy, indoctrinating the people. We cannot take control of it from under his nose. We are barely fifty; his Death Eaters are thousands. No --” Snape smiled nastily -- “we must kick it down: Send the world into chaos, undo his neat little house of cards. That will lure him out of his lair --”

At that point, Snape’s voice was lost in the tide of shouting and outrage and indignation. Tonks and Lupin were standing; Molly was slamming her fist into the table; Moody was scowling, his eye spinning wildly in his head.

“What you’re calling for is terrorism!” shouted Molly.

“Why, yes, I suppose it is,” said Snape.

“Out of the question!” she cried. “We won’t bring down the world we’re trying to save!”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll end up doing nothing at all,” said Snape, “but hiding in this house, waiting for a salvation that will never come.”

“Molly’s right,” said Moody, stepping forward. He gestured sharply at the charred chalice. “Now, what you’ve done has been very helpful to us, Snape, but I think we’re done listening to your suggestions. Voldy’s mortal now.” He scowled. “We’ll find some other way to do him in.”

“Like what?” said Snape quietly.

“We’ll rally the people. The Muggleborns. The magical creatures. The halfbloods and purebloods, who Voldy’s alienated, but who have been too afraid to act til now --”

Snape’s lip curled. “That will take years.”

Moody barked out a horrid laugh. “You just don’t get it, do you? You honestly would watch everything blacken and burn, just to kill him?”

Snape didn’t answer.

With one final glare, Moody turned to the rest of the Order members and launched into the meeting. Slowly, the Order members calmed down and returned to their seats; after a few distrustful gazes, they began to ignore Snape, and soon the room was filled with their intelligence reports and suggestions for the war.

Through all this, Snape watched silently, his expression impassive but his eyes full of bitterness. And as Lupin launched into a controversial report about the werewolves, Snape slipped out of the room.

The other Order members didn’t seem to notice; they were engrossed in conversation on the other side of the room. Harry glanced between them and the open door, and feeling suddenly apprehensive, darted after Snape, determined to confront him.

Snape was at the front entrance door when Harry caught up. “Professor!” he shouted, leaping down the stairs.

Snape turned, a faint scowl etching itself across his face. “What is it, Potter?”

Harry stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the entrance hall stretching out between them. “You’re actually going to do it,” spat Harry. “Destroy the Ministry.”

“How perceptive, Potter,” Snape drawled. “And here I was beginning to think you were deaf.”

The bad feeling in Harry’s gut compounded. He raised his chin. “You can’t do it alone --”

“Yes,” Snape said, sneering, “I absolutely can.”

Caught off guard, Harry simply stared in disbelief.

“Four years after my graduation from Hogwarts, I had already become one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted servants,” said Snape. “I was doing so well, in fact, that he was willing to grant me a rather large favor, had the stars aligned. Do you think me a mediocre wizard, Potter?”

Harry hesitated.

“You will quickly come to see --” Snape’s expression twisted -- “that it is far easier to destroy than to protect. The Ministry buildings have many points of entry, and I know how the Death Eaters operate. Forcing my way in will be easy, and from there, demolishing the place will be nearly routine. And if that does not suffice to draw the Dark Lord out into the open... there is always Diagon Alley.”

“Diagon Alley.” Harry’s heart began to beat -- Snape was utterly serious. “You can’t -- you’ll destroy everything!”

Snape sneered, turning partially away and placing a hand on the doorknob. “I was never particularly fond of it all. But that is quite enough talk. Good-bye, Potter...” Snape’s eyes glittered strangely. “May we never see each other again.”

“No!” shouted Harry, but Snape wasn’t listening. He had opened the door, the light behind casting him in silhouette, and soon he would be gone.

Harry was desperate. Snape was his enemy now, and Harry’s wand was in his hand before he knew it -- he aimed -- “Stupefy!”

Snape reacted in an instant. There was the bright flash of a shield, then the blue of a retaliatory spell -- Harry was hit in the chest, his wand arcing high into the air, and Snape caught it with his left hand, shoving it into a pocket.

