Hi all. As of right now, my plan is to make this the last chapter, although I have a few ideas for possible future stories. Thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/etc. As always, all rights go to J.K. Rowling. Enjoy!


Severus was standing before an old, dilapidated house on a cramped street near the outskirts of London. It had a sort of sagging, tired look, as though it had just released a very long sigh and only had the strength to stand because its neighbors were so close that they provided support on either side. There were no lights on.

The sun was high, now. A few muggles wandered the streets, leaving faint tracks through the light dusting of snow; if they found Snape's presence unusual, they showed no sign of it. Pulling his black cloak around him for warmth, he stepped closer to the door of Pettigrew's alleged hiding place. There was a smattering of footprints at the base of the steps. The snow was smeared and brushed in places, as though someone had been scrambling on the cold, slick ground. Severus knelt to get a better look.

Two sets of prints, he observed, his black hair drifting forward as he bent over. The tracks separated a few feet away, heading in the same direction. Snape looked back to the front door. It was slightly ajar. They left in a hurry, he thought, straightening and setting his face toward the tracks. It was likely that Black had already caught up to Pettigrew; with a sneer, Severus struck off after the two sets of footprints. His shadowy figure and billowing cloak stood out starkly against the haze of falling snow, a trailing blot of ink on fresh parchment. He rounded two corners and cut across a crowded square. There was a narrow alley on the far side; Severus weaved through a group of lingering Muggles and ducked beneath an old, torn awning that partially concealed its entrance. The tracks led through.

He was halfway through the alley when there came the bustling sound of quickened footsteps and hushed voices. Snape hid himself behind a stack of empty apple crates; through one of the slots, he watched a group of wizards rush past the far end of the alley.

Aurors. Snape counted five of them. As the sound of their footsteps faded, he released a long sigh through his teeth and rested his hand against the cold, unyielding brick wall to his right. The presence of the Aurors complicated things, but it did not change his objective. He let his gaze drift back to the trail he had been following and frowned.

The tracks ended abruptly at a mass of flattened snow, where they were so overlapped and closely distributed that he could not tell them apart.

There must have been a scuffle. Snape's black gaze flicked to a tuft of dark-colored hair lying in the snow to his right; reaching down, he plucked it from the ground and turned it between two fingers. It was only about an inch in length, slightly wavy and coarse. Such a large clump of hair would have had to be torn out of a person's scalp, and yet….

No blood. Severus let the tuft fall from his fingers and back to the cold ground, watching it catch just slightly on a sudden breeze before drifting the rest of the way. He looked past the edge of the flattened area and saw a new set of tracks.

Tracks that had likely been made by a rather large dog and some sort of rodent.

Snape pressed his lips into a thin line. Animagi. It would seem there is no limit to Black's affinity for irritating me. He couldn't say he was surprised, not truly, apart from the fact that it took a great amount of time and effort to become an Animagus, and he had always correlated the name "Sirius Black" with the phrase "perpetually lazy". Regardless, it had been no secret at Hogwarts that Potter and his band of miscreants were among the top of their class in Transfiguration.

Snape glowered at the trail of evidence for a moment before following it through the remaining stretch of alleyway and into the street, where it headed left.

The Aurors are going in the wrong direction, he thought with some relief, and quickened his pace. Snow continued to fall; Severus cut through another square and rounded two corners. The rodent's shallow tracks were still visible, so he knew he couldn't be far behind. He darted through one more alley and navigated his way across a crowded street. At the far edge, within the shadow of a snow-dusted overhang, Severus paused. The clear, ringing sound of a dog's bark came cutting through the cold air.

Nearly there. Snape struck off again. Almost at a run now, he vaulted over a low stack of wooden crates and headed down a quiet side street. He could see that it opened up into another relatively large—and busy—square; Severus paused once again at the end of the street, his back pressed against the brick wall of an old apartment building. The barking had come from the far end of the square. Now, it was a low, threatening growl. Snape readied his wand. Before he stepped around the corner and into the square, however, the growl shifted again; there was the scrabbling sound of claws on cobblestone, a shrill, high-pitched squeal, and then the sound of two men shouting. Severus hesitated.

Surely they did not just change forms in such a populated area? But the resulting shouts of astonishment and a few cries of fear confirmed that they had, indeed. Fools. Snape tightened his grip on his wand.

