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Chapter Text

Chapter One: High Waters

Snape lay on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, dying.

He knew he was dying. He did not care that he was dying. The room around Snape had become... detached, an ethereal vessel, its sole occupant a man soaked in blood, cooling on the floor. The swaying beams above him began to darken and vanish, their edges softening until he thought if he could just reach up to touch them his fingers would pass through. But his limbs were like the trunks of fallen trees, weighty and entirely too cumbrous to move. And on fire, because this pain must be from a fire climbing up and down those fallen trees.

Even as his thoughts turned to the pain, he noticed the fire was softening, like an echo vanishing as he moved through the canyon of this room and the space between these walls expanded. The beams, the walls, the trees, the fire… all fell away, and he was left in a liminal space.

It was cold. He could not feel the cold, but he knew it was cold.

It was dark. He could not see the dark, but he knew it was dark.

He could not draw breath. He did not need to breathe, but he knew he could not draw breath if he wanted to. He was sinking into this space, something in the center of his being pulled him deeper. Severus had only ever been to the seaside once in his miserably short life, but upon seeing the vast horizon laid out before him, he had imagined this moment. Surely this is what falling beneath those high waters must feel like. The ocean consumed him, and Severus did not fight back.

Severus was not sure quite when he began to feel them. They started as insubstantial whisps that trailed along his arms, his legs, his face. Like spiders’ webs caught in a breeze. As he was pulled deeper, faster, the whisps took the form of fingers brushing. Then hands, grasping. He could feel them for what they were. The limbs of the dead claiming him, issuing their judgement, his penance for his transgressions. He did not fight them. An arm grasped his neck. A hand tangled in his hair. A palm pressed against his chest, forcing him deeper. Darker. Colder.

And then the whispers began. Voices growing louder, closer.

Freak! It landed like a slap to the face.

Greasy git. A whisper in his ear.

Snivellus. A weight above his head.

How could you? An arrow to his chest.

... Filthy mongrel, bet your parents wish they’d strangled you…

“You’re nothing but a nasty little boy.” This time, he felt the words tear from his own mouth.

He shouldn’t exist …

“Arrogant, just like your father”

… He’s an evil, ugly little boy…

“I see no difference”

 … You can’t wait to join Him, can you?... How could you?

“I don’t need help from a filthy Mudblood like you.”

---Severus---

 Useless brat, you can’t do anything right!...

“You’re nothing but a burden on all of us”

---Severus, stop---

You disgust me … How many men and women have you watched die?...

“And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?”

---Severus, look at me---

Twin lights of emerald in the darkness. At first, he thought it was Potter returning for him. But no, he’d given the boy everything. Potter would use every ounce of idiotic, noble, Gryffindor blood to finish what Dumbledore started. And Snape would never see the brat again.

This was someone else’s eyes. Her eyes, set on her perfect face, fiery hair floating all around her in the deep waters. Her face was impassive as she held out a hand to him. He knew he had no right to it, but he greedily clutched at it anyway, desperate for even the avenging shade of her.

The dead released him. The voices vanished. The waters exploded and vapor swirled in a torrent of wind and mist. Here there was light all around, swirling through the ether like a divine, steady breath. This place was like an anchor to his soul, for the first time in many, many years, Severus felt peace settle over him like a heavy cloak. It felt Right and Good. And she was there. Miraculously, there.

“Lily.”

Her diaphanous form regarded him with apathy. Severus had no right to expect anything more, so he did not look away. She could have torn his spirit to ribbons and spat on the remains, and he would have accepted this as a fate of his own making. His soul was hers; he’d given it away long before her death.

But, for a vengeful spirit, Lily seemed… appeased. She seemed neither resentful nor forgiving, only satisfied as she regarded him. “Why did you choose the waters?”

“Lily… I—What?”

“The waters. Why did you choose them?” She asked him as if they had only spoken days ago.

“I didn’t… choose this.” Snape gestured timorously to the vapors which never wavered as his hand passed through them.

Lily observed him for a moment, “Your choice was made before you entered this realm.” She turned away and reached towards something only she could see in the mist, “Why did you ask Dumbledore about your soul?”

Snape was bewildered by her inconsistent line of questioning. Still dazed by her very presence here, in front of him, talking, he could only gape in confusion.

“Dumbledore does not have authority over your soul." Lily continued, "You do with it as you wish.” Her hands passed through the haze in a practiced sequence.

“The Headmaster asked me to murder him to spare the soul of a young man from being torn in two,” Snape hesitated before growling, “He determined my soul to be worth sacrificing instead.”

She returned her veridian gaze back to him, “You seem to be in one piece.” Snape blinked. “Did he force you to do it?”

“No… in the end, he—he begged of me…”

“And you do whatever Dumbledore asks of you?”

Snape paused. He thought he could hear a rushing like the sound of a raging river in the distance only it seemed to be inside him.

“No. I do not. But I could not allow him to suffer.”

An ephemeral melody brushed his face and was gone as quickly as he perceived it. Severus thought he saw a corner of Lily’s mouth lift, but it too was gone in an instant. The light of triumph, however, remained in her eyes as she turned to face him fully.

“And here I though Severus Snape was not in the habit of doling out charity.”

She was… teasing him? This was Lily, his Lily. The rushing waters grew louder, and there was that song again.

“Lily… I am so…” What? Sorry? After all these years, he had never imagined that he would be allowed to apologize for the evil he had wrought in her life. And now that he was faced with the opportunity, he found his words to be sorely lacking. If only that infernal song would desist then perhaps he could think of something more suitable for the occasion.

“I wonder,” Lily spoke quietly, and this time, she did not hide the soft smile, “What you will choose this time.”

With sudden alarm, Severus realized she was quickly vanishing, melding with the vapors as they spun faster. The raging torrent inside of him lurched violently and he perceived himself being drawn quickly away. He held her eyes and tried in vain to show her every bitter ounce of regret and remorse he carried for what he had done to her. She continued to smile softly until she vanished into the ether.

The melody was louder now. The vapors fell away, consumed by darkness and cold. At first, Snape assumed he was being returned to the hell of High Waters to serve out his due penance. But this was the darkness and chill of night. The song was all around him now, the onslaught of water raging, pulsing in his ears, and his limbs… were on fire.

Snape's eyes opened slowly as he surfaced, the beams above him, while blurred and hazy in the dark, gradually solidified. He was back, lying on the cold, hard floor of the shrieking shack… alive. Alive. And Fawkes’ song was flooding the room as his tears saturated Snape's gaping wounds.

Wretched, bloody bird!

Severus used every bit of strength he had left (which was quite a lot, all things considered, and probably all thanks to the scarlet menace) to take an ungrateful swipe at Dumbledore’s beloved familiar. Fawkes’s song cut off abruptly as he gave an undignified squawk and flew onto a beam, well beyond reach of the Potions Masters flailing arms. Severus lay panting, adrenaline coursing through him and he recognized the sound of rushing water for what it was, his blood pulsing violently in time with his racing heart.

Carefully, hands shaking, Snape felt at his neck. There were deep gashes, sticky with already congealing blood, the skin around his collar was torn, hanging in ghastly ribbons. But there was no longer an active flow, the phoenix tears must have sealed the worst of his wounds before Snape chased him off.

Damnable bird. He had no right.

Snape lay motionless as he considered his circumstances. He lay, quite uncomfortably, on the hard floor at an awkward angle, having fallen on the debris littered there. He was exhausted, and probably in immense pain (adrenaline and shock would not allow him to feel it quite yet and for that at least, Snape was grateful). He could move all his limbs despite the lacerations to his arms and shoulders. His outer robes and coat were in tatters, blood-soaked and rank, but his trousers and dress shirt were intact.

As for what was happening outside of this hell hole, well that was the priority. Faux headmaster or not, Snape felt the weight of responsibility keenly. As for his other duty, he had done what Dumbledore had tasked him to do. But, he had to make sure… make sure that it was…

If he was going to attempt the trek up to the school, he would need to use parts of his robe to bind some of his wounds and keep them from reopening.

Snape briefly considered the crimson bird who was silently keeping watch from the rafters. Perhaps he could allow the bird to finish his ministrations. Fawkes was peering down at Snape, head cocked to the side as if observing an intriguing phenomenon. No. He would not ask the galling creature to come near him again.

He felt well enough to make the journey and with any luck his wounds would reopen as soon as he finished his duties, and he could finally die in peace. Preferably in a locked broom closet, deep in the castle where the blasted bird couldn’t reach him again. Snape sat up slowly and removed his outer robe, careful to make sure the swaying walls did not get any worse as he moved. As he set to work laboriously Diffindo-ing his ruined robes to shreds, he considered, with morbid humor, hiding away in McGonagall’s sherry cupboard until he expired. Would serve her right for throwing a volley of swords at his head.

Snape brutally shoved the magnitude and shock of what he had just experienced into a very, very secluded corner of his occluded mind. He could not focus on what needed to be done if a part of his mind was screaming LILY! over and over. She was still dead. He, apparently, was not and he still had a job to do.

Snape used a sticking spell to fasten the ends of his makeshift bandages firmly in place. The fire in his limbs was beginning to return and this time Snape recognized it for the poison that it was.

Snape remembered working in secret to perfect an antidote for Arthur all those years ago, it had worked minimally and slowly. Since then, Snape hadn’t had many opportunities to test his remedy without giving away what he was doing to the Dark Lord. He always carried a vial with him, but he could not be sure of its efficacy and without a second person to administer treatment if the antidote somehow made things worse… no, he was not ready to try that yet. He still had time, the poison worked slowly to cause as much pain and suffering as possible for as long as possible.

He knew definitively that the wounds themselves could not be closed by magical means for the same reason. Nagini’s bite worked like Sectumsempra, to inflict as much destructive, irreversible damage as possible on her miserable prey. Snape had to pause after that thought, nausea threatening to overtake him. He forced it down, he could only imagine what further harm he would bring to himself if he became sick.

In short, there was nothing he could do to heal himself. However, the pain could be managed for a while. Snape reached into his right trouser pocket and opened the void to summon several vials: a pain reliever, blood replenisher, invigoration draught. After some hesitation he abandoned the idea of a calming draught, he would need to rely on adrenaline to get through the night at least, a calming draught would suppress that. Taking the damn things proved to be a challenge, he found that his swallowing reflexes were hindered by the pain, but he managed.

After allowing the pain reliever to take effect, Snape carefully climbed to his feet, using a swaying wall for support. He nearly didn’t make it upright, as the edges of his vision began to darken and blur, but after a few concentrated breaths, Snape found that he could stand and began to stagger towards the tunnel exit. He paused briefly to look back at Fawkes preening in the rafters. The phoenix showed no signs of following, not that snape had expected him to, but he thought it odd that the bird was there at all. Snape scowled and turned back to the trapdoor, steeling himself for the journey.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

     Some time and several breaks later, Snape was able to immobilize the Whomping Willow and drag himself, panting, out of the tunnel entrance. Sweat mingled with the blood on his brow and ran in macabre rivulets down his face. Merlin, he must look a fright. He cursed himself for not having done it before and quickly used a disillusionment charm to render himself almost entirely invisible. With the dark of night he was completely hidden from view, and Snape thanked the ghost of Albus Dumbledore for pushing him to perfect that particular skill.

     The grounds of Hogwarts were surprisingly quiet and empty. Had the battle ended? There was smoke drifting from beyond the ridge and the ominous glow of a fire too large to be torchlight, but he could hear nothing beyond the typical night noises of insects and a warm summer breeze. Snape slowly made his way up the hill, he could not feel the pain of his wounds but he was careful not to agitate them more than necessary. He kept a sharp eye on the grounds around him and the sky above. All was still, all was quiet.

      The towers came into view first and gave Snape an appalling glimpse of what was to come. When he breached the top of the hill and saw the great expanse of Hogwarts’ ravaged front lawn laid out before him, Snape staggered to a halt. The destruction was… monstrous. Great craters, surrounded by endless piles of debris. Massive portions of the castle missing or caved in on itself. There were even the gargantuan prone forms of what Snape could only assume were giants.

     People moved amongst the grounds here and there, helping the injured and lifting bodies, carrying them towards the castle. Most of the bodies were large, grown adults. Some of the bodies, Snape realized with growing horror, were small, too small to be Death Eaters or Order members. My God… surely, they hadn’t allowed the students to—No. Severus forced himself to keep moving. Minerva would never have allowed it. They must be students who were of age and therefore able to make the choice without being stopped. Still, of all the reckless, foolish…

     Anger fueled him and drove him onward, creeping past those who were gathering the injured and deceased. He learned to watch the ground carefully after the first time he slipped in a muddy patch and nearly gave himself away. He looked down where he had stumbled on the slick ground and drew back carefully. A pool of blood, soaking slowly into the ground. There were others. Many others.

    At one point his route was blocked by the hulking mass of a fallen giant, its limbs tangled in what looked like a combined, twisted mess of Venomous Tentacula and Devils Snare. He carefully backed away from the creeping vines and looked to see if those nearby had noticed the plants straining towards his Disillutioned form. He had stepped closer to a pair of Order members, delicately levitating a young victim onto a floating gurney. He caught sight of her pale face and delicate curls drenched in blood before Lavender Brown was hidden from sight behind the broad frame of a volunteer.

     Snape closed his eyes. He had never cared for her lively personality, but Lavender had been a model of strength, her vivacity a light of hope for the younger students this year. While Snape certainly could not claim to have been a sheltering headmaster, he had hoped to at least shield the students from the horrors of actual warfare. He was responsible for them. They were children left in his care. How many others would there be? Snape swallowed his guilt. There was time for wallowing later, right now he needed information and there was only one person who would willingly give him any.

     The front doors that led to the entrance hall had been blasted from their frame and lay in great fragments along the floor, Snape had to pick his way carefully over the hulking bits to not disturb them and draw unwanted attention. Except for Slytherin’s emeralds scattered across the floor, the great hourglass counters were mostly intact. Snape wondered fleetingly if his house’s fallen point status was an act of coincidence or intentional vandalism.

     He encountered his next difficulty when he reached the great stairs that would lead to the upper floors and his desired destination: the Headmasters Tower. The banisters were in splintered ruins, without them and in his condition, it would be a miracle if he made it to the seventh floor. This was not a problem as, seeing the need to keep a closer watch on the Carrow siblings, Snape had placed secret paintings in both the Defense and Muggle Studies classrooms over the winter holiday. Both classrooms were on this floor. He made his way down the hall to his old classroom.

          “D—,” Snape coughed abruptly, his voice rasped painfully despite the potions he had taken. He tried again.

          “Dumble—dore,” Snape quietly intoned.

     The painting was spelled to only appear when he himself uttered the name of the former headmaster, and as it began to slowly come into focus, Snape removed his disillutionment and found himself looking into the bemused gaze of Albus Dumbledore himself.

          “Severus…”

          “What—has—happened? L—last—hour?” Snape found it exceedingly difficult to talk.

    The portrait appraised him, painted eyes taking in Snapes ragged appearance with concern, but saved whatever questions it was about to ask.

          “Mr. Potter was in your office only minutes ago. Perhaps, twenty or slightly more? He used your Pensieve to look at quite a few memories. Yours, I gather?”

     Snape only nodded slowly. Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow, “I am intrigued.”

          “What—else?” Snape asked with ill-tempered impatience.

          “He seemed shaken… at first. I watched him from the smaller portrait in the corner. He gathered his courage remarkably well… and set off without hesitation. He should be in the forest by now I’d imagine.”

          “Forest?” Why the forest specifically? Snape wanted to ask but could only manage the one word.

          “Ahh… I presume you did not hear… Tom made quite the grandiose gesture and allowed an hour’s reprieve in the assault of the castle. He made it abundantly clear that this was to be followed by the handing over of one Harry Potter to him or He would personally cut down every individual shielding him. I can imagine Harry will not take the threat lightly.”

     Snape frowned. How could he know for sure what was happening to Potter? Would he make it to the forest in time? Even if he could, Snape had no idea where in the forest to begin his search. What if Potter had fled instead? Snape knew he was a hard-hearted man, but even he could understand the heavy weight of responsibility that had been so abruptly unloaded onto the boy. It would overwhelm even the most heroically reckless of Gryffindor idiots. Severus would have to make sure Potter truly understood what the task was. He scowled darkly.

         “Severus… I am pleased to see you alive.”

         “Why?” Do you have some other grisly job for me to perform?

         “Because I care for you, young man.” Snape looked away, “Is that so difficult to believe?” Snape said nothing but pulled his tattered coat tighter. It was cold, he had begun to shiver.

         “I must—go.” Snape recast his disillusionment charm as he turned towards the door.

         “Please, be careful.”

     Snape hissed, fury and contempt etched in the harried lines of his face. He would have thoroughly enjoyed slamming the door on his way out but refrained. Oh yes, Dumbledore cared. Cared enough to make sure Severus did his duty and returned to that madman over and over no matter how many Crucios he suffered. Cared enough to insist Severus rend his own soul in two to save a spoilt, cruel boy. Cared enough to make sure that Severus was the one to lead the Golden Boy, the Chosen One to certain death.

     Seething, Snape began to make his way down the first-floor corridor and towards the exit. He would make sure the Potter had followed through with his duty and then he would somehow find a way to bring about the demise of the Dark Lord. Being ‘careful’ was not a part of the hand he’d been dealt.

          "Harry Potter is dead.”

     The Dark Lord’s sinuous voice sounded in his head. Severus’ heart nearly burst through his chest before he remembered this little mental trick of the Dark Lord’s. He had started so violently that he groaned and had to lean heavily against the corridor wall to keep himself from collapsing. He pulled another vial of pain reliever from his trouser pocket and downed it in one go.

          “He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him.”

     Snape couldn’t help the derisive noise that escaped him, the Dark Lord always did enjoy his embellishments. Potter was dead. And the Dark Lord remained. But still, he had to see for himself.

          “We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone.” Well, wasn’t that convenient?

          “Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared…”

     As the Dark Lord concluded his missive, Snape began to hear movement at the entrance of the corridor. The sound of many hesitant, exhausted feet shuffling towards the front doors. He began to move again, thankful for the noise of the crowd that covered his own steps. Then he faltered as Professor McGonagall’s heartrending cry, something he had never imagined he would ever hear, tore through the hall. So, it must be true if Minerva was so convinced. More shouts of despair made their way down the corridor to him. Still under disillusionment, Snape began to creep closer to the exit. The crowd was shouting obscenities in the direction of Voldemort and his followers. Snape shook his head, not an ounce of self-preservation amongst the lot of them.

         “SILENCE!”

     He heard the Dark Lord shout followed by a loud bang and what felt vaguely like a version of his own Langlok except… it wasn’t working properly. He was at the entrance of the corridor now and could see the backs of the crowd, all eyes turned to observe the display the Dark Lord had brought to the foot of Hogwarts. Snape searched for an opening and found one to the right of Madam Pomfrey and Professor Slughorn. Using the sturdier pieces of debris, Snape step gently past the devastated crowd and out into the early morning haze.

     Outside once more, Snape could see his masked compatriots spread out in a line facing the school, wands drawn. Bellatrix stood at the Dark Lord’s side with a wicked grin, elation infusing every aspect of her being. This was a holiday for her. Snape could see the Malfoys huddled behind a weeping Hagrid, as far from their Lord as they could get, looking as if they hoped they would be forgotten by all. The Dark Lord stood tall and victorious ahead of his devoted followers, the crumpled form of Harry Potter lay at his feet, hopelessly still.

         “Do you understand now, deluded ones?” Voldemort was saying now in a mockingly gentle tone. “He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him.”

         “He beat you!” Ronald Weasley, ever the loyal companion.

     His words set off another cacophony of insults and threats from the crowd. Severus had to step delicately away from the crowd so as not to be caught up in their impassioned fury. In so doing, he’d stepped closer to the line of Death Eaters almost drawing level with the Dark Lord himself. Snape carefully checked that he was sufficiently disillusioned still and thanked whatever deity was watching that it was still too dark to make out his barely perceptible form. Another bang and a scarcely viable silencing charm from Voldemort. Odd, that. And as Snape looked back towards the line of Death Eaters, something caught his eye. A nearly imperceptible flutter coming from one deceased Harry Potter. Snape’s eyes narrowed.

         “He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds. Killed while trying to save himself—”

     A scuffle, a shout, another bang, and a grunt of pain, but Snape’s eyes never wavered until—THERE. Potter’s eyes had cracked infinitesimally but unmistakably, he was alive, and he was watching.

     But… how? How could the boy have fooled the Dark Lord, the most powerful wizard alive, into believing he’d been killed? It wasn’t possible, was it? The Dark Lord was adamant that Potter was to be his, he would not have passed on Potter’s fate to one of his followers. The risk for error or interference was too great. The Dark Lord was not averse to using poison, but it was highly unlikely he would use it to kill the Boy Who Lived. Even if he had used poison, Potter wouldn’t have been allowed the opportunity to consume an antidote.

     Surely Potter hadn’t truly been killed and miraculously survived again, unless he had died and… the bird? Had Fawkes somehow revived the boy as he had done Snape? With The Dark Lord watching? But it was as close to a working theory as Snape could get before he was wrenched from his thoughts by another shout.

          “Dumbledore’s Army!”

     Neville Longbottom, stood tall, flushed with righteous anger, staring Voldemort eye to beady-red eye as he stirred the crowd with his impassioned cry. Foolish, idiot boy. Snape’s heart hammered wildly; another boy would die tonight. Another child under his purview.

          “Very well,” Snape could hear the note of malice in his master’s voice, “If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head… be it.”

     As the Dark Lord summoned the Sorting Hat of all things from the castle, Snape waged a silent war within himself. His eyes flicked over the crowd. Defiant faces, terrified eyes, his fellow professors shifting nervously knowing they would not be able to reach Neville in time, that the Dark Lord’s followers would have them dead the moment they took a step forward. He could see Minerva and Flitwick gathering themselves as if to charge anyway. No. NO.

          “There will be no more Sorting Hat at Hogwarts School.” Voldemort cast a binding on Neville Longbottom as he spoke and forced the hat onto the boy’s head.

          “Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me.” And with a flick of his wand, Voldemort set the boy on fire.

     Snape launched himself with the fury of a man possessed at Neville, grabbing the screaming boy around the waist and shouted a dousing charm as they crashed to the ground. He knew he had lost his disillusionment charm the moment he made contact with Longbottom. A cry tore from his lips as pain shot through his neck and torso. But he knew Voldemort was watching and would not remain so for long. Snape’s eyes snapped up to meet the face of the man he had so thoroughly betrayed only to see the lightning flash of fear there being replaced with rage.

     Neville flung Snape off himself and flew at Voldemort, no, at Nagini, the gleaming sword of Gryffindor held high in his hands, and cleanly sliced off her head.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

     Neville Longbottom stood triumphant, the great sword of Godric Gryffindor in one hand dripping more blood onto the already soaked ground. Snape whipped his wand towards Longbottom, a Protego on his lips, when several things happened all at once. A powerful shield cast by someone in the crowd encompassed both Snape and Neville. The Dark Lord cast a vengeful killing curse that was absorbed harmlessly by the shield that protected them. Snape gaped. That was… impossible.  Voldemort’s scream of rage was drowned out by the deafening cry of the giant Grawp who came thundering around the castle towards them.

          “HAGGER!”

     Snape had barely processed what he was seeing before Voldemort’s giants gave an answering roar and charged. He scrambled to his feet as, in another direction, the battle cry of hundreds of stampeding centaurs nearly stopped his heart for a second time that night. In seconds, Snape found himself tossed in a sea of Death Eaters, centaurs, giants, and Order members locked in furious combat. Thestrals and Black’s bloody hippogriff soaring and diving overhead, targeting Voldemort’s giants with hooves and talons.

     Neville stood nearby, furiously firing off spells in all directions, and while Snape had to admit the boy’s aptitude had improved dramatically, his aim was still sadly lacking. Snape did his best to shield the boy as they were forced back up the flagstone steps and into the Entrance Hall. Voldemort had vanished somewhere in the fray, as had Potter if Hagrid’s frantic shouting was anything to go by.

