Author's note: Thanks so much, Miriam and Ally! *huggles*

Chapter 32: The Kin Slayer

"Facing this unbearable fear like meeting an old friend."
"Time to die, poor mates. You made me what I am!"

—Nightwish: The Kin Slayer

Now that Harry could see clearly again, it seemed he could also think more clearly than before again. All of a sudden, it came to him. He realized why Professor Ravon had thrown her wand away—for him! Although he could do wandless magic to a certain extent, under circumstances like these he had a hard time concentrating on what he wanted to happen. With a wand however…

He concentrated again. "Accio, wand!" he whispered almost inaudibly. It soared through the air and landed in his outstretched hand and, in a fluent motion, Harry immediately pointed the wand at the Dark Lord, who had started on another incantation, and yelled "Expelliarmus!" Voldemort had obviously not been prepared for this since he was totally taken by surprise. He didn't say anything; he seemed at a loss for words—in a state of shock and denial at what was happening as the wand that had killed Lily and James Potter flew towards the boy it couldn't kill almost seventeen years ago.

Harry, in turn, was taken by surprise at how well the wand worked—not without a twitch but nonetheless—being not his but Professor Ravon's…

Harry shifted his gaze to look at Professor Ravon. He saw her throw a small smile in his direction, apparently breathing a sigh of relief as she closed her eyes for a second or two. Then she took a deep breath as though she wanted to steel herself for something and looked at the Dark Lord again, starting to approach him slowly. And as slow and graceful as her movements were, Harry could not get rid of the little voice echoing in the back of his head that seemed to scream out at him, Danger! Fear me now! Run as long as you still can… She emanated an aura of power Harry had felt coming from Dumbledore several times, powerful magic—although at the moment, she couldn't use it—so powerful it must strike anyone facing her with fear… But Harry stayed there, knowing that this was not directed at him. He watched his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher intently.

Professor Ravon now stood still, only a few feet away from the Dark Lord, and looked at her father, slightly tilting her head to the side raising her eyebrows slightly.

"What's wrong, father?" she said in a voice that sounded incredibly sweet and seducing. Then the tone of her voice hardened; and she hissed, "Don't you want to kiss your loving daughter?"

The way she'd said the word more than implied what she was going to do. As soon as she'd finished the sentence she advanced on him, crossing the distance between them in an elegant motion, that seemed as though she had Disapparated and Apparated even closer to Voldemort again, grabbing his throat with one of her hands while she snaked her other hand to the back of his neck. The Dark Lord was struggling against her, trying to push her away—Harry could see the muscles in the Dark Lord's arms tense; he was very strong—but he had no chance against his creation. Harry realized how strong Voldemort had made her; in creating his most powerful ally, he'd created his most feared enemy. Death hidden in Beauty, not in the Beast. Voldemort opened his mouth to say something, to scream perhaps—he might even just have been gasping for air—Harry couldn't tell—but no sound came out of the Dark Lord's throat.

"Taste the death you devised for your enemies," Professor Ravon said harshly, raising herself onto the tips of her toes and bringing her mouth close to the Dark Lord's face. His red eyes widening in horror, he tried to struggle against the grip she had on his throat and neck, but she didn't budge a quarter of an inch; she had him in a death grip—literally.

Harry knew instinctively what she was going to do; only imagining it made him want to scream and run away. But he couldn't move; he could only stare at them; a part of him wanted to see this, and he did not avert his eyes as she covered Voldemort's mouth with hers.

At first, Harry thought that nothing happened. After a few seconds, however, he heard what he always heard when he got near a Dementor, the voices of his parents, but they were only very faint. And Harry didn't feel dizzy. Didn't it work? Couldn't she do it after all?

But there it came, barely audible at first, but growing louder steadily. A sound Harry knew from first-hand experience: the rattling breath of the Dementor. A few years ago he had been almost as close to the Dementor's Kiss as Voldemort was now, but Harry had survived with a little help from his a few hours future self. He remembered it clearly. The Dark Lord, however, would not be saved; Harry knew this as well as his name and date of birth.

Horrible, sucking noises could be heard now; they sounded as though someone couldn't breathe properly, almost as though a person fearing to drown gasped for air; but after a short time the sounds Harry could hear weren't those characteristic short gasps anymore. They were long, as though someone were inhaling deeply, the rattling sounds accompanying them.

