Snape woke in the middle of a prodigiously tough snore, holding no occasion to be told that the bell was again upon the stroke of one. He felt that he had been restored to consciousness right in the nick of time, for holding conference with the second of Dumbledore's spirits. Well, he decided, it would have to come find him. He stayed trapped up in the four-poster, shivering himself awake, until he realized there was warmth coming from beyond the curtains. Dry heat, just waiting to envelop him. He reached out to draw aside, readying himself for a broad range of strange appearances that he might find waiting for him.

Being prepared for almost anything, he was not by any means prepared for nothing. The bell struck one, and no shape appeared, but the heat was flooding from the door in his living chambers that led out to his office. Firelight was dancing, lighting the edges of his door - that much he could tell. He rose softly and shuffled to the door.

The moment his hand was on the lock, a familiar voice called him by his name, and bade him to enter. He obeyed.

It was the headmaster's office; there was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation: the walls and ceiling were so hung with living green of the Forbidden Forest that it looked like a perfect, snow-dusted grove, from every part of which bright and gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the firelight; and such a warm and mighty blaze went up in the hearth. Heaped upon the floor where his desk might have been was a long table bearing every kind of food and drink he might think of. In easy state behind the table there sat a jolly half-giant, glorious to see, who bore a glowing torch, which he held up to shed its warm light on Snape as he came skulking around.

"Come in!" the spirit exclaimed. "Come in and know me better, man!"

"But I do know you," said Snape, for the spirit had the enormous and unforgettable visage of one Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts. He was clothed in an enormous set of red robes lined with soft, white fur; his sled-sized feet were bare and stretched before him; and on his head he wore a crown of holly wreath, set here and there with shining icicles. And yet, as he looked upon him, the spirit's face was strange to Snape - younger, even, than Snape had ever seen him. Wrinkles had not carved at the corners of his beetle-black eyes; his cheeks under his glorious beard were rosy red and smooth; and he was free from the silvery strands that Snape was sure had begun to spot among Hagrid's thinner mane. He seemed at the height of his youth and health - perhaps forty years or more young than he must have known the man to be. "What magic is this?"

"You've never seen the like of me before, have yeh?"

"I thought I had," Snape shook his head. "Perhaps some time ago…"

"Perhaps," the spirit agreed, his voice resentful.

"Spirit," said Snape, "conduct me where you will. If there is a lesson to be taught here, teach me, and let me profit by it."

"Ready to listen now, are yeh? Touch my robe, then," said the giant, holding out his arm, and Snape did as he was told.

The world blurred as they passed through walls of stone and wood, and suddenly they were in a room in the castle that Snape did not know. It was strewn about with cushions here and there, bright hammocks hanging between great columns of stone, and an enormous table with a map of the school stitched together from a patchwork of different pieces of parchment. It struck Snape as a kind of barracks, but more shoddy and slapdash than one might see for outfitting proper soldiers. There was a great roaring hearth, and desks for doing homework or brewing potions.

Whose common room could this be? He saw students wearing all colors - though noticeably little green, and only slight numbers of blue. They were, many of them, younger students, passing little bright-wrapped presents among friends, yanking at crackers and making such a noise as they rolled on the common area floor like excited pups. Snape recognized several faces as muggle-born students having been marked missing from weeks or months ago. Could they have been staying here, in this secret room in the castle, the entire time?

A worried knot of older students stood by the door. "Any word?" asked a girl, Hannah Abbot, a Hufflepuff girl with golden pigtails.

"I saw the Carrows taking Ginny somewhere up in the astronomy tower when I was coming from our common room," said a Ravenclaw, Padma Patil.

"And Filch was taking some scraps from the kitchen down to the dungeons," said Gryffindor, Seamus Finnigan. "More than likely they split them up; makes it harder for us to try and break them out."

Another Hufflepuff surprised them by squeezing through the cracked door, appearing out of breath.

"Susan! Any news?"

"Caught some people coming from Slug Club," she explained, as the others ushered her into a chair. "Had to bribe Zabini; he told me Slughorn let it slip that Luna was somewhere right near them - off the third floor corridor."

"So then Neville's down in the dungeons," said Hannah with a worried frown.

