He was part of the forest itself. He was a creature of darkness, standing in the shadow, one with the shadow. He was black from his hair to his cloak to his heart. He was well-trained in silence, well-trained in patience. Even he could not be sure how long he had stood here in the snowy forest without moving. Even his thoughts were inactive, blank. He was no longer human.

SNAP.

The man, flattened against the trunk of a ghostly birch, forced even his pulse to remain still. The dry twig snapping was a minute sound, but in a place completely devoid of even thought it seemed to reverberate.

The black eyes moved slowly, ever so carefully, to the location of the snap. To his surprise and relief, an animal stood there, one hoof raised in the air over the cracked twig. It was a doe, thin and frail. Why was she all alone?

The man’s long, shaggy black mane, ragged clothing, and skeletal frame were testament to his half-year on the run. How long had it been since he had eaten meat, or eaten at all…?

A hand, almost bare of flesh, moved stealthily from within the cloak, imperceptible. It gently coiled itself round the stick of wood concealed there, and then gripped tightly in triumph.

Hand and wand returned insidiously to their master’s side, awaiting instruction. And yet the man paused, savouring the bittersweet pain of denial. The cold, dry winter wind tore at his throat. Soon he would feel her warm blood within him, soon he would be full at last…

He felt the curse building within his wand. Strange; he had only used the spell but once, nearly three years ago, in another lifetime. The man hated to kill, and yet sometimes it presented itself as a necessity. He needed to eat or he would die. For this, the doe would be a sacrifice, and perhaps it would be painless. For her, at least, it would be over quickly.

He tilted his wand upwards, pointing it at her heart. It was a pity…

She lifted her head, stopping him, at least momentarily, out of shock. The large brown eyes looked at him full-on, as if she could sense her murderer lurked there, waiting to deliver the death blow.

Quiet as thawing snow she treaded towards him. He marvelled that the thin legs could support her; they seemed as boughs, delicate and liable to break. She was dappled brown, the colour of the undergrowth in spring, with white flecks on her haunches. In her eyes she possessed a certain knowing. She was beautiful. He wondered sadly at this creature, that she would lovingly approach the man who wished to eat her…

Now, do it now, you fool, a voice within him whispered urgently. His hand twitched on his wand, eyes powerless to leave the doe. She will leave, she will run soon, and then where will you be? This is not a time for sentiment, this is a time for survival! And yet still his hand quivered: unable to kill, unwilling to refrain.

The two stood in silence, in impasse. Then, unbidden, the doe ran fleetingly into the darkness. Damn. Cursing himself for his passivity, and yet still unsure what he might have done, given the chance, Severus Snape returned to the shadows, awaiting his next unwitting prey.

He had tracked him for six months now. And, if he was true to himself, fruitlessly. The fact of the matter was, Severus Snape was as slippery as he had ever been, and if he set his mind on avoiding detection, it seemed unlikely he would ever be found.

The only thing that kept Harry going was that memory of the night on the Astronomy tower. He would never, ever forget. Death had come to a man who had never deserved it—and now, if Harry had his way, death would find someone who did.

Hermione had visited him the day before.

‘Harry, please don’t do this.’

He sighed, without turning round from where he worked at a little desk in his bedroom at the Burrow. She had said the same thing for the last three months now, when he had first made his intentions known, once the funerals were over and reconstruction was safely underway; once the Death Eaters and their followers had been rounded up—save one.

‘Hermione, I’ve got to.’ He resumed his tedious measurements of the map he was making.

She laid a warm hand on his shoulder. ‘Harry, don’t you see? You haven’t “got to� do anything! You did all anyone would ever ask of you—no, more—and now it’s over, Harry. You don’t have to fight anymore. The Aurors will find him. It’s time—well, it’s time to rest.’

Harry stiffened under her touch. Annoyance became tinged with anger. Did she think this mission of his was for heroics? That he wanted more fame than was already his, and already unwanted?

‘Hermione, it’s got to be me.’ He said it with such finality she recoiled slightly. Finally he turned in his chair to face her. ‘He murdered Dumbledore. I saw it. And when you see something like that, you don’t forget it easily.’

‘I’m not saying—’ He held up a hand to stop her.

‘He killed my parents. He told Voldemort the prophecy. Otherwise they might have been left alone. He taunted Sirius and made him reckless.’ Again she began to speak but he ploughed onwards. ‘I don’t care what Dumbledore said, I know the truth. He was like that voice in the back of your head which tells you all the things you’re already thinking, but makes them worse, makes them more real…all because of a stupid school grudge! Everything that has gone wrong in my life can be blamed on Severus Snape.’

‘Oh, Harry…’ She didn’t know what to say.

‘There’s unfinished business between us. And I want to be the one to finish it. I want to.’

‘But Harry, think about us! We won’t know where you are, if you’re injured or worse… What if you die? How can you put yourself in that kind of danger, just after we’ve all been through that much? Don’t you know how precious life is?’

That stung him like nothing else. ‘Of course I do, Hermione,’ he said quietly.

It had been a low blow and she had enough dignity to look ashamed. ‘Of course…’ she said gently, and then, ‘I’m sorry, Harry.’

‘S’okay.’ He shrugged and turned away, wounds still raw from the Battle of Hogwarts. So many dead, so many families torn apart…

‘Harry…’ He looked up at the sound of her voice: now it was tinged with a sort of fierce determination. She had that blazing look on her face he had so often seen on Ginny. ‘We’re coming with you. Ron and I, that is.’ She shook her head to show him she wasn’t done with her say. ‘We’ve already discussed this. We know you well enough to know you won’t change your plans, but we want to keep you safe nonetheless. We’ve had opportunity to turn back, you know? But we’re still here, and that’s not going to change. Where you go, we’ll follow.’

Harry opened his mouth to speak. Hermione crossed her arms, the picture of stubbornness, and rolled her eyes in what was clearly meant to say, here it comes.

‘I don’t want you to come.’ He held up a hand to stop her from butting in. ‘But not for the reason you think, not mainly. I mean, of course I care about you, I don’t want anything—couldn’t live with myself if it did—to happen to you. But it’s personal Hermione, don’t you see? There is a score to settle, and I will be the only one to settle it.’

Hermione sighed. She knew that look all too well. The green eyes were walled off in decision; the mouth set in a firm, straight line; nose upturned mulishly. He was like a boulder, and would never budge.

Hermione stepped forward and lay a light kiss on his cheek. ‘Good luck, Harry,’ she whispered, wondering if they were to be her last words to her friend.

~*~

He breathed in as quietly, noiselessly as he could. The dawn was breaking over the dusty mountains in the distance, casting a rosy glow on the lake before him. Strange; he had as much time as he wanted, now, and yet could never pause for a second’s rest. Strange; life was so breathtaking in the daily miracles it offered—and yet so short.

The tea was drunk quietly in front of the smouldering embers of last night’s fire. He gripped the warm cup tightly, shivering in his thin cloak. Severus had always cherished the morning. It was a restful time when he could feel like the only one in the world. Nothing was truly awake, or set; everything was more in their state of absolute being, what they really were beneath all the lies. With the first rays of sunlight on the horizon came expectations, and pretences; false smiles and friends and confidences. With the day came danger and loss.

Silently Severus stood, swirling the last dregs of tea round in his cup before drinking them too. A quick glance upwards and he had gauged the light in the sky: time to move on, and leave no trace of his stay. With the deftness of an old task, the fire was covered with some gravely sediment, the tent was collapsed in a few quick strokes, the bedroll tightly packed in its case, and the whole of his possessions, which were little more than a Muggle camping stove, a knife, and a water pump, were stuffed into his rucksack.

At the slight physical exertion his stomach moaned in protest. It had received very ill treatment in the last half-year. Wild mushrooms, too few to be satisfying, for dinner; a mug of lukewarm tea for breakfast, and little else the weeks previously. Normally he could have magically procured a decent meal for himself. Then again, normally he wouldn’t have had the entire Ministry of Magic on his heels, the Trace thick upon him.

Severus didn’t know what would become of him. Perhaps he would waste away—as, he realised, he must already be doing—and eventually starve to death. He could think of worse fates. And really, what was left for him on Earth? He had no friends or obligations, and had accomplished his last mission: keep Lily’s son safe. Maybe now both of them—himself and her—could rest at ease. He was a free man.

True, the Wizarding world despised him and was tracking him even now; but then, after all this time, he should be used to being called a coward and a traitor.

Who knew what the future might bring for Severus Snape? All he could do in this moment was appreciate this sunrise, distinct from all the sunrises that had ever bloomed in the sky since the world’s conception. The red glow in the distance reminded him of red hair, and red cheeks, and red lips, and things he should have forgotten. Some things should have been laid to rest. But, like the red-hued sky, they blossomed day after day after day in his otherwise colourless mind.