Text highlighted by bold italics is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which I still do not own.

Chapter Twenty-Five

He closed his eyes.

-x-

Standing calmly in the green-tinged light of the clearing Severus took a deep breath of the gentle summer air. It was always summer here.

After a moment's search he stooped to retrieve the dirty bag from where it lay half covered in leaves. It was all that was left of her. It would be too dangerous should the slightest whisper of her be made known to the Dark Lord. The zip, though slightly rusted from long exposure to the elements was still keyed to her, the enchantment holding all his secrets safe.

"Emma," he whispered.

-x-

Leaning back in the comfortable, if ornate, Headmaster's chair, he allowed himself to explore his memories, handling them carefully like the precious things they were. Growing up amongst Muggles, he was well acquainted with their belief that in the moment before death your entire life flashes before your eyes. He would not have that luxury; the Avada Kedavra rips life and soul from the body in an instant, leaving no lingering moment between life and death. Accepting this, he chose to make time for those memories himself.

Emma, arriving out of the blue and taking over his summer. Emma, appearing when he needed her most. Emma, trusting and loyal and so very, very lovely.

The puzzle of the ingredient list had worried at him for a long time but, much like his studies into the murky waters of time magic, it had been brushed aside by his growing dependence and attraction to Emma. Later, disappointment and anger had coloured his memories, and the potion had ceased to matter compared to her mounting betrayals.

It had hurt to learn that she had appeared only so that he might save Arthur Weasley. He had seized the torn parchment from the fire the moment she had left, studying the page greedily, focussing on her familiar handwriting as much as the message contained within. The coding against the ingredients had proven to be nothing more sinister than Hobson's Fourth, the basic Arithmancy key used in developing potions. Anybody with the slightest advanced training would have recognised it for what it was.

There had been no question of not brewing the potion. He had gathered those ingredients voraciously, brewing at night when even Moody had retired to his chambers, carefully crafting the potion carried back to him through time itself. While he had been able to guess at its properties, it wasn't until after he had finally obeyed Voldemort's summons to that derelict graveyard and made his obeisance to his old master, his eyes fixed on the massive snake by his side, that he had realised the purpose of the brew.

Rising swiftly, he crossed to Dumbledore's portrait and retrieved a vial of the yellow potion. More waited in the careful hands of a house-elf, ready to be delivered to the infirmary the instant it was required. The elf was under strict instructions not to admit its existence until the moment it was needed.

Having had no chance to test the potion he hadn't dared administer it to the gravely ill Mr Weasley until the very last moment, when all other hope seemed lost. That it worked had been a miracle. The side effects were odd. Perhaps she had sought to alleviate the symptoms but had, in her lack of experience with complex potions, somehow managed to exacerbate them instead. Still, without proper anti-venom it was the best hope his students had should the worst happen.

He saved the final memory for last. The memory of her returning to him so that he might not be alone as his death approached. For that surely was why she had come? What other reason had she returned after her mission to deliver the potion had been completed? She might not have been aware of it but the spell that bound her would have known. It seemed unlikely that it would have granted him those final moments of clemency.

Perhaps he hadn't quite understood the depth and complexity of his feelings for her before then, indeed, it would have been hard to examine something he kept locked so deep away inside himself. Hermione Granger was an awkward subject that his mind tended to skirt away from, almost as much as it wished to examine her. Emma might not exist for much longer, but in those moments she had been his. And she had loved him. The feeling might not last long beyond her escape from the spell but until that moment she was his.

Not that it mattered. His time was fast running out. Voldemort had already warned his followers that Potter might try to re-enter the school. Death would soon be at the very gates of Hogwarts and he understood that he was too deeply embroiled in Dumbledore's plan for the Greater Good to be allowed to survive the confrontation that was rapidly approaching.

He pushed the maudlin thoughts aside. Fear and self-pity would not help him now. There would be plenty of time for those after his final task was complete. For now, he needed to speak to Potter and, if the Dark Lord's understanding of the boy was correct, he would soon make his own way towards the school.

Until then he was free to sit and examine each memory in turn, twisting the glass this way and that as he remembered the feel of her curls between his fingers. Soft and full with a scent like elderflower and citrus. The softness of her skin. The taste of her mouth beneath his. Soon he would have to lock each memory tightly away again but, until then, she was his once more.

