A/N: Naturally the conversation between Dumbledore and Snape is very recognizable from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, but disclaimer disclaimer yada yada. If it is not 100% perfect that is because I did not use the book at all, just my brain. Sorry.

IX. Death and Dumbledore

He was afraid, when he woke, that he had been left all alone to drown in the hollow emptiness and the sorrow of what he had seen; but Snape must have known what that was like, because he hadn't left. The sun had set, and he was, in fact, as dead asleep as Harry had been. Harry chuckled at the sight but did not move for fear of waking his Professor. But he need not have worried- his rumbling stomach was the culprit.

"You must be hungry," Snape observed, looking at Harry, who thought he saw a smile behind the black eyes for the first time. Harry nodded, so to the kitchen they went, gloomy as it was, and it wasn't long before something smelling delicious was simmering on the stove. Cooking must not be all that different from potions, Harry mused, so of course Snape would be good at it. They ate under the light of a single electric lamp, as naturally as if they had always done it. But the dimness did not stop an observant Potions Master from catching a glimpse of a certain scar on Harry Potter's right hand.

"What happened?" THey boy gasped as he laid down his spoon and looked at the injured spot, which did not help Snape's impatience. "There is Veritaserum in this house, so we can do it the easy way or the hard way." Harry sighed. "We are not at Hogwarts, it is not illegal…" Snape went on. You would use it anyway, Harry thought grumpily, before he grudgingly gave it up.

"It was Umbridge. During those detentions she could be quite… nasty." But of course that wasn't any explanation at all.

"Nasty," Snape repeated. "I made you clean toad guts off my floor and scrape off dirty first-year cauldrons. I knew she was unpopular-" That pause again. "But I had no idea she had me beat. What exactly did she have you do that was so… nasty?"

Harry suddenly became engrossed in his soup, realizing he had totally missed his Professor's dry sense of humor amidst the insults. "Lines," he mumbled. Nope, not good enough either.

"You wrote lines." The incredulity in Snape's voice was enough, it always was.

"WIth a blood quill. Whatever I wrote became etched in my skin," Harry continued. He sighed again as his teacher gestured across the table for his hand so he could inspect it. It had faded, over the last couple of months, but was still irritatingly red. And the words were still blatantly visible, as if they were being deliberate. "I must not tell lies," Snape recited. Harry braced himself for the lecture, for the you-are-such- a dunderhead-why-can't-you-stay-out-of-detention-what-lies-why-could-you-

not-keep-your-trap-shut-in- Umbridge's class?

But the man continued to surprise him after last night. It was just, "You weren't lying, were you?"

He shook his head slowly. "Voldemort really was back. She said Cedric's death was a tragic accident."

"And, naturally, you got defensive," Snape supplied. "She was rather vile. I can't say I don't understand, but you still should have told someone."

Harry grinned, never having had such a conversation with this intimidating man. Not even Sirius would have reacted without scolding. "What, and give her the satisfaction?" Harry protested.

"I get it. Nevertheless you inaction allowed her cruel inflictions to continue. Did you try Essence of Murtlap?" He was right, of course. As always. The teenager nodded. "Granger," Snape said knowingly. "How did you get them to stay quiet?"

"They respected my wishes," came the plain reply. He began stirring his soup around again, then looked up at his teacher. "You gave her fake Veritaserum, didn't you? So I didn't drink any…"

"Wouldn't do any good to have you spilling all the Order's secrets and giving away Black's location, would it? As if Umbridge weren't suspicious enough."

Harry vividly recalled pouring out the tea, but not after being forced some- just before she had asked about Sirius. "Fool woman used up everything I gave her. I told her three drops," Snape ranted.

"That worked to our advantage," Harry reminded him.

"Whatever did you do to her, anyway?" Snape asked. "I am curious."

"The Centaurs ran her off." This time Harry knew he wasn't imagining things when the corners of Snape's lips turned up in a smile. SHe had gotten what she deserved. But both were shaken from the bleariness by a heavy pounding on the door, and Harry followed to put Mrs. Black's tirade to an end. "MUDBLOODS AND BLOOD TRAITORS, THE SHAME YOU BRING!" But her words went right over Harry's head. There stood-

"Professor McGonagall!" And she was supporting a limp (but conscious) Dumbledore, who was mumbling; and his hands and neck, and even his ears, were coal black, as if they had been burned. Harry gasped loudly.

