Chapter Text
It was on Harry’s insistence that at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione found themselves back in the Shrieking Shack once more. Having learned of their professor’s true role in the war through his memories, Harry had argued rather strongly (not that Ron or Hermione had disagreed with him) that he should, at the very least, be buried with the other heroes they had lost. If nothing else, the man deserved to be acknowledged, for they would never have won the war without his aid as a spy. The only regret was that the truth had come too late.
Still, determined to give him the recognition he had earned, the three Gryffindors returned to where they had last seen him, expecting to find a cold body awaiting them.
And yet when they finally reached their destination, the trio found Severus Snape alive — barely breathing and unconscious, yes, but alive nonetheless.
Deciding against moving the professor in his current state, they immediately sent a patronus for Madam Pomfrey, who rushed in with the required potions in her hand and healing spells on her tongue. The fact that she wasted no time questioning why they were trying to help Snape, of all people, was truly a testament to her dedication to her job. Even then, his life was only just hanging by a thread, teetering dangerously close to the thin line between life and death.
Eventually, however, the Hogwarts mediwitch declared that the Potions Master would recover from his wounds completely, although he was currently in a coma and would stay that way until his body healed enough for him to wake. Exactly when that would be, she could not say.
“It could take weeks,” she replied when questioned, “or it could take months. It’s really up to him now. All we can do is wait.”
* * *
Harry waved his newly repaired wand around, glaring at the feather on the table in front of him. A swish, and a flick.
“ Wingardium leviosa,” he cast.
Nothing.
He frowned, trying again, this time adding a little more force behind his words. “ Wingardium leviosa!”
Still, nothing happened.
Harry couldn’t feel the rush of magic flowing through him and into his wand, the familiar thrill that always accompanied him whenever he cast a spell successfully. The feeling that told him who he was, that made him who he was.
It wasn’t there. Not even for the simplest, most mundane, everyday spells Harry knew. Almost as if his magic had somehow… disappeared, for lack of better words. As if it had never been there, as if the past years, the entire war, had been but a figment of his imagination.
Had Harry not been sitting in 12 Grimmauld Place right this second, had he been in Privet Drive with the Dursleys, he might even have thought that to be true.
The first moment he’d noticed that something was off had been during the final battle. He had cast an expelliarmus to try and counter Voldemort’s avada kedavra, but his magic had not quite answered.
In the heat of the battle, Harry had been too preoccupied to care, his attention captured by the sight of the killing curse rebounding and killing Voldemort, for good this time. He didn’t think anyone else had noticed either, only that he had definitely shouted the disarming spell and that Voldemort had died after. And after that, everyone had been too busy tending to the injured, mourning for those they had lost, and celebrating the end of the war. Between all the chaos, Harry hadn’t had the time to dwell on how he had failed to cast the spell.
But now, finally left alone, Harry’s thoughts grew troubled. What was going on?
To his knowledge, the only thing that had changed for him was the loss of Voldemort’s soul piece. He grimaced and shuddered, again, at the reminder.
A human horcrux.
This, Harry had opted not to tell anyone about. Not only did the very thought of it make him feel uncomfortable, but he knew better than to mention that he had housed a piece of Voldemort within him all his life. Or even to mention that he had indeed been hit with the killing curse, as opposed to simply faking it, but was somehow still breathing — again. It was simply not the type of thing one could go around telling people over dinner.
Who knew what The Daily Prophet would start saying about him this time if they knew.
No, he would keep this a secret. And this meant keeping it from Ron and Hermione as well. Not because he thought they couldn’t keep a secret; to be sure, they had proved time and time again to be on his side, no matter the situation.
His lips twitched in the smallest of smiles as be thought of the scolding he’d get from them if they knew he was keeping them in the dark.
It really was for the best, though. They had suffered more than enough just for being his friends, and Harry was well aware that they had enough issues of their own to sort out at the moment. Ron needed time to mourn and be with his family. Hermione needed to find her parents and return their memories, and then she, too, would want time spent with them. And those were only the largest issues. It wasn’t time for Harry to throw them into another mess of his own making when they were still working through all the scars left on them from all their adventures.
