The Man With No Shadow

Chapter Eleven: Monsters

***

Amelia Bones squinted through her monocle, her heavy eyebrows bumping together like belligerent caterpillars, as she scanned the documents spread out before her. When she raised her head and directed her gaze at Harry, the eye magnified by the monocle reminded him of Alastor Moody's magical eye. He would not have been surprised if Madam Bones could see directly into his head even more efficiently than could Moody.

"Have you anything to add to the testimony you have just given?" she asked in a formal voice.

"No, Madam Bones," Harry said, responding with like formality appropriate to the situation.

"Very well," she said. "Copies of this report will be sent to the head of Auror Division, to the head of the Wizengamot, and to the Minister of Magic. When a decision has been made, you will be summoned to appear again to hear the judgment of the tribunal. Until that time, you will be listed as being on official leave, with full pay. This hearing is adjourned."

When Harry rose with everyone else, a gentle hand fell upon his shoulder. He turned to look into the soft brown eyes of Remus Lupin. As he steered Harry out of the courtroom and into the corridor, Remus said in a voice meant for Harry's ears alone, "Don't give up hope, Harry. There is a loophole here, I think. Severus was a wizard, after all, and Auror Division has full authority to deal with Dark wizards. Granted, you did operate outside channels, but it still should fall directly into Kingsley's lap when it's all said and done."

"But he has the authority to sack me every bit as much as Arthur does," Harry remarked.

"That's true, yes," Remus conceded. "But division heads typically look after their own. I think a reprimand will be as far as things will get. You did handle the situation in the end, however badly you started off. In fact, I don't believe any senior member of the division could have done better."

"That's only because I'm the only one at the Ministry whose wand is made of holly," Harry responded.

"Perhaps," Remus said. "I will grant that you'd have had a harder road without it. Holly is one of the most powerful plants in the magical world. Its flowers contain the greatest measure of power, of course. Druids harvested them under the full moon, using silver sickles. But the wood is by no means lacking. Your holly wand piercing Severus' heart was every bit as effective as Hermione's rowanwood stake would have been. You were uniquely qualified for the job. I'm sure the department will see it that way."

Harry shrugged. His job was important to him, but it was far from the most important item on his mind.

"How is Hermione?"

"In the pink," Remus said cheerfully. "St. Mungo's is releasing her today, along with Geoffrey Suggins."

Harry was relieved that Geoffrey, like Hermione, had suffered no permanent damage attendant to his assault at the hands of Snape. Still, hearing the blond wizard's name mentioned in the same sentence as Hermione's left him with a sour feeling in his stomach that his relief could not entirely wash away.

"I'm sure she'll want to see you the moment she's released," Remus said. "She'll be taking a short convalescent leave, and she'll be in to sign the official form for Amelia." He clucked his tongue in an annoyed manner. "Merlin be my witness, I think if a falling star destroyed the entire Ministry in a single stroke, we'd all have to line up as ghosts and sign a form to be permitted to move on to the next world."

The comment was intended to lift Harry's spirits, but Remus regretted it the moment the words left his lips. They were mounting the stairs to Level nine to take the lift back up to Auror Division, and Remus' words rebounded dully from the lone black door that was the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. The pair passed the door in silence, neither wanting to envision what lay beyond, yet finding themselves helpless to do otherwise for all that.

"Is that where they're keeping Snape's ashes?" Harry asked distantly, thrusting aside the deeper meaning of that oppressive door.

"Yes," Remus said. "They'll be purified by a special spell, then scattered out at sea. That will ensure that his remains won't be employed to sinister end by necromancers and the like. And, of course, it reduces to nil the chance that he'll rise again."

Harry's throat tightened. There were now two persons in that secret warren of chambers who would not rise again this side of Judgment Day. Harry quickened his steps and hurled himself blindly into the nearest lift, giving no thought to whether it was occupied. Fortunately, the lifts were almost always vacant on this level (in no small part because personnel from the upper levels ritually avoided the Department of Mysteries like a contagion), sparing Harry the embarrassment of blundering into someone in his haste. Remus followed, closed the gate, and said, "Level two."

When Harry entered Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, the head of Auror Division was waiting for him. Harry supposed that Kingsley either knew from experience how long such a hearing would last, or an Interdepartmental memo had been sent off to alert him. Howbeit, he was holding a sheet of parchment for Harry to read and sign. Harry signed it without looking at it and handed it back to Kingsley.

"Procedure dictates that all documents be read before they're signed," Kingsley said in a neutral voice.