"I was right," said Seamus, "split 'em up. And on Christmas eve, too, the jackals."

"There's no hope that they got it, then?" asked Padma. "They made it sound like it could really help Harry…"

"We can try again," suggested Hannah. "Maybe they… Maybe they know something now that they couldn't have known before." There was optimism in her voice, but it was clear that none of them, even Hannah, really felt it.

There was a commotion again at the door, and they moved aside to make way for three students - Parvati Patil, pushing a heaping cart covered with a white cloth; and Colin Creevy and Michael Corner, carrying one large platter between them. The younger students cheered them in and made space on one of their tables for the platter, which turned out to be an enormous turkey - a few slices carved out of it, and not as hot or juicy as it had been when the house elves had sent it to the Great Hall many hours ago, but edible just the same. The rest of the cart was filled with whatever they could scrounge up: mashed red potatoes and a tureen of brown gravy; treacle tart and an assortment of half-eaten pies; flaky rolls with warm butter; and best of all, a keg of Butterbeer. Snape thought guiltily of the enormous table of food that the giant had brought to his quarters; that he might have given it to these hungry children.

"Lost Students line up first, please!" called Lavender Brown, emerging from the crowds and rushing over to help her harried-looking friend. She'd unearthed a stack of humble-looking plates and dishware. "If you already ate supper in the Great Hall, please make sure you're behind anyone who's in here for good!" Lavender went down the line, making sure that every student had a small mug, that they might all get a sip of Butterbeer with a thick head of foam on top.

"I don't know if we'll be able to get anything tomorrow," said Padma, joining the older students by the door, who hadn't joined the festivities just yet. "The house elves said that Filch and some dregs from the old Inquisitorial Squad were sniffing around more than usual to try and catch us."

"If it gets to that, we'll ask Abe if he can send more to help," said Hannah.

They glanced over their shoulders at a large portrait which, like Dumbledore's in Snape's office, stood empty.

"Right," said Seamus. "Neville's the only one who can bargain with the old codger, and he's locked up for who knows how long."

"Until Snape decides their punishment," said Parvati.

Heads swiveled in her direction. "What?"

"Yes," she said, her voice trembling. "That's what I heard while we were out. Snape caught them himself and told the teachers he'd need the whole night to think of how to punish them."

They were silent as the waves of terror for their captured friends washed over them. "To be doled out on Christmas," said Seamus, grinding his teeth.

Snape had never thought of the pallor the mention of his presence might cast on a group of merry individuals such as this. "They fear me, spirit," he said to the giant, more as a question than anything else.

"Indeed," was his reply.

"And why? I have done nothing to them."

"Nothing!" cried the spirit.

"Nothing directly, at the very least!"

"Directly!" cried the spirit.

"I have kept my presence to my tower!" said Snape. "Away from any interference, so that none may suspect my role in this war."

"If I saw you suffering and I sat here and did nothing," said the spirit, "would you not consider that harmful?"

"Well, I - "

"Directly so?"

"I might think - " Snape stopped. "The last spirit did precisely that, and yet did not abate my suffering! In fact, I wonder if he encouraged it!"

"I certainly would have," said the grumpy giant.

Snape looked upon the students again, cold and worried as the younger ones went on with their merriment and their plates of food. They all seemed to be trying to think of some solution, or at the very least, something of comfort they might say to one another.

"Oh, spirit," said Snape, "let them forget these worries - just for tonight. At least let them be put in back of mind."

"A change of heart, have yeh?"

"Last night, I looked upon Christmases of the past and learned from them well," he said. "Even the students who don't celebrate the day - let goodwill and friendship warm all hearts and cease their worries tonight."

The spirit looked upon him with suspicion, but raised his torch so that its radiant warmth washed over their fretful crowd. They all seemed to feel it at once, for the color returned to their cheeks, and friends reached for one another to embrace or instill comfort.

"Come on," said Lavender Brown, taking Parvati by the hand, "let's get something in our bellies before try and figure this one out."

"Who's in for one game of gobstones?" asked Seamus, and the group chimed in as they moved toward all that was merry and bright in the cavernous room.

Snape felt the warmth faintly reach his own heart, and the spirit held out his tree-trunk-sized arm for Snape to grasp his sleeve once more.

