Last Words

Last Words
by Trismegistus

Consciousness returns slowly, the narcotic fog of the potion still wreaking havoc upon my senses. The room dips and spins about me as I attempt to stand, and I grab hold of a bedpost with shaking hands, nauseating swirls of color swimming across my field of vision. My hair, oily to begin with, is plastered to my head with perspiration. I can feel more beads of sweat tracing their way down my spine, sticking my robes to my back. My face is clammy. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and it's all I can do to draw breath through the constriction in my lungs. I am already two inches away from death, and this is only the beginning.

Quite obviously, the formula will need fine tuning. It's all I can do to stagger into the bathroom for a glass of water - keep hydrated, the rational portion of my mind tells me, but for the most part I ignore it, already reviewing ingredients, proportions, procedures. Substitute datura for fly agaric, perhaps. And the mugwort, while a nice touch, is not absolutely necessary. Perhaps if I remove it entirely...

And so forth.

It is no secret that I never aspired to the position of Potions Master, but I am nevertheless undeniably good at what I do. I am able to recognise - and relish - the intellectual puzzle inherent in the creation of an effective, efficient potion, while most other wizards look at the discipline and see nothing but a collection of noxious ingredients and cauldrons full of foul-smelling mixtures.

Of course, this is more than an intellectual puzzle. My death is quite likely if I miscalculate what I am doing. Still, I will not let that stop me.

In a life of ill-considered choices, this has to be the most ill considered of all.

It was late afternoon as Harry Potter stared out of the window of Number 4 Privet Drive, barely believing that two whole weeks of summer holiday had already passed. Golden sunlight slanted through the window and across his face, forcing him to squint ever so slightly into its light. He could hear children's voices, carrying faintly from somewhere down the street, as they laughed and called goodbyes to one another before heading home for dinner.

For the first time in the fourteen years he had lived with the Dursleys, Harry did not have to spend this evening in his room. Professors Lupin and Moody, and the Metamorphmagus Tonks had made certain of that at the end of the summer term by way of a few choice words spoken to his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Harry could have been anywhere right now, wandering the streets of his neighbourhood, wasting time in the arcades and shops of Little Whinging, or even, perhaps, visiting his friends Hermione and Ron.

But he was not. In fact, he didn't care if he ever left this room again.

He sighed, shut his eyes, and levered himself up off of the bed before crossing the floor of his small room and seating himself once more at his desk, where three sheets of blank parchment had been staring at him since yesterday morning.

Writing to Lupin, Moody and Tonks was more of a chore than a novelty, one more thing he was forced to do by the people who should have been looking out for him. Of course, he would write to them, assure them that the Dursleys were treating him well (and why hadn't anyone cared about how the Dursleys treated him ten years ago?), and he would make the letters sound cheerful and bright, because that was what was expected of him.

Sirius.

It was a beautiful evening. Sirius should have been alive to see it.

Golden sunlight slanted through the windows. He ached.

It is early evening. Outside my house the sun is shining ever so cheerfully, as if to spite me. I have taken to drawing all the curtains against its light, as I find that my eyes are growing ever more sensitive to even the minutest quantities of illumination. I suppose I should adjust for this in the potion, but I don't want to waste time recalibrating the proportions, especially since I am drawing ever closer to my ultimate goal. And who can say what effect the introduction of tertiary ingredients might have on the overall mixture? As I have precious little in the way of previous knowledge to expand upon, I do not know for certain, and I find myself reluctant to do anything that might result in further setbacks. I will deal with the photosensitivity.

With the curtains drawn and only the faintest lumos spelled from my wand for illumination, my house bears an eerie resemblance to Black's. I level all manner of curses at his memory as another headache, so frequent now that I've begun to test the potion in earnest, sets in. I long for nothing more than to lie down and sleep for a week, to have a calming glass of port, to read a book.

I will do none of these things.

I go instead to my workroom, and begin shredding more foxglove root. The dried root rasps across the metal blades of the shredder, fine, transparent ribbons of the stuff falling onto the worktable below. My hands move steadily, surely. I have always loved this.

Eventually, I have a sufficient quantity of the dried shredded root, which I measure and add to the potion bubbling in the cauldron at my side. It boils, fizzes, and turns a deep, blood red. Good. My calculations were correct.

Heartened that I have, at least, progressed this far, I will allow myself the luxury of a small nap.

I retrace my steps to my bedroom, where I lie on my back atop the sheets, fully clothed, and shut my eyes.

And all of this for him.

I must truly be insane.

Two weeks later, another glorious sunset was painting the sky outside the windows of 12 Privet Drive, but Harry was not aware of it. He had barely moved from his room since the start of the holiday, and only the periodic arrival of owls from Ron, Hermione, and various members of the Order served to mark the passing of time.

There was a tentative knock at the door - Aunt Petunia bringing a plate of food up from the kitchen.

"Leave it outside," he said.

There was another, longer pause, and then Harry heard Petunia place the dish on the floor and head quietly back downstairs. Loud, canned laughter from the television echoed through the stairwell, followed by the equally phony laughter of Dudley and Uncle Vernon. The television burbled on.