"If I was a little keener on procedure," Harry said with a small smile, "there'd be no need for me to sign it, would there?" When Kingsley returned Harry's smile, Harry added seriously, "I know I can rely on you to do what's best." The brief glance the pair exchanged communicated the deeper meaning behind Harry's words.

"I appreciate that, Harry," Kingsley said as he affixed an official stamp on the parchment and filed it in the appropriate cabinet.

"How will you spend your holiday?" Remus asked, endeavoring to lighten the mood his earlier words had so clouded.

Harry was about to say that he would like to visit the Burrow. If ever there was an island of sanity in a world of madness, it was the warm confines of the Weasley house. And Molly's excellent cuisine would go far toward putting his troubled mind at ease. But he remembered almost immediately that Hermione was now living at the boarding house. He shrugged.

"Stay at home, I suppose," he said vacantly. "Maybe go visit Ron and Luna. Or maybe Hagrid. I don't see him nearly as often as I'd like."

"I'm sure he'll be very happy to see you," Remus said.

An awkward silence fell over the small office. Remus saw that Harry seemed to have something on his mind, the thought hovering like a ghost behind the emerald windows of his eyes.

"Before I go," Harry said suddenly as Kingsley's dark eyes regarded him searchingly, "I'd like to get a special permission form."

"To do what?" Kingsley asked.

"I'd like to pay a visit...to the Department of Mysteries."

Another silence held for a moment, broken at last by the rasp of a desk drawer being opened, the whisper of a square of parchment being placed on the desk blotter, and the swift scratch of a quill. Kingsley handed the parchment to Harry with a compassionate smile.

"Have a good holiday, Harry," Kingsley said.

"Thanks," Harry replied. He folded the parchment and tucked it into his robes. With a nodded goodbye to Remus, he left the director's office and entered a vacant lift.

"Level nine."

When the lift clattered to a halt at the lowest level to which it traveled, Harry stared across the short distance separating him from the somber black door whose threshold he had never again expected to cross. Drawing a long breath, he left the lift, swept across the stone floor and pushed open the door. He held his breath involuntarily as he stared down the dark corridor, remembering again his first glimpse of that ominous door lurking in the far shadows, revealed to him in the visions planted in his mind by Lord Voldemort via their psychic link. He shuddered slightly. If only he had done as Sirius and Remus -- and Dumbledore -- had urged and learned Occlumency. But his curiosity, his vanity, and his hatred of Snape (mutual, to be sure) had crippled that owl long before it could take flight. Shaking his thoughts free of those oppressive specters, he strode down the corridor and through the door, which opened easily before him.

The circular room in which he found himself, with its flanks of black, featureless doors curving away on either hand, was itself in no way altered from Harry's memory of his first, and only, visit six years ago, when he and his mates had set out on their ill-fated mission to "rescue" Sirius from Lord Voldemort. The only difference was that, whereas the chamber had been deserted that night (Voldemort's Death Eaters having done away with the security personnel to facilitate Harry's carefully engineered mission), now he was met by a large, stone-faced wizard, dressed from head to toe in black, who acknowledged his presence with a short ritual bow.

"May I help you?" the wizard said politely, his stony face hardly twitching a muscle. There was no menace in the challence, but Harry's Auror-eye saw the imperceptible tightening of the guard's wand arm, the hand of which was tucked into his robes and was undoubtedly clutching his wand at that very moment. Carefully maintaining eye contact, Harry reached into his robes slowly (lest the guard think he was drawing his own wand) and produced the note. The guard read it, nodded, and drew his wand smoothly. Harry thought the guard was about to search him magically before letting him pass on, but instead he directed his wand at one of the dozen-odd doors ringing the circular room. The door at which the wand was pointed opened silently. Nodding his thanks, Harry crossed the broad chamber and walked through the door, which closed after him.

Harry found himself in a small, dungeon-like room with rough stone walls. It was supported by interlocking arches that braced the concave ceiling without need of columns. The very air seemed to hum at a pitch beyond the range of human hearing, and Harry imagined that he could feel the hairs on the back of his hands vibrating to the symphony of the spheres. There was without doubt powerful magic permeating this chamber.

A low dais of black stone sat squarely in the center of the room. He supposed that the object he sought were sitting thereon, but he could not confirm this visually. A figure stood between him and the dais; tall and spare, with long silver hair reaching down his back and tumbling over his narrow shoulders like a waterfall of liquid moonlight. Even before the man turned to greet the new arrival, Harry knew what he would see: a long, flowing silver beard, a narrow, crooked nose, and bright blue eyes peering through the lenses of a pair of half-moon spectacles.

