46: Neither Can Live While The Other Survives

That was it?

Harry wriggled away from the motionless body. It seemed impossible that Voldemort was truly dead. For seven years he'd dreaded this confrontation; how could it be over just like that, in the blink of an eye? There must be more to it than the slimy stickiness of blood on his robes and a mangled hand. Why, Fred and George's great escape from Umbridge was more auspicious than this.

The very end of the dagger's hilt could still be seen under Voldemort's chin. Harry stared at it curiously for some time. He never would have guessed he would hit the throat--Voldemort had always seemed to loom far over him, larger than life. I guess I've grown, he mused a bit lightheadedly. As if he needed more proof than all those too-small robes.

He leaned against the stone wall to regain his balance. He soon discovered that he had taken for a twinged muscle in his side turned out to be another wound. Voldemort had stabbed him just below the ribs, but it didn't seem serious. He was drenched with blood, however, and it was quite impossible to tell how much of it was his own.

"All of it," Harry mused aloud after a moment's thought. Hadn't Voldemort stolen his blood that night in the Little Hangleton graveyard? He started to laugh, realizing that there was nothing remotely funny about the situation, but that only made him laugh harder. A moment later it resolved into a scream, then another, and another, until his voice gave out.

There was a distant hum on the edge of his hearing, like the buzz of a pesky mosquito. It jarred Harry out of his shocked daze when he finally realized its significance. There were no living people within a hundred-mile radius of this place, except for himself and Snape.

Without another glance at the remains of his nemesis, Harry located his wand. He was still holding the dagger, and after staring at it a moment with a blank expression, he finally poked the tip experimentally into the leather of his boot. The blade was sharp enough to split the leather, and Harry carefully slid it to the hilt into the side of the boot. He hoped it wouldn't carve its way through to his leg. Scrambling to his feet, he staggered down the long hallway to the entrance.

Snape's voice grew louder and louder, and though Harry recognized almost immediately what his former professor was up to, it baffled him beyond measure. When he finally reached the door and looked outside, he had to steady himself against the jamb to get his bearings.

"What are you doing?" he finally managed in a throaty growl, not because he didn't know, but because he couldn't believe it was happening.

Snape was kneeling beside Tura's body, which he had laid out flat on the bare soil. He fixed Harry with a glare of pure outrage then returned his attention to the body and continued to chant in the Inupiaq language.

What could Harry do but watch in a haze of utter disbelief?

He knew it was the same chant Tura had sung over the graves of his parents in Godric's Hollow. Her language had no meaning for him, but he recognized it just the same. He'd heard it at other times, too: when, together, they killed that finch in the Forbidden Forest, and in her memory of her first seal hunt. Thanking the mother for the life of her precious child.

An insane impulse to laugh aloud clawed at Harry. Tura would go ballistic if she saw a "gussuk" like Snape chanting the sacred words of her people. The problem, of course, was that one of her people or even Harry himself ought to be performing it, but he could not. How in the name of Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana did SNAPE know the chant?

Harry watched and listened for over an hour, refusing to think too hard about the answer to that question.

When Snape at last fell silent, Harry snapped to as if awakening from a trance. He realized he had no idea what to do or say. The time to demand, "Get away from her!" had long passed. Sitting for so long in silence had allowed exhaustion and grief to set in, and Harry no longer burned with a righteous need for vengeance against Snape. He was weary and despondent and just wanted the day to end.

Snape sat beside the body, shoulders slumped, for some time, then without looking up, said, "I'm going to bury her now, Potter, unless you have an alternate proposal."

Here, in the middle of nowhere? Harry didn't protest, however--it made sense. This was her part of the world. If he walked long enough toward the rising sun, he would reach the Bering Strait. If he could also walk back through time, it would become an isthmus between the East and West, the one her ancestors had crossed to settle the New World. Of course she should be buried here, embraced by her living Land. Climbing shakily to his feet, Harry wordlessly joined Snape, raising his wand to dig a shallow grave.

Together they lowered in the body by hand, without magic. When it was time to replace the excavated soil, Harry found he couldn't do it. Handling her cold, stiff remains had vividly enforced the point that she was gone, but burying her was somehow too terrible. Harry stood back as Snape woodenly shoved in great scoops of dirt by hand, wishing he could turn away from the sight. Both of them wept the entire time, the dust from the disturbed earth settling into muddy streaks on their faces.