Eventually, he heard Aunt Petunia once again, coming to return the untouched plate to the kitchen.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten properly. At first, Uncle Vernon had threatened and thundered, bellowing at him to eat the meals that Aunt Petunia had so carefully prepared for him, but he'd barely listened. There was very little that could frighten him now.

Finally, Uncle Vernon had learned to stop wasting his breath. Once or twice, Aunt Petunia had tried cajoling him into eating something, but her attempts were forced and unnatural, as stiff as the expression of fake concern painted on her face.

Even Harry's stomach had given up rumbling in protest.

There was a sudden whoosh of wings as Hedwig soared into the room, returned from her evening's hunting. She landed on the headboard of his bed, hooting in a soft, concerned manner, but Harry shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

At long last, Hedwig soared over to her cage, tucked her head beneath her wing, and slept.

Cold closes around me, thick grey fog clotting in my mouth and nose and obscuring my vision so that I can barely see my own hand held in front of my face. Somewhere, some part of me is conscious of my body lying prone atop my bed, beaker of potion clasped, empty, in my hand. My heart gives another slow, leaden beat, and then my awareness of my body fades until I am completely absorbed by this reality.

The dry whispering of thousands of voices grows ever louder until I can discern individuals amongst the constant background hiss.

Severus. Traitor. Liar.

Severus. It's you. It's you. You've come for us. I knew you wouldn't leave us to him... You wouldn't abandon us to the Dark Lord. Help us, we--

Rosier. Barnes. Coulter.

Severu--Snivellus. I should have known better. I told him he was wrong to suspect you, and yet here you are. Death Eater. Necromancer. Traitor.

Evans.

Oh, god, I do not want to-- But it's no use. Their voices are part and parcel of the territory, and I will need to listen if I am ever to find the one I am looking for.

I chose a direction, at random, and stumble off into the fog. The voices continue to taunt, beg, rail, but I do not allow myself to be distracted by them, to listen with anything other than idle detachment. My purpose is clear. I will find Black.

Should have known better, Snivellus, Evans's voice continues and I turn, blindly in the fog, trying to locate its source.

"Evans, please, listen. I need... I need to talk to Black. He came through the Veil. Help me find him." The words are faltering, choked.

There is a short, mocking laugh, and then Evans's voice falls silent, lost in the roar of all the others. Damn it all. I've never been good at asking help of others.

Minutes, hours, days later, I am brought to my knees by a sudden, stabbing pain in my chest. I clutch both hands over the fog-dampened fabric of my robes - no, too soon, too soon - but there is no use fighting as the potion draws me back toward life.

"Damn," I whisper, as I open my eyes to the dusky half-light of my bedroom. A small trail of blood trickles from one nostril. It can't be helped. I will need to stay even longer the next time I cross over. I shut my eyes, and mentally review the reagents, making an adjustment here and there which will increase the duration of my next journey.

A month later, I have made no real progress. I slip, silent and wraithlike, through the corridors of my home, and sometimes, in moments of drug-heightened awareness, am certain that I am indeed trailed by a processional of shades who have followed me back to this side. I imagine that if I were to stop suddenly, I might hear them behind me, the dry susurration of their voices echoing for a moment before moving to a point just beyond my perception. I would like to imagine that this is idle fancy, brought on by too many hours of work and my own obsessive temperament, but I cannot be certain.

"St. John's Wort," I mutter - to myself by necessity, as there is no one else in my house to whom I might direct the words. Rosemary. Juniper. Hawthorn. I run through any number of other reagents, common and uncommon, which are known for their ability to deter evil spirits and the undead, and then begin to crosscheck their effectiveness against the other ingredients of the potion, those which I cannot afford to eliminate. The ingredients whose primary purpose is to break down the barriers which separate me from Black.

I do run the very real risk of bringing a wraith back with me as I cross over into life, and I should have recognised this risk from the start. But, as it stands, I did not, and I have made too much progress on this potion to turn back now. If I cannot find any ingredient capable of deterring the undead which does not also decrease the efficiency of the potion, so be it.

Summer drew slowly to a close, and Harry began to emerge from his room in the evenings to have supper in the kitchen. It wasn't that he missed the company of other people (and even if he had, he would never have chosen the Dursleys for company), but that he knew that he needed to practise being around people again before the start of sixth year. Writing bright and cheerful letters was all well and good, but his efforts would be for nothing if he wore his misery on his sleeve when he arrived at Hogwarts. He didn't know why he felt he had to put on an act, aside from the fact that it was expected of him, and--

And--

And part of him did not want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he couldn't handle this on his own. Because he could do it alone. He would do it alone. He vowed that by the start of new term he would be in control so that none of them - not Hermione, not Ron, the Weasleys, Hagrid, Dumbledore, any of them, would ever know that he was still angry.

He had long ago realised that he was responsible for Sirius's death. But far be it from any of them to admit that they were responsible, too.

He hadn't gone into the Ministry alone that night. Hermione and Ron were Prefects - they should have stopped him. And Neville and Luna and Ginny should have known better, should have tried to stop him as well. But they had all let him go, and Sirius had died, and none of them had bothered to apologise for it.

