It was over. It was finally all over.

Severus Snape sat slumped against a shop wall, panting heavily, his lungs working hard enough that the movement of his chest could be easily seen. His legs were stretched out in front of him, but the right one was terribly injured. In fact, it had almost been completely severed just below the knee, an inch-wide strip of muscle and skin the only thing holding it on.

Pain-filled, glassy eyes were staring at the body that was sprawled out several yards away. Minerva is dead, the thought kept echoing through his head. They killed Minerva. And it was all his fault. He’d been surrounded by his former . . . associates, a Cutting Curse having already hit him, and they were winding up to either torture him horribly, or kill him – or both – when Minerva McGonagall had appeared behind them, uttering a shrill war-cry.

Unfortunately, her skills were no match for the greater numbers she faced, and someone had hit her from behind with a Killing Curse. The image of her body outlined in green, and the look of surprise on her face, would haunt Severus for the rest of his days.

The noise level began increasing, as the inhabitants of Hogsmeade Village slowly crept out of their hiding places. A few students, finding their friends injured or worse, were beginning to cry, sharp wails that cut through Severus’ head like a knife. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before someone summoned the Headmaster.

Severus quailed at the thought of seeing Professor Dumbledore, and having to admit that Minerva – his Deputy Headmistress, long-time friend and possible lover – had been killed because of him. If he hadn’t been so stupid as to allow himself to be surrounded . . .

His chest tightened, as he fully considered the thought that he’d never be able to speak with Minerva again. Never hear her brogue as they bantered back and forth over who deserved the Cup more, Slytherin or Gryffindor. Never see the sparks fly from her eyes as she hotly defended Potter against some infraction or the other.

And Potter . . . Severus winced at the thought. He didn’t know whether the boy was alive or dead. He didn’t like to think of what chaos would descend over the Wizarding world if their Saviour, the precious Boy-Who-Lived, didn’t live anymore.

At least three other students were dead. Nobody would be forgetting this Hogsmeade weekend in a hurry. He himself was injured, Minerva was . . . gone. There should have been two extra professors in the village, but he had no idea what had happened to them.

“Pro-professor?” a small voice came from the other side of him. Rolling his head that way, Severus was surprised to realise that it had come from Potter. Covered in dirt and blood, and dragging a long sword behind him, Potter looked as shell-shocked as Severus felt. But at least he was still alive, and not kidnapped by the wannabe Death Eaters.

“Potter,” he croaked, and coughed harshly. The movements jolted his leg, and he hissed in pain. “Are you injured?”

“No-not really.” The boy stumbled forward a step, his gaze fixing on Severus’ lower leg. It was a bit hard to tell, but it looked as though whatever blood had remained in the boy’s face had just drained out of it. Severus hoped he wasn’t going to be sick, or pass out. “S-sir, you-your l-leg—” he stammered.

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” Severus informed him. Really, he didn’t think there was anything anybody could do for it now, although there was a very slim chance that Poppy Pomfrey could repair it, if she saw to it soon. Regretfully, it would likely take too long for the village to be secured, and for all the wounded to be transported up to the castle. I shall have to ask Mad-Eye Moody where he got his leg from, Severus thought, wryly.

Potter suddenly let out a loud gasp and dropped the sword, with an echoing, metallic clangggg. Severus closed his eyes briefly in resignation. The boy had seen Minerva’s body. “Pro-professor McG-McGonagall?” Potter breathed. “No. Oh, no!” He fell to his knees beside Severus, hiding his face in his hands for a moment.

“Potter . . .” Severus found his voice trailing off. He didn’t know what to say to Potter. He wasn’t very good at words of comfort, especially not when the hurt was so fresh for him as well. He wasn’t entirely sure the boy would accept it from him, anyway; not after the debacle earlier this year, after the incident at the Duelling Club.

And also, truth be told, there was a tiny seed of resentment, buried deep inside. Potter was only a second year. He was not supposed to be in Hogsmeade at all, but the events of the past few months had overwhelmed the boy, and he’d attempted to run away during a Hogsmeade weekend.

Unfortunately, a couple of what had been low-level Death Eaters had spotted him, completely by accident, and had decided to revenge the destruction of their lord. After calling in a large group of their friends and comrades, a pitched battle had begun through the streets of the village.

The castle had been bombarded with alarms and messages of all sorts, and Severus and Minerva had not hesitated, but had rushed straight to the village, leaving Filius and Pomona to organise a rescue team that could serve as medics.

“Potter . . .” Severus tried again, but still the right words wouldn’t come. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked instead.

The boy looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and his face pale. Then he glanced down and behind him, to where the sword lay glistening in the spreading pool of Severus’ blood. He had cast a clotting charm on himself as soon as he’d been able, but he didn’t dare too anything too permanent yet, just in case there was a chance of saving his leg. Cauterising the wound to stop the blood would involve a lot more pain and effort to reattach the limb, and the healers might even have to cut away a bit more.

“Fawkes brought the Sorting Hat to me,” Potter said, his voice low and hesitant. “I disarmed one man, but then one of the prefects found me and told me to hide.” The boy closed his eyes. Severus didn’t ask if the prefect had survived. “I don’t know why Fawkes thought the Hat would be a good thing for me to have,” Potter continued, “but I was holding it, and wishing for something that would help, and suddenly the sword fell out of the Hat.”

Severus raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he’d lost more blood than he’d thought. “The sword . . . fell out of the Hat,” he repeated.

“I know how it sounds!” Potter burst out.

Opening his mouth – whether to berate or placate the boy, he didn’t know – Severus was interrupted by loud voices coming from just around the corner. They were indistinct, but he could easily pick out Filius’ high-pitched tones. Within seconds, the tiny silhouette of the Charms professor was at the end of their street, staring at the scene in front of him.