Snape’s expression was rigid in fury. He crossed the room with quick strides until he had Harry pressed against the wall, shoving his wand tip into Harry’s chest. “How very like you, Potter,” he breathed. “I am doing your work for you: vanquishing your greatest enemy, without your even lifting a finger! But it’s not enough for you, is it --”

“It’s not about that!”, cried Harry, though he could hardly hear his own words over the frantic beating of his heart. “You monster! You --”

“Silence!” Snape’s wand pressed harder into his chestbone, as if he were trying to run Harry through. “I did not ask for your lies, Potter. I know why you tried to stop me. You’d like me at your beck and call, just like the rest of the Order -- you’d have me do everything your way, at your command, because the Chosen One always knows best. The Chosen One is born to lead the world!” Snape leaned in, snarling into Harry’s ear. “But I am leaving. You will just have to learn to take a little disappointment.”

“No! You can’t, no -- I won’t let you --”

Snape’s lip curled. “Let me?”

“You’ll be just as bad as Voldemort!”

“Well,” said Snape darkly, finally drawing back and taking a step away. “I suppose that would be my concern, Potter, not yours.”

And as Snape took another step back, Harry launched himself forward in a tackle.

Snape’s eyes widened; they collided, and Harry was on top of Snape, scrabbling desperately to get at his wand. But it was concealed in the folds of his robes, and all Harry could grab at was cloth -- and suddenly, a sharp blow to his ribs sent Harry skidding away, across the floor, out of reach.

Harry rolled, slamming into the open doorframe. The cool outdoor breeze brushed against his skin; outside, oblivious pedestrians walked by.

Harry staggered upright, throwing his hands to both sides, barring the doorway: No matter what it took, Snape had to be stopped. “Help!” he shrieked -- the Order meeting was two floors up, they had to hear -- “Help!”

Snape had righted himself slowly, his hair clumped and clinging to his skin, his wand raised. He was tense, his eyes livid and murderous. “I am done with games,” he spat. “Step aside.”

“No. You can’t do this!”

“Step aside, or I will force you!”

“I won’t.” Snape was keeping his distance; Harry didn’t stand a chance of getting his wand back. He scanned the room, desperate -- there was a painting a foot to his left, and he could grab it, use it as a shield as he charged once more.

But Snape followed his gaze; with a flick of his wand, the painting went soaring out of reach, and Harry had nothing. “This is your last warning, Potter,” said Snape, every line of his face etched with hatred. “Stand aside.”

Snape could not get past this door. He could not destroy the wizarding world.

And Harry was out of options: there was nothing to do but to be brave. He drew in a deep breath. “No.”

There was a sound of footsteps pounding from above -- help was coming, getting closer with every moment. Harry gripped the doorframe harder: Snape would not get past. Snape was holding still, his eyes fathomless and empty, his wand pointed directly at Harry’s face.

And then something shifted in Snape’s expression. Slowly, very slowly, he released his grip; the wand clattered to the floor.

Harry dove, grabbed it, then righted himself again in front of the door. With one arm still thrown across the doorframe, he took aim at Snape’s chest. A Stunning Spell was at the tip of Harry’s tongue, his hand poised to slash downwards.

But Snape was staggering back now: utter shock was written across his face, and his eyes fixed wildly on Harry as if he’d seen a ghost. A chill went down Harry’s spine; abandoning all caution, he glanced back, but saw nothing but the street and the overcast sky.

Far behind Snape, a door on the landing slammed open and Moody was there, wand drawn. “Is there a problem?” he barked.

Harry’s eyes were locked on Snape. His skin had gone alabaster white, and he was gaping, mouth open, in a total loss of composure Harry had never seen before. He continued to stagger backwards, reaching behind him in search of a support that he could not find.

“Problem?” Moody repeated, now halfway down the stairs.

“Snape?” said Harry sharply. “Hello?”

Snape blinked; finally, second by second, he seemed to come back to his senses. He gasped in a breath of air, breathing heavily, looking at Harry in disbelief, as if seeing him for the first time. “I...” Snape trailed off, at a loss.

And Harry was confused; didn’t know what to make of any of it, but he knew that this was not an act. The raw emotion in Snape’s eyes jerked at Harry’s gut; Snape’s world seemed to have shifted and fallen on its axis, and though Harry didn’t understand it in the least, he was moved -- he couldn’t help it. “Does this mean you’re not going to --” Harry jerked his head, indicating the world outside.

“No,” Snape whispered. He took an unsteady step back, then another, his eyes still wild. “Of course I won’t, I... I...”

The seconds passed on, and in a blind leap of faith, Harry chose to believe him.

Harry lowered the wand slowly, his hand shaking. “No, Mad-Eye,” he said. “No problem.”