Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, settings, or anything else Harry Potter related. I'm just using them.

A/N: I haven't written a one-shot in a while that I've liked enough to post, and I'm not sure this one will even stay a one-shot. I've always liked the complications of the 'relationship' between Harry and Snape, and this is what I've gotten out of it so far. Tell me if you like it, please.

Title: Circumstance

"So I suppose there's no hope of rescue and all that?" Harry had to ask.

There was no response for several minutes, and then finally a sour, obviously unwilling voice answered.

"No. None."

"How long d'you think before they kill us?" he asked next. His young voice echoed in the stone room, filling its vaulted depths, but it was nothing compared to the dour and depressing response.


"I suppose they'll want to muck about a bit," Harry mused aloud, again breaking the depression with young and carefree tones. "Seems silly to beat a person before you kill them. Might as well kill 'em and move on."

"Foolish brat."

Harry sat up and blinked, looking over at the other occupant of the dark cell. The cell that would, in all probability, be the last place that he ever rested. "Huh?" he said. "I was just wondering."

"We aren't going to be rescued, Potter," the other man hissed. "Stop wasting your time pretending that it doesn't bother you!"

Harry blinked. "That what bothers me?" he asked, then thought hard. "Well, I suppose it'd be nice to know that they at least tried to get us back, but I doubt they're going to be able to find this place in time. Hell, we don't even know where we are."

The other man rolled over to glare at the teen with undying hatred. "You're irritating me, Potter. Please shut your mouth and remain that way!"

Harry did shut his mouth, but only for a few moments…precious moments, the other man felt. "Well, I can see that impending death makes you irritable," the boy finally said, voice teasing. "Just think—no more spying, right?"

Snape blinked. The brat was right. No more lies, no more double talk, no more fear. It was all over. It was done. But he couldn't let the brat know that he was right. "I would rather continue on spying than die," he said coldly. "I have a great many things to do before I die."

"Should have done them when you had the chance," Potter sighed. "Of course, I can't really lecture you on it, seeing as how I didn't even manage to make it through six years at Hogwarts. Never apologized to Remus, either…"

"Apologized?" Snape echoed, thrown off. The boy nodded, looking away. The man felt an almost triumphant surge at the haunted look that stole across the teen's young face. Up until, the boy had refused to look anything but cheerful, but finally he had managed to steal that away.

"For Sirius…" The teen's voice was almost a whisper, full of torment and guilt.

Snape snorted. "Surely you don't feel that you are to blame for that?"

Harry's green eyes bored into his. "Of course I am."

Snape wasn't sure what to say. So what if the brat had other emotions besides arrogance and pride? What of it?

And then, almost as if to prove his thoughts correct, the teen's face melted from drowning depression back into a mischievous smile. "I wonder if old Mold-fart will come down to see us off."

"Of course," Snape said, ignoring the stupid nickname. "He will want to be sure that our last moments leave us begging for death."

"Hate to disappoint him," Harry commented. "He's been looking forward to this a lot. Seems a little unhealthy to be that obsessed with something so silly."

"Hmm," Snape said, unwilling to admit that the brat's words were slightly amusing, even in this situation.

"I mean, usually you'd think it's pretty crazy that a fully-grown man with magical powers would want to kill a little baby. But then he goes ahead and tries. And then he again tries when the poor kid's in school. Over and over again! It's like he's fixated or something," Harry went on, voice almost laughing. "You'd think he'd figure it out."

"Figure out what?" Snape had to ask, when it became obvious that Harry was not going to go on without encouragement. And sadly, he thought to himself, he had nothing better to do than listen to the idiot boy's ramblings.

"Figure out that maybe he should be killing me instead of jabbering away with me," Harry told him. "Every time we meet, it's like he's got to tell me his plans and his dumb sob story. I could probably recite the whole damn spiel by now!"

Snape was glad the dark hid his smirk that was almost a smile. "I doubt he plans to talk with you much this time," he said instead. The boy breathed out loudly.

"No, no I suppose not," Harry admitted. "He'll probably just have someone Avada Kedavra me or something. I doubt he'd do it himself, just in case something went wrong."

"There are other ways of killing," Snape pointed out silkily, playing his own game of 'ruin the boy's foolhardy spirits.'

"I suppose he could just cut my throat or something," Harry agreed. "I guess it'll just have to be a surprise."

Snape felt a twist in his gut. Potter's words were full of cheer and false bravado, but Snape knew the young man was scared.

