MORS CERTA, HORA INCERTA

Part One

"Kill." Voldemort's command, spoken in Parseltongue, seemed to ripple through the air, a spell in and of itself.

And all Harry could see as he looked through Voldemort's eyes was the face of the man who'd betrayed him so deeply. Pale as milk, weary, etched with terror. And Harry could see defeat in his eyes, resignation, and a regret so palpable that it pierced him like the jagged edges of Sirius' shattered mirror.

The world seemed to stop. Harry felt all the emotions he'd bottled up over the years come gushing forth like molten lava breaking free from the earth's crust. Anger at the man's treachery mingled with grudging respect for his brilliance. The man who'd saved his life countless times. The man who'd made his life miserable at every turn. The man who had taught him, through a battered text, information that had saved lives. Voldemort's lackey. The Half-Blood Prince.

The man who'd killed Albus Dumbledore.

The man Dumbledore had trusted above all others. The very man Dumbledore had summoned just moments before his death.

But none of that mattered. Harry's body, led by his heart, acted of its own accord. He leapt forward from his hiding place at the mouth of the tunnel, wand drawn and pointed at Voldemort and the infernal snake, and hurled a blasting curse at the support beam directly behind the twisted wizard. The air exploded in fire and debris, staggering master and snake and buying Snape a fraction of a second that Harry hoped he would use to Apparate to safety.

But the man had no such intention. He spun around, dark robes billowing, his features the picture of shock and terror. But upon meeting Harry's gaze, they contorted into an ugly snarl. Before Harry could react, the man barreled forward, seizing him by the forearm and knocking him back into the tunnel toward Ron and Hermione with such force that he could not cast another spell to defend himself.

He'd made a grave error, he realized. Whatever small voice had compelled him to trust Snape, to save him from this horrendous fate, had been wrong, and now the man would deliver him straight into the hands of Voldemort himself, likely in a last-ditch attempt to save his own skin.

Snape did not slow in his charge. Harry barely saw his arm lash out to snare both Ron and Hermione. He encountered no resistance in the stunned teenagers.

And then the world was squeezing the life out of Harry, twisting and contorting like a broken kaleidoscope, the ground vanishing from beneath his feet before slamming back up to meet him with a force that shook him to his core.

He should have been used to it by then. He'd had over a year to familiarize himself with the sensation. But this bout had seemed particularly violent, though perhaps it had something to do with his state of severe upset.

He heard Snape's voice before he'd managed to push himself up from his knees, uttering soft incantations. Wards, he knew.

Harry blearily blinked to see where the man had taken them. It was dark, unnaturally so…. The changing rooms on the Quidditch pitch! He could vaguely make out the colors. The Slytherin changing rooms. Out of sight, outside the anti-Apparition wards of the castle….

But what did Snape intend? To sell him to Voldemort? To bargain for his own life?

Harry's attention immediately snapped to Ron and Hermione, who were staring, ashen faced and helpless as Snape waved a final ward into place. Harry reached for his wand, only to find it gone.

Then he saw what Snape clutched in his left hand. Three wands. He must have summoned them, Harry rationalized, while they'd been recovering from the forced Apparition. So they were truly at Snape's mercy now.

Snape rounded on him, though his face was strangely blank now, and unusually pale in the muted light of the changing room. The sound of canvas fluttering in the wind only added to the eeriness of the scene. Very deliberately, he tucked all three wands into the pocket of his robes, keeping the tip of his own wand trained on the three of him.

"You will have them back," Snape hissed, his words a harsh whisper, as his eyes shifted quickly between the three of them, "after we have had a chance to chat. Do not move."

Harry felt as if red-hot pincers had clamped down on his lungs. He could scarcely breathe, much less force words out. His mind was spinning. Why hadn't Snape cursed them? Why promise to return their wands? Had his instincts been right?

But no, that look of fury when the man had turned on him….

"What are you—," Harry began, but was quickly silenced with a flick of Snape's wand.

The man glared at him, then delved a hand into his robes, searching for something, before emerging with a nondescript glass vial. "Portkey," he explained curtly, "directly to the Headmaster's office. I've not killed you yet, I've not turned you over to the Dark Lord, and I've no intention of doing so, so I ask that you offer me a modicum of trust and place your hands on this, as that will be much easier than trying to wrangle the three of you against your will. Disapparating was difficult enough."

"The wards," Hermione began, her voice a feeble croak, but Snape interrupted her, his words brusque.

"Albus spelled this himself. It will work." Snape held out the vial, his controlled posture belied by glimmers of a wild desperation in his dark eyes.

Harry locked eyes with the man for just a moment. He could not name what he saw there, but whatever it was, it assuaged his greatest fears. On a deep level, he knew that the man could be trusted, that this was not some elaborate scheme.

He turned to meet Ron and Hermione's frightened gazes, and nodded briefly.

"Are you mad?" Ron hissed.

Harry merely placed his hand on the vial.

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron muttered.

"Today, Weasley," Snape growled. "Before we have a host of Death Eaters on our hands!"