"Enough, Peter!" Sirius Black's exhausted voice rang across the square, where he had, apparently, cornered Pettigrew. Bile rose in the back of Snape's throat. He was running through all of the different curses he would use on Black as he prepared to step around the corner once again.

There was a sudden blur of sound and movement; Muggles came rushing around the corner and past him, so blind with fear and confusion that they failed to notice Snape's tall, brooding figure. Pettigrew's trembling voice bleated above the commotion: "Lily and James, Sirius, how could you?" Then a blast of fire and energy and shattered cobblestone blew across the square; Black shouted something incoherent, and Severus pushed away from the wall in order to avoid a slew of falling debris. The ground shook; screams were cut short, and dust and snow and stone fell together on the broken ground.

It took a moment for Snape to steady himself and for the ringing in his ears to subside. The air was suddenly and irrevocably still.

Unnaturally still.

Severus finally stepped around the corner and was met with carnage. Bodies—or what was left of them—were strewn about the remnants of the square, cluttered together with slabs of fractured stone and burning debris, like so many funeral pyres. The sickening scents of charred flesh, blood-tinged dust, and ash were almost suffocating. Only one figure remained standing at the far end of the square.

"No. No!" The man's voice cut through the silence like a hot knife. His back was to Severus; filthy hands were clutching at his hair, his shoulders slumped and shaking, the dregs of an old cloak brushing across the charred ground. Severus raised his wand.

"Sirius Black," He said with cold, calculated calm, and the man spun around. Black's face was streaked grey with tears and ash. His eyes were wild, desperate. His expression twisted into some strange mixture of cynicism and hatred when he recognized Snape, and he, too, readied his wand.

"You're too late, Snivellus," he jeered, hissing through his teeth. "You're always too late." Snape curled his lip in disgust.

Crucio. The crackling spear of red light disintegrated as Black deflected at the last moment, staggering backwards. Snape fired again. And again. Sirius stumbled further back until he was against a building. Breathing heavily, he struggled to regain his balance.

"Expelliarmus!" He cried, but Severus deflected the spell with a flick of his wrist. A jet of energy came following after; Snape narrowly dodged it and felt the ground shake as Black's expulso collided with the remnants of a makeshift fruit stand across the square. A third blast landed in front of Snape's feet, throwing him backwards. Sirius scrambled toward him with the intent of pressing his attack, but Severus was already getting up. He wiped a trickle of blood from his lips.

Sectumsempra! Black cried out in pain as Snape's cutting spell sliced through his shoulder, producing a spray of blood. Severus attacked a second time, cutting open a wound just above the right knee, and Sirius' cry of pain was tinged with rage. He fell to one knee. Severus drew closer; the surrounding fires were reflected in his black eyes. "Surely you did not believe that you would escape punishment?" He asked, his voice dangerously low. Black moved to raise his wand again until a fresh wound opened on the top of his hand and across his fingers, and he dropped it on the shattered ground. Snape retrieved it with a flick of his wrist and looked on in cruel distaste. Black coughed and spat blood onto the ground at Snape's feet.

"Punishment," he sneered, wheezing, "Punishment for what? Is your childhood grudge really worth so much to you?"

Fury boiled in Snape's chest. He stepped closer, so close that he was able to jab his wand up and under Black's chin, forcing him to stand again. "Your incompetence may have served you well in the past, Black, but not today. How dare you even think of claiming innocence." Sirius' eyes flickered with brief confusion. He pressed the opposite hand against his bleeding shoulder and drew his tongue across his lips. Then the realization hit him, and he opened his mouth and laughed an empty, mirthless laugh. Snape drove the wand further into the vulnerable skin beneath Black's chin, cutting the laugh short. Black choked.

"You—" he struggled to breathe, "You think I betrayed James and Lily," he managed to say, and a cold smile remained on his lips. "Well, well. How does it feel to know—to know that you've caught the wrong man, Snivellus?"

Crucio. Black's body erupted into spasms as he collapsed on the ground, writhing and snarling in pain. Snape loomed over him like the shadow of death. "Oh, how I shall enjoy ending your miserable life," he growled, pressing his boot against the deep gash on Black's shoulder, "But first—" Severus leaned forward so that he could see a tear spill from Sirius' eye, "—I want to hear you say it." Black choked and sputtered on the ground beneath him. "Admit your guilt."

