Voldemort’s angular frame filled the doorway. He had to duck his sinewy neck a little to pass through.

“Good morning, my friends! I trust you have slept well. Severus, you are not looking your usual immaculate self this morning. Perhaps your erstwhile colleagues here can help freshen you up, before we continue our ‘conversation’.”

He waved a claw-like hand at the masked bodyguards. One of them stepped forward, grabbed Snape by the hair, wrenching his head back, and upended a flagon of water over his face. He gasped as the icy water hit him.

“Nothing like a cold shower to wake you up, and sharpen the mind,” mocked Voldemort. Sadism fitted him comfortably, like a casual old robe, worn for leisure. “I want you to be alert for our ‘discussion’.”

At a nod, the two Death Eaters heaved Snape to his feet - he exclaimed in pain as one of them seized his arm - and dragged him up the steps.

Harry was left alone in the cellar with Voldemort.

“Mr. Potter, you must think me a poor host. Tell me, how are you getting on with your fellow guest?”

Harry had already had too much irony for one day. He replied bluntly,

“Not at all. You should have let me kill him last night.”

“Well said. That was indeed a bravura performance yesterday. Impressive and intriguing. What am I to make of it? That I have found a new ally in the famous Harry Potter? Wouldn’t that be a coup?”

The red eyes bored into Harry’s head, but he was prepared. Using his hatred of Snape as a protective mantra, he blocked any deeper entry into his psyche. Voldemort found this entertaining.

“Your skills are developing, Mr. Potter. You have been a novel and stimulating opponent in the past. With the correct guidance and training, your assistance in the future may prove invaluable.” He was evidently taken with the idea.

Harry wasn’t persuaded that he wanted his life to depend on the whimsical ego of a crazed megalomaniac, but it wasn’t a good time to argue.

“It will be beneficial,” Voldemort continued magisterially, “for you to appreciate fully what is involved in the service of Lord Voldemort.”

He is actually referring to himself in the third person, thought Harry. He’s barking! Delusions of grandeur.

“You need to understand what little ‘accidents’ may befall a person who causes me ‘disappointment’. I’m sure Severus will be proud to act as an example to my newest acolyte.”

Harry felt sick.

“I’m so glad we’ve got that minor matter cleared up. Oh, and, Mr. Potter, if you were thinking of cutting short your visit for any reason, I have a Non-Disapparation Charm on this building.” Voldemort gave a fiendish, lipless smile. “Clarkson!”

Like a hooded butler, the dutiful Clarkson appeared at his master’s call. He was carrying a stoneware goblet containing a steaming, lumpy, brownish liquid. He held it out to Harry, who sniffed it doubtfully.

“What is it?”

“Be wary of unknown substances! I used to have a friend who said that.” Voldemort was almost childlike in his exultant mockery of Snape.

Clarkson looked incredulous.

“It’s soup,” he said. “What did you expect?”

Feeling foolish, Harry took the goblet and drank eagerly. The warm, reviving broth made him feel human again.

“Enjoy!” cackled Voldemort. He swept away, with Clarkson trotting in his wake.

It had stopped raining outside. Harry could tell because the steady drip had slowed to an occasional drop. He positioned the empty goblet underneath it. And there was sunshine coming in weakly through the roof-light, a rectangular patch on the cellar floor, cut into neat soldiers by the shadows of the bars. There was even some warmth there. Seduced by soup, Harry dozed.

When he woke he thought it must be late afternoon. The patch of sky visible was again drab and overcast. A hungry evening chill was already gnawing at his hands and feet, a foretaste of the devouring cold of the night to come. Harry tried to work out what day it was. It seemed as though he had been in the cellar for weeks. The cramped surroundings were beginning to feel familiar - the intervals between each drip, the mossy stonework of the walls, the corroded wall sconces, each patterned with its own rusty filigree, the angle of incline of the bumpy floor, how far the damp extended up towards Harry’s sandy corner. He had studied them all.