Hermione placed her hand on the vial, and at last Ron did the same.

"Mors certa, hora incerta," Snape murmured, and at once they were hurtling through space again.

XXXXX

They landed hard on the stone floor of the office. Snape was the first to recover, and he wasted no time in spelling the wall sconces to life. Warm firelight flooded the room, and instantly the place looked less dismal.

Apparently, Snape's Silencing Charm had worn off, because Harry found that he could speak again. And the first words that rolled off his tongue were foolish and irrelevant, but the question was burning in him and he could think of nothing else to say.

"Why didn't you defend yourself?"

Snape rounded on him, his face twisted back into that ugly, furious expression that Harry had seen when the man had made to grab him in the Shrieking Shack. He'd never seen the man so angry, not even after Harry had peered into the professor's Pensieve during their Occlumency lessons. He looked thunderous, murderous even, capable of spitting fire.

"You bloody, insolent, insufferable, brainless Gryffindor!" the man spat, his tone the epitome of contempt. He descended on Harry like a black wraith, seizing the boy by his collar with both hands. He shook his prey violently, so hard that the boy's glasses fell askew. "What in Merlin's name were you thinking, revealing yourself like that? After all that has been sacrificed to keep you alive, you ungrateful, arrogant little brat, you go and risk it all, and for what? A Blasting Curse! You could have brought the roof down on your heads! Not to mention what would have happened had the Dark Lord gotten his hands on you! You think he would have ended you quickly, with your two little friends there? He would have killed them painfully, he would have made you watch!"

"I was trying to save you!" Harry cried, trying to free himself from the strong, unrelenting hands that were rattling him as if he were a maraca.

"I don't need saving!" Snape roared, nearly deafening the boy. "I thought you had more sense, Potter! What would you have done, facing the Dark Lord and his snake? Not to mention me, assuming you were not aware of my true loyalties! Oh, I know you believe the three of you are invincible, and Albus has scarcely disabused you of that notion, but let me enlighten you, you are not. The Dark Lord has made short work of witches and wizards much more powerful and experienced than you! Have you learned nothing? You cannot confront him head on!"

At last Snape thrust Harry back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his eyes glazed like a feral animal's. He looked like a man deranged, with strands of hair plastered to his drenched face, his lips as pale as marble.

They stood in silence for a moment, Snape's rant somehow seeming to continue to echo in the chamber.

After a moment, Snape seemed to have calmed considerably. His eyes were less glazed, more controlled, and his chest was not heaving quite so violently. "No one was Splinched earlier?" he demanded levelly, his eyes raking up and down the three teenagers before him. When he got no response other than blank stares, he snapped, "Speak up! I keep Essence of Dittany on hand, and I need to know before you bleed out! None of you are of any use if you're incapacitated, you understand!"

When there was still no response, Snape turned on heel and stalked over to the wall, where he summoned the stone Pensieve out from the wall. Without a second of hesitation, he closed his eyes, placed his wand against his temple, and began drawing out strand after strand of silvery, flowing memories, which he dropped, one by one, into the waters of the Pensieve.

"He would have killed you," Harry said at last. His words were quiet but steady.

Snape drew another strand out, placed it in the basin, then turned crisply back to the boy, his features drawn in a fearsome glower. "He would have killed you," he returned icily. "And as only one of us is named in prophecy as the Dark Lord's equal, I think we know which would be the greater loss. Now, there are things you must know, Potter, and precious little time for you to learn them, so for once in your life hold your damned tongue." And with that Snape returned to the Pensieve and continued to extract memories.

He was dropping a final strand into the basin when the voice he'd grown to loathe above all others echoed like rolling thunder over the grounds.

"You have fought valiantly," Voldemort commended them. "Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery."

Snape snorted derisively, unable to help himself. He ignored three pairs of wide eyes that suddenly swung to him.

"Yet you have sustained heavy losses," the voice continued. "If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste.

"Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately.

"You have one hour. Dispose of your dead with dignity. Treat your injured.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait for one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. This time I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

"Harry, you can't," Hermione hissed, shaking her head frantically.

"Yeah, mate, don't listen," Ron added.

Snape ignored them, instead choosing to summon a bottle of firewhiskey and four glasses. He collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the one he still thought of as Albus' chair even after a year of perching there and listening to students and teachers and sycophants alike address him as "headmaster". He poured himself a full tumbler of the amber liquid, deciding he'd best get a head start before the boy learned the truth.

Merlin, he couldn't do this. Why hadn't Potter let the damned snake do its work?

"Sir?" Harry's voice wavered, betraying his perturbed state.

Snape closed his eyes. "You have questions, Potter, I'm sure, though I'm gratified for your blind trust. It has made matters simpler." He jerked his head at the Pensieve. "Look. You alone. It's bad enough I'll have you traipsing through my private memories."

"Our wands—"

"You will have them back after you have looked, Potter, after you have understood everything." He tried to keep his voice biting and impatient, but he could not sustain it. It tapered out, only to finish as a broken whisper. He cleared his throat lightly, then added, "I haven't hexed or tortured you yet. I think you will survive another few minutes at my mercy."