-x-

The sudden burn in his left arm almost caused him to drop the vial. So, Alecto had sighted Harry Potter. Slipping the glass into his pocket, he hastily returned his memories to their safe home and ran through his plans in his mind. Overpowering Alecto would be easy, but there was always the danger that her brother would be lurking close by. Persuading Potter to trust him would be the hard part, but hopefully he could trick the boy into sneaking into the Headmaster's Office and letting Albus deliver the bad news himself. Perhaps he could get to Potter through his friends, have the Granger girl speak to him instead.

His best hope was that the castle was empty that night. Any student caught wandering the halls was likely to lose more than house points.

Straightening his robes, he nodded curtly to Dumbledore's portrait and pushed his chair back under his desk. He had prepared for this moment, the room ready to receive its next incumbent, his personal possessions tided or destroyed. There was no point leaving a will. The few he might name were going to be at the forefront of the coming battle. It would likely be a waste of ink.

The torches were lit in the sconces and the hallways were silent, save for the soft tread of his boots. He had always loved this time at Hogwarts, the students abed, the torchlight casting its soft glow throughout the corridors. Even now, on his way to deliver a death sentence, he could feel the age-old benevolence of the castle surrounding him and appreciate the austere beauty of its faded stones.

The Carrows proved oddly elusive, and it had been Minerva whom he had eventually encountered speeding through the deserted corridors, throwing the occasional glance over her shoulder to the empty space behind. She had been hostile, as she had been all year, but her swiftly dispatched curse had still been unexpected enough to nearly catch him.

Even as he parried her increasingly ferocious attacks, he still scanned the corridor beyond for signs of Potter or his friends. Minerva's interference was horribly timed, but it must not distract him from reaching the boy. He didn't wish to stun her, too aware of the damage done to her just two years previously, when she had intervened to help Hagrid against then Headmistress Umbridge, but he would if forced to. The decision was taken from him when Filius and Pomona arrived, with Horace not far behind. He was no longer parrying hexes but now fighting in earnest for his life. Flitwick had been a champion dueller in his day and, although somewhat rusty, was still a dangerous enemy on his own. Four against one were a madman's odds and Severus found himself forced to flee.

He had half expected to come under attack from the amassing body of Death Eaters beyond the school's boundaries as he landed gracefully before them. Many backed away, apparently awed by the display of rare magic. Even Bella held her tongue, content with simply sneering at him. Flying required a certain focus and discipline that she lacked. As the only two the Dark Lord had confided in, her failure with that particular piece of magic had driven another wedge between them. He gazed at her impassively until she was forced to look away. She was unlikely to issue any challenges to her fellows now, not when all knew of her disgrace. It would make her extra deadly to those within the school.

He took his place silently within the ranks and awaited the start of the war. He had known many of those present since childhood. He was uncertain if any of his generation were likely to live to old age. So many had fallen in the first war and those that remained seemed eager to throw away their lives in the second. It made him sadder than he had thought possible and he roughly pushed the mawkish thoughts away. He had little sentiment left for any of those standing beside him; even the Malfoys were no longer the family he had once felt a part of, yet all of them had once held so much promise. Even Bella had once been a reasonably bright schoolgirl who made friends easily before she had taken up the Dark Lord's bidding. Each of their stories must have held some secret sadness that they were stood here tonight, ready to die on the whim of a madman, ready to destroy the very building that had once represented so many of their hopes and dreams.

He shook himself. His carefully controlled emotions were simply seeking another outlet and it was unwise to allow them. He had much to accomplish in the next few hours, including somehow persuading the Dark Lord to allow him to be the one to capture Potter. He knew that if he could just have a few precious moments with the boy, he would be able to convey the dreadful message Dumbledore had charged him with. There was also the small matter of helping to attack the only place he had ever felt at home and somehow protecting the occupants within while maintaining his cover.

"Where are the Carrows?"

"They were taken captive by the teachers. Potter is inside but I was intercepted before I managed to reach him."

Cold red eyes flicked across his face and Severus had to fight the urge to shudder. With maybe only hours left in the serpent's service, it was becoming harder to hold onto his careful mask. Their eyes met and he willingly held up the memory of Minerva, Filius and Pomona moving to attack him. The brush of mind against his was coldly furious, but also thoughtful. He was planning something. Too late he realised he had allowed the thought to form before He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had pulled from his mind.

"Lord Voldemort is always planning something, Severus. Go, join the ranks but do not attempt to re-enter the school. I wish to keep my generals close by."