     Snape found himself caught between attacks from both sides. He fired off the most vicious hexes and curses he could conjure at nearby Death Eaters while simultaneously deflecting spells cast his way by students and Order members. Sweat and blood stung his eyes and he swiped furiously at them, desperate to catch every debilitating curse sent his way. He deftly blocked a powerful Incendio but missed the jelly legs jinx which caused him to stumble and fall to one knee before he could undo it. Professor Sinistra caught his eye, and he felt the wind from the ropes as he dodged her Incarcerous. It seemed all parties from both sides were on the same page when it came to Severus Snape and panic nearly overtook him. He aimed a barely viable Ventus towards the dirt at Professor Sinistra’s feet and used the confusion from the resulting whirlwind to make a break for a nearby fallen pillar.

     Making his way along the wall to the far end of the Hall, Snape kept himself low to the ground and his eyes roved the crowd. He caught sight of Yaxley, face contorted in malice,  as he unleashed a Sectumsempra towards Arthur Weasley. Mr. Weasley threw himself to the ground to avoid the savage curse. It took some of the hair from the back of his head as it passed above him and the fall knocked the air from Arthur’s lungs. He struggled to regain his footing while desperately gaping like a fish out of water. Yaxley’s face split into a feral grin as he raised his wand for a damning final blow. Snape acted on instinct, silently summoning to him the only thing firmly attached to the breathless man. Arthur folded in half as the back of his belt shot him across the room towards Snape who quickly stepped to the side. Mr. Weasley landed in an undignified heap against the wall. Yaxley narrowed his eyes and gave Snape a wicked grin.

          “Finally found yourself on the wrong end of it, eh Snape? Confringo!” A jet of fire shot through the air, narrowly missing Lee Jordan who slid cleanly underneath its path at the last second.  

          “Aqua Erecto,” Snape intoned hoarsely. A great geyser of water erupted from his wand absorbing the blasting curse with an explosive hiss and a cloud of steam which Snape used to conceal his hasty retreat behind the fallen pillar.

     Mr. Weasley had recovered enough to pull himself into the relative safety of the debris and crouched behind Snape. Arthur pulled in copious gasps of air and adjusted his belt as he watched Snape. He gave a brief nod in thanks and cautiously raised his arm, wand clutched firmly in his hand. Snape froze; his own wand remained at his side. The battle raged on from the other side of the pillar, but on this side a silence seemed to descend over the two men. Neither man was sure what the other would do, but neither harbored a desire to break the momentary truce. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Arthur Weasley seemed to come to a resolution and lowered his wand.

     A Blasting Spell broke the pillar just above Snape’s head and he threw his arms up protectively as he felt the shards graze the side of his scalp. He pulled himself lower and glanced over at Arthur. The man lay on his side, blood pooling along the side of his head and running to the floor. Snape cursed and fumbled for his coat sleeve, pulling it up into his hand enough to gingerly wipe some of the blood away from Mr. Weasley’s head. A large chunk of stone had caught Arthur just behind his temple and there was a deep gash running from above his ear towards the back of his head.

     Nothing appeared to be broken but Snape knew better than to irritate the injury further or move the man. He carefully felt for a pulse and released a breath when he found it. Molly would still have a husband to harangue tomorrow, thank Merlin or Snape would have found himself on the receiving end of her wrath. Not that he wasn’t already there, but an angry Molly was infinitely better than a vengeful Molly. He shuddered and carefully used pieces of his coat to bind Arthur’s wound. When he finished, Snape crept to the end of the pillar and peered around the side to take stock of what was happening in the Entrance Hall.

     Lee Jordan and George Weasley had taken over the battle with Yaxley. The Death Eater was hard-pressed to keep up with the two young men and Snape left them to it. There were a few other skirmishes spread about the room but it seemed the rest of the battle had moved into the Great Hall. The doors had been blasted away along with large sections of the wall as the Order was forced back into the once magnificent chamber. Snape could see flashes of fire, smoke, and color from a dizzying array of spells being cast from all directions. He took one last glance at Arthur Weasley assured that the man was in no immediate danger and slunk into the Great Hall.

     The world flipped on its head and Snape felt his chest twist painfully as his body was propelled upside down, caught by Ginny Weasley in a very effective Levicorpus. Dammit Potter!

          “Libracorpus!” Snape landed poorly and felt something like fire tear across the side of his neck. He groaned but kept his eyes trained on the young Ms. Weasley who seemed to hesitate. He registered the contemptuous scowl on her pale face before swiftly casting the strongest Protego he could muster. A savage slicing spell had nearly removed the girl’s arm. She whirled to face the Death Eater bearing down on them, Bellatrix’s face twisted in sadistic glee.

          “Oh look, a mouse and a rat to play with!”

     The vile woman sent a flurry of curses their way, impossibly fast and deadly accurate. Ginny cursed and dove behind a pile of rubble, the Reducto missed her legs by a hairs breadth and Snape barely had time to cast another Protego before he himself was assaulted by Bellatrix’s storm of curses.

     Snape knew it was only a matter of time before one of her curses would find its target and if the fire of pain racing down his neck and across his chest was anything to go by, time was not on his side. He blocked and deflected and shielded himself and Ginny as best he could while the girl in turn threw all manner of hexes, jinxes, and even a few non-Hogwarts sanctioned curses Bellatrix’s way. All of this while the depraved demon shrieked and howled in twisted pleasure at their fear. The strain from sustained combat began to creep along the edges of his vision, and his wand arm seized in pain before he dropped the shield he had been maintaining.

     Just as Snape caught the gleam of triumph in Bellatrix’s eye, he felt the presence of two others joining their fierce battle. A tangled mass of brown curls to his right began hurling hexes and jinxes with the timing and precision of a surgeon. Hermione Granger glanced briefly at Snape before returning her attention to their mad assailant. To her right was Luna Lovegood who seemed to have taken over Snape’s job of thwarting incoming spells quite proficiently. The ferocity of Ms. Granger’s attack seemed to catch Bellatrix by surprise. Bolstered by the girls’ timely intervention, Ginny renewed her own assault with vigor.

     Panting with exhaustion and no small amount of pain, Snape spared a moment to take in his surroundings. In the Great Hall, there were bodies. Too many for Snape to count. Order members and students struggled to fight amongst the debris and were careful to avoid trampling their fallen comrades. The Death Eaters held no such scruples and pressed their opponents relentlessly. Some even went so far as to use the bodies of their victims to gain an advantage. Enraged at this act of barbarism, the Order fought all the harder.

     Momentarily forgotten, Snape saw Molly Weasley join the fray, desperate to reach her daughter, she fought as one possessed. Other smaller battles were waging all around him. But something unusual was happening that seemed to shift the tide of battle into the Order’s favor. At regular intervals throughout the room, a Death Eater would inexplicably collapse in pain, clutching at sudden boils that erupted along their arms and legs, grasping at sliced tendons, desperately grabbing for expelled wands. All manner of unfortunate incidents that seemed to come from nowhere and only affected the Dark Lord’s followers. Snape narrowed his eyes, tracking the pattern as it moved steadily across the chamber. Potter is here under that infernal cloak.

     The boy was angling for the raised dais at the back of the Hall where Voldemort was fending off attacks from Kingsley Shacklebolt, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Slughorn. Snape squared his shoulders and set on clearing a determined path towards his colleagues. The Dark Lord repulsed Slughorn’s binding hex and cast a net of fire to encompass the man, transfigured the Headmaster’s chair into a fierce dragon the size of Hagrid and set it on Professor McGonagall, and swarmed Kingsley in a ripping, tearing unkindness of conjured ravens. Then Voldemort fixed his murderous gaze on Snape.

     Snape felt the Dark Lord’s mind tear through his own. Clawing, stabbing, shredding at the edges of his mind. A weaker man would have been reduced to a quivering mess of blood and tears on the floor. A weaker man would have been left a body empty of coherent thought, and absent of soul. His memories would have been torn to ribbons and left to drift aimless as a summer fly through the vacuum of a ravaged mind. A weaker man might have prostrated himself, begged and groveled, traded his offspring and blood for a mercy that would never be granted.

     Severus Snape was not a weak man. With a derisive mental slap, Snape expelled the Dark Lord violently from his mind. Snape’s lip curled, open contempt on full display for the monster who thought to own him. Voldemort stumbled briefly, eyes narrowed to slits, a hiss of pain and fury escaped him before he launched himself at Snape.

          “YOU DARE?”

     The Dark Lord roared, a gathering storm of power summoned from within and swelled around him. Voldemort’s wand sliced wildly through the air, intent on carving a path of destruction and violence. Snape stood his ground and watched as Voldemort’s curses did little more than shove the crowd aside. The Dark Lord did not seem to notice, so intent was he on reaching his traitorous servant. Snape threw all his magic into a protection spell and watched the Dark Lord pummel his shield in an onslaught of brutality.

     A cutting curse, a bone crushing hex, a curse intended to boil its victims alive. One after another the spells from the Dark Lord battered Snape’s defenses without even one reaching their target. The crowd had parted abruptly under the torrent of Voldemort’s curses and now stood largely frozen in fear at the immense amount of power being put on display. Snape felt a kind of strangled awe overtake him as he watched from within the safety of his shield. He was being inundated in color, fire, ice, wind, and crushing earth, a power so vast he could not fathom how the world was able to hold itself together under the relentless blitz of crushing blows. And still he stood, unharmed at the center of it all.

     His observations of the failed Langlok, the ineffectual killing curse hurled at Neville Longbottom, and the still standing, unharmed forms of Kingsley, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Slughorn all led Snape to conclude that somehow, impossibly, the Dark Lord’s spells were becoming ineffectual. This was it. This was the Order’s best opportunity to weaken Lord Voldemort. Snape began to press the Dark Lord. Every dark and light spell he had ever learned came to the fore now. Every curse he and the bloody Mauraders had hurled at one another served him in his moment of need. Every spell he had invented during tireless hours spent locked away in the library. Every advanced enchantment Dumbledore had rigorously engrained into his spy. He felt himself pulling on them all instinctively and matching the Dark Lord blow for blow.

     The hall was lined with onlookers now, wide eyed and stunned at the display of power. Only one other fight was raging, not far from Snape and Voldemort’s whirling forms, Molly Weasley and Bellatrix Lestrange were caught in a similar vortex of incredible power.

          “What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?” Bellatrix mocked, cackling wildly at her own little joke. “When Mummy’s gone the same way as Freddie?”

          “You—will—never—touch—our—children—again!” Molly screamed and with a triumphant cry, Molly’s next curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s arms and hit her square in the chest. Bellatrix fell dead amongst raucous cheering. There was a roar of absolute, crazed fury from Voldemort. In that instant, Snape flung another Sectumsempra in the Dark Lord’s direction and this time it hit, leaving a deep gash along the left side of Voldemort’s face. Crimson blood poured from scalp to chin just missing his eye, and the Dark Lord seemed to swell with power. The next instant, Snape was blasted violently across the Great Hall as Voldemort erupted with the force of a bomb.

         “PROTEGO!”

Chapter Text

         “PROTEGO!”

     Snape couldn’t see. Everything was light and dark all at once. Surely that was lighting surging through his veins. He felt as if his head had been seized by a giant and the talons of that bothersome hippogriff were shredding his neck, his arms, his torso. But Voldemort was still alive, and he wanted Snape dead more than anyone right now. Snape had to keep fighting, no one else would fight for him, he had to get up and keep going. Snape groaned and opened his eyes, struggling to focus on what was in front of him. What was in front of him?

     Potter stood in front of him, wand arm pointed towards Voldemort, his other outstretched behind him, as if… as if he were shielding Snape.

     The Order was cheering, Snape could hear them dully past the ringing in his ears, “Harry! HE’S ALIVE!” It did not last for long as Voldemort drew himself up, panting hard, red eyes on fire and a snarl on his lips.

          “I don’t want anyone else to try to help, it’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.” His voice was steady and carried throughout the silent hall. The hand blocking Snape widened as if imploring him to stay back. Snape was fine with that, he didn’t think he could stand anyway.

          “Potter doesn’t mean that,” Voldemort began to circle Harry, red eyes wide and mocking, “That isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?” The Dark Lord was to Snape’s right now, but so was Harry. Snape shifted so to keep them both in his line of sight, the movement caused a hiss of pain to escape him, and Voldemort’s gaze shifted. “What’s wrong, Severus? Are you in pain?” The Dark Lord sneered.

          “You’re bleeding, Tom.” Harry replied coldly. Snape couldn’t help the smirk that remark pulled from him. He eyed the blood running down the side of Voldemorts face, proud of his handiwork.

          “There are no more Horcruxes.” Potter continued. Voldemort froze, “It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good…”

     Horcruxes? HorcruxES?! Snape stopped turning with Harry and Voldemort. That doddering bastard! He knew! That was what Potter had been sent on a year-long bloody scavenger hunt for? Dumbledore’s words returned to him, “There will come a time when he will fear for the life of his snake…” The snake had been a horcrux, and Snape cursed himself for the idiot he clearly was. After Dumbledore tasked him with delivering the information, Snape had realized what Potter was of course. But to split one’s soul multiple times… was unthinkably monstrous. So of course the Dark Lord would attempt it and succeed.

     Potter and Voldemort were still circling. Potter kept Snape behind him. Something Potter said recaptured Snape’s attention.

           “Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people—”

           “But you did not!”

           “—I meant to, and that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. You don’t learn from your mistakes, Riddle, do you?”

          “You dare—"

          “Yes, I dare.”

     Snape’s head pounded, the edges of his vision tunneling in and out. He breathed steadily trying to make sense of what he was hearing. ‘I’ve done what my mother did. They’re protected from you.’ Lily’s death protected Potter for a time. Her blood magic had kept the Dark Lord at bay for many years. Was that it then? Then that must mean… Potter had died in the forest, and willingly to. His sacrifice created blood protection for everyone here tonight. Did that include the Death Eaters, Snape wondered? How specific would one’s sacrifice need to be to exclude anyone not fighting for the Light? Did his blood protection only cover those whom Potter loved? But the Dark Lord’s spells hadn’t worked on Snape either so it couldn’t have been that specific.

         “I know things you don’t.” Potter continued, “Want to know some, before you make another big mistake?”

         “Is it love again?” Voldemort jeered, “Dumbledore’s favorite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death,” Voldemort’s eyes once again flicked to Snape before he said, “though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork,” Snape schooled his expression but his grip on his wand tightened, “Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach—”

     Snape launched himself at Voldemort, stumbling as his body protested, a wild Sectumsempra once again on his lips, rage and fire tearing through him. Potter flipped around and leapt in front of him. Snape felt the boy restrain him, one arm wrapped around his torso and the other gripped his wrist. Snape’s eyes never wavering from Voldemort’s, he struggled against the boy in vain, his body too weak to push through and the boy was strong. Much stronger than he had any right to be.

          “Stop! Snape, stop!” Potter intreated as he pushed the professor back, still holding the man’s wand arm he gripped Snape’s shoulder, “Look at me!”

     Snape was pulled from the fire raging within him by a note of exigence in Potter’s command. He looked down intending it to be a perfunctory glance, but something caught in his chest when he met the boy’s eyes. Potter was intentionally opening his mind to Snape, willing the man to see what was there. Snape was quick, and what he saw disarmed him completely. He stopped struggling and stepped back, face empty. Potter watched him steadily but directed his next words to Voldemort.

          “No, love saved me… many times. But Dumbledore, he was cleverer than you, a better wizard, a better man.”

          “I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore! That man is mine! He serves me! And his death will serve me greater still!” Voldemort drew himself up like a snake ready to strike.

          “You’re wrong.” Harry’s grip on Snape’s wand arm tightened, but he turned to face the Dark Lord. “Dumbledore was already dying. He chose his own manner of dying, chose it months before he died, and arranged it with Snape. It was all planned.”

     Well… there it was. Snape heard a soft gasp from McGonagall somewhere to his right and murmurs rippled through the crowd, but they were quickly silenced. Potter, inclined his head towards Snape.

          “Would you like to take over here?” Potter asked quietly, Snape would say respectfully even. Snape couldn’t even if he wanted to, he shook his head carefully, the tunnels were returning.

          “No. You.” He managed to rasp.

     Harry paused and seemed to decide something, then he nodded and finally let go of Snape’s arm.

         “Snape was Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting down my mother,”

     Oh Lord, why Potter? Not this, not NOW.

         “My mother’s patronus was a doe. You never saw Snape cast a Patronus, did you, Riddle?” Voldemort made no answer but pierced Snape with his crimson gaze. Snape could refuse, but Potter was looking at him now. A challenge in his eyes, Snape could do this at least and maybe the brat would get on with it.

         “Expecto—Patronum.” He murmured softly and his silver doe drifted softly from his wand and began to bound and weave around the Hall and among the gatherers there. She was achingly beautiful, she was his, and Snape felt incredibly exposed in that moment. McGonagall was watching him with bloody tears in her eyes. Merlin’s Beard, he would never, never forgive Potter for this. The doe circled Voldemort twice and vanished.

         “You should have realized,” Harry was once again watching Voldemort, but he addressed Snape next for all to her, “You asked him to spare her life, didn’t you?” Snape nodded carefully. I will NEVER forgive him. “He was Dumbledore’s spy from the moment you threatened her, and he’s been working against you ever since, even now, this whole year. Snape has been trying to keep everyone safe and helping me where he could.”

         “It matters not!” Voldemort finally shrieked with a cackle of mad laughter, “It matters not if Snape was mine or Dumbledore’s! Don’t you see, foolish boy? Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wand from me! He intended that Snape should be the true master of the wand! But I got there ahead of you, little boy—I reached the wand before you could get your hands on it. All I need to do now is finish what I started earlier tonight—AVADA KEDAVRA!”

     Voldemort’s spell flew for him once more but this time, Snape did not try to block it, didn’t even try to avoid it. Later, he told himself and others it was because he knew the blood protection would work to keep him safe. But as the beam of green light dissipated harmlessly off his chest, he knew that was not true.

         “Wha—what is this?” Voldemort rasped.

         “It won’t work, Tom. You cannot hurt him, any of them. This is your last chance.” Harry shook his head, “It’s all you’ve got left… I’ve seen what you’ll be otherwise… Be a man…. Try…. Try for some remorse…” Voldemort’s eyes widened in fear.

         “That wand isn’t working properly for you because Snape was never it’s true master. He didn’t defeat Dumbledore—”

         “He killed—”

         “Aren’t you listening?” Harry took a step closer to Voldemort, “Snape didn’t murder Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was planned by them! Dumbledore intended to die undefeated, the wand’s last true master! If all had gone as planned, the wand’s power would have died with him, because it had never been won from him!”

         “But then, Potter, Dumbledore as good as gave it to me. I stole the wand from its last master’s tomb! I removed it against its last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!”

         “Possessing the wand isn’t enough! Holding it, using it, doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Olivander? The wand chooses the wizard…. The elder Wand recognized a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance… the true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy!”

      Potter, you fool! Snape could only hope that the Malfoys had gotten far, far away by now. There was nothing he could do to help Draco now. Voldemort was simmering with fury and raw power. Snape could feel the curse building in strength and knew there was nothing he could do but trust, trust in Potter.

         “After I have killed you, I can attend to Draco Malfoy….”

         “But you’re too late… you’ve missed your chance,” Harry twisted the wand in his hand, “I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took this wand from him…. So, it all comes down to this, does it? Does the wand in your hand know its last master was Disarmed?” Harry took a familiar stance, one that looked very much like the one Snape had taught them in Defense lessons, “Because if it does… I am the true master of the Elder Wand.”

      As the dawning sun finally breached the horizon, shining dazzling light through the shattered panes of stained effigies and bathing the Great Hall in magnificent color, in that exact moment, Voldemort and Harry Potter released their spells.

        “Avada Kedavra!”

        “Expelliarmus!”

     The air between them exploded with power and a blinding light erupted from the point of impact when the two spells collided. Snape watched Voldemort’s wand go flying. Saw the Dark Lord’s eyes widen in fear as his own curse rebounded and hit him in the chest. Witnessed Voldemort’s eyes empty, and his body crumpled to the ground in a useless heap.

     Snape looked at Harry. Harry’s eyes met Snape’s, and he saw there shock, hope, and… regret? Moronic Gryffindor. The boy held both his and Voldemort's wands in his hand. How? Of course, best bloody Seeker in a century. Snape couldn’t stop the disbelieving guffaw that tore from him any more than he could stop his legs from finally giving out and his head hitting the stone floor.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

     The crowd erupted in a roar so thunderous Snape would not have been surprised if the enchanted ceiling caved in completely. He would welcome it at this point. There was a pike in his skull, he was sure of it.

     The stone floor had knocked him out momentarily and when he tried opening his eyes again, the hall was in a freefall. Fire and stone, smoke and iridescent sky all floated anchorless around him. Variegated morning light refracted off the broken windows, bathing the halls occupants in a dreadful elysian glow that mercilessly lanced through Snape’s head. He thought with muted alarm that perhaps the ceiling really was crumbling. He closed his eyes and waited patiently for the crushing weight of debris. When it did not come, he kept his eyes shut because it felt so, so much better this way.

     There were stampeding feet all around. Snape was lying on his side in the middle of a churning mass of adoring Potter fans. They were cheering and shouting Potter’s name while Snape felt every inch of his body burn, the potions having entirely worn off by now. The time he had borrowed with potions was collecting its debt with interest in the form of excruciating pain. His body depleted and wracked with tremors, Snape floated in and out of consciousness. Words floated to him occasionally.

            “Snape! Merlin…” Firm, cool hands pressed to the sides of his face. “Here, Filius, help me get him…”

     A sharp oath. A mutter spell. Snape was floating weightless, and it was, finally, blissfully quiet. He drifted. He was brought back sharply by the weight of his own body settling onto a cot, he groaned and tried to retreat further into himself.

            “Look here, Snape, I need you to open your eyes.”

     Why? But he recognized Poppy’s firm, commanding tone and knew his resistance would be up against a will stronger than his own. Snape fought to open his eyes. The Hall was still spinning wildly, and he could see more than one Pomfrey. She and her doubles wavered in and out of focus. Her jaw was clenched. Her brow was slightly furrowed. He must be addle-brained. Madam Pomfrey did not worry. Especially not for him. Especially not recently. He could feel her delicately removing the makeshift bandages, undoing the sticking charms. He heard a hiss and an expression close to panic flit across her face. She quickly placed a fresh bandage to his still bleeding neck. His vision tunneled.

           “Oh no you don’t, Severus!” He ignored her and closed his eyes again. Just before he started drifting, he thought he heard a quiet, “Don’t you dare…”

     The summer sun was hot, almost unbearably so. Severus was tempted to leave his place pillowed, half-buried in the sand and take shelter under Mrs. Evans’ massive umbrella. He would have suffered the indignity of retreat, if it weren’t for the freezing waters also pulling at his feet, cooling him down just enough to make laying in the sun tolerable. The red glow of a bright summer day filtered through his closed eyes. He imagined this must be what it would feel like if he were a crab.

     A shadow blocked the sun. A cool breeze brought the smell of coconut oil and lemon. A tendril of hair tickled his cheek.

          “What you doing, Sev?”

          “Imagining I’m a crab.”

          “You are a crab.”

     Severus growled and tried to swat Lily’s hair off his face. She giggled and playfully shook her head over him until he was drowning in waves of copper curls. He sputtered an oath and tried to roll out from under her.

     But he couldn’t lift his arms. They were buried in the sand. He tried to use his feet, but the waves had him by the ankles and they were pulling him out to sea. Lily! He tried to call out, but he couldn’t breathe. There was sand in his mouth and the sun was roasting him slowly.

     He was suffocating, a giant crab had him by the neck. He managed to pull one arm from the sand and grasped at the claw that was choking him. Fire tore through his body and he let out a strangled cry. His tongue had turned to sand. The water was pulling him further out and he abruptly felt the shore vanish from beneath him as he began to sink—

          “Severus, drink.” Hands lifted his head above the waves, and he felt the contents of a vial being tipped into his mouth. He gulped it down, desperate to relieve his parched and burning throat.

     The waves stilled. He was floating atop the water. The light grew dim around him, and he gently drifted into oblivion once more.

          “How is he doing?”