And hadn't Dumbledore refused to tell him the truth about his visions? Hadn't Dumbledore known what they were, and hadn't he known that they might not all be true? Yet he hadn't seen fit to tell Harry, to let Harry know that it might all be a trick, and it had all been a trick, and now Sirius was... And when had Dumbledore ever apologised for that?

He hadn't.

And Lupin, Tonks, Moody - they had all been in that room too. They were adults, they knew how reckless Sirius was, they should have known not to let anyone get too close to the Veil. Harry was only fifteen, what could he have done? But they could have done something, and they hadn't, and Sirius died. And none of them had ever told him they were sorry.

And his teachers... McGonagall should have done more to oppose Umbridge, because if she had, this might never have happened. And Trelawney, who was a joke and a phony, had her job back because she had "seen" that either Harry or Voldemort would die, although she hadn't bothered to see anything useful about anyone else. And wasn't it her prophecy that started this whole mess to begin with?

And Snape. Harry's insides twisted viciously at the thought of Snape, who had always hated Sirius, and who Harry was sure had taken just a little too much time searching for him in the forest before going to aid the Order...

The litany went on and on and on.

The reagents I have selected are mostly herbal. This in itself is unusual, far closer to Muggle "chemistry" than proper wizarding magic. And yet, what I am attempting to do has very little to do with "proper" wizarding magic at all, so I suppose that this is in some ways appropriate. While what I am engaging in is not strictly necromancy, I doubt very many wizards would make that distinction, were they to learn of my actions. Communicating with the dead is only a small step away from raising the dead, which, needless to say, is Dark Magic. And I was, of course, a Death Eater. The connections would be so glaringly obvious to anyone who chose to find them.

Given my past, I doubt any protestation I might make to the contrary - were I to be discovered - would seem very believable. I can think of many, many wizards, Death Eaters or otherwise, who would be only too happy to find reason to send me to Azkaban, or worse.

I have concluded that I must persist in using a cannabis tisane as the carrier. The primary effects of both the herb and the alcohol are necessary to achieve the appropriate mental state through which I can cross over. The physiological reactions, however, are counterproductive, and must be mediated against. To that end, I've included datura, atropa, and hellbore. They're all powerful drugs, capable of slowing respiration and heartbeat to a near-standstill. And yet, this too must be mediated against or I will never return. So I add foxglove, lily of the valley - both powerful cardiac stimulants - and borage, for life and courage. They should, if I have calculated the quantities correctly, begin after a few hours to reverse the effects of the earlier ingredients, thus catapulting me out through the Veil.

Then there are elder, rue, parsley - herbs which attune one to the death. Their magical properties, working in concert with the physiological properties of the other herbs, create a mental state similar to that undergone by anyone actually stepping through the Veil.

I have also included other ingredients which function along similar lines - Grim's fur, cemetery dust, shredded root of a yew that has grown through a corpse's eye socket. Human blood.

I only hope word of my frequent purchases in Knockturn Alley doesn't find its way back to Dumbledore.

It is not easy going, even for someone of my formidable talent.

Traveling into death is of course forbidden by the Ministry, international wizarding by-law, and any number of other social and legal restrictions, and so I do not have the work of earlier wizards to refer to when creating my potion. I have been forced to begin from scratch, working from intuition and conjecture. Oh, veiled references to the subject matter are extant, hinted at in grimoire and spell book, but potion making - potion making is an exacting art, and to have come as far as I have come in the past month, without any prior knowledge to assist me, is not far short of impossible.

And yet, I have done it. Right hand of Voldemort, spy, and now necromancer. Why must my every accomplishment be one I must hide from others?

In the end, I am not doing this for posterity's sake. I am doing it for him . Because, in a life of ill-considered choices, in a life in which I have done nothing save stumble from one foolish mistake to the next, this was the next logical progression. Somehow, I persist in believing that if I am able to do this, it might change the way he sees me, that I might yet convince him I am not the heartless monster he believes me to be.

It has occurred to me that Black might not even exist in the Veil anymore, that he might have moved on completely. This becomes more and more likely with each passing day, and so I become more and more desperate to find him. I awoke last night coughing blood, and now voices chitter at the edge of my hearing while I am fully awake. They are becoming harder and harder to ignore.

It is only one and one half weeks until the beginning of term. I had hoped to have succeeded well before this, but as early success is no longer likely, I might as well allow myself a brief respite. There is also the small complication that I have yet to finalise my lesson plans for the coming term, and have not begun brewing the bases for this year's potions, either.

Very well. I will allow myself the ten days before I return to Hogwarts to do something, anything, besides work on that infernal potion.

Harry found, upon boarding the Express, that he was happier to see Ron and Hermione than he would have believed possible a few short days ago. They were both so eager to see him that it was hard to remember he was angry with them both. And Mr and Mrs Weasley had been so - parental - as they ushered Harry and Ron onto the platform, that he found it difficult to remember why he thought they should apologise to him.

And then, on the train, when they realised that Malfoy was most likely not going to make an appearance, Neville and Ginny had gone looking for him, and had laid into him badly enough to make Malfoy regret ever having tormented any of them in the first place. Even Luna had emerged from her own universe long enough to help - if you could call turning Malfoy's dress robes into a ball dress "help." It wasn't exactly a curse, but Malfoy could hardly see it along those lines.