"Come in, Harry," Dumbledore said, in a cordial manner as if inviting him into his personal chamber for tea and cakes. "We were just talking about you, Severus and I."

As Harry approached the Hogwarts headmaster (and, he reminded himself, head of the Wizengamot, upon whose judgment a portion of his fate rested), he saw the object whose presence had drawn him hence. It was a silver urn, finely wrought and etched with mystic symbols. Did Harry tilt back the hinged crown, he knew, he would find inside the mortal remains of Severus Snape.

"Have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore said invitingly. "We have much to discuss, the three of us." The old wizard waved his wand, and an upholstered chair resolved itself from thin air and settled onto the stone floor. As Harry sat, Dumbledore produced a second chair and seated himself with a sigh of relief. "That's better," he smiled. "My legs are not what they used to be. Now, if you would, please tell me why you have come here."

Harry hesitated. Why had he come?

"I...don't know."

Dumbledore nodded understandingly. "Yet you did come," he said. "That speaks well of you, Harry. Most in your position would not deign to acknowledge a fallen foe."

"These weren't exactly ordinary circumstances," Harry said.

"Indeed," Dumbledore chuckled, "they were not."

"How much do you know about what happened?" Harry asked.

"About what happened?" Dumbledore countered. "Or about what caused them to happen?"

Amending his question at Dumbledore's obvious prompting, Harry said, "The latter."

"Well, now," Dumbledore said in a slow, thoughtful manner. "Had you asked me that question only a few days ago, I should have had very little to say. Now, however, there is much light I may shed on the subject."

"How did this happen, Albus?" Harry asked, his voice betraying an anxiety he'd not known he was concealing.

"I presume you are asking how Severus came to suffer the curse of the vampire," Dumbledore said definitively. "I learned that myself only this morning."

"How?"

"By journeying to Azkaban," Dumbledore answered placidly.

"Azkaban?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "But first, allow me to turn the clock back to a few years ago. The present can be better understood by first seeing the past in a clear light.

"As you well know, Severus Snape, in his younger, more foolish days, was a Death Eater. For reasons wholly his own, he left Voldemort's service and took it upon himself to work toward his former master's overthrow. It will come as no surprise to you that this made him a marked man in Voldemort's eyes."

"Yes," Harry said. "Back when Voldemort had me tied up on his father's tombstone, he summoned his Death Eaters to him. When Snape, among others, didn't appear, Voldemort said he'd see that he was killed as payment for his betrayal."

"That was no doubt his intention, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "But when you destroyed Voldemort, you preserved Severus' life."

"I don't reckon he was too happy about that," Harry murmured.

"No," Dumbledore chuckled, "he was not."

"But not all of Voldemort's Death Eaters fell when he did," Harry said. "As blindly loyal as they were, wouldn't the survivors have taken it upon themselves to avenge their master by carrying out his unfulfilled orders?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed. "Yet, in their master's absence, any or all of them would seek to do his own will first, and his master's second. And those who did choose to honor their master's bequest might yet do so by their own individual interpretation."

"I don't understand."

"For whatever its value," Dumbledore said, "Voldemort believed that there was nothing more terrible than physical death. Thus, when Severus left his service, no other thought would have occurred to him but to kill his enemy, death being the worst punishment he could envision. But his followers were not necessarily in accord with their master's beliefs. I can think of one in particular who believed that to torture the living was better revenge than to kill outright."

"Bellatrix LeStrange," Harry said instantly through clenched teeth.

"Nor was she alone in this perversion," Dumbledore said. "When Kingsley informed me that the menace stalking the streets of London was none other than my former Potions Master, my suspicions were instantly aroused. This, I was certain, bore the mark of Lord Voldemort, implimented by one of his Death Eaters. I held little hope of finding the one responsible. Many served Lord Voldemort invisibly, even as Barty Crouch Junior, and their camouflage is such that they are not seen for what they are until it is too late. But nonetheless, I felt it were better to seek the truth and perhaps fail than stand by idly while evil triumphed by default."

"So you went to Azkaban," Harry said, "because that's where all the known Death Eaters are."

