Three figures staring at him from the Foe-Glass and from the doorway, and it was only Snape that he had eyes for, with quiet, bursting relief at the look of concern leaking out from his expression. He strode forward, and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and with his other, he gently pulled his head up, examining his eyes.

"Cruciatus," he announced, formally, so calmly Harry would have thought he didn't care, except for the hand on his shoulder that tightened.

McGonagall gave him a wide-eyed look. Harry suddenly remembered the Longbottoms. McGonagall had been their Head too. I'm fine, he wanted to say, except he felt as though he'd start to cry if he opened his mouth, so he didn't.

"Severus, I need the strongest Truth-Potion you have on hand, and then bring up—"

He paused, and Harry realized his hand had crept up of its own accord and wrapped it around Snape's. Snape's hand on his shoulder had shifted from the left to the right, so his left could snake around behind his shoulder in a sort of hug.

It felt good. Merlin, he wanted to cry. He would have, if he could breathe normally, if he could think about what he'd done, what he'd seen, for more than one second before some other thing he'd done or seen flashed by. There was too much to think about, with the not-too-terrible effect of muddling him so much he couldn't concentrate on any single one.

Snape took his left hand off of Harry's shoulder, reached into his robes and drew out his wand. He waved a hand, and handed the Veritaserum to Dumbledore, who'd been giving McGonagall quiet instructions. Sirius. The dog was Sirius. He carefully focused his attention on the hands on his shoulder and back, feeling for any tenseness. There was none. Either Snape didn't get it, or he didn't care. Could he dare to hope for that?

He chanced a glance up. Snape had his wand trained on him, and there were little letters in the air, in tight, spiky handwriting.

"How many Crucios?"

"Two?" he croaked.

A flash of something fierce crossed Snape's eyes and was gone. Another flick of his wand, and a vial dropped into his hand and was pressed into Harry's own. "Short-term, I'm afraid. It'll have to do till we get to the infirmary."

Harry drunk the potion, and nearly shuddered in relief at the wave of warmth that moved through his body.

"Voldemort's back," he said, quietly.

"I know," he said, just as quietly.

He seemed to hesitate. Then he pulled up his sleeve. Harry stared, at the Dark Mark, perfectly clear now. The snake stared at him, and he could almost feel that there was victory in its eyes.

It came back to him now, the three missing Death Eaters in the circle, and one of them was Snape.

He licked his lips and then bit down on them. Snape lowered his arm and tugged the sleeve back into place.

Then the last chamber of the trunk was opened, and the real Moody was revealed. Snape didn't say a word, didn't move, didn't tense. His hands stayed on Harry throughout, heavy and present, and all through Barty Crouch's interrogation, he took comfort in it.

When Minerva left, Dumbledore turned to Snape. "Severus—" he stopped abruptly, and looked at Harry, and if Harry had been any less dazed than he was right now, he would definitely have felt more than just numb surprise at the look of concern that passed over the man's face. "Harry. Would you mind Severus leaving for a moment? Cornelius Fudge needs to be informed. We shall move to my office."

Sirius was waiting. He nodded. He couldn't trust himself to speak; he wasn't sure his voice would work. What was the last thing he said? Oh, right, to Crouch. Snape's hand tightened on his, briefly, in what was unmistakably a comforting gesture. Then the grip vanished entirely and he swept out the door without a backward glance.

Harry got under the bedcovers, under the none-too-subtle stares of the Weasleys and Hermione. As he drank the Draught, and his eyelids drooped, he searched the sea of red for a spot of black. Nope. Snape wasn't…here…

When Fudge came thundering into the room, Harry's heart leaped into his throat at the sight of Snape, sweeping in behind Fudge, beside McGonagall. He gave Harry a quick, piercing look, and then turned away, as Dumbledore entered.

Harry looked away too, and his stomach turned leaden. Was Snape angry? This was his public face, of course, but Voldemort was back, and Snape was going to have to go back to him, and all because of Harry being a stupid, stupid Gryffindor—

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Snape was ignoring him; he was at Dumbledore's side and they were together looking at Fudge.

"You are—er—prepared to take Harry's word on this, are you?"

Sirius growled, and Snape looked his way—not Harry's, but Sirius'. There was no flicker of recognition on his face, and he turned away just as quickly. Harry kept his gaze on Dumbledore so he could keep an eye on Snape.

Merlin, if Snape was mad with him—if he was mad, now, Harry knew for sure he'd go insane or something.