Harry's green eyes bored for a few moments into Snape's, questing for something. Whatever it was, the boy seemed to have found it, because he moved without hesitation over to the Pensieve and plunged into it head-first.

Snape flicked his wand at the bottle of whiskey, filling two other tumblers and sending them bobbing over to the haggard Gryffindors. "Sit," he commanded wearily, passing a hand over his eyes. "You'll want that, trust me. The night is not yet over."

Neither Ron nor Hermione moved to touch the glasses bobbing in the air. They still stared at him, stricken, as if neither could come to terms with the scene before them.

"You killed Dumbledore," Hermione whispered, though it did not come out as an accusation, merely a simple statement of fact that she seemed to be having difficulty grasping given the current situation.

"I did," Snape agreed calmly.

"Why?" Ron demanded angrily, his face flushing red. "You two-faced—"

"Because, Mr. Weasley, Professor Dumbledore asked me to. Because the task was given to Draco, who, upon failure, would be killed by the Dark Lord, likely painfully, as punishment. Because Professor Dumbledore very foolishly decided to accessorize with a ring carrying a curse of extraordinary power and neglected to contact me in a timely fashion, thus sealing his own death. Because killing the man was the only way the Dark Lord would fully trust me, and place me in a position of power in Hogwarts, where I could at least attempt to mitigate some of the atrocities his followers endeavored to carry out, not to mention clandestinely aid you three at Albus' portrait's direction! And because the old man made me promise, and in spite of my many other faults, I am, if nothing else, a man of my word!"

Snape had not meant to let his voice grow quite so loud. By the time he finished he was bellowing, the words chafing his throat. But he could not help it. The wound was still fresh and festering, even after a year. It was one he doubted would ever close. Albus had been everything to him in these last years, the only soul who had looked on him with trust, the only one who had believed, unequivocally, that he was capable of keeping to the path, of not straying back into darkness. The only man who knew the depth of his pain and remorse and scars. And to all the world, he was the man's murderer.

Snape took a large gulp of firewhiskey, grateful for the distraction of the liquor's burn coursing its way down to his gut. Then he continued more calmly, his penetrating gaze fixed on the stunned pair, "Now, shall I repeat that under Veritaserum, or can we perhaps discuss strategy for the resumption of this battle, before our allotment of time runs out? Because as entertaining as the former might be for you, the latter seems a trifle more important!"

It was at that exact moment that Harry emerged from the Pensieve, gasping like a drowned man would for air. His turbulent green eyes sought out Snape's, and when they locked gazes again, Snape felt all his pain and regret come burbling to the surface. He could hide nothing from the boy, and for the first time in years he knew that all his emotions were flayed and on display for Lily's son to see.

And those expressive green eyes, they were open too, filled with so much pain and terror and determination. Too, there was understanding of a kind. And not a trace of loathing.

It was as if the two, the potions master and the Boy Who Lived, were seeing each other for the very first time.

XXXXX

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, throwing herself across the room. Ron wasn't far behind her.

"What was it? What did he show you?" Ron demanded. "You can lie in memories, you know—you don't have to believe a thing that git—"

"No, Ron," Harry said quietly, hoping the seriousness of his tone would be enough. He felt so tired suddenly, so brittle, and he didn't have the energy to try to defend Snape. Not now, when he knew what still lay before him. He slumped down in one of the chairs and began massaging his temples. "He did exactly as Dumbledore asked. He's on our side. And we don't have time to argue that, so if you don't trust him, at least trust me, all right?"

Harry expected Ron to argue, but the boy just nodded curtly.

"What is it?" Hermione asked softly, her gaze flickering between Harry and Snape.

Harry glanced down at his battered gold watch. Forty minutes still remained before Voldemort's little ceasefire would be at an end. "There's something I have to do," he said. "Alone. And you can't know about it, either of you. I know you don't understand, and I know you don't want to believe me, but you have to trust me, and you can't ask questions."

"You're going to give yourself up!" Ron hissed. "You can't—Snape's manipulating you—"

"Of course I'm not going to give myself up!" Harry lied smoothly. "Don't be an imbecile! I just have to do this alone. And I need to talk to Snape about it, okay? Look, you both should go down to the Great Hall. Rally the troops. Ron, you… you should be with your family, okay?" Harry swallowed thickly. "Tell them… tell them I'm sorry. All of them."

"God, Harry," Hermione cried, "you can't expect us to believe you're not going to give yourself up when you talk like that! There's no reason to be a martyr, none—"

"Don't be thick!" Harry hissed. "I'm not, all right? This thing I have to do, it's just going to be dangerous, you understand? There's a chance… but we're at war, right? There's always a chance that the worst could happen. So tell them for me. Give them my love, just in case."

Both of them looked hesitant, like they were about to attach themselves to Harry's side and declare that they would walk with him to Hell and back if they had to.

"This is what Dumbledore wanted," Harry added quietly, and those seemed to be the magic words. Yes, Dumbledore had everything figured out, didn't he? They'd trust Dumbledore. Blindly. They'd all trusted Dumbledore blindly, Harry most of all….