He had every right to be. Only sixteen, only halfway through his sixth year at Hogwarts, and the boy was going to die. There was no way around it, unless some astounding miracle occurred, and the boy was doing his best to crush his fear into the shadows and face death without it.

Sixteen, Snape thought. There was something disturbing about the idea of someone dying at that age. It was not right, somehow. Sixteen year olds were invincible and ageless. They couldn't die.

But this one would.

Snape thought himself rather selfish for having thought that he hadn't got to do everything he wanted in his life. He'd had more than thirty years to fulfill some dreams, and thirteen years free of Voldemort in which to accomplish many things.

Potter had had…nothing. No time to do anything but try to survive from the moment he entered Hogwarts. There was no time to travel, to make new discoveries, to do anything noteworthy beyond dying for the wizarding world. Potter would never see America or France or Germany, as Snape himself had.

"My…chatter…isn't bothering you too much, is it?" Harry asked hesitantly, cheer dampened for a moment.

With an effort, Snape wrested himself from his thoughts and shook his head. "If you want to prattle on about inane happenings, be my guest," he said, just to make sure the brat didn't think that he wanted to hear pointless chatter.

"Good, because I wasn't going to stop," Harry said, teasing tone back. There was a long pause after that, though, as if Potter really had run out of things to say, and Snape looked over to see that Potter was staring upwards, eyes half-closed.

"Potter?" he asked.

The boy blinked slowly, then looked over at him. "I was just wondering, sir…do you think that my mum would have been proud of me?"

Snape blinked, taken aback. What had happened to Potter's exuberance? What had happened to his happy attitude. "Erm," he said, "I suppose so," he admitted. "You did not squander her sacrifice."

"I didn't?" Potter asked softly.

"You think differently?" Snape asked. Potter sighed again.

"I don't know what I think," Potter said, then suddenly shoved himself up to a sitting position and then got to his feet. "I just can't take this waiting around," the teen admitted. "I feel like I should be searching for a way out of this or something."

Snape sat up as well, albeit it more slowly. His body was not dealing well with the physical injuries inflicted upon it, and he was stiff and sore. "We have looked again and again, Potter," he pointed out. "There is no way out of here, I assure you."

"But still—"

"No buts," Snape cut in harshly. "This cell has held many wizards and witches in its time, and none has ever escaped. It is impossible to break out of."

"I was just wondering—perhaps they did not search hard enough," Potter said quietly. Snape followed the teen as he roved around the cell, feeling the walls with his hands and brushing his fingers over every jagged piece of stone.

"Potter, stop being foolish and sit down before you collapse," he snapped coldly. Potter looked at him for a moment, then slowly tottered over and sat down, almost falling as he came to rest not four feet from where the potions master sat, leaning against their cell's bars.

"Kids have no patience," Potter said softly. Snape almost laughed this time, but cut it off sharply. Even now, he would not give Potter that satisfaction.

"Well, we have no choice but to wait," he said instead, voice acid. "You might as well get used to it."

"What's he waiting for, d'you think?" Potter asked. "For midnight? A full moon? For pigs to fly?"

Snape didn't know what that last comment meant, but he ground his teeth together anyway. "You're insufferable, Potter."

"I'll take that as a compliment, sir," Potter said jovially. "I suppose you'll be taking points off Gryffindor for a comment like that?"

"Fifteen, I should think," Snape said before he could catch himself. Potter just gave him a grin, though.

"No detentions?" the brat had the nerve to ask. "I'm disappointed."

"As you can see, I am most distraught," Snape said, before closing his eyes and trying to relax slightly.

"I can see that." Potter's voice was so soft that Snape thought he'd imagined it for a moment. When no other words were forthcoming, he let himself fall back into his mind, relaxing into familiar blackness and falling into a heavy, dreamless slumber.

He awoke to the sound of metal on metal.

He was awake in an instant, rolling away from the metal bars as quickly as his battered body would allow before forcing himself to get to his feet.

Potter was already on his feet, he noted with a sudden bitterness, as if the brat had beat him in some way.

He didn't have long to contemplate it, though, as his attention was diverted to those waiting for them at the door of the cell. "See you haven't forgotten us," Potter said cheekily, striding forward. "Time to get this finished, don't you think?" the teen asked, looking back at him with a grin.

Snape sneered at the brat. "If only to end your foolish babble," he said, not really meaning it anymore.

