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Severus Snape was a very ritualistic person. Holydays were for reading and trying to be alone, refusing to entertain guests or maintain correspondence until politely acceptable, all under the guise that he was too busy for anything else, conducting experiments, and indulging in whatever it was that he was interested in at the moment.
It was very close to heaven.
That Sunday night he had been ready to sit down and open his book in Mesoamerican mythology, when his Floo had flared to life, with only the head of Minerva McGonagall visible amongst the embers.
At first, he thought she was giggling, and he looked at her uncomprehendingly, trying to make sense of her mumbles of 'it’s Potter, it’s Potter', and asking himself what had the child done this time to make Minerva, of all people, call him in the middle of the summer.
“Minerva” he called loudly “What happened?”
“He’s dead!” her voice raised to a desperate shrill “They found him dead in their relatives’ house”
Oh.
He felt his legs give up and distantly concluded that she was not giggling.
If asked, he would tell that he couldn’t remember how that particular conversation progressed, just that in one given moment he was left watching the ashes in his chimney, and wondering what would happen now.
He had expected that he would die in the war that Dumbledore was sure would happen in the next few years, not Potter.
The last time he had seen the child he had been celebrating that Gryffindor had won the House’s cup with his friends, eating and laughing, and very much alive. Standing on shaky legs, he tried to remember if there was something that indicated that something like this would happen, but came up with nothing.
This was bad.
Lily Evans’ dead eyes looked accusing in his memories, and guilt for how he had treated that skinny bespectacled kid threatened to choke him. But all the guilt in the world wouldn’t revive Potter, ‘it’s useless’ he told himself over and over, even as Lily’s eyes morphed in those of her son’s in his mind, and the corridors of the castle were so silent and desolated he could swear they were mourning too.
What had happened? Had he been found by one of the Dark Lord’s followers? Had Sirius Black escaped? Bellatrix? Any of the other Death Eaters trapped in Azkaban? What about the Blood Wards?
The Headmaster office was dark and silent, and Dumbledore was sitting in front of his pensieve, the pale light coming from the memories stored in the object making the wrinkles in his face more pronounced, and Severus had to remind himself that this man, despite appearances, was the one whom the Dark Lord feared, and that he could not storm into the office requesting answers.
It was not necessary, because the old man started talking once the door closed behind him.
“I have committed a great, no, a terrible mistake, Severus” the tears started crossing wrinkled cheeks, and the despair in those bright blue eyes made him pause.
“What happened, Albus?”
“I overestimated the filial love that Petunia Dursley could have for her nephew” the old man buried his head in his hands, looking the very image of defeat.
“You… You told me that she had changed. You told me that she was a dotting mother” he felt as if he was either going to cry, or vomit, or start ripping his hair out of his head “YOU PROMISED HE WAS SAFE!”
“I thought the same”
The stemmed Headmaster of Hogwarts looked lost, but that didn’t make the desire to choke him with his own hands (magic be damned) any less strong.
Clenching his teeth, he paced from one extreme of the office to the other, grinding his teeth, breathing deeply and trying to not scream, or break those little trinkets of Dumbledore’s, or hit his head with the wall or with his fists. It was not appropriate, and he should do well to remember that he could do all that in the privacy of his own rooms, not in front of his employer.
Instead, he pressed his eyes with his hands and took the chair across the other man.
“It was her? Did Petunia…?”
“No. But she and her family were the ones who instigated this situation”
In Severus’ opinion, it would have been the same if Harry Potter’s blood was in Petunia’s hands, but refrained to tell Albus that.
“And the boy?” Albus flinched at that, and Severus wanted to hit him with Fawkes’ perch. ‘You have no right’ he wanted to yell.
“The muggle’s authorities took… him to make an autopsy. I got Kingsley to take charge of his case”
“I want to see the results of the autopsy when they are ready” he snapped, feeling a little satisfied when Albus only nodded “What is going to happen now?”
“We keep on living, Severus. We have nothing else to do”
Wakes were always a tiresome affair that he would have preferred to avoid, but it seemed that the world wanted to say goodbye to his fallen hero with all the unasked pomp.
Severus had offered to bring Potter’s little muggleborn friend to and from Hogwarts, something that he would use as a excuse to leave the oppressing atmosphere at Hogwarts, and then he would be at the beck and call of Minerva, who looked older and more tired than Albus nowadays, and who had taken to use him as a tear cloth and unwilling confidant to her rage.
With a little luck, the day would come to an end quickly.
He left the girl in the Great Hall, the only place in the castle big enough to carry out a event such as this one, and searched for Minerva and Albus, who were supposed to be waiting for Shacklebolt near the gates of the school. He found them quickly, both clothed in black, both somber and, in Minerva’s case, with a clenched jaw that betrayed her anger.
The Auror arrived with a white, ornate casket, that Severus thought too small, even for a child. Had Harry Potter been that small? He couldn’t remember. It was difficult to think of Harry Potter, as stubborn as he was, as naïve, as determined and alive, now trapped in that fancy, small, box.