"Is it an animal?" said a voice.

"Yes."

"Is it a live animal?"

Professor McGonagall faltered. "It depends on the day, I suppose. We think so."

"Is it a beast of some kind?"

"Oh, indeed."

"But where can it be found?"

"Yes or No questions, Horace."

"Does it live in England?" asked Professor Sprout.

"Yes."

"Is it slippery?"

Professor McGonagall bit her lip. "Some would say so. Yes."

"Does it roam wild?"

"Er… no."

That surprised them.

"Does it live in a cage, then?"

"Why, yes."

"Under a master?"

"Yes…"

They were in the teacher's lounge. The professors were all seated, comfortable, all had drinks in hand, and all looking more relaxed than they had all year. The Carrows were noticeably absent - Snape suspected the others had purposely avoided telling them the location of the teacher's lounge all year to keep them out of it. They volleyed guesses back and forth of every captive beast they could think of, McGonagall turning them down every guess, until -

"Why -" Professor Trelawney snorted into her sherry. "I've got it!"

"A third eye answer, Sibyll? I don't know if I can accept - "

"It's Professor Snape!"

There was a short bout of murmuring as they put the pieces together: beast, captive, master, hardly alive… slippery. And then they broke out into laughter. Professor McGonagall looked slightly abashed that she'd even thought of such a thing, and Professor Trelawney chastised her for it.

"Don't be embarrassed, my dear! Where is he tonight, anyway?"

"Turned down my invitation, I'm afraid," said Professor McGonagall.

"Minerva. You didn't invite him!"

"I did!" she said. "I am very sorry for him. I offer him a cease-fire, a night without judgement, and he turns me down, flat out. And for what? He misses a night of merriment and music with his dear and esteemed colleagues."

Professor Trelawney, perhaps because of her excess of sherry, was angry on Professor McGonagall's behalf. "He didn't even come down to supper, and I suppose he won't be down for the feast tomorrow. Oh, I wish he were here! I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and hope he'd have a good appetite for it."

"Hear, hear," said Professor Slughorn. "To spare the rod, Minerva? Is that why you asked him? Surely."

She shrugged. "If he happened to, he'd find himself better for it. But no, I asked him because he's a sallow shell of a man who lets each miserable day pass from behind a locked door in his ivory tower. He's the type of person who Albus would have tried to reach out to if he were still here."

"He did try to reach out to him, for many years, and in the end it got him killed," said a morose Slughorn. He took another long pull on his drink to try and bring the joyful color back to his cheeks.

"There's a cure for most of the things in this world, and it's kindness," said Professor McGonagall. "Who suffers by his ill whims? Himself, always."

"And the rest of us," pointed out Professor Sprout. "Certainly his students."

"By his ignorance, to be sure. Yet you can't deny that his ignorance has also helped us out on more than one occasion."

"May it continue to aid us in the new year," Professor Sprout reconciled. She raised her glass and they drank to it

Snape, growing hot with embarrassment, was gracious as the Spirit took his arm and they flew weightlessly through solid stone from the castle and into the cold night. Could his colleagues really have such an opinion of him? Had it always been this way? If so, Minerva really had no cause to extend such mercy to him, it seemed.

"Got nothing to say about that, do yeh?" the spirit asked.

By the light of the moon, Snape caught sight of the spirit's face, which looked suddenly older, less boyish and more the hardened face of a man grown. Even more curious, as they flew over streams of the forest where centaurs cantered and chased their hunt, they passed a clearing where a giant in chains was cradling a hairy figure only half his size, who himself was cradling an empty bottle of firewhisky and snoring loudly.

Snape looked sidelong at his companion, as though he might admit to some kind of mischief, but there was no change in him except for a twinkle in his beetle-black eyes. He raised his torch to anoint them for a brief moment, and they flew on. Snape was dizzied. Was this all a dream? Was the half-giant aware of his acquaintance to Snape? Could either of them keep what they learned upon waking?