"You've been reading Rita Skeeter," he said, quietly, and this time, at least, Snape looked at him. The Weasleys jumped, startled that he was awake, but Snape merely looked.

Harry wondered what he looked like. It felt like an age since he'd last bathed. It had been—oh, just yesterday—and in that time Voldemort had come back from the dead and Cedric had died—

And he'd won the Tournament, only it wasn't just him, it was Cedric too, and if only he hadn't been all jealous and angry with Cedric he would have gone for the cup himself, no, Cedric had to be all Hufflepuff —

But Cedric was dead, and he didn't deserve to die—he didn't deserve to die because of Harry—

Harry felt, very suddenly, like he was going to be sick. He bent over the covers, clutching at them, trying to focus on breathing, slowly and deliberately.

"You'll forgive me, Dumbledore, but I've never heard of a curse scar acting as an alarm bell before…"

"I saw Voldemort come back! I saw the Death Eaters! Malfoy—"

Snape stirred, and Harry looked at him, but by then Snape was staring at Fudge again.

What? What do you want me to say? Or not say? He wanted to ask.

"Macnair! Avery! Nott! Crabbe!"

"All cleared! You are merely repeating the names of those who have been tried and acquitted years ago, Potter!"

He leaned back on the bedstead. He was going to be sick. He was sure of it. Fudge was yelling at Dumbledore, who was speaking with a quiet, dignified, but very cold authority that he would have trembled at if it had been directed at him, but now he could only try not to be sick.

Tink. Something hit softly against the side of his head. It was a vial, and Harry recognized it as one for sickness; he'd drunk that one before, at Snape's house. He carefully caught it from its hovering position. Snape was watching Fudge, but he lowered his head, just briefly.

Harry drank it. He felt like crying, now. There was too much to deal with.

Something soft and wet and furry touched his palm on the bed. He looked down. Sirius was looking up at him, his big doggy eyes wide. Harry knew nothing of dogs, but he was certain this was as loving as any dog-look could get.

He fondled his snout gently. Padfoot leaned in and licked his fingers.

Snape strode forward toward Fudge, pulling at his sleeve, and Harry knew what was going to happen before it did, he'd shown Harry that same arm just a while ago, and he yanked up his sleeve now. Fudge leaned back as if he feared contamination.

"Every Death Eater had the sign burned into him by the Dark Lord. It was a means of distinguishing one another, and his means of summoning us to him. When he touched the Mark of any Death Eater, we were to Disapparate, and Apparate, instantly, at his side."

Harry tried to imagine it, a younger Snape, with the same hooked nose and greasy hair, kneeling before a younger Voldemort. The sign was burned into him? Had it hurt?— by the Dark Lord? Harry had never imagined how the Dark Mark was created.

"Why do you think Karkaroff fled tonight? We both felt the Mark burn. We both knew he had returned. Karkaroff fears the Dark Lord's vengeance. He betrayed too many of his fellow Death Eaters to be sure of a welcome back into the fold."

And—and Snape, now, would return.

He wanted some more of that anti-puking potion, now.

When Sirius turned back into human form, Harry stared at him, primarily because he was too cowardly to chance a look at Snape.

"How appropriate," Snape said, and there was no way that tone could be mistaken for anything remotely resembling amicability. "A dog form."

"He is here at my invitation, as are you, Severus. I trust you can look past your differences and learn to work together."

Neither Sirius nor Snape were looking at him. Snape, he knew, was holding back the emotion he undoubtedly felt. His face held mild disgust and milder anger and mostly derisive indifference.

Sirius looked furious.

"I will settle for a lack of open hostility." Dumbledore's voice held the annoyance that Harry thought he'd never express, ever again, to either of these two men. "You will shake hands. You are on the same side now."

Harry watched, the empty vial in his hand, his other hand still sticky from doggy saliva, as Snape and Sirius shook hands, once, and then stepped back, Sirius toward Harry, and Snape away.

Snape still wasn't looking at him.

"Sirius, I need you to set off at once. Alert the old crowd. Stay at Lupin's for a while; I will contact you there."

His godfather would be living in his neighbourhood. Huh. Sirius would hate Privet Drive. Was he any good with gardening?

Harry glanced at Sirius. No, don't go. He remembered thinking the same thing, with the same emotion, before. With Snape. Only Snape was going to do something so much worse—

Sirius looked down at him, and gripped his shoulder. "I'll see you again very soon, Harry. I have to do what I can, you understand, don't you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

Harry watched, feeling unbearably small and helpless, sitting on his white-sheeted bed in the infirmary, as Sirius turned back into dog form and bounded out of the room. He looked away, and caught sight of Snape looking at him.