"My Lord."

What followed seemed to make no sense at the time, yet would remain seared into his mind. The attack upon the school, the mindless violence. By the time Voldemort's supporters had all arrived, even Severus was shocked by their numbers. He doubted even half of them bore the Mark and had probably been delayed arriving by what ever other form of summons they had received. He had hoped so much that it might never have to come to this, that Potter might have succeeded in defeating the Dark Lord without the need for massive carnage. These were not the elite few; they were a rabble of Snatchers and delinquents, looters and thugs. It sickened him that they might be allowed to approach his school.

While firing spells towards the school at random, he considered the speculative brush of Voldemort's mind. Then man was planning something concerning him, he was certain, and he had an idea of what it might be. He had been the one to allow him onto the school grounds the night Dumbledore's tomb had been desecrated, after all. He had known that Ollivander had been taken captive after Potter's wand had somehow defeated both his and later Lucius' borrowed wand.

Severus knew his history. He had chosen to immerse himself in the wizarding world and had taken great interest in the myriad myths and stories that pure-bloods were aware of from the cradle, as well as the personal stories of those he worked with. Dumbledore's wand had been taken from Grindelwald after their famous duel. In his study of the Dark Arts, Severus had become well acquainted with Grindelwald's tale, too, and the whispers amongst his followers that he carried a wand that could not be defeated. If the Dark Lord truly believed he held the Elder Wand then he must also be aware of the legend attached to it.

He realised he still had the small vial of potion tucked inside his robes. It would need disposing of before it was discovered. Could he risk simply dropping it to the ground and rely on those around him to crush it? But not yet. He could feel Bella's eyes upon him, boring into his exposed back. Hating himself for it, he redoubled his attack on the wards of the school. The giants arrived and the north battlements fell. Death Eaters began to stream forwards.

Suddenly Narcissa was beside him. "Draco is inside," she hissed, her voice breaking over the final syllable.

"They'll be evacuating the children," he assured her, but she shook her head.

"He's gone to fetch Potter. He thinks he can save us." She grabbed his free hand. "He's trapped in there, Severus!"

"Calm yourself," he murmured, attempting to gently shake himself free.

"Lucius has gone to beg clemency for him but I don't - You have to find him! You're the only one He trusts now - I know He'll let you search the castle."

He studied her distraught face, her haughty manner and her beauty crumbling as once more her son's life was risked for the family's honour. He knew as well as she did that the Dark Lord would care nothing for Draco's safety now that he was so close to reaching his goal of finally destroying Harry Potter.

-x-

There was little he could do but watch the carnage unfold. The school, though valiantly protecting those inside, seemed ready to collapse in upon itself with the next curse or explosion. The noise was terrible and the flashing of spells made it difficult to see clearly. The north end of the castle was almost completely hidden behind the dust of fallen masonry. His home for almost thirty years was being razed to the ground.

The silence of the ceasefire seemed somehow louder than the battle. The still night air carried the screams of pain and grief clearly across the valley, the intermittent wails threatening to shatter the precarious peace with their pain.

He was not surprised when Lucius appeared to convey the Dark Lord's summons, yet he was aggrieved by the man's appearance. He had watched the Malfoys suffer much over the last couple of years, but the hollowness of his eyes spoke of complete resignation and defeat. It was hard to believe the man before him was less than a decade older than himself.

"Did he say what he required?"

"No, and I know better than to ask."

He wished there was some encouragement he could offer, but now was not the time. They both knew that Draco was as good as dead already.

-x-

The walk to the Shrieking Shack was not a long one yet his legs seemed incapable of carrying him with their usual swiftness. His limbs felt heavy and difficult to move, his hands almost numb. He bunched his hands into fists inside the long sleeves of his robe lest any of those watching should see them shake. He had risked death before on countless occasions. He had never set out to meet it until now.

Dumbledore had never confided in him about the Elder Wand. Perhaps he had hoped that Snape would discover the truth on his own or perhaps he simply did not expect Voldemort to make the connection between the Deathstick and the elegant, obviously antique wand that Dumbledore had carried since Grindelwald's defeat. Maybe he had worried that Severus would let the information slip. Perhaps he had simply believed that Severus would never have agreed to end the headmaster's life knowing it would seal his own fate.