"I...never…." Sirius struggled to speak through the effects of the agonizing curse, his eyes flashing with wild rage. Snape leaned closer, his teeth bared in hatred, and pressed harder into Black's wound. Blood spilled from the laceration and onto the ash-covered ground.

"Admit. Your. Guilt." The deep baritone of his Snape's voice was spiked with venom. He let Black writhe for several moments longer, waiting, but Sirius gave him no answer aside from his sputtering and cries of pain. Severus released the spell with a growl; Black wheezed below him, blood trickling from his nose and mouth.

"You're...wasting your time," he coughed. "He's getting away...because...because you can't see past the end of that huge nose." Snape leaned into his shoulder again, and Black howled in pain.

"Do you really think you are in a position to be making jokes, Black?" Sirius regained some of his composure and sucked in a ragged breath.

"Fine. Fine. Why don't you look for yourself, then, Snivellus?" He looked past him, up into the cloudy sky. It was still snowing. "That's what you do, right? Mind magic?" His eyes slid back to Severus.

Snape hesitated, but only for a moment.

Legilimens. Normally, he navigated the minds of others carefully and concisely, as one might do when searching for a lost key or the final piece to a delicate puzzle. The mind was, after all, a complex thing, not unlike the most intricate and composite potions and their respective methods of brewing.

But today did not coincide with normally.

Severus plunged forward and into Black's thoughts like a hurricane. Images came swirling past him: a blonde, pale-skinned witch with pursed lips and shrewd eyes, looking down on a young Sirius Black with an expression of cold disapproval; an eleven-year-old Potter clapping Sirius on the back after being sorted into Gryffindor; Remus Lupin, heavily bandaged, looking up at a group of three boys from a hospital bed; a blur of trees and the sound of huffing breaths as a stag, a rat, and a large, black dog went running by in pursuit of a werewolf. Snape brushed all of these aside and navigated further, searching for more recent memories. Darkness, skirmishes with Death Eaters, rushed meals with members of the Order. A rush of cold air as Aurors swept by on their brooms. Black standing in an abandoned house, gazing down at a photograph of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

From somewhere amidst the fray of memories, Severus caught the high, weak sound of Peter Pettigrew's voice.

"But Sirius, I don't understand. Aren't you the better choice?" Pettigrew and Black were standing in a plain, dusty room cluttered with old furniture and towers of books. Black was leaning against a desk on the far wall.

"Yes, but that's exactly why you must be the one to do it, Wormtail!" He had clearly been trying to convince the smaller man for some time. "This way, only you, me, James, and Lily will know who the real Secret Keeper is." Pettigrew fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, his beady eyes flicking about the room.

"Al—alright, then."

"Be strong, Peter. James and Lily need you. Harry needs you."

"You're right." Pettigrew straightened his back and took a deep breath. "I won't let them down. I—I'll be their Secret Keeper, Padfoot." Sirius pressed his lips into a thin smile and rested a hand on Pettigrew's shoulder with a slight nod.

Black was telling the truth, then... Pettigrew was the one who betrayed the Potters. Snape withdrew from the memory, a strange mixture of anger and determination rising in his throat. He was preparing to release the spell when the memory of a flash of red hair caught his eye, and he paused.

Lily, James, and Sirius were standing in Dumbledore's office; the room was dimly lit, and the old wizard was hunched over his desk, a weary hand pressed to his brow. When he spoke, his voice seemed ageless: old and tired and laden with far-off things.

"I...have a place in mind. It is well-guarded and relatively isolated. This location—in conjunction with a myriad of protective spells and a Secret Keeper—should be quite safe, indeed." His eyes flickered behind his half-moon glasses. "I trust that you needn't be reminded of how important it is to choose a trustworthy Secret Keeper?"

"Of course not." James Potter answered him from across his desk. Snape glowered at the messy-haired, bespectacled rival of his youth. Then he positioned himself beside Dumbledore so that he could see Lily's face more clearly. In the memory, she was not red hair and splintered wood and green eyes forever shut. Instead, she was Lily. Just Lily. He memorized the lines of her face, the slope of her jaw, the tight, worried set of her mouth; he studied the way the green in her eyes went from the color of oak leaves in spring to the gold-tinged glow of sunlight on grass.

He wished he could speak with her.

He wished this image was real, instead of the one that would be forever burned into his mind and his chest and his soul.