His thoughts rambled. If the Death Eater meeting was on a Thursday evening, it must now be Friday - Friday afternoon. Would Dumbledore be searching for him? How would he know where to look? Would it occur to anyone to ask Malfoy? Draco would surely have the sense not to give the game away. But he was definitely the weak link in this chain of deceit. Hermione would have rushed forward with her information, of course - good old Hermione - so by now they’d all know that Snape was his father. Shock, horror! Well, that could work to his advantage - he’d simply say that he had been ‘summoned’ and Snape had tried to rescue him and got caught in the crossfire. Who could contradict him? Not Snape. His scar would be a convenient scapegoat for the summoning - it was such an unknown quantity that he could make up any old nonsense about it and people would believe him - like Lupin did…

He regretted not having persevered with his plan for the miniaturised Portkey. Having an entry into the Portal network was a much more powerful, surer way of getting home than Apparating. For he was confident that he would, eventually, get an opportunity to escape. Voldemort couldn’t keep him locked up indefinitely - not if they were partners in iniquity. He hadn’t hurt him yet - that had to be a good sign. He must be half way to gaining the madman’s trust; it seemed that all he needed to do to secure it was to sit back and be a spectator at Snape’s death. That didn’t sound too arduous.

It was quite dark by the time they brought Snape back. He was barely conscious. Harry could only guess at what torments he had endured that day. He wished he had been there to witness it all.

Snape lay still where the Death Eaters had dropped him, hunched in an awkward, twisted position, as if unwilling or unable to move. His breath came in irregular, wheezing gasps. After a few minutes he rolled onto one side and retched; he was spitting fresh blood. Harry looked away.

Harry wrapped his cloak round himself tightly, closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he wasn’t tired after napping all morning. He was disturbed too by the ugly rasping of Snape’s breathing, and the low, involuntary moans that escaped him if he moved or coughed. Couldn’t the man just hurry up and die!

“Potter…” Snape spoke at last. He sounded hoarse and very faint. “Potter, is this what you really want?”

Harry was unprepared for the question; he answered glibly.

“Yeah, like I really want to spend my time locked in a freezing hole watching you puke blood.”

“What happens to me now is immaterial.” There was a note of dull resignation in his voice that Harry had not heard before. “But this… … this will stay with you throughout your life. The mistakes we make when we are young… …the choices we make… Is this the life you are choosing? You will have to live with guilt, self-recrimination, regret… You may not always feel as certain about your decisions as you do now. Circumstances change. Feelings change. A life of duplicity is a harsh, lonely life, Potter. You are young now, you have ideals, you are still living in a world where you believe in noble causes. There is no cause so noble, Potter, that it is worth a lifetime of regret. Revenge becomes its own executioner. Think about this proverb, Potter, as you sit over there, all smug and warm and wrapped in your moral rectitude: ‘There is no revenge more honourable than the one that is not taken.’”

Harry stood up angrily.

“Don’t you dare patronise me! Who are you to tell me how to live my life? You’re not my …” The word remained unspoken.

The speech had exhausted Snape. He sank back, and seemed to sleep. Harry’s thoughts dwelled on what had just been said. It began to sound less and less like a homily and more like a confession.

‘If the bastard’s so tired of life, then I’m doing him a favour’ Harry decided in self-justification. He would have debated the point, but Snape appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness; in his waking moments a dry cough gripping his body, making him double-up and clutch at his chest in pain. His skin was developing an unnatural blue-ish tinge. Even to Harry’s untrained eye, he did not look well. He would not survive another ‘conversation’ with Voldemort.

So Harry would never know the answers. He would never discover what truths lay behind those veiled references, never find out what the man was thinking during the long, silent hours of shared captivity. Snape would take his family secrets to the grave.

Harry acknowledged to himself, for the first time, that he had unquestioningly accepted James’ version of events. Perhaps if he had discussed the letter with Dumbledore or Lupin or even - though he could hardly imagine it - with Snape himself, he might have seen things in a different perspective. But his receptive hatred had skewed his objectivity - he could see that now. And over the years Snape had done nothing to help diffuse that hatred; rather he had cultivated it. Why? Without a medical miracle, Harry would never get a chance to ask him.

Then there was that ‘confession’, couched in the controlled, remote terms of a counsellor. Even in extremis Snape kept at one remove from his private pain - but Harry was sure that he had been talking about his own life. Harry had never before considered the possibility that Snape might have a personal life, past or present; he only existed as the unpopular Potions master, a pedantic killjoy dishing out detentions and deducting House points, or an annoying hindrance to night-time sorties, patrolling the castle corridors.

Harry was aware that curiosity was undermining his resolve. He had to remind himself why they were here - certainly not for a father-and-son pep talk on personal motivation. He steeled himself. The bastard was history. You only had to look at him to see that. Harry could start counting the hours ‘til he had honoured the ultimate stipulation of the Rite of Revenge. Good bye Severus Snape - and good riddance!

At some time during the night Harry’s demons died. He dreamed they had drowned in the high tide of self-doubt that crashed over his moral absolutes, softening his lust for revenge. Maybe they had just slunk away and buried themselves in the sand. But those fiery demons that had been stoking the furnace of his hatred had surely departed, and he was left with damp ash and indecision.

