AN: Dearest readers, at long last here's the update I've been promising for quite some time. The story is almost finished and only needs a bit of betaing, so you can expect regular updates at least once a week until it is done. A betae'd version of "Had I Known" will soon be updated to my archiveofourown-account (penname: kayly_silverstorm), so that you can read it in a cleared-up version and download it in pdf or epub-format.

I hope you'll enjoy the ending of this tale both long in itself and in the making. Thank you for your patience, your understanding and support.

Footfalls

"If your people want to bid farewell of him," Snape announced, and it was perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever said, "You'd better do it soon."

The reactions to this announcement were as different as the people gathered in the Headmaster's office. Shadow went entirely still, the lines of his face turning to stone. Chairon drew himself up to stand very straight, as if saluting a passing comrade in arms. And Ayda put the latest volume of Dumbledore's diaries down and met Snape's eyes without hesitation.

"How much longer?" she asked.

Snape's body ached, and the uncomfortable position that he had taken for this floo call did hell to his back.

"I cannot say," he answered. "Anyone else would have given in already. But this is Potter we're talking about."

His mind flashed back to the incredible things he had seen in Potter's memories, not two days ago, to the boy that had been broken and somehow made himself whole again.

"It could be days," he offered. "Or hours. At one point, his body will simply give in."

Ayda shared a glance with her companions, then nodded to show she had understood. "We'll be there soon," she said, her usual straightforwardness strangely subdued. "And we'll work out a rota so that not too many people will visit him at the same time."

From somewhere inside him Snape took the strength to sneer.

"It would be quite fitting if he died from being suffocated in vampire embraces," he sniffed, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Shadow and a cackle from Ayda.

"That's it, Master Snape," the old woman said. "Keep up the spirit."

Without another word, Snape closed the connection and withdrew from the fireplace.

Yes, he thought to himself, I'll keep up the spirit right until the wake.

"Your insufferable friends will be down here shortly, Potter," he then announced for the benefit of his patient, who was dozing on the transfigured couch. Potter had been unable to find any real sleep for the past days, but still Snape insisted that he rest as much as possible, and Potter was complying with the easy passivity that extended to all aspects of his helplessness.

"Thank you, Professor," he simply said, and Snape read in his eyes that he understood the meaning of this visit.

"We have nearly reached the end now," he then said, giving no sign what he was talking about – his memories, the invasion of Hogwarts, or his own life. Perhaps all three were fast becoming the same to him.

Snape nodded and settled down in his armchair to wait.

Since he had witnessed Potter's breakdown and reawakening in Voldemort's arms, the atmosphere between them had yet again changed. Snape no longer felt the need to question Potter and his attitude. He no longer felt the need to understand him, now that he had seen, and had realized that the changes wrought in Potter had occurred on a level inaccessible to him, for reasons he could never hope to emulate. In a way, Snape was even glad that he didn't understand Potter, couldn't ever fully understand him, because he now knew what his serenity had cost him. What he understood was enough for him.

The vampires were the first to arrive – of course they were, being imbued with inhuman speed and all that. And, of course, they didn't bother knocking. When had they ever?

Snape did not move from his chair as they filled the room, gravitating around exhausted, emaciated Potter on his transfigured bed, but he didn't take his eyes off them. He shared a succinct nod with Shadow, who had taken position close to Potter's head and was watching his vampires just as carefully. No matter the alternatives, Potter would never want to be turned, and Shadow would respect that, whatever some of his followers might think.

It was exhausting business, this leave taking. The vampires kept touching Potter, whispering to him, caressing him with quick, cold hands. No one wanted to say goodbye, because it might be final. No one wanted to leave Potter, because they might never see him again.

Snape watched them as they mingled, feeling envious in a way he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was the fact that they could make it final if they wanted to. It was their decision to take that step, and say goodbye, and leave.

Snape could never do that. He would stay by Potter's side, waiting and fighting until the man's body finally gave in, and even then it would never be over. Some part of him would forever be wondering, revising his decisions, planning for a different solution. He knew his own, obsessive ways too well to doubt that.

No matter the outcome, these weeks with Potter would stay with him and leave him a changed man. And some part of him, smaller as it might become over the years, would always be sitting here, in this chair, listening to the ragged breathing of the Boy Who Lived.

Watching him die.