Then Dumbledore spoke. "Severus." Harry nearly trembled, as it came crashing down on him, what Dumbledore was going to say. "You know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared…"

"I am," said Snape.

No.

No.

Harry swallowed. Snape was pale, but there was a set to his face, that made the vocalization of the loud monosyllable die on his lips. No, he wanted to say. But Snape would not like that.

"Then… good luck." Dumbledore, Harry noticed, with another drop to his stomach, looked just a touch apprehensive. He hid it well, but that just made it more terrifying. He looked at Harry, a sidelong glance as Snape stepped toward the door.

He swallowed again. His throat was dry. "Severus?"

His voice was thin and hoarse. Snape didn't stop, but his pace slowed.

"Be—be careful." Please, oh, Merlin, please!

He stared at Snape's back. Snape had stopped, now. Then he started off again.

The door shut behind him, and Harry let out a breath. Well.

Well, he thought again, more shakily.

Either Harry kept missing him, or Snape wasn't back. He felt sure Snape would have some way of informing Dumbledore if he was hurt (Harry's brain methodically whitewashed every possibility worse than being hurt, like the one he definitely didn't think about) so the fact that he hadn't been summoned to the headmaster's office meant he was alive, at least.

He was going to the Great Hall at times when he knew it would be empty, though. Maybe Snape ate when it was busier.

Hermione and Ron went to eat at the busiest hours and reported that his chair was empty.

He gave up and went down to the Potions office and knocked.

He waited for at least ten whole minutes. No reply.

So he wasn't back.

The day of the Leaving Feast, he went down with apprehension that lumped in his throat. He hated going back there, and seeing the stares of the students. But there was another reason that propelled him down the stairs and along the corridors; if Snape wasn't back today, he couldn't talk to him in person until fifth year, two months away. That was far too long a gap.

When he walked in, barely noticing the black drapes on the wall (though his heart did twist and die inside, just a little) he saw at once the familiar figure in that familiar chair. He looked away so quickly the whole point of subtlety was probably lost, and stumbled to his seat.

Snape was back. Snape was back.

He took a seat, keeping Snape in front of him. With every mouth, he looked up, at the table. He was a bit less than halfway down the table, so he couldn't properly make out Snape's figure.

"He looks okay," Hermione whispered.

Okay. For having gone back to Voldemort and re-pledging his allegiance, yes, sure, Snape was okay.

The look on his face was unchanged. In another time and age, it wouldn't have looked a hair out of place. He looked at Harry, and that look was the usual kind, too.

If his behaviour toward Harry was any indication of how well he could keep his emotions under control, he would be perfectly fine with Voldemort, Harry thought as he stared at his goblet and wondered if he'd get sick if he ate something.

Unless Snape really was mad—if the Expelliarmus last year made them not talk for a whole year, how far up the Unforgiveable Sins ladder did bringing Voldemort back from the not-dead go?

All through dinner, his resolve intensified. He would go to Snape. He would talk to him. If Snape didn't want anything to do with the Boy-Who-Brought-the-Dark-Lord-Back-To-Life, fine. He had to know. And if he did, he really, really had to know.

Knock.

The silence from the room went on for almost as long as another time, just a year ago, that he'd knocked on this same door at around this same hour of night.

Then the door unlocked and went swinging slowly inward. Harry walked in.

Snape was sitting at his desk, his head lowered. His hand was on his desk, his wand out, presumably from unlocking the door. He looked up when Harry stepped in; his eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale.

Harry made his way quietly to the chair and sat. He opened his mouth, knowing full well what he had to say, but then he stopped. "Are you okay," came tumbling out.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm fine."

Harry waited for an exposition on that, but none was forthcoming. "I've actually prepared my talk this time," he said, and without further ado he began. "I know that you're going to do something dangerous, and I don't think I have the—luxury," he'd thought long and hard about an alternative to that word, but in the end, he'd decided to go with his initial instinct, "of thinking that everyone around me that I care about will be fine all the time. And I don't want our last proper conversation to have been a quarrel, so I think we should stop fighting."

Snape blinked at him, a bit blearily.

"I mean, if you're okay with it," Harry added. That hadn't been part of the speech, but Snape did seem so very— "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, preparing himself for a sarcastic rebuke even as he said it.