          “He’s stable, resting. He'll live.”

          “Potter said he was attacked by the snake? They thought he was… dead. Can you tell what happened?”

          “I'm not sure… from what I can tell, by the location and depth of his wounds, the attack should have been fatal. Perhaps Severus had some antidote we don't know about. We'll just have to wait until he wakes to ask him.”

          “Mmm… how long do you think that will be?”

          “Minnie…”

          “Yes, yes, I know, I can be patient if you need me to be… but I don't think the rest of the Order will tolerate going without answers for much longer”

          “But Potter already told—”

          “Unfortunately, that's not enough. I believe… that Harry believes what Snape told him. I've seen the memories myself and they are quite convincing. But you and I both know Severus Snape’s skills in Occlumency are quite advanced. He could have manipulated any one of those memories to show Harry what the boy wished to see.”

          “As he lay dying? Really, Minerva?”

          “I don't know… I just don't know any more Poppy. I need—I need to hear it from him.”

     Go away.

     Snape decided he would be better off going back to sleep.

     He drifted, down, down, down. Once again, Snape felt himself sinking. The High Waters were not as cold this time, but they were just as dark. He knew the dead would come just as they had the last time, but he did not try to surface. Maybe… maybe she would be there as well?

     The hands came, ephemeral and strong. He could feel their hatred, malice and anger, a vile amalgamation of sewage and rancid filth thickening the water, sticking to his limbs and weighing him down. The dead were hungry for him. They grabbed his waist, wrapped his arms, tangled in his hair and sank with him.

     And with the dead came the accusations:  How many men and women… you disgust me… he thinks you reformed, I know better…

     The taunts: Snivellus… it’s more the fact that he exists… Ugly Git…

     His own jeers: “You weren’t a lot of use to him in prison… you are neither special, nor important… life is not fair…”

     Fingers dug into him, clawing, desperately clinging to him pulling him deeper. The waters were blacker, colder. Severus endured it all. Surely she would save him again?

     He sank and she did not come. Faster now and the pressure had his head in a vice. His eyes desperately scoured the suffocating darkness around him.

     Lily is not here.

     Of course she was not there, Snape thought bitterly. Why would an angel descend into hell for him a second time? Despair pressed him down, suffocating. What awaited him at the bottom? Would there be a bottom to reach? Or would he decend for eternity? Snape grasped at his neck, fighting back. He had thought she would come! He did not want this! But the dead would not release him, and the darkness consumed him.

     The voices grew louder and multiplied until they overlapped one over the other, but he could still distinguish each accusation. They had been imprinted on his soul long before his death.

     Snape woke gasping for air. He could not breathe! He tried to tear at the bandages that wrapped his neck and shoulders, but his arms were stuck to the bed. Panic momentarily overtook him and he began to struggle against the spell that gripped him before a pair of cool hands wrapped themselves around his wrists.

          “Severus, you were having a nightmare. Calm yourself. Steady breaths.” Madam Pomfrey was sitting at the edge of his bed. Her careworn face conveyed only a command that he master himself. Snape’s eyes clung to her face like a lifeboat, and he began to breathe as she had directed. “That’s it. Nice and steady now.”

     Madam Pomfrey released his arms and looked at his wounds clinically. She let out an exasperated breath.

          “I’ll have to replace those bandages again. But now that you’re awake, I can do an evaluation. You took quite a fall. That contusion is gone thankfully but I’ll have to check for lingering effects of concussion.”

     Snape was attempting to slow his racing heart. He did not dare close his eyes again. Instead, he took in his surroundings. Despite the darkness of the room, Snape could tell he was in the Hospital Wing. He must have been moved while he was sleeping. He was at the far end of the hall as one side of his bed was occupied by a chair and beyond it, the wall. The rest of his bed was surrounded by drawn partitions leaving just enough room for Madam Pomfrey to move around.

          “Now, are you calm enough for me to remove the sticking charm?” The mediwitch eyed him disparagingly, “I must insist you keep your hands away from the bandages and allow me to change them. You’ve already reopened those wounds once with your thrashing and I’d rather not drug you again.” Snape nodded gingerly.

     She summoned a tray of bandages and potions vials from somewhere on the other side of the curtains. Snape watched her hands as she worked, silent, heart still hammering. Madam Pomfrey seemed to understand his unease and filled the silence with useless medical chatter. She was in the middle of explaining what the various vials were for when Snape interrupted hoarsely, “Wh-what—time? Day?” His voice didn’t carry far but Madam Pomfrey was listening attentively. She regarded him.

          “It’s just after midnight. Today is May 4^th.”

     Two days. The Dark Lord had been dead for two days. Unnerved by her gaze, Snape looked at the vials inquiringly.

          “A Dreamless Sleep, blood replenisher, lavender and coconut tincture to reduce inflammation and help with the fever. Nothing too strong, mind. That Dreamless sleep will take care of most of your discomfort. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow I’ll bring along a vial of that clever little antidote you came up with to help flush out the poison. Now that you’re awake you can help me ascertain its effectiveness.”

     He eyed the Dreamless Sleep greedily, but she held onto that one while handing him each other vial as she listed it off and he swallowed them dutifully. He paused as he took the inflammation distillate. Lavender… Coconut… their scents pulled at something in his chest. He downed it in one. Finally, she held out the coveted potion but did not release it as his hand closed under her own around the vial.

          “Severus,” Her face was somber and drawn. Snape wondered when she had last slept. “I’m glad you are alive. This could have ended very differently for you and I— well, I would have been distressed.”

     Snape watched her steadily. He was unsure how to respond. Madam Pomfrey had addressed him with no more warmth than an arctic winter this entire year. This profusion of… affection was unnerving. He settled on a slight nod and pulled the vial more firmly from her. She let it go and turned away as he drank it down. Several minutes later, Snape was in a deep sleep and did not notice the blanket settle more securely around him, the light from the sconces dim to nothing, or the hand that gently swept the hair from his brow.

     McGonagall was back. Snape could hear her quiet greeting to Pomphrey just before she entered his little corner of the room. He kept his eyes firmly shut.

          “Oh no, you will not be getting away with that again, Severus Snape. Wake up.” Minerva McGonagall sat in a chair next to his bed, hands tightly folded in her lap, mouth drawn in a tight-lipped, disapproving frown. Her eyes appraised him coldly. “Thank you for deciding to stick around this time.” She intoned sardonically.

          “Wh—,” Snape carefully cleared his throat, “What—do you—mean?”

          “I know perfectly well that you were awake the last time I came by.” She snapped.

          “How?”

          “You stopped breathing.” Her eyes were hooded as she glared at him. Snape smirked.

          “Oh.”

          “Yes, ‘Oh.’”

     She studied him resolutely before handing him a glass of water that was on the bedside table. Snape struggled to sit up, and for one mortifying moment he thought Professor McGonagall was about to reach out and help him. He quickly gave a great shove at the mattress and an unsolicited groan escaped him as his body protested the invisible fiery needles this herculean effort produced, but his mission was achieved, and he retrieved the water glass from a very disapproving Professor McGonagall.

          “Honestly, Snape, would it have killed you to allow me to help?”

     A moment of silence followed this pronouncement. There was a… look that settled into her eyes, softening the lines there. Oh dear Lord… Snape looked away and concentrated on not spilling the glass down his front. It hurt to swallow, but it hurt more to remain parched.

          “I need to know, Severus.”

          “Oh—we’re friends—now?”

          “I need to know the truth.”

          “You—know it.”

          “I need to hear it from you, you vexing man!”

     Snape levelled her with a look. “Daggers—Minerva? You—wanted me—dead. Dead.”

          “Dumbledore, Snape.” McGonagall waved a dismissive had as if throwing daggers at a colleague were the least of her sins, “I need an answer before I decide to help you further.” Further? What had she already done to ‘help’?

          “The Order wanted to turn you over to Saint Mungos,” she continued, “and then the ministry directly after. I refused to give them access to you. Kingsley holds much sway now, lucky for you, he took my side. They are allowing you to remain here for the duration of your recovery. After that… well that depends on your cooperation.”  That look was gone. The coldness had returned. “I suggest you start with me.”

     There was a moment of silence in which Snape considered his position. It was clear, his fate was yet again not his own. This time it was Minerva McGonagall at the helm of his destiny. He could not decide if he was better off with her than he had been with Dumbledore. Snape felt tiredness wash over him and resigned himself.

          “Potter—tells—the truth.”

          “All of it?”

          “Yes.”

          “Is there more?”

          “No. Do—you need—more?”

     She watched him, assessing. McGonagall would not ask it of him, but he knew. She would not believe him… unless he allowed her to see.  Snape looked directly into her eyes and dropped his mental barriers. Her eyes widened briefly, surprised that he would allow it, and then he felt a gentle probe of legilimency. Minerva was not a very good Legilimens by any measure so Snape brought every memory he could from the last two years to the fore of his mind. He knew that she would still harbor doubts but wanted this to be over. A wicked, vindictive part of him wanted to see her squirm with shame and guilt at how cruel she had been towards him this last year. How entirely wrong she had been about who he really was. Her legilimency had only taken a moment but to Snape it was an eternity before she blinked and returned to her own mind.

     That… look had returned.

          “Would it have killed you to allow me to help?” she asked, repeating her earlier question.  Her voice was soft in a way Snape had never expected it to be when directed towards him. He was thrown.

          “It would—have—killed you.”

          “Still… Severus.” McGonagall seemed to lose some of her composure, “you should not have had to endure that alone. I could have helped. I could have made things easier—”

          “For whom?”

          “For you!”

     Snape levelled his gaze at the woman, disbelieving. She was cleverer than this, surely?

          “You—could not. The students—would have—seen. He—would have—seen.”

          “Oh, you think I cannot keep a secret. You believe me incapable of playing a role like yours?” McGonagall crossed her arms, the very image of a petulant child. “How many more winning hands of Whist does it take to convince you of my competency? Really, Severus?”

     She was teasing him, he knew. It was touching in a way, but he could not bring himself to reciprocate. She had not known the endless nights spent waiting to hear back from the Dark Lord after having to send a particularly perilous update on the schools’ goings on. She did not know how many times he had to step between the Deputy Headmistress and the damning inferno headed her way after she thwarted his instructions in a fit of pique. Her life had hung by a thread more than once while under Snape’s charge. On at least one occasion, he’d had to risk his position and begged for her to be spared. He had not come out of that encounter unscathed.

          “You—could not.” He looked at her steadily, no mirth in his eyes.

     McGonagall was discomfited by his direct response. She watched him silently for a moment, then stood and straightened her tartan robes.

         “Well… I am satisfied for now, but don’t for a moment think that I am finished with you. The Ministry has begun compiling statements from all relevant parties. Someone will be along tomorrow to record yours. I’ve held them off as long as I can. Get some rest.” And with that, McGonagall swept through the partition and was gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

          The aurors arrived after breakfast the next morning. Or at least what constituted for breakfast in Snape’s case. Madam Pomfrey had him on a strictly liquid diet, “We don’t need to strain your injuries just yet. Give it another day or two and I’ll personally deliver you a treacle.” Snape had sneered at that but was privately looking forward to it.

          Madame Pomfrey had sent a house elf to the headmasters’ quarters to fetch a fresh set of clothes. She would not allow him to button the black dress shirt to the neck as he would have liked but he grudgingly admitted the bandages did present a problem in that regard. She also forbade him his robes, “Too heavy and cumbersome, they’ll flood what little space you have here and cause a tripping hazard.” Snape sighed, exasperated. He would have to endure the indignity of being seen in only his dress shirt and trousers.

          However, he had flatly refused to be seen languishing in a sickbed any longer. Even after several fortifying potions, Madam Pomfrey had to help him stand. Laying on his back for days sent his equilibrium spiraling. Once the room steadied, he was able to seat himself in the bedside chair and slip on his boots. Madam Pomfrey transfigured the bed into three chairs; so, it was to be a small army. Snape spent the rest of his time organizing his thoughts and memories behind a formidable garrison of Occlumency.

          Kingsley Shacklebolt entered first, sweeping through the partitions in lavender robes that would have rivaled Dumbledore’s for audacity if the man weren’t also adept at styling them in a way the old man never had been. His eyes swept the small space before landing on Snape’s stiff form. Snape was seated as far from them as he could get without seeming to cower. Shacklebolt lifted the back of his chair and moved it uncomfortably close to where Snape sat.

     “Snape.” Shacklebolt greeted him tersely. His eyes betrayed nothing. Other than the usual cold appraisal Snape was accustomed to, he could not gain access to Shacklebolt’s thoughts or intent. Very well. Snape had other methods of reading people. He nodded a greeting in return.

     “This is Auror Klick, he will be transcribing for us today.” Shacklebolt introduced his companion.

         Auror Klick was a man who appeared to be not much older than Snape himself, and though he was sure they had never met, Snape found something familiar in his bearing. With a flicker of foreboding, he began assembling a mental profile of the man. Klick had a youthful appearance, short, brown hair slightly curled at the edges but rigidly controlled under a heavy layer of product and a trim beard to match. The hooding of his eyes threw them Into Darkness despite their intense blue color. The corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. Auror Klick did not greet Snape but took a seat briskly and withdrew quill and parchment, readying it for what Snape could only assume was a transcription. It was clear the man was not eager to be here.

         Finally, Professor McGonagall entered and stationed herself behind the two aurors. The professor nodded once to Snape in greeting. Her face was schooled into a mask of professionalism, but he could see an undercurrent of exhaustion and anxiety in the creases of her eyes. She folded her hands across her lap and turned her attention to Shacklebolt as he began.

     “I assume Professor McGonagall has already informed you of the purpose for our visit here today.” Auror Klick’s quill began scratching its way across the parchment, the soft vanning twitching in synchronization with Shacklebolts words. “You’ll forgive me if I press right to the point. We are here to collect your statement of the events that have led up to the confrontation with Voldemort three days ago.” Kingsley watched Snape minutely as he continued, “But first I must ask some baseline questions. This is not a formal interrogation, but I would appreciate if you would be thorough and honest in your answers.”

          So, this was not an interrogation. No, that would come later. But this ‘conversation’ could still be used against him if he were careless. Snape felt confident he could proceed and simply refrain from answering anything he deemed unnecessary. Snape nodded tersely for Shacklebolt to continue. The man appraised him and began.

     “How long have you been in the service of Albus Dumbledore? As exact an answer as you can give, if you please.”

     “The 21^st of October, 1980.” The quill carved a succinct path and dotted the statement aggressively. Snape raised a brow at it.

     “Very specific. May I ask, what brought the two of you together?”

     “You may not.”

     “Why did he feel, given your history, that he could trust you with the task of double agent?”

     “There were no other— applicants for the job."

     “Snape…”

     “Headmaster.” The quill abruptly froze in its path.

          Shacklebolt looked piercingly at Snape. Auror Klick kept his eyes trained to the parchment, but his mouth had pitched into a scowl. McGonagall lowered her chin a fraction and levelled him with an admonishing glare from above her spectacles.

     “Are you aware Mr. Snape, that I have been thrust into the dubiously honored position of acting Minister of Magic?” Snape had not known this, but he was not surprised.

          Kingsley Shacklebolt the cunning man. He had the ability to hear more than words spoken and see more than the eye showed. He knew how to politic and played the game well. Snape had long assumed that the office of Minister of Magic was Shacklebolt’s intended target. If only his excessively-crimson-hued streak of integrity would stop getting in the way, Kingsley Shacklebolt had always been destined for the high seat of honor.

     “As such,” the Minister continued, “I am in a unique position to offer assistance should you merit it.” Ah. This lion had the eyes of a snake after all.

     “However, Mr. Snape. I need to understand the nature of your agreement with Headmaster Dumbledore before we can proceed.”

          Snape allowed the silence to drag on while he considered his options. This was no binding agreement. Minister Shacklebolt had clearly qualified his offer of assistance with a vague stipulation. In essence, Shacklebolt was calling for a measure of trust from Snape. A trust the Minister must know Snape did not, could not, possess. So, why make an unreliable offer that he knew Snape would not accept? He would not indulge whatever game this was. He owed them a cursory overview of the facts and nothing more.

     “I offered to him— information about the Dark Lord.— His plans and whereabouts. In exchange,— the Headmaster would provide—protection for the Potters.— That is all—you need to know, Minister.” He added the last with a sneer. Shacklebolt frowned, McGonagall leaned forward, eyes glinting, eager for more information no doubt. Gossiping old crone.

     “Protection he would have given whether you agreed to spy for him or not. Surly you would have known this?” Kingsley asked skeptically.

     “I did not—at the time.”

     “You thought Dumbledore would abandon them to their fate? A young couple who had fought alongside him? Whom he cared for a great deal? You believed he would simply allow them to be killed if you did not intervene?”

     “Yes. Albus Dumbledore was—a calculating man.” He paused to catch his breath, “If he felt—their death would serve—the cause—he would have allowed it.”

          McGonagall paled, but did not interrupt. Snape could see that she knew it to be true. He took some slight pleasure in her discomfort at hearing her beloved Headmaster’s noble reputation challenged, but did not press his point. Little speech had set off an itch in his throat. He sipped from the water Poppy had left for him.

     “I see.” Kingsley shifted, “And how long have you been in service to Voldemort?” Snape chose his words carefully.

     “What do you consider—the beginning and end of—one’s service to a Dark Lord?” Shacklebolt sighed.

     “When did you assume the Mark? What do you consider to be your final day in service to the Dar—Voldemort?” A faint note of irritation had crept into the acting Ministers voice. Snape indulged in a smirk.

     “I accepted the Mark— the 6^th of June, 1978.”

     “So soon after leaving Hogwarts, Severus?” McGonagall gasped as if personally affronted by this piece of information. 

     “The branding ritual takes best— on a new moon, Professor.” Snape met McGonagall’s censorious scrutiny with mock innocence. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and her lips vanished beneath the scowl she seemed to have reserved just for him this year. Snape thought he should be proud to have elicited such contempt from the dour Deputy. He reached for the water and hid his smirk behind the glass.

     “And the date you ascribe to be your end of service?” Kingsley continued after an admonitory glace in McGonagall’s direction.

          Once again, Snape did not hesitate. The moment the Dark Lord declared the Potters to be his intended targets, Snape had begun his little plan of rebellion.

     “19^th of October, 1980.” Once again, the quill punctuated his statement with a vicious stab. Snape wondered at the strength of the parchment.

          Shacklebolt seemed finished with his line of “not an interrogation” questions and continued in the practiced tone of one used to spouting official Ministry jargon.

     “Severus Snape, please provide a statement, in as much detail as possible, of your service to both Voldemort, Dumbledore, and the young Mr. Potter from the day you received your mark until now. A written and Pensieve record will be kept for posterity. Everything that is said here will remain confidential until such time as the magistrate deems it otherwise appropriate. Be advised, you have the right to a solicitor being present during the remainer of this interview should your request one.” No indemnifying language that would make whatever Snape said inadmissible in court. Every word collected would be considered voluntary. This was very treacherous territory. Not an interrogation indeed. Snape gave a sardonic grimace and obliged.

          A good while later and several breaks for Snape to recover his voice again, he had finished telling his side of events. Shacklebolt had done his part in asking for clarification where he thought Snape may have avoided important details. Snape did his best to withhold what information he felt was unnecessary. His condition made it easy to maintain a level of brevity without much resistance. McGonagall had gone quite pale over the course of the hour; Snape was tempted to offer her his own water but thought the courtesy may send her into apoplexy. In the end, there was silence save for the scratching of quill to parchment, and then:

     “And how many lives do you estimate to have taken in the end, Mr. Snape?” Auror Klick inquired scathingly.  He had abandoned his perusal of the sizable stack of parchments to pierce Snape. Bright eyes brimming with all the venom of a man aggrieved. “Surly, there would have been many ‘casualties’ while in service to your Dark Lord?”

     “Auror Klick, you will refrain from personal—”

     “You cannot believe this man spent all that time skulking behind the curtains without sullying his own hands? We are owed an ans—"

     “One.” Silence followed Snape’s level declaration.

     “Of course,” Klick scoffed, “and that one ‘begged’—”

     “Mr. Klick!” The Minister interrupted firmly, anger deepened the careworn lines of his face, “You will conduct yourself with the professionalism this position demands of you, or you will be removed from service this very day.”

          Auror Klick looked at his stack of parchment once more. Fury still radiating from his person, but he held whatever vitriol he had remaining at bay. Shacklebolt took a fortifying breath.

     “We will speak of this later. For now, you are dismissed.”

          Klick gathered Snape’s statement and his various supplies without another word and swiftly retreated through the partitions.

     “I apologize for Auror Klick’s lack of decorum; it is unlike him.”

     “Do not apologize—for him." Snape raised a dismissive hand. "I do not care.”

          Kingsley stood and straightened his robes. “Well then… I believe we have all the information we need for now. Professor McGonagall, if we have need of further clarification would you act as intermediary?” McGonagall nodded. She stood stiffly preparing to leave as well.

     “There is one more item of formality remaining before we go. Currently, your situation is… untenable. We have only the testimony of Mr. Potter and yourself, along with the memories you imparted to his care to help inform our decisions.”

          Snape sat silent, waiting for the inevitable. He knew he would not be allowed to roam freely once he had recovered, in fact, he was surprised it had taken the Order this long to get around to addressing the issue. Kingsley watched Snape closely, no doubt gauging his reaction to what he was about to say.

     “At the urging of Mr. Potter and the advocacy of Professor McGonagall, we are inclined to allow you to remain at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall will have supervisory authority over your… situation. You may keep your wand for the time being, but you may not leave Hogwarts’ grounds for any reason. Additionally, you are to refrain from speaking with or interacting with any current students of this institution. Failure to abide by these conditions and failure to adhere to the authority of Professor McGonagall will be met with much more severe consequences. Your authority as headmaster is hereby revoked until such time as the board can convene to remove the title of Headmaster officially.”

     “Minister, is all that necessary? I don’t think—”

     “Let me make— it simple for you—” Snape cut across McGonagall and addressed the Minister of Magic.

     “I, Severus Snape— hereby resign— from my position as— Headmaster for Hogwarts—School of Witchcraft— and Wizardry.— Effective immediately,— I break this binding— voluntarily— and with— full intent.”

          Hogwarts groaned, the torches flickered, and Snape felt something release painfully within him. It was as if an elastic band wrapped around his chest had surrendered to the tension and snapped jarringly. He blinked; one bandaged hand betrayed him and rubbed at a spot on his chest where he had felt the binding break.

          McGonagall had gone pale again and for one horrifying moment he thought she would reach out to him. He threw at her his best disparaging scowl before turning back to the Minister.

      "Well?” He snapped.

          His throat was raw and burned from the prolonged interview. His vehement resignation had taken the last of his strength and patience. Snape was ready to be shot of the entire ordeal.  

          Shacklebolt was watching him the way one might observe an injured wolf. His mask had finally crumbled, and all Snape saw was an amalgam of pity, fascination, and weariness. It turned his stomach.

     “As acting Minister of Magic, I accept your resignation,” Snape thought he might actually sick up. “And I personally would like to thank you for your dedication and service to the school.” He nodded in farewell to Professor McGonagall and strode through the partition.

          There was silence for a moment broken only by the sharp tapping of the Minister’s boots as he left. As soon as his footsteps faded, Snape silently conjured a bucket and threw up.

     “Oh Dear…” was all Professor McGonagall said before rushing off to find Madam Pomfrey.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

     In Primary school. Harry’s teachers had a projector. It was shared amongst the classrooms and he remembered the teachers wheeling it in on a cart once a week. All the students would sit up taller and crane their necks to get a good look at the hulking machine. Harry always thought it looked like a tiny Brontosaurus with its long neck and fat body. The teacher would plug it into the outlet on the floor and flip the switch on. The light was blinding if you looked directly at it. The lesson was printed on transparent sheets and when they were placed down under the light, an image would appear on the wall. It’s just like magic, Harry had thought as a child. Sometimes the teacher would use a second, blank sheet and if the first transparency had missing parts, she would fill them in with a marker. But if the teacher flipped the second sheet up, it removed all the filled in bits leaving the image with blanks and gaps; incomplete once again.