Potter didn't seem to think he meant it, either, and smiled broader before turning back to the captors. "Well?" the boy said. "What're we waiting for?"

The death eaters didn't respond. One raised his wand, and one evil word later Potter was on the floor, writhing in agony as the Cruciatus Curse was held on him for long moments. "You're going to kill him," Snape said flatly, refusing to let emotion come through his voice while he watched the boy shiver and shake.

"That is the idea," the other man said. "Of course, this won't kill him…not yet."

Snape kept his voice and his face emotionless. The boy had yet to let out more than a whimper to betray his pain, instead clamping his jaw tightly and shutting his eyes.

Finally, finally, the man raised his wand and Potter stopped his violent thrashing. Instead, he lay limp and shaking on the ground, breathing harshly through his mouth.

The boy looked a moment from unconsciousness, Snape decided, but after a few more harsh breaths the boy was pushing himself off the floor, struggling until he was finally back on his feet, swaying slightly but smiling weakly.

"That it?" the boy said, words hoarse but the tone light. "Pshht."

Snape ground his teeth silently. The brat seemed to be almost asking for it, egging their captors on like that. "Ever the Gryffindor idiot," he muttered, careful not to be heard. Potter took a few steps forward, until he was in the door of the cell, and then put his hands on his hips as if impatiently waiting for something.

"Well?" the boy finally said, voice recovered somewhat. "What now? Is this it?"

"We are here to tell you that you have two days left to live," one death eater finally said. "Enjoy it."

Potter was knocked backward by a sudden curse, and before either could move again the cell's door clanged shut and the death eaters were gone.


Snape waited quietly in his own corner, watching as the formerly unconscious teen began to shift and move around once more. "Uhhnn," he heard, but did not react. The brat had asked for it, and now he could reap the reward.

"I suppose you have a headache," he finally commented, watching the teen rub his forehead.

"Voldemort's about," Potter told him quietly. "He's angry about something."

"Why should he be?" Snape wondered. "He has captured his white whale."

"I read Moby Dick too," Potter said. "That 'white whale' drove the Captain to his death."

"True," Snape had to admit. "But I'm sure the Dark Lord has no worry of that."

"He has been led on his chase, he has caught me, and he will kill me," Potter ticked off the points on his fingers. "Yeah, I guess he wasn't driven insane…oh wait, maybe he was," Potter smirked weakly, giving up on rubbing his aching scar.

"Two days, Potter," Snape said suddenly. The teen nodded.

"Two days…the waiting's almost worse than the dying," the boy said.

And Snape suddenly realized that the boy's brave words and foolhardy actions towards their captors were most certainly covers for his fears. The boy was afraid to die. For all that he joked and laughed about it, he was afraid.


"Two days may give Albus enough time to locate us," Snape pointed out, though it was more unlikely than muggles killing Voldemort.

Potter seemed to realize that as well, giving him a weak smile. "Sure," Potter sighed. "And Voldemort's gonna come down here and tell me he wants me to be his boss."

"There is still some measure of hope left," Snape snapped.

"Hope for victory, yes," Potter said softly. "For us?"

The boy shrugged and resumed struggling to his knees, shaking visibly from the after effects of Cruciatus. Severus watched with a clinical perspective as the teen's limbs twitched involuntarily, tremors large enough for him to see jittering down the thin legs. In his mind, he noted down the severity of the tremors and listed off the potions he could use to cure them.

He also made note of the amount of time it would take for the damage to become permanent, and knew that the boy had no chance. Even if Dumbledore burst through the walls of their cell that very moment, Potter would not recover full use of his body. Too much stress, starvation, and pain had taken their toll. He would never walk unaided again, Snape felt sure.

Not that it would matter…he would be dead soon enough.

He didn't say anything, though, but instead let the boy groan and shift, hands pressed to his forehead. Whatever had upset the Dark Lord, it was not abating.

"Occlumency would have stopped this," he felt obliged to point out when Potter had finally pulled his hands away from his scar.

The teen stared at him, eyes flat. "I just wish there had been someone to teach it to me," he responded.

Snape opened his mouth, about to make an angry retort, then shut it again. He'd started this pointless argument—there was no reason to continue it. "Nevermind," he said. "Sleep," he said instead. "It will help to heal some of the effects Cruciatus has had upon you."

Potter smiled weakly, looking down at his legs, whose muscles still twitched and tremored. "I get the feeling that I'm going to need a cane after this," he said. "I'm going to end up looking like Moody."