"Okay," Hermione whispered. "We'll see you before the hour's up?"

Harry nodded, feeling sick. "If all goes well. I need you to pass word along, though, about the snake—Nagini. It has to be killed at all costs. That's your number one priority, and I need you to spread the word. Tell Neville, he was in charge of DA."

"The last Horcrux," Hermione murmured.

Harry's gut clenched harder. Almost, he thought.

Hermione stepped forward and wrapped him in a fierce embrace, one that made him wonder for an instant if she'd seen right through his lies. She was too clever for her own good most days, after all.

"Be careful," she whispered.

"See you soon," Harry replied, trying his best to project cool confidence.

Ron's embrace was even fiercer, strong enough to bruise ribs. "Don't do anything stupid, mate. No one's dying for you, you hear? They're dying for the cause. You're not that important, so get over yourself."

Ron's weak attempt at humor was enough to lift Harry's spirits, if only a fraction. And he heard the meaning behind the words. It was stupid to pin this all on his shoulders, to mire himself in guilt at this critical hour. And he appreciated it beyond words.

"Just don't go handing out 'Potter Stinks' badges," Harry muttered. "I don't think that's what we need right now."

Harry drew back and saw a slight sparkle in Ron's eyes. A glance over at Hermione revealed that there were damp streaks down her cheeks. Finally, he turned to Snape, giving him a pointed glare.

The man wordlessly withdrew Ron and Hermione's wands and tossed them lightly over the desk. Ron caught them both and returned Hermione's wand to her. Harry couldn't miss the way the two reacted to the return of their wands; both of their bodies relaxed almost as soon as the wood touched their hands.

He spent a moment just staring at them, wondering if he could brand the image of them into his mind so powerfully that he would carry it with him to the grave. That thought threatened to release a floodgate, one he knew he would have to keep closed if he was to do what needed to be done.

It was time to cut the cord. "We don't have much time. I still have to figure some details out, and you've got to get the word out about Nagini. But I'll see you soon, all right?"

They both nodded, but before they could leave Snape's hoarse voice interrupted them.

"Take your drinks. Just to take the edge off."

The man had stood so quietly throughout the exchange, not uttering a single word. And now, to utter something so out-of-character, as if he cared whether the Gryffindors he'd constantly belittled and insulted could cope with what was coming….

But Harry knew Severus Snape a bit better now. Snape had spared few details in the Pensieve; he'd given Harry a full accounting of his character, of his mistakes, of his service under Dumbledore. Harry had seen the man and all his flaws, all his misery, and now he felt he knew a little what lurked beneath the off-putting front the man projected.

Ron and Hermione surprisingly obeyed, plucking the glasses from the air. Ron raised his in a small toast toward Harry before they left the office.

Harry closed his eyes tightly, desperately trying to push away everything he'd just learned. I must die. Dumbledore intended for me to die. Dumbledore intended for me to arrange things….

His thoughts were briefly interrupted by the sound of ice clinking against glass, then the gurgle of liquid being sloshed into a tumbler. Harry tiredly lifted his head only to find that Snape had rounded the desk and was now holding the tumbler out to him, his own face mirroring Harry's.

But there were more lines there now, Harry thought. And nothing of the man's characteristic sneer. The face he'd grown to loath so thoroughly was wiped clean now, and looked to Harry like a pallid death mask, marred only with worry and fatigue and regret.

Harry accepted the glass with a grateful tilt of his head. Then he unflinchingly downed the entire glass, coughing a little at the sharp burn of the liquor on his vocal chords.

"I'd no idea you could lie so convincingly, Potter," Snape remarked coolly, as if they were discussing the nuances of their drinks rather than his impending death.

Harry jumped up from his chair, finding that he was far too on-edge to remain sitting. He paced the length of the office, fighting to keep himself under control. "The Sorting Hat wanted to place me in Slytherin," Harry answered, unwilling to touch upon the topic of the terrible lies he'd told to send his friends off. Now that they were gone, he wished he could call them back and beg them to go with him so that he didn't have to face this alone.

But that would just get them killed, he knew. And they would never let him go if they knew the truth. They would pin him down forcibly if they had to.

"Albus mentioned." Snape leaned against the edge of the desk, one arm holding his glass, the other wrapped tightly over his midsection. He tapped his wand lightly against the surface of the desk, rapping out a steady, soft tattoo. "You don't have to go, Potter," he said suddenly, very quietly.

Harry froze mid-step, his attention snapping up to Snape, face frozen in shock. "What do you mean? The whole point of you going through this song and dance was to make sure—"

"It was to deliver a message," Snape all but growled. "And that message has been delivered, has it not? I never agreed to this sick farce, and I will not force you to go out to meet that twisted, wretched thing I've called my master for the past three years, regardless of what Albus intended! You're a child, not some sacrificial lamb to be proffered up because a charlatan mumbled as much while her eyes rolled back in her head! You have the information, Potter, and as far as I'm concerned, the choice is yours. You don't have to go now. You don't have to go at all. You could go lay at his feet and let him curse you to oblivion, and he'll turn around and slaughter every innocent in the castle because it suits his mood. He has no soul and no conscience, and pretending that your compliance will so much as give him pause is sheer idiocy."