They flew and flew through the starry night. Much to Snape's chagrin, they descended upon the handsome spires of Malfoy Manor, through the outer facade and straight into the dining room. Snape's stomach soured; it was the place where, months earlier, he'd watched a former colleague be served as dinner to the Dark Lord's snake, Nagini. The woman had looked Snape in the eye and pleaded with him for her very life. At least, he'd reflected, she'd been given the mercy of the killing curse before being swallowed whole. Snape had been forced to watch the scene with outward calm as the enormous creature retracted its fangs and unhinged its jaw until all that remained of Charity Burbage was a human-sized lump in Nagini's long belly.

The Malfoys sat at one end of the excessively long table, as did Bellatrix Lestrange, who leered at the passing house elves as they took empty platters of food back to the kitchen. None looked overjoyed to be there, nor particularly charmed by their lavish dinner. Then again, for a family as wealthy as the Malfoys, there was no need to stand on ceremony: every meal was like a holiday. From the hall, another Death Eater informed Bellatrix of snatchers incoming with prisoners, and Bellatrix left the hall with Draco in tow, the hungry look back in her eye.

When she was gone, Narcissa leaned forward to look her husband in the eye. "Well?"

Lucius looked over his shoulder to make sure that Bellatrix was truly out of earshot. He shook his head. "He turned me away."

"What?" she hissed.

"We cannot talk about this, Narcissa. He made it clear that - "

"And you gave him the gift, as I instructed?"

Lucius worked his jaw. "If you thought I was going to do it wrong, you should have just gone yourself. I don't apparently have your knack for persuading others into Unbreakable Vows."

"You were persuaded into an Unbreakable Vow," said Narcissa, "perhaps you remember, it's called marriage. And look how much good that's done for me. For your son, Lucius."

"I know," he hissed back at her. "He threatened me, Narcissa. Implied I was a traitor."

"And you think he didn't do the same to me? To Bella?" She shook her head and gave a derisive laugh. "Raise a glass to him, because he's the only reason any of us are still alive. Perhaps my parents should have arranged my marriage with Severus instead of you. Half-blood, pure-blood, what's the bloody difference? Surely not efficiency, or the understanding of sacrifice."

"Narcissa - you can't say things like - "

"This is my house. Under its roof, I'll say whatever I please." She stood and tossed her napkin at a passing house elf. "You chose this path, Lucius. Just remember that." Over her shoulder, she added, "Some Slytherin you turned out to be."

In the hall, a wild group of snatchers had brought in a young man, Draco's age, and - Snape realized with panic - a former student of his.

"Tell us your name again," one of the Death Eaters nudged him forward.

"Dean Thomas," he said loudly. "Muggle-born and proud of it. Hey there, Draco… you get to make it back to Hogwarts this year? Heard your favorite teacher is masquerading as headmaster." He had scrapes and bruises, and looked like he had been in the woods for some time by his wild hair and the state of his clothes. His eyes were glinting with nerve, but the boy was still trembling, on the verge of madness or tears - the look of someone who knew, and accepted, that he might die today. "And you. You're B-Bellatrix Lestrange."

Bellatrix ignored him and screeched at the crowd of snatchers, "Just one? Just one mudblood for Christmas?"

"We brought you something else," another said, and pushed forward a sullen-looking goblin.

She looked him over, appraising him. "Gringotts stock, are you? 'Course you are. What else is your kind good for?" The goblin made no answer, but watched her pace with his shrewd little eyes. "You might actually be of use to me." The snatchers looked relieved, until she rounded on them again. "That's all you brought me?"

"We had two more, but they didn't… they're dead, now."

"Names?" she asked, but none seemed to want to meet her eye.

"Dirk Cresswell," said Dean Thomas, "and Ted Tonks! Heroes!" he cried, tears now shining in his eyes. "And they took a couple of yours with them! Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, you bag of - "

But Dean's voice dissolved into an unbroken scream as Bellatrix sent him to his knees with the cruciatus curse. The boy howled, and Snape had to remind himself that he was less than a shadow to them, that he could do nothing to help him. Bellatrix held the curse, her eyes bulging as she listened to the unpracticed screams of someone who had never felt the cruciatus before. She released him and turned to her sister with a cruel smile.

"Did you hear that, Cissy? Ted Tonks. Our poor sister, a mudblood's widow."

Narcissa did not answer - she was staring at Dean Thomas.

"After not speaking to her for twenty-some years, it's the best thing we could have given her this Christmas. Don't you agree, Cissy?"