"Just so," Dumbledore nodded. "With the aid of some Veritaserum procured from Hogwarts' new Potions Master -- " Dumbledore paused to observe Harry's reaction before carrying on, " -- I ultimately learned that Voldemort had engaged one whose skill lay in the area of breeding dangerous beasts, for purposes of both terror and subjugation. His location is presently unknown, though it is said he abides in a far land, out of the reach of the Ministry. One of his specialities, so I was informed, was a particularly virulent strain of vampire bat. And do not mistake me, Harry, I use the term quite literally here. These bats were bred for the sole purpose of cursing Voldemort's foes by transforming them into the living dead. Blood and fluids from true vampires, captured and imprisoned by this servant, were injected into the bats until their bite would inflict the curse as surely as if imparted by the human variety.

"Severus resigned his position suddenly," Dumbledore reflected. "I presumed that he was distraught over my passing him over for the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher yet again. In truth, he is more than qualified; but his talent at Potions so far exceeds -- rather I should say exceeded -- his other gifts that I would have been guilty of robbing one position to fill the other, to the detriment of the first. Though I made my position clear -- with all due courtesy, I trust -- he was not to be mollified. When he sent me his letter of resignation, therefore, I harbored no suspicion as to his motives. Only now do I see that I allowed two very important clues to escape me. First, whatever the depths of his bitterness, Severus should have tendered his resignation in person, out of simple respect. That he did not do so should have alerted me that something was amiss."

"What was the other thing?" Harry asked.

"As you may know, Harry," Dumbledore said, "I read a great variety of foreign publications, both wizard and Muggle, in addition to those published in Britain. As I followed the attacks in London, I noted that similar attacks had also afflicted certain areas of the continent. I gave these little account, as they are not as uncommon abroad as they are here. Nevertheless, I should have suspected that so many attacks occurring at the same time might be attributed to something other than coincidence. I have since confirmed that certain other clandestine foes of Voldmort's cause, whose names are known but to few, have gone missing in those same regions where the attacks have been reported. The testimony I gleaned in Azkaban has left me with no doubt that these incidents are all related. I have sent owls to the magical authorities in these areas, advising them of my conclusions. It is my hope that, with the help of our own Department of Magical Cooperation, we may pool our resources and eliminate this threat once and for all. The sooner we remove these last remnants of Voldemort's insidious organization, the more quickly we can finally write finis to Tom Riddle's legacy of terror."

"If Snape's been a vampire all this time," Harry puzzled, "why did the London attacks begin only recently?"

"Unlike mortal monsters such as Voldemort," Dumbledore said, "vampires do not kill without need. In the early stages, vampirism may leave the one cursed with enough inate human decency to resist the urge to feed on those who were once as he. The blood of any mammal will sustain a vampire, though it is said that the temptation of human blood becomes irresistible with time. The Muggle news reported a number of wild beasts found drained of blood over the past few months. They were passed off as the work of cultists whose habit it is to employ blood sacrifices in their dark ceremonies. I suspected otherwise, however, and my fears were polarized when the animal attacks ceased at precisely the same time that the attacks in London began. I was certain then that a true vampire was loose, though I had no notion of his identity. Not then."

Harry hadn't realized that his hand was caressing the silver urn containing Snape's ashes until he idly fumbled with the lid. The hinge squeaked softly, and Harry's Auror training snapped him alert. Dumbledore smiled but said nothing.

"If it was Voldemort who cursed Snape, whether directly or indrectly," Harry said, "why did he say that I was responsible?"

"Did he, now?" Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with deep amusement. "I suppose I should not be surprised. He found it most convenient to blame you, or your father, for whatever setbacks might befall him. It is a weakness to which we all fall prey from time to time. No doubt he believed -- or rather, deluded himself into believing -- that his troubles could all be traced back to the day you came to Hogwarts and thrust the school into Voldemort's sphere of attention. And there is a grain of truth in that. Had not Voldemort's eye turned toward you, Severus might have escaped his former master's notice, tucked away as he was at Hogwarts. For indeed, that was one of the reasons I engaged Severus as Potions Master immediately following Voldemort's unsuccessful attempt on your life more than two decades ago. Teachers are a relatively invisible fraternity, their names known to few outside their immediate circle -- excepting those who, shall we say, take it upon themselves to blow their own horn..."

The shadow of a smile curled the old wizard's moustaches momentarily as both he and Harry recalled the brief but memorable tenure of Gilderoy Lockhart, who had come as close as any to usurping Harry's position as Snape's most detested person at Hogwarts.