When Snape rose to his feet at last, he turned to Harry with a too-familiar glare of cold indifference, which was rendered absurd by the obvious remnants of tears. Unblinking, they faced off for some time before Snape finally sneered, "Well?"

Harry rolled his wand slowly between his hands. "Who was she, to you?" he finally asked.

Snape's lip curled in disgust, or rage, or both. He finally held out his hand, very slowly and deliberately, and nudged the tip of Harry's wand so that it was pointing at his chest. "I mean to show you, not tell you," said Snape icily. "I want you to know what you destroyed today. Take your wand and use Legilimency. Understand."

Choking back his own rage at Snape's presumptuousness, Harry ripped his wand away from the other wizard's fingertips and held it at his side. "I don't need a wand," he hissed, then peered deep into Snape's narrow black eyes.

He was standing before the desk in Albus Dumbledore's office, which looked basically the same as it always had, yet everything seemed just a bit too small. Dumbledore was sitting across from him, wearing a kind expression. "You wish to speak to me?" he said, yet it was Snape's voice that grunted the words.

"I do, Severus. I've found a task for which you are uniquely suited."

"Yes?"

"I've identified a person of interest on the North American continent," said Dumbledore cheerfully, leaning back in the great chair. "A witch of considerable power, but unknown allegiance. I would like to learn more about her intentions."

Snape nodded. "You require Veritaserum, then?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Merlin's beard, no! Nothing that heavy-handed, not until I've at least attempted diplomacy."

"What exactly do you require of me, Albus?" said Snape with more than a hint of impatience.

"Why, diplomacy! I would like you to serve as my ambassador."

You gotta be KIDDING! thought Harry.

"You're joking," said Snape.

Dumbledore continued to smile, but the sparkle had left his eyes. "I most certainly am not! This is a very formidable woman, one who, like yourself, is uninterested in conversations of a... trivial nature. I understand she is very difficult to engage. But you have a number of things in common with this witch, and I suspect you're uniquely capable of earning her confidence."

Snape cleared his throat with a dubious grunt. "Such as?"

Dumbledore idly took his wand and prodded the animated silver device currently occupying his desk. "Well, for one, she has an avid interest in Potionmaking."

Snape turned up his nose in disgust. "Oh, come now! If you are devising some sophomoric romantic fantasy--"

It was as though a steel door had smashed closed on the memory. Silence and darkness for a brief instant, then Snape's thoughts shifted to a new scene. He was in the Alaskan taiga, stomping through peaty mud and grass toward the Wizard city of Northport, cursing the clouds of biting flies and the fact that he was forced to Disapparate so far from the dry, clean streets. A few jumbled recollections of a tavern, a lunch counter, a quiet wizard who showed up hours late for their meeting and led Snape to a beautiful mansion, only to steer him to a battered stone hut behind it.

Snape knocked on the door. A young woman opened it, her eyes covered by a black rag bound around her head. Harry recognized Tura, but she was a stranger to Snape. "Yes?"

"I am Severus Snape." He had no idea what else to say, and realized too late that he should have at least started with "good afternoon."

"Hello, Severus Snape," she said with a curious smile.

Another mental transition, much less abrupt than the first, and Harry was back in Dumbledore's office. The device on the Headmaster's desk let out a puff of steam and fell still. Dumbledore glared at him. "I hope there's no need to answer that accusation, Severus." Snape nodded, his shoes coming quickly into view.

"Then I will continue. She was brought to my attention via American law enforcement. They claim she is a Legilimagus."

Snape looked up in alarm. "Is this true?"

"I don't know, lad. I'd like you to find out."

He eyed Dumbledore apprehensively. "I've never met one of the Legilimagi. I can't possibly best her with my mind if that's truly what she is."

"You misunderstand me," laughed Dumbledore. "I want you to talk to her, not try to measure her thoughts. From what I understand, she desperately needs to learn Occlumency. It seems to me that this, plus your common interests, will serve as natural seeds for conversation."

Snape continued to gaze down at the desktop, then finally regarded Dumbledore again. He finally sighed loudly and said, "I don't think I can learn anything of value by muddling my way through a chitchat about potions and Occlumency with a complete stranger." There was a note of humility in his voice that Harry had never heard before.