Then, on the Hogsmeade platform, Hagrid had come lumbering up to Harry through a crowd of first years and swept him into an embrace so tight his ribs creaked. "Good t' see yeh again, Harry!" he roared loudly enough that several nearby students were forced to cover their ears. Harry, remembering how he'd thought, during the summer, that he didn't care if he ever saw Hagrid again, felt a sudden sharp stab of guilt. The sensation returned when he caught sight of Professor McGonagall awaiting the first years inside the entrance hall, and remembered how she had run to Hagrid's defense last year, taking the full force of several stunning spells. And finally, at the Feast, Dumbledore had looked so worn that Harry, despite his best efforts, slowly felt his anger ebbing to nothing.

As Harry lay in his bed late that evening, listening to the soft breathing of his dorm mates, he found that there were very few people he could still be angry at.

If I had ever thought to myself, Why am I doing this? during the past summer, the look on Potter's face when he saw me at the Head Table during the Welcoming Feast should serve as a more than adequate reminder. It was all your fault, Snape. I saw the accusation in his eyes that first night in the Great Hall, and I have seen it every day since then. He arrives in my classroom every Wednesday sullen and short-tempered, though he might have been conversing quite happily with his crowd of admirers mere moments beforehand. It's all I can do to stop myself from throttling him, full classroom or not, and insisting that it wasn't my fault.

Although... In my moments of doubt, I sometimes wonder if, had I continued Potter's "private lessons," as Dumbledore so diplomatically phrased it, Black might still be alive. Never mind the fact that no one would have continued tutoring the boy, had they found him strolling about in their own humiliating adolescent memories. And never mind the fact that it was clear from the beginning he was making no attempt to master the material. Neither of us did as much as we might have, which resulted in the inevitable consequences.

In the end, it does not matter one way or another. If I have the right to believe I played no part in Black's death, Potter has the right to believe that I had everything to do with it.

I sigh, and ready myself for another dose of potion.

"Something isn't right with Snape," said Harry one evening as he sat doing homework with Ron and Hermione in the common room.

"When is it ever?" muttered Ron, still stinging from the memory of that morning's Potions class, in which Snape had been especially vicious.

Hermione, however, set down her book and regarded Harry with a thoughtful expression. "How do you mean, Harry?" she asked.

"Dunno," he said slowly, still not sure exactly it was that was bothering him. "He's just been acting really off." And it was true. Harry had felt Snape's eyes on him ever since that first evening during the Welcoming Feast. But it wasn't just that, because he and Snape had been glaring at one another ever since first year. He looked up to see if Ron and Hermione already understood what he was trying to tell them, but judging from their politely blank expressions, they didn't.

"Well, it's only..." he faltered, searching for the right words. He hated Snape now more than ever before, loathed how Snape could so calmly go about his business, eating, teaching, and breathing, not caring that he had killed Sirius. And he had to know how Harry despised him for it, had to have seen it in Harry's eyes during that first staring match at the start of term. He had expected Snape to be as cruel as ever this year - if not worse - because of that, yet all term, even when Harry made the most obvious of mistakes in his class, Snape had been strangely--

"That's it!" he said, "That's what it is. Listen - when he was laughing at our potion in class today, Ron, he--"

"Was as unfair as always!" Ron interrupted. "'I would expect, after six years, that even an intellect as small as yours, Weasley, should be able to make the distinction between deiseal and widdershins when stirring a potion.' Malfoy made the same mistake, but did Snape bother noticing? No. I don't see how that's any different than before!"

"But it wasn't us he was criticising, Ron," said Harry. "It was you."

"He did glare at you," Hermione offered, most likely in the hopes of calming Ron, whose ears were flushing an alarming shade of red.

"Yeah," said Harry, "But when has he ever not jumped on the chance to humiliate me for messing up?"

Hermione didn't have an answer to that.

Despite my best efforts not to antagonise the boy, it all comes to a head in my classroom, and far sooner than I would have preferred.

I am criticising Weasley yet again for his appalling inattention to detail when Potter rises from his chair and upends their cauldron of misbrewed sludge onto the floor at my feet. The classroom immediately descends into complete silence as a roomful of eyes are fixed unerringly upon the pair of us.

He manages to hold my glare without flinching, eyebrows slightly raised as if challenging me. Just say it, Snape, his expression reads.

Very well. I shall. "Detention, Potter," I say, in my most silkily threatening tones. "My office. Tonight." And then, to the rest of the class, "Well, what are you all staring at? I suggest that anyone who does not fancy joining Mr Potter this evening collect their things and go. NOW."

The tension breaks suddenly as they scurry to collect their possessions and run like rats caught unawares by a bright light. I wait until the last of them has left the room before carefully locking the door and heading to my workroom. The potion's formula is not nearly as ready as I would have preferred, given what I am about to do with it, but the boy has left me with little choice. This cannot go on forever. I sigh and use my wand to magick a cold blue flame beneath my work cauldron.

The mist has already closed about me completely by the time I open my eyes. My heart is thudding painfully in my chest, my stomach still lurching from the effects of so many narcotics wending their way through my nervous system. I suppose it can't be helped. Breathing is difficult in such thick mist; it seems to clot in my mouth and throat, blocking any air from reaching my lungs. I'm not certain whether the mist on this side of the Veil is changeable in the manner of normal weather, or if my trouble breathing is a sympathetic reaction mirroring the state of my body in life.

