Brightness blinded him. Everything was bathed in a glowing white, like a wintry dream. A sound of hundreds of fine glass fragments dancing in the wind, somewhere, but close, as if the wings of tiny fairies were flailing in his ears. A mystic yet pleasant sound. The pain was gone. Not understanding what this was, what had happened, he sat up once he noticed that he was still lying on his back.
Just slowly, his eyes found something. No, something carved itself from the white as though on his demand to figure out where he was. He gazed over the pond, becoming an endless white sea in the distance. Everything melted still with the white. The water was rather grey, the grass not as green as he knew it. It had a pastel green tone now. Looking down on his body he saw that there was no blood, only a white shirt with long sleeves and slightly grey trousers, presumably linen, like those he had once had as a child, before he had destroyed them hopelessly that one autumn Saturday.
Feeling his body fully functional, he raised completely and dug his bare toes into the light grass, probably to check whether it was real. Now that he directed his face up once more, he realised that he stood under the huge weeping willow. The wall to the left he knew to be there, was mysteriously missing though. There was only soft green grass, drifting off into the white nothingness.
“Severus – ”
Her voice echoed as if from far away, but it was not more than a whisper. He rushed around, finding her standing behind him like he remembered her. However, she wore a waving white dress, simple and fairylike. Her green eyes pierced softly into his dark ones, a sting of such boon, before she gave him the kiss he had been missing so much, lasting for what seemed an eternity. Drowning in the touch, he didn’t want it to end. Never. But it ended. He felt her hand moving from his hair onto his chest, pulling the locket from beneath his white shirt. Dazed, he stared down on her delicate fingers, the silver piece gently resting in the palm of her right hand. A little hesitant, he laid his left hand under hers, wanting to support it.
“He needs you.”
“Lily – ”, his voice sounded equally far away as hers. “Where are we?”, she laughed – this warm laugh –
“You know, where we are, Sev. You know the tree – the pond – you haven’t forgotten.”
“Bu’ this is diff’ren’ – ”
“Yes – ”, she aspirated dreamingly and gave their surrounding a glance. “I know what you mean. Beautiful, isn’t it? I assume, this must be the place, people call the Limbo. It seems, it looks different for everyone, or not? I mean, I don’t think, anyone but you would see it in that way – at least, none we know.”
“Lily – why’re we ’ere?”
“You can ask. You brought us here!”, she giggled.
“Me?”
“Think so. Don’t you? After all it’s you who is – ”, she was interrupted by another woman appearing from thin air to her left; the round glasses she usually had needed, were missing.
“Mamaidh?”
“Good midnigh’, dearie.”, she smiled.
“Midnigh’?”
“Isn’ it sum’when ’roun’ midnigh’ now? I fear, I’m no’ able ter tell.”
“Why am I no’ dead?”
“Ye think, ye aren’?”
“Bu’ there’s s’pposed ter be nut’in’ after death than movin’ on ter anuther life. Excep’ if – am I granted a choice? Whether me soul stays?”
“Maybe?”, a man stepped towards him from the left, filling the empty space in the strange circle that appeared to miss another; he was not wearing glasses either. “I don’t know what it’s like. He didn’t leave me a choice at all.”, there was no woe in his voice either, nor anger about his own words’ meaning, it was just calm.
“James I – ”
“What.”, he chuckled with an amused but light smile.
“I never go’ ter tell – ”
“I know, Snivelly.”
“I fergive ye.”
“I said I know. And I forgive you too. Look – I knew from the first moment on that there was some connection; when Lily fell in love with both of us, I knew even more what it could be. And when I found the adoption papers, everything was clear. I forgive you. I knew from the very first moment I saw him, that this was not my son. I felt he wasn’t my boy. Even if it hadn’t been considered a miracle, I’d have felt it. But I loved him because he was her son too. I guess, you’d felt the same if he really had been my son, right? So don’t look at me like that. Take that whatever-chance and protect him. He’s the only left. His sister died too soon.”
“You only go’ one son, Sev’rus.”, their father emphasised as he appeared in the gap, out of nowhere. “Save me gran’chil’. Save me only son lef’.”
“Phew!”, another young woman and man stumbled in from the white. “Did we miss something?”
“Charity – Regulus – what – ”
“Oh I told you, we’d be late,”, Regulus murmured – he seemed paler than ever; very slightly translucent in a way that bothered Severus.
“It’s not my fault he didn’t stop whimpering! Sorry, Amy.”, Charity calmed down. “We got held up. But I’m sure you know where you’ve landed?”
“Er – ”
“Just try not to stay here for too long.”, suggested Regulus. “You’ll go mad one day, with all the brightness here. If I’m still the brother to you that I was once, try to break that stupid cup. Kreacher couldn’t and now he even refuses to show up.”
“Cup? Which cup?”, Severus was confused.
“Don’t mind him.”, Charity meant.
“Hey!”, Regulus protested.