"Thus," Dumbledore resumed, "Severus remained in virtual obscurity for ten years -- until, as was inevitable, you received your Hogwarts letter and arrived to begin your schooling. One might reason, therefore, that you were responsible for his woes, in that your presence drew Voldemort's attention directly onto Hogwarts. There appears to be no question that Severus believed that. No doubt this was one of the reasons he placed such a heavy burden on you during your school years.

"But the guilt, if there is any to be had, is far from yours alone. I placed him in harm's way any number of times in my capacity as head of the Order of the Phoenix. If he chose to minimize my portion so as to increase yours, it is not surprising. He despised your father, and James' death deprived Severus of a most convenient scapegoat. You filled that vacancy quite nicely in his eyes."

Dumbledore paused just long enough to wipe his glasses on the sleeve of his robes. When he replaced his glasses, he looked down the length of his crooked nose into Harry's unreadable eyes.

"Much has befallen us all as a result of your presence, Harry. And there will always be those who will choose the easy path and blame others for their own misfortunes. Lord Voldemort achieved much of his domination through the cunning art of division and mistrust. It was even as I warned the students at the Leaving Feast on the occasion of Voldemort's return. We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. It was a lesson Severus was hard pressed to take to heart, and it cost him most dearly in his turn."

"I despised him," Harry said. "For as long as I can remember, I wanted to see him suffer, as he had made me suffer. But..." He paused, his voice growing thick as his eyes came to rest once more on the graven silver urn. "No one deserves this. Not even Snape."

"He risked his life in the cause," Dumbledore said, his words a sort of eulogy. "More often, I think, than any other operative. He was tortured more than once -- by Bellatrix herself on at least one occasion -- yet he never betrayed us. Many there are who will ever suspect turncoats. Once a traitor, always a traitor. But it is my solemn belief that betrayal is a one-way street. Evil can betray good, but good cannot betray evil. It can depart from its shadow -- even oppose it openly -- but it cannot truly betray it. When Severus turned his back on Voldemort -- and once I was convinced that his reasons were pure -- my doubts were put to rest. I knew that there was no sacrifice he would not make for the cause of righteousness, even unto the price of his life."

"THEN WHY DID HE REFUSE TO HELP BRING SIRIUS BACK?" Harry shouted suddenly, startling himself far more than he did Dumbledore.

"Is that what you believe, Harry?" Dumbledore returned gently.

"It's what I know," Harry said, his voice controlled only with the greatest effort. "Remus and I were ready to do what was necessary to bring Sirius back. You yourself prepared the spell. And then Snape threw a spanner in things by turning his back on us. If that's not betrayal, I'd like to know what is!"

"Despite what you may have heard, Harry," Dumbledore said, "Severus did not refuse to assist us in the cause of rescuing Sirius."

"It's not anything I 'heard,'" Harry said coldly. "Snape told me himself."

"Indeed?" Dumbledore said mildly, his snowy eyebrows rising. "What did he say to you, Harry? I wish to know his exact words, if you can remember them."

"I'll never forget," Harry said fiercely. "My shift had just ended, and I had just got off the lift and was about to enter the Department of Mysteries, where I knew you were all waiting for me. But before I could go though the door, Snape burst through and nearly knocked me down. I asked him where he was going, if he was getting something he needed for the ceremony and if I could help him. And he said, 'There will be no ceremony, Potter.' I was stunned speechless. When I found my voice, I asked him what the bloody hell he was talking about, telling me there would be no ceremony. And he glared at me and said, 'I cannot do what the Headmaster asks of me, Potter.' And I screamed at him, 'I knew we couldn't depend on you! You're abandoning Sirius! He did his part to bring Voldemort down, just like we all did! And now you're just going to let him rot in that bloody Dark realm! I thought you'd changed! I thought you were finally going to do the right thing! But I was wrong! You still hate him! After all this time, after everything we've been through, nothing has changed, has it? You still hate him!'"

"And he looked me squarely in the eye and said, 'yes.' And then he was gone. I never saw him again after that night. Not until... "

"I'm glad you told me that, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Had you not, I should not now be able to tell you the truth with full understanding."

"I know the truth," Harry said, his eyes seeming to pierce the silver urn like emerald lasers. "Snape was a monster whose heart was full of nothing but hate. I told Hermione that he was an inhuman thing long before he became a vampire."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed with a slight tremor in his voice. "And that is why I called off the ceremony that night."

Harry nearly fell out of his chair. "You called it off? No! You never! Why?"

"Because I knew we could not succeed," Dumbledore said.