The warmth returned to Dumbledore's smile. "Nor would I expect you to. I mean for you to leave as soon as this term has ended and spend the summer with her. An academic exchange, if you will. She's never been schooled, and I think she'll appreciate your expertise in those subjects."

Harry felt Snape's tiny tug of intrigue. "I would enjoy a sabbatical of that nature, of course, but as for your further purpose... Albus, you know me." His voice was strained. "I can teach her what I know of potions and Occlumency, but you're asking me to--"

"To do precisely that! And to permit her to speak freely to you on other matters if she so decides."

"No one 'speaks freely' to me! I don't earn people's confidence, it's not part of my nature! What on Earth makes you think I can reach this woman?"

Dumbledore glanced down at the silent device on his desk, then addressed Snape carefully. "Of all the people I trust, you alone have a common acquaintance with her... in Tom Riddle. She is his daughter."

Snape trembled before her door, though she seemed half his size. The Dark Lord was apparently gone, but the girl standing before him could easily become his successor. But that was not the worst of it; he had suddenly found himself out of his element. All the opening lines he'd rehearsed were useless. He had contrived them for someone terrifying like Lord Voldemort, or at best, an arrogant brat like the students in his House. He knew precisely how to cope with such people. He was unprepared to converse with a plainspoken maiden in a humble cabin, whose expressions were unreadable behind a blindfold.

He squirmed inwardly at the silence, particularly when her brow furrowed a bit over the fabric. She finally said, "Wow, you know, I don't usually have to ask, but is there something you need from me?"

"Yes... no... not really." Could he possibly look more foolish? What had Dumbledore been thinking, employing him as a diplomat?

Her brows poked up over the glasses. "Yes and no! That's different!" She paused, then asked wryly, with an exaggerated accent, "Yer not from roun' here, are ya?"

"No, I'm not. Please pardon my... ill manners." That seemed safe enough.

She offered her hand to shake, and he returned the gesture absently, struggling to come up with his next comment. As soon as his hand met hers, a violent shudder pounded through him and her mouth fell open. "You know my father," she said quietly.

Snape gritted his teeth; if this was his death, then so be it. She tilted her head and though she was blindfolded, he could feel her gaze upon him. "And you don't know what to ask of me. I think you better come in."

"That's... that's impossible!" barked Snape. "The Dark Lord has no child."

Dumbledore shook his head. "That is the general belief, but it's certainly possible that he fathered a child. He was in Northport around the time of her conception, establishing a reputation on that continent. I believe he was still human enough to... complete the necessary acts."

Harry had never been so uncomfortable hearing about this topic in his life.

"Human enough? How long ago was this?"

"She has just turned seventeen."

"Seventeen!" Snape did some mental Arithmancy. "She was born just before I came to Hogwarts. I met the Dark Lord my first year. His body was still... mostly intact."

Snape ducked through the cabin door shaking with relief. She was hard to read, but her voice held no malice when she said "my father." He reckoned that if she shared the Dark Lord's sadistic tendencies, she would have shown it when she recognized the Dark Mark. He might yet live.

She closed the door behind him and took off the blindfold. Though Harry knew what to expect, he felt Snape's surprise when he beheld her colorless eyes the first time.

She sat on the floor and pointed to a mat; there was no furniture. "You didn't know about the eyes, did you?" she asked.

"No." Snape obediently sat on the mat.

"It's called aniridia. No iris. Light hurts my eyes. So I cover them," she sighed. "Does it bother you?"

Snape was genuinely puzzled--did she mean the eyes or the blindfold? "Bother me? Why would I be bothered?"

She propped up her knees and rested her elbows on them. "Some people are unnerved by it. They say I look cold, like a reptile."

"That's absurd. Reptiles typically have very colorful eyes." Again his heart sank, although he was less worried about being slain and more about appearing completely obtuse. She stared at him, then laughed merrily, and Snape found himself smiling.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Snape realized that the shack was filled with plants. Dried leaves and roots hung from the ceiling in little bags, and shelves of little pots lined the south-facing window.

Harry would have liked to linger there a moment, but Snape was guiding him. Memories rolled past rapidly, allowing only the briefest impressions of specific events, but Harry could feel their overall impact. Over that summer, Snape's distrust eroded into curiosity, then respect, then fondness. He met few people who loved and understood potions and their ingredients as he did. She, too, was guarded and suspicious at first, but delighted by the presence of a "quiet mind," as well as a fellow potionist's company. Snape began looking forward to visiting her each day, and found excuses to delay his departure in the evenings. She seemed equally content whether they spent the whole day talking or working in silence together on some interesting elixir. She was most eager to learn Occlumency and proved an adept pupil. She was also completely unfazed by the way he looked or dressed, or even by his bitter cynicism. Snape found himself regretting that he had to return to Hogwarts that fall.

