Willing Sacrifice
Albus Dumbledore
He staggers against the wall, perilously close to the edge of the parapet. He is unarmed, and injured and old - and yet he is determined not to give in. Not yet. Not to Draco Malfoy. So he keeps talking, talking through his weariness and pain while the pale-haired and pale-skinned boy (who seems strangely luminous and pure to his old eyes in this treacherous half-light) trembles and threatens and does nothing.
He hears shouts, running footsteps, and three figures emerge. First the Carrows, short and stumpy with cruel eyes, harsh voices (he finds them ugly, but especially their voices which hurt him every time they open their mouths) and hyaena like laughs. Then a taller figure pushes through to stand by Draco, a dark counterpart to his light. The comparison is not accurate, yet Draco, for all that he has proven himself to be small-minded and mean is as yet relatively unsullied. His soul remains his own, for he has not completely yielded to the dark.
Unlike Severus, who did yield in anger and revenge and has spent a lifetime repenting. Yet he is dark as Draco can never be, and it is to Severus that the old man turns for his final release, knowing how it will look to the paralysed and screaming Boy-Who-Lived. The old man feels a moment of guilt - guilt that he is inflicting such pain, such horror on the child he has nurtured (and primed and manipulated and loved), yet it is necessary that Harry should see this, that the boy should see his mentor fall at the hands of Severus Snape.
They have hated each other, these two lost boys. For Severus, Harry is an unwelcome reminder of his miserable boyhood, and ironically his hatred in turn perpetuates Harry's own deeply-rooted distrust of all adults. The old man has spent years regretting this distance between Severus and Lily Evan's son - but a year ago he accepted it finally, and revised his plans. The mutual hatred between the younger man and the boy formed the foundation stone to all the old man's schemes during the past twelve months, which will, he thinks, begin to unfold inexorably this night.
So now the old man looks up at Severus, looks (for the last time) into the eyes and the mind of this man who he has, in his own way, loved. The dark eyes are not shielded now; they glitter, but the old man knows how much Severus hates this task that has been laid upon him, and he knows the cause of the glitter. He can detect the fear and anger and hatred that Severus has summoned in order to do what he must (and the old man knows that neither emotion is undeserved).
Yet he can do nothing more for either of them, for the time has come when his lost boys must stand alone. He wishes he could have told them more, cherished them more, given them what they have both lacked - or, at the very least, provided for them by alerting Minerva to the truth of what he knows will come. Yet he cannot, for Minerva is straightforward and blunt and honest and brave, and all these schemes and plots would be anathema to her, and for his plans to work Minerva must be seen to respond to his death with all the force of her personality.
So he says the words, the words that say "do it, do it now" and there is barely a moment to think as Severus's wand moves with the restrained elegance and power that this man has always commanded, and the old man hears the words "Avada Kedavra!".
His last thought is that there is power in willing sacrifice - a power that the Dark Lord truly knows not.
Severus Snape
The younger man, the dark one, is accustomed is being a dead man walking.
He has never expected to live out this war; has lived his life on a day-by-day basis doing what must be done, but never, never looking or hoping for a brighter future. At least, always before, there has been the sensation of doing something concrete. Afterwards there was the consolation of Albus's hand on his shoulder after a meeting with the Dark Lord, Pomona's bright smile, Poppy's brisk concern, Minerva's snippy humour - so like his own.
Not this year. This year he has gone among them, his colleagues and former teachers, and he has seen their eyes flash and their lips thin with words they have left unsaid (for the sake of the children; can they not see that he, too, cares for them) and their backs turn, silently screaming their dislike and defiance. He has told himself that it did not matter, that nothing mattered beyond helping the Potter boy complete his tasks - all of them. Yet he has tried, subtly, to shield the children from the consequences of their own folly and ill-conceived bravery. It could have been worse; he shivers at what it would have been like, this past year, if it had been other Death Eaters here instead of the Carrows. Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Black, for example. Neither are stupid, and they are both capable of a sophisticated and subtle cruelty that made the Carrows look simply crude. He suspects that the Dark Lord finds the Carrows as tiresome as he does himself - but their unflinching loyalty compensates for their all-too-obvious flaws.
And now everything that Albus has set in motion is coming to fruition. He knows Potter is within the walls of the castle (he is, after all, the Headmaster - a Headmaster recognised as such by Hogwarts. He wonders how Minerva can have failed to miss the significance of that) and the wards alerted him to the intrusion. He hopes the troublesome trio will succeed in following the clues he and Albus have planted, that they have destroyed all the Horcruxes that are tying the Dark Lord to life and immortality.
All but one, but he can do no more for that one.
His time has come, he knows, as the Dark Lord encourages Nagini to strike for the sake of the wand that he believes he needs (the younger man knows that his death will not yield the desired result, for he is not the master of the Elder Wand). He knows that this too is inevitable: that he will give his life as Albus did, a year ago. Ironic that it should be here in the Shack, a place inextricably tied to his boyhood nemesis.
Nagini moves, and he feels the cruel fangs sink deep through skin and sinew into the jugular vein at his neck. Pain floods through him; he is vaguely aware that the Dark Lord has vanished (cackling maniacally like the pantomime villains he remembers from his extreme youth) and that someone is bending over him, calling his name.
The paralysis is spreading, the numbness that he knows will end his life. He forces himself to concentrate, to look into Lily Evan's eyes and ignore the fact that they are set in James Potter's face.
"Take the memories," he whispers. The cold is reaching higher, there is not much time, but for once Potter obeys without arguing.
The odd sensation of memories being removed from his mind distracts him from the other one, from the creeping stillness. Green eyes are still hovering over him and focuses on them, sinking into them. All this for you, Lily, he thinks, fiercely. Do not waste it, Potter!
Something in the intent eyes facing his tells him that Potter will not waste it, that his willing sacrifice (all his life, it seems, has been a sacrifice) will be valued and remembered.
When the numbness comes, darkening his eyes forever, he sinks gratefully into its embrace.
Harry Potter
The boy moves towards his fate, aware of the irony that the ultimate destiny of the Boy-Who-Lived should be to become the Boy-Who-Died.
Dumbledore had talked of love, but the boy knows that this is beyond love, that what he must do now evokes the deepest and oldest magic there is. Love is part of that, yes, but love all too often implies an exclusivity that the boy knows is inaccurate. He will give his life as a willing sacrifice for the wizarding world that has by turns ignored him, idolised him, and vilified him, and he will do it for all of them, not just those few who he loves and respects.
There is symmetry in what he does now. Sixteen years ago the first mortal blow was struck against Voldemort when Lily Evans gave her life for her son's, the boy who the Dark Lord had marked as his equal. Now he will do the same for the world that has been his first and only home and complete both the circle and the act.
Oddly, he finds he does not mind. Death is suddenly a friend, reaching out to draw him into its embrace and the embraces of those others whom he fleetingly saw with the Resurrection Stone.
In a flash of clarity he realises that this is the power the Dark Lord knows not. Voldemort hated death, feared it, considered it a foe to be vanquished. He would not understand the power of life given willingly in the service of another.
And he knows that his sacrifice is not the first – that he is the latest in a long line of loved ones, from Lily and James and Sirius and Dumbledore and Remus and Tonks and Snape …. They too had known this power, and the thought gives him the strength to meet Voldemort's red gaze calmly (because this is his choice, and his alone, no matter what Tom Riddle thinks).
He does not even flinch when the green light cuts him down.
The End.