"This is -- " Harry stammered, his head spinning. "But -- Snape volunteered to take part in the ceremony! He volunteered!"

"So he did," Dumbledore said. "But that in itself was not enough to ensure its success."

"In order for the spell to work," Harry said, his head spinning, "Sirius' greatest enemy had to participate willingly. Snape did that. No one forced him. I don't undertand any of this."

"It is both simple and complicated," Dumbledore said. "The spell can only work if, as you said, the greatest enemy of the one to be retrieved volunteers to play the most critical part. But there is a subtle codocil to that. The true power of the spell is sacrifice. You and Remus were willing to make certain sacrifices to bring Sirius back. So, too, was Severus. But I discovered, to my dismay, that Severus was tragically bereft of that by which he might have have completed the spell."

"And what's that?" Harry heard his voice say as if echoing from a long, dark corridor.

"Love," Dumbledore said sadly.

Harry stared at Dumbledore in silence, his mouth open. The old wizard's pale blue eyes fell upon the urn glistening like a silver teardrop on the black dais.

"In order for the spell to succeed," Dumbledore said, his eyes rising above the rims of his glasses to embrace Harry's, "Severus would have had to physically pass through the veil and wrest Sirius from those who would hold him in bondage, combating supernatural forces the nature of which we can only guess. That was his part, nor could any substitute for him. But the key to success in such a venture is to establish a link between this world and the other, anchoring that link so that the one lost may be drawn back along that invisible chain, link by link. In touching Sirius, Severus would have linked their souls. Then would have ensued a tug of war of unimaginable scope, a contest between two souls, one of them rooted in this world, the other in the world beyond the veil. And therein lies the tragedy, you see. For Severus' soul was not, and perhaps never was, a part of this world."

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked hoarsely.

"The anchor that roots us to this world," Dumbledore said quietly, "is love. And as you yourself observed, there was no love in Severus' heart, only hatred. In this, you saw more clearly than I. Despite the evidence of my own witness over more than a decade, I believed that there was a spark within Severus that could be fanned to flame.

"Severus' early days, both before and during his Hogwarts years, were -- tragic, for want of a better word. Do you imagine that you suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, Harry? I tell you now that what you endured was but a shadow of Severus' existence. For throughout your confinement, yet you retained a spirit of self which your aunt and uncle could not suffocate, strive though they might. You regarded your abuse as unjust, placing a value on yourself above that which the Dursleys recognized. Not so Severus. Forged in fires unguessed, his soul was bereft of all self-worth. He was barren of even that most basic element which defines us all. I speak of self-love, Harry. For that is the anchor which roots us to this world and serves as our foundation as we strive to rise above our limitations and become more than we are. Lacking that, we are groundless, floundering helplessly with nothing to cling to. Without love of self, we cannot give of ourselves. For who can give freely of a vault that is empty?

"In his own mind and heart, Severus was not a part of this world. He was ever alone, whether in solitude or in the company of others. From his earliest days, he was trapped behind walls he could never assail. Smite them as he might, they would not crumble. Climb as he would, he could not surmount them, for ever they grew higher, eluding his reach. Untimately, it was he who heaped them skyward, stone upon stone, until they towered so high that he abandoned any attempt to breach them. Thus was he a prisoner not of the world, but of himself. And as such, he could not be released by any save himself alone."

Harry lifted a hand to his face to remove his glasses. He pressed his fingers to his eyes in an effort to block out the images conjured by Dumbledore's words. Instead, the darkness merely cast them into sharper relief.

"When Voldemort's servant placed the vampire curse on Severus," Dumbledore said heavily, "no doubt he thought he was punishing his master's enemy in a manner more terrible than death. And that was the final jest, you see. The intent was to replace the joy of life with the dark shadow of empty existence for its own sake. But in his own mind, Severus was already an outcast of humanity. When the curse descended upon him, he was, in effect, merely changing rooms in a house that was already his life's abode."

Dumbledore reached out a long arm and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"You and I have each known our dark days, Harry. Your own portion has no doubt been greater than your due. Yet there ever burned in you the flame which is the joy of living; the pure, unsullied elation of being...of knowing that you are part of a vibrant, living world. A world of hope. A world of love. And no matter the tragedies that befell you, you never permitted that flame to be extinguished. You kept it burning, through faith -- in yourself and in those around you. And, if I may say so, in a power greater than all of us. That is why Lord Voldemort could not prevail against you. And that is why, ultimately, Severus could not prevail. For his was the one opponent he could not defeat -- himself."