"You think Dumbledore was wrong? That this"—Harry jabbed a finger at his scar—"isn't a piece of Voldemort's soul?"

But Snape was shaking his head immediately. "I believe that Dumbledore was correct, that a fragment has latched itself onto you. It is the best explanation for everything we have witnessed—the dreams, the visions, the pain, the link to the Dark Lord's emotion."

"But if that's true, then I have no choice—"

"There is always a choice," Snape interrupted. "You think Dumbledore has backed you into a corner, Harry, that you must sacrifice yourself, that anything less would be unacceptable. But it simply ludicrous to place that burden on your shoulders. It is not your duty to die for this, and no one would think less of you for turning away from it."

"It's the only way!" Harry yelled, hurling his tumbler at the wall. It shattered into a cascade of glass splinters.

Snape cleared the mess away with a sharp flick of his wand. His feverish eyes never left Harry, though. They burned into him, two obsidian pits. "We can weaken him! We can win this battle without ending him for good! We can keep watch and make certain that he does not return to power, that his plans are foiled sooner, that there is no one left to aid him—"

"That's never worked!" Harry raged. "Haven't you been paying attention? He always comes back. There are always going to be people looking for what he can offer. Dumbledore spent his whole life trying to keep him from coming back, much good it did, and he was the most powerful wizard the world's ever seen! Don't you understand? I can end him! I'm supposed to end him! It's my destiny!"

"Then defy it!" Snape hissed. "You are not bound by those words! This burden was thrust upon you. There is no need for you to die so young. If we rally now, if we manage to destroy the snake, we may be able to scrape a victory today, do you understand? You may be able to have more time. You may—"

"I don't want that! I'm ready, okay? I don't like this, and I'm scared as hell, but I'm ready and willing to go out and do this if it means putting an end to this bastard once and for all."

Snape stared at him harder, his eyes piercing, seeming to probe to the depths of Harry's soul. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but he managed to hold the professor's gaze without flinching.

"You want this?" Snape clarified quietly. "You, Harry Potter, the seventeen-year-old wizard, not the Chosen One, not the Boy Who Lived, not the promised savior?"

Harry swallowed thickly. He didn't know what Snape was getting at. But he knew, as soon as he'd spoken the words, that he really did need to do this. That he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he turned away from this. Everyone had already risked their lives. Too many had died. And if they'd been willing to lay down their lives, so could he.

"Yes. I'm not the only one who's been willing to die. Everyone—every single person here—is risking as much. I don't see why I should be any different."

Snape nodded once in acceptance. "Your life has never been your own, Harry. I realized that the moment Albus told me…. I want it to be yours in this, if nothing else. I want you to feel that you are choosing this freely, not because there is no other way."

Harry had to swallow several more times to fight back the tears. He couldn't take this. Not from Snape. Not when the man had tormented and bullied him for years and years. He couldn't take it; it was going to break him.

"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," he finally choked out.

Snape didn't smile. "You don't know how much I regret that."

Harry groaned, turning abruptly away from the man. "Don't. For the love of God, don't start. If I'm going to do this, I don't want it to be after a game of only ifs. The past is dead, all right? Let's just call it even and leave it at that." Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath, then another.

At last, he glanced down at his watch. Twenty minutes. Hell, he wasn't going to make it.

"I need my wand. I need to get down to the grounds so I can Apparate. Agh, my cloak!" he suddenly realized. "I left it—"

Harry heard the rustle of fabric and, turning back to the professor, found that the man was drawing the familiar shimmering material from within his robes, along with Malfoy's wand. He offered both out to Harry, his expression unfathomable.

"You grabbed it!" Harry cried. "How did you manage? You—"

"I'm very good at what I do," Snape replied simply. "Now, I believe we have a deadline to keep."

Harry took the cloak warily, trying to scrutinize Snape's expression. "We?" he asked tentatively. Snape had probably just spoken figuratively, as in the 'we' united against Voldemort.

A small smile flickered over Snape's lips, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, 'we'." He flexed his left arm slightly. "I believe my master has requested my presence, and I'd rather not arrive empty-handed."

Harry was shaking his head before Snape had finished speaking. "Absolutely not! Are you daft? He'll kill you on sight! He didn't even hesitate before, not that you even raised your wand—"

"We're not arguing this, Potter. As I've painstakingly pointed out to you, we all have chosen to put our lives at great risk to end this once and for all. You are no exception, and neither am I. Besides, I think I know the Dark Lord's temperament well enough to be confident that I will have at least a few moments to explain myself. You are, after all, a rather fine gift to bring him."