Especially not if his suspicions about his magic were correct, because that would mean Harry was going to be leaving the Wizarding World, likely forever.
Though to be fair, Harry would have left for a while even if it weren’t for his current concerns. A couple of years, perhaps, so that there would be enough time for things to calm down. Until people stopped worshiping him as some hero (or, on the other end of the scale, despising him for being one.)
Because Harry was not that hero, and he had no desire to be. He didn’t want people falling over their feet to praise him, or asking for his autograph, and he didn’t want to have everyone staring at him wherever he went. He never had, even when he was the Boy-Who-Lived, but now the attention was nothing short of suffocating. He had had enough of other people’s expectations, and it was frankly a wonder he had even made it this far, without running to hide away.
Considering that, his malfunctioning magic was really doing nothing more than prolonging the time he would be away.
It was going to be fine. Ron and Hermione would have each other to hold on to. As well as their families and other friends, of course. And Harry didn’t plan to shut them out completely. By all means he should, if his plan meant anything, but he doubted he was strong enough to do that. And Hermione’s wrath if he even dared do so was frightening to consider.
Surely it would be enough? Harry sighed. Maybe… maybe, if all went well, this would finally give him the normal life he had prayed for all his life. That possibility would give him something to look forward to.
The one problem with this plan was that Snape knew, maybe not the entire story, but certainly enough to guess. Once he heard about the horcruxes, it wouldn’t be too difficult to put one and one together and find out precisely why Harry had had to die that day. But although Harry would once have been horrified to have Snape know a secret of his, it didn’t scare him so badly anymore. He didn’t think Snape would tell anyone. It was more likely that he’d say nothing and stay far away from others himself, since he certainly didn’t seem the type of person to enjoy publicity.
And the man was truly free now, of all charges and previous obligations. Harry had thought he owed Snape that much, and had, in a completely Gryffindor fashion, defended him publicly against those who wanted him incarcerated. The information he’d gained through the memories Snape had provided him with had helped as well, though Harry had been very careful as to not divulge the more private aspects they contained, knowing they were not his to share. It had taken effort on Harry’s part, but whenever he woke up, Snape was in the clear to go off and do what he wanted to with his life. Whatever that was.
Anyway, if, if Snape ever told anyone the truth, Harry would already be long gone. He wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath then.
Still...
“ Wingardium leviosa,” he tried once more, already anticipating the outcome. The feather lay, unmoving, before him.
He would miss having his magic. He would miss his friends. He would miss many others, as well. But he had only lived with all of it for about a third of his life, and he could learn to live without it again. He had to.
* * *
Severus couldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move? And he ached all over. He thought back to the last memory he had.
He remembered a battle. The Dark Lord. And Harry Potter. A task left to him by Albus Dumbledore. And…oh, the snake, Nagini.
He’d been bitten, he recalled. Then how was it that he was alive? Severus had been convinced that he would not survive the battle — in fact, part of him had rather hoped that would be the case. After all, what gave him the right to go on living when so many others had died because of his mistakes? When people, innocent people, had met their end at his hands and in his place? What reason did he have to continue on, when there was nothing in this world left for him?
And yet, he thought wryly, it seems I’ve somehow managed to live to see the end of the war. Perhaps it was so he could face the punishment for his deeds.
The sound of other voices broke into his chain of thoughts.
“So, how is he? Do you think he might wake anytime soon?”
Potter. Reflexively, Severus sneered internally at the sound of his voice.
What was he doing here? Why? As a matter of fact, how was he still alive? Severus’s own survival was one thing, but Potter’s was something else entirely. Surely, if the battle was over, if they had triumphed over the Dark Lord, the boy should be...
“I don’t know, Potter. His wounds are healing well, considering how serious they were, but a coma is something that a patient has to come out of on their own. Though since this is Severus we’re talking about, I wouldn’t put it past him to wake up sooner than most. Would you like to see him before you go?”