"What would have happened," Harry asked heavily, "if Snape had gone in and tried to bring Sirius out?"

"He would have failed," Dumbledore said simply. "It is even as I said, that in order to retrieve a lost soul from the other realm, the seeker's soul must be anchored solidly in this world. Alas, I saw barely in time that Severus could not succeed. Indeed, had he gone through the veil and joined his soul to that of Sirius, he would have been trapped himself. Though his motives were pure -- or as pure as they might be -- he lacked the anchor by which to return to this world. For, though he would have pretended otherwise, I perceived that he did not love his own life enough to wish to return to it. Not only would he have failed to bring Sirius back, he would have been irretrievably lost himself, and that I could not permit. I did not tell him this, of course. He had volunteered to make the attempt, and his pride would not permit him to withdraw. I therefore had no choice but to send him off as I did. There was nothing to be gained, and so very much to be lost."

Silence fell like a pall over the small chamber. The flickering candle flames sent gray shadows dancing across the floor. Harry stared into the reflection of one of the flames in the polished silver body of the urn. In the black seed of that flame, Harry saw again that night, the night that almost had been but never was. What would have happened if Snape had gone in after Sirius and been lost himself, as Dumbledore was certain he would have? It was unlikely that another could have taken Snape's place. By the very nature of the spell, only an enemy of blackest stripe could bring a lost soul back through the veil, and surely none loathed Sirius to the degree that Snape had. If Snape had been lost, would Harry have mourned, or merely been bitter that his effort on Sirius' behalf had failed?

And another thought elbowed its way into Harry's brain, unwanted, but no less irresistible for its intrusiveness. Could he, Harry, have done what Snape had been willing to do -- risk his life, perhaps his very soul, to retrieve his most hated foe? If Draco Malfoy, or Snape himself, were trapped behind that mysterious veil with Harry his only salvation, would he, Harry, have done what Snape had been willing to do? And if he could not -- would not -- was he any better in the final analysis than Snape? Indeed, was he not far worse?

"My, my," Dumbledore said. Harry looked around and saw that Dumbledore was regarding his curious pocket watch through the lenses of his half-moon glasses. "Where has the time gone?" The old wizard nodded at the tiny, whirling planets, clearly divining their meaning in a way Harry had never been able, before turning an elfin smile Harry's way. "Minerva will have a few well-chosen words for me when I return, and I daresay I'll have earned them." Dumbledore rose from his chair, rubbed his back with a groan. Smiling down on Harry, he said, "It appears that my back is scarcely in better condition than my legs."

Harry stood up as well, and Dumbledore drew his wand and banished the chairs with a deft flick of his wrist.

"Praise Merlin that my hands still work," he chortled. Then, more seriously: "Take care of yourself, Harry. When next we meet, may it be under more pleasant circumstances."

Dumbledore turned, paused for the briefest of intervals, then left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Harry turned and stared with unwinking eyes at the silvery surface of the urn. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again his vision was misted with the beginnings of tears.

"I've hated you for as long as I can remember," he said. Staring at the urn, Harry saw his own face reflected back at him. He saw the irony immediately. How many times might Snape have said those words while looking at his reflection in a mirror, or in the bowl of water with which he splashed his face every morning? (Though, Harry reconsidered, the latter scenario seemed rather remote, given the state of Snape's hair.) As if to sharpen his next words, Harry tilted the lid back, exposing the pale ashes within. "I hated you as I hated no one -- not even Voldemort. He didn't go out of his way to treat me like vermin, at least. I was merely an obstacle to be eliminated. But you -- I got the feeling that you would have swum naked through a lake of Bubotuber pus just to do or say something to make me feel small and useless.

"I always thought it was because you hated my father. Well, that was true enough, wasn't it? And I suppose you had cause, at least at first. And Sirius was even worse, wasn't he?" This concession came with more diffiiculty. Harry sighed deeply. "But there was someone you hated even more than them or me -- yourself. Not that knowing that would have mattered to me then, of course."

Harry paused. Did it matter now?

"It's all over now," he said with a finality that seemed to ease a great weight from his chest. "It's time to shut the past in the broom cupboard and lock the door. I have better things to do than feed off old hatreds. I've wasted too much time on things that seemed important while ignoring those that really are. I have a lot of sins to make up for. We share that, at least, if nothing else."

He paused, allowing a reverent silence to permeate the chamber. His eyes fell again onto the mound of gray ash just visible above the rim of the urn.