Snape heard the false note in the words. Potter had no hope that he'd live that long, but was again trying to seem cheerful. "Stop the blather and sleep!" he ordered.

The boy gave him a somewhat insulted look, then rolled over and was silent.

Snape knew the boy wasn't sleeping, had no plans to slumber at all, but maintained the silence anyway, unwilling to say anything.

But, of course, it didn't last. "Sometimes," Potter said suddenly, voice cracking, "sometimes I have visions where Voldemort tortures children until they die," he shares. "Little ones—five or six—that don't understand what's going on but are old enough to beg and cry and plead…old enough to know that they're in pain and going to die…"

Snape's eyes watched as Potter shifted and settled lower on his side, arms wrapped tightly around his torso. "He never shows mercy, not once. Just tortures and tortures and tortures them until they stop crying and screaming…don't you think, Professor, that I would block that out if I could?"

Ah, so he has a point, Snape thought snidely. But the boy didn't seem to understand himself. "No," Snape said sharply. "No, I don't think you would."

Potter sat up, looking surprised at the answer. "What do you mean? You think I want to see things like that?"

"You think it's your duty to see what he does," Snape diagnosed calmly. "You think in some way it's your fault that these others suffer, and you watch and remember as penance."

"I—I," Potter said, but words failed him. Snape knew he had hit upon the truth of the matter.

"Don't deny it," he said. "If you think about it a moment, you'll realize that I'm right. You think it's your way of apologizing, for making up for what you've done."

"I didn't mean for him to come back," Potter said softly. Snape blinked.

He hadn't realized his last words would set off another Potter guilt trip. "You seem intent on blaming yourself for things out of your control," he stated.

Potter's green eyes, sorrowful and wise, stared him down. "I was stupid and foolish, and it has killed so many…"

"No matter what I say, you'll be intent on blaming yourself," Snape said with a sigh. He heard Potter shift slightly, turning away again.

"Sometimes, I get confused in my visions…and I think it's me dying under Voldemort's wand…I guess I was right after all…" Potter said softly.

"You seem to have taken a rather nasty turn since this morning," Snape commented, unwilling to speak of things like this with Potter, of all people.

"Well, you know, we are going to be dead in two days. Just thought I'd like to do a little deep thinking before I die," the teen pointed out, sighing.

He was right, and Snape knew it, but he refused to be beaten. "I would assume that you'd like to keep up your fearless façade," Snape said.

"Well, it didn't seem to be making you feel any better," the boy pointed out. "It sure as Merlin doesn't make me feel any better."

"It probably will be quick," Snape said suddenly, determine to make the boy feel at least a little better.

"Yeah, I suppose…for you," the boy agreed. "Remember—I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. I personally insulted Voldie by being protected by my mother, and he's faced me again and again and been defeated. I highly doubt he'll show me any mercy."

"You may have a point," Snape had to admit.

They lapsed into a heavy, unhappy silence.


Snape blinked owlishly as he was dragged out into the relatively bright light of the pre-dawn world. Potter was similarly blinded, blinking hard behind his glasses as they tried to adjust to a much, much brighter world.

The last of it that they would ever see.

Two days…two days gone and they had not been saved, had found no way to escape. Two days without food or water, without hope. They were both weakened and shaking on their fatigued legs, but walked upright, strong, towards their deaths.

"Where did you go wrong, Severus?" Lucius Malfoy growled into his ear.

So that was who was holding his arm. "When I took that filthy mark upon my arm," he spat back.

The grip on his arm tightened a moment, but relaxed as another arrived.


Snape knew without even looking, because he could see Potter, wincing in pain as his scar no doubt flared with fiery pain.

The boy had tried to describe the pain to him the night before, how it was like an ax slowly sinking through his head, or perhaps a fire poker, red hot, being pushed through his skull.

Snape got the idea.

It hurt.

The boy didn't make a sound, though. Just stood and blinked a little more rapidly than normal, trying to overcome the pain.

And Voldemort saw his attempts and laughed. "My, my, Mr. Potter, do you have a headache today?" he asked mockingly.

"Seems you're having a bad hair day, so we're all even," the teen snapped back.

There was a silence, expectant.

But Voldemort just laughed again, knowing he was completely in control of the situation. "Still defiant, even at the end," he said softly. "You would have been a good addition to my Death Eaters, Harry. It is too bad that you don't see what you could become."