The vampires left, apart from Shadow, and the room fell into silence. Potter closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep, but one of his hands, white and thin and without strength, slowly reached out and curled its fingers into Shadow's cloak.

The Prince of Vampires looked down at his young adoptive son, and his face was without expression. He took the hand and cradled it in his own, one long, elegant thumb stroking the papery skin slowly, in the rhythm of a mournful song.

They stayed like that for a long time, with Snape watching silently, feeling like a voyeur and yet unwilling to leave Potter alone. Bad things had happened the last time he'd done that.

Then, three centaurs arrived, led by Chairon, and Shadow leaned forward and whispered something into Potter's ear. Snape couldn't make out the words, but he saw the smile they coaxed onto Potter's face, a soft, tender thing, full of fragile beauty.

Potter opened his hand. Shadow let go of it, stood absolutely still for a moment, his head still bowed, then melted into the shadows that were cast by the fire crackling in Snape's hearth.

Snape did not doubt that he was still here, close to Potter, standing guard and yet leaving room for other leave takings. The thought of an unseen vampire lurking in his chambers should have terrified or at least irritated Snape, but to his own disgust he found strength in it, relief, as if Shadow's invisible hand had lifted some of the burdens from his shoulders.

There were worse brothers-in-arms than the Prince of vampires.

The centaurs brought with them the smell of incense, the chants of a frankly weird ritual, and half-hearted congratulations on Potter's return to the stars that no one, least of all they themselves, seemed to believe. Even for irritating sphinxish half-horses, this death couldn't seem joyful.

Potter received their blessings quietly, respectfully, giving no hint of what he thought.

Did he share their beliefs? Snape wondered suddenly. He'd never wasted much thought on religion, especially not on the weirder ones out there, but Potter had immersed himself in cultures that were fundamentally different from the wizarding one, had shown unusual acceptance of the druids' and the vampires' ways. Was this why he let go so easily, without regret? A belief in reincarnation, in the consolation of these rituals?

But no. Snape had witnessed much of Potter's life now, and if anything, the man put his faith in people, not tenets. He'd seen too much to trust in sayings and eternal promises and that 'true home in the stars' the centaurs were now blabbering about.

But why was he listening to it, then? To console the centaurs? What a ridiculous idea.

Snape's gaze cut through the room and its occupants, landing on Potter's earnest, serious face, trying to gauge his thoughts just as Potter looked up from his folded hands.

Through the crowded room, their eyes met.

Snape opened his mouth to offer a scathing remark about such Neoplatonic humbug, then closed it again, ashamed, leaving the words unsaid. This was Potter's last meeting with his friends – he didn't need Snape's commentary on it.

But Potter raised an eyebrow, and smirked, mischief dancing across his face, and Snape knew that the other man knew what he'd thought, and was wickedly amused by the inappropriateness of it.

We forget that they're still like us, the dying, he thought absently. They don't really change. We just expect them to.

And for a moment, the axis of his world tilted and he thought he saw life the way Potter did – not as a task to be finished, a goal to be reached, a tyranny to rebel again, but as a natural progression of steps towards the inevitable.

Detachment slid into his mind. No, not detachment, acceptance, something dangerously close to Potter's serenity that left him calm and yet strangely light-headed, and he thought, for a moment, that he understood…

Potter smiled, his eyes still locked with Snape's, and the bittersweetness of the moment seemed suspended between them, shutting out those bustling through the room, paling colours and muting sounds until all the life drifting around them seemed but a layer of oil spread thin over the stillness of their now.

Then Potter broke the connection and looked up to Chairon, turned on the threshold between the here and there as if simply looking back into a room he had not quite left yet.

"What about our bond, Fighter?" he asked. "This is probably the last chance to safely break it."

Chairon shook his head with exasperation, but his eyes were sharp and wise as they lay on Potter.

"Do not worry yourself needlessly, Eques," he admonished. "It is well in hand. Preparations are being made, and our earthly existence will be safe."

In any other situation, Potter would have argued, then, but he lacked the strength for his customary irritating behaviour now, and as he sank back into his cushions, his expression was one of relief.

"Take care of them, and of yourself," he said quietly. "Guard the herds well."

Chairon lowered his head.

"I always will, and in doing so honour your memory, Eques. Perhaps, in time, your soul shall ride with us again."

