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Harry sat on the veranda of the ski resort. He ignored the cold settling into his bones.
“I’m getting a divorce.”
“What? From Severus?”
He massaged his ear, trying to get rid of the ringing. “He’s the only husband I have.”
“But why?” Hermione quieted slightly.
“I’m miserable.” Harry shrugged. “If he had only been honest. That’s all I ask of anybody— the simple truth. But with Severus? Once a spy,” he sighed. “It’s always secrets and lies; lies and secrets. He’s hiding something from me, I know it.”
A tall man in his late thirties or early forties with dark hair just greying at the temples approached, holding Rose’s hand. He had a false pout and laughing eyes, and Harry was captivated.
“Is this yours?”
Harry jerked his head. “Hers. Where’d you find her?”
“Trading Chocolate Frog cards with Ludo Bagman.”
Hermione scanned her daughter. “You look all right. Let’s go find your father, though.” She hustled Rose away. “You know you’re not to…”
“Do we know each other?” the man asked Harry.
“Why? Do you think we’re going to?”
“What? How would I know that?” The man was adorably confused.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop the smirk. He shrugged. “I already know an awful lot of people. Until one of them dies, I couldn’t possibly meet anyone else.”
“Well,” huffed the man. “If one of them goes on the critical list, let me know.”
Harry gave in to a genuine smile. “Quitter.”
The man turned back, startled. Harry grinned.
“You give up awfully easily, don’t you?”
“Alright then, I’m Credence Barebone. What’s your name?”
“Harry Snape.”
“Is there a Mrs. Snape?”
Harry snorted. “There’s another Mister, actually.”
“Well, good for you.”
“No it isn’t. I’m getting a divorce.”
“Please. Not on my account.”
“No. I don’t really love him.”
”Is your husband with you?”
“Severus is never with me,” sighed Harry. “Are you going to call me?”
“Are you in the book?”
“Severus is.”
“Is there only one Severus Snape?”
Harry shook his head, as a thought nearly got stuck. “Merlin. I hope so.”
No one answered the door when he returned to the flat, so Harry used his key. Usually Kreacher would’ve felt him approach and let him in by now, but maybe the elf was busy.
Harry stepped into the room and dropped his keys on a side table, only for them to fall to the floor.
The entire room was empty.
Every scrap of furniture was gone. The portraits were missing. He scrambled from cabinet to cabinet—no food, no clothes, no potions, nothing was left.
Even the carpets were missing.
“Sev?” he called. “Severus?”
No answer.
He whirled back to the entrance, to check he was in the right flat, and ran nose-to-chest into an Auror’s uniform. He screamed.
”Harry?”
”Kings?”
”Sorry about this, Harry. You need to come with me.”
Later, much later, he sat in the Auror Office with a cup of cheap tea in front of him, cooling rapidly.
It was warmer here than in the morgue at least.
The questions, though. Kingsley was losing patience with how much he didn’t know about Severus.
Harry’s thoughts kept whirling away from him. Severus’ body had been found in pajamas. Pajamas! Dumped from a train. He’d left home—their home. Severus’ body.
“Absurd, Harry! Totally absurd!”
”I know.”
”You’d better be able to account for your day.”
“Hmm?” Harry looked up. “I was skiing with Ron and Hermione.”
Kingsley rolled his eyes. “On Wednesday, Severus sold the entire contents of your flat at auction. Everything totalling over a million galleons. Of course, we found no money on or anywhere near him.”
“Of course,” he repeated.
Dead body. Pajamas. Harry felt reality slipping away from him. They’d been well-off, sure, but not a million galleons well off. Was he a suspect?
“These are the items found near Severus.” Black hand luggage thudded onto the desk. Harry started. “A wallet, containing ten sickles. One personal calendar, with a notation for yesterday: Thursday, Three Broomsticks, five p.m. Why there?”
”I don’t know.”
”One untraceable portkey, destination Cambodia. Why Cambodia?”
“I don’t know.”
“Two Chocolate Frog cards. One Grow-Your-Own-Warts kit.”
“Warts?”
“Warts.” Kingsley plonked the kit down. Harry picked it up, but it meant nothing. None of it meant anything. Not against the weight in his mind that was Severus’ body.
“How did he die?” Harry broke into the litany.
Kingsley raised an eyebrow. He continued his list. ”One key, to your flat. One toothbrush and toothpaste. That’s all.”
Harry quickly signed for the items, and stood.
“One more thing, Harry. This is Severus’ passport?”
Harry glanced at the picture. “Yes.”
“And this?” A Turkish passport. “And this?” A Moroccan passport. “And this?” A Chilean passport.
Harry felt lightheaded.
Harry sat between Ron and Hermione. Hugo and Rose were with Molly. Funerals were no place for children.
“Not a big turnout, is it?”
”Didn’t the Dungeon Bat have any friends?”
“If Severus had died in his sleep, we wouldn’t even have him,” Harry replied, jerking his chin at Kingsley. The Auror leaned his chair against the back wall of the auditorium and pretended to nap.
“At least he knows how to behave at funerals,” huffed Ron, slouching in his own seat.
A man with dark brown hair and a sharp expression burst into the room, stalked up the corridor and glared into the coffin. He sneezed explosively, then turned and left.
“He knew Severus?” whispered Hermione.
Harry shrugged.
“Knew him well enough to be allergic to the man.”
Harry snorted, but quieted as another mourner entered the hall. He also approached the coffin, but held a mirror to Severus’ nose, checking for breath.