Her owl was snowy white, and Snape watched for it every morning from the head table in the Great Hall. He gave her some money to buy an iron stove for her shack, but it proved unsuitable for conversation. The metal remained stubbornly hot long after the Floo powder was added, and the door was too small for her to put her head through.

Snape preferred writing letters anyway. They gave him time to think about what he was saying. He bought an enormous barn owl in Diagon Alley that fall, the only owl he'd ever owned. He had to trade it in for another snowy, as it returned sheepishly in early November with frostbitten feet, his letter still tied to its leg. Tura flippantly suggested he get a penguin, making him laugh aloud for the first time in years.

The next memories were older. They had been seen through the keener eyes of a young man hiding on the side of a house, not daring to look around the corner. Snape was listening intently to a conversation in the garden beyond, regarding his upcoming sixteenth birthday.

Father's voice was raised in anger; he was speaking to Mother's parents. "...don't care what happens, as long as we're rid of him."

"Rid of him? Really?" sneered Grandmother. "A bit late to start planning to get rid of him, don't you? How do you expect us to take him off your hands?"

"He's no Muggle, is he, so there's not much I can do! He's your grandson, can't you arrange a marriage for him or something?"

Both grandparents scoffed. "We could, if he had any appeal whatsoever," Grandfather spat. "Look at him! He's surly, bookish, incapable of civilized conversation. No decent family would have him, even if he weren't a half-blood!"

Grandmother burst in, "Precisely! And I, for one, am not about to mingle with the blood traitor families, scavenging around for some spinster no one else will take."

A very quiet voice--Mother's--mumbled, "Can't you just leave him alone? He'll find someone to love."

There was a short but loaded silence, then a burst of voices seemingly competing as to which could berate her the loudest. "Love? Hah! Look what love got you!" "Merlin's ghost, Eileen, if you can't say something intelligent, then keep still!" "As if he were capable of love, even if he stumbled into someone fool enough to love him."

Snape's stomach had churned as he heard these words, and Harry's followed suit. These were all Snape's own flesh and blood, speaking of him like some feral beast. Harry could feel the young Snape raising barriers of a different sort in his mind, walling himself off internally from these cruel judgments. He would show them. He was an island. He had no need for love. Grandmother was right--look at what love had brought to Mother: a lifetime of abuse at the hands of a stinking Muggle. A useless emotion, a waste of time and talent. He wouldn't make that mistake. He had his books, his mind, his meticulous attention to detail. He had mastered these things and they were valuable. He would show them all what great things he could do, without them, without anyone. Snape had no use for idiots like his mother, who threw her power away for the sake of love.

Without transition, Harry was immersed in a new memory. This time he knelt in a beam of cold light at the center of a circle of stone, shaking with fear but also grimly determined. Voldemort stepped into the circle from the darkness, sending a stab of pain reflexively through Harry's forehead even though this was only a memory (and not even his own). Snape bowed his head as Voldemort approached, and although he knew what to expect, he still jumped as the Dark Lord placed one long, white finger under his chin, lifting his head to gaze into his eyes.

"I accept your worthy service, Severus Snape. You are bound to me until your death." Snape extended his left hand, cupping it as though he expected to receive a coin or a key. His hand was trembling. Voldemort leaned down slowly, and Harry envisioned him spitting into Snape's palm and then shaking hands. But to his horror, Voldemort's eyes suddenly glowed bright red, his still-human face distorted into that of a snake, and he bit Snape deeply on the wrist.

Harry couldn't tell if he had screamed, or if it had been Snape in the original incident, but the next seconds were blind with pain. When Snape's vision cleared, Harry didn't want to look, but had little choice. Snape was triumphantly admiring the Dark Mark etched into his forearm by Voldemort's "kiss." He was now more powerful than any of them, and he had been chosen solely on the basis of his merit. The Dark Lord appreciated knowledge and skill, and did not waste time indulging in the idiocy of politics or family connections. Severus Snape had, at last, found a place he belonged.