Harry Potter would soon be coming to meet Voldemort face to face, Severus was certain of it. The Dark Lord understood the boy well enough to know that such a challenge would not go unanswered. Yet the issue of the way the boy's wand reacted to Voldemort's magic remained. Ollivander was unlikely to have spent all those hours in the Malfoy cellar without describing how one gained mastery over the Wand of Destiny.

At the entrance to the Shack he stopped, drawing deep breaths into his lungs as he tried to centre himself. Perhaps he had simply been summoned to fulfil some errand or another. Perhaps he was about to be sent into the castle to retrieve the boy himself. It would do him no good to panic now.

He pushed his hands into his pockets as he leant against the doorjamb and concentrated on bringing his shields up, locking the fear away. All he needed was a little more time.

His fingers closed around the smooth glass in his pocket and he frowned. He should have found time to dispose of the potion; it was far too risky to carry anything that so blatantly symbolised his double role into a meeting with the Dark Lord. There had been no reason to bring the damned thing with him, save perhaps a sentimental unwillingness to leave all that he cherished behind. In a swift movement he flicked the cap from the vial and drank the sour mixture, dropping and grinding the glass beneath his boot.

-x-

It was a mistake.

He could feel the slow sedative in the potion already beginning to do its work, making it impossible to think clearly. He felt almost detached from the role he played in the conversation he had dreaded, the arguments for his return to the castle seeming to drip from him with all the force of a leaking tap. Concentrating was made harder still by the malignant presence of Nagini, the great fanged snake watching his every move from within some sort of protective sphere.

"Why did both the wands I have used fail when directed at Harry Potter?

It was the question he had dreaded, yet Severus could not drag his eyes away from the giant serpent.

"I sought a third wand, Severus."

A potion to protect him from Nagini. Yet the snake was locked safely away.

"I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore."

He dragged his eyes away from the snake and turned them to the real danger in the room. His own death sentence was written large in those fearsome red eyes.

"My Lord," he tried one last time, knowing that he had already failed. "Let me go to the boy-"

The request was denied as expected and he watched, feeling every ounce of courage he had ever been able to call upon fleeing him at last, as the Dark Lo- No, let him be Riddle now, now that all plans had failed and all hope was lost. As Riddle raised his wand to deliver the Killing Curse. He made no move to defend himself as Dumbledore's wand slashed down, didn't even close his eyes.

He felt nothing. No pain, no relief. Whatever spell it had been had either not worked or not been directed at him.

Movement flickered in the corner of his eye as Nagini once more filled his vision, the starry sphere that held her slipping over his head and shoulders like water, bringing him close to her powerful coils and those long, curved fangs.

The bite itself was painful but not unbearable, despite the strength of those unnatural jaws. The true agony began as he felt the venom of her fangs enter his blood stream and begin its foul journey through his body. It burnt like acid in his throat, his shoulders and face already surrendering to the barrage of pain.

He thought perhaps he screamed. He must have fallen because suddenly the snake was gone and he was watching Riddle's retreating figure from the dusty floor. Then Potter was there, staring at him with those vacant green eyes, so alike and yet so different to his mother's. Potter, the one person he would have given anything to see, suddenly kneeling beside him on the dirty floor. He snatched at him, not daring to hope he was really there until his fingers closed on the boy's robes, trying to force his tongue to overcome the growing numbness of the potion or the paralysis of the venom and feeling the strength seeping from him along with the blood that was already soaking his robes, sticking the heavy cloth to his chest.

Frustrated, he ripped his shields away and allowed his memories to pour from him, memories that he had guarded for so long, spilling from him with wild abandon as he finally fulfilled his duty.

He could feel his grip on the boy's cloak beginning to weaken as his blood seemed to flow unabated from the wound in his neck. The pain was receding now but the awful numbness seemed to be growing. Already he could not feel his legs and he could feel the muscles in his face beginning to slacken. He suddenly remembered all the extra vials of blood replenisher the Healers had been forced to administer to Arthur Weasley and his growing weakness began to make perfect sense.

Blind to Potter and the one that had produced the flask to capture his memories, he allowed himself a final weakness. Sinking deep within his shields he felt the world recede.

He made his way towards the shady clearing in the woods, the sound of the stream soothing away the last of his fear. There were birds singing somewhere and a gentle breeze was stirring the leaves around him, a strange and sudden peace inside his heart.

This time, the clearing wouldn't be empty.

This time, he knew Emma would be there.