     That was a bit like what 17 year old Harry was experiencing now. As he took in the image of the ruined and devastated castle before him, there were gaps where there should be walls. Bulging masses of debris where there should be smooth, lush summer grass. His memories provided the overlays of things that should have been there but were now simply gone. Harry looked up at a great gap in the astronomy tower and thought he could see the faintest ghost of an outline where the wall should have been. He blinked and there was only blue sky. A mail owl made a shortcut of the empty space.

    Harry followed Ron and Hermione up the path from the forbidden forest. He scanned the grounds carefully, making a mental note of each occupant. All around the grounds, witches and wizards were doing their part to restore the once serene and majestic castle. The professors had been taking it in shifts to direct repairs. Most of the students who had been sent on to Hogsmeade were gone, either collected in person by terrified loved ones or whisked away by floo and portkey.

    However, there were some students who had remained to help. Luna Lovegood and her father were helping professor Flitwick coax the numerous suits of armor back into the castle. It was a task that had proven tricker than anyone had anticipated as the various suits were quite reluctant to relinquish their newfound freedom. They had begun setting up jousting tournaments using the weapons that remained from the battle and whatever long straight objects they could find. One such pairing had grabbed what looked to be pool ques and were jabbing them aggressively towards one another. Another suit of armor was challenging the diminutive Flitwick to a duel. Flitwick twitched his wand and rearranged the suit so that its legs folded up to meet its head and it arms detached themselves to go and restrain another nearby set of armor. Harry almost felt bad for it.

     In another part of the grounds, Neville and Professor Sprout were wrestling with the Venomous Tentacula, forcing it back towards the green houses. One particularly aggressive vine caught Neville by the ankle and launched him up in the air like a ragdoll. Professor Sprout deftly caught him in a silvery web and suspended him from the nearest tower. She then coldly lopped off a rather large portion of the vicious plant. Harry gaped for a moment, the violence towards one of her own specimens was highly unusual behavior for Professor Sprout. He realized he had never seen her look so angry before. She shook her head, muttering something to herself and lowered Neville back to the ground. The boy nodded his gratitude and they both resumed their efforts to force the vengeful vine back.

     As the trio drew closer to the courtyard, they could see Hagrid working with Grawp and a group of centaurs to level out the pits and furrows of the front lawn. Hagrid looked up from a particularly massive crater and caught sight of them.

          “Mornin Harry! Ron, Hermione!” He waved enthusiastically and Harry noticed more than a few heads turn their way.

          “Hermy!” Grawp dropped the section of wall he was holding, nearly crushing a chestnut centaur, and waved both arms through the air. Hermione waved back, a bemused smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

          “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.” She chuckled as they watched Hagrid admonish his enormous younger brother.

          “It is rather like watching a bear scold a mountain, isn’t it?” Ron laughed.

    He draped his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. She wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him closer. Harry shook his head and smiled. He was happy for his friends and intensely grateful they were still alive. The knife in his chest twisted, imbedding itself deeper. Remus and Tonks would never get to hold each other like that again. Their faces as they lay on the floor of the Great Hall were fresh in his mind, still and cold. Little Teddy would never see his mum and dad walk arm in arm like that.

    Harry ran a trembling hand down his face knocking his glasses askew. He couldn’t think like that right now. There was still too much to do. He began walking again.

          “I’m going on ahead to find Kingsley.”

          “Minister Shacklebolt, Harry.” Hermione chided.

          “Minister Shacklebolt is a bit of a mouthful this early in the morning, Hermione.” Ron gave her shoulders a good-natured squeeze, “Besides, Harry has definitely earned the right to use the Ministers given by now.” Hermione shook her head.

          “All the more reason for Harry to show deference,” she insisted, “The Ministry needs solidarity right now and Harry’s opinion matters a great deal at the moment. He should show the wizarding world who he trusts and respects.” Harry looked away, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. Ever-observant Hermione noticed.

         “In any case, let’s head up to the Great Hall first and get some breakfast.” She continued, “I’m sure we’ll run into someone who can point us in the right direction to find him.” Harry nodded. The thought of a warm meal was now at the forefront of their minds. It was not something they had been accustomed to having while on the run. The ability to sit at a table and eat their fill was a bit of a novelty at the moment.

     Harry also did not miss the fact that Hermione had included Ron and herself in his mission to find the Minister. He didn’t mind particularly though as he was still reluctant to part from them for long and he thought they felt the same.

     There were more people out working the closer they got to the castle entrance. From the corner of his eyes, Harry could see them pause in their work to watch them pass. He didn’t look up from the path. He knew what he would see in their eyes if he did. Harry shoved his hands into his jacket and shivered. The morning was chill and though he knew it would warm quickly under the summer sun, it wouldn’t be quick enough to thaw the icy dread that had begun to claw its way up the back of his neck. Harry had always loathed the unmerited hero worship he experienced while he was in school. And now… well now he couldn’t quite find a way of convincing people it was unmerited anymore.

     Harry didn’t feel like he had done anything spectacular. Spectacular things had happened. Spectacular coincidences and spectacularly good luck had intervened time and time again. From even before Harry had been born really. Harry felt he hadn’t done anything most others wouldn’t have also done had they been in his position.

     It was difficult to respond to the awe he heard in people’s voices when they spoke to him. He awkwardly acknowledged the desperate gratitude in the eyes of those he passed. He tolerated those who occasionally reached out to brush his shoulder or shake his hand. But what was most unnerving was the somber deference the older witches and wizards had begun to show him when he stepped into a room. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with their admiration. Their trust frightened him

     When he spoke, they would nod in agreement, no longer questioning him. They sought out his opinion for matters Harry knew he had no business giving advice on. Harry wanted to grab them by the arms and shout ‘You shouldn’t trust anyone this much! Especially not me! I didn’t know if it would work, for Godsake! I have no idea what I am doing!’

          “You alright, Mate?” Ron placed a steadying hand on Harry’s shoulder as they reached the courtyard steps.

          “Uh… yeah,” Harry realized he had been breathing heavily and his heart was racing, “I guess I’m still pretty tired.” Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and sighed heavily.

          “I know what you mean. It feels like I haven’t slept in months.”

     Ron brought her in for another comforting squeeze and they continued up the steps to the entrance. They no longer had to pick their way towards the Great Hall. Not everything had been repaired but the debris had been removed and the wall to the Great Hall had been put back to rights. The doors were gone, as they had been blasted beyond repair.

     As they stepped beneath the arching threshold, Harry could see small groups of people huddled around the Hall eating their breakfasts tiredly. Golden morning light filled the room warming the house tables. Though it had been one of the first things to be repaired, the denizens of the great stained-glass windows refused to go near the restored sections of glass. They huddled in the tops and corners of the windows and jostled each other, fighting for positions they were never intended to occupy. Occasionally a tiny shout of discontent or anger reached Harry’s ears.

     The exodus of the window's inhabitants allowed the newly repaired sections to let in clear, unfiltered light for once. The change in lighting caused every flaw or alteration in the restored room to become glaringly obvious. It was disconcerting. Harry continued to shiver despite the growing heat in the room from the morning sun. He rubbed his arms, trying try to put some warmth back into them and caught Hermione watching him, a mother-hen look in her eyes. He stopped. The last thing he wanted was to be fussed over.

     Ron took the lead and they followed him to a spot at the nearest table where Bill, and Charlie Weasley were sitting with Lee Jordan and Professor Slughorn.  They greeted one another and Harry sat next to Lee who was picking distractedly at a piece of toast. Harry noticed he hadn’t touched hardly anything on his plate. Bill and Charlie had been talking to the professor opposite them when the trio walked up. Ron sat next to Charlie, and the man placed a comforting hand to the back of his younger brother’s neck.

           “We were just telling Professor Slughorn about the summer Fred dared you to eat a handful of Alihotsy leaves.” Ron groaned and reached for a scone. “You spent hours laughing your gills off. I had to keep checking to make sure you hadn’t wet yourself.”

          “Charlie!” Ron protested, and elbowed him in the ribs. Charlie laughed cheekily.

          “Mum was so furious,” Bill cut in with a grin, “she chased Fred through the garden with a stick for an hour before she could catch him. Dad had to step in and make the Glumbumble treacle himself.”

          “Yeah and it was burnt,” Ron wrinkled his nose, “I swear I’ll never forget the taste of it.” Slughorn barked a laugh and Hermione chuckled.

          “I can imagine you’re not likely to, young man. As you should know by now, Alihotsy leaves are also good for memory retention as well as inducing excessive laughter!” 

          “Good than I’ll remember the sound of Mum dragging Fred by his ear through the door…' His voice cracked, "or the sound of his laugh after I ate the leaves… Merlin, I hope I never forget that.” Ron set down his scone. Hermione gently rubbed the side of his arm. They were quiet for a moment, lost in the memories of Fred’s laughter. Slughorn reached across and patted Ron on the arm.

          “I’m am so sorry, Ronald. I wish I would have had the opportunity to teach him.” He drew back his hand, “From what I hear, Fred and George are quite accomplished at potions making. Not surprising from the innumerable little concoctions I’ve managed to appropriate from students over the last couple of years.”

          “Oh they were good alright but not without a lot of trial and error,” Charlie gave a wry laugh. “You should see the state of their bedroom. Mum had to hide all the cauldrons when they were just mites. She was so worried they would burn the entire Burrow to the ground! Dad ended up putting extinguishing spells in every room of the house. Took him ages.”

          “Ahh, well,” Slughorn waved a hand, “even the very best potions makers have all had their little mishaps. I myself have exploded a cauldron a time or two. They must have learned rather quickly how to avoid such incidents.”

          “Well, you’ll have to ask Snape about that.” Charlie huffed wryly, “I think the incident in their second year was when they learned to fear Snape almost as much as Mum.” Bill snorted into his coffee. Harry saw Lee Jordan crack a small smile for the first time since they sat down. Slughorn looked between the young men.

          “Tell me, what did they do?”

          “Snape had them learning Swelling potions that year. George got it into his head to nearly double the amount of salamander blood required.”

          “He didn’t! Oh dear!” Slughorn gaped. “That must have caused quite the explosion!” Charlie nodded.

          “Swelling solution everywhere, on everyone, including Snape. The boys had inflated everything from the waist up and Snape hadn’t fared much better. Fred said his head swelled to the size of a watermelon! From what I gather, after Snape managed set himself and everyone else right, he dragged Fred and George by the ankles all the way to the Headmasters office, giant heads bouncing up every step. George says Snape had a terrible row at Dumbledore when the Headmaster refused to expel them on the spot. Snape was unbearable the rest of that week and he had them scrubbing every inch of the dungeons for a month. As far as I know they hadn’t had an accident like that since.” Lee snorted and poked at his eggs.

          “Nah, they stopped having accidents that big well before then,” he took a large bite before continuing, “That one wasn’t an accident.”

          “What do you mean?” Slughorn blinked. Lee shrugged and took another bite.

          “They added the salamander blood on purpose. Just enough to make the potion explode, but not the cauldron. The idea was to cause a big enough distraction so I could swipe some extra ingredients while Snape was busy.” Everyone gaped at Lee’s easy confession.

         “That’s terrible, Lee! Someone could have been seriously hurt!” Hermione exclaimed, clearly scandalized by the thought. Ron looked at her incredulous and Harry choked on his bacon. Clearly, she had forgotten the act of burglary they had committed in their second year and the distraction they had engineered in order to do it.

         “You should thank us actually.” Lee stabbed a sausage rather aggressively. “That bit of nicking led directly to the invention of Ton-Tongue Toffees which I heard took out a fair few of the Death Eaters when they took over the ministry.”

     Everyone burst into laughter except Hermione who stubbornly folded her arms. Harry remembered when Dudley had eaten one of the candies and the satisfying chaos that followed. He made a mental note to thank George again. As their laughter faded, Bill rose and clapped Charlie on the shoulder.

          “We should get to it. Ron, Dad says he’ll be back shortly. He took Mum, Ginny, and Fleur back to the Burrow. Charlie and I are going to take care of things on the seventh floor with Percy if you need us.”

          “Oh, wait! Do you know if the Minister is still around? We need to speak with him.” Hermione asked as Charlie also rose. Slughorn answered for them.

          “I believe he is with Professor McGonagall at the moment though I’m not sure where they’ve got off to. You might try checking her office first.”

     Bill and Charlie waved their goodbyes and pat Ron on the back as they left. Lee rose to follow them shortly. Harry shuddered. The seventh floor. Crabbe was still up there. His stomach twisted and lost its appetite. He felt hot and cold at the same time. He pushed his beans idly to the edge of his plate and let the sounds of morning chatter wash over him.

     He should feel happy. Voldemort was gone. He was alive and so were Ron and Hermione and Ginny. There was relief there in his chest alongside the twisting knife of grief. There was guilt there as well. He couldn’t help feeling that he should have been quicker, smarter. Crabbe wouldn’t had died. Maybe if he had figured it out sooner, Fred, Tonks, Remus…

     Harry shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the guilt that was trying to take hold. How could he have possibly figured out what he was meant to do on his own? Dumbledore had kept that final piece of information to himself. The man had even gone out of his way to make sure Harry would not know until the last moment.

     And how had Snape been planning to get that piece of information to him anyway? Harry was sure Snape hadn’t banked on a convenient deathbed revelation. Harry snorted. Nope, Snape had probably been planning to capture Harry, tie him to a chair, and force his head into the pensieve.  And all that stuff about Harry’s mum… he definitely hadn’t planned on sharing all that.

     Harry had a feeling Snape hadn’t been entirely in control of what memories had come pouring out. In fact, Harry was quite sure that in their shock, he and Hermione hadn’t collected all of them and some had gotten away. Slughorn’s voice broke through his thoughts.

          “Something on your mind, Harry?” He had finished his meal and was watching Harry with concern.

          “Um… actually, Sir. If you don’t mind. I’d like to ask you a… personal question?” Slughorn was silent for a moment, no doubt recalling the last time Harry had asked him personal questions. He nodded cautiously.

          “I will do my best to answer what I can.” He answered.

          “Professor, did you know Snape and my mum were close?” Slughorn shifted, clearly uncomfortable

          “That is quite personal. Not to me, but Harry I’m sure you realize Professor Snape would be most displeased to find out we were talking about him.” He eyed, Ron and Hermione who had stopped eating to listen, “And in mixed company no less.” He nodded apologetically to them.

          “I don’t mean to pry,” Harry went on in a rush, “It’s only… I’m sure he will never tell me anything more about it. And truthfully, I tell these two everything anyway. Better they hear it from you than from me.” Slughorn still did not look convinced to share whatever information he had, so Harry pulled a nasty trick that he would later beat himself up over for using.

          “You see, apart from yourself and Snape, I haven’t heard about my mother from anyone else. No one has ever mentioned that she used to be friends with him. I guess I was hoping you could help me to understand it. That’s all really.”

    Slughorn was quiet for a long moment. His eyes darting between Harry and the plate in front of him. But he made no move to leave. He sighed heavily and smoothed the front of his robes. He frowned at them and pulled out his wand, casting a silencing spell around them.

          “None of what I say is to leave this table, are we clear?” Harry, Ron, and Hermione nodded solemnly, “I can’t have Severus finding out I’ve talked about him to you. Things are messy enough as they are. You must understand, I don’t make a habit of involving myself in the affairs of my students; past, present, or future. I knew Severus and Lily were friendly to one another. But it was so long ago.” Harry frowned.

         “The memories that Snape gave me from their time at Hogwarts made it pretty clear that they were more than just ‘friendly,’ Sir.” Slughorn sighed.

     Harry held very still, worried his eagerness might spook the professor into reticence. “I admit, I did take note of their… friendship. I could see they would not allow the tension between their two houses to drive them apart, it was refreshing. But, I suppose, some things are inevitable in the face of tradition and peer pressure.” Slughorn paused, a grimace twisted his features.

          “At one point in time, I— I may have encouraged Severus to… pursue friendships within our house rather than spending so much of his time trailing Lily around.” Harry was stunned by the confession. Ron was sitting slack-jawed absorbing every word with fascination. Hermione had raised a brow at Slughorn’s, a considering but guarded look to her eyes.

          “Why did you try to separate them?” Harry asked.

          “At first, I had assumed, like everyone, that they would drift apart eventually. When they didn’t, there was an increase in… conflicts between Mr. Snape and the rest of the House. I simply wished to spare him from further unpleasantness. I offered him an olive branch of sorts; some information about his peers and useful advice to help guide him in making beneficial connections. It seemed to help and when he and Lily began to drift apart, I didn’t think much of it I’m afraid.” Slughorn looked down at the hands clasped in his lap, lost in what appeared to be self-recriminating thoughts.

     Harry wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t angry with Slughorn for his part in driving a wedge between his mother and her best friend. Snape didn’t need help in that regard, he easily could have done that all on his own and did. But, for the first time, Harry tried to imagine what being Head of House to Slytherins must be like. Especially Slytherins who would grow up to become the most brutal and cruel Death Eaters the war would ever see.

          “It must have been a very difficult time to be a professor,” Hermione echoed Harry’s thoughts, “Trying to balance interhouse relations during a time of war in which the school is split rather dramatically between the ideologies of two Houses and generations of indoctrination. I can’t imagine you had an easy time balancing the schools political demands and the individual needs of your students.” Ron raised a brow at her. Harry was also interested in knowing what she was angling for. Slughorn seemed to come back to himself.

          “Yes, well. One must do what one can. It has never been a well-kept secret of mine that I abhor politicking in any form but in the midst of such a war, I suppose I was forced to develop the skill. I also gained quite a knack for encouraging the students under my tutelage.” Hermione nodded sagely.

          “I’m sure you also had the support of your colleagues and the Headmaster to lean on when things became too troublesome.” Hermione tilted her head slightly as if waiting for Slughorn to confirm her statement.

     Harry still wasn’t sure where she was going with this but he was curious now. Had the other Professors been as interested in interhouse relations? He had only ever heard them talk negatively of those who came from Slytherin or they would shift the conversation entirely and begin praising the other houses. Professor Slughorn grunted shortly.

          “One would hope. But the other professors were rather hands-off with my own house. Of course, many of them came from less illustrious backgrounds than the majority of the students under my care. The other professors weren’t able to relate to the experiences of our Slytherin students or offer much useful advice and guidance at all. No, I’m afraid it was mostly left on my lonely shoulders to carry the burden of mentor for those young minds.” Slughorn sniffed, a look of self-pity overtook his portly frame. It was rather difficult to watch. Hermione was undeterred.

          “But surely the Headmaster would have been a help to you? It was his job after all to look out for the interests of students from all the Houses.”

          “Yes, certainly, that should have been the case. Headmaster Dippet left something to be desired in that arena. But I could never complain when it came to Headmaster Dumbledore.” A wistful look came to Slughorn’s eye.

          “Albus was always popping into the dungeons. On account of our very close friendship, you see. We would spend many hours over an aged wine, discussing the students and how best to mold and shape them. He was just as invested in my snakes as he was in the lions. I regret that despite all our well-intentioned guidance and plans, so many of the students were lured away.” Slughorn finished sadly.

          “Of course, how dreadful it must have been for you both.” Hermione’s eyes had narrowed slightly, “Thank you for sharing your experiences with us, Professor Slughorn.”

          “Of course. Did I answer your question sufficiently, Mr. Potter?”

          “Erm, yeah, thank you, Sir.” Harry nodded.

          “Mind you keep it to yourselves. I’ll not have Professor Snape out for my blood as well as your own.” He chuckled drily.  

          “Yes, Sir.” They all three intoned obediently.

          “Harry, I think we ought to go and find the Minister before we miss him.” Hermione suggested. They made their farewells to the professor and rose to leave when he grabbed Harry by the wrist, holding him there for a moment before letting go. When Harry looked at him, Professor Slughorn’s eyes were shining wetly.

          “I have made many—many mistakes, Harry. I do try to atone for them the best I know how.” He swallowed thickly before continuing with more conviction, “If you ever, ever wish to ask questions about your mother—or even your father—you may come to me. I owe them that much at least and it would be an honor to remember her again.”

     Harry nodded, uncomfortable by the display of sudden emotion. But he felt the knife in his chest ease just the tiniest bit when he heard Slughorn’s offer. He hoped the professor would make good on that promise and decided to take him up on the offer someday very soon.

     As they left the Hall, Harry glanced back to see Professor Horace Slughorn still seated at the end of the table. He was watching the stained-glass effigies fighting amongst one another. Harry thought he saw a sheen of wetness trail down the professor’s cheek before he turned the corner and followed his friends.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

     As soon as they had cleared the doorway to the Great Hall, Ron gave a low whistle.

          “I still can’t wrap my head around it,” He looked at Harry, eyes wide with wonder, “Snape had a friend. Never would have imagined.” Harry snorted.

          “Oh, Ronald, really.” She rolled her eyes but Harry saw an amused curl at the corner of her mouth as she turned down the corridor.

          “In all seriousness, Harry, mate, how are you holding up?”

          “Ron maybe now’s not the time…”

          “No, it’s fine Hermione. I mean, I’m alright, really.” Harry rushed to assure them, “It’s strange but, it doesn’t really bother me that they were friends.” Harry shrugged, “I’d just like to know how no one else knew or if they did, why they never said anything about it, you know?”

          “Yeah,” Ron agreed, “You’d think Sirius or Remus would have said something at least.” Hermione didn’t say anything, but shot Ron a sharp look.

          “Yeah…” Harry decided he would rather walk in silence the rest of the way.

     The realization that the two adults closest to him had chosen to keep Lily and Snape’s friendship from him, stung a bit.  Surely they knew he would want to know about his mum and who she kept company with. But now that he thought on it more, they had hardly spoken about her at all. And sfter all the time and effort Remus had spent trying to convince Harry to trust Snape, that little bit of information would have helped him out a fair bit wouldn’t it? Having a reason to trust Snape, even just a small one, might have made a difference. Right? would it have changed anything? Perhaps Remus and Sirius thought it wouldn’t. Perhaps they truly believed Snape hated Lily just as much as he hated James and there was no point telling Harry about their old friendship.

     But Remus and Sirius hadn’t given Harry a chance to decide that on his own. And that was what hurt most.

     His thoughts were interrupted as they arrived at McGonagall’s office door and Hermione knocked. The door swung open and they made their way inside. Despite the warm summer day, there was a fire going in the Hearth and next to it, in two tartan armchairs were Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

          “Good morning,” Professor McGonagall greeted them, “We were just about to go and find you three. Thank you for saving us the trip.” Professor McGonagall transfigured a couple of footstools and small chest into three more chairs for them to sit.

          “I hope you had enough time to rest?” the Minister asked them.

          “We have, thank you Minister.” Hermione answered politely.

          “Kingsley, if you please. I appreciate the formality but you three many call me by my first name, at least while in the company of friends.” Ron gave Hermione a pointed look which she ignored.

     Three cups of piping hot tea had found their way over from the service tray to the three. Harry’s cup had bypassed his hands and went straight for his mouth. He dodged it rather unsuccessfully and managed to spill a good amount down the front of his shirt. McGonagall tsked sharply at the cup and it retreated obediently back to the service tray and seemed to pout as it set down.

          “My apologies, Mr. Potter. I’m a bit out of sorts this morning. I’m afraid the set can sense the tension and has become overeager to please the guests.” She eyed the cup reproachfully.

          “It’s alright,” Harry dried the spill with his wand and rubbed at sore spot where the tea had burned a trail down his chin.

          “Is that your wand, Harry?” Kingsley asked in surprise, “When we spoke yesterday, I thought you said it had been broken beyond repair?”

          “Yes, about that,” Harry rolled it gently across his knee, “I used the… other wand to repair it.”

          “Really?” Professor McGonagall stared at his wand, her eyes alight with fascination, “May I?” she held out her hand and Harry passed the wand to her. She turned it over and over searching for any imperfections. “And it works well for you?”

          “Yes, Ma’am. In fact, it almost seems to respond… better, faster.”

          “Extraordinary…” She murmured and handed the wand back a moment later.

          “And the other wand? What will you do with it?” Harry thought he saw nothing more than genuine curiosity in Kingsley's demeanor but steeled himself anyway.