Snape was freezing to death, within sight of the garish Christmas lights of Northport, cursing their Disapparation radius even harder than he had the previous summer. He heard the baying of wolves and was paralyzed with fear; the sound took him back to his student days at Hogwarts, into the tunnel from the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack.

But they weren't wolves at all, only a team of "fish burners" bounding through the snow to meet him, pulling a sled with Tura standing on the back. Tura wanted to take him on an old-fashioned tour of the city, but gave that up after one look at his completely inadequate "winter clothes." They had dashed to the Fly By Night and warmed up before a huge fire in a private parlor. Snape wanted desperately to kiss her, but he was utterly uncertain if that would be welcome. Though he fretted for hours trying to decide, Harry saw a familiar gleam in her eyes that left him no doubt of her opinion on the matter. Soon after that, Snape slammed down another barrier in his mind.

His memories sped up again: bitter cold and roaring fires, the perpetual night above the Arctic Circle broken by the stunningly beautiful aurora borealis, his cynicism and isolation fading in the glow of her uncluttered acceptance. Once again, he felt the thrill of belonging, and not for what he could offer, but for what he was.

Snape yearned to be free of the Dark Lord, but his Mark was made to be permanent. Tura eventually took him to her afatkuq, the Muggle shaman most adept at her people's intimate magic with the Earth. The shaman explained to Snape that the Mother Earth understood all things, good and evil: they all sprouted from her. She could take the noxious Mark back into herself and dissipate it through rocks, lava, even oceans. It was a great evil, but she was vast and strong.

Snape was afraid to try. Tura held him that night, and suddenly burst out laughing. She reckoned there was little he could do to enrage Voldemort more so than winning his daughter's heart. Snape felt the fear drain away with his own laughter.

With the shaman, they traveled to one of the American islands, to a place with the melodic name of Pu`uhonua o Honaunau. To Snape's surprise, this was in the tropics, and the icy tundra was replaced by fields of pumice and colorful birds. They were visiting a refuge nearly as old as Hogwarts, where warriors of any army could rest when they grew weary of battle. Built on ancient sacred land, the magic in the air was nearly palpable, despite the throngs of Muggle tourists wandering through in outrageous printed shirts.

They stood before a huge boulder, his Marked hand wrapped in leaves, the shaman and Tura singing incantations. The ancient Muggle took Snape's hand and thrust it into the boulder as though plunging it into a bucket of water. Pain, terrible pain. Tura stood behind him, propping him up, stroking his hair and whispering, "Hang on, Severus. Just a little longer." The boulder began to shake, threatening to wrench his arm from the socket and shatter the bones, but he concentrated on the rhythm of her hands in his hair and refused to flinch. The boulder crumbled with a loud report...

...and time slowed to a halt as he withdrew his arm. The Dark Mark was gone.

The visions cleared from Harry's mind, bringing him back to the grassy soil of the keep. Snape sat before him with his forearm exposed. Half of his Dark Mark was gone, wiped from his arm like so much dirt. With a firm swipe of his palm, he smeared the rest of it into a mere shadow. Harry stared at it, glancing up at Snape but somewhat afraid to catch his eye again lest he be submerged into another intense memory.

"Do you understand what she did, Potter?" whispered Snape. "She didn't just erase my Mark. She released me from all of it, the hatred, the fear... the prison I'd created inside my mind, my heart. She broke down all the walls I'd built... she brought me to LIFE! I loved her! And you murdered her."

Snape raised his fist as if to strike him, but stopped himself with a shudder of self control. "You were so eager to kill, weren't you? But as always, too arrogant to learn the proper way to do it, too bent on carrying out your whims to control your power. You missed me, Potter, and she paid for your little tantrum with her life!"

"You know that's not true," Harry said, with the calm certitude that comes from the knowledge that one is unimpeachably correct. "I felt the curse connect with you. If you can set aside your determination to prove what a failure I am, you'll remember it."

Gaping, Snape stared wide-eyed at him for some time before quietly admitting, "I remember."

"I don't know how she saved you," Harry continued. "She took it into herself, just like my mother did for me. But she'd planned it all along. Weren't you listening to Voldemort? She reckoned there would be another Priori Incantatem effect in the final battle, and she was determined to be there if I needed her."

Snape dropped to his knees and slammed his fist to the ground over and over.