To Harry it seemed that Voldemort tried to scream as her hands left his throat and neck—only to clasp themselves to his face as if of their own accord, her fingernails digging deep into the greyish skin, drawing blood, black blood. The Dark Lord's yells were muffled by her mouth covering his.

It was an appalling yet fascinating sight. A sight of horrible beauty. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion…

~*~*~

Forlornly, Severus watched her walk towards the doors, heard her hiss something, most likely to the snakes, telling them to open up. His hair stood on end when she did that. The sound of Parseltongue made him shudder, no matter who spoke it. And the snakes drew back and allowed the door to open. Sariss transformed into the black bird Severus had already seen once—and he suddenly realized that she was by no means a raven; she was a crow, the bird that supposedly guided the souls of the dead into the after-world…

He followed her as far as he could without being seen. Sariss spread her arms in a very quick and abrupt motion and the present Death Eaters, who Severus knew were Amanita and Armand Lestrange, Nott, Avery—and the two Malfoys—were thrown backwards into the wall or against the snake-shaped pillars.

The Potions master felt a twinge of pity at the sight of Draco Malfoy; a boy who had had so much potential, yet had followed in his father's footsteps just like he himself had done once; but he'd known when to stand against the beliefs—no, fanaticism—of his family; there had come a point when it had been enough, when he couldn't do as was expected any longer.

Till this day he could not tell at which occasion exactly it had happened—perhaps it had accumulated over the years, a bit more every time he committed a crime that he'd now rather make undone—reaching its height when Lily chose James Potter over him. Maybe that was so, maybe not. Fact was that, at some point, he had realized that it was not a game.

All of a sudden, it had been there—a feeling of guilt and hatred, for once not directed at the world outside but at himself, at what he had become…

Severus still didn't know for sure what had been the trigger. And now it didn't matter anymore.

However, he doubted Draco would ever find a way back out of Darkness; it was in his blood; the Malfoy blood had harboured Evil for centuries. Hungry for wealth and power the Malfoys had always had a tendency towards the Dark Arts…

And now it was too late for him anyway.

As soon as Sariss had slammed the Death Eaters into the walls, knocking them out quite indubitably, Severus had started to inch closer, creeping from one pillar to hide behind the next—watching closely what happened, what she was doing. She was radiating power now. He could feel it, almost see it, almost touch it. The air was thick with magic—although Voldemort had used the spell again. The spell that made her incapable of performing magic. He threatened her; she didn't answer to his taunts; she only stood there for a couple of moments.

A part of him knew what she'd do; the other part was in denial. He didn't want her to do this. He had told her that she was most likely digging her own grave by doing this. And he'd also told her that he didn't want to lose her. He still didn't.

But it was also perfectly clear to him that she knew all of this pretty well herself. The way she'd kissed him before she'd opened the giant stone doors would have confirmed it if he hadn't known already. Her kiss had been so full of emotions—love, passion, longing, pain, desperation, fear—and the knowledge that she was most likely going to die tonight. He would never forget it. Another memory to haunt him. Every night after tonight, in his dreams, she would kiss him like that and then go and die. The image was too real, all too lively… Severus tried to shake those thoughts off.

Instead, he tried to focus on what was happening.

He watched her walk towards Voldemort. The Potter boy summoned a wand from somewhere and disarmed the Dark Lord—whom Severus couldn't see as Sariss was standing in his line of sight—his wand soaring towards the boy's outstretched hand just as the wand's owner had started on an incantation that would have inflicted excruciating pain on Sariss as it had already happened once. (Severus still shuddered at the thought of it.) The boy caught Voldemort's wand deftly; then he didn't move anymore, he stood completely frozen, a look of terror on his face.

Severus heard a whisper. He assumed Sariss had said something to her father. A last farewell, perhaps. And then he heard it. He'd never have thought it would sound this horrible. He suddenly knew what kind of nightmares Sirius Black's dreams must consist of: the rattling breath of the Dementor and the sucking sounds of its Kiss…

Yet, this was no Dementor. This was Sariss. His Sariss. The woman he had held, kissed, made love to. The woman he'd held in his arms as she'd buried her face in his robes, crying as though there was no tomorrow; kissing him likewise. Who would have guessed from throwing a single glance at her that behind all this superficial reserve and diffidence was such a lonely soul, so desperately in need of someone to hold on to. They were so much alike…

Severus stepped closer. Now he could see clearly, what she was doing. She had her mouth clasped over the mouth of her father who was trying to struggle valiantly but couldn't get out of the death grip she had on his face, digging her sharp fingernails deep into his flesh, drawing blood that ran over her white skin in thin black rivulets. A deadly embrace… And that when to Severus her embraces were like life made solid, tangible.