And as little as Snape thought about the centaurs' faith, he couldn't help admit that there were worse wishes to be made.

As if that moment of understanding had dragged him down into exhaustion (or maybe it had given him enough consolation to relax somewhat, but Snape would never admit to that thought), Snape found his attention drifting, spinning away from this room and the present, safe in the knowledge that Potter's state was closely monitored by charms and by Shadow's watchful eyes.

He wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep, but when he came to with a jolt, he found that the fire had almost died down, that the centaurs had left and the druids taken their place. It wasn't exactly an improvement, as far as he was concerned, but at least the smell of incense had decreased somewhat.

His first look was towards Potter, but the man was still sitting upright in his bed, supported by a plethora of cushions and surrounded by a group of female druids that looked a good deal less mad and more motherly than Ayda.

Then the smell of strong black tea wafted over to him, and in his half-awake state, Snape reached for its source blindly. Only when his hand touched something icy and hard, shaped like a hand yet textured like marble, did he realize that tea didn't simply appear out of the blue.

He turned his head and met the eyes of Shadow. Who was calmly handing him a cup of said freshly brewed tea.

There was so much wrong with that moment that Snape didn't even bother to think about it. Instead, he sipped his tea with relish, ignored the way it burned his lips and tongue, and gave his best attempt at a sardonic smirk. It worked a bit better after his nap, but still wasn't up to his usual standards.

Still. A man had to keep trying.

"I see Potter's influence extends even to household chores," he commented instead of thanking Shadow. Because he could. If he hadn't earned the right to banter with a vampire, then the past weeks clearly hadn't been worth it.

Shadow smirked back. His teeth were showing, and Snape hastily concentrated on his hot beverage again. Better not to overdo it, really.

"You have only been asleep for two hours," Shadow offered quietly, and the way he didn't say anything else was one of the more impressive things Snape had seen in the realms of snark. "The centaurs have said their goodbyes and the druids should be ready to take their leave soon, too."

The smirk vanished, leaving the usual expression of quiet majesty that passed for Shadow's resting face.

Snape gave a curt nod. Shadow echoed it, then glanced down at the tea in silent admonishment, and Snape couldn't quite exorcise the feeling of irritated fondness from his mind. Perhaps that was the thing that had surprised him most about Potter and his friends these past weeks - that there was no need to make nice with them, to spin words or justify his methods.

They got things done, just as he did, and in the end, not much needed to be said.

Then Shadow's eyes darkened, and something like pain crept into the smooth, perfect features. Snape turned around and saw that almost all of the druids had indeed said their goodbyes and vanished without much fanfare. Only three were left in the room apart from Ayda - a young woman, a middle-aged man and a girl that Snape suspected to be Catherine from the stubborn tilt of her chin. She looked like the kind of girl that would decide to marry Harry Potter, and boss him around while she was at it.

For a moment, Snape thought of bushy hair and a lecturing voice and smirked again, but then he concentrated on the final two occupants of the room.

Potter and Ayda, locked in an embrace that seemed more painful than tender.

"You're an idiot, Harry," Ayda said fiercely. Snape couldn't see her face, as she was turned away from him, but she sounded just like herself, tough and matter-of-fact, ready to brandish a knife or steal a jar of jam at an instant's notice. "Too stupid for this world. I really wonder why I bothered ever getting to know you."

"I know, Ayda", Potter whispered back, as untouched by her insults as ever. His eyes were closed, leaving his face thin and white and almost lifeless, and his hands were resting weakly on the old woman's back. "I love you, too. And I'm not afraid."

"You should be," she growled, but there was something else in her voice, too, something Snape couldn't name. "But you never learned how to act like a sane person."

Slowly, Potter patted her back. His face held the serene, accepting look Snape had hated so much in the beginning.

"Don't mourn for me," Potter whispered. "I would have died eight years ago, Ayda. Everything since then has been a gift from you and Shadow."

"I would never mourn for a fool of a stubborn wizard," Ayda growled, but when she finally released him, and straightened, and turned towards Snape and the door, her face was wet and her eyes reddened.

Potter however was still smiling.

"I hope so," he called after her. "We'll meet in the beyond, grandmother."

Ayda didn't react. She didn't even turn to look at Potter as she stepped through the door, but for the first time, she looked every single one of her years.