Snape took a breath. He was slumping, Harry realized, in his seat. "I arrived late," he said, all of a sudden. "The Dark Lord does not like latecomers. I had to explain. He does not like—explanations."

He was fairly used to the number of expressions Snape sported over the years. But there was something about this particular sort of blankness that made his mouth go dry. He tried to imagine it, as he had so many times before—Snape, bowing before Voldemort, in his robes and his mask and the Mark. The same Voldemort who killed his parents, and Cedric.

He twisted his fingers in his lap. "He…he hurt you?"

"I think that is fairly obvious." He was leaning back in his seat, and his shuttered eyes opened as, with a small jerk, he seemed to realize he had company. "I am not permanently damaged, which is the best I could have hoped for. He believed me."

Permanent damage. Like Cedric. "So—your cover, it's intact?" Harry asked tremulously.

Nod. Smile. It was a strange smile. "It is indeed."

Bitter smile, Harry realized. For a moment, he had an almost overwhelming urge to escape the room. He had no clue what to say—or not say—and he was certain that if he said something wrong, it would break the fragile threads of the conversation.

And Snape looked utterly, completely unlike himself, and it felt like the earth had fallen off its axis, and Harry wanted to leave and pretend he'd never seen him this way.

Snape's eyes were closed again. He wondered if the man had fallen asleep. Then he wondered if he was simply electing to keep his involvement in the conversation minimal because Harry had made a dreadful mistake and was mad about it. After all, he was the one who had to go back to Voldemort and call him Lord and master and grovel and say things like I beg you, forgive me—

"I'm sorry," he said, in a rush, quietly but firmly. At the look on Snape's face, he added, "that you have to. Do it, I mean. Work for him. It can't be easy."

Some of the normal Snape-ness seemed to return by then. He sat up straighter in his chair and there was a flicker of irritation as he said, "Don't be ridiculous. My cover works because there was a time when it was real. I took the Mark knowing exactly what it meant—for me, and for others, what I would have to do, what kind of wizard the Dark Lord was and what he would make me do for him—and I turned back on him. This is befitting penance."

"Befitting?" Harry had been about to expound on his apology with an explanation of the other things he was sorry about, but this made him forget all about that. "You made a mistake; you don't have to suffer for it all your life—"

"You do not know that," he said in what was almost a growl. "You do not know what I have done, what I have done in his service."

"I know you saved my life."

Snape closed his eyes again, almost as if he were in pain. "That does not negate everything else, Potter."

"Harry." He swallowed. "It is, still, Harry, isn't it?"

"Harry." The word rolled off his tongue as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "Harry," he said again, and licked his lips, as if he didn't know what to say. "I took the Mark. I am the only one who can access the Dark Lord's inner circle and be privy to his thoughts and pass them on to Dumbledore. This is my duty."

"And you're all about duty, I know," he said, with a feeble attempt at a smile.

"Indeed," he affirmed, in so serious a tone that Harry's smile slipped off his face.

Harry swallowed. The look Snape was directing his way was almost like old times, and Harry didn't think he deserved anything like—

"I'm sorry," he said again, a bit hurriedly.

Snape frowned. "What about this time?"

And then, to his horror, he began to sniffle. His face collapsed inward, and he scrambled to breathe. He lifted his hands to his face, shielding them from view, as Snape just sat and stared through bloodshot eyes.

"What about?" he said, strangled. "Merlin—do you know what I did, what I let happen?"

"What are you talking about?" Snape said quietly, too quietly to be mistaken as anything but calm. He didn't offer tissues. He just sat, fingers lightly crossed, and watched.

"I told Cedric—I told him to take the Cup with me—I shouldn't—Merlin, I should have let Sirius and Remus kill Pettigrew, because he was there—and I should have, should have stopped him, somehow—"

Snape cleared his throat. He stood up and walked around. He was limping, Harry noticed, with another burning bolt of guilt that took away his breath for a moment and paused his cry.

Then Snape grabbed his wrist and pulled him up and close.

Harry's arms went limply around Snape, for one dazed moment, before he tried to pull away. "No—no, don't—"

"Idiot," he said, almost angrily, except for the fierce look in his eyes. "You really think it is entirely your fault that the Dark Lord's returned? Do not be so stingy in your assignation of blame, Harry. Save Dumbledore and me some, too."

"But I knew Voldemort was—I should've been more careful, like you keep telling me to!"