He must have realized by now that he made her too strong. He could never have controlled her—even if she had decided to join him, to give in to Darkness, Snape thought. She's lethal.

And being captured and tortured by Voldemort, her father, had given her more than a good reason to not just hate him but to devise a plan to kill him exactly the way he had intended to use her to kill his enemies. Voldemort had set the foundations that would lead to his ultimate downfall when he had tortured her. People who got hurt are dangerous. They know they can survive…

Another one of those sucking intakes of breath. Severus shuddered involuntarily. He couldn't look away, couldn't move; he was enthralled by the sight of the Angel of Death. Or Justice. Or Revenge—it didn't really matter what it was—since the horrible sight he beheld was one of the beauty of destruction; a horrible beauty that was nonetheless breathtaking. Only the sound of the Dark Lord's soul being sucked out was disgusting. Now it sounded as though the Dark Lord wanted to suck it back into himself, but those were only the noises of someone in desperate need of air.

The Dark Lord stopped struggling. His slitted red eyes flickered and became blank and dull as though a candle were blown out. Sariss let go of him, stumbled a few steps backwards, then dropped to the floor almost without a sound, little tremors running through her body.

At that moment, Severus's instincts took over completely. A promise had to be fulfilled. He brandished his wand and aimed a curse at the shell that had once been the most feared Dark wizard of modern times—the Embodiment of soulless Evil. "Avada Kedavra!" he called out, putting all his pain and hatred into those two simple words, willing the curse to hit forcefully and hard, willing it to destroy the thing that was left of the most feared wizard of the century—and in that very instant, Severus knew he would never use this curse again. He vowed to never use it again, for Sariss's sake, as a tribute to her sacrifice, to their love.

The all-too-familiar flash of bright green light was hurtling towards Voldemort, hitting him straight into the chest. A hissing sound escaped the empty shell's mouth and it fell to the ground with a dull thudding noise, right next to Sariss, its blood leaving little black stains as a few droplets fell to the grey stone floor. This time both the Dark Lord's body and soul would be gone.

Reality kicked back in. Severus was shocked at what he'd just done. He had thought he'd never do this again—but had he really thought a few seconds ago? Not really, he had to admit. In a way, he'd just acted on an impulse; it had been an emotional choice, something he normally tried to avoid at all costs. Well, at least he used to. And thus he had done exactly what Sariss had asked him to do not even a quarter of an hour before that. All of a sudden, it seemed so long ago…

Harry Potter had run towards Sariss as soon as Voldemort had dropped to the ground and had almost managed to catch her before she fell. Almost. The boy had pulled her into his lap and was now speaking to her so softly that Severus could only make out a murmur echoing from the walls within the chamber, but his face looked frantic as far as the Potions master could see from where he stood, still frozen.

Sariss weakly lifted her hand and touched the boy's forehead for a moment before losing consciousness (Severus could only hope it was that way), her arm hitting the ground soundlessly. Potter winced and rubbed his scar for a second.

He was checking her pulse the moment Severus finally found the control over his body again and rushed to his and Sariss's side.

"You alright, Harry?" Snape croaked, lowering himself to the floor next to them.

~*~*~

"Professor, don't. Please," Harry whispered. Ravon was trembling as though she had a fit or something like that. Her eyelids were fluttering. "Everything's going to be fine, do you understand?"

"Well done," she forced out after a second's hesitation, slowly opening her emerald green eyes. They seemed to glow; so white was Professor Ravon's face. She lifted her hand to Harry's forehead, reaching for his scar. When her palm—the scar on her palm…—met his scar; it felt as though a pressure he hadn't even been aware of were taken from him, ripped out of him, but not by force. It felt as though something left him out of its own volition, as though it returned to its rightful owner… A very strange feeling, similar to the feeling he got when he touched a Portkey, but this time it hadn't tugged behind his navel; her scar had kind of tugged on his scar, faintly but clearly recognizable.

It didn't hurt; it merely twitched really badly. Harry winced a bit and rubbed over it as soon as Professor Ravon's hand had dropped again.

Dropped?

"Professor?" Harry asked softly, brushing her hair aside so he could check her pulse, pressing two fingers against the bluish vein on her throat. Her heart was still beating, although she hardly seemed to breathe. But she was. Her breath stirred a few rebel hairs of hers.

Approaching footsteps and a rustle of robes indicated that Snape was rushing towards them.

"You alright, Harry?" Harry heard him say.

Harry nodded, still rubbing his scar. It was still itching really badly ever since Professor Ravon had touched his forehead there.

Her scar touched mine. What did it do?

However, Harry forgot the prickling immediately as soon as his brain had processed the information that Snape had just called him 'Harry.' Something he'd never done before.

He's getting soft, Harry thought for a moment. But then the thought crept into his mind what he would do if this were Ginny lying here, in the Chamber, once again, seemingly dead or very close to being it—and Harry realized that he actually felt for Snape… And I'm getting soft, too.

As Snape took Professor Ravon from him so very gently as though he would break her and was gathering her ghastly pale unconscious form in his lap to check her pulse for himself and determine if she still breathed, if she was alive at all, Harry was almost shocked at the multitude of different emotions he saw flicker about Severus Snape's face in quick succession. He wouldn't have thought it possible a few weeks ago—not even a few hours ago—that Snape was capable of so much more than sneering and glaring at the world around him. Yet here he was; acting so unlike the Snape Harry knew, that he idly wondered what had happened to the real Professor Snape, Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Professor Ravon has happened to him, Harry guessed, being in fact sure that this was far more than just a guess.

Snape smoothed Professor Ravon's hair out of her face. She didn't look very much alive to Harry and she had been so very cold when Harry had touched her a minute or so ago. Not that that would have been an indication as to whether she lived or was already dead in the case of Sariss Ravon. She'd always been cold. Harry could only hope that this was not a sign that she would…

No, he wouldn't think about this now. Think practical. If Snape can't, you must, Harry told himself.

"We need to make sure the Death Eaters won't escape while we go get help," Harry said.

Snape looked up at him. No sneer, no snide remark, only, "Right, take their wands," he said. "And make sure they can't escape. The spell is 'Consopio in lethargum.' Very simple, actually. It'll render them more helpless than the Stunning Spell…" he trailed off, returning his gaze and concentration to Professor Ravon who had started twitching, her breath coming in shallow wheezes.

"Don't die on me. Don't you dare."

A greenish mist started emanating from between her slightly parted bloodless lips and nose at every breath she took and exhaled. It was disgusting to look at but it was completely without any smell as though it were an illusion.

Its colour was slowly growing darker, dirtier. It was now like some sort of a greyish-green smoke…

Well, at least she's alive.

As Harry hurried to send the Death Eaters into a very, very deep sleep, he noticed that he still had Professor Ravon's wand. He pocketed it safely inside his torn and bloody robes. Then he took care of the Death Eaters, starting with Draco Malfoy and his father…

Looks like payday today. You, too, will get what you deserve…

Harry suddenly realized that it was not his wand he'd just used but Voldemort's. Yet, it felt so much like his own wand that the spells worked without a twitch or any effort. It was as though he had his own wand.

They were brothers, after all, he thought. And it is not the wand that is evil; it is the wizard that uses it for evil. So why not use it for something just?

Harry tried not to look at Voldemort's body as he rushed past it to the other side of the chamber and sent the other still unconscious forms into a state of blessed oblivion—at least for the time being.

Then he turned and looked at the two Professors again. Snape had gathered Ravon up into his arms, where she lay limply, but unmistakably alive, as every breath she took was clearly visible.

~*~*~

"…'Consopio in lethargum.' Very simple, actually. It'll render them more helpless than the Stunning Spell…" he trailed off, his concentration drawn back to the unconscious form in his lap. Sariss had stirred; she was convulsing now, her eyelids fluttering again, her breath coming in painfully small laboured gasps and moans, a grey-green smoke emanating from her every time she exhaled.

"Don't die on me. Don't you dare."

At least that way I can tell that she's still alive…

"Fight, Sariss, don't leave me," Severus whispered as he carefully picked her up and cradled her in his arms, trying not to let her head fall back. Strange how even now the thought appeared in his mind that she'd get a hell of a headache when she woke up if her head were to fall back now.

A headache will be the smallest one of her problems—if she wakes up at all…

The Potter boy had taken care of the Death Eaters. Very good, Severus registered absent-mindedly as he nodded at him and made his way out of the chamber; the boy followed at his heels; Sariss choked and moaned again, her body twitching, but other than that there were no signs of her waking up or being alive.

In silence they walked through the tunnel, past the cave-in, past the shed Basilisk skin, over the cracking animal bones, until they arrived at the entrance of the pipe that led up to the second floor bathroom.

Sariss had stopped convulsing, she was perfectly still now (a fact that made it much easier a task for Severus to carry her); only the greenish mist indicated that she was alive at all.

"How are we going to get up there?" asked Harry.

"I thought you've been here before."

"Well, I have. But it was Fawkes, you know—Dumbledore's pet phoenix—who pulled us up the pipe…"

"Perfect. Just perfect!" Snape muttered and laid Sariss gently to the floor, pressing two fingers to her throat to check her pulse once again. It was racing now. He could almost see her distinctly visible rope-like blue veins rock with every heartbeat that forced blood through them. Never before had she looked more like a porcelain doll as she did now…

Severus drew her back into the position that made it easiest for him to lift her up—

What now? Calling Fawkes is not an option. Too small a bird. Burning day.

Apparation isn't an option either. You can't Apparate or Disapparate—

"The Portkey…" he whispered and began searching his robes. He had never stopped carrying it with him because it had been almost a part of him for such long a time. 'When discovered, use the Portkey. Don't ever forget to take it with you. Not just your life could depend on it one day.' Those had been exactly Dumbledore's words—and they had already proved true once—and now…

Snape found the Portkey; it was wrapped in the usual handkerchief-sized piece of dark-green velvet. He set it on the floor and turned to Harry. "Since you have already travelled by Portkey, I see no reason for further delay."

Severus took a firm hold on Sariss and nodded to Harry whose hand already hovered in close proximity of the small orb.

"Now," he said and touched the Portkey.

~*~*~

Harry was impressed how smoothly Snape managed to steer around a mention of Cedric Diggory and what had happened at the Triwizard Tournament. Could it be—despite everything—that Snape was actually being empathic? Compassionate? That this was what Professor Ravon must have seen in him so she could… love him? The word still sounded awkward when mentioned in the same sentence with 'Snape'…

Or was he just being practical?

Harry had already lowered himself to the floor, ready to touch the Portkey, his finger hovering only inches away from it. Snape gathered Professor Ravon's unconscious form in his lap and mimicked Harry's gesture. He looked up and said, "Now!"

Harry felt the familiar tug behind his navel and was drawn through space. Everything around him was blurry; blotches of different colours were swirling past him. And then he found himself on the floor of the infirmary.

Snape picked Ravon up again and carried her towards a bed, gently laying her down. "Madam Pomfrey!" he yelled. "Madam Pomfrey, we need some help here!"

Harry walked over to them and took a close look. Professor Ravon's breathing was shallow; she was still exhaling this smoky mist, now much more clearly visible than down in the tunnel. The mist hovered for a second or two before it dissolved without a trace. It was now far more greyish than greenish, actually there was hardly anything left that could remotely be called green.

Madam Pomfrey rushed into the room, her expression indicating that she almost had a heart attack when her eyes fell onto Snape and Ravon.

"Déjà-vu," she whispered, bustling to Professor Ravon's side and starting to examine her. "What's happened this time?"

"You know what she is, don't you?"

Madam Pomfrey's gaze flickered over to Harry and looked him up and down for a second. He nodded to indicate that he was—considering what had happened—quite all right. "Yes, of course…" the nurse said. "You mean, she—"

"Yes, she sucked his soul out," Snape said it frankly. No use to describe it carefully steering around such unpleasant formulations. Harry, too, couldn't bear to hear any euphemisms now, not when everybody—including himself—clearly saw the graveness of the situation. "My guess is that this is what causes this… this dirty-green colour of her breath."

Madam Pomfrey agreed, checking Ravon's pulse just like Snape had done earlier.

"Severus, get the headmaster! You should be able to find him on top of the Astronomy tower; he's still surveying the attack on the wards."

Snape nodded, smoothing Ravon's hair back and touching her cheek with his fingertips before rushing through the doorway and out of sight.

"Goodness, Potter!" she exclaimed. "Don't just stand there. You had better lie down, too. Don't get me wrong but you'll just have to wait until I've taken care of her. She's obviously got the worse end of the bargain."

"How is she, Madam Pomfrey?" Harry said softly. He didn't dare to raise his voice any more than barely above a whisper.

"Honestly, Potter, I can't tell yet. From the outside, she looks a bit pale but otherwise fine. What worries me is this Dementor business," Madam Pomfrey replied. "What was the girl thinking?" she muttered to herself.

Harry carefully set Professor Ravon's wand on the bedside table. "She saved my life, Madam Pomfrey," he said hoarsely. For the second time.

"Lay down, boy, there's nothing you can do. You're not well yourself. Once the adrenaline wears off you'll feel how exhausted you are. Just look at yourself. The only person I've ever seen being worse off than you are now is Sariss here, but you know that already," she said, bustling here and there, getting bowls and bottles and phials of every shape and colour. "Now if you'd stand back and rest, please?" she added, summoning some screens to shield the Professor's bed from view.

Harry didn't answer but did as she had requested. And sure enough, as he climbed into the bed, not drawing the covers over himself, rested his head on a very plushy pillow and stared at the ceiling, he began to realize that his whole body, that he had thought felt perfectly normal, had in fact been numb from the pain and shock. Now it started tingling and stinging. He tried not to think about it. A little pain wasn't important when only a few yards away from him a fight against death was being fought…

~*~*~

Severus came rushing through the doorway that opened towards the staircase that led down from the Astronomy Tower, his robes billowing, his hair flying, an expression of pure unadulterated panic on his face.

"Headmaster," he gasped, out of breath, "you must come with me. Quick. I'll explain on the way."

"Severus, the attack—." Dumbledore indicated the Dark Lord's army that was clearly visible through the Binocular charm he had cast on two sides of the tower. "Ah! There comes Hagrid with the giants…"

"It's not important anymore. He's dead and she's probably on the verge of following him." Severus's voice was full of panic; Dumbledore had never seen him in such a state—and he had seen him in quite a few different states of distress already. Thus, he hurried alongside him after he had extricated his sleeve from Severus's grasp.

"She did what you wanted her to do, right? You knew that this goddamned prophecy was referring exactly to her… condition, didn't you?" the Potions master asked, although it was not really a question, a furious yet worried tone underlying his words.

"Severus, I…" Dumbledore began, having to jog lightly because the Potions master, frantic as he was, was walking too fast for him to keep up normally. "Yes." He couldn't deny that he had known that this was exactly what had had to be done; and she had done it. Without him prompting her to do it even. She had known it herself. He had hoped she would make the prophecy come true, but didn't want to endanger her life—when he didn't know the outcome. He had even begged her not to do it. He could still hear her answer when they had spoken about it—no, not directly, as neither one of them had spoken out loud what had been on their minds.

There are some things even love can't change.

Those had been her words—or something similar, although Dumbledore was quite sure that those were precisely the words she'd said.

"Yes, I knew it," he admitted. "Once the riddles about her were solved I gradually realized the meaning of all of this, the full extent of what this could mean for us."

"You used her." Severus sounded bitter and disappointed.

"I wouldn't put it this way, Severus. In a way…" Dumbledore admitted. "But you must keep in mind that I never asked her to do this."

"Is she dying?"

"I don't know. If I remember correctly, the prophecy said, 'Death shan't be conquered, past Evil shall be made undone.' We can only hope the first part of this refers to Voldemort only."

"Then what is this 'past Evil'?"

"That, I do not know. However, to me it seems that it means that something good is going to happen. It sounds rather positive, don't you think?" I so wish it was meant this way.

Severus shook his head. "At the moment I can't seem to think at all. This has been simply too much. I only wish I'd wake up any moment…"

"Where is he, Severus?"

"Can't you guess? The Chamber." He didn't have to explain which chamber. It was fairly obvious.

Dumbledore merely nodded, although the Potions master wasn't looking at him.

They had reached the infirmary by now. The door was slightly ajar. Severus must have forgotten to close it properly. And from inside, one could hear the unmistakable sounds of a struggle…

Dumbledore exchanged a look with Severus who all but threw the door open and rushed inside, as it had become a habit of his when entering a classroom. Yet, this time, it was not for show or attention, this time it was simply because it was the fastest way to get to the person who needed him most now—and whom he needed more than anything in the world. The headmaster knew this. Severus had changed so much for the better during the last few months… It had been right to encourage him, to gently push him towards Sariss—and her towards him.

The night the Potters died, he had encountered the grown-up Sariss and had known that she was exactly what the bitter and apparently cold Potions master needed to live again, and he had done his best to take care of Severus as well as the little girl to make the future happen as it had obviously been intended to be. He had succeeded, at least to the point they were now at.

What would he do if Sariss were to die now? What would become of Severus who had begun to draw hope and life and love from her, being happy for the sole reason that she had stopped pushing him away and instead had revealed her innermost self to him? She must have done this, Dumbledore was sure about that. She'd let the mask of calm that she always wore slip. No one could be living like that forever, appearing to be logical and quiet and even happy sometimes, when she clearly wasn't. Dumbledore had seen her at her worst, years ago. And apparently, so had Severus only most recently. She must have let the mask slip… If she hadn't, Severus wouldn't have been so gentle and careful with her.

To a certain amount, the kidnapping and torture would have made him treat her with care and gentleness, but not to such a great extent. Severus hadn't only experienced her physical vulnerability that she'd always tried to hide; he had also seen her mental and emotional instability, the need to hold on to someone—something else she'd always tried not to—especially when she'd started on preparing for the final battle.

She had made her days almost twice as long as they were, hardly sleeping, wasting no precious time. She'd spent very much time with Severus; she'd also prepared her lessons whenever Dumbledore had entered her office for a little chat or headmaster business. She had been living two—no, actually three days in one recently… One for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one for Severus, one for her revenge on the Dark Lord…

Had she sensed that it would be so soon? And that when she'd never believed in Divination.

But she mustn't die. Dumbledore loved her. Severus needed her desperately, with all his being. It seemed that she alone made his heart beat.

Not even the smallest gestures had escaped the old headmaster, a look, a touch in passing, seemingly accidental, a word, a gesture, meaningless to anyone who didn't know what it really meant, who didn't pay attention… A way of communication only lovers could create and understand.

If she were to die now, Severus would blame himself because he hadn't stopped her; but he'd also blame Dumbledore for her death; he had already implied this by accusing him of using her—and, gods help him, Dumbledore had used her—with the best of intentions—and she had willingly sacrificed herself without him prompting her to do it.

Or perhaps not that willingly after all… Prophecies tended to be self-fulfilling. It had been her destiny.

Revenge. Revenge had been the air she breathed. It kept her alive. Now that she'd fulfilled her destiny…

What if now it was her destiny to die, to become a martyr?

The Heiress of Slytherin (and Ravenclaw); dying as she saved the Heir of Gryffindor… What an irony that would be…

~*~*~

The first thing, Severus perceived on entering, were Madam Pomfrey's frantic attempts at restraining a struggling and thrashing Sariss. Harry Potter, who was also in a state far from healthy, bravely tried to assist her.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, inclining his head towards the screens behind which one could see the silhouettes of the present people.

Severus pushed the screens aside and took hold of one of Sariss's arms, trying to push her into the pillows as gently yet firmly as he could. "What's going on?" he asked, fighting back tears of panic as he looked at her ashen face, her parchment-dry, equally ashen lips, the veins—in all shades of blue and violet—clearly visible through the skin of her face and throat. Translucent. Like a ghost. He thought he could see right through her, right into the core of her soul, if only he strained his eyes hard enough…

"I have no idea. She's fighting. I tried to give her a Calming Potion to let her sleep peacefully—I don't know what else to do—and when I tried to pour it into her mouth this happened. She refuses to open her mouth, to even let it come near her lips. I don't know why. I don't even know if she knows what she's doing." Her voice was full of panic as were her eyes as she looked up to face the headmaster. "I'm completely at a loss, Albus," she sighed, desperate, defeated, as she—now that her hands were free at last—cast a spell that caused bonds to wrap around Sariss's ankles and wrists to keep her from struggling. "There's nothing I can do. I decided not to try and give her another potion as long as she is in this state of whatever evil she's fighting now. If anything changes, I'll try again—not that it would change anything… Perhaps some undiluted Phoenix tears…"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid this won't be possible. Fawkes has had his burning day the day before yesterday. He's no more than a fledgling. Hardly powerful enough to cry nearly as many tears as we would need to even see something happen—if it would help at all… she's not wounded, not physically… But I'll call him. Perhaps his song will strengthen her…"

He did so and a very small Fawkes appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The bird already had its red and golden tail feathers, yet they were very short still. The rest of his feathers were grey except for the tips of his wings, which were of a coppery red. He settled on the foot end of the bed and started to sing very softly. A soft and mournful tune, that tore at Severus's heart.