"Albus said that if I hadn't destroyed Voldemort, he would have made good his pledge to kill you. You might say I saved your life that night. Like father, like son, eh? You hated being in my dad's debt after he saved you from Remus, and scarcely do you get that paid off than I come along and saddle you with another one. Well," he sighed, "if that's so, you might as well hang me for a dragon as an egg, as Mrs. Figg used to say."

Harry smiled thinly, tasting the salty bite of the tiny rivers streaming from his eyes. His voice fell to a whisper as his eyes squeezed shut against the itchy wetness clouding them.

"All those years -- it's like you wanted me to hate you. It was certainly the easy path to take. But Albus once said that it's the measure of us all to do what is right instead of what is easy. Maybe I was never able to see just what the right thing was. But if I didn't know before...I know now." Drawing a slow, almost painful breath, Harry looked into the mouth of the urn and said softly, "I forgive you. Do you hear me, wherever you are, you damned greasy-haired son of a bitch? I...forgive you."

The faint echo of Harry's words had not faded before the encroaching silence was broken by two tiny sounds: a muted scuffing, as of a foot moving upon the stone floor -- and a hushed, almost imperceptible sob. Whirling suddenly, Harry saw Hermione emerging from a shadowy corner of the chamber.

"How long have you been here?" Harry croaked.

"I came in while Dumbledore was talking," Hermione said contritely. "You didn't hear me open the door. You were a bit...distracted."

Harry laughed gently, his cheeks glistening in the dancing light. "Fine Auror I am, letting you sneak up on me like that."

"You're a splendid Auror, if my opinion is worth anything," Hermione returned as she glided across the floor and looked up into Harry's damp eyes.

"I don't know as Kingsley would agree," Harry said. "He still might sack me, you know. And I wouldn't blame him."

"There are other jobs," Hermione said with quiet assuredness. "We'll get along."

"We?" Harry said, hardly believing his ears.

"We," Hermione said. "And if you do get sacked, don't worry about losing your flat. I know someone who's in the market for a roommate."

"Witch or wizard?" Harry teased.

Laughing, Hermione stretched to her full height and pressed her lips to Harry's. He swung her off her feet, drawing her against him as he inhaled her with the gratitude of a condemned man reprieved from the gallows. When he set her down again, her cheeks were wet with his tears and hers. Feeling suddenly ill-at-ease by his overt display of sentiment, Harry jerked his hand across his face and flicked his damp fingers behind his back in a gesture of manly disdain. As he essayed to wipe his hand on his robes, he looked into Hermione's eyes, and he started in surprise. She was not looking at him. Her gaze was fixed at some point over his shoulder, and her eyes were wide with an alarm verging on terror. Whirling about, Harry saw the object of that terror. A column of smoke was rising from Snape's urn, flowing outward as it billowed up and hugged the ceiling cloyingly. The silver urn burst like a flower pot struck by a stone hurled from a sling. The expanding smoke roiled like boiling porridge, filling the better part of the modest chamber in moments. The dais on which the urn had sat was swallowed up by the dark, billowing clouds, completely lost to view.

Harry and Hermione had both drawn their wands without a thought, but neither could decide what to do with them. They could only stare, dumbfounded, as the smoke continued to boil and seethe as if a volcano were erupting through the bedrock under London.

The smoke began to dissipate at last. As it thinned to transluscence, an anomalous shape appeared, just discernable through the swirling clouds. It was indistinct, sticking out at odd angles. On a venture, Harry sent a light wind hissing from the tip of his wand. Hermione emulated his action a moment later. The smoke was swept away, left to huddle around the base of the dais like dirty fog. Harry and Hermione gaped, their wands hanging limp in their hands.

A figure lay huddled on the dais, its limbs folded and interlocked in a mockery of the fetal position. It was naked, with pale, ashen skin and long, lank black hair. Harry darted in front of Hermione, his wand thrust out before him.

"When I give the word," Harry said tensely, "run for the door. My wand did him before. He won't get by me."

But instead of poising herself to turn and flee, Hermione slipped her arm around Harry's waist and planted her feet firmly on the stone floor. Harry had no time to berate her, nor even to curse under his breath. The pale figure rose from its unwieldy tangle and stood on shaking legs, fixing Harry with a cold, merciless gaze. His black eyes hard as the stone from which he had just risen, Severus Snape curled his lip beneath his long hooked nose and hissed, snake-like:

"Potter!"