"That is a general rule of thumb. It doesn't apply here. You had no way of knowing—Harry! Listen to me. You had no way of knowing what was going to happen. You should not blame yourself for being kind."

Harry sniffled. Snape didn't like him using the edge of his sleeve as a tissue, but Harry didn't see what choice he had. He rubbed his nose, roughly. Then Snape gently took his arm away, and handed him a handkerchief—an actual, white handkerchief, with light stripes on it. He wiped his nose.

"I shouldn't be kind anymore," he said.

"Of course. The appropriate solution is to become cold and indifferent to people. Like me."

He glanced up. Snape was kneeling on the floor, and there was a teasing twist to his lips, albeit a subdued one. Harry realized abruptly that Snape did look rather awful. "Are you really okay?"

Snape frowned. Getting to his feet, he said, "Don't worry about it."

"You said I had to be kind."

Snape's back was to Harry. It rose and fell in an unbearably long sigh. "I can't take too many potions for the pain, that would negate the whole point of punishment."

Harry's breath left him in a gasp.

Snape leaned against his desk. "Breathe, silly child," he said dryly.

"Dear Merlin," he whispered. "Professor—"

"That reminds me, I didn't get to finish my apology."

Harry sat perfectly still. "Um, what?" he managed.

"I do not blame you, of course. I shall, I believe, have to say that whenever there is even a hint of accusation in my words. You tend to blame yourself far too much, has anyone told you that?" he asked conversationally, and then continued. "I apologize for my deplorable behaviour of the past year."

Harry couldn't believe this. Snape had just gone through Merlin only knew what at Voldemort's hand, and suddenly the most important topic of discussion was an apology? "No, you don't have to," he said firmly, sitting up. "It's fine."

"It's not fine, Harry, it's far from fine."

"You've just been tortured!" he nearly yelled, and his voice broke, but he barrelled on. "I think that makes up for anything you said or did—"

"On the contrary, it does not," he said, with a quiet ferocity that made him shut up instantly. "Sit down, and do not interrupt."

Harry sank back into his seat. He didn't recall getting to his feet.

Snape looked at him in silence a while longer, as if to make sure he really would sit put. "I do not like to speak of my past. At Hogwarts, or before, or after. The only one who knows the full truth about my life is Dumbledore, and I do not like even that, although I recognize it is necessary. Before I met you, before I had charge over your treatment, I did not care at all for the son of one of the people who had contributed to making my life miserable. When you were in my home, I believed for a long while that you would be just like your father—in all the wrong ways. You proved me wrong. That was surprising, and I could not believe it, but it was rather hard to ignore the truth when a child was crying about being the reason why his parents died.

"And then Black came along, and—I believed that he would—well." For the first time, Snape looked uncomfortable, which Harry would have been grateful for since he was growing increasingly uncomfortable since the start of the speech, except Snape's expression only made him feel even worse.

"I still like you," he offered. He remembered Hermione's words. "I like you a lot."

Snape frowned, a little. "I know; that is not the point. I made a mistake. That is, in the end, the point. The details do not matter."

Harry thought they did, rather, but he wasn't going anywhere near that. "Okay. It's fine, really," he said, comfortingly, with a comforting grin to go along with it.

The frown increased, which Harry thought was quite unfair of the man. "Do not say that again," he ordered, and Harry pursed up his lips obediently. "You are far too willing to please, Harry."

"Only with you," he quipped, before he thought better of it.

Snape had an arrested look on his face. His jaw slowly moved as he swallowed. For a minute, there was perfect silence, a silence in which Harry wondered if he'd blown it.

"I was friends with your mother," he said, and Harry just about stopped breathing. He'd stayed away from that topic the entire year; klaxons went off every time he even considered the idea of bringing it up. "She was the only friend I had, the only good one. And I hurt her, and she finally—she knew what I was becoming, and she didn't want to have anything to do with me. And then, she married the one person whom I hated above all else." Snape's gaze stayed level on him the entire time, which was bad, because Harry was sure he was sporting a very undignified gobsmacked look. "It was the simplest thing to decide that Potter was the source of all my troubles, for taking someone I cared about from me. It saved me the trouble of realizing how I was at fault. Last year with Black, I repeated that same mistake. I apologize."

His brain was being its usual unhelpful self. He'd just managed to form a full sentence—it wasn't 'it's okay' but it was remarkably like it—when Snape spoke again, in a tone so casual it was almost creepy.