"A half-dead monster, such as yourself?" the boy asked, disgust lacing his words. "No thank you."

"The most powerful wizard to ever live, capable of ruling the world," Voldemort said, as if Potter had not spoken.

"And yet you're here, hiding from the world, still not ruling anything!" Potter spat.

"Soon, boy. Your death will mean the last shred of resistance will be gone."

"Dumbledore's ten times more powerful than you could ever hope to be," Potter said stubbornly. "Hell, my friends are better wizards than you can ever hope to become."

"You speak of things that you do not truly appreciate," Voldemort said, and Snape recognized that tone. It promised pain.


Potter was down like a shot, convulsing in agony. Snape was surprised that the boy was not screaming—until he realized that the pain was so intense that the boy was just above unconsciousness. His green eyes had rolled back into his head, and he was shaking jerkily, muscles spasming far out of his control.

It took Snape a while to realize that the spell had been lifted—Potter continued to convulse afterwards, body ripped apart by the power of the spell. "When I cursed you in the graveyard," Voldemort said, even as the boy struggled to his feet again, "I was but newly reborn, and not at my full strength. You were very lucky then, Potter."

"Funny how every sh-time I beat you, you shay it'sh becaushe of luck," Potter said, voice harsh and distorted—he'd bitten clean through his tongue, Snape decided from the blood pouring from the boy's mouth.

"Let's try Imperio again, shall we?" Voldemort asked, raising his wand again.

Potter's eyes glazed over, his arms limp by his sides. Voldemort moved his wand, but Potter didn't move. His muscles shook, as if he very much wanted to take a step forward, but he didn't move an inch.

Within thirty seconds, the teen blinked and looked up, eyes clear and full of anger. "It doshen't work, Tom! My will ish ten timesh shtrong than yoursh!"

Voldemort looked enraged, and flicked his wand again. "Crucio!"

Potter was down again, writhing, convulsing, dying…how he continued to stay conscious, despite the curse, Snape did not know. But when Voldemort released the spell again, Potter lay for half a minute longer before slowly, agonizingly, climbing to his feet.

"You ca—can't beat me, Tom," Potter said, gasping for air.

Voldemort looked even more enraged, but then his expression became sly. "Perhaps I am not the one who will…beat…you," he commented.

Snape had a very bad feeling about this.

Before he could move or even say a word, he felt a haze settle over his mind.

Walk towards the boy.

He was walking forward before he even realized he'd acknowledged the command.

Wrap your hands around his throat…just hold tightly…squeeze…follow him down to the ground…don't let him fight it…very good…lovely…

Suddenly, some part of him realized that he was being controlled. He could see again, and what he saw was not good.

Potter lay beneath him, face blue, and hands—his hands—were wrapped around the teen's throat, crushing his windpipe savagely.

He leaped back with a startled cry, breaking the spell, but before he could get more than four steps, Death Eaters once again had him by the arms.

Snape didn't notice his recapture. His eyes were glued to the boy lying on the ground, coughing and gasping weakly for air. Deep handprints marked his throat, and there was a bloody cut on the boy's face, though he couldn't remember striking the teen.

Slowly, Potter recovered and stood again, facing Voldemort. "Amushed?" he asked tiredly, voice so husky and damaged that it was hard to understand. "I've hard enough of thish."

"Indeed," Voldemort said softly. "As have I…and it is dawn now. Time for my…amusement…to end."

"It's well past time for your charade to end, as well," Potter said, voice suddenly strong and clear. "Parading about, as if you were really powerful or important. Just think—you've wasted what time you have, chasing after a rather unimpressive teenager."

"CULTER!" Voldemort snarled, fully enraged.

Potter fell to his knees, cuts blossoming all over his battered body, but he struggled back to his feet, skin in shreds, blood everywhere.

And yet, the boy stayed on his feet, swaying, half in shock, but still defiant. Still fighting.

Snape had to admit that he could feel some small amount of respect for the boy. He was doing very well at the end.

He'd expected the teen to scream, at least.

But there were no words any more, no sounds.

Just a sixteen year-old, standing on his own two feet and watching calmly as death came for him.

The boy's mouth was moving—he was muttering something, saying something under his breath. Snape could not catch the words.

"Are you watching, my dear traitor?" Voldemort suddenly asked.

Snape started, so focused on Potter's last moments that he'd forgotten the murderer himself.

He said nothing, though. Just watched the boy, locking eyes with the teen for a very brief moment.