"But the wand," Harry protested. "He's not going to let you live if he thinks that you're the master—"

"Ah, that's what I've been doing all this time. I captured you, you see, and interrogated you rather brutally, assuming that Albus must have imparted some knowledge about the Elder Wand to his favorite pupil. And, lo and behold, he did. Now, if my calculations are correct, Fate is on our side—"

"Malfoy disarmed Dumbledore. And I disarmed Malfoy."

"I thought I recognized his wand. So yes, Mr. Potter, congratulations. You are the true master of the Elder Wand." Snape spoke the words with a veneer of his usual sarcasm, but they came out brittle and hollow.

"You're going to explain that to the Dark Lord—"

"And since you're slated to die anyway, it will make no difference. I'd rather not see the Dark Lord as the true master of the Deathstick, but I see little other choice. Not if I'm to maintain my cover and strike when he's most vulnerable. Not that the Elder Wand will do him much good against a curse square to his back from his favorite servant…."

Harry nodded grimly. But then he froze. "But—but if I don't fight him at all, will he have really defeated me? Will the wand recognize that?"

Snape was silent for a moment. "No, I don't believe it will recognize voluntary surrender as true victory."

"But if Voldemort doesn't sense the wand's loyalties change, you'll—"

"He'll be euphoric, Potter, believe me. It might buy me enough time—"

"But if it doesn't?" Harry demanded frantically. "I can go alone—"

"Enough!" Snape hissed. "You've the right to forfeit your life for this, the same as me. This is not martyrdom. This is a calculated, strategic move on both of our parts, collateral damage for the cause. If I'm going to die, it won't be in a bout of idiotic Gryffindor heroics. Is that clear?"

Harry knew there was no point in arguing. And there was no more time. Besides, Snape had risked his life for years already. There was no sense in him trying to draw the line here, not when it could potentially do them so much good, and give them the advantage they needed.

So he replied, in the surliest tone he could muster, "Yes, sir."

"Five points from Gryffindor for your tone, Mr. Potter." And with that comment Snape downed the rest of his firewhiskey and stood, squaring his shoulders. "It's time."

Harry held out his Invisibility Cloak to Snape. "In case of friendly fire."

Snape raised an eyebrow but accepted it. "Your father is undoubtedly rolling in his grave right now…."

"I think he'd understand."

Snape spread the cloak over himself, disappearing from sight. Surprisingly, the cloak was long enough to hide even Snape's tall form completely. "Post-haste, Potter," the man snapped impatiently.

And with that they were off.

XXXXX

Harry glanced down at his watch again. Seven minutes. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the cool, damp air of the Forbidden Forest wash over him.

"They're just up ahead," Snape informed him, emerging from the Invisibility Cloak. He bundled it up swiftly and tried to pass it back to Harry.

Harry shook his head. "It's not going to do me any good—"

"Take it," Snape growled. "I can fend for myself. And I wouldn't be caught dead hanging on to anything of Potter's."

Harry took it feebly and stuffed it into his shirt. He could read between the lines in that comment. It was your father's. You should have it, especially now. And he didn't have the heart to argue, not when the fabric felt to him like a security blanket.

A flash of insight streaked through Harry's mind. He fumbled for the cord at his neck, the leather pouch containing the Snitch that Dumbledore had bequeathed to him. I open at the close.

"I need a minute. Alone."

Harry expected a snide comment about them not really having a minute to spare. But to his surprise, Snape merely nodded and stepped away to stand in the shadow of a massive tree, far enough away that Harry could have some privacy but not so far that he couldn't keep watch.

Without wasting any time, he drew out the Snitch and, pressing the cold metal to his lips, he whispered, "I am about to die."

The golden sphere split, revealing the cracked stone in the center. The Resurrection Stone. He scooped it gently into his hand, feeling the weight of it pressing against his palm. He couldn't breathe. He turned the cracked stone once, twice, three times in his hand.

He could feel them without looking. More solid than ghosts, but less than flesh, they walked toward him with bright, beatific smiles on their faces. His father, hair askew like his; Sirius, young and untouched by the ravages of Azkaban; Lupin, his face fresher and brighter than Harry had ever seen; and, of course, his mother, whose grin practically split her face in two, who looked at him with a starved expression, as if she were trying to take all of him in at once and hold him there.

"You've been so brave," Lily said.

"We are… so proud of you," James added, his eyes sparkling.

"Does it hurt?" Harry whispered, the words spilling past his lips before he could stop them.

"Dying? Not at all," Sirius reassured him gently. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep."

"And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over," said Lupin.

Harry nodded sagely. "Snape is with me. I… I'm glad I don't have to go alone." He didn't know why he said that, especially to the loved ones gathered before them, who all hated the man.

"I'm glad Sev is with you," Lily whispered to him, a bittersweet smile gracing her lips. "He does care, you know. He didn't want you to come."

"He's a good man," James pronounced softly, his words utterly sincere.

"I didn't want you to die," Harry said suddenly. "Any of you. I'm sorry—"

"None of that now," Sirius said firmly. "Harry, it's time… you have a choice to make."

Harry could hear Snape's footsteps, the crackle of twigs beneath the man's boots. It was time. And his decision was made. "You'll stay with me?" he pleaded softly, the words a bare whisper.