          “Actually, that’s why we came to find you.” Harry straightened in his chair and met the Ministers inquisitive gaze, “We have already gotten rid of it.”

     There was silence for a moment. Harry was prepared to defend his decision. He knew returning the Elder Wand to Dumbledore’s side was the right move to make and he would not be dissuaded. He suspected Kingsley may try to convince him to hand it over to the Ministry for ‘safe keeping.’ Harry couldn't risk that. Not after everything Dumbledore had done to ensure it remained without a true master.

          “You have disposed of the Elder Wand?” Kingsley asked him, his eyes assessing. 

          “Yes.” It occurred to Harry then that the Minister might know Legillimency. He looked away and into the fire.

          “I suppose you won’t be telling me how or where you ‘got rid of’ such a powerful and dangerous magical object?”

          “No.” Harry replied firmly. Another moment of silence.

          “Very well,” Kingsley sat back in his chair and tapped the arm with one long finger. Harry relaxed only slightly. “I suppose the Ministry will simply have to trust to your judgement. And who besides yourself, knows the whereabouts of the Elder Wand?” Hermione cleared her throat.

          “Min—Kingsley, only Ronald Weasley and myself know where it’s gone.” Ron nodded sagely and Hermione continued, “Furthermore, in order to keep its location secret from the world and to protect the identities of those who know of its existence and its current whereabouts, I believe an Unbreakable Vow should be made amongst us.”

          “Ms. Granger,” Professor McGonagall eyed Hermione over her spectacles, disapproval marked her gaze, “You do realize how incredibly rude it is to ask a fellow wizard to make an Unbreakable Vow, let alone the Minister of Magic himself?”

          “Yes, Ma’am I do. However, I would never presume to suggest such an act without just cause. The Wand is exceedingly dangerous. Our very lives are in danger simply knowing it exists.” She turned to Kingsley.

          “My apologies, Minister, I hope you understand this request comes from a desire to protect all parties present and to prevent the Wand from falling into unsavory hands. I would hate to be found guilty of negligence if such a situation were to occur in future.” The underlying insinuation was clear. If Kingsley refused the Vow, then he would be the one to blame if someone was able to use them to get at the Elder Wand. Kingsley, chuckled.

          “Ms. Granger, remind me to give you an office nearby if you ever come work for the Ministry. I will definitely need to keep a close eye on you.” Hermione, smile politely back.

          “If I am ever given an opportunity to work within the Ministry, you won’t need to keep me close to know what I am up to.” Kingsley laughed uproariously. Ron shook his head at her wonderingly. McGonagall narrowed her eyes at the girl but her mouth was turned up in the corners. She took a sip of her tea to hide the glow of pride.

          “Alright then, let’s go over the verbiage and then I will let you know if I find a Vow to be acceptable.”

     A half an hour later and nearly ten different versions of the vow later, Kingsley gave his consent to making an Unbreakable Vow. He would not be able to tell or insinuate to another soul, alive or dead, who, besides Harry, knew of the Elder Wand’s whereabouts or condition. Additionally he would be unable to aide anyone seeking the Elder Wand either voluntarily or involuntarily through the use of Imperio or other mind-altering states. For their part, the trio would never be allowed to seek out the Elder Wand for any reason whatsoever and they would not be allowed to speak of it outside of their own confidence.

         “I think we’ve got it,” Hermione glanced over the parchment in her hands one more time, “now there is only one thing left to clear up. Professor McGonagall, you will be acting at witness and issuer of the Vow. But how do we include you in the binding? In my research it is unclear if the caster is held to the vow of secrecy along with both parties?”

         “Not typically, no. If the spell caster cannot simply take the same vow after performing the spell without someone who knows about the specifics of the information that is to be kept secret. I’m afraid it is a bit of an informational paradox of circular secrecy.”

     Harry’s head had begun to hurt halfway into the discussion, by now it was pounding steadily. He was having trouble following all the exacting verbiage and every time he had thought they were finished, either Kingsley, or McGonagall, or Hermione would find some new loophole that needed tying off. Ron didn’t look like he was faring much better than Harry and kept groaning every time he heard them start over again. The room was entirely too hot. Harry hooked his finger in the collar of his shirt and pulled at it to try and get some airflow.

          “I’m afraid the only logical course of action would be if Kingsley were to obliviate me afterward.” Kingsley and Hermione agreed. Harry froze and icy horror seized him.

          “What? No. No way are we doing this then.” Hermione winced.

          “Harry…”

          “No, Hermione. No one is getting their memories wiped for this. We’ll just have to trust each other, right? Ron?”

          “Umm…” Ron looked between Harry and Hermione, “It’s really not that big of a deal, mate, people get obliviated all the time really.”

          “Oh well, that’s just great then. You can go ahead and obliviate me while you’re all at it. I’ve got a few memories I could do without!” Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing, as if making an Unbreakable Vow wasn’t dangerous enough…

          “It’s alright, Mr. Potter." McGonagall attempted to reassure him. "I am perfectly capable of living without one hour of memory.”

          “Professor, it’s too dangerous! What if it goes wrong and you end up like Lockhart?”

          “Nonsense,” Professor McGonagall silenced him with a dismissive wave, “Obliviate is a simple spell, one that the Minister can handle proficiently. Gilderoy Lockhart was a careless fool and he performed that spell using a damaged wand.”

          “Still, I won’t ask you to—,”

          “I do not recall asking for your permission, Mr. Potter.” She arched an eyebrow at him, and added sardonically, “If something does ‘go wrong,’ which is highly unlikely, Merlin knows I could use the vacation and I can think of no better place for me than a sanatorium at the moment.”

     Harry clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth. The knife in his chest was twisting again. He knew memory alteration was a common practice, but it was still an incredibly invasive spell. Professor McGonagall had already sacrificed so much to protect Harry. He couldn’t ask her to do this for him too.

          “I’ve used this charm many times,” Kingsley tried to reassure him, “I’ve seen it done by fellow colleagues as well. What happened to Lockhart was something of an anomaly.” Harry was not comforted.

          “Harry,” McGonagall’s voice had softened, “I know you wish to spare me and everyone you care about from experiencing further pain. But this is not a burden for me. I consider it an honor to protect the three of you in whatever capacity I am able.”

     Harry said nothing, he stared at his fingers. They were going to go through with the Vow and McGonagall was going to be obliviated and there was no talking them out of it. He could refuse to participate. They couldn’t make him take the vow. But then she and Kingsley might decide to have everyone but him and the Minister obliviated. In the end, it was that troubling thought that persuaded him. He nodded shortly.

          “Well then,” Kingsley sighed and stood, smoothing out his robes, “Let’s begin.”

     They had clasped arms, the three of theirs overlapping the Minister’s own. Professor McGonagall had stood beside them, issuing the Vow, and they had spoken their assent to it’s terms. And when it was finished, they had retaken their seats, all but Kingsley who stood behind Professor McGonagall’s chair and whispered, “Obliviate.” Her eyes had fluttered and then closed briefly. Harry’s eyes had closed along with hers. When he opened them again, McGonagall had the look of someone who had been about to speak but had forgot what it is she wanted to say. His heart pounding, blood rushing past his ears. It was terribly hot. Harry felt as if he would suffocate. Kingsley sat back down and casually reached for his tea.

         “Pardon, Minister,” Professor McGonagall took in the room, brow furrowed, “I’m quite out of sorts today. Did you say something just now?” Harry’s stomach turned over.

         “Excuse me.” He stood and strode out the door.

     Harry hadn’t meant to avoid Hermione and Ron for quite so long as he had. If fact he really had only meant to step out into the hall for some fresh air. Once Harry was alone, however, the silence and the sudden chill in the corridor had an immediate calming effect on him. Perhaps he just needed a bit of a break from it all. Harry pulled on the invisibility cloak and allowed himself to wander. He had meant to come back.

     When Ron and Hermione found him nearly three hours later in the trophy room, setting upright a rather large silver cup that had fallen off its plinth. They both looked exhausted and relieved.

          “There you are!, “Hermione huffed in exasperation, “We’ve been looking for you for ages!”

          “Well she has, anyway,” Ron shrugged, “I told her you probably just needed some space.” Hermione shot him an annoyed look and Ron withered slightly.

          “What are you doing in here?” Hermione took in the state of the room. Glittering, shining, trophies, cup, placards, and piles of medals were strewn in chaotic piles. Glass from shattered display cases littered the floor and more than a few cabinets lay on their sides or strewn about in a hopeless scattering of splinters. Harry dusted his hands off on his trousers.

          “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you Hermione. It was just so hot, I had to get out for a bit and then I got caught up working on things in here.”

          “This entire time you’ve been cleaning?” Ron asked incredulously. Harry shrugged.

          “It’s quiet.”

          “You were a bit… stressed. I suppose anyone would be after… what we had to do.” Hermione shook her head sharply. Harry cringed, recalling his earlier behavior.

          “I guess I kind of lost it a bit back there, didn’t I?”

          “Oh don’t worry about that,” Hermione waved her wand at a stack of ledgers which flew off the floor and numerically sorted themselves on a nearby shelf, “The Min—Kingsley asked us to tell you goodbye. He needs to finish some business at the Ministry. He requested that we attend an Order meeting tomorrow evening in the headmaster’s office. Here, Ron help me with this.” The pair gathered a handful of medals and began sorting and hanging them back onto their stands.

          “I’m not alphabetizing, Hermione! Filch can do that later.” Ron protested when she tried to rearrange the ones he’d already put away.

          “Honestly! It’s common decency, Ronald. Mr. Filch has enough on his plate. The least we can do is put things where they properly belong!”

      Harry worked alongside his friends, listening to their bantering, occasionally inserting his own opinion when it was asked of him. On the whole, however, he preferred to work in silence. When he had wandered into the trophy room an hour ago, the room hadn’t been touched by any of the repair crews. Dust floated lazily through the afternoon light that filtered past the windows. The carpet underfoot muffed any sound Harry made as he picked his way through the debris. It was comforting.

     He had seen the Quidditch display in disarray and knew he could never leave it like that, so he had set to work sorting, polishing, and repairing what he could. When he was finished with the Quidditch awards, he continued to work on the room one case at a time. The work was dull but peaceful and it felt good to be working.

     After another hour had passed, Ron’s stomach reminded them there would be lunch waiting for them soon. By then the room had been mostly put to rights. The displays had been repositioned and their contents restored. Some cases where beyond saving but Hermione had deftly gathered all the broken glass and splinters and moved them to a corner of the room.

           “We can’t know for sure if any of those cases are historic. Better to save the pieces for one of the professors to have a look at repairing.” She reasoned. Harry and Ron did not care in the slightest but they nodded their agreement and hoped she would hurry so they could go eat.

      Lunch was much less enjoyable than breakfast had been. Everywhere Harry went, their eyes would follow. Every time he thought he had finally be left in peace to start his meal, another hand would tap his shoulder, or pat him on the back, or worse, stop for a chat. The interruptions were relentless. His friends tried to run interference for him, but every time one of them drew away one admirer, another ‘popped round for a little chat.’ They meant well, he kept reminding himself, while his food grew cold. Harry gave up and rose to leave. Ron and Hermione were preparing to follow.

          “I’m just going up for a nap. I’ll catch you both later.” He waved and hurried out of the Great Hall and towards the stairs, struggling to pull out his cloak.

          “Oh, there you are Mr. Potter. Might I have a word?” Harry winced before turning to face Professor McGonagall.

          “I was just going up to the tower for a bit…” Harry hedged.

          “I’ll walk with you, I’m headed that direction myself.” McGonagall eyed his speculatively, “My apologies, I can see you’re tired. I promise I won’t keep you long.” She drew level with him and at a brisk pace that belied her age, began to ascend the stairs. After a few minutes, Harry began to feel immeasurably grateful for her presence. Every time they came upon another inhabitant of the castle who looked suspiciously as if they wish to speak with Harry, McGonagall’s piercing gaze seemed to dissuade them. In the rare event that someone was willing to brave her ire and approach, she rebuffed them with a sharp nod and placed a light hand to Harry’s elbow guiding him in a different direction.

     After nearly ten minutes of walking in near silence, the corridors emptied and Harry felt like he could breathe again. McGonagall noticeably slowed and they began to walk at a more companionable pace. Harry observed her from the corner of his eye. Despite their reassurances, he was not convinced that a memory charm could be without lingering side effects or repercussions. The professor seemed perfectly normal, if a little tired, but Harry would watch her anyway.

          “Harry, if you don’t stop staring, I’ll freeze your eyelids shut and levitate you the rest of the way.” McGonagall crooked an eyebrow at Harry, challenging him to test her resolve. He grimaced ruefully.

          "Sorry Professor.”

          “Don’t apologize. I’m aware of the obliviation performed on myself,” She continued walking without changing pace as Harry ground to a halt and had to double-step to catch back up.

          “I thought you weren’t supposed…” He stopped talking, unsure how much he was allowed to say about the subject.

          “Obviously I don’t know the particulars, only that yourself, Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley are involved, of course.” She had very uncharacteristically muttered that last part, “The minister informed me that a memory alteration had taken place at my own urging, but no particulars. He also mentioned that it went against your wishes which explained your rather abrupt departure.”

          “Yeah… I’m sorry about that actually.”

          “Once again, you have nothing to apologize for.” McGonagall told him sternly, and then her voice softened and she slowed to a stop. “Actually, I wish to apologize to you. The only direct experience you have had with obliviation in the past is that debacle with Lockhart which must have left quite a negative impression on you and Mr. Weasley at the time. And of course, Ms. Granger’s rather dramatic attempt to protect her parents bust have been terribly traumatizing for her as well. I have apologized to them already for my part in the abrupt decision to undergo an obliviation. To that end, I apologize for any thoughtlessness on my part. I hope this will not erode any remaining trust between us?”

     Harry was a bit stunned. Professor McGonagall had never apologized before. Never. But now she was apologizing for this? A small flame lit somewhere below the knife. He took a steadying breath, too exhausted to let his anger grow. His bed called longingly to him from somewhere above their heads and he decided to move on.

          “It’s okay. Really. I’m glad you’re alright.”

     McGonagall’s mouth turned up in what could only be taken for a small smile, though Harry was so unused to seeing it on her. He looked at the tapestry across the hall from them awkwardly.

          “Thank you, Harry.” Perhaps sensing his discomfort, McGonagall decided to move on as well. “While that was something I wanted to say to you, it is not my primary reason for wishing to speak with you.” She paused awkwardly, “It is my understanding that you were given a series of memories by Headmaster Snape?” Harry nodded.

          “They are still in Dumbl— his office. In the Pensieve.”

          “Yes… I would like your permission to see them.” Harry blinked. His permission? She and Kingsley were in charge of the Order, surely she didn’t need his permission. Unless this was another ‘Harry Potter, the conquering hero, must give his approval’ thing again. Irritation itched at the back of his mind and that flame grew a little bigger in his stomach.

          “Yeah, go ahead. You really don’t need to ask me or anything, Professor.” He replied and winced internally. He hadn’t meant for it come out as snippy, but he was just so tired of being asked to make all the decisions. Wasn’t that Professor McGonagall and the Minister’s job now? McGonagall was watching him assiduously.

          “Perhaps I need to clarify. I do in fact, need your permission as these memories were given to you and the Headmaster is still incapacitated. It would be highly inappropriate for me to go sifting through his memories without either his authorization or yours. Furthermore,” She had her sternest look back in place, “It would be unwise for you to allow others access to memories that were entrusted to you without properly undergoing a certain degree of due diligence.

     Harry blushed, abashed. Well, that was a long way of saying he had been pretty foolish. He was a bit ashamed of his earlier reaction now. Of course there were rules about this sort of thing, and Harry had careened his way right past them. He hadn’t even considered the repercussions should Snape find out he had just carelessly handed off a load of the man’s memories to the first person who asked without a second thought. He hung his head, contrite and exhausted.

          “I am sorry. That was shortsighted of me.” McGonagall raised her brow at him.

          “For that, I will accept your apology. Let’s try again. Do I have your permission to view all of the memories contained within the pensieve?”

     Harry took his time answering, attempting to consider all possible consequences and benefits. Snape would probably be angry. But he had given them in a desperate moment with no instruction or limitations. That did not give Harry the liberty to hand the memories over to Professor McGonagall or Kingsley Shacklebolt. Especially since Snape was not in fact dead like they both thought he would be. Snape’s wrath aside, sharing them with Professor McGonagall could only benefit the man. It may assuage any lingering doubt the Professor had in regard to Snape’s loyalty and role in the war. Handing them over to Kingsley was riskier as he was an Auror. Ex-auror? In any case, Kingsley had a duty to the Ministry and anything he saw in the pensieve might implicate Snape in ways that Harry probably could not foresee.

     In the end, he had to trust his instincts. And his instincts were telling him to trust McGonagall and Kingsley and only them with the memories. Snape could be angry with him if he wanted to, but Harry couldn’t advocate for him alone. He wasn’t even sure he really wanted to. Sticking it to Voldemort was satisfying and he had needed everyone else in the room to stop trying to kill the man long enough for Snape to explain his side of things. Ultimately, whatever would happen to Snape it was not Harry’s responsibility. But he knew he would have to advocate for Snape at some point and having McGonagall and Kingsley aware of the contents of Snape’s memories could only benefit the man, right?

          “You and Kingsley Shacklebolt are the only ones allowed to view them for now.” Harry declared decisively. Professor McGonagall nodded her ascent.

          “Thank you. I will take a look at them this evening and I’ll inform the Minister of your decision. They will remain in the Headmasters office for the time being should you wish to access them.” Harry shuddered at the thought. He hoped he would never have to see them again!

     Except for…

          “I shall part ways with you’re here, Mr. Potter.” Professor McGonagall broke him out of his musing, “I noticed the inundation of gawkers you experienced in the Great Hall just now. I’ll have a house elf deliver a meal to the tower shortly. Do try to get some rest.”

     Harry thanked her and turned to walk the rest of the way up to Gryffindor tower. His head felt full and empty at the same time. He was drowning in thoughts, questions, and emotions brought on by their conversation. But as he fell into bed, exhaustion wrapped them all in cotton, and like a madman shoved into a padded room, the thoughts receded to the back of his mind and became silent for a while.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

Harry woke the next morning with what he could only imagine were Wrackspurts buzzing behind his eyes. Face still buried in a pillow, Harry argued with himself for a long time before finally giving in and attempting to shift out of bed. The floor was like ice to his aching feet. His arms, legs, and back felt sore, as if he had run around the castle a dozen times and fallen down 10 flights of stairs. He rubbed his eyes free of sleep and cast a Tempus. 11:30am.

Groaning miserably, Harry ran a tired hand down his face. Ron had come up to bed late the night before and Harry had tried to eat. True to her word, McGonagall had sent a house elf to deliver a plate of sandwiches and a treacle while he slept. Harry hadn’t eaten much of it. He had woken horribly parched and his stomach roiled at the thought of food. After eating half a sandwich and drinking a pitcher’s worth of water, Harry had settled back in bed with a book on vampire history he’d found on a table in the common room. He had fallen asleep in the middle of reading about Stefan the Rumple’s poorly planned rampage that resulted in exactly one vampire transformation and a botched wedding.

This morning, Harry felt rather shabby himself. He rose and made for the bathroom and the shower. As the mirror steamed over, Harry stared at himself. Unruly black hair lay in lank strands, greasy enough to rival Snape’s on his worst days. His green eyes were ringed by circles of skin so dark it looked like Dudley had socked him twice. He’d lost a lot of weight as well, he noticed. The mirror fogged over completely and Harry turned to the shower. Hermione had passed on a set of clean clothes for Ron to bring up with him and Harry changed into those before sitting down heavily on the end of his bed. After nearly sleeping half the day away he still felt incredibly tired. He rested his head against one of the posts of his bed, relishing in the cool contact. Ron had left earlier but Harry had been so deeply asleep, he hadn’t heard his friend leave. It was nearly time for lunch and the Great Hall would be full of people again. Maybe he could wear the invisibility cloak and just nip in to see if Ron and Hermione were there.

He could nick a bit of food while he was at it or they could grab it for him. He still wasn’t terribly hungry but he knew he should eat something to help get through the afternoon of cleaning and repairs. He walked down the stairs to the common room and found Neville lounging on a couch by the fire. He had a book on aquatic plants held up in one hand and the other arm thrown lazily over the back of the low settee. Harry was surprised to see him dressed in muggle clothing. He wore a pair of jeans and a long sleeve black shirt underneath a short sleeve T-shirt. He greeted the boy who looked up and grinned.

     “Hey Harry! Sleep alright?” He set down his book on the small table in front of the fire and sat up running a hand through his pale hair.

     “Like a rock. I feel like a rock.” Harry groaned again and sank into a plush armchair he just knew he would never be able to get out of again. Neville laughed.

     “Yeah, me too, mate.”

     “Have you been down here long? Seen anyone else yet?” Harry asked. Maybe Neville would know how long ago Ron had left.

     "Not long. They sent me up about an hour ago. I’ve just been reading.” Harry frowned.

     “Who sent you up?”

     “Ron, Hermione, the rest. We didn’t want you to be alone up here.” Harry sat up straighter, annoyance rearing its bitter head.

     “They didn’t need to do that. I don’t need a minder.” Neville held up his hand placatingly.

     “Hold on, we know you don’t. We’re just being careful is all. Some of the Death Eaters got away and you never know these days. It’s too easy to get into Hogwarts right now. We’ve been taking it in turns to make sure you aren’t alone. Thought it would be better to be prepared, you know, just in case.”

Harry let his head fall back onto the cushioned back of the chair and staired at the ceiling. Would this ever be over? Would he have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder? He didn’t need an entourage of bodyguards following him around every day, that was crazy!

     “Look, thanks Neville for watching out, but really, I’ll be fine on my own for a bit. You don’t have to stay here if you’re hungry, I know it’s nearly time for lunch.”

     “Oh yeah, I’m starving! Everyone got started really early today and I haven’t had a bite to eat since.” Neville’s stomach gave a loud growl as if to punctuate his statement. “But we don’t have to go down. Professor McGonagall said we could ask a Hogwarts elf to bring us lunch right here. I was just waiting till you came down. Kapper!”

Harry jumped, startled by the sudden pop as a house elf apparated directly in front of his chair. She wore a purple Hogwarts-crested sash and stood with her hands behind her back, bouncing on her toes.

     “Mr. Longbottom is calling for Kapper. What can Kapper do for the Longbottom hero, Destroyer of Wicked Snakes?” Neville blushed and Harry guffawed, which he instantly regretted as the elf turned to appraise him and he saw her large brown eyes grow impossibly wider.

     “M—Mr. Potter! What can Kapper be doing for The Boy Who Lives Again?” It was Harry’s turn to blush as Neville stifled a laugh.

     “Please you don’t need to call me that. Just Harry is fine.”

Kapper’s eyes glittered with joy and barely unshed tears. She brought her hands and clasped them just under her little chin.

     “Kapper is honored to be calling The Boy Who Lived Again by his venerated name… Harry.” She said his name with sickeningly reverent adoration.

     “Oh God…” Harry mumbled and put his face in his hand. Neville snickered audibly and asked the little elf to bring them some lunch. She thanked them profusely until Neville fairly barked at her to get going and then vanished with a pop. A massive tray appeared hardly a minute later laden with all sorts of foods. None of which looked appealing to Harry in the slightest.

     “Better get used to that.” Neville said over a mouthful of curry. “The elves are mad for you. If you thought other humans were bad, the elves are far worse. They’ve taken to making over anyone remotely involved in the battle. They fairly worship you!”

Harry sighed, suddenly missing Kreacher. At least he was one elf who wouldn’t hero-worship Harry… right? Harry picked at some chips, hardly tasting them. He was hot again. Why did they have to have the fireplaces going, it was nearly summer for Merlinsake!

     “What’s with the muggle clothes, Neville?” Harry asked, suddenly curious.

     “Oh these? Most all of my robes burnt to a crisp in that fire. Gran’s been too busy to get me new ones. I borrowed these from Dean. I have to admit, they are very comfortable.” He stretched as if to prove how comfortable the clothes were and Harry grinned. He had to admire Neville’s attitude. It was like the frightened boy he’d grown up with had all but vanished and left this optimistic, much more confident version of himself behind. He wondered what had cause such a drastic change. He had always known Neville could be brave. But this assured confidence and renewed comfort in his own skin was going to take some getting used to.