"Dumbledore," Potter interrupted Snape's cadence of thoughts, "how did Voldemort find out about this prophecy?" Severus found himself suddenly holding his breath.

"That is not for me to say," the old wizard answered. Potter scowled at him.

"It's alright, James," Lily spoke for the first time since entering the memory, and Snape leaned forward as if to physically catch her words, "at least we've been warned. We—"

"I'll tell you how he found out." Sirius interjected, his eyes flashing. James gave him a questioning look. "It was Snape. Good old Snivellus Greasy was eavesdropping that day at the Hog's Head." Lily's eyes widened in shock.

"No, he—"

"I heard it from half the people in the pub. I'm right, aren't I?" Sirius gave Dumbledore a pointed stare, waiting for confirmation, but the headmaster was silent. He dipped his hand into the near-empty dish of lemon drops on his desk. Fawkes, who had been quietly preening his feathers atop his perch, stretched his wings and drifted over to Dumbledore. He landed on his master's shoulder and gave a soft click of his beak. Sighing, Dumbledore casually offered him a lemon drop, and Fawkes chirped excitedly before swallowing it whole. Lily's expression softened. When she spoke, her voice was only a whisper.

"Is it true, Albus?" She asked. Dumbledore blinked several times as if to remove himself from a reverie. His eyes drifted up to her; Snape thought he detected a spark of dread there.

"Yes," he confirmed. "Yes, it is true." Lily's eyes fell to the floor. Sirius scoffed from across the room. James ran a hand through his unruly hair and snorted derisively.

"Well, I'm hardly surprised. The slimy—"

"However," Dumbledore interrupted James, "I believe that Severus Snape deeply regrets his actions. He is, after all, the one who warned me." He leveled James with a penetrating stare.

"Yeah, right." Sirius was rubbing a smudge of dirt from one of his hands, his forehead scrunched in concentration. "The only thing Snape regrets is that he won't have the chance to off us himself."

"I agree. It's a little late to change faces now, I should think," James chimed in. Dumbledore sighed again.

"That's enough, you two." Lily finally looked up, and her green eyes were clear. Clear, and sad. She gazed past Dumbledore and even though Severus knew she could not see him, he felt as though she was staring right through him, through the darkness and down to his very core. He held his breath. "Even after everything, I thought...I believed…." She drifted off, and the room was quiet for some time. Severus waited.

Believed what?

But Lily didn't finish. Instead, she looked back to her husband, who had been watching her with something akin to pity. "We should go," she said simply. "I'm sure that by now Hagrid has more than his hands full with Harry." James nodded, and the three turned to leave.

"Lily." Severus spoke her name aloud and was shocked to see her stop in front of the door until he realized that Dumbledore had spoken at the same time. Lily turned back to face the headmaster.

"I believed that he wasn't truly lost," she said. And then the room turned to dust and memories pressed in around Severus; gasping, he removed himself from Black's mind as one might come up for air after a high dive.


The scent of blood and ash returned in full force; Snape's head was throbbing from being thrown onto the street during their skirmish; it had occurred only moments before, but to Severus it felt like a lifetime. He blinked to clear his mind and began reconstructing his mental barriers. Through the fog of destruction and blood and I believed that he wasn't truly lost, Snape heard a piercing, unsettling sound.

Sirius Black was laughing. It was a high, empty noise, almost unnaturally so. "You caught the wrong man, Snape. The wrong man! All of this for nothing!" He devolved into chaotic laughter again.

It will take some time for the trauma to wear off, Snape thought. Having one's mind invaded was not a pleasant experience.

Severus gazed at the wounds inflicted by his cutting spell with a cold expression, black eyes glittering in the coming darkness. Then, slowly, he leaned closer and began to trace his wand over the lacerations. He uttered the incantation for the counterpart to sectumsempra, a healing spell, and watched as the deep wounds knitted themselves back together. Sirius continued to laugh maniacally.

"The Aurors will be here momentarily," Severus muttered when he had finished. "I suggest that you leave before they arrive." He dropped Black's wand a few feet from where he was still sprawled on the cold ground.

"Let them come," Sirius growled, struggling to pick himself up. "I've failed. Anyway, why don't you just kill me, Snape? Huh? Snivellus?" His eyes flashed wildly.