“Arrivederci, Sev.” The man was not Italian. He turned. “Mr. Snape?” Harry nodded. “He had no call to do it that way.” Then, the man stormed out.
“What next?” muttered Hermione. Harry shrugged.
A woman was next. She approached the coffin like a vengeful goddess, her eyes rolling and hair sparking with wild magic.
She pulled out a hair pin and stabbed Severus before Harry could even blink. Then, she turned and left.
Harry ran a hand over his face, then jumped as an owl landed on his shoulder.
”The Department of Mysteries?”
The Ministry halls were largely empty as Harry made his way down. A man in long black robes led him into an office. He was mumbling about dry cleaning and rubbing at a spot on his robes.
“You’re Alastor Moody?” asked Harry. The man offered a gruff nod.
“Sandwich? I have liverwurst or chicken.” He waved at a plate of unappetizing food.
“No, thank you.” Harry paused. “Are you sure you know who I am?”
”Harry Snape. Before that, you were Harry Potter.” The smug bastard in front of him took a big bite out of a liverwurst sandwich. “Did you know your husband was a spy?”
”Yes.”
“He told you, did he? Did he tell you his real name?”
“Real name?”
“We knew your husband by his original name: Severus Prince. Did you know he wasn’t born on the 9th of January, 1960?”
“No.” But, I’m not surprised, thought Harry. More secrets. More lies.
“Have you ever seen these people before?” He was handed a photograph.
“Obviously. That’s Severus.” He pointed. “And these three people were at his funeral. But I’d not seen them before yesterday.”
Moody nodded. “Those are three desperate criminals, Mr. Prince. The brothers: Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, and Rodolophus’ wife, Bellatrix. Of course, your husband was one of them. They, along with another man, Bartemius Crouch Junior, there” —the man pointed— “were some of Grindelwald’s top operatives.”
”Grindelwald?”
“Grindelwald, Mr. Prince!”
“Could you st—“ Harry scowled at the man. “Look, Snape’s on the marriage license. If you don’t mind?”
“As you wish, Mr. Snape. We know Grindelwald gave them orders. Your husband, working for us, arranged for the other four to be captured. He was supposed to turn in one million galleons of dirty money at the same time. Unfortunately, before any of them could be apprehended, an accident occurred.”
“Accident?”
“A time accident propelled all five of them, and the money, into the future. To now.”
”There are four of Grindelwald’s best Acolytes running amuck in this time period with that kind of money at their disposal?” Harry asked, folding his hands to stop them shaking.
“No. No one knows what became of Crouch Junior, and the other three don’t have the money.” Moody shook his head. “You do.”
“Me?”
“You, Mr. Snape! You have the money. Severus double crossed us all and made off with it. Now that he’s dead, you’ve got it.”
“I do not.”
“Oh yes you do! And, they know it, just as we do. It’s there—somewhere! You won’t be safe till you turn it over.”
Harry sighed.
“Look for it! And, pardon me for saying this, but remember what happened to your husband.”
Harry couldn’t return to an empty flat, and he couldn’t face the I-told-you-so’s that he’d get from his friends.
So, he walked. And walked. And walked.
Eventually he found himself watching a street magician entertaining a group of muggle children with tricks, and he leaned against a lamppost to watch.
“Clever, aren’t they?”
Harry jumped. It was Credence. “What are you doing here?”
”I saw you. You looked troubled.” He paused. “I heard about Severus. I’m sorry.”
Harry offered up the best smile he could muster. “You might be the only one,” he murmured.
“Do the Aurors have any leads?”
Harry shrugged. “They’re half convinced it was me.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” muttered Credence. He put an arm around Harry’s shoulders and turned him away from the ‘wizard.’ “Come on. I know just the thing.”
“What thing?”
“For cheering you up.”
”I don’t—“
“Nonsense. You take care of everyone else. You put them first. It’s time someone took care of you for a change. Why not me?”
Harry looked up into beautiful, piercing blue eyes, and leaned into the man’s shoulder.
“Promise?”
“Would I lie to you?”
Harry settled close to Credence in the restaurant’s high-backed leather booth. The man had the calmest air about him, as though nothing would ever be beyond his ability to fix. Harry liked it. It felt dependable, trustworthy.
He pushed his plate back and smiled in the low light. The candle on their table had burned low and started to flicker, sending the shadows dancing. Credence had ordered plenty, but Harry wasn’t terribly hungry.
As a woman in a long black satin dress began to sing something low and slow and sultry, couples took to the dance floor.
Harry shook his head at Credence. “Oh no. No way.”
“Come on,” the other man cajoled, tugging on his hand.
”I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance,” Credence murmured in his ear. “If you have the right partner.” And with that, Harry was whirled onto the dance floor, and swept up into Credence’s arms.
It turned out he could dance. Credence held him close, and Harry forgot to be self-conscious. He stopped worrying about his feet and where they were, or whether his hands should rest on Credence’s shoulders or around his neck.
For the first time since the empty apartment, Harry relaxed.
Credence smelled different than Severus, who had hated dancing—refused, even at their wedding, to dance with him. Harry leaned closer. They fit well together, too. Severus had been too tall.
He lay his head against the strong chest and sighed. “I shouldn’t, you know,” he whispered. “Technically, I’m a widower.”
“Would Severus begrudge you a little happiness in the middle of all this stress?”
Harry couldn’t help the snort, which turned into a chuckle, and then he dissolved into full-throated laughter. “He absolutely would.”
“All the more reason, then!” Credence smiled at him, and Harry smiled back.
Maybe everything would be okay.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
But maybe, for the few moments of this dance, he could ignore his troubles and enjoy being held close.