And that was Poppy. So he was in the Hogwarts infirmary, then. A coma? Well, that explained why he couldn’t move, at least.
“Yes, I... I have things to say to him, whether he actually hears me or not. I just need to say this before I leave.”
Leave? Did that mean the battle was still taking place?
“Alright, I’ll go and give you some privacy. Don’t disturb him too much, Potter, and call if anything happens.”
He heard Potter answer in the affirmative, and then the sound of footsteps walking away. Someone, presumably Potter, came and sat in the chair by his bed.
“Snape. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope so. This will likely be the only chance for me to say this.”
A beat of silence. Severus wished futilely that he could yell at Potter to be quick and to explain what was going on.
“I wanted to say thank you, and that I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”
And Severus’s mind froze like the rest of his body.
Those were the very last words he had expected to hear. He had expected to be cursed for sending the boy to his death. Or for surviving when so many others had not. Or, considering who this was, even some impertinent questions about his mother. Like he had any right to ask about Lily, he added bitterly in his mind. In short, he had expected anything but an apology, and certainly not a thank you.
“The war is over. We won, and we couldn’t have done it without you. So thank you. And...thanks for the memories, as well. I didn’t tell anyone about them, so don’t worry about that. No one knows the specifics of what you showed me, or what exactly I had to do that night. And I did do it, if you’re wondering. I did, but I came back, somehow. That’s not important. Anyway, no one else has been told of that part, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anyone, either.”
So he had done it. He had died, and then he had come back. Severus would have laughed, if he were physically able. Only Harry Potter, ever the one with luck in his favor, would be able to pull a stunt like that. As for the fact that Potter hadn’t told anyone, well, Severus thought he could see why. In fact it seemed the boy was using his brains for once. If surviving the killing curse once was unusual, twice was positively outrageous. He might be adored for it now, but make one small mistake, and they would all attack him like a herd of hippogriffs.
“It was nice to see my mother, you know. Even if it was only through your memories. I would have liked to know more about her. I suppose I never will, now.”
Severus listened with growing confusion. The battle was over, the Dark Lord had been defeated. Potter had said so himself. So why, then, was he talking as though he was going to die a second time? Severus tried to ask, tried to move his mouth and make a sound, any sound, but found himself unable to. Completely oblivious to his silent struggle, Potter continued to prattle on.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’m going to make sure no one finds me. I can’t stay here anymore, Professor. It hasn’t even been that long since the battle but… it seems like everyone has this image of me, an image of who I should be. Of someone I’m not. They’re all trying to dictate my life, and I can’t be that person anymore. I can’t. I’ve done what they’ve asked me to, haven’t I? I’m going, and no one will see me again. No matter how much I might want to see them.”
The last sentence was said in a soft whisper, as though it was something he hadn’t meant for Severus to hear. With no small amount of alarm, Severus noted that Potter seemed to be sniffling now, actually crying. He decided it was a good thing he was paralyzed after all, because he had no thought of dealing with a crying Potter. Comforting someone — particularly someone he did not quite care for — was an act he very much preferred not to partake in.
But to hear that Potter was planning to hide away, now of all times, was perplexing, to say the least. And if the obnoxious sniffles coming from somewhere beside him was anything to go by, he did not truly seem to wish to go. So what was forcing his hand?
“Sorry,” Potter sniffed, “I’ve said too much, and I should go now. I suppose everyone else will fill you in on the details when you wake up, but you’re completely cleared, sir. I made sure of that. I don’t know what you’ll do, but I hope you can find something.”
Severus’s brain stopped for the second time that day.
While he tried desperately to process the idea of being cleared — he shouldn’t be, not after everything he’d done — he heard the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back, and then Potter’s footsteps walking away from him. Before he left the infirmary, however, he spoke once more.
“And, um, you may never have been my favorite professor, but I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me. For all of us. Thank you, again. Goodbye, Snape.”
And with those final words, Potter slipped out of the room, unaware that his monologue had only left Severus with even more questions than before.