Perhaps it is a bit of both.

At any rate, it makes it extremely difficult to focus properly on my goal as I stagger directionlessly through the mist, casting about amongst the hundreds of disembodied voices for the one I seek. I should not have ingested such a massive dose of potion, but if I do not accomplish this tonight--

No. I will accomplish it tonight. I must accomplish it.

There are now so many voices vying for my attention that it is difficult to listen for the one I seek. But I will find him. Black was always a mulish, stubborn creature, and I imagine there were a great many things he wished to do before dying. It is therefore very likely that he is wandering this place with all the other lost souls who perished before setting their earthly affairs in order.

Others might find it surprising how few people die truly satisfied with the course of their lives. I do not.

I wander through the Veil's grey, featureless landscape for several hours. There is now an almost constant sharp, stabbing pain in the region of my heart, and my breathing is forced and rasping. Although I cannot see them, I am surrounded by a legion of former "companions" who'd served the Dark Lord by my side; they have grown to expect my presence on this side, and assail me whenever I appear.

"Black," I shout at them, "I need to find Black!"

I am so accustomed to them ignoring my pleas as they curse, threaten, and beg me to help them, that I almost miss the lone voice which says,

"Oh, god, yes, I'm here!"

I stop dead in my tracks, turning toward the voice's source, though it's a useless movement, as I see nothing but the same omnipresent fog. This is the first time someone other than Evans has ever responded to me directly, yet it's ultimately useless, because it isn't Black's voice. I am uncertain whether its owner is attempting to fool me, or if he has become sufficiently deranged by the nature of this place to respond to me believing he's the man I seek.

"I need to speak with Black," I repeat, as calmly as I am able.

"Yes, it's me, oh god, someone's finally come...someone's finally here..."

And then the irony of it strikes me.

"Regulus," I say.

"Severus," he answers, "Oh, thank god someone's found me..."

It is a long shot, but it's all I have at the moment. "Your brother is here," I tell him.

"Yes! I know, I know, but he can't hear me. He can't hear me and I want to tell him--" Regulus's voice rises into a high, keening wail which sends chills down my spine before it becomes lost into the roar of all the other voices.

So he's found his brother, meaning that Black is still in the Veil. I would find that knowledge heartening except for the fact that if Black won't listen to his brother (and despite what Regulus may think to the contrary, I'm certain Black is ignoring him out of spite), what does that bode for my chance of being granted an audience? But I will accomplish nothing if I don't try.

"Black, are you there?" I shout into the mists.

It is a moment before I hear him again, speaking as if he hasn't realised I'd been unable to hear his voice. I do my best to ignore the throbbing pain in my chest, and concentrate on his words.

"...need to tell him that I never hated him. He's my brother!" His voice is so craven, and so pitiable.

"Black, take me to Sirius. Please..." But having finally found someone to listen to him, he ignores my request entirely.

"I don't want to be here anymore. I'm so tired. But I can't leave until I've told him. I need to tell him, but he just...won't...listen."

Inspiration strikes. "Regulus," I say. "He might be able to hear me. Take me to him, and I'll tell him for you."

"You would tell him, Severus? For me?"

"Yes," I say, suddenly extremely impatient. I've lost track of how long I've spent on this side, and the potion will only keep me here for a maximum of four hours. If I can't find Black by then..."

I cry out as an incomprehensibly cold pain shoots through my shoulder. It feels as if I've been impaled on a shard of ice. "Come," Regulus is whispering. "This way..." As unpleasant as it is, I allow him to lead me through the fog. The cold is an indescribably horrible sensation, yet a welcome relief from the constant pain in my chest.

I cannot count how many minutes I stumble blindly along, but suddenly the cold is withdrawn and I hear an all-to-familiar voice...

"Well, well. Snivellus. I was wondering if you'd ever show up here."

"Black, I have very little time, so listen--"

"What? To you? Cowardly little Snivellus, who can't be bothered to put his life on the line, while my godson is out there facing death each day--"

"Black! Shut up AND LISTEN TO ME!" I have to stop, panting for breath that I can't seem to draw into my lungs properly. "Your brother...Regulus...is here in this hellhole. And he can't leave until I tell you what he means to say to you, so you will bloody well LISTEN TO ME!"

I must have shocked him into speechlessness, because he doesn't fling any insults back into my face. My heart - my Veil heart - is racing at an extraordinarily painful pace. I can barely detect the presence of my physical heart, only an intermittent, stinging throb serves to remind me of its existence. "He wants you to know," I gasp, trying my best to inject as much scorn as I am able into the words, "that despite popular belief, he does not, in fact, despise you."

There is a sudden flash of light at my side, in which a human form is briefly visible. Wind roars in my ears, whipping my hair about my face. Thank you... Regulus's voice whispers, before it is lost in a noise like a thunderclap and another blinding flash of light.

The mist is as thick as ever, but the army of disembodied voices has fallen strangely silent.

"He said that?" Black whispers at last. "To me? He told me when I left home that I was no longer any brother of his... Oh, Regulus..."