     “What are you planning on doing before the order meeting this evening?”

     “You know about the meeting? Hold on, are you going to be there?”

     “Yeah, the Minister himself invited me this morning, “Neville grinned sheepishly, “I guess that snake was bloody important, eh?” Harry nodded.

     “Yeah, very,” Harry grunted, “It had a piece of Voldemort’s soul in it.” Neville’s eyes widened until they riveled the size of Kapper’s.

     “Does that mean I…. killed a bit of Vol-Voldemort?” Neville struggled to get the name out and struggled in revulsion. Harry nodded.

     “Yes. You did more than that though, Neville. You killed the last part of his soul not left in his body. If you hadn’t killed the snake, he wouldn’t have died at all.” Neville gulped, face ashen.

     “No wonder he was so angry after…” He was silent for a long moment and Harry was happy to let it rest. Neville looked overwhelmed by the knowledge of what he had done, but there was a proud lift to his chin and a satisfied gleam in his eye.

     “When I saw you on the lawn,” Neville turned to face Harry, “You were on your way to meet him, weren’t you?” Harry nodded. The heat from the fire was making his collar itch terribly. He shifted, suddenly overcome by his discomfort and feeling like he would suffocate in the plush chair.

     “Why did you trust me to do it? To kill the snake?”

     “Because I knew you would do it.” Harry’s answer was easy and assured. Neville blinked, and his brow furrowed.

     “How could you know I would be able to do it? You know me, Harry!” Neville pounded a fist into his chest, frustration clear on his face, “I’m the worst in our year! I’ve always been slower and—and I make mistakes all the time, Harry! What if I’d botched this too?” Neville had gestured wildly between himself and the rest of the room; of Hogwarts really. Harry knew what he meant; he’d felt the weight of that What If many times before. No matter how many What If’s Harry survived, he was always left stunned to see any part of Hogwarts left standing at all. Harry shook his head and grabbed Neville’s arm firmly.

     “I knew you had the guts to see it through.” He watched Neville intently, willing the other boy to see his conviction, “You fought the Carrow’s even after they beat you. Merlin, Neville, you took on Snape.” Harry chuckled dryly, “I knew you could do it because you already had in a way.” Harry smiled grimly and released Neville’s arm. He settled back into the chair and took a long sip of water from his cup. Neville stared at him, eye’s shining before he hastily rubbed his palms across them and sniffed. He shook his head before downing the rest of his pumpkin juice.

     “Harry, you’ve changed a lot.” Neville shook his head wonderingly.

     “I guess a year of camping on the run from an Evil Lord will do that to a person.” Harry laughed, “You know, Neville, you’ve changed a lot too.”

     “I guess a year of being targeted by bigoted murderers will do that to a person.” Neville laughed.

After their meal, Harry decided to stick with Neville. He was sure he would run into Ron and Hermione eventually or at least be able to get a message to them through the other denizens of the castle that were milling about. As they descended through the castle on their way to the greenhouses, Harry noticed they encountered fewer people than he had the day before.

Every time they rounded a corner and encountered a nearly deserted hallway, Harry breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed a bit more. The few people they did run into were members of the order or ghosts of the castle, many of whom directed a brief nod of greeting in their direction and carried on with what they were doing.

     “Has most people gone home then?” He asked Neville eventually.

     “Yeah, McGonagall came down this morning and sent a fair amount of them off after breakfast. Most of the easy repairs are done anyway so they weren’t needed. Wait till you see the entry way and courtyard, it’s like nothing ever happened.”

Neville was right. The doors to the Great Hall and Entrance Hall had been repaired and refitted in their frames. Every gaping hole and chipped stair were good as new and scrubbed nearly cleaner than before. The suits of armor were back in their places though Harry could hear a couple grumbling to each other about civil liberties and revolution as he passed. He made a note to mention it to Professor Flitwick.

As they made their way down to the greenhouses, Harry stared. The lawn was immaculate, lush and green once more. Other than a missing tree or shrub here and there, it was as if nothing had changed at all. He risked a glance at the castle overhead and frowned. There were still great gaps in the towers and walls above, held together by the faint shimmer of magic in the midday sun. Neville noticed where Harry was looking.

     “Professor Flitwick says those will take some heavy wand work to repair. He said he had to make a floo call to some foreign Charms Masters to have them come and help.”

When they arrived at the greenhouses, Professor Sprout was there already, rooting around a massive pile of ceramic and terracotta planters. She smiled broadly when she spotted them, all trace of her earlier unsettling mood utterly gone. The greenhouses themselves had been repaired but there was disarray wherever Harry looked. Apparently, the fight with the Venemous Tenticula had taken up much of Professor Sprouts time as the rest of her collection was still strewn about in great mounds pf dirt and multicolored leaves. It was a dismal sight and Harry was surprised to see the professor in such a cheery mood amidst the devastation.

     “There you are, Neville! I’ve quite a job for you! Hello Mr. Potter, it’s lovely to see you as well. I hope you’ve gotten some good rest?” Harry had barely nodded his assent before she continued, “Good, good, then you can help Neville as well. You see those piles of Moly? I’ve collected as much as I can find in her. I need you to sort the good from the bad and repot them in these.” She levitated a large stack of pots to a nearby bench. “You know where to find the soil and compost, Neville. Mr. Potter, I hope you remember the proper handling of this delicate little beauty?”

     “Yes Ma’am, I do.”

     “Good. Well, get started. The ones here need to be potted quickly or we’ll lose them.”

They worked in companionable silence for a good measure of time. After a quick refresh from Neville after he botched the wrong soil to compost ratio, Harry was able to lose himself in the work. Harry found the musky, sour smell of dirt, the warm sun through the Greenhouse glass, and the cool magical breeze that blew a steady current through the structure all combined to create a feeling of peace that was nearly identical to the one he felt while on his broom. He had never experienced this level of calm in the greenhouses before. Without the pressure of schoolwork or the constant chatter of students, working in the greenhouses was nearly blissful. Harry thought he could now understand why Neville enjoyed it so much. Neville for his part, worked alongside Harry, a slight smile on his face as he handled each Moly gingerly. Occasionally he would glance at Harry’s work and adjust a plant in its pot or strip a bad leaf. Only twice had he shaken his head and sadly removed a Moly that Harry had thought could be saved but Neville knew was too far gone.

As the day drew on Harry’s enthusiasm for the work began to flag along with his energy. He was tired. His breaks became longer and more frequent. The warmth of the sun began to compete with the chill of the artificial breeze in the hothouse and Harry felt both oppressively hot and unbearably cold intermittently. During one such break in which Harry had sat on the ground under his bench to escape both the sun and the breeze, Professor Sprout leaned down to examine him, her brow furrowed.

     “Harry, I believe it is time for you to take a break for the day,” she said, a note of concern tinged her voice.

     “I’m fine Professor, really. I can keep working, I just need a minute.”

     “Mr. Potter, I have been watching you for last half an hour and not only do you appear to be not ‘fine,’ you are clearly in need of further rest. I suggest you take yourself up to Madam Pomfrey and have her check you straight away.” Harry balked at the idea of going anywhere near the Medical Wing. Absolutely not.

     “Really, I don’t feel ill. I’m just a bit tired from everything is all, but I’ll be alright in a minute.” Professor Sprout narrowed her eyes.

     “You will clean up your work area and go back to the castle, Mr. Potter or I will escort you there myself and that is final.” Harry’s shoulders slumped.

     “Yes Ma’am.”

Harry began clearing away his bench. Neville looked at him, commiserating.

     “I could go up with you if you like?”

     “No,” Harry looked at the significant pile of Moly left to do, “That’s still a lot to do. I wish she’d let me stay to help; this has been nice.”

     “Yeah!” He smiled in delight, “There really is nothing as good as spending an evening in the greenhouse to clear your mind is there?” Harry thought there was at least one thing better than a greenhouse for that, but he didn’t argue. He waved goodbye and headed back towards the castle with zero intention of going to the Hospital Wing. After all, all he needed was a nap, really.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

     “Harry?” He felt the world lurch back and forth. Someone was gently shaking his shoulder. He groaned and shrugged the hand off.

     “Come on, Mate, you’ve got to wake up or we’ll be late to the Order meeting.” Ron’s voice drifted to him from what he could only assume was another dimension entirely. Harry cursed and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. They were crusted over, and his head felt like it was in Aunt Petunia’s meat grinder. His mouth was stuffed full of wool and his legs and arms swung too much or not at all when he tried to stand.

     “Whoa, steady on. Are you alright?”

     “M’fine.” Harry reached for the water pitcher next to his bed and missed pouring the liquid into the glass. Ron cursed and dried them both off.

     “You look like shite. Maybe we ought to go to Madam Pomfrey first.”

     “No.” Harry shook his head roughly and forced his eyes open further.

     “They’ll wait for you. They can’t exactly start the meeting without you anyway.” Harry felt ill now, Professor Sprout had been right, he thought ruefully. He pushed past Ron and into the washroom where he splashed water onto his face. He would not go to the Hospital Wing. Not yet. The water did wonders in helping Harry regain some of his dignity and composure. After a quick wash and a futile attempt at brushing his hair, he emerged feeling much more in control.

     “I’ll get checked out later,” Harry reassured his friend who was watching him from the end of his bed, “Let’s go get this over with.” Ron nodded uncertainly and followed Harry down the stairs. Hermione was waiting for them when they reached the common room.

     “There you are. You took so long; I was about to come and get you myself.” She eyed Harry speculatively.

     “I was doing just fine getting him on my own, Hermione.” Ron mumbled disgruntled, “Only he looked like death warmed over and it took him a good minute to come back to life.”

     “You do look dreadful, Harry.” Hermione added rather unhelpfully in Harry’s opinion and then to his utter mortification, she placed the back of her hand to his forehead. Harry winced and pulled away. “You’re a bit warm as well. We ought to take you to see Madam Pomfrey.”

     “Would you two quit fussing, I’m fine!” Harry waved her away irritated at their hovering, “It’s probably just a chill and I’ve been through worse on my own!”

Hermione looked at him sympathetically which Harry decided then and there was absolutely the worst way to be looked at.

     “Look,” He quickly added to placate her, “I promise I’ll go as soon as the Order meeting is through. I just want to get this whole thing over with.” Hermione watched him for a moment more before biting her bottom lip in what he recognized as worry and nodding her agreement.

     “We’ll hold you to that.” She turned to lead the way out of the portrait hole.

The instant Harry walked through the door he felt an overwhelming desire to turn right around and leave. The Headmaster’s office was absolutely packed with Order members milling about, shuffling past one another with apologetic smiles and pardons. Amidst the bustle, Harry could see Kreacher and another Hogwarts elf arranging platters of finger foods, biscuits, and filling drinks. Kreacher was by Harry’s side in an instant.

     “Might Kreacher fetch Master some refreshment? Does Master need his seat? Perhaps Kreacher can fetch Master a blanket or a Pepper Up potion. Master is not looking well to Kreacher’s old eye…”

     “Erm…” Harry shifted uncomfortably, looking for a place to sit out of the way, “Kreacher, just call me Harry and I’m fine, I don’t need all of that.”

He tried to wave the elf away, but Kreacher had him by the sleeve and was pulling him towards a small chair that was set in the corner of the room next to the Headmasters desk. It seemed as good a place as any to seat himself, so Harry allowed himself to be pulled through the crowd. He glanced up at the large portrait behind the desk and was surprised to see Dumbledore was still there, though he had his head bowed and eyes closed. Harry was sure he was feigning sleep and absorbing every word spoken.

Kingsley was speaking in low tones with Aberforth by one of the vaulted windows. The Minister nodded at Harry acknowledging his arrival and continued speaking with the elder Dumbledore. McGonagall was seated next to Arthur and Charlie Weasley. Mr. Weasley looked desperately careworn, he held his cup before him in two hands and leaned onto his knees, occasionally adding to the conversation. Harry’s chest gave a sharp pang and he rubbed at the spot absently. Ron and Hermione took seats between Neville and Flitwick that were adjacent to where Harry sat as there weren’t any others near where Kreacher had put him. Bill and Ginny were speaking with an older witch that Harry didn’t recognize. When Ginny caught sight of him, she smiled and excused herself from the conversation. Harry rose from his seat as she approached him. She wore muggle clothes under an open-faced witch’s robe that flowed softly around her and clasped just below her chin. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid but there were whisps of auburn that had escaped around her face. Harry fought the urge to sweep the soft strands behind her ears and pull her in close. He settled for brushing his fingers along the outside of her arm and gently holding her hand.

     “You look terrible, Potter.”

     “So everyone keeps saying.” Harry rolled his eyes and matched her tired smile with his own. He squeezed her hand briefly. “How are you holding up?” Ginny sighed and Harry wished he hadn’t asked as he watched her eyes darken.

     “It’s hard. Mum is beside herself. Fleur’s been a massive help keeping her company while she stays busy. We’ve only been home a day and I think she’s cleaned the entire place twice over. Every time she finds something of Fred’s…” Ginny shivered, and Harry held her hand with both of his. “But that’s not the worst. I keep looking for him when George walks in the room. George just wanders around the Burrow, it’s like he’s looking for Fred too.”

Harry felt his chest clench painfully as he saw Ginny’s eyes fill with tears. She swiped at them with her other hand and took a shuddering breath. “I hate this.” She whispered and that was all it took for Harry’s will to crumble. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and when she leaned into him, he held her tightly. She returned his embrace and sighed into his shoulder. They stood that way for a minute, each drawing comfort from the other in silence before McGonagall stood and made her way over to the chair behind the Headmaster’s desk. Ginny pulled away reluctantly and gave Harry’s arm a squeeze before returning to her seat next to Bill and Neville.

     “Let’s begin.” McGonagall stood with her arms crossed, spectacles glinting in the lamplight. “There is much to sort through, but we must start somewhere. We’ll start with where things stand at the Ministry. As many, if not all of you, know by now, Kingsley Shacklebolt has been named interim Minister of Magic. As such I will be handing the floor to him at this time. Minister?” she gestured for Kingsley to continue, and he stood as she took her seat behind the desk.

     “Thank you, Professor McGonagall. The Ministry—or what’s left of it—has asked me to act as interim Minister. I have accepted.” He paused watching them each with a grave sincerity, “I do not do this for my own gain. There is a vacuum, a void, in the Ministry. Someone must fill it, or the worst people will. Should the Ministry, once reestablished, find a more suitable candidate, I will set aside and fill whatever role suits the Ministry’s needs best.” Heads nodded all around the room in agreement.

     “You have our support, Kingsley.” Mr. Weasley spoke assuredly. “But the Ministry cannot paper this over and pretend this entire upheaval was less catastrophic than it is. Not again.”

     “They’ll try,” Aberforth grunted, a clear note of derisive disapproval in his tone. “Give it a month or two, then it will be business as usual.” Harry was surprised when Kingsley nodded.

     “I agree, that is why it is imperative that the Order stay visible. We must continue to pressure the Wizengamot and the Ministry, and remind those who would try to move on from this quickly what we lost today and what we stand to lose in future should we not pursue reform.” Some in the room sat up straighter, inspired by Kingsley’s words, but many began to shift awkwardly in their seats, clearly uncomfortable.

     “You’re not suggesting,” Aberforth said with a dangerous, mocking lilt, “That the Order replace the Ministry, are you Minister?”

     “No.” Kingsley cut firmly through the growing murmurs that had begun to circle the room. “I am suggesting that the Order not be disbanded but should remain on in an advisory capacity. We must adapt to the changing circumstances and make our new focus to become a catalyst of change and call for reform within the Ministry. Whether the Wizengamot chooses to hear us and come into alignment with our ideals is up to them. But I have hope that they will also see the need for change within our system. Until such time as our advocacy is no longer desired, I believe the Order should continue to be a voice for the people.”

     “How very democratic of you.” Aberforth sneered.

     “That’s enough.” Mr. Weasley cut in sharply. “We are burying our children—to my mind, the Ministry could use more democracy. We don’t need your bitterness on top of it.” Charlie put a comforting hand to his father’s shoulder and Aberforth looked down his nose into the cup before him but remained silent. Kingsley gave them a moment to absorb all of this before continuing.

     “I will be assembling an interdepartmental team to help advise the Minister’s office on next moves and to notify us of necessary and immediate concerns that must be addressed. For those of you here employed by the Ministry, I would ask for your support and advice in the coming days and weeks.”

     “Now,” Kingsley continued, “We must decide what to do with the Death Eaters under our charge. The Ministry is riddled with sympathizers and as such those taken into custody should not be handed over immediately. I have already put in a decree to have all Dementors removed from Azkaban indefinitely and for increased security measures to be implemented at once. Until we can find a more reasonable and secure solution for the guarding of Azkaban, we will have to rely on a heavier Auror presence on the island to maintain order. Once those steps have been taken, we can relocate the prisoners from the dungeons straight to Azkaban for holding until trials can be arranged.”

     “There are still Death Eaters out there.” Bill leaned forward; a frown creased his face. “And werewolves who were complicit in the battle. Some will crawl back into their holes. Others will pretend they were operating under the Imperius. How will we track them down without the proper manpower? The Auror force is stretched thin as it is without the new increased security at Azkaban.”

     “We have names for most, and we have evidence for others.” Kingsley began.

     “We could start with Malfoy.” Ron grumbled bitterly. “We’ve seen enough to put them all away immediately.” Hermione reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

     “If we want to see change,” She spoke gently but with conviction, “it should start with how we treat the worst of us. Otherwise, this will be the same cycle as before just with new faces.”

     “We will pursue all leads within the bounds of due process.” Kingsley nodded reassuringly, “The Malfoys and several other families are already under heavy guard. But we will not be pressured by public outrage to rush into trials like we were the last time. We need trials that are fair and backed by solid evidence. The Death Eaters were overconfident this year, there should be plenty of evidence to hold every single one of them responsible.”

     “And those who claim to have been under the Imperius?” A tall, sullen looking man spoke from the corner nearest the door, “How will we make sure they are cleared or brought to justice? We’ve seen this song and dance before.”

     “We’ll have to do our best to sift through witness testimony and put in a Summons for Pensieve Deposition in many cases. It’s a lengthy process but it is essential that we leave no loose ends. We will have no backroom deals. No bribes. The corruption ends now.”

Harry allowed his thoughts to wander as the more experienced wizards and witches settled into a lengthy discussion over trial proceedings. His head felt heavy and thick with fog again and his nose was beginning to itch uncomfortably. He tried to discreetly use the crook of his elbow to stifle a sneeze. A tap on his shoulder and a Harry turned to find Professor McGonagall offering a handkerchief to him. He took it gratefully and thanked her. She raised an eyebrow and turned to address the Minister.

     “I believe we’ve covered enough about the Ministry to satisfy any pertinent questions for now, wouldn’t you agree, Minister?” Kingsley nodded and indicated that she retake the floor. Professor McGonagall folded her hands across the desk.

     “Now, to the grim task of shouldering our losses.” The room fell silent. “As it stands, we have suffered heavy casualties with 49 of our own… taken from us.” She paused. Harry could see her struggling to maintain her composure. The flickering lamps seemed to dim, and the fire shrank back from their grief. Professor McGonagall took a steadying breath and forged onward.

     “The Centaurs have yet to disclose the number of casualties they have suffered but from what I understand it was significant as well. Of the Death Eaters, we have gathered the remains of 37 of their number and incarcerated 23 others. That number has grown steadily over the last 48 hours however, Bill Weasley mentioned earlier, scores more have continued to evade capture.”

     “How can we even begin to track them down?” Charlie Weasley asked in frustration, “They destroyed all testimony from the first war and have done a number on the Ministries Records office in the last few months. We won’t be able to trust the testimony of our current batch of prisoners without Veritaserum and that could take weeks to procure. By then they’ll have all gone to ground.” A buzzing of agreement and mirrored frustration drifted across the room until McGonagall raised her hand asking for silence.

     “I believe we have at least one source of information willing to assist us in our efforts. At the moment, Severus Snape remains in serious but stable condition. I’ve spoken with him and Madam Pomfrey earlier today and we believe he will be well enough to give a statement tomorrow. We will follow any leads that the interview may bring to light.”

Neville snorted derisively and crossed his arms. Ginny was scowling next to him.

     “Snape? He’s just as bad as the rest. You saw what he was like this year, Professor. We can’t trust him either.”

     “I understand your skepticism, Mr. Longbottom,” Professor McGonagall acknowledged, “However, Professor Snape is our best lead at this time. The Minister and I will ascertain whether he can be trusted. We will utilize all available evidence and testimony to make our determination and will inform the Order of our findings before proceeding further.”

     “There are those who want him arrested the moment he wakes.” Mr. Weasley’s voice was quiet, and he kept his eyes trained on the hands clasped in front of him.

     “Good,” Neville’s eyes were blazing, “Let them. He killed Dumbledore.”

     “Only because Dumbledore asked him too.” Hermione was hesitant, watching Neville closely. Clearly Harry wasn’t the only one who was thrown by the change in Neville.

     “Well, that’s convenient.” Neville intoned sarcastically, “How can we be sure about that? I mean, Harry, honestly how can you know those memories haven’t been tampered with?”

     “I don’t know for sure,” Harry shrugged. “But my instincts say they’re real. All of them. And I have other reasons for believing them.”

     “Such as?” Neville cajoled and Harry was surprised to detect something that almost sounded like mockery. He wanted to snap back that it was none of his bloody business why Harry believed Snape. He bit his cheek instead and worked his jaw. It would do no good to argue with Neville, because his friend was right. Harry couldn’t know for sure that the memories hadn’t been altered. The others in the room had not intervened in the exchange, in fact, they too seemed to be waiting for Harry’s answer. Harry sighed and gestured towards Dumbledore’s portrait.

     “He told me. Here and… another time.” All eyes in the room turned to regard the portrait of the late Headmaster who gave an exaggerated snore and continued his preamble of deep, oblivious sleep. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

     “Professor Dumbledore, we require your input at this time.” Dumbledore shifted in his ‘sleep’ until all they could see was his great nose poking from between the brim of his hat and a forest of snowy beard. McGonagall tsked loudly.

     “Honestly! I am the Deputy Headmistress of this school! I demand that you cease this farce at once!” Dumbledore’s snores increased in volume and frequency until they fairly roared around the room. Harry’s head began to pound and the fire in his chest flared to life again.

     “Oh, for godsake! Will you just answer her? And tell the truth for once!” Harry snapped and rubbed at his temples. To his utter disbelief, the Headmaster stopped snoring immediately and sat up sheepishly in his gilded chair.

     “Oh, hello Minerva. What an illustrious gathering! Have you all been here this entire time? And here I was off prancing about in the Land of Nod while in the presence of esteemed company.” Dumbledore shook his head as if chiding himself for his inattention.

     “Save it.” McGonagall snipped in irritation, “Mr. Potter informs us that you may know more about Professor Snape’s motives and intentions. What can you tell us about his involvement in your death and his actions over the course of the school year?”

     “A great deal I imagine.” The portrait smiled enigmatically, “And you really should address him as Headmaster Snape.” Dumbledore sat back, crossed his arms across his chest, and said nothing more. Harry frowned and McGonagall’s face turned a shade of red he hadn’t seen in a while.

     “Why you—”

     “You told me.” Harry interrupted. “You may as well tell them as well. Now that Voldemort is dead, and the war is over, surely you can speak to them?”

Dumbledore’s portrait considered Harry carefully, his eyes glinting impishly behind his spectacles.

     “I could…” He began carefully, “I have been given permission to answer any and all questions but only if asked by a specific individual who happens to be in this room.” There was silence for a moment.

      “Me?” Harry asked dubiously. “Snape told you I can ask you anything? And you’ll answer?” Dumbledore’s eyes glittered and he nodded. Harry was completely bowled over. So, this must have been Snape’s contingency plan. He had to have suspected that if Harry came back to Hogwarts that he would likely try to speak with Dumbledore’s portrait.

     “What other instructions did Snape give you?” Harry asked, curious if there was more.