"Until the very end," said James.

"They won't be able to see you?" asked Harry.

"We are a part of you," said Sirius. "Invisible to anyone else."

Harry looked at his mother.

"Stay close to me," he said quietly.

"Potter—Harry. It's time." Snape's voice was soft but clear, and it carried easily through the dark forest.

Harry turned to face the man, and he was shocked to see the raw pain in the man's eyes. His mother's words echoed in his mind. He does care. It was strange that it was so comforting to know that now. That he was not just a tool to the man, but Lily's son. Hell, he didn't even mind the man thinking of him as a child. It was better than being the Chosen One.

"How do we do this?"

"I'd best have your wand—or, rather, Draco's wand—if we want this story to be believable. And… I think it would be easiest if I put you under a light Imperius curse. Just enough to make it look authentic."

At one time, the thought of being under Snape's control would have been revolting. But Harry trusted the man's judgment now, and Snape did have a difficult part to play. So he passed Draco's wand back, and braced himself.

To his utter shock, Snape clasped a hand on his shoulder. "It's not too late to turn back—"

"I'm going," Harry croaked, glancing at the Marauders and Lily for encouragement. They smiled silently at him, and that was enough to bolster his waning courage. "Listen, you have to hold your position until his snake's killed. That'll give you the advantage you need. There'll be nothing left between him and death."

Snape nodded once, accepting the decision. Then he squeezed Harry's shoulder, the gesture strangely comforting, before lifting his wand.

Harry couldn't help it; he shuffled back automatically, a feeling of apprehension overwhelming him.

"Do you trust me, Potter?" Snape growled, but his words weren't sarcastic. It was an honest question.

And Harry did, he realized. He nodded swiftly and braced himself.

"Imperio."

A blanket of fog descended on Harry's mind, and he felt himself slipping deep into it. The world receded from around him, taking on a pleasant, far-away quality.

"Now," Snape murmured, "for the grand finale of my three-year performance."

Harry leaned into Snape's commands, happy to obey, happy that he would not have to make his limbs do this. It had been his choice, but he would not have to go through the agony of making this march to his death.

Snape took Harry's arm just as Snape's voice in his mind urged him closer, instructing him to hold on tightly. Lost in the fog of the Imperius Curse, Harry was only too happy to obey. Snape rolled up his left sleeve, baring the Dark Mark, and pressed the writhing tattoo. And with that they were whirling away into the clearing, straight to Voldemort himself.

XXXXX

Even through the fog of the curse, Harry was able to appreciate the finesse Severus Snape possessed in playing his role. He could almost feel the sneer on the man's face, and the waves of hostility radiating toward him. He had resumed his role, and he had committed to it.

They stood in the clearing that had once been Aragog's domain, near the pit that had housed so many of his descendants—the very descendants that had swarmed the castle, forced by the Death Eaters to attack and wreak havoc.

The Death Eaters stood in a half-circle flanking Voldemort, most of them silent and watchful. Behind them burned a massive, crackling bonfire.

The instant Snape and Harry appeared in the clearing, Harry staggering slightly from the Apparition, every Death Eater in the vicinity snapped toward Snape, their wands lifted up, ready to curse him at their master's command.

Voldemort did not lift his wand, though. He looked… astonished, as if the scene before him were too surreal to comprehend.

Snape sank down to one knee, and commanded coldly, "Kneel, Potter."

The words wrapped around Harry's mind, and nothing seemed more wonderful to Harry than sinking down onto the ground.

"NO!" a voice roared from somewhere just outside the clearing. "YEH—YEH BASTARD! I'LL GUT YEH, SNAPE, I'LL GUT YEH MESELF FER THIS!"

Hagrid, Harry realized, though the revelation meant nothing to him.

"Silence him!" someone snarled, a male voice, and an instant later Hagrid could be heard no more.

"My lord," Snape uttered, reverence dripping from every syllable.

"Severus," Voldemort greeted him, nothing but surprise showing in his cold, high voice. "I thought you had fled."

"My apologies for my tardiness, my lord." Snape still did not rise. "You know I would gladly give my life in your service, and that was my intention… but I spied Potter, and I thought to pursue him."

"And I am to believe, Severus, that you have been playing cat-and-mouse with Harry for the last hour? That you have at last captured him and brought him to me? And that, even now, you are prepared to lay down your life for me?"

"It's a plot!" Harry recognized the high-pitched voice of Bellatrix, who sounded almost gleeful to denounce Snape. "I told you not to trust him, my lord, I told you he would turn, and now he's worked something out with Potter—"

"Silence," Voldemort hissed.

"If I may, my lord?" Snape inquired smoothly, tilting his head up just slightly. "Potter made an attempt on your life just as you had finished explaining your… dilemma… to me. I did not question your judgment in that matter, and I did not try to change your mind, but I was not about to stand idly by as Potter tried to strike you in the back like some cowardly vermin.

"I cornered the boy, and I thought that, given the nature of your problem, I might be able to glean some information from him, since Dumbledore's trust in him seemed to know no bounds. As I mentioned, Draco originally disarmed the old fool, and I merely finished him off which, I fear, may have complicated matters…. Potter proved most useful on that matter."

