The pensieve sat on its shelf with a small card beside it. Harry Potter sat in the same chair that he had sat in when he and Dumbledore had gone through Tom Riddle's life. McGonagall had told him at Bill's wedding that Dumbledore's portrait had woken up and instructed her to give the pensieve to the young man.

Now the portrait was dozing, but Harry didn't quiet believe that. Mustering up the nerve to walk across the room, Harry knelt down on the carpet in front of the stone basin and opened the parchment.

Harry,

It has come to my attention that we will not finish together all the memories that you need to be shown. The remaining memories in the pensieve I want you to view with Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, as they can help you in the task that we discussed.

I would ask, however, that the last two memories I have left for you not be shared until after Voldemort has been destroyed.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry blinked back tears, trying to focus on the two small bottles behind the basin. He knew he had to see those two memories before the others and before he showed the other memories to his friends.

The first, he wasn't surprised to learn, had the fight between the Headmaster and Snape. How Snape was trying of his role, how it was getting harder to deceive the Dark Lord and Draco wasn't helping any. It ended with the line that Hagrid had overheard.

The second memory was the one that Harry wished with all his heart wasn't true. After dismissing Harry, Dumbledore pulled out a handful of Floo powder and called Snape through the network. Snape glanced around the room, noting the cleaned-off desk and the general neatness of things in the normally semi-chaotic shelves. The defense teacher gaze took in the traveling cloak and he paled to eggshell whiteness.

"You plan to go through with this?" he asked, his voice steady. "After all the conflicting evidence I have brought you."

"I believe the cave is hiding the next Horcrux. If you recall, there was such doubt about the ring, Severus." The headmaster reached out toward the Slytherin's shoulder. "Severus, I must ask--"

The younger man shrugged off the hand and stalked to the window, looking out onto the grounds. "You're still taking the boy?" he growled.

"He needs field experience," Albus sighed, obviously repeating a long-standing argument. "Memories can only so much. Actions are sometimes the only solution."

With a whirl of robes, he turned on the old man. "And if I refuse?" he snarled, face twisting. "If I refuse this task?"

Albus shook his head. "You will not survive the night." He added, softly, "As I will not the summer."

All anger faded from the other's face. "What," he whispered, "are you saying?"

Throwing on his cloak, Albus motioned to his maimed side. "The poison is spreading a little faster than I thought. So, my boy, I will say it again: I prefer the thought of my death meaning something. If it comes to my life or yours, Severus…"

The defense teacher's slumped shoulders and averted gaze gave the headmaster the answer. He glanced back before he closed the door to see the young man's hand reach out and lift a lid on his desk, and shiver when he gazed upon the empty lemon drop jar.