Harry watched in silence until the fit passed. "So you were her angel all along," he finally said, more to convince himself than anything else. It still seemed impossible, despite all the evidence. This was Snape, the man who had made his life miserable for six years at Hogwarts; the traitor who murdered Dumbledore in cold blood. "Tell me: How were you able to fool her about your ultimate loyalty?" he demanded coldly.

Snape was on his hands and knees, hanging his head in misery and exhaustion, but it snapped up to meet Harry's gaze with unmistakeable wrath. "Morgan le Fay, Potter, can you truly be so thick?" he spat. "You tell me: Is there an Occlumens alive that can block her? Use your head for more than a hat rack, for a change--"

Harry had folded his arms impassively as Snape delivered his retort, but when his former professor suddenly fell silent and wide-eyed, a bolt of adrenaline shot through him. Even though his wand was in his hand, it took an instant to untangle his arms--and that was too much. Something struck the back of his calf, though whether it was a curse or another meteorite like the one that leveled the Tunguska forest, Harry couldn't say. He dropped immediately to the ground, his leg in such tremendous pain that sparks danced in his vision.

He was dying. He knew it. He felt just like he had when the cobra had bitten him--the same sense of poison spreading further throughout his body with each pulse of blood. This venom was much more potent than Tura's, more painful, more noxious. Strangely, however, his thoughts were quite calm and rational. He wondered how Snape had managed to orchestrate this attack, and idly speculated on whether he would live long enough to regain his eyesight and cast a final curse at the traitor.

As the pain mounted, he realized he'd better get on with it if he had any hope of avenging himself. Harry squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to clear his vision, but when he finally managed it, he found that the venom had spread to his arms already, paralyzing them. As he reflected on this final bitter irony, a single crimson feather spiraled slowly downward before him.

Fawkes had broken free.

There was a terrible screech as Fawkes and Nagini sized up the situation and steeled themselves to attack. Harry's sight was fading as though in a rapidly dimming room, and even Fawkes's brilliant feather right before his eyes appeared dull and gray. Nagini taunted the phoenix in Parseltongue.

"Dumbledore wasn't even cold in his grave when you Bonded to this one," she spat. "But who could blame you? Young, powerful, beautiful... a worthy companion."

The snake had raised half her body from the ground in a weaving coil, ready to strike in any direction. Fawkes hovered just inches beyond her apparent reach, scanning intently for an opportunity to strike.

"You could save him, if you stop this foolish posturing and tend to him!" Harry could no longer see, and the snake's voice was growing weak and distant. "He's fading, you know--he has but a handful of breaths left in this world. Will you just let him die? There's nothing worse than death, Fawkes. You of all beings understand this!"

Nothing worse than death. Even in Parseltongue, Harry recognized the words. He'd heard them phrased just that way once before, as Voldemort and Dumbledore faced one another in the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic. She's another Horcrux, Harry thought in despair. We all counted wrong.

When he felt the fluttering rush of air, his heart sank. Fawkes, NO! he projected with as much strength as he could muster. Voldemort. Don't let him escape! But either Fawkes couldn't hear him, or ignored him. There was a new, sharp sensation in his calf as Fawked ripped open the silk robe with his bill, then a wave of cooling relief as the first tears landed on the bite wound. Harry couldn't help but feel thankful when the pain diminished, but he pushed Fawkes away with his foot as soon as he regained enough strength in his limbs. "Snake. Voldemort. Kill it!" he gasped.

Fawkes glared at him reprovingly, but recognized that Harry was out of danger and took to the air. Still burning from the venom, Harry made a monumental effort and raised himself up on his elbows to watch Fawkes's progress. He saw that Snape lay on the ground not far away, clutching his arm against his chest. He, too, had been bitten by Nagini.

A flare of golden light behind him sent a wave of horror through Harry; he thought Fawkes must have been bitten and forced to burn up. But seconds later there was another unearthly screech and the rustle of wings. Harry flipped himself onto his back in an attempt to see the battle. Fawkes was indeed glowing with golden flames, stretching his talons toward the coiling, lunging snake. "Hang on, Fawkes, hang on!" groaned Harry as he willed the feeling to return to his fingertips so he could pick up his wand.

But Fawkes saw his opportunity and struck. It happened so quickly that Harry couldn't tell what had transpired, but the next thing he knew, Fawkes was climbing rapidly straight up in the air with the snake writhing beneath him like the tail of a kite. He'd caught her by the back of her head, the only point he could hold without risk of being bitten.