Severus gazed at him stoically, a cold flame sparking behind his eyes. He had spent the last two days hunting Sirius because he believed that he was to blame for Lily's death. He had spent years hating James Potter for stealing Lily from him, and now for failing to protect her when Voldemort had arrived. He would spend the rest of his life hating the Dark Lord, who had struck Lily down for no reason other than for being in the way. All of these and more were among the things Severus Snape hated. But after everything, he could not escape the realization that he himself had set in motion the events which had led to Lily's death. He was the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy. He was the one who truly betrayed her.

And so, in the end, there was nothing Severus Snape hated more…

...than himself.

Snape did not answer Sirius. Instead, he looked up at the sky, where the sun was beginning to set through the fog of ash and snow. He would, perhaps, go after Peter Pettigrew. But not tonight. And so, as the sound of shouting and rushed footsteps came echoing closer, Snape closed his eyes and disapparated with a crack and a blur of ash and embers.


It was well into the night by the time Snape finally shoveled the last bit of dirt over Lily's grave. He had (rather unceremoniously) used magic to dump soil over James', although he had kept his word to Dumbledore by at least burying the two beside each other. It had taken him hours to dig Lily's by hand, and another few to lower her coffin and cover it, painstakingly slow, with shovel by shovel full of soil.

Now, Severus stood leaning against his shovel, watching the snow as it drifted down to coat the fresh dirt. He stretched out a hand; snowflakes fell quietly into his palm, then melted away just as quickly: there and gone, there and gone. It was so very silent in Godric's Hollow. It was almost as though the night itself was mourning, offering these tiny gifts, countless times over. Snape released a long sigh and watched his breath curl upward and away. Then he looked back down to Lily's grave. It was too plain. He twirled his wand once and a flower (a lily, naturally), sprouted from the soil, small and delicate, yet somehow unspeakably lovely.

That's better, he thought, and his chest ached. Severus removed the torn photograph of Lily from his robes and gazed at it for a moment. His hands were shaking. He told himself it was from the cold, the exhaustion after hours of shoveling.

"My sweet Lily," he breathed, "Forgive me." He replaced the picture and again surveyed the snow-dusted grave, such a final thing, with its delicate flower, so out of place and yet so perfect. "For I shall never forgive myself."

Some time later, there came the sound of sweeping footsteps through the snow.

"Ah, Severus. I thought I might find you here." Dumbledore came and stood beside him. He blinked down at the graves, his eyes twinkling softly behind his glasses. "Such a lovely flower," he said.

"Not now, Albus." The headmaster stretched out his hand, as Snape had done earlier, and watched snowflakes drift into his palm.

"Forgive me, my boy—"

"Do not call me that."

"Very well. I was only going to say that I presumed you could use some company. You do realize how cold it is this evening, yes? I hope you weren't planning to stay out here all night." Snape ignored him. His gaze was still directed forward, staring forlornly at the lily he had conjured. "Come now, Severus. Your countenance is depressing enough to bring even my spirits down." Snape cut him a sideways glare.

"What do you want, Dumbledore?" He growled. The headmaster tugged at a spare thread on his robe, frowning.

"You are still planning to return to Hogwarts as Potions Master, I hope?" He lifted his chin; snow sparkled on his long, trailing beard. Snape was quiet for a moment.

"I already told you I would."

"Most excellent." Dumbledore pressed his lips into a tight smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I must confess, Severus," he said, "that I was hoping you might be inclined to step away for a bit. There is something I wish to show you." Snape repositioned his hands on the shovel and tapped it lightly against the ground, leaving shallow marks in the snow.

"I would rather not." He ceased his tapping and rested the shovel against a nearby tree.

"It will still be here when you get back," the headmaster said, his voice low and cautious. Severus crossed his arms over his chest and produced a quiet sigh, the vapor of his breath dissipating in the night air.

"Yes," he muttered. His voice was sharp with bitterness. "It will always be here….Very well, Albus. But this had better be quick."

"Not to worry, Severus. Take my arm." Snape did so with a roll of his eyes and a derisive snort. The gut-wrenching tug in his stomach took hold, brief but intense, as Dumbledore apparated and the two wizards appeared at their destination.


They were gazing up at a simple two-story house with a neat walkway and a well-tended bed of flowers beside the door (although a bit frosted—it was October, after all); the lawn was so flawless in appearance that Severus mused it would be considered a crime to tread upon it. Below the porch light was a large number "4".