"We tried to take him to the Hospital Wing when he returned but he insisted forcefully that he needed you, Severus!" There had never been such panic in her voice in all the years Harry had known her. What had happened? But Snape, never one to ask idle questions, knew just what to do. He helped lead Dumbledore to the living room couch and set him down. A concerned sixteen year old followed, curious. "It had something to do with this, Severus. This ring." She dropped it into Snape's hand. It was gold, but appeared to be- broken, almost blackened, destroyed totally. Snape clutched it tightly; he knew exactly what it was. Before he could speak, however, or do anything, Minerva went on. "He practically begged me to take him to you, I didn't want to, but he didn't hear anything else. He said you were the only one who could help, that you would know what to do-"

She was gulping the words, frightened, gloved hands flying to her mouth at the sight of the Headmaster. But Snape was already standing over Dumbledore and muttering what Harry could only assume were healing incantations, pressing his wand directly to the afflicted areas rather than waving it aimlessly. It was horrific to watch. While the battered patches did, in fact, return to that familiar aged skin color, pale and faded, his left hand did not- in fact, it only seemed to get worse. It got darker and darker and was close to throbbing. And then, as Snape's voice got lower and lower and he seemed to be uttering the spell faster and with greater urgency, Harry figured out what he was doing. It took twenty minutes, thirty, and he and McGonagall were frozen in space, glued to the floor, unable to do anything, mesmerized.

Finally, finally, at last, Snape seemed to be able to tear himself away, only then, and look at both of them with that air of importance. "My makeshift lab in the basement, Potter. Get me the roots, and two types of herbs. I will need the furtlap and blood stabilizing potion from my stores at Hogwarts and extra supplies, Minerva, as much as you can grab. I have healing potion here, but it won't do much. Anesthetic is useless-" Neither waited to hear more; Harry was already halfway downstairs and so did not see McGonagall Disapparate.

Roots, roots, and herbs. They weren't hard to find, but were brittle and fragile. He almost broke them in haste. Upstairs he was greeted with a sharp, "Boil them!" and so he set the water on and returned. Snape was fussing over the Headmaster, patting his cheeks, checking pulse and heartbeat, and even fever. He was frantic. "Start on a pain potion, fast." The cauldron was on the table instantly and in seconds Harry felt Snape working beside him. He was mincing greens without second thought, not processing that he had done it so many times in class he had it memorized. Then something else came to mind.

"A Bezoar? Could-" "It is not poison. Keep it even." Harry tried to reign in his focus, but it was hard. THe liquid was bubbling in the cauldron, close to exploding (he knew from experience) but Snape was too quick, adding something to counteract it. Then he quickly took the completely herbs from Harry and dumped them in. "Stir," Snape commanded, moving into the kitchen to put the roots in- just as McGonagall returned. Her arms were bulging with a white sack she spread out on a clear space on the table, just as Snape came back.

He was unscrewing the lid of a mason jar he had grabbed from the cloth- and by the odor Harry recognized ginger. He came up behind Harry and began putting in teaspoons at a time. "Don't move. Steady, don't change direction." Harry was glad to be helpful, of use, doing something and not just standing there. "Healing salve, Minerva." "Right." She found it in a kitchen drawer and began to tend Dumbledore's limp hand- and everywhere else that had been hit. The man was still mumbling.

"Bring me the roots! Quickly, now!" Again McGonagall was quick to come to his aid, handing them off like they were hot potatoes. In they went. The concoction went still- it looked a pukish midnight blue. They took a step back, Snape whipping off his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his robes. It had gotten hot, and without thinking MCGonagall handed him the handkerchief she kept in her pocket. "What was it?" she asked timidly, shakily. "Severus?" She did not get an answer, and was not going to.

"What now?" Harry tried, instead. That was acceptable.

"We wait." McGonagall and Harry exchanged looks. Neither dared say more. "Minerva." Snape's gaze shifted from the deadened ring on the table to the woman he addressed. "What time did he come to you?"

She knew better than to add any extra fluff. "Ten minutes before I arrived here." Snape swore under his breath. This was not good, not good at all.

"That had been setting in for more than ten minutes."

"I don't have any explanation for any of it! I thought you might!" A huff of agitation and Snape was off again, pouring the liquid into a golden encrusted goblet and, supporting Dumbledore's head, then gently down the aged wizard's throat. This seemed to bring him back to himself; Dumbledore's gaze narrowed, and he sat up straighter.

"Surely you realized the ring carried a curse; it was obviously full of dark magic! Why even touch it?"

"I was- sorely tempted," came the tepid reply, and Harry's heart lurched. He had a feeling he knew by what. But Snape wasn't having any of it.

"By what?" So the ring had been cursed. A curse. Dumbledore was inspecting his damaged hand now.

"You have done well, Severus," he said. "I am very fortunate."

"I have managed to contain it- for now. It will spread." The finality with which he said those words made Harry shudder. What?

