Snape could do nothing for him. That was the unkindest cut of all.

But here he sat at the bedside, creating potions with steady hands, listening to the steady breathing turn harsh, listening to the occasional broken wail. The screams of the hurt and dying were hardly muffled by the walls between this room and the infirmary. He had considered briefly that perhaps the crying of the children was killing Dumbledore as surely as the internal bleeding. One great spell, wrapping the whole of Hogwarts in a ward as strong as iron, had ruptured something inside. Madame Pomfrey had done all she could; Snape was here as an afterthought. The witness to Dumbledore's will.

Snape's hand did not tremble as he poured, added powder, murmured words thick as the lingering scent of brimstone in the hall. His heart did not rend in two. The Dark Mark burned steadily on his arm, pulsing in time with His Lord's heart. Albus's blood marked his hands up to the wrist, smearing as the source himself reached out a hand and caught it in a deceptively strong grip.

Snape did not look away from the potion. His voice did not shake as he asked with a touch of impatience, "Yes?"

The cooling hand patted his own, as if Dumbledore had any right to be paternal. "Enough, Severus."

"I believe I know how much dragon's tooth to add to a simple clotting potion."

"I believe you know what I meant." Settling back against the pillows, Dumbledore sighed. "Enough."

Keeping one hand on the base of the goblet, Snape turned to see him. The hours had not been kind. "I was told to help you as I could. Allow me to do my job-"

"The children are safe. You have done your job admirably." Dumbledore offered him a smile, a wan thing that somehow still remained unbroken. "Now, though it has never been your strong suit, I ask that you listen to me."

It was something of a struggle to pull his hand away from the goblet and admit defeat, though he would tell himself later that it was simply a matter of wounded pride. His actions at least did not betray the hesitation. Snape sat back in the chair and folded his arms. It made the Mark burn yet more fiercely.

Even though the Mark was hidden from sight, beneath the safety of robes, Dumbledore's eyes seemed to linger there for a moment before he sighed. "I have left the safety of the school to Professor McGonagall. As she is the strongest, she is to remain here, holding the wards, guarding the children."

"She could be of better use fighting Voldemort-"

"By protecting the children, she is fighting the only battle that truly matters."

"The children would be safer elsewhere."

For a brief moment, Dumbledore's eyes burned with their old strength. "Can you think of anywhere on this Earth that is safe for them? Anywhere at all? Until Voldemort is dead, I fear this is the best sanctuary we can offer. It will hold." The fire petered out. "It will have to."

Snape did not argue. There was a faint, weary regret in Dumbledore's expression, one that he recognized well. "And while she is holding," Snape said, "where am I needed?"

That won him a grim, haunted smile. Dumbledore held his eyes, unblinking, as he said, "You will go to the Deatheaters."

There was nothing else to be said. The instructions had been given a hundred times, a thousand, in case the worst case scenario arose. It had arisen now, alive around them like a hideous storm. He would go forth, and he would die. Snape closed his eyes once, briefly, and nodded. That was all that could be said.

Dumbledore's hand closed over Snape's own. "I would take this burden-"

Snape opened his eyes and spared him a withering glance that lacked its usual force. "You have taken burden enough, I think. Perhaps you should leave some for the rest of us."

"I will have to." Lying back slowly, as if it pained him, Dumbledore gave a rattling sigh and closed his eyes. "There are envelopes in my desk drawer. Letters. I trust you'll distribute them properly. Give Harry his before you go."

"Tell him yourself; I was not hired as a courier."

Dumbledore's lips curved on a smile that told Snape his voice had betrayed something that time. He had faced the Dark Lord; he had narrowly avoided werewolves and killed a dozen men; he had known terror, and it paled to the growing quiet of this dimly lit room.

"I feared for the boy you were." Dumbledore's voice broke the silence, demanded attention even as it faded. "And though I had little to do with it, I'm proud of the man you became."

The cutting remark faltered and died in Snape's mouth. Dumbledore drew in one breath, then another, and an eternity passed before Snape realized that a third would not come.
***
McGonagall was waiting by the door as Snape came out, long after the hand on his own had stiffened and cooled. Lupin stood behind her, and Black, and no doubt Potter eavesdropped in the wings. Snape met their eyes, and watched the truth sink in and age them. His own reflection in McGonagall's glasses showed nothing, cold and perfect as a pane of unbroken ice.

Drawing in a shocked breath, as if she'd been slapped, McGonagall- Minerva, now, briefly in between her own station and her new authority, laid bare by pain- pressed her hand to her mouth and turned away. Lupin turned with her, comforting even as he himself was stricken. Black simply stared at him, the accusation as blunt as it was silent and somehow expected.

Snape moved past them without a word, past the seething hell of the infirmary, past the silent student's halls, into the dungeon. The door to his office shut behind him. He did not tremble; he did not break. He simply washed his hands until they were a raw and angry red, a ghost of the blood he knew he would ever see there until death. An hour of so would not be so long to tolerate.

Later, still stinging, arm burning, he dressed and walked into the night beyond the ward. The dark swallowed him, and he called it mercy.
***
End.