Harry could only watch in horror as Fawkes climbed in jerks and starts as the snake torqued and twisted its body. Fawkes, he knew, could carry a heavy load of willing passengers, but an uncooperative magical beast was another story. At one point, the phoenix simply hovered in place, though he beat his wings with all his might.

When Harry could feel his fingertips clutching the soil, he immediately grabbed his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he cried once, twice, a third time. The last spell seemed to strike either Fawkes or the snake, as they both began to climb again at last.

Harry rolled onto his back and continued to point his wand and repeat the charm, until Fawkes and the serpent were merely a speck in the vast sky. What's he doing? Harry finally wondered, realizing that he had no idea what Fawkes planned to do with his deadly passenger. How high could the phoenix go before suffocating? Nagini required a lot of oxygen when she thrashed about, flexing her muscles, but her cold reptilian blood could tide her over for a long time without a breath if she kept still. She might be able to outlast Fawkes in the thin air!

Soon Harry could see nothing of the combatants but an occasional glint of orange sunlight flashing from scale or feather. The terrible screeching had given way to the chirping of crickets, as though this were just another tranquil evening in the wilderness. But there was another sound, too, and Harry finally noticed and recognized it: it was the frail, tortured breathing of Snape, curled on the ground but a meter away.

Harry sat up. He had the dagger; he could put a clean end to Snape right now. There was little else he could do. Harry had no idea how to stop the venom--that sort of magic belonged to Fawkes and Peredhil, not him. Tura's kingsfoil leaves were still in his pack in the little cave, but even if he could get them in time, who knew whether they would help at all, or simply prolong the agony? And why, Harry suddenly wondered, was he so interested in helping Snape in the first place?

The answer came to him like a blow to the chest from a sledgehammer: There was still more of the story. Snape could never have kept the truth from Tura, and yet she had trusted him. Harry had to learn why--and in matter of seconds, the answers would be lost forever. He was almost out of time. Harry leaned forward clumsily to turn Snape's head and peer into his black eyes, wondering what he would see, buried deep in Snape's mind, when the man died.

Harry never had a chance to find out. A new sound distracted him, and it was growing rapidly louder. He looked up to see Nagini in free fall, twisting frantically as she plummetted. The next instant, a deep thud vibrated through the earth as the snake struck the ground some twenty feet away.

He leapt to his feet, dagger in hand, not trusting for an instant that the impact would kill her. She certainly looked flat and broken, but the Horcrux undoubtedly survived. At this point, Harry wasn't taking any chances.

Apparently Fawkes was of the same mind, as he swooped down beside the snake and, giving Harry a look of warning, began swallowing it whole. Harry's stomach churned in sympathy, but he understood. Fawkes meant to put a magical end to this last remnant of Voldemort.

Though every fiber of his being yearned to help his familiar, Harry knew he couldn't augment this repulsive process. Fawkes kept a stern eye upon him as he stretched his neck and shook it in an effort to cram the last of the snake's body into his gullet. The residue of Dark magic visibly affected Fawkes; he began to weave and sway in stark contrast to his usual elegant grace.

"Fawkes," said Harry miserably as the phoenix took a tottering step toward him. The feathers on his belly curled and turned brown like so many autumn leaves, and not so much fell off as crumbled into dust. Still Fawkes continued to stagger as the bare patch expanded to the rest of his body, then his wings. Harry couldn't bear it; his beloved familiar was falling apart before his eyes, yet he had no idea how to rescue the phoenix. "Tell me what to do! Let me help you!"

Fawkes turned just then and hobbled in a new direction, stretching out his neck even as he collapsed. His head landed on Snape's chest.

The phoenix rubbed a tear onto the puncture wounds on Snape's forearm, rolled away, and burst into flames.

* * * * * * *

Those of you who guessed Snape was Tura's paramour, pat yourselves on the back.

I wrote the ending chapters before DH came out. Originally I had only Snape bitten by Nagini, then Harry watched in shock as Fawkes came over and healed him, and after that Harry learned about Tura. I was LIVID to hear that DH was so similar--felt I had to change it or people would complain. And I like it better this way--it makes more sense that Nagini would strike Harry first out of vengeance, then strike Snape just because he was there...