"Now we can only wait and hope," Dumbledore whispered and comfortingly laid a hand on the Potions master's shoulder. It didn't serve its purpose very well. He was beyond consolation. He had already passed into a state that could very well be compared to the one you pass into when your loved one has already passed on. It was impossible to even dare hope she'd survive. Things like this simply didn't happen when they concerned Severus Snape.

He should have known. Right from the beginning, he should have known that she was too good to be true, that whatever there would be between them, whatever he would have with her… It would end up in tears.

Past Evil shall be made undone. How pathetic. Why make past Evil undone? What about the present Evil? The Evil that threatened to take her away from him forever, leaving him behind with a part of his soul, that she had revived in him missing, and then, when the soul had almost been whole again, it would be ripped out of him again. She'd take it with her and it wasn't even necessary that she Kiss him for it. It would follow her. Gladly. Because she was his soul, his heart, his life, his very essence of being. She defined who he was. He wouldn't be able to go on without her…

Had anybody told him a year or so ago that those thoughts—and in such intensity—would roam through his mind one day, he would have sneered at the respective person and snapped at him or her to shut up with all this nonsense. A life simply didn't depend on another person's love; it was downright impossible, idealistic, sappy, head-in-the-clouds, romantic nonsense—or so he had thought once…

But then she had come and turned his world upside down even though it had clearly been the last thing she'd intended to do. The untamed shrew had become his little wench, his nymph, the air that he breathed.

If he lost her, he'd lose himself with her, he was sure about this. Strange how a life without her seemed unthinkable now… She must not die. He wouldn't allow it. If any Gods existed somewhere or another similar Divine Power called Fate or Destiny, they simply had to interfere to not let this happen.

The alternative is unthinkable.

Severus felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he chanced looks at the assembled people. All of them wore similar expressions of worry and sadness. Madam Pomfrey had tears in her eyes just like Dumbledore. Harry Potter had averted his face, his messy, untidy hair obscuring his eyes. The boy must be crying, too. Well, he was hardly a boy anymore. When Severus had been his age, he'd already lost himself in Darkness—and the light that had been shining brightest for him was now dreading to cease and die, never to be lighted again…

Severus felt another tear slither down his face, as he looked at Sariss again. She had stopped struggling, her wrist and ankles now lay limply in the glowing magical bonds. She didn't even move. Only her chest heaved almost imperceptibly…

However, his sigh of relief stuck in his throat as another shudder raced through her body all of a sudden, without warning, the bonds were barely restraining her…

He didn't even bother to wipe away his tears anymore. It didn't matter who saw them. He was beyond caring about trivialities such as his pride or the illusion of dignity. There was nothing to be gained by appearing cool, calm and collected when in fact he wasn't. Nothing mattered anymore but one thing. And once again the one thing, the one person, Sariss, was lying in a hospital bed, this time restrained by magical bonds so as not to thrash about too wildly, her body writhing and convulsing as she fought against something none of the people who were present could even fathom.

Severus tried to push her shoulders into the pillows, quite in vain.

"Come with me, Mr Potter. You need to be attended to now. There's nothing we can do here for the time being," Severus heard Madam Pomfrey say, as he dropped into a chair Dumbledore must have Summoned near, rested his elbows on the mattress and buried his face in his hands.

For the first time in perhaps decades, Severus Snape wept.

Bitterly. Soundlessly.

Desperate.

Dumbledore patted Severus's shoulder once again before retreating steps and the click of a shutting door indicated that he had left. After all, they were still under attack—and Severus didn't even care.

Let them come.

He rested his head on his arms, one of his hands frantically clutching one of Sariss's shuddering and tense ones.

After a while, physically and mentally exhausted, he had cried himself to a deep, dark, thankfully dreamless, sleep…

Next chapter:

Harry's sorry for Snape and worried about Sariss. Severus refuses to leave her side, finds a note and refuses to lose hope. Harry is part of a little assembly in Dumbledore's office. Aurors, Fudge, Sirius and the exam results.