"Ahh!" I'm brought to my knees by an absolutely agonising throb. Although my heart is racing here, I can feel my real heart beginning to falter. I should never have consumed so much potion at one time. But I found Black. Now I must make him listen.

"Black. I'm here to help you, god knows why. So you will damn well do what I ask of you..." Blood begins to ooze from my nostrils.

I've never bled on this side before.

Harry's rage at the unfairness of it all grew slowly during the course of the day, so that by the time he was supposed to head to Snape's dungeons for his detention, he was so angry he could barely speak. He tried his best not to let his anger show to Hermione and Ron, who were not to blame for his actions in Potions that day, but all the same, it was hard not to snap at them. He thought that by the time he had said his goodbyes and stepped through the portrait hole, they were almost glad to see him go.

He stormed off to the dungeons, breathing quickly through his nose and glaring balefully at any painting which had the temerity to call a greeting to him as he passed. He hadn't said anything in Potions this afternoon, but heaven help Snape this time, he thought. He'll get his.

My eyes snap open, staring fixedly at the low, dark stones of my ceiling. I try to sit, and immediately collapse onto the floor. Blood is oozing from my nostrils on this side as well.

I allow a few moments to pass before I rise, much more cautiously this time, and stumble over to a cabinet housing basic medical remedies of the sort which might be required during any Potions lesson. It won't do to have Potter see me bleeding like a stuck pig.

It is insanely hard to breathe, almost as if someone is holding a wet blanket to my face. I should not experience this sensation of suffocation on this side of the Veil, and that is what first alerts me to the fact that something is horribly, horribly wrong.

I bring both hands to my heart and clutch at it through my robes, as if I might manually palpitate the organ myself. I think suddenly of Haitian zombies, and of fairytales like Snow White and Cinderella, which now make a great deal of sense.

I hope Potter arrives for his detention on time.

My time is fast running out.

Harry didn't bother to knock when he arrived at Snape's classroom, but stalked inside, slamming the door behind him as he came. He supposed Snape planned for him to scour cauldron bottoms, or rarify sea slug mucus, but he had other things in mind for this detention. He was concentrating so fiercely on exactly what he was going to say to Snape that it took him a moment to realise that the room was empty.

He slumped, feeling slightly silly and as if all the wind had left his sails. And then something moved in the corner of the room.

"Potter."

It was Snape. But something was wrong. Harry could easily envision Snape hiding in the shadowy corners of his classroom, waiting to terrify whichever luckless student had detention with him that night - that was something Snape would do. Snape was always sneering and looming and stalking about, doing his best to appear imposing and threatening. But Snape was leaning against the wall, almost as if he couldn't stand upright without its support. And his face, which was always unhealthily pale, seemed somehow paler than usual.

But his eyes had the same feral glitter they always contained when he looked at Harry.

Harry opened his mouth to say something biting, but Snape beat him to it.

"Potter," he said, sliding along the wall. "I need to talk to you about Black."

"You son of a bitch," said Harry coldly, not caring that he was speaking to a teacher.

Part of me wants to discipline the boy for his appalling use of obscenity directed at a teacher, but my heart is beating less and less frequently now, and there is no time to waste.

"Potter," I gasp, "If I could tell you what he wanted to say to you, when he fell through..."

His reaction is immediate and violent. "Shut up about my godfather, you BASTARD!"

"He wanted," I continue, as if Potter hadn't spoken, "To tell you that he was wrong. That he's proud. And that you aren't James, that you are better than James--" Thick, tangy blood clots on my tongue.

His face is...stricken.

"Liar," he whispers.

I shake my head. "No." And then I fall to the floor.

He staggers toward me, blood draining from his face. "Liar," he says again, his voice cracking on the second syllable. His eyes are wild, desperate.

I don't want to do this to him. I don't.

I have to.

"No. It's true. He told me. While I was-"

My words are cut off by another fit of coughing. More blood is expunged, and I can feel it in my chest. That rattle. That famous, telltale rattle.

His face is horrible - bloodless, twisted with hatred. And I had thought that this might somehow change it all. My talent for self-deception has always been peerless. Nevertheless, I succeeded, I went through the Veil and found Black and I will bloody well let him know before... "He said, 'Tell him I was wrong, before, about him and his father. Tell him that he is better than any of us, even James. And tell him that I'm so proud of him.'" Tremors wrack my body, and I'm forced to pause.

"He told me," I'm finally able to whisper. "Himself."

"How?" he demands. He doesn't believe me.

"I went through," I manage weakly. "I went through...the Veil...and I found him..." My voice is ravaged, desiccated. I wonder if he can even understand the words.

It isn't as thought it makes any difference now, either way.

I wonder, bemusedly, why I feel such bitter disappointment. It isn't as though my fantasy of reconciliation was ever more tangible than the wraiths I encountered on the other side of the Veil.

And yet, it does matter to me, horribly. This must be the famous clarity of the dying. "Ah," I say, as revelation washes over me.

Snape's eyes focused on something in the corner of the room only visible to him. "Ah," he breathed, his expression altering from confusion to one of rhapsody. His ribcage rose, shuddered, and fell, and Harry could hear the oxygen rattling down into his lungs.