"Rise, Severus," Voldemort commanded quietly, his tone devoid of emotion.

Snape straightened smoothly, his dark robes flowing easily around his body.

"You Legilimized the boy?"

Snape smirked cruelly. "I saw no need. No, I convinced the boy that I was working against you all along, my lord. I fed him false memories of his beloved Dumbledore entrusting me with a secret mission, and I tricked the boy into revealing all he knew about wand allegiance. It was too easy… the boy is so trusting."

Harry felt himself beginning to doubt the man. What if he really had been tricked? What if Snape had played a long, careful game to get him to walk down here, alone and unarmed and under the Imperius curse?

"No," Lily whispered, kneeling down beside him. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulder as she bent down to Harry. "He's lying, my love."

"I have to hand it to the bastard," Sirius murmured, "he knows how to play his part."

"And what have you discovered, Severus?"

Snape drew his wand and held it toward Voldemort, handle-first, his head bowed. "I would not have you think that I have come to lie to you, my lord, in order to save myself."

Voldemort waved it away, though. "Unnecessary. I think you know how unfavorable your odds are… and you have brought the boy. I will hear what you have to say."

"I thought to offer you Potter's wand as well," Snape continued, flipping his own wand back around and lowering his arm. His voice changed to a sneer. "But the clumsy boy has lost it. And as you remember, certainly, he slipped through the clutches of your servants a while back… at Malfoy Manor, I believe." Snape withdrew Draco's wand from his robes and tossed it at Voldemort's feet. Harry saw, from the corner of his eye, both Lucius and Narcissa, who suddenly looked stricken. "You recognize it, my lord?"

Voldemort drifted forward slightly, his red eyes observing the object with contempt. His lip curled in disgust. "Lucius, Narcissa," he called, his voice frighteningly gentle, "I believe we've found your son's wand. Come, pick it up."

Narcissa scuttled forward, keeping her head bowed down, looking very much like a terrified animal. She scooped the wand up and hastily retreated, being certain to stoop in a low bow as she did.

"The boy confirmed that disarming was enough for a wand to change loyalties?" Voldemort inquired smoothly, ignoring the Malfoys once more.

"Indeed. Meaning that Draco won the wand's loyalty from Dumbledore."

Harry heard both Lucius and Narcissa's sharp gasps at that.

"Until Potter overpowered Draco. The wand answers to him now." Snape gestured down to Harry elegantly. "And so, my lord, I present to you the solution to all of your problems."

"You did not disarm the boy, Severus?" Voldemort murmured, gliding forward. Harry could feel the man's snakelike eyes raking him up and down.

"There was no need. The boy trusted me. He gladly handed over his wand. Didn't you, Potter?"

The words flowed from Snape through his mind and out Harry's mouth, all seamlessly. "Yes, Professor Snape."

A chorus of cackles erupted from the Death Eaters. Voldemort's pale face split in a wide grin, revealing a row of bleached white teeth that reminded Harry of bones in a graveyard.

"Severus." The strange warmth in Voldemort's voice was enough to send shivers down Harry's spine. He sounded as if he was greeting a long-lost son. "You have, yet again, proven yourself invaluable. Come, take your rightful place beside me."

Snape smirked and obeyed sauntering forward. Voldemort laid a hand on the man's shoulder for a moment, his red eyes gleaming in satisfaction.

"Your devotion is exemplary," Voldemort said quietly, though his voice still carried easily throughout the clearing. "It will not be forgotten. No, Severus, I was hasty before… far too hasty. You are indispensable, and you will be rewarded beyond measure for the services you have rendered me."

Snape retained his composure, though his bearing became rather regal as he settled in at Voldemort's right. "You do me too much honor, my lord," Snape murmured.

"Come. Let us finish with this business. Release him, Severus."

And with that the haze faded, and Harry's mind was once again his own. He clutched the stone more tightly in his palm as he sought out the gaze of his family. He saw them crouched down around him protectively, as if they would allow no harm to come to him. His mother's face was so close that, had she been flesh, he could have turned his head to kiss her cheek.

Harry could feel the weight of so many expectant eyes on him. Bellatrix looked as if she might start clapping her hands from excitement at any moment; her breast was heaving, and her eyes were wide with joyful anticipation. The others—Rowle, Yaxley, Dolohov, and several other faces he could not place—watched, looking strangely relieved. Far off, he could make the bound form of Hagrid thrashing uselessly against the trees he'd been lashed to. And by the fire, floating gently just behind Voldemort, was Nagini in her glittering cage, twisting and writhing ominously.

But the whole of his audience, even Snape, seemed to fall away as he dared to meet Voldemort's hate-filled gaze. The smile he'd worn to welcome Snape back into the fold had turned utterly cold.

"Harry Potter," he breathed. "The Boy Who Lived." He raised his wand.

Harry closed his eyes, but the flash of green light that hit him was so bright that it penetrated even his eyelids.