"Ah, Privet Drive," Dumbledore sighed, "such a quaint little street." Snape gazed down the row of cookie-cutter homes and scowled.

"I assume you have a good reason for bringing me to the home of Petunia Dursley?" Severus asked; he didn't bother to keep the distaste out of his voice.

"Oh yes, quite. Now, let's see…." Dumbledore approached the house and pressed his ear to the front door. "Ah, I thought so. Do you hear it?" Snape moved to the door as well and leaned close. There, although it was relatively faint through the thick door and brick walls, came the sound of a small child crying. Evidently it was not loud enough to wake up the Dursleys; all of the upstairs lights were off. Dumbledore peered over at a window above the flower bed, where dim light was filtering through. It looked to be near the location where the cries were originating from. To get to it, they would need to walk across the grass. Dumbledore hesitated at the edge of the walkway.

"Here, Albus," said Snape. He brushed past the older wizard and deliberately stamped a path through the pristine grass. For good measure, he took an extra step and flattened a clump of flowers beneath the window, kicking soil onto the lawn. "It is quite safe now."

"Oh, dear." Dumbledore looked slightly aghast, although his eyes sparkled with laughter. He made his way down Snape's path of destruction and squinted through the window.

In a battered, clearly-secondhand crib, was a small child with a mess of black hair. His face was blotched and lined with tears; tiny hands rubbed at his squinting eyes, and his onesie was at least two sizes too large. A jagged, lightning-shaped scar was clearly visible on his forehead. Snape settled Dumbledore with a venomous glare.

"This is what you brought me here to see? The blubbering offspring of James Potter?" Dumbledore released a heavy sigh.

"Now, Severus. Do try to be civil." He pressed a hand to the window. "I'm asking you to look at Harry. Just...try to see him, Severus, apart from your opinion of James." Snape growled in irritation and turned back to the window. He pressed his lips together in a thin line, focusing. Harry was facing them, sniffling, his cheeks still blotched and damp. His tiny hands gripped the the rails of his crib. Unruly black hair seemed to stand up in every direction, as though pulled by invisible threads. Even at such a young age, he looked so like his father. And yet...Harry opened his eyes and looked straight at Snape.

Red hair and splintered wood and green eyes forever shut.

But these eyes were not shut. They looked through Snape, through the darkness and down to his very core.

"He...has his mother's eyes." Severus murmured, more to himself than to Dumbledore. Then he tore himself away from the window, across the battered grass, and into the street. The headmaster followed slowly behind.

"Severus?" Dumbledore stopped a few feet away. Snape's back was to him, arms crossed over his chest, his long shadow cast diagonally across the cold ground. He was silent for a moment.

"You are asking me to look into this boy's face every day—those eyes. Have you any idea?" The headmaster looked up into the sky, where the moon was bright and unfettered by clouds. Snow had not yet reached this area.

"What you must realize is that, while Lily is gone—"

Here, Snape sucked in a sharp breath, his shoulders rigid and tight.

"—her son lives. I wanted you to see his eyes, Severus. By swearing to protect him, you swear to honor Lily's memory." Snape was silent, his breath coming in shallow wisps. "Surely there is more to life than a cold grave and a myriad of regrets?"

"Not for me." Severus turned around, his cloak flaring about him like the wings of a great bat. "Save your sentiments, Albus. I told you I would protect the boy—for Lily—and I will keep my word. But do not presume that you can change me. My thoughts and my regrets are my own." Dumbledore held Snape's black gaze for a long moment, and then he sighed.

"Very well, then. You'll have to forgive my prying. It is in my nature to fix things, I think."

"Fix things? Or manipulate them?"

"Ah. Perhaps a bit of both." Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Well," he said, "I suppose I should leave you to your thoughts, then. A lemon drop and a cup of tea would do quite nicely once I return to my office. Yes...quite nicely, indeed. Goodnight, Severus." And with a snap of his fingers, the aged headmaster disapparated.

Snape released a heavy sigh and watched his breath disappear into the night air. He looked up at the sky, where the moon was. It had been quite some time since he had last seen it; cloud cover had been almost constant over the last few weeks. He stood in the street for some time, lost in thought, and then he, too, apparated, to a snow-laden town where a cold grave and a myriad of regrets awaited him.