     “Headmaster Snape instructed me to tell you the truth, in its entirety, to any question you ask of me. I was told that I was also permitted to answer to Professor McGonagall but only in the event of his death. If the sword of Gryffindor was still in his possession, I was to make sure you or Minerva were given access to it. I am also mandated to inform you that there is a vial of memories in the hidden compartment beneath the desk, I can provide the instructions for opening it should you ask. There is also a key to a vault at Gringotts in your name, Harry, and instructions for obtaining that as well. Minerva, he wished for me to disclose every location of my portrait that was placed throughout the castle over the course of the year and to key your voice to it. There was also—”

     “Stop! Stop.” McGonagall held up her hands, eyes wide. She seemed thoroughly dazed by the flood of information.

Harry sat, mouth gaping, and turned to Ron and Hermione. Their faces were drained of color, and strangely Hermione looked to be on the verge of tears. Other faces around the room seemed to be in a similar state of shock. Neville’s seemed to be waring between doubt, confusion, and skepticism. Ginny seemed similarly conflicted. The only ones who appeared to be unaffected were Aberforth and Kingsley. Both men seem remarkably unsurprised by Dumbledore’s revelations.

     “Minister,” McGonagall began, her voice held a slight quaver, “you have the Aurors coming by tomorrow, is that correct?” Kingsley nodded, “Better have them take a portrait statement as well while they’re here. Mr. Potter, may I call on you tomorrow to assist us in asking the relevant questions of Headmaster Dumbledore’s portrait?” Harry nodded.

     “May I ask him one more question, Professor?” McGonagall hesitated before nodding her consent.

     “Headmaster, did you ask Snape to kill you last year?”

Every occupant in the room held their breath. The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes vanished and a look of dark sorrow replaced it.

     “I did, my boy.”

A violent bang caused Harry and several others to jump in their seats as McGonagall slammed her hand upon the desk. She turned her back to the rest of the room and stared at Dumbledore’s portrait. From his unique position next to the desk, only Harry could see the rage contorting her features. All was still in the room for a minute, maybe two, while Professor McGonagall waged a silent war within herself. Dumbledore watched her steadily, remorse heavy in his expression until finally he looked down at his painted hands and said no more. Professor McGonagall was breathing heavily through her nose, mouth set in a tight line. Harry watched her close her eyes and regain her composure before she turned back to those gathered before her.

     “My apologies. I believe we must leave things here for now. Do you have anything further to add, Minister?” Kingsley cleared his throat.

     “No, I believe we have enough to begin our investigations and take witness statements. I will have owls sent out in the morning to those whom the Auror department wishes to speak with first.”

     “Then, I would ask you all to hold your remaining questions until we meet next or send them by owl to myself or Aberforth. I know we still have much to cover but…” Her shoulders sagged and she seemed to finally give in to her exhaustion. “I’ll ask you all to take the morning. Kingsley and I will be occupied and unreachable tomorrow morning for at least a few hours so you may as well get some rest while we begin to sort this out. Thank you all for working tirelessly these last two days. Please reach out to Professor Flitwick who will be acting in my stead should you need anything tomorrow.”

And with that, the Order of the Phoenix rose and bid one another a good night. Harry turned to Dumbledore’s portrait while the others were shuffling out the door and down the spiral stairs. Dumbledore had gone back to his feigned sleep though this time there were no snores and his face remained uncovered. As he watched, Harry thought he caught a slight shimmer of wetness trail a path down the portrait’s cheek and disappear into his beard.

The next morning Harry was jolted from his sleep by a deep rumble that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within the castle. The castle groaned. That was the only word for it. The windowpanes shuddered and the curtains swayed on the fourposter beds. Ron bolted out of bed and Harry followed him much slower.

     “What the hell was that?” Ron grabbed for his trousers and tried to yank them on and hold his wand at the same time. He ended up hopping on one foot and toppled over Neville’s empty bed. Harry groaned and rubbed the grime from his eyes before reaching for his own clothes.

     “Dunno,” He croaked, his throat was on fire, “Repairs maybe?”

     “Yeah… maybe.” Ron sounded doubtful. He picked himself off the floor and wove his belt through the loops of his trousers. He picked up a white t-shirt off the floor and sniffed it before pulling it on.

     “What time do you reckon it is? Blimey, it’s nearly noon! We better get a move on if we want to catch some to eat.”

     “I’m going to wash up a bit first.” Harry made his way gingerly towards the showers.

     “Well hurry up, I’m starving!”

     “You can go without me, you know?” Harry snapped, “Although, you could do with a wash too. Or do you reckon Hermione enjoys the smell of your morning breath and your two-day-old shirt?”

Ron chucked a sock at Harry who couldn’t manage to dodge it if he tried, which he didn’t, and took it full in the face.

Thirty minutes and two showers later, the pair made their way down to the Great Hall where they found Hermione munching on an apple while pouring over a book. Ron brushed the back of her curls and leaned in to kiss the side of her head. She smiled softly and leaned into him.

     “Good morning, or afternoon rather.” Hermione teased, “You know we were only given the morning to ourselves and the two of you have gone and wasted it on sleep!”

     “Sleep is never a waste, Hermione.” Ron reached for the pat of butter and slathered a liberal amount onto his toast.

     “It is when there’s an entire castle to rebuild.” Hermione pointed her wand at Ron’s toast and siphoned off a good half of the butter Ron had just finished spreading. Ron frowned and reached for the marmalade.

     “It’s not like we’re going to be rebuilding the castle. That’s Flitwick and those Charms Master’s thing, innit?” He dropped a great dollop of marmalade onto his toast.

     “Yes, but we should still be prepared in case they need an extra set of hands.” She raised her wand at Ron’s breakfast again, but he twisted out of her reach and shoved half his toast into his mouth. Hermione huffed and reached for a glass of water as Ron began to choke. “Besides, there are plenty of other tasks that need to be done.”

Harry put his head in his arms on the table.

     “Harry,” Hermione chided gently, “You promised to go see Madam Pomfrey last night after the meeting. You look dreadful.”

     “I feel dreadful.” Harry rasped. He reached for his pumpkin juice and tried to take a sip, but the drink was cloyingly sweet and stuck to the roof of his mouth thickly. Harry nearly gagged.

     “You ought to go now.” Ron managed to gasp out before devolving into a second coughing spell. Hermione rubbed circles on his back and handed him some more water.

     “I agree. Would you like us to go with you?”

     “No.” Harry said quickly. It would be better to go alone. Quieter. Maybe he could get in and out without seeing… Harry shuddered. “I’ll catch you later.” He waved and slowly made his way up to the hospital wing.

He paused at the door to the wing. Perhaps he could manage a cold on his own. Afterall he’d managed to care for himself through much worse while at the Dursley’s. And he hadn’t even had a house elf to call on if he needed help then. He thought longingly of the Pepper Up or pain reliever that was bound to be stored in abundance beyond those doors. Kreacher would nick some for him if he asked, wouldn’t he? That’s what he would do. Harry could just go back to bed in the tower and send Kreacher down for whatever he needed. Harry backed away from the door and was just turning to go when one of them opened and Professor McGonagall stepped out. She halted half over the threshold before fully exiting and closing the door securely behind her.

     “Mr. Potter, I assume you’re here to finally do something about your illness?” Harry sighed and nodded defeatedly.

     “Good. You look dreadful.” Harry couldn’t stop his eyes from rolling. Weren’t there other words people could use? Like Miserable, Appalling, Bedraggled, Shi— “Well, I won’t keep you waiting. Though perhaps…” McGonagall paused, a look of uncertainty crossed her face before she continued, “Perhaps it would be best if you went straight to Madam Pomfrey’s office. She’s a bit occupied at the moment.”

Professor McGonagall walked over to a door off to the right of the Hospital Wing’s main entrance and pulled a key from her robes. She unlocked the door and held it open for Harry to enter. Madam Pomfrey’s office was a good deal larger than most of the teacher offices Harry had been in. There was a honey-colored desk immediately to his right as he walked in with two chairs on one side and a rather more comfortable looking chair on the side closest to the wall. A large filing system stood in the corner closest to the door and a variety of hanging and potted plants occupied the adjacent corner. Further back into the room was a high examination table with various rolling carts and medical cabinets against the wall next to it. Along the back wall was what appeared to be a comfortable seating area with a low leather settee, a plush green armchair, and two side tables, one with a tea service ready to be used. There was a door along the back wall that Harry assumed must lead into the Hospital Wing proper.

     “I’ll let her know you’re here. Just have a seat on the couch there and she’ll be with you shortly.” McGonagall closed the door with a definitive click and Harry did as she directed. The couch was much more comfortable than Harry had expected, and he sank deeply into the warm leather when he sat down. He placed his arm against the rest and leaned his head into his palm. His hand soothed the growing warmth of his forehead, Harry could tell he must have a fairly high temperature by that alone. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, his eyelids grew heavy, and he began to drift into a light sleep.

A deafening roar and an ear splitting screech came from the room beyond the back door. Harry jolted out of his hazy state, heart hammering in his throat. He reached for his wand and bolted to the door as another loud clatter sounded beyond it. He could hear incomprehensible shouting. What if the Death Eaters had gotten out of the dungeons! His stomach flipped over, and Harry thought he might be sick. He twisted at the doorknob, sweaty fingers slipping until they finally found purchase and he yanked it open with a bang.

The Hospital wing looked exactly as it usually did except for a few dramatic changes. Two of the metal framed hospital beds were skewed at odd angles as if they had been shoved roughly out of the way. A section of the curtained partitions Madam Pomfrey used for privacy was laying half on, half off an adjacent bed to the one occupied by the sole patient in the room. Madam Pomfrey stood amidst a pile of shattered vials and medical equipment and bent metal tray at her feet. She was furiously berating a very irate, very ill looking Severus Snape.

     “—absolutely no excuse for your abominably poor behavior! You should be ashamed of yourself, Severus! Just look at the mess you’ve made! And do you think I have the time to make more of these potions now that you’ve thrown your little tantrum? I ought to stick you to the bed and leave you there the rest of the day!”

     “Harry stood gasping in the doorway, heart pounding, taking everything in. There were no Death Eaters. Well, only one at least. But that one Death Eater looked as if he would either collapse on the floor in a pale, boneless heap of bloodied bandages or leap from the bed to tear Harry into ribbons with his bare hands and disembowel him with his crooked teeth.

     “YOU!”

Snape roared and seemed to decide on the latter action. Snape threw himself from the bed and made it two steps towards Harry before collapsing to the floor, legs giving out beneath him. Harry flinched, unsure of what to do. Madam Pomfrey stepped towards Snape who roughly shoved her away and pulled himself to his knees. He glared up at Harry through long strands of greasy black hair and bared his teeth in a snarl. Snape reached for an unbroken bottle on the floor next to him and hurled it with all his might at Harry. With the reflexes of a Seeker and the adrenaline of someone who thought he was about to die for a second time that week, Harry threw himself backwards into the office and slammed the door just as the bottle crashed into the door frame next to where his head had been. As Harry slid to the floor against the wall and tried to slow his heart through great, panting breaths, he could hear Madam Pomfrey through the wall.

     “BLOODY HELL, SEVERUS! THAT WAS THE LAST BOTTLE OF DREAMLESS SLEEP, YOU HORRID MAN! PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Snape had been tracking the fly for what felt like hours. It buzzed around the crown of his head dipping in and out of sight now and again. He willed all manner of hexes at it through his eyes alone since he couldn’t move any other part of his body. Poppy had been brutally precise with her body-bind, leaving only his necessary functions working. Everything else was locked away in a corner of his mind.

Snape was laying on his back, arms firmly at his side, legs ramrod straight and stiff on the bed. She hadn’t bothered to cover him with a blanket or put the privacy curtains back in place. He was fully dressed in his shirt and trousers, boots still laced upon his feet. Anyone could walk into the hospital and witness his undignified circumstances.

Poppy strode across the room after levitating him and dropping him roughly onto the bed. Her face was twisted with fury, wand hand clenching as if contemplating further recourse against him. Yanking open a cabinet nearby, Poppy briskly pulled out a few bottles, placing them on the levitating tray beside her. She nearly slammed the cabinet closed again, and the door bounced back open. She tsked in annoyance and left it, striding rapidly back across the room and towards her office door.

“Mr.Potter?” She called tentatively as she opened the door, “Oh dear… Well, I’m glad you’re still here at least.” And she entered her office, closing the door behind her with a firm click.

The room was silent save for the buzzing of the fly. Snape focused his gaze on the vaulted beams above him and decided he hated this view more than anything. Between the decrepit shack, the crumbling Great Hall, and this miserably sterile room, Snape was thoroughly sick of laying beneath vaulted beams.

He missed the cloistered and quiet halls of the dungeons terribly. In the maze of dungeons there was nothing but heavy, silent stones above to bear witness to his temper. The Bloody Baron would never cast more than a baleful eye at Snape for his outbursts.

The fly landed on Snape’s brow. He wanted to scream. He wanted to flail wildly; to throw the bed across the room; to blast the window with wild magic and throw himself through it. He wanted to feel the open-air whip through his cloak as he soared across the sky and put as much distance between himself and the bloody castle as he could.

Instead, he was stuck here. The evidence of his rage scattered throughout the room, his body outside of his control and exposed to the world. Vulnerability rose within him, and he struggled fruitlessly to break the body-bind. The fly crept along the side of his face, pausing occasionally. It was driving him mad. 

When Poppy returned, Snape felt relief flood over him. But she did not release him. Instead, she strode across the room, still radiating fury, righting the bed and vanishing shattered glass. She ignored him and worked in near silence. He watched her from the corner of his eye pick through the remains of broken vials next to his bed. Shame crept its way up his chest and into his face.

He forced the feeling away. After all, who could blame him for his reaction? He had just signed away his last remaining leverage and effectively sealed his fate. Hogwarts had been the only power left to him, and he had relinquished it readily.

Stupid. Imbecilic. Foolish!

The Board of Governors, whomever remained, would have been hard pressed to find a replacement that could effectively persuade the castle to turn it doors against its Headmaster. McGonagall would have been the most likely candidate, but her sense of honor would have prevented her from trying to usurp him. Surely it would have.

He could have used his position to bargain for better terms at trial. A shorter sentence in exchange for a willing resignation, perhaps. But no, he had allowed himself to be goaded by a politician and succumb to pride over cunning. How very Gryffindor.

          You know, I sometimes think we sort too soon.

Snape wanted badly to sneer in self-reprobation but had to settle for an inward stream of vile cursing. His frozen body seemed to thrum silently in time with his mounting anger and frustration. Snape struggled to regain control of his thoughts. They spiraled, and whirled furiously within him. A stark contrast to the very restricted situation he found himself in.

Madame Pomfrey continue to busy herself around the room, even after she had completed her cleaning as if she were purposely trying to find something to occupy her time. She still hadn’t replaced the privacy curtains! Snape’s anger, and shame swelled within him. Anyone could walk in at any time! He would be lucky if they would be a fellow teacher. Unlucky if they were a student. Or worst of all, Harry Potter.

Snape seethed.

How dare he? The arrogant boy knew exactly when to meddle in events that were none of his business. How dare he burst through that door? A door he had no right to be behind in the first place! How dare the boy bear witness to hispersonal moments. How dare he air Snape’s secrets like dirty laundry!

          He’s just a boy….

Snape felt shame rising again.

Blasted Potter! Severus had been ‘just a boy’ once and he would have never betrayed the secrets of another!

          A lie, and you know it…

He had been within his rights to throw a bottle of Dreamless Sleep at the boy. He had earned the right after all Potter had done to him!

Try as he might, Snape’s indignation could not drown out the rising shame. It flickered at the edges of his vision. Snape tried desperately to occlude it away, but he struggled to calm himself. He cursed and struggled harder to break the binding, sweat began to break out over his body as he strained in vain.

Where was that idiot woman? Surely, she would release him from this entirely unwarranted ordeal. 

          But it hadn’t been unwarranted, had it?

The part of his brain that sounded suspiciously like Dumbledore continued to betrayed him, and the shame rose higher. It was almost as if he could see it lapping at the edges of his bed. Shame brought with it a rising tide of self-loathing Snape couldn’t run from and could never hide from. 

He would lock it away for a while; deal with it later. Snape closed his eyes and labored to study his breathing. He began to relax and attempt to occlude the torrent of emotions away. He reached inward for his Vaults. After all these years he knew exactly where to find them. He didn’t even need to follow the tracks anymore. He could simply will them to appear before him and shut away the thoughts that tormented him.

Snape faltered; his Vaults were gone.

That was impossible. Once a mindscape was formed nothing but an attack by a highly skilled Legilimens could tear it down. And he had been able to occlude just this morning! No, his vaults should still be here. There was no damage either. No evidence that there had once been any kind of stronghold within his mind at all. There was nothing left to recover or rebuild. His mindscape was simply empty, as if he had never occluded before.

His mindscape was empty except…

The tide was here, and it was rising. Snape trembled. A chill flowed through him. He re-doubled his efforts for control. He was a skilled Occlumens. He could re-create a new vault. Snape tried to pull up the image of a Gringotts cart in his mind. He tried to picture the tracks he knew would take him deeper into the warren of caverns he had meticulously carved out many years ago.

The waters swelled around and within him. A wave of shame smothered, him a roaring anger tore at him, a vortex of panic began to pull him under. He had to get out, but he could not move. He could not breathe!

Snape’s eyes flew open, searching desperately. Where was she? He had to get out! The edges of his vision were almost entirely washed away by darkness. He felt the waters, pulling him back into the hell his mind had become. The rafters swam above him and he desperately longed to cling to them as the only refuge of safety he could see. But he couldn’t move! Snape sucked in air over and over like a drowning man about to take his last breath, and the High Waters consumed him.

When Madam Pomfrey ran out of chores to distract herself with, she sighed in resignation and looked over at Snape readying herself for the fight she knew was coming. His gaunt face was ashen, eyes sunken and frantic. He gulped air like a fish out of water and was struggling to breathe. She leapt across the room releasing the binding. Instantly, Snape seemed to fall into himself. His arms flailed wildly, and he kicked his legs until he tangled in the bedsheet.

She grasped a thrashing arm and attempted to pin it at his side so she could reach for the other. Snape gave a strangled cry and fought harder. He was wheezing, his eyes were bloodshot and searching. Poppy released his arm and did the only thing that had ever really worked for panic-stricken patients.

“Glacius.” She murmured twice and chilled the surface of her palms.

She firmly placed her hands to either side of his face and turned Severus towards her. 

The torrent ceased at the shock of cold on his face. The waters drained away, as if a plug had been pulled and he could see Poppy above him. He grasped her wrist in his hand and clung to it like a buoy. Her eyes narrowed and a look of concern creased her brow. Snape could not hear her words, but he guessed she was telling him to breathe. His chest burned and he ached to pull in a deep breath but could barely manage a gasp. Gradually, her voice began to filter through the static in his ears.

     “…slowly. Try to match my own.” He followed her as best as he was able.

Soon, his breathing steadied, and his heart slowed to a canter instead of the gallop, it had recently grown used to.  Poppy pulled back and he loosened his grip but did not let go. She sighed heavily as she looked him over.

     “What a state you’ve gotten yourself in. I’ll have to redo those bandages.” She shook her head and moved to stand. Snape’s fingers twitched, reluctant to release their hold. She paused before gently prying them away.  “I’ll be just a moment.”

She walked towards the storeroom and quickly returned with a small vial in hand.

     “Drink it all down.” She ordered sternly and Snape took the vial of Calming Draught and obeyed.

She raised a brow, but he could hardly be bothered to care what she thought of his sudden tractability as the potion began to take effect. She sat in a chair and waved the privacy curtains back into place.

     “Now,” she spoke while collecting the tray of bandages that floated obediently through the partition. “Before we begin to unravel whatever that was, we must address your earlier behavior.” She eyed him critically.

     “Sit up so I can tend to you and pay attention as this will be your only warning.”

Snape pulled his aching body into an upright position. He watched his fingers as he waited for the matron to begin.

     “I cannot begin to understand what has gone on with you over the last year.” She spelled his lank hair away from the nape of his neck and into a bun. The bandages began to unwind themselves and Snape winced as they pulled at the healing wounds along his collarbone. 

     “Frankly, I’m not sure I want to know,” she continued, “but no matter what unfortunate or painful circumstances you find yourself in now, it is no excuse for you to behave like an untrained child and a bully in my infirmary!” Poppy paused and he could hear her, take her own advice and breathe through her anger as she applied a salve to his neck.

     “If you so much as raise your voice to anyone, which given your condition I highly advise against doing, I will spell you silent and stick you to the bed.” Fresh bandages wound themselves around him as he continued to stare at his hands. “If you dare to raise a hand against anyone while in my presence ever again, I will curse you blind and petrify you where you stand. Am I made clear, Severus Snape?”

Snape nodded silently.

     “Your wand, now.” His eyes flicked to hers before he reached beneath his pillow and handed it over. She hesitated, as if surprised before taking it and sliding it into her apron. 

     “I will hold onto this in my office for the time being. If you need it, you must ask.” Snape grimace but said nothing.

There was a moment of silence before she placed a hand beneath his chin, gently guiding his gaze toward hers. All the anger was gone, replaced by an earnestness Snape couldn’t comprehend.

     “I could never quite bring myself to believe that…” she paused, and left the rest of her thought unspoken. Snape wanted to look away, but she held him there determined. “You know, I saw him, Severus. That night at the bottom of the tower. I’ve been through two wars now and seen many fall to the killing curse. I know the signs well. I know it was the fall that killed him not an unforgivable.” 

Snape felt his chest wrench, but he could not occlude it away. He didn’t dare try. The Calming Draught helped him manage whatever he was feeling. A numbness had settled over him as if he were experiencing the world from the inside of an upturned glass. He gripped his fingers tighter. She released him and he turned away quickly. Madam Pomfrey sighed and vanished the mess of bandages and vials. 

     “You need not tell me.” She continued. “I’m not asking for that. I was able to piece it together well enough from Mr. Potter’s rather exuberant defense of you the other day. This year has tested us all. Some far more than others.” Snape picked at one jagged nail. Poppy covered his hands with her own and Snape froze. 

     “You were so alone, Severus. I’m deeply sorry for that. I simply wish for you to know. I’m in your corner now if you’ll allow me to be.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, simply gave his hand a gentle squeeze and sat back in her chair. Snape was unmoored—as if he’d stepped through a vanishing stair, the ground beneath him suddenly gone. What was supposed to be an unshakable pillar below him was now quivering and uncertainty. It was unsettling; dangerous. Her faith in him invited a hope he could never welcome. Snape crossed his arms and lay back scowling.

     “You’d do better—to reserve your sympathies—for those who—deserve them… Perhaps Mr. Potter—would be better suited—for your undying devotion?” 

Poppy was unfazed by his acerbic words. The only indication she had heard him at all was a rather McGonagall-esk lift to one brow.

     “All right then,” she crossed her own arms and leveled him with a piercing stare, “How about we discuss that panic attack I just witnessed?”

The fly zipped past Snape’s nose and he flinched.

In the days that followed, Snape bitterly regret throwing that bottle of Dreamless Sleep. Slughorn, as usual, seemed to be taking his time restocking the infirmary shelves and Madam Pomfrey flatly refused to order in a supply as Snape suggested after a particularly harrowing nap.

“Perhaps this will teach you not to destroy the property of others.” She said stiffly, “Particularly when you are reliant on their hospitality.” She sniffed and continued about her business. The nightmares were a plague. He could not occlude them away. Every time Snape closed his eyes, he saw the waters rising.

The waters. Why did you choose them?

Lily, or the facsimile of her that his dying mind had absurdly provided, had asked him why he chose the waters. No one would choose to lose their mind to a hell of drowning and vengeful corpses. So, what had she meant?

If he could figure that out perhaps, he could find the source of his mental block. Something had happened to erase his vaults and the waters were simply a metaphorical representation of what had taken them out, he reasoned. He needed to find the source of that disturbance and eradicate it from his mind.