He awoke to a world of altered priorities. Yesterday his goal - and it had been within his grasp - had been the death of Snape. This morning it simply seemed more sensible to try to escape.

The thick stone walls of the cellar stifled sound, but Harry could hear muffled footsteps overhead. There was activity in the cottage. He expected Voldemort to arrive at any minute.

Snape was conscious but feverish, his breathing shallow and rapid. His over-bright eyes followed Harry across the cellar. A couple of inches of murky liquid had collected in the goblet. Harry was about to drink, but then reconsidered, looking at the sick man. He took a step towards him.

“Keep away from me!” Snape hissed. “Don’t try to help me! Isn’t it enough that one of us has to die? Don’t give him any excuse…” Was that a plea?

Harry struggled to stay above water in the rip of raw emotion that was dragging him under.

“Stop it!” he shouted back. “Just stop that, will you? Stop protecting me!”

He stared helplessly at the man he had so long aspired to kill. Suddenly he felt lost, adrift and terribly afraid.

“Don’t blame yourself, Harry,” Snape said in a whisper.

This morning there was no sarcastic banter. Voldemort dispensed with the pleasantries.

“Boy! We are leaving now.” He was agitated and tense, the translucent skin stretched tighter than ever over the snake-like skull. “Your meddlesome friends, Mr. Potter, have been causing me no little inconvenience…”

“Are they here?” Harry tried not to betray the surge of hope coursing through him.

“Let us just say that they are narrowing the field. For a senile old fool, Dumbledore has surprisingly well-informed contacts.”

Voldemort’s eyes slithered downwards to Snape.

“Ah, Severus, I’m afraid we shall have to curtail our ‘negotiations’ sooner than I had intended. Such a shame! You have been such ‘diverting’ company over the last couple of days. I would have liked to have prepared a more ‘inventive’ farewell, in recognition of your years of dedicated service… …something more original than the customary gold wand… But, I fear, tempus fugit.”

Pitiless, Voldemort preened in his own eloquence.

“Mr. Potter, you have displayed exceptional sang froid. You please me. I shall allow you to do the honours.”

So saying, he reached into his cloak and withdrew a wand - Harry’s wand. He meant for Harry to kill Snape.

Harry had to give him credit for cunning. The plan was so simple, yet so devious. If - or rather, when - the Aurors from the Department of Magical Forensics caught up with them, what would they find? Snape dead, locked in a cellar with Harry Potter. And then, when they performed Priori Incantatem on Harry’s wand, what would they find - the Death Curse, preceded by whatever vicious tortures Voldemort had inflicted, and then Harry’s own ‘Crucio’. The spell residue from Snape’s corpse would be a perfect match.

“Hurry up, boy!”

Harry accepted the wand and took a pace towards Snape. The Dark Lord sighed in anticipation, ecstatic with bloodlust.

All the old hatred in Harry was instantly rekindled. He raised his wand. ‘This is for my mother! This is for my father! This is for the years with the Dursleys, for the cupboards and locked rooms and barred windows. This is for the loneliness and the lies! This is for my whole damned, love-less life!’

“Avada Kadavra!”

Harry shot his wand at Voldemort. Blinding sheets of green light flashed and crackled through the cellar.

Harry didn’t wait to see the results. Gambling that Voldemort’s Anti-Disapparation Charm would have been disrupted by the stronger Curse, he seized Snape and Apparated - as if his life depended on it.

He had known he wouldn’t travel far, not with two of them. But they were out of the cellar, away from the confines of the cottage. They’d got about as far as the laurel-lined driveway - Harry hadn’t seen it in daylight before, but he recognised the spongy, crunchy texture of wet leaves over gravel - but they were still visible from the barn. They had to get away fast.

“Wake up, Sir! We’ve got to go!” Harry slapped the Professor’s face - his skin was hot and clammy - but there was no response. Then Harry realised he had his wand back.

“Enervate!” he whispered frantically. Snape’s eyes opened; they were unfocussed, dulled with pain.

“We have to Apparate, Sir. You must try. I can’t do it on my own. Apparate to Hogwarts. Do you understand?” Harry cried desperately.

Snape gave a barely discernible nod. Harry lifted him, holding him from behind with his arms under the man’s shoulders and clasped over his chest. They would Apparate together.

This time there was a ‘crack’ and a ‘pop’. Harry looked up and saw the dark silhouette of a Beech tree.