“Take as long as you need. But it would be nice if you did indeed break that damn thing for him; he’s unbearable sometimes and I’m quite certain I wish he was gone at last. No idea how others could have stood him for so many years. He’s even worse than his brother. That idiot keeps staring at this stupid veil for long times, biting everyone who tries to get him away from – ”
“Anyway,”, Lily made an end to Charity’s fast talking, “As you see, they are trying to tell you the same. Go back. You’re just not ready to wait here. But if you can, end our waiting, please.”
“Save yerself, Severus.”, repeated his mother. “Ye know ’ow ter.”
“And remember, no one must know, Sev. No one. Remember that dearly. Now let go.”, Lily slipped her hand out between his and the locket and closed his fingers around it. “I love you, Severus.”
“An’ I love ye, Lily. I always did.”
“I know. Go now. Give that to her. She will know. She will understand, when the time comes. Be strong once more. Be strong, Sev. Let go. Let us rest. Don’t pity the dead. Just let go.”, they started drifting into the white. “Let go, my love.”
“Lily – ”
“Let go.”
As though he was sucked backwards through a keyhole which was time itself, colours flared before his eyes. Dull voices swallowing hers, laying themselves over the divine sound like a bubble of glass that was slowly filling up with poisonous water. It all was nothing but a chaotic mess, only snippets he recognised in an immense pool of what must be his own memories, the continuous string wrapped around itself uncountable times, and he soared along the rollercoaster inside a woollen ball, the foggy whiteness and Lily’s face flashing up seemingly every time he got closer to where he had just been, and yet, she drifted away, further away, and a sea of blood, a scarlet unlike any, mixed itself with the fog. Behind a silver peacock on a mirror, the eyes he had seen so many times in a recurring dream. Vaguely echoing through the meaninglessness, Draco’s voice reciting what had been meant for his ears, but made no sense after so many years. Again, it fell, glistening like a shooting star, silvery white, from the girl’s hand, but for some reason he perceived its chiming sound backwards, sucked through the tiny hole even faster, remaining only, a high pitched ringing in utter darkness.
Then there was nothing but pain. He gasped for breath, his sight blurred once more, but there was not much to be seen either way. His shaking left hand went up to his throat, pressing against the wounds. The other followed in agony, pulling his wand from the sleeve like it was the hardest thing he had ever done.
“L-l-”, speaking was even harder.
He concentrated. He needed light. He needed light so badly. The tip of his wand started to glow. Nearly suffocating, feeling warm blood trickle everywhere, he opened the buttons of his torn robe and shirt, one after another. A trembling snap of his wand and the pouch enlarged in fresh blood, though fortunately repellent. Blinking heavily so his eyes wouldn’t fall shut again, he stretched the pouch open with his wand and summoned a flask filled with nearly transparent liquid. The cork popped off into the pouch. Carefully removing his hand, he dripped some of the potion on the injuries. Though the pain was still not gone and his view almost black, only broken by the light of his wand, his left hand fell to the floor on the little relief. He could, if though not much, breathe at last.
Unable to fully move his head, he tried to look down at the bites on his chest. Blood everywhere, still running. He dripped the potion on the darker stains, making them heal. Not completely yet, but they healed. He didn’t care. Release was more important than a flawless body. Life was more important. The pain almost wore off when the flask was empty. He dropped it carelessly into the pouch and summoned the rest of the only antidote for Nagini’s venom which he hadn’t passed to Hermione. Having drunken the small bottle at one gulp, finally his view cleared a bit and he could move his head. An orange shine came through the shutters in front of the sealed window. There was blood all around him, mingling with the dust and dirt of the shack.
Still slightly shaking, he summoned another bottle, big and red. Every swig of the Blood-Replenishing Potion was like walking step by step into the holy waters of Eden. He knew the overdose could kill him, but he was already half dead anyway. Every minute; so it felt; he took a sip. At least he wasn’t as foolish as to drain it instantly. The bottle was almost empty when his body told him that he had had enough for moving.
The pouch shrunk, lying on his bare chest that was still covered in blood. Breathing heavily as if he had never breathed before, he sat up and lifted his knees, falling against them. Many more minutes he just sat there crouched like this, listening to his own breath; the heavy beating of his heart, trying to pump the blood through the veins that had sunken in from the loss. His whole body was tickling as though he was sitting in the middle of an electric field. Then there was pain again. Pain in his left forearm he had met with a couple of times already. A distant scream; he raised his head, panting as though he had run a marathon. There was this short moment in which his heart had stopped. He had felt it before. Exactly like this. He had felt it in the night of October thirty-first, in nineteen eighty-one. He had felt it when V- then his heart was beating again.
Staring into the dark room past his wand’s light, not discerning it, he knew that this had been it. The piece of Voldemort’s soul inside Harry was gone. And Harry was alive. He felt it in every of those freshly soaked veins, on every particle of his itching skin. His son was alive and Tom Riddle was dying, reduced to about an eighth or two of a human being. A wistful smile. He couldn’t deny he had gotten a little fond of the trust that monster had had in him, even if the thought of such a feeling made him shiver with detestation.