"I am fortunate, extremely fortunate that I have you, Severus," he repeated. This did nothing to appease the man's anger.

"If only you had come to me sooner, I might have been able to do more, buy you more time!"

"How long do I have?" The way he asked it, as if it was of no particular importance, made Harry want to cry. Snape seemed to contemplate for a moment; McGonagall watched on in anticipation.

"A year, at most." McGonagall was definitely going to cry now.

"This makes it even more straightforward, then." So the wheels had been turning in Dumbledore's head too. He looked at Snape very seriously. "We both know Lord Voldemort has ordered the Malfoy boy to murder me. And should he fail, I presume that the Dark Lord should turn to you." What? Voldemort told Draco to kill Dumbledore? Draco was a Death Eater just like his parents?

"That, I presume, I his plan," answered Snape carefully, as if he could sense where this was going and did not like it one bit. "He does not expect Draco to succeed. This is merely punishment for Lucius's recent failures. Slow torture for his parents, while the boy fails to carry out the plans." Harry shivered- you could not underestimate Voldemort's cruelty. This was sick pleasure for him.

"The boy has a death sentence on his head as surely as I have, then," Dumbledore continued. Snape nodded. Yes. Harry never thought he would feel sorry for a Malfoy.

"What are you planning on doing, then? Are you intending to let him kill you?" Snape shot back.

"No. You must kill me." McGonagall's eyes were nearly bugging out of her skull. How could this be happening?

"Would you like me to do it now, or would you like a moment to compose an epitaph?" Snape was in disbelief too, arms crossed. He could not believe he was being asked to do something so…. Massive, serious. But Dumbledore waved it off.

"Oh, not quite yet. We can be sure, however, that it will happen within a year," he said nonchalantly. Careful, Snape just might be angry enough to do it now, Harry observed. Maybe he wasn't just being funny. "That boy's soul is not yet so damaged. I would not have it split apart on my account." So your soul splits when you commit murder. It explained Voldemort's deformity.

Snape said then what they were all thinking. "And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?"

"Only you know if it will harm you soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation. I would much prefer it to that slow demise, or if I should be paid a visit by our friend Fenrir Greyback. Or dear Bellatrix, who likes to play with her food before she eats it." He sounded almost playful. This was moving too fast, much too fast. Fenrir Greyback- the one who had bitten Lupin- Bellatrix Lestrange- who killed Sirius and tortured the Longbottoms- Killed Sirius.

And now he was losing Dumbledore too. It was all too much, his head started spinning.

"It is the only way. Only then will Lord Voldemort trust you completely." Snape still said nothing, taking it all in. Beside Harry, Minerva McGonagall gasped. Loudly. But it was easy for both to ignore her. "I am depending on you to remain in Lord Voldemort's good books as long as possible. I trust you will protect the students of Hogwarts?" Snape nodded right away, and then Dumbledore surprised them by turning to his Deputy Headmistress and the Boy Who Lived. "This is strictly confidential, do you understand?"

Harry got the unsaid hint. Do not say anything to Draco Malfoy… or Ron Weasley… or Hermione Granger… or anyone. "Yes, sir." "Of course, Albus." McGonagall sounded defeated. By now they had all forgotten about the ring of Morfin Gaunt, Voldemort's uncle, and so none of them asked about it.

"Next year, I hope you will not mind having private lessons with me, Harry," Dumbledore went on. And Dumbledore was dying.

"Of course not, sir." That smile. That twinkle in the blue eyes. Had he taken it all for granted?

"Very good, my boy. Thank you again, Severus, for everything." He squeezed Snape's hand, like he had at the beginning of the summer.

The whole thing made Harry feel very ill, and this prompted McGonagall to say, "Come, Mr. Potter. It is almost midnight, you must be exhausted." She extended her hand, and a smile, and Harry gladly took it.

"You wish to stay here, then, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked.

"If Professor Snape does not object." Snape said nothing.

"Ah, yes, thank you, too. You as well, Harry. Goodnight," the old man said. Harry felt no shame, oddly, at being taken to bed by his Head of House, as if he were caught past curfew at Hogwarts. It was laughable, after what he had just heard.

"I owe you a happy belated birthday, Mr. Potter." Honestly, that was the least of his worries now. They stopped in front of his bedroom door.

"Thank you, Professor." The door opened; she took one look inside and shook her head.

"You have quite a mess to clean tomorrow." And she would make him do it, too. He grinned up at her. "Get some sleep."

"Yes ma'am." The door closed again, this time with him inside it. Tomorrow she would ask why they had been up at such an hour, and he did not wish to tell her. It was enough to make him crash as if he were on a sugar high. How, he didn't know, after everything.