"I don't want to go," Potter said, looking at both Shadow and Snape with something close to desperation.

Shadow's continued presence in his quarters hadn't been discussed, but it seemed it would be a fixture from now on, whether to guarantee their security from the rather desperate vampires or because Shadow simply couldn't bring himself to leave Potter, Snape didn't know. He thought it wiser not to ask, not that it mattered anyway. There was nothing Snape could do about it, and if he was honest with himself, he didn't really mind.

Snape could see Shadow's face soften in reaction to Potter's words, and realized that the vampire had misunderstood them for a declaration concerning his death instead of the obstinate refusal it was. What had Potter said? That Shadow went all Dickens on him as soon as he scraped his knee? He knew Potter well enough by know to assume that he wouldn't be above using that for his own purposes, should the need arise.

"Don't be ridiculous," he therefore snapped, meaning Potter as much as Shadow. "This is the only way to treat you, and we will not let you die just because you don't want to face your memories again."

The softness fled from the vampire's face like a small furry animal that had just realized whose cave it had wandered into.

"I agree," Shadow said. "Listen to your healer. You will do this, Harry."

But all the conviction and power in his words was wasted on Potter, who was shaking his head wildly, his eyes not filled with any fear that would have been expected with a man on the threshold of the undiscovered country, but with terror of something far worse, something he knew intimately and feared only more for its familiarity.

After all they had seen these past days, all they had witnessed, now, finally Potter had reached his limit. Snape couldn't help but be surprised that the man should have enough strength to rebel left in him.

"I can't," Potter whispered feverishly. "I know what happens next, and I can't see it again! I won't!" He looked up at Snape with a strangely childish expression.

"You can't make me," he whispered, and it was stubbornness and horror and a desperate plea at the same time.

Snape groaned, trying to stay calm though he desperately wanted to bash his head against the edge of his fireplace.

He didn't need this. Not when their time was running out as it was, not ever, and especially not now that he felt something akin to sympathy in the face of Potter's fear.

Snape didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to be the one that would place the last straw to break his back.

But what else was there to do?

"There is no other way, Potter," he therefore said, congratulating himself on remaining calm and reasonable. He was setting new records of patience, here. "It's just one step into the pensieve, and then you can close your eyes and ignore everything. I need you in there to detect the Fading's symptoms - you know that."

But Potter didn't budge.

"No," he whispered. He would have shouted it but for the lack of strength.

"Yes," Snape answered. "I am your healer and you will do as I say. This is our only option."

The determination in Potter's eyes didn't change.

"You could kill me," he said, sounding hopeful.

Snape went cold all over. There it was again, that course of action he had sworn not to take and yet promised to, that possible future that was entangled in a hundred threads of hopes and fears and necessities.

He wouldn't do it, Snape had promised that to himself, and he believed in that promise as much as he had it in him to believe in anything. He would believe in it right up until he broke it to save their world.

They had been calling him a traitor for nigh on thirty years by now. But this would be the first time that he'd have to betray himself.

But before he could form words from these thoughts (and he would never do that, anyway, because no matter how well Potter knew him by now, it wasn't in Snape's nature to open his heart wide for every passing spectator to gaze and giggle at it), before he could even think of an appropriate (or inappropriate) response, Shadow reached out and placed a hand on Potter's shoulder.

"You would ask this of him, Harry?" He asked the young man he'd saved. There was no censure in his words, no reproach, but a terrible weight of meaning. "You, who know better than most how the burden of death can crush a good man, you would ask your friend to kill you? Needlessly? Because you cannot bear to face your past?"

Snape wanted to protest these words, because he wasn't his friend, damn it, because he saw what they were doing to Potter, and because this was the coward's way out, guilting Potter into continuing what he considered unbearable, and what right did they have to ask that of him?

But he kept silent. He was still Slytherin enough to realize that siding with Potter now would seal the other man's death, and that the outcome of this was more important than using just and proper means.

But when Potter's eyes flinched away from them both, and his hands clenched, clutching his blankets in trembling fists, and he nodded silently, a broken, brittle gesture... Snape wished he had spoken.

For a moment.

"Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future

And time future contained in time past.

If all time is eternally present

All time is unredeemable.

What might have been is an abstraction

Remaining a perpetual possibility

Only in a world of speculation.

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden.

My words echo

Thus, in your mind."

T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets