Written in around half an hour and not beta-ed. Sorry, but had the sudden urge and an idea, and this is what came of it. Characters belong to themselves and Rowling; story's mine. Any ambiguities are meant to exist; any questions, email me.

The blow took him by surprise, fist across his cheek. Pain temporarily blinded him and knocked him to his knees. He looked up, when he could again see, to stare into twinkling blue eyes gone cold.

"I do this because I love you," Dumbledore said and his voice had the implacable ring of truth.

That morning, Harry Potter had been found dead in his room. The school had been plunged into mourning, children breaking out into hysterics. McGonagall's eyes had been damp and Hagrid had bawled; but they were the only ones of the teachers to grieve the boy. Sinistra traded unhappy glances with Flitwick, and Sprout's expression had been devoid of hope. Pomfrey abstained from food, holding her glass with a white-knuckled grip. They knew.

In the centre of his chest a horrible ache grew. If he could name it, Snape would call it 'guilt'; but he left it undefined, and allowed it spread like a cancer throughout him. He walked down the halls with the weight of countless lives weighing down his shoulders. He had never believed, not before this morning.

The sidekicks, Weasley and Granger, hadn't left their Tower, and so Snape had no clue as to whether they were coping with their loss. If he allowed himself to think of it, then in his mind would be constructed pale faces and choked out sobs; desperate embraces and clutching hands. Friendship at its worst, at its most debilitating, because it brought people so close – and that closeness, if ripped apart, could rip apart minds, souls… And the cancer spread, he could feel it in his bones; the tips of his fingers, the lump in his throat.

Pomfrey had said suicide. Everyone knew; she didn't have to say it. They knew. They all knew. In the morning, in the Great Hall, with all the children spread out in their House Tables and the knowledge spreading like grassfires to every ear; every ear disbelieving until eyes that cast about couldn't find him; until they noticed that there were no Gryffindors at their table; until they saw Hagrid's tears, and Dumbledore's grim countenance. Pomfrey had said suicide and her eyes had been glassy with shock. Her hands had trembled, her voice had shook; she had said suicide.

My fault, he thought helplessly. Behind his eyes sadness hummed. I should have-- I could have-- But now there was no hope; without the boy, there was nothing. He had never believed that, not until this morning.

And Snape walked, the horrible horrible disease taking him over. He walked up the stairs to Dumbledore's offices, stood before the man he'd thought of as mentor and tormentor all as one, and took the words Dumbledore said. They were soft and diamond-edged, glittering into his mind sideways before twisting into his thoughts and drawing blood. "You will go to Voldemort and tell him everything you can. You will tell him what the Order has planned. You will tell him Remus Lupin's position. You will tell him where the Weasleys are hiding, and what they are hiding. You will tell him everything he needs to hear to keep him from killing you. You will tell him that I have discovered your position and you have just barely escaped. He will keep you. Your skills are too valuable."

Snape stared, aghast. "Albus-" he began to say, and then ---

The blow took him by surprise, fist across his cheek. Pain temporarily blinded him and knocked him to his knees. He looked up, when he could again see, to stare into twinkling blue eyes gone cold.

"I do this because I love you," Dumbledore said and his voice had the implacable ring of truth.