Tell him I was wrong. Tell him he is better than any of us, even James. And tell him I'm so proud.

"You aren't lying, are you?" he asked softly. If Snape heard, he did not answer.

"Tell me!" Harry demanded, voice rising dangerously, as if in anger. But he wasn't angry, not any more.

"Tell me!" He moved to Snape's side, grabbed his shoulder and shook, the bones sharp and pronounced even through the thick fabric of his robes. When Snape still gave no response, Harry stood, straddled his waist, bent low so that they were nose to nose, gripping both of Snape's thin shoulders in his hands.

A moment elapsed and then Snape's eyes opened. His pupils were dilated to the very edges of their black irises, the whites a flat, sickly grey.

Harry's mind reeled with grief. His parents. Cedric. Sirius. And now Snape. No. No. NO. Not another. Please. He hated Snape, but he didn't want Snape to die because of him.

"Why?" he whispered.

"Spare me... the... theatrics... Potter," Snape gasped.

"It wasn't your fault," he said in a very small voice. The words were wrenched from somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.

"Other things were." Snape gave a horrible choking gasp, and then his whole body spasmed violently. "Get out," he said.

"Please don't die." The words were pleading, whispered.

Snape gave what might have been a short, bitter laugh, but sounded more like an agonised groan. "Die?" he whispered. "Have you... ever read... fairytales, Potter?" His eyes rolled back into his head. He shuddered and lay still.

Fog closes around me once more, but this time there is no residual sensation of my corporeal body. I pause, looking about me for signs of another presence, but all is grey, shifting fog. When I, as a penitent former Death Eater, first stood before the Veil... and indeed, every time I have crossed over since then, this place was filled with voices - angry, pleading, tormented, or quietly despairing. But now that I have become another denizen of this land, I hear no one but myself. I try to tell him, but he can't hear me, Regulus had said.

Ah, I see. So that is how it works, is it?

I'm no stranger to enforced solitude. I doubt the lack of companionship will bother me.

Ah, but imagine centuries of it. Of this, whispers a voice in my head.

I will not. I select a direction at random, and move off through the bone-chilling mist.

Harry remained straddling Snape's waist, feeling nothing but a dull sense of horror as the warmth slowly drained from Snape's body.

"Professor Snape?" he tried once, before the horror was replaced by blinding grief. No. No. No, no, no, no, nononono. This should not have happened. There was no reason for this to have happened. Snape had gone into death to talk to Sirius for him, and he need never have done that.

Sirius didn't need to die protecting you, either, said a mutinous voice in his head.

No. Sirius didn't. But Sirius had loved him. Sirius had a reason to do what he had done, but Snape... There had never been any love lost between him and Harry.

Tears pricked at the corners of Harry's eyes before slipping slowly down his cheeks. He had spent so many years wishing Snape dead, imagining how happy he would be if he awoke one day to find that the Potions Master was no longer alive. Those memories were horrible now that they had become reality... now that Harry knew that when compared to Voldemort, Snape, Umbridge, even the Dursleys, were not his enemies at all. Wave after wave of bitter guilt descended over him.

"Do you believe in fairytales, Potter?" Snape had asked him. And what kind of last words were those? Had he been taunting Harry? He had given his life to bring Harry Sirius's last words, surely he could have trusted that Harry would pass on his own. But no, it was only do you believe in fairytales?

Had he been angry about dying because of something he'd done for Harry, while Harry had been so ungrateful? Was he trying to tell Harry that Harry's life wasn't a fairytale? Or that Snape's own life wasn't? It didn't make sense.

Harry rested his head on Snape's still chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He lay there for endless moments, too miserable to move, cheek pressed against Snape's cold, immobile body. And that was when he first thought he heard it - a dull, muffled thud.

He sat up, looked about the room, but there was nobody there. Snape's...corpse...was as still and lifeless as before. But something wasn't right. Harry was just as sure of it as he was uncertain how it was he knew.

He waited five, ten minutes more. He knew he should go, get Dumbledore, McGonagall, anyone, and try to explain what had happened, but that something niggled insistently at the corner of his mind.

It's just grief, he thought to himself. You aren't thinking straight. You should go. He made as if to rise, but found himself once more resting his head on Snape's chest instead. And then, a few moments later, there it was: that same low, dull thud.

Harry's eyes widened, and he lay motionless atop Snape, trying not to move, trying not to breathe, and waited.

Nothing happened. But then, just as he was about to rise to his feet, just as he had determined that he would go this time and get Dumbledore, it came again. And he stayed put. It was another quarter hour before he heard it once more, but it came nevertheless. Thud. And every quarter hour after that.

It was almost as if it was a heartbeat. But that couldn't possibly be, because Snape was dead. His body was cold, stiff like Harry had heard corpses became after... And he obviously wasn't breathing. Snape was dead, and Harry's mind was playing tricks on him.

Do you believe in fairytales, Potter?

It didn't make sense--

But that wasn't what Snape had said. Have you ever read fairytales, Potter?

He felt his pulse quicken. It couldn't be. It couldn't. But there was only one way to find out. He raised himself up on his arms, and leaned over Snape's still face.

Snape's lips were cold, rubbery, and he recoiled despite himself.

