Chapter Text
The castle still smelled of ash.
Harry stood in the ruins of the Great Hall, the echoes of battle pressing heavy against his chest. The air was thick with the scent of burned wood and blood remnants of a war that had cost too much. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling uselessly as if they could reach back, grab hold of something of someone and pull them back from the abyss.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the ache twisting inside him.
Severus Snape was gone.
Harry had seen death before too much of it but nothing had prepared him for this. For the weight in his stomach every time he closed his eyes and saw Severus bleeding out on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. For the last look in his eyes pain tangled with something else. Something Harry had been too blind to see.
Too late. Always too late.
He shifted his gaze to the high, broken windows. Morning light spilled weakly through the cracks, cutting pale ribbons through the dust and rubble. Survivors moved in the distance, their voices low and heavy with exhaustion. The world was moving on. Somehow, impossibly, it was moving on.
Harry couldn’t.
His hand slid into the pocket of his robes, brushing against the small, glass vial. Snape’s memories. The last pieces of him, pale silver threads, cool and fragile against his skin. He had seen them all. Had watched the truth unravel before him: Lily’s eyes, the weight of love twisted into sacrifice, and Severus, always Severus caught in between. Protecting Harry. Watching over him.
Loving him?
Harry swallowed hard against the burn rising in his throat. He didn’t know. That was the worst part he didn’t know. But there had been something in the way Snape had looked at him, there at the end. A softness beneath the sharp edges, a desperation clinging to every word.
Look at me.
Harry had replayed those words over and over until they were carved into him. Had there been something else hiding beneath them, something more? He didn’t let himself hope. Hope was a cruel thing. His footsteps echoed as he moved past the long tables still littered with broken glass and abandoned wands. He couldn’t stay here, not where everything smelled of death. His pulse pounded in his ears as he slipped through the towering oak doors and into the corridor beyond.
The dungeons were colder than he remembered.
Harry’s breath trembled as he stepped inside the Potions classroom. It was dark, shadows curling around the edges of the room like smoke. For a moment, it felt as if Snape would sweep in, robes billowing, voice cutting through the silence with cold precision. But he wouldn’t. He never would again. His chest tightened as his gaze fell to the desk at the front of the room. Everything was as it had been perfectly ordered, not a single vial out of place. Harry’s fingers trailed across the surface, brushing against the faint scratches in the wood. He wondered how many hours Snape had spent here, alone in the dark, carrying burdens no one else could see.
A glint of silver caught his eye.
There, half-hidden beneath a stack of parchment, lay a small, worn book. Harry picked it up with careful hands, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs. The leather was cracked with age, the edges softened by touch. He recognised the handwriting the moment he opened it sharp, slanted script that was unmistakably Snape’s.
His throat went dry as he flipped through the pages. Potions notes. Observations. And then. His breath hitched. Words. Words written in the same deliberate hand, but softer somehow fragile in their honesty.
He is nothing like his father.
I watch him, and it is unbearable.
I should not feel this way.
Harry’s vision blurred as he read on, the words unravelling something deep inside him. Snape’s thoughts, laid bare hidden beneath the surface of his cold indifference. Desperation. Longing. A love buried too deep to ever be spoken aloud. His heart pounded as he set the journal aside and pulled open one of the desk drawers. At first, it seemed empty but then, tucked toward the back, he found them.
Letters.
Dozens of them, each one carefully sealed, his name scrawled across the front in Snape’s unmistakable handwriting. Harry’s breath caught as he gathered them in shaking hands, feeling the weight of every word that had never been spoken. Some were old, the parchment yellowing with age while others looked freshly written, as if Snape had never stopped.
Why hadn’t he sent them?
Harry broke the seal on the first letter dated the day of the final battle, his vision blurring as he began to read.
2nd May 1998
Dearest Harry,
There are things I cannot say aloud, things that would shatter the fragile distance I must keep. But if I do not write them, I fear they will destroy me…
I have spent much of my life hiding from the truth, hiding from myself. But as I watch you grow into the man you are destined to become, I am forced to confront the reality of my own failings. You may never understand the weight of what I have carried for so many years. The choices I made were not made lightly, and I bear the scars of those decisions every day.
But you should know this: from the moment you first walked into Hogwarts, I knew something about you that you did not. I knew that you were not just a student, not just a boy who bore the legacy of a man I once called a friend. I knew that you were someone I was meant to protect. It was a task I took on with all the strength I could muster, even if it meant alienating you. Even if it meant making you hate me.
I wanted you to see me for who I am. Not the man who always stood at the edge of the shadows, but the one who stood between you and the darkness. The one who kept you safe when no one else could. I know it wasn’t enough. I know I failed you in ways I cannot undo. But I hope that, in some small way, I can make up for it now. By telling you this.
I love you, Harry. And I have always loved you.
Severus
His hands trembled, tears burning hot behind his eyes. These were Severus’s words, his truth locked away where Harry might never have found them.
A soft knock at the door made Harry jump. He hastily wiped his face as the door creaked open.
"Harry?" Sirius’s voice was low, cautious.
Harry looked up, swallowing against the raw ache in his throat. "I….. I found these," he whispered, holding up the letters. Sirius stepped inside, his usual reckless energy softened into something gentler. He knelt beside Harry, scanning the letters with a furrowed brow. "He wrote to you?" There was no malice in his voice, only quiet surprise.
"He never sent them," Harry said brokenly. "He….. he felt something. For me. And now…"
Sirius placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, grounding him. "I know you cared for him," he said softly. "And maybe he was too stubborn, too afraid to tell you. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real." Harry let out a shaky breath. "It hurts, Sirius. I don’t know how to stop it."
Sirius pulled him into a fierce embrace. "You don’t stop it. You let yourself feel it. And I’m here, every step of the way." Harry clutched the journal to his chest, his heart breaking open beneath the weight of it. Severus had felt it too. But now, it didn’t matter. Because he was gone, and no amount of magic could change that.
Harry sank to the floor, the letters trembling in his hands, and let the grief take him whole.