Just long enough to nod slightly.

Potter smiled back, mouth moving still. Snape could not catch what the boy said—too much blood and filth on the boy's face made it impossible.

He supposed it was 'thank you' or something similar. What else the boy was saying, he did not know.

There was one thing he did know, though.

The boy had his respect, fully and completely. And he did his best to make sure that the teen knew it, in that moment before he was killed.

"Avada Kedavra."

The words were spoken with such calm that the collapse of the boy was almost a surprise. One instant, Potter stood swaying on his feet, covered in blood and burns but alive.

And then the next, he lay on his back, legs bent at the knees and arms outstretched. Green eyes stared straight up, but there was no fear on the boy's face.

He had not felt afraid as death came rushing to meet him.

Acceptance. Understanding. Calmness.

Snape stood, numbed, as Voldemort turned to him. "And now, I don't think I will play with you, Professor," he said softly. "Indeed, I think I've have enough amusement for the day, and I doubt you'd last half as long as the boy did."

He didn't say anything, still staring at the remains of the Boy-Who-Died-Too-Young.

"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort said, realizing he would get no response, no pleading, no begging.

Snape waited for the spell to connect.

It seemed like much longer than it should have been before…

Nothing happened.

Surprised, he turned to see just what was the matter.

The spell had not misfired, had not been blocked in some inexplicable event.

It just…didn't happen.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" Voldemort shouted, an odd note in his voice.

Again, nothing happened. No fizzle, nothing. No reaction at all from his wand.

Snape recognized suddenly the tone Voldemort used.

Panic. Fear.

The Death Eaters looked worried, wondering just what was going on.

Snape was wondering the same thing himself.




Nothing, again.


Snape smiled, almost laughing as Voldemort tried the extremely simple spell.

And got no results whatsoever.

Nothing worked.

Murmurs spread.

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, wand aimed not at Snape but at…Voldemort. He had always been good at sensing weakness, Snape knew, and he felt it now.

In their leader.

"Avada Kedavra!" he spat. Voldemort looked up from his wand, surprise and anger on his face.

But no green light bloomed from the wand, nothing came rushing out to kill the Dark Lord.

Suddenly, all the Death Eaters realized that perhaps they, too, had been affected by whatever was going on.

And none could cast any spells—Snape wondered if he, too, was affected, but had no way to test the theory.

Potter had done something, he realize. Something in his final moments. The muttering, the words he'd been saying had not been wasted words of encouragement or somesuch.

It must have been something very powerful and very ancient. No wand had been used—only words and what innate wandless magic the boy possessed.

Snape knew several complicated spells that relied solely on long phrases and wandless magic—but the most powerful spells left the user little more than a squib…which wouldn't have mattered to Potter, who knew he was about to die.

His respect for the boy raised a notch.

He wondered if Potter had been planning this the whole time—waiting for the right moment, provoking Voldemort into killing him first…all of it…he would not be surprised.

Albus would have questions to answer when he got back.

All of this passed through Snape's mind within half a minute—half a minute in which Death Eaters all tried to perform magic and could not.

Even Voldemort, admittedly very powerful, could not produce even a fizzle of sparks from his wand.

Snape watched with odd calm as he was forgotten, left standing wavering on his own weak legs. His eyes were on the Death Eaters next to him—and the one that had just thrown his wand down in disgust.

He acted instantly, shoving the man out of the way with his shoulder while scooping up the discarded wand.

Hoping, something he did not often do, he raised the wand, leveling it at Voldemort himself.

He thought of the boy, lying dead on the ground. He thought of the monster's laughter, his cruel use of Imperio, his sadistic torture of a sixteen year-old boy.

"Avada Kedavra!" he croaked, inwardly grimacing at his weak voice.

But it did not matter.

Green light burst violently from the borrowed wand, striking down the monster in an instant.

It happened so fast that all just stood in shock, staring at the heap of robes lying on the ground.

The tables had turned so abruptly that none of the Death Eaters had caught up yet.

Voldemort was dead, and only Snape, the traitor, could use magic.


A/N: I thought of going on from here, but I think it's pretty self explanatory from here on out. Obviously, the tables have turned very dramatically. I think everyone can guess what happens from here, but if you all really want it I'll write a second part to it. Honestly, though, I just love that last sentence. It makes me smile every time I read it, and if I'm in a good mood it even makes me cackle. Those DE are so going to get it!