Damn it, Potter, he thought. If you mean to do it, then do it! His lips closed over Snape's mouth, searching, questioning, and finally his tongue parted Snape's lifeless lips, and he moved it along the inside of Snape's mouth, blood and the bitter aftertaste of whatever potion Snape had been drinking pricking his tongue.

He paused for a moment, raised his head and looked Snape full in the face. Snape's expression was as leaden as before, so Harry shut his eyes and lowered his mouth once more to Snape's.

Who gasped, eyelids snapping open and gaze moving wildly about the room before it came to rest upon Harry's face. Snape's expression changed from one of panic to confusion and finally comprehension, his eyes widening as he recognised Harry.

Who stared back at Snape for a few shocked moments before breathing, "I'll go get Dumbledore."

A few weeks have passed, and I am recovered enough to both resume taking my lessons and dining at table. Both experiences are somewhat discomfiting, as Potter and I no longer snipe at one another in the manner that everyone has come to expect. My colleagues stare at me as I dine or pass by them in the corridors with expressions that suggest they are beginning to think me insane, though that realisation is lamentably belated on their part. I am sure this new...polite distance...between Potter and myself has occasioned a great amount of fanciful rumor, concerning the two of us, amongst the staff.

The students, for their part, alternate between staring at me in incomprehension and repeating the newest variation on their far-fetched tales concerning my "ailment." A week ago it was hexing duels and suicide pacts between Potter and myself. This week it's Death Eater infiltration and courageous last stands against Voldemort. I would dearly love to deduct house points, but fear that any reaction along those lines would only encourage further stories.

The rumors are not helped when Potter begins attempting, ever so clumsily, to speak to me after Potions lessons.

"Run along, Potter," I tell him irritably as he loiters in my classroom after my most recent lesson. He stares at me for a moment, expression inscrutable, before turning on his heels and rejoining his faithful companions awaiting him at the doorway, Weasley shooting me threatening glares all the while.

I had thought that to be the end of it until I hear faint but insistent knocking at the door to my chambers after dinner. I open the door to find him standing on its threshold, wearing his most annoyingly resolute expression.

"Yes?" I inquire, lifting an eyebrow.

"I want to talk to you," he says, although his voice shakes just a little.

"Whatever for?" I ask in a tone which should leave him in no doubt that he had best run along to the safety of his common room.

"You know why," he presses, starting to sound a little irritated himself.

I sigh. "Potter," I say, trying my best to sound reasonable. "What happened that evening need never be referred to by either of us. I am absolved of my guilt in the matter of Black-- Sirius's death, and you have satisfied your obligation to me by saving my life. You may now return to your dormitory, assured that your innate sense of Gryffindor duty has been satisfied."

"Idonthateyouanymore." He speaks the words so quickly that it takes a moment before I can make sense of their jumble. "Now, can I please come in?"

Good god. What am I to say to that? I move aside, silently, and follow him into my sitting room.

We sit in silence for several minutes, I staring into the grate, Potter gazing intently at his trainers.

Rather surprisingly, I capitulate first. "I believe you wanted to speak with me?"

He nods, looking rather miserable.

I wait, with cocked eyebrow.

"We could try," he says slowly, glancing at me sidelong as if expecting me to pounce at any moment, "being...nicer...to one another."

I cannot prevent myself from sneering in disbelief at this ridiculous statement.

"I don't see why not!" he continues, obviously nettled. "After what happened--"

"You kissed me, Potter. I can hardly believe you found the experience to be anything but..." I pause. "Distasteful."

"That's what I would have expected too," he says thoughtfully.

There is nothing I wish to say aloud in response to that statement, and so we lapse into silence yet again. The minutes tick by, but much to my surprise Potter makes no attempt to leave. Despite myself, I begin to feel tendrils of cautious hope unfurling in my stomach.

"Have I only imagined," I ask finally, "assigning you an essay on the magical properties of powdered aurok's horn, to be handed in during my office hours tomorrow?"

He glances at his watch and starts suddenly as he realises the time. "Oh," he says sheepishly. "I'd best be starting on that then."

I make a low, inarticulate sound of agreement before rising and ushering him to the door, somewhat surprised at my reluctance to chase him from my quarters entirely.

"I was hoping I could come back tomorrow," he says as I begin to shut the door after him. "We didn't really get much talking done, you see," he continues upon seeing my incredulous expression.

"If you feel you must," I say finally, not entirely able to keep the pleasure from my voice.

He gives a quick nod and shoots me a grin, eyes sparkling beneath his fringe. "Good. Thought you'd say that." And then he's darted down the corridor before I can frame a proper response.

I spend the next few hours staring at nothing in particular, or moving restively about my chambers. I find that, despite my best efforts, I'm rather looking forward to tomorrow evening. Famous Harry Potter, calling on his Potions Master, Severus Snape, in Snape's own dungeons. I imagine James must be rolling in his grave, wherever that might lie. That thought is surprisingly devoid of the vindictive pleasure I'd expected it would inspire within me.

In the end, why should I care what James Potter, or anyone else might think? I risked my life to show Harry that I am not his enemy. If he has finally taken it into his thick head to understand, who am I to stand in his way? I wonder whether he wants to talk more about Black... although I rather think it will be something else, this time.