Snape had pitiful success getting a reasonable night’s rest without the Dreamless Sleep. When he did manage to drift off, he found himself sinking, pulled deeper by the cold hands of those he’d wronged in life. Their jibes and accusations had begun to infiltrate his waking thoughts and he had nowhere to put them.

When he could no longer sleep, he began to reconstruct his mindscape. The waters made it difficult to concentrate. Somedays they would fill his mind slowly, like rain accumulating over time, until every move he made was like stepping through a flooded basement. But this ‘basement’ had a floor made of sand and every time the waters receded, they would take the sand out from under him leaving him unsteady and stumbling.

When he tried to reconstruct in these conditions, he found the routes to his vaults made no logical sense. They were uneven, falling to one side, or fell off abruptly at places. Every time the waters surged, he would stumble and the rails would vanish or sink into the sand. He found it exceedingly frustrating to concentrate on placing even one route to lay his vault at the end of.

On more… challenging days, he would step directly into a furiously raging torrent. Snape would be caught up in it and tossed over and under by the wild tides like debris caught in floodwaters. On those days he could barely keep his faculties together let alone form a structure from which to reconstruct his vaults. He learned to stay out of his mind on days when he spoke to Minerva or caught a glimpse of anyone other than Poppy.

The waters were inextricably tied to his fluctuating emotions, and he could not lock those away without his vaults. Snape was at a loss.

One week after the battle, McGonagall strode through the doors to the Hospital Wing. She was dressed comfortably in loose robes and a tartan shawl. Her hair was uncovered and pulled back in a low bun. She held a sheaf of parchment in her hand, her face somber. Snape sat up straighter in his chair as she levitated another one to sit next to him.

He was dressed in his usual black trousers and collared shirt. His bandages had been removed for the last time that morning and the collar chaffed at his scars, but he would rather suffer the discomfort than the stares of others. He had exchanged his boots for a pair of black loafers as Poppy frequently ordered him back to bed and he’d grown tired of taking them on and off again.

McGonagall took in his appearance and nodded.

     “You appear to be doing much better. How are you feeling?”

     “Fine.” Snape grunted.

Aside from his sleepless nights, his health had improved. He had taken to pacing around his small enclosure (as he had come to think of it), the long confinement and healing process left him feeling restless. He could make nearly ten circuits before needing to sit down again. Poppy had brought him his first solid meal in a week just the day before and, true to her word, followed it with a treacle. “For good behavior.” She had teased.

Snape had taken two bites before his stomach rejected the overly sweet dish. But there had been no issues with his breakfast of eggs and toast this morning and Poppy had declared him fit to be discharged the following day. All things considered; Snape was feeling rather well.

     “Poppy has informed me that she feels confident to release you tomorrow. Do you agree?”

Snape inclined his head.

     “Good. In that case, I will have your things moved to your new quarters. I would like to place you somewhere on the ground floor, in the Defense quarters perhaps since—”

     “I would prefer to return to the dungeons.”

McGonagall paused considering his request then shook her head.

     “No.”

     “Minerva, I do not—”

     “I understand, Severus I do.” She raised a hand to halt his protests, “Allow me to explain. Since last week we have received an overwhelming number of owls. Many directed to you specifically and no small amount of those carrying threats against your life. I need you more centrally located than the dungeons.”

     “I can use the Floo to escape if necessary.”

     “You cannot. The terms to which you agreed prevent you from using the Floo in any capacity for the time being. We cannot risk you being cornered down there. This brings me to another point.” She paused, steeling herself and Snape glowered.

     “You will have to wear a monitoring device and your movement through the castle is restricted.”

     “Minerva! You can’t be—” He cut himself short as Poppy walked briskly through the partition and stood glaring, her arms crossed, wand in hand. Snape took a steadying breath.

     “This is ridiculous. I am perfectly capable of protecting myself if it comes to that. There are still areas of the castle I can help repair. If I was allowed the dungeons, I could brew faster than that useless—” He changed tact at the scowl that crossed McGonagall’s face, “I mean the extremely helpful and timely Professor Slughorn.” Her eyes narrowed at his sarcastic tone, but she did not chide him for the slight.

     “First, it is not ridiculous to have a man awaiting trial put on a monitor.” She watched Snape over the rim of her spectacles as he crossed his arms and looked away, “Second, I would have you near enough to have help arrive quickly so we can prevent further damage to the school if it comes to that. You should consider the Defense quarters a compromise as I am still considering having you share quarters with Professor Flitwick.”

     “You wouldn’t dare!” Snape struggled to maintain his composure as Poppy tapped her wand tellingly against her leg. But her fist had flown to her mouth to hide her smirk behind a cough.

     “I would. Push me on this and I shall.” McGonagall continued imperiously. “Third, you may be released from the Hospital Wing tomorrow, but you are not cleared to participate in repairs to the castle or do any sort of work requiring excessive magical output or prolonged standing.”

Snape quietly fumed and shot a hateful glare Madam Pomfrey’s way. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms to mirror him.

     “Is that all?” He spat petulantly.

     “For now.” She appraised him before dropping her gaze to the parchment in her lap. “There is one other matter I came to discuss.” She shifted uncomfortably before handing the papers to him.

Snape took them from her wearily and glanced at the top page. His heart stopped as he took in what he read. The names he recognized.

THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT

Office of Post-Conflict Records and Reconciliation

Casualty Report: Final Tally of the Fallen—Battle of Hogwarts

Brown, Lavender (17) Fatally Injured By Werewolf

Crabbe, Vincent (18) Fiendfire

Creevey, Colin (16) Spell Impact (Unconfirmed)

Students. There were too many students.

Lupin, Remus J. (38) Killing Curse

Tonks, Nymphadora (25) Killing Curse

Snape blinked. She would have hated them using her name like that.

Weasley, Fredrick G.(20) Explosion (Structural Collapse)

Arthur Weasley’s face swam before him, resolute, trusting, wand lowered. Fred Weasley had died. Had he known by then?

McGonagall was saying something. What was it? Something about funerals.

     “Wh-what?” It came out breathless.

     “I have dates for some of the funeral services.” Her voice was soft. “Will you be… attending any of them?” Her question was tentative and perfunctory. They both knew what his answer would be.

     “No.”

McGonagall did not press him. She only nodded once and stood.

He did not watch her as she left or acknowledge Poppy when she placed a conciliatory hand on his shoulder before turning away to resume her duties. He couldn’t—not with the parchment still trembling faintly in his hand.

When Poppy’s office door clicked shut, Snape sat in silence, the list of the dead resting like a brick across his lap. He did not read it again.

He stared at the midday sun through the windows, jaw clenched, chest tight. He tried to empty his mind but couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to throw himself into a star. Certainly, it would be less painful than this.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

                  The morning of Sunday May 10th, 1998 dawned horribly bright and cheery. Sunlight curled around Snape’s pillow threatening to blind him with its optimism. He pulled the blanket over his head and tried to retreat into the dreamless sleep he had been enjoying. Slughorn had finally, mercifully, pulled through the night before and dropped off a new bottle to Madam Pomfrey. The man had made his delivery by way of Poppy’s office which suited Snape just fine. He had been stewing in a disorienting mire of conflicting emotions following McGonagall’s visit the night before. Slughorn was prudent to avoid him. Snape had felt a storm gathering at the edges of his mind and was willing to risk Madam Pomfrey’s wrath for a chance to blow off some steam.

Dreamless Sleep had taken some of the edge off Snape’s physical discomfort and he woke better prepared to stave off the worst of his thoughts. He made a note to procure more of that blessed elixir to take with him when he left for his quarters. A bird was chittering away at one of the windows nearby and he could hear Pomfrey enter the wing through her quarters.  Snape sighed in defeat and lowered the blanket. He may as well get the jump on the torrent before it picked up. He doubted the break in the squall would survive the day.

The night before, Snape had sat motionless for a very long time after Minerva left. The ghastly parchment had made a repetitive journey between his hands and the bedside table. Snape sat and felt… everything. And nothing.

As he read the list of names over and over and traced the letters that bore testimony of their deaths. He had felt a calm settle over him. Snape’s mind had eventually stilled, void of thoughts and accusations. Snape wondered if perhaps he should make himself feel something. The blood of his students was a stain he would never be able to wash from his hands. Peace was not a luxury he deserved. He dismissed the thought, not willing to call up the turbulent tides he had finally managed to dispel.

Snape had decided instead to make use of this… advantage, to put right some of the damage done to his mindscape. The remainder of the evening was spent focusing inward. When he had felt his concentration slipping, he reached for the list of the dead and ran a finger along its edge. Something about the names anchored him. It was odd and disturbing, but this was the first reprieve his mind had seen since the night he lay bleeding out and hallucinating on the floor of the shack. Snape wasn't going to question it.

By the time dinner arrived, Snape had managed to lay a rudimentary path to a new vault. It was not safely hidden behind traps and barriers, there were no wandering tracks or decoy caverns to mislead any attacks to his mind. But there was a place to store his thoughts and his memories when he needed to occlude. By the time Poppy returned to chide him into bed he had a secure vault to lock away the torrent if it returned.

When it returned.

Snape readied himself for the day. Madam Pomfrey had requested he stay through breakfast at which point he would be reunited with his wand and given a final check then merrily sent on his way. What would that be like, he wondered. A curt missive had arrived with his dinner from Professor McGonagall. Snape was allowed to roam the castle from the first floor to the seventh and no further. He was not allowed to use any of the hidden passageways in between and his appearance at the evening meal was mandatory. The confinement chafed but Snape could not say he was surprised by it. he knew he should be relieved, grateful even, to have been spared imprisonment. Dementors or no, Azkaban was a hellhole Snape never wished to see again. He had never dreamed of avoiding it if he survived the war. Being confined to only a portion of Hogwarts in the wake of what he had done was a charity he could not afford to lose.

It is a temporary reprieve, he reminded himself firmly. The ministry could not turn a blind eye to murder and treason no matter how well-intentioned. There would be a price to pay Snape was certain of it

Snape ignored the breakfast tray that appeared at the bedside and shrugged himself into his overcoat. His hands were still sore and stiff from healing, the skin that had grown over the jagged serrations was tender to the touch. Buttons were difficult to manage so he focused on getting his shirt on fully but left his coat open. He still felt horribly exposed this way but reasoned they would be fastened along with the laces on his boots as soon as Pomfrey returned his wand. He sat in the bedside chair and waited for her to finish with whatever she was doing.

He could hear her humming to herself from the other side of the partition as she walked from one task to the next. Bottles and vials clinked, cabinets opened and shut, a bed scraped along the floor. Occasionally she would call for a house elf to deliver elixirs and various remedies to denizens of the castle. Snape began to tap his shoe on the floor impatiently. Poppy was never one to consider another person's time as worth valuing, he thought bitterly. Perhaps he should use the time spent waiting to fortify his vault. He crossed his arms and slowed his breathing, retreating into his mind.

The route to his vault lay at the bottom of a rising pool of swirling waters.

Snape's eyes snapped open, and he reached for the parchment on the table beside him.  He opened it and read the names again, pausing to flick the pad of one finger beneath Lupin's name. The wolf had just had a son. Was the boy like his father or his mother? Hopefully the latter. The parchment was dry as bone beneath his cold hands. It slid easily between his fingers as he folded it and placed it into his inside coat pocket. Snape turned inward again.

                  The pool of water had receded and in its place was the path to his vault. Snape set to work laying tracks that led nowhere and hiding the vault behind warrens and caverns filled with nasty, deceptive traps. He spent the better part of an hour this way before Pomfrey bustled into his corner and brought him out into the light of day again. She had his wand in hand and Snape eyed it greedily.

“Here you are.” Madam Pomfrey held it out to him, and he snatched it from her. She eyed him critically.

“You ought to apologize to the boy, Severus." Snape snorted, examining his wand closely. If even a scratch marred the wood he would demand restitution. “Harry’s been through enough without you throwing things at his head in a fit of pique. And with him ill at the time no less… I hope you're truly ashamed of your behavior.”

                  Snape paused in his inspection. Potter had been sick? Poppy shook her head.

                  “Well let me have a look.” She gestured for him to hold out his hands.

Poppy took his right hand first and examined the scars carefully and then the left. She moved to his chest and neck next. Snape endured the evaluation resisting the urge to flinch away when she encountered a sensitive area. He ground his teeth and smothered a growl of frustration. He was tired of the intrusions to his privacy. Sick to death of her poking and prodding at him. And utterly fed up with this farce of care Poppy insisted on continuing. At least this would be the last time…

“All right, you are well enough to leave.” Snape relaxed. He spelled his buttons and shoelaces done and shrugged back into his overcoat. “I would like you to come back here this time next week for a checkup. Or sooner if you experience any discomfort.”

“I can manage on my own.” Snape protested. Poppy clucked.

“That was not a suggestion. You will be here in one week for a follow up. Here,” she handed him a small package. The contents clinked inside as he took it from her. “Dittany and blood replenisher. Take one each morning and evening between this evening and until our next appointment.”

Snape eyed the package. She hadn’t included anything other than the two elixirs.

“I require doses of Dreamless Sleep as well.” Poppy’s eyes narrowed. “Please.” He added.     The mediwitch hesitated, considering his request. For a moment he thought she would refuse, but her face softened, and she waved her wand towards the store room. The door unlocked and swung open, and three more vials floated across the room towards them.

“Verry well. But I can only give you these three. If you require more, come to me. Do not self-medicate, Severus. If you do, I shall know.” She gave him a sharp look as he took the vials from her. Snape nodded stiffly and carefully placed the package and vials in his void pocket.

Snape stood, tugging the edge of his coat smooth and pulled the sleeves to his wrists. He made a move towards the door, eager to be away, but Madam Pomfrey stayed him with a hand on his arm.

“There is one more issue we need to take care of.” She held up a length of black ribbon and Snape glowered.

“I have been asked to place your monitoring charm. The Headmistress has the other one already. Undo your cuff and hold out your arm, please.”

Snape deftly spelled the buttons of his left sleeve open again and thrust his arm towards her. How humiliating. Monitored like an untrained whelp. With a wave of her wand, the ribbon coiled around his wrist three times until the ends touched and joined one another seamlessly.

“Hominum Avenseguim: Severus Snape.” Pomfrey murmured and he felt the ribbon squirm and tighten as if becoming familiar with its charge. “It is impervious to damage and will alert Professor McGonagall if it is removed by accident or otherwise, “She eyed him pointedly, “it will also alert her to any strong magic that may occur in your presence as an added safety precaution. If you find that it is too tight or uncomfortable, please come and see me right away.”

“Will that be all?” Snape asked through his teeth, irritation boiling to the surface. Madam Pomfrey watched him for a moment. Annoyance battled with something he couldn’t identify. She tapped her wand against her palm and sighed.

“You may go.” Snape turned abruptly and strode towards the door even as she continued talking, “Go easy today! Do not spend the day wandering and exhaust yourself. And remember to—” Her words cut off as he thundered through the Hospital Wing doors.

Professor Snape had always prided himself on his ability to clear a corridor. The inordinate length of his robes was intentionally tailored to follow him in sweeping, billowing waves, putting as much space between himself and the little snot-nosed rats who scurried to get out of his path. He could possess a hall with his mere presence. His appearance amongst students and faculty alike quailed frivolity and nonsense. The power to influence a room simply by stepping into it was intoxicating. At Hogwarts, Snape had never willingly moved aside for anyone other than Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster. No, others would move for him or suffer his ire.

But on this day, as he made his way through the halls and down the winding stairs and corridors, Snape did not indulge in the drama he so enjoyed. Snape hugged the walls, pausing at every corner to check that the next corridor was clear. He was slower than usual; his lengthy convalescence having drained much of his strength. Snape stood a long time behind a suit of armor, nearly fully behind a tapestry, as he waited for Professors Slughorn and Sinistra to finish a conversation at the entrance to the first-floor corridor. When they mercifully parted ways and were gone, Snape waited a moment longer before striding quickly down the hall. He did not slow again until he reached the DADA classroom and quickly ducked inside.

Snape stood for a moment his back to the door and placed a hand to his wildly racing heart. What was that idiotic display? His mouth twisted, disgust tugging at his throat. Slinking about, avoiding the others like they held the plague. What if someone had seen him skulking like a frightened child? What were they going to do, talk him to death? It was highly unlikely anyone left in the castle would be willing to stop him for a chat. If they had he could have simply ignored them and kept on his way as he usually did. What in the Nine Hells had possessed him to behave so cowardly?

Snape assessed his surroundings as he felt his heart return to its normal gait. The room was brightly lit by morning light that filtered through the tall windows. All evidence of Amicus's nightmarish days of teaching had been removed. The DADA classroom had been virtually untouched by the battle. Whatever items had been out of place the last time he had been here, were put back in their proper locations. Snape glanced at the section of wall where he knew he would find Dumbledore’s secret portrait and sneered. He could remove the geriatric fool's likeness now. The war was over, and Snape was finally rid of the conniving, gallingly appareled, likely diabetic old man. He pushed off from the door and passed by the painting without a second glance. His legs ached as he took the stairs to the professor's office and quarters. He would deal with the portrait tomorrow. Snape doubted he had the patience for it today.

Pushing open the door to his new quarters, Snape peered around cautiously. Amicus was very fond of tricks and traps. Even if the staff had cleared the rooms, they would be sure to miss at least one or two. He performed a variety of detection spells before stepping into the room.

There were no spells of disarming woven into the navy fibers of the circular carpet. No curses of consumption cast upon the velvet couch or the warm leather armchair. The fireplace was cold and contained no blasting curses when he cautiously lit it. The glass display cabinets and oak bookshelves were void of ghouls or pixies. In fact, they had been emptied of all their previously gruesome contents. Curiously, there were also no paintings on the walls or imagery of any kind. Snape was relieved. The last time he had occupied these rooms the portraits were the first to go.

He made a similar sweep of the bedroom.  He vanished the bed on his way back to the living area, recoiling at the idea of resting his head where Amicus had lain. Finally, he opened the door to the storeroom below and slowly descended the stairs, wand outstretched.

There was a second door at the bottom of the stairs. Snape pushed it wide until it smacked against the wall. The room was dark and cold. It was empty, save for a few crates of his own belongings. All evidence of the Carrows’ reign of terror had been removed. Snape frowned at the memory that the room dredged up; of the last time he had stood here, Amycus and Alecto jeering, a whipping spell shining with each lash as they beat Neville Longbottom senseless. If Dumbledore’s portrait had not been in place, the boy would be in pieces at the bottom of an unmarked grave somewhere in the forest. Snape shook his head. Longbottom had always been such a stupid child.

Snape opened a crate with more force than was warranted and took stock of its contents. A leather satchel of dried herbs, some stirring rods wrapped in cleaning rags, a few notebooks containing his entries taken during experimentation. The next two crates held similar supplies and there were three more that held his personal affects; clothing, hygiene items and the like. There was also a small black box he tucked carefully under one arm before turning back to the steps and reaching for the door. He froze.

A single eye peered at him through the gap between the door and the wall.

Snape leapt back and stumbled over a crate as he cast a blasting spell at the door. The wood exploded into a shower of splinters and ash as he leapt up and feverishly searched the room preparing to stun the intruder into the next century.

There was no one. Snape paused and held his breath, listening. Except for the blood rushing past his ears, there was silence.

“Lumos.” Snape uttered quietly, checking to make sure the room was empty before taking the stairs two at a time. His chest burned and his muscles quivered as he reached the living area moments later. There was no evidence that anyone other than himself had been there. He hadn’t felt a gust of air that would alert him to the intruder passing him up the stairs nor had he heard pounding footsteps or a crack of apparition. There was simply silence and the slowly drifting ash that had made its way up from the storage room.

He jumped as the fireplace flared, and green flames licked towards the mantle.

“Severus?” A familiar if slightly pinched voice called into the room. Snape saw Minerva’s face formed in the coals. He knelt sideways to the fireplace, reluctant to turn his back to the door or bedroom.

“What?” He barked impatiently.

“I detected a strong surge of magic emanating from your quarters. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Though I’ll need a replacement for the storage room door. It got between me and the intruder waiting for me. I blew it up.”

“Stand back, I’m coming through.”

Snape had barely moved out of her way before the Floo roared and spat out Professor McGonagall. She immediately began moving throughout the room, wand raised.

“You needn’t have bothered.” Snape eyed the fresh soot on his floor in distaste. “He is gone.”

“Gone?” McGonagall eyed the room as if she fully expected someone to burst from beneath the couch cushions. “Did you see him leave? Where did he go?” Snape shook his head.

“He vanished. I never got a good look at him.”

“How do you know they are a ‘him’?” Snape mirrored her crooked brow.

“I guessed.” The eyes had been level with his own and Snape was not a short man. Unless they were an abnormally tall woman, it was unlikely his uninvited guest was female. McGonagall sighed.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to ask the portrait if he’s seen anything.”

“The portrait? What—” Snape stopped himself as realization dawned. He frowned. So, the maddened pensioner told her all about the portraits then? Probably spilled every last secret they had shared this year with a glee-filled twinkle in his painted eye. Traitor.

Of course, Snape should have thought of asking the portrait sooner. Dumbledore would have seen if someone had entered the room and not left. McGonagall gestured for him to lead the way and Snape reluctantly obliged.

“Dumbledore.” He spoke into the silence as they entered the classroom. The painting unveiled before them.

“Hello, Severus. Minerva.” Dumbledore nodded to them both in turn. He wore the same self-satisfied smile that so often possessed him when he observed his two most adversarial heads of house working together. Snape stepped away from Professor McGonagall and glowered.

“Albus, have you seen anyone enter or exit these quarters within the last couple of hours?” McGonagall’s face had that same pinched look she wore when dealing with a difficult student.

“Hm? Other than yourselves you mean?”

“Of course that’s what she meant.” Snape barely refrained from spitting out an additional insult. Dumbledore’s smug likeness rankled him severely.

“Ah, I see. No I don’t suppose I have.”

“What do you mean ‘suppose’?” McGonagall snapped with a degree of impatience that Snape could relate to and a restraint he could admire.

“My apologies. What I meant to say is that I was taking a rather lengthy and, dare I say, deserved nap long before you two walked out of the Defense Quarters. If someone passed by before then, it is entirely possible that I missed them.”

“What sodding use are you then?” Snape growled.

McGonagall waved a hand in his direction to silence him before continuing, her voice tightly controlled.

“And before your nap, Headmaster?” Did you see or hear any person other than Severus enter the classroom?”

Dumbledore folded his hands across his theatrically white beard, ever the picture of benevolent omniscience and reclined into his gilded chair.

“No. I have seen no one other than you two since Professor Flitwick two days ago. He managed to find and reassemble the Hebridean Black rather admirably, all those little bones. It was quite impressive charms work, Minerva, you should consider giving him a raise before start of term.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” McGonagall muttered dryly. “Keep an eye on things, Albus. Report to me any suspicious activity from this part of the castle.” Dumbledore nodded at McGonagall and twinkled at Snape before resting back his head and snoring loudly.

“Old fraud.” Snape growled.

“Indeed.” McGonagall agreed. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. I will alert the staff to watch for any unusual activity and put an additional warding at your door. After dinner this evening I would like you to come up to the Headmaster’s office. We have some Hogwarts business to finalize.”

A cloak of foreboding settled over Snape’s already overtaxed frame. He could think of no place he would rather avoid more than the Headmaster’s office. Well, other than Azkaban of course.

He nodded tersely and returned to his rooms as McGonagall left the classroom. Snape walked to the couch and sat carefully, every muscle in his body was stiff. He observed the fire a while before slipping into his mindscape.

The waters had returned, a looming storm of anxiety and frustration. He reached up and touched his overcoat just above the left inside breast pocket and felt the subtle lines of his copy of the dead. The waters stilled slightly and Severus was able to shove the turbulent emotions into his vault and lock them away. He opened his eyes and considered what to do next. There was unpacking, reassembling a potions lab in the storage room, and a door to mend.

His eyes stung with the burn of exhaustion and before he could talk himself out of it, Snape pulled a couch pillow to him and curled on his side. The couch was too small for his long frame but it was better than the bare floor since he had vanished the bed. It would do.

His last drifting thought as his eyes closed and he surrendered to sleep was that he should have closed the door at the top of the storage room stairs first.