Chapter Text
This is a completed work, undergoing some heavy editing as I transfer from ffn.net over to AO3.
Conversation with a Dead Man
Chapter One
As far as best friends go, Harry absolutely adored Hermione Granger-Weasley. Their years of friendship, together with Ron, had left them rather inseparable. So few people could relate to their experiences during the war, that the three of them could often just be found cocooned together. For Harry, being with Ron and Hermione brought about a certainty, a balm of safety where he could relax.
Which is why, Merlin though he loved her, Hermione was starting to test his nerves on the subject.
His announcement one evening of a short trip to Hogwarts had resulted in several weeks of arguments between the friends. At first, Hermione had merely looked up from her novel and smiled delicately, ‘That's lovely Harry, I've been meaning to have a chat with Minerva regarding some of the syllabus.’
Harry could feel his cheek twitch as he frowned. After several moments of internal debate, he decided against pushing the subject at that moment. He realised it was unusual for them, but he knew this was a journey he needed to take alone.
The week that followed, she’d dropped little hints about Hogwarts almost every day, even going so far as to ask Ron what he was going to do on their little trip.
Then, finally out of nudges, she asked when the date of the trip was so she could get it in her calendar.
‘Hermione,’ he began, twiddling his wand anxiously, ‘it’s more of a personal trip, I’d actually intended to visit alone.
Aghast, she’d shot her head up so quickly that Harry jumped. His wand hit the table and let out a spark, before he managed to snatch it from the air before it hit the ground.
‘Personal?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Harry.’
‘Hermione.’
‘Personal?
‘Yes, yes alright, that’s a stupid way of phrasing it.’
‘Quite.’ He could see a glint in her eyes, she wasn’t impressed. ‘Are you keeping secrets from us? It’s not your scar---’
‘No, Hermione, it still doesn’t hurt, everything is fine. I just… look, I want to talk to Snape.’
‘Professor Snape, Harry--- hang on, what? You want to talk to him?’
‘Actually,’ Harry grinned, ‘I’m fairly certain his last official title was Headmaster.’
Harry pulled out a chair and eased into it.
‘I never showed you the memories, what he showed me that made me realise, and I never got the chance to thank him.’
This time, he could see how strained her smile was. ‘Harry, he’s dead.’
‘Really? Oh well that’s it then, nothing to be done. If only the wizarding world had these talking portrait things…’
‘But it’s not the same.’
‘No. It’s not.’ He looked up, and clenched and released his hand. ‘I know it’s not him, Hermione, but I still need to go.’
‘And there is no other reason, this isn’t some elaborate rouse to go sneak into the chamber of secrets, or…’
‘I’m going to stay for a few days, and chat with him when McGonagall has time to let me have the office.’
‘Why a few days?’
At this, he laughed. ‘Well, it is Snape, I reckon he’ll probably try and have me removed from the castle, or give me detention, before I can get him to actually have a conversation with me.’
‘And, you don’t need me?’
‘I… Hermione, it’s not that I don’t need you, I think it’s clear by now that without you I would have died from a jinxed broom a very long time ago. I… just… this is something I need to do, for myself.’
As he leaned back in the chair, he watched his second oldest friend struggle with herself, wanting to help, as she always had. After a moment, she seemed to regain her thought and reached out for his hand across the table.
‘Good luck.’
When the day came to revisit the castle, Harry decided to request permission to use the floo, figuring he could explore the grounds whilst the students were in classes.
Just after nine, he grabbed a handful of the powder from the little Black family heirloom Kreature had found, and shouted, ‘Hogwarts, Headmistresses Office.’
The familiar rush of flames and smoke battered him until he found himself coughing plumes of ash over the large rug in front of Professor McGonagall’s fireplace. Getting to his feet and dusting his knees, Harry looked up. It was the same, but at the same time, so different. The office glowed from the reflections of some of Dumbledore’s old trinkets, the Sherbet Lemon dish was gone and instead a large clay biscuit tin stood in its place. His eyes slowed and came to rest on two frames, one, ornate with intricate gold leaf, and the other, a deep ebony wood that’s only remarkable feature was the neat silver plaque at the bottom.
The portrait-Dumbledore sat in his chair, the same one that Harry had taken a seat opposite, gently snoozing, with his head lolled into one of the wings and a restful smile on his face.
Harry grinned and turned his attention to the frame of the man he had come to see. The portrait figure was sat on one of the darker wingbacks that were found in the back ailses of the library, surrounded by shelves of books, and a thick potions volume held open with his spidery fingers.
As Harry gazed at these two men, whisperings broke out among the other portraits and Harry felt the need to silence them, ‘Some quiet, please,’ and then addressing the latest headmaster, whose nose was now firmly hidden within his text, ‘I am come, Professor Snape.’
Looking up from his book and rolling his eyes, Snape barked a laugh that Harry had thought impossible; ‘Of course you have come, foolish boy. I am surprised to find it took you so long to find the courage to seek me out.’
Ah. So he was to be insulted as he always was. He should have known that even in death, Severus Snape could not be affable. Reading the look on Harry's face, Snape smirked, ‘Mr Potter, I held a rather well-known distaste for you during my life, I find it impertinently presumptuous of you to even entertain the thought of some amiable acquaintance between us now that I am deceased.’
Harry conceded the point, ‘Right, of course; well, I am here now; and if it poses no objections from yourself, I intend to speak to you over the next few days.’
A snort of laughter, and Harry felt himself yet again mocked by the man who had become the bane of his adolescence. ‘You came all this way to talk to a dead man Potter? Should I be sending for the mind-healers at St Mungo’s?’
This time, Harry had a response ready, ‘You reckoned my coming a time ago, so I wonder if you are mad as well.’
Flashing his teeth in a ravenous grin, Snape stated, ‘You forget Potter that I am dead, and you are speaking to canvas. I am allowed the psychosis for that alone.’
Content that on his return his questions would be answered, Harry rose from the chair and bade the portraits goodnight, promising his return later that evening. As he closed the door he heard Snape speak, ‘I cannot see why Minerva allowed it Albus, I am to be given large doses of Potter over the next couple of days; it will be the death of me I quite assure you.’