"Now that that's settled, I believe you are still labouring under the delusion that you are to blame for the Dark Lord's return." The switch in topic was disorienting, and Harry needed a moment to come back to the first reason why he was here. "Let me reassure you, Harry: you are not one of the wizards who is acutely aware of the measures the Dark Lord had been taking in the past years to return to life, and you did not know what he was up to. As it turns out, neither did we, and our oversight is far more deplorable than yours."

His face looked quite sour—at himself, apparently—as he said it. "Well, but—well, Cedric—"

"Yes? What about him?"

He stared in silence at Snape's face, so calm, one raised in eyebrow, waiting in expectation. "You'd think me pathetic if you knew," he whispered.

"I assure you, I will not."

The quiet conviction nearly made him want to cry again. "Cedric was—I wanted to ask Cho Chang out to the Yule—you know, Chang, the Ravenclaw?" Snape nodded. "She went with Cedric instead, he'd asked her and she said yes, before I could cough up the courage, and when we were standing in the Maze, near the Cup, that was all I could think of. Cedric, being all Hufflepuff, refusing to take the Cup, being all noble, and winning, because he did get to the Cup before I did—"

"And if he did?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"If he wasn't noble, Harry. If he took the Cup, before you, and was teleported to that graveyard."

"He would've—" Harry couldn't bring himself to say died.

Snape nodded anyway. "Your interference did not cost him his life."

"But if I had been less noble, Voldemort wouldn't have come back!"

"I believe we've already covered that," Snape said with an arch of his eyebrow.

"Yes, but—"

"You are fourteen, Harry. You are not as old as I, and nowhere near Dumbledore. You do not, and I say this not in judgement, know a thing about the Dark Arts, or the Dark Lord. You are a student, your primary purpose here is education. The fate of the wizarding world does not rest on your shoulders alone; it is too hard a burden for any one person to bear, even Dumbledore himself."

"I know," he said, barely audibly. "I know all that. I'm a kid, I'm not even an adult, I can barely duel, I don't know a thing about anything. But I can't shake the feeling that if I'd done something differently, this wouldn't have happened."

"If we'd figured out Moody was an imposter, for instance. If we'd worked out what was wrong with Crouch. If we'd gotten to him before his son did. Would you have figured out he was an imposter? You've never met the man in your life. Dumbledore knows him well, more than anyone else, and he still didn't realize. The only thing you could have done differently, and it only barely qualifies, is if you insisted that he take the Cup. But he was equally insistent, and you would not have been able to convince him."

"I could have taken the Cup myself."

"You should not have to force yourself to be less good to other people to keep them safe. Besides which, you did not know."

Harry stared down at the floor. "I could have let them kill Wormtail."

"He would have found someone else."

Harry bit his lip, relief bubbling through him and nearly overwhelming him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Snape looked quietly mocking, but he nodded.

He took a calming breath, and pulled himself upright. "So—we're good then?"

The barest of smiles. "Yes."

Harry, at least, could smile widely. "Great. But um—look, I like Sirius too, okay?"

"I would expect nothing less."

He watched the man calculatingly. If he'd gotten this far, maybe a little further— "Could you try being a little nice to him?"

"I didn't hex him, did I?" he responded drily.

"Yeah, but that was because Dumbledore was present."

"I will not hex him."

"High standards you got."

"I will not raise my wand to him."

"Professor—"

"It will be Severus, now, always."

Harry stared again. There was the mildest trace of hesitation in Snape's eyes. "Okay—Severus. You have to aim higher than that."

"One step at a time, Harry. Change comes slowly."

His lips quirked upward, and Harry chuckled, even though it wasn't very funny. Okay, he supposed it was. "Especially for Slytherins," he said, and then immediately regretted it.

"Indeed," was Snape's reply.

Okay, so they were at that level of friendship. "And, Severus?"

"Yes."

He was nothing if not brave. "Will you—could you please tell me about my mother?"

With only a moment's hesitation, he said, again, "Yes."

We read about fictional wars and cry over fictional characters. There are real wars here and real tragedies.

Ah, this was supposed to be such a great moment, but the news and my annoying headache has rather put a damper on (what I believe to be) a great chapter.

I hope this brightens your day a little; it gives me great joy to hear reviews that talk about how a chapter brought some relief to them.

To those who were eagerly (and impatiently) awaiting a fitting conclusion to this year's conflict, I hope your desire has been satiated.

Thus concludes this year. Next week, the 6-pointers! OotP the great (both in size and potential for conflict)! Umbridge, you're next.