I don’t know what it’s like. He didn’t leave me a choice at all. He had left him a chance however. After all these years, he had decided to test the skills of his most loyal servant one last time. It was all just a big game for him. He could have used the Killing Curse, but he had decided to sick the snake on him, being a container to a part of his soul, which in his opinion was enough to make him the owner of the wand. But it had come like no one had expected. Draco had surrendered his wand and now; whatever Tom Riddle would do, it wouldn’t make him possess that supposedly most powerful wand ever made by any means.
Severus swallowed, having regained enough strength to get up. His black wand in his hand, he examined the floor and wall. It was odd – immensely bizarre. It didn’t feel like he was looking down on his own blood. He assumed that the potions made inroads. Or it could have been for the fact that he had – had he really been dead for a moment? A look at his right hand showed him that the lines the Unbreakable Vow had created, were gone. He lifted his cloak as to not spread too much of the blood. Standing straight was hard. Like being hit by a dozen Bludgers, he staggered over the pool of blood, slipped and fell forward.
For a moment pain was back, but to his wrists, shoulders, neck and knees and his head was rotating once more, this time from the impact. Luckily he had let go of the wand. Otherwise he might have cracked it, or his hand with the wand. Reaching out for it as he crawled on, he made his way towards the bed, pulled himself onto it and sat down. A loud creak and he sunk in, landing unwillingly on his back, blowing up dust. That cost him a coughing laugh. A laugh that sounded as distant as Lily’s had been.
Some more minutes of gruesome silence passed before he dared to concentrate on his surrounding again. His look travelled around: the whole bed was a mess. One post was still broken in from his first close encounter with it. But he didn’t dare to touch the moth-eaten blanket with his blood-smeared hands. So he laid there, his hands on his stomach, the wand pointing straight at the canopy and his legs in a weird half dangling position. For how long, he had no idea. Apart from memories rushing past like a too quickly played film, his brain had been blank until noises broke the silence of his lone existence.
Up at Hogwarts, the battle continued now. He could hear more walls blasting and screams echoing eerily in the early morning air. He knew morning hours too well as to be mistaken. In addition, dim greenish blue light fell through the slits of the shutters; the fires had been extinguished. It hadn’t been minutes since Harry had left, and then had sacrificed himself and survived as it had felt to him, it had been hours.
Blowing more dust, he sat up and gazed around. If you truly love, you will have to abandon. He hated himself for that statement. He wanted to run up there, straight into the battle and fight on. Go now. Give that to her. She will know. She will understand, when the time comes. Be strong once more. Be strong, Sev. Let go. He took the locket in his shaking left hand. No one must know. No one..
Lily’s voice in his head, he nearly jumped up from the bed, knelt down and moved his wand into the left hand. Then he dipped his right index finger into his own blood on the floor and started writing. It was probably the weirdest thing he had ever done in his life, and that was saying something, but this wasn’t his life anymore. It was his new life. A new start – or was it? Whatever. At the very moment, it mattered not. Done with the – riddle – he tapped his locket twice, took the deliberately empty copy and placed it below the writing.
Still unable to stand properly, he tottered to the door. On midway, there was another burn in his arm. He fell against the doorframe, panting like earlier that night, squinting his eyes on the sensation. Trembling, he unbuttoned his left sleeve with his blood-covered fingers. Faint grey lines, just like they had been for nearly thirteen years, before – but they burnt. His arm burnt with pain as if the flames of hell were about to erupt from those malicious lines. Grabbing his arm tight, he could just resist dropping to his knees again. After what seemed like an hour this time but what he knew to be not even a minute, suddenly, the pain was gone.
The screams in the distance fell silent. Clutching his wand tight, he took off his hand and wiped the blood away. The colour was gone. Where the Dark Mark had been, was only his smeared blood and a scar, vaguely reminiscent of the brand’s shape. Screams again. No, cheers. Cheers up in the castle, banging out through the holes blown into the ancient halls. Without meaning to, he chuckled. His view slightly blurred once more. Now, caused by tears that stood in his eyes. His hand moved over his mouth, muffling the sound. Half crying, half laughing, he sank to the floor of the distorted high hut a last time.
Spread-eagled, he now laid on his back in the doorway, thick tears running down his bloodstained cheeks, his own laughter thundering against the wooden walls and torn wallpaper, and the light at the tip of his wand quivered with every chuckle. His son. His son. Harry James. The Chosen One. The boy who lived. Who still lived and lived again and would live until he could greet that bloody tosser Death like the best friend he had ever had. And there it was again, hurting like what people would say to be grief, shrinking all, his nostrils, his coiling tongue, the shell around, his throat further down to his lungs and eventually his stinging heart, which lastly exploded in bright gleaming light. He knew now. He knew why he had been given the chance. He knew it had been for this moment. For this moment of pure pride, and happiness. For being proud to have such a son, never giving in, fighting for the very same madness his father had nearly died for as well. Fighting for the very same beauty among all existences, which his mother had given her own life for, so long ago.
He was ready. Ready for this new adventure. This new adventure called `a calm life´. He