“Look at me,” the man said. It was like a mask had been lifted. The cold, cruel Death Eater visage for a moment had fallen away and left a vulnerability so tender it had rendered the boy speechless. Harry reached out, without thinking. Without any disgust for his old enemy. Instinctively he tried to stem the bleeding from the man's torn neck and throat. Snape's normally cold black eyes were glassy with tears, as if looking through Harry's into someone else's. Then a thin silvery substance, neither liquid or vapor trickled down his blanched cheeks. “Take them…to the pensieve,” he said in a frail quailing voice. Lurking close by, Hermione Granger, seemed to understand at once. She quickly rummaged in her beaded bag and pulled out a tiny empty vial. Holding it against Snape's cheek, with a shaky hand Harry captured the tears. Once again the unnerving black gaze met the green. Was he yearning in his last moments for forgiveness and comfort? Would the memories of a dying man, contained in a tiny glass bottle be an absolution? Shame for the years of ridicule, cruelty and hatred. It seemed unlikely. There was no sorrow in Snape's bitter husk of a heart. He was a traitor and a killer, but why give the boy something as personal as his own memories? “You have your mother's eyes,” said Snape. His agonised breathing faltered. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. The black gaze then faded. Harry was left stunned and confused. Shakily he got to his feet. sss The three young people were gone. In their haste, no one had checked to see if he had actually died, only that he moved no more. The black eyes were glazed and blank but something deep inside him, normally freed during the process of physical death remained. Voldemort however, was no more. Harry Potter lived.