"Miss Lestrange, would you like to take care of this mudblood yourself?" one of the snatchers asked, trying to appeal to her favor.

"If you're going to kill me," breathed Dean from the floor, "just do it."

"Oh, haven't you heard, boy? I like to play with my food before I eat it," Bellatrix said, and raised her wand -

"Wait!" Narcissa interjected. "Are we sure he's… mudblood? Surely, someone checked the registry."

"Never registered," a snatcher told her.

"Cissy," said Bellatrix impatiently, "didn't you hear him? 'Mudblood and proud,' he said."

"Your father, boy, who was he?"

"I n-never knew my…" Dean's eyes darted around the room. "What does it matter? He went missing when I was - "

"I'm sure he did," she said, "and never returned, did he? You have your mother's name, do you? Thomas. Muggle name. Your mother changed yours after your father disappeared. What was your father's name?" Dean stared at her, hardly believing any of this was real. "Was it Fawley?"

"How did you - ?"

"Bella," Narcissa turned to her sister, "he's a half-blood. The late Matthias Fawley's son. Just look at him."

Snape remembered Matthias, last of the Fawley line, a noble family of pure-bloods - a kind and handsome young man; their circles of acquaintance rarely crossed over. Narcissa's claim brought to light what Snape had never bothered to see in the boy: an uncanny likeness to his supposed father. Narcissa, who'd been an appraiser of pure-blood suitors since she before she was old enough to even think of marriage, must have spent long days imagining herself with someone like him - that had to be why she'd recognized him so quickly. Matthias had been handsome, to be sure, but had little for money and prospects, and more likely had no interest in someone like her. If he recalled correctly, the Fawleys of modern time had never put any pressure to marry into pure bloodlines - hence, his son, Dean, from his muggle mother. The Death Eaters, Snape included, had never known about his muggle family - he must have escaped to try and save their lives. Snape felt a sudden sense of kinship for the boy, being half-blood himself, and a rush of relief for Narcissa's keen perception.

"So what if he's half-blood?" Bellatrix demanded.

"The Fawleys were - or, are - among the noble pureblood families. Matthias was hunted down and killed during the first war for refusing to join our side, but the Dark Lord later said - with the rareness of pure blood these days -" She broke off, and Snape understood: she didn't want to say the Dark Lord had made a mistake, allowing his death, but that's what it was. "I don't know the consequences of spilling a halfer's blood without the Dark Lord's permission. I don't wish to find out."

"Fine," snapped Bellatrix, turning back to the boy and the goblin. "I guess there's plenty of room in the dungeons for both of you."

And Dean Thomas, unable to believe his luck or his parentage, was hauled away by snatchers as the spirit held out his sleeve once more.

"Spirit," said Snape, when they were airborne again, "I wonder if my position in this war is not as unique as I thought."

"Hm?"

"I only mean, Narcissa… She's sacrificing everything for her family. She always has been. It is where her true loyalty lies. And she saved that boy when she certainly didn't need to. I've never thought to consider how she really felt about all this."

The giant just rolled his eyes at him.

"You look older, spirit," Snape remarked.

"It's a short life, this one," he returned. "Just here to spread my cheer. And some perspective."

The giant took him to the home of the Weasley family, where Mrs. Weasley cooked in a frenzy while venting her anxieties about the welfare of her two youngest children to an endlessly patient Kingsley Shacklebolt. Her twin sons, Fred and George, listened to their brother Bill tell animated stories about the things he'd dealt with working alongside goblins at Gringotts. And in the living room, Bill's beautiful wife, Fleur, bent over the pregnant belly of a grinning Nymphadora Tonks, whose hair was a cheery Christmas red.

"Oh! There's a kick," Tonks said, and Fleur laughed, delighted. "Somebody must like you."

"Have you two decided on a name yet?" asked Arthur Weasley.

"Oh - we didn't tell them, did we?" she said, looking up at Remus Lupin, who smiled shook his head. She turned to Andromeda, her mother. "Mum, we've decided to name it Edward, after Dad, if it's a boy. And Hope, after Remus's mum, if it's a girl."

Her mother was teary with pride, but said, "You mean, you don't want to name it something like Andromeda?" and laughed along with the others. "Edward. Little Teddy. That's wonderful. That'll swell your dad's head right up wherever he is now, god bless him."

"So it's a muggle name either way. Your side of the family will be just chuffed about that."

Snape had been agitated with the scene before him for some time now, and the spirit took notice.

"What is it, then?"

"Remus Lupin - is having a child?" he said through gritted teeth. "He's a werewolf. A dangerous creature enough to have around children, let alone fathering them. Doesn't he know that his child will be -"

"- Loved?" The spirit interrupted. "Unconditionally?"

Snape fell silent, recalling a jest the Dark Lord had made when they'd received word about the Lupin-Tonks union. What say you, Draco? Will you babysit the cubs? Somehow, he couldn't see the child living, realistically, in a world of the Dark Lord's design. They would be too different, and be culled like the others.

And the spirit wasn't wrong: the love between Lupin and his wife was as bright and apparent as the stars in the sky. Lupin looked happy with her, happier than he had looked in years, despite all he'd been through. Once, the man before him had seen a return to a normal life when he came to teach at Hogwarts. But Snape had ruined that for him, in his hatred and fear for what he was, by purposely letting slip his condition to the Minister of Magic. If he were to change his ways, he owed to Lupin to see that the man's child, however he or she came out, deserved a fair and happy life.

"Spirit," said Snape, "What will become of their child?"

"And why do you care, all of a sudden? The die has been cast on your part; the others will have to sort themselves out in this mess."

Snape balked - those were thoughts he'd never spoken aloud, but the spirit was repeating them back to him, throwing them in his face as if he'd said them to him directly.

The giant frowned, as though he had forgotten himself. "Er, hard to say. These are dark times… the future for any of us is very uncertain. Oh, what am I saying - you'll see for yourself, soon enough."

He took the spirit's arm automatically this time, and they were off. They flew over camps of muggle-born refugees, who dotted the country far and wide, and the spirit held his torch aloft and shed upon them its radiant warmth. It was nearly morning, Christmas morning, when they came upon a ginger-haired boy huddled in a grimy pub, bent over a wireless radio, which he kept discreetly trying to tap with his wand.

"Got a light, love?" asked a passing muggle woman, pointing to a lighter-shaped lump in his pocket.

"Sorry, no," he told her. She scowled at him, suspicious, but skulked away.

Snape turned to the spirit. "But he's alone. Where are Potter and Granger?"

"Lost from him, I'm afraid," the spirit said. "You of all people should know how fickle some friendships can be."

"I'd always suspected the spattergroit was a trick of some kind, but I never thought…"

Then they heard a voice: "Ron." The boy sat up and looked around the pub.

"Hermione?"

The bartender stared at him, but the boy wasn't crazy - Snape could hear the voice too, quiet and small: "When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never the same again…"

Ron grabbed his bag and radio and went outside into the quiet street, where snow was starting to fall. He skittered down the alleyway and turned in all directions, listening for her: "...He had to get a new one."

Ron reached in his pocket and pulled out - Dumbledore's deluminator. Snape's mouth fell open. How had the useless gadget fallen into the hands of Ronald Weasley?

Sure enough, that was where the voice had been coming from. The boy clicked it once, and a ball of light appeared at the end of it.

"Hermione?" Ron said again, and the ball started to hover toward him until it - Snape blinked to be sure he was seeing things clearly - passed into Ron Weasley, just near his heart. The boy stood for a moment, the concern on his face dissolving into realization, and there was a crack! as he disapparated on the spot.

"Spirit! What's happened? Where has he gone?"

"Why, he's gone to try and find -" The giant broke off, looking embarrassed. "Er, hang on, I may have forgotten ter show you one more scene. Jus' a sec." He concentrated, and Ron Weasley reappeared and walked backward into the pub as the morning sky seemed to draw back on itself and grow to the dark of night once more. His spirit companion began to age rapidly as it did.

"Spirit - you can control time?"

"Ah, just a bit. As you can see, it takes its toll," he said, gesturing to his graying beard and wrinkled face. He stooped lower to the ground, and his torch was held not so aloft now; he had not the strength anymore to carry it so high. "Take my sleeve. This'll be the last vision I show you."

It was close to midnight again. Houses and towns blew by them in a blur, and they stopped at last on a quaint and quiet snowy lane outside of a small church.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas Eve!" said a voice.

Snape turned, but it was only a mousy-looking muggle woman and her balding husband.

"Is it?" asked the man. It was a curious reply. She had called him Harry, hadn't she?

Snape inspected them closely, and as the woman suggested they look in the cemetery for the man's parents but stopped and gazed up at the war memorial obelisk that melted to a statue of the Potters before the eyes of wizards, he knew: they were using polyjuice potion, and this was Godric's Hollow.

"He's alive, spirit!" Snape said. "Harry Potter is alive!"

"Of course he is!" the giant said gruffly.

Snape followed them gleefully as they passed through the kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard, the beautiful music from the church making him positively buoyant. "What brings them here, spirit? Sentimentality, or could they be searching for… Well, I'm not sure what they'd be searching for here…"

The giant watched them silently, the teenagers moving clumsily about the snow in adult bodies, brushing off headstones and obelisks to read the names underneath. They bent over a grave, excited, and Snape moved closer to see that it was the burial site of Dumbledore's family. The woman who was Hermione Granger moved on to another stone, which she mistook for Potter's family, but the grave was much, much too old. She pointed out a symbol, one that Snape recognized because Albus had tried to impress its importance unto him: a line, inside a circle, inside a triangle. The symbol of the legendary Deathly Hallows. He still was not sure that he believed it. But by some stroke of genius, Hermione Granger had found herself on the thread of Dumbledore's suspicions of the stone, wand, and cloak. Snape found himself blessing her for her cleverness, for if there was something to that plan, she would surely be the first to figure it out. He did not need her to mention him by name or memory to now feel sorry for all the times he'd badgered her, abused her, and outright insulted her in front of her classmates. Why had he behaved in such a way? Why did he despise her kindness, her earnest for learning and understanding? Of all the people he'd treated poorly in his life, he felt now most sorry for his behavior toward her. With a mind so brilliant and a heart so steadfast, how much brightness would be lost to the world if this war claimed her? She was a muggle-born, and one of Harry Potter's best friends. Hermione Granger was marked for certain death, yet she kept on fighting the good fight, no matter what odds were stacked against her.

The carols faded away and the church grew quiet and dark as the muggles inside shuffled back to their warm homes. At last, they found them: the marble-white graves of Lily and James.

Snape stood in front of the man that was Harry Potter, watching his grief pour out of him like an ocean swell. If he could reach for the boy, offer him comfort…

But Snape knew he'd be unwelcome. The visions that his spirits had showed him were proof of that: wherever he walked upon this earth, there would be someone there who hated him. And rightfully so. He had no doubt that he deserved it. Even in his vow to care for Harry Potter, Lily's only son, he'd been needlessly antagonistic, spurred on by a grudging dislike of the boy's father. As if the boy could have helped who his father was, or how much he looked like him. And James - James had saved his life once. He'd made Lily happy. He'd helped make Harry, who had saved the wizarding world once before. By no choice of his own, if luck and careful planning provided, he was set to do it again. The injustice of the boy's death had weighed heavy on him since Dumbledore had informed him of its necessity, yet over time he'd learned to ignore it, accepting not without a grudge that such things couldn't be helped, as if they were meticulously lorded over by the great and powerful men of the world. But now, the boy was within arm's reach, alive and in front of him, and he could feel that heavy weight pull on him again.

Would that he might take the boy's place! It crossed his mind now, but he wasn't certain how it could ever be. He'd sworn an oath of protection for his love for Lily, but he owed a debt of life to James Potter, a debt of gratitude to all who raised the boy and saw to his safety. Snape understood that he owed the boy his life more, far more than twice over.

But what could he do? Snape pondered on this as he and the spirit followed the pair of disguised young wizards back out of the cemetery. They sprinted down the road as one of them caught sight of the Potter House Memorial; it was clear that they'd never seen it before.

"Spirit," Snape pleaded, "tell me there is another way. Tell me that Harry Potter - that his friends, his new family, might live."

"I see…" The giant looked hard at their silhouettes, concentrating, speaking with a voice that was not quite his own, "I see a broken wand. Holly and phoenix feather. Its owner… dead. I see a shallow and unbecoming grave… and none come to mourn."

"So he has no choice." But Snape would not resign to that, as much as it pained him. He'd been tasked with the boy's protection. And though he was far, far from Snape's reaches, there had to be some way he could help him - help all of them. He looked up at the ruined house, wondering how he might start to repair such devastation, and did not notice the shuffling old woman approaching Potter and Granger until she was upon them.

"Are you Bathilda?" Harry, in disguise, asked her.

Snape turned, cold fear drawing his throat tight. "No," he whispered, but none could hear him.

The woman nodded, and as they moved slowly with her, Snape noticed a glint around Potter's neck - the locket. The one that had been stolen from Umbridge's ministry office earlier that year. He had learned from Dumbledore that it was important to the Dark Lord in some way - how, he did not know, but he had his suspicions.

"No, no, no," Snape moaned as they tried to interact with the woman. He knew, from the privilege of his position, that they'd planned such a trap months ago. Bagshot was stalwart in conversing about Dumbledore - she'd painted a target on herself anyway. Snape himself had been the one to suggest that they leave a post at her residence, as he'd learned from a letter Lily had written long ago to Sirius Black that she and Bathilda used to visit on occasion for tea. Perhaps, he'd suggested to the Dark Lord, Potter would stop by to try and find an ally of Dumbledore's, or his mother's. He'd stolen the second page of the letter from Number Twelve, Grimmauld place but left the first, never thinking that Potter would follow such an obscure set of clues to actually lead him here.

Snape guessed that she had been dead about a month, now. Whatever had been done to her, he could only suspect. But the duo had never met her before, and by the dark of the street, they couldn't get too good a look at her. They were wandering blindly into a trap set by dark magic.

"Spirit," he appealed to the giant, "there must be something we can do. Stop them, or - warn them somehow -"

"Now you want to help?" the old giant asked, incredulous.

"Please. I've learned much from these shadows I've seen; for once, let them not be shadows, take me to this place, in person -"

They had come upon her house now.

"I cannot," the spirit said, leaning wearily on the garden gate as the unfortunate party passed through. "I am too weak, now. My time is… almost over."

The creature that used to be Bathilda Bagshot fumbled with her key at the door, and led them inside.

"Do you… wish to follow?" the giant wheezed.

Snape faltered, knowing they were helpless. To his surprise, angry tears began to fall down his long nose. "If we are helpless, spirit, no. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear to see Harry Potter die like this."

"Your tears," she spirit observed, but said no more.

"I couldn't save her," he said. "I can't save him."

"You would like to?"

"I would. I'd die again and again, if I could. For him, for all of them. I'll go back and change my ways at once."

"And how? If you 'defect,' who will take you?" the giant said. "After all you've done to them, do you think they'd take you back with open arms? After you're forced out of the school by one party or another, which Death Eater becomes headmaster then?"

Snape hung his head. "I know the hand I was dealt, spirit. If only there were some way…"

"But there is some way," he said, "there's always a way." But before Snape could implore him further, there came a scream from the house. Shards of glass exploded from an upstairs window.

"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!" came Harry Potter's polyjuiced voice, and the giant was so weak that he knelt upon the ground, but Snape couldn't pay attention to that, he passed through the gate to get closer, panic driving through him -

There was scuffling, and Snape cried out as the two flung themselves from the upstairs window. A white hand snatched after them, but the little woman who was Hermione twisted in the air - and disappeared.

The red eyes and bone-white face in the dark window above contorted in fury. The Dark Lord screamed, and Snape reflexively reached for his Dark Mark, knowing that if he were out of the spirit's shadow of things that were that it would be on fire with his master's rage.

"They made it!" Snape said thickly; his tears had subsided and he turned back toward the gate. "They escaped! Spirit, did you see? They -"

But the spirit had gone. The church bells rang one, and Snape was utterly alone. He recalled the prediction from the vision of Dumbledore in chains, and felt the harsh cold rake over him before he saw the lone and final spirit emerging from the cemetery, tall and hooded, gliding down the empty lane toward him, with a pale and rotting hand outstretched. It beckoned him.