He lost himself to his thoughts, patting absentmindedly Minerva’s back when she took his shoulder as a glorified handkerchief again, and only shook himself to bear witness to the new argument between her and Albus.
“No, Albus” she was hissing, and that was never a good sign, now even less, what with her red rimmed eyes and pursed lips “Not an open casket”
“His friends would want to see him, at least one last time” he tried to reason “Furthermore, I want to deter the assistants from trying to see him and disrupt the ceremony”
“Albus” he interrupted “Do you really believe that this is some kind of spectacle?”
“Severus” he gulped when those cold blue eyes turned on him “Do not assume my intentions, nor my thoughts” they were in front of the closed doors of the Great Hall, casket floating placidly behind them, all the while they glared at each other. It was Minerva who cleared her throat and redirected their attentions elsewhere.
There were more important things to do.
Albus opened the doors and floated the casket with one single wand movement, and it was Minerva that got him moving, taking his bicep in a harsh grip, almost dragging him in the same direction that Albus had taken.
He saw the Granger girl still sitting in the same chair he had left her in, with her brown eyes even more red than when he had left her alone, and wondered if maybe she needed a calming draught.
Maybe he would suggest that Minerva offered the girl one. Or maybe not, maybe Minerva needed it more than her, or maybe she would take offense that he implied that one of her little cubs was in need of that kind of help. Or maybe he should just shut up and wait if anyone asked for one.
The coffin was levitated softly to a simple wooden bier, and Severus thanked the powers that be that they had decided to opt for the more modern muggle custom of getting a casket instead of a simple shroud.
He saw the Granger girl, who was still hiccuping, and almost willed her to look at him. He would need her to take his point across. Albus needed to see what exposing Harry Potter would do.
She peeked up long enough that she noticed his nod calling her forward at the same time Albus lifted the top of the casket. He had barely noticed the boy’s shoes when he heard the girl make a chocked sound and retreat blindly towards her abandoned chair.
Albus looked at her petrified, hand still on the lid, as she sobbed quietly on her hands and murmured to herself.
Severus took that moment to see the Boy-Who-Lived, lying peacefully with his hands over his chest, as if asleep, on the cushioned box.
He had to hand it to the muggles: The child looked as if he were going to open his eyes at any moment, though the discolored hands and the almost invisible band around his neck indicated otherwise, and the pink blush on his cheeks couldn’t completely hide their sunken state.
He felt Minerva clutch his arm tightly, and he felt a lump the size of an erumpent lodging itself on his throat.
The lid closed suddenly, and he was left examining the polished surface of the casket numbly. Albus choose that moment to say some snippet of wisdom to the Granger child, who nodded without looking at them, and then, in a quiet whisper, the great Albus Dumbledore breathed an ‘I’m sorry, Harry’ to a boy who could no longer hear him.
If only realizing your mistakes was enough to reverse them. If only remorse could save a life.
‘I want to scream' he thought absently.
And, as he had resigned himself to expect, the morning dragged on slowly, with him not knowing how to console neither Minerva nor Granger, watching nothing and everything as an invisible entity behind the chattering masses, and wishing to be everywhere but in the Great Hall, where the grief and pain seemed to permeate every corner and tear at his carefully constructed façade, leaving him gulping for air with the effort, and still having to watch as the mass of people that littered the Great Hall chatted and gossiped without a care.
‘Screamscreamscreamscream’
Instead, he lifted his gaze towards the enchanted ceiling, losing himself in his occlumency shields, and in the fluffy clouds that traveled lazily on the bright blue sky of that warm summer day.
It was a few weeks later that he found himself closing brusquely the journal in forensic sciences he had mistakenly thought would be useful. One would think something called “The American Journal of Forensic Medicine and Pathology” would be clearer in the medicine and pathology of certain things. He huffed, not mollified at all. It seemed most authors were more interested in epidemiology.
Ridiculous.
At the moment, he had only discovered that his most comfortable muggle attire made him look like one of the students, that getting into the Imperial College’s library required equal parts of patience and time, that muggles had weird fetishes, and that he (and the entire Hogwarts’ staff) should have given more attention at, or at least noticed, the apparent time bomb Potter was.
Their blind trust in Albus, however, seemed to have sealed the fate of a child, and with that, of the Wizarding World.
As it was, he was on a mission, and he had one day to complete it, as it was probable that just confusing the man in the desk would not work if he needed more time within the campus, even if he was already tired and his neck was cramping.
He went back to the pile of books and journals and took the next in line, in hopes to calm some of his doubts. He could understand many things just reading the report of the autopsy alone, but he needed more.
Two hours and fifteen journals later, he finally got what he was looking for. Taking a deep breath in what seemed years, he finally felt as if some of the worries that helped mold his nightmares were finally dissipating.
As daunting as Potter’s life had been, he could only be grateful that, in his last moments, he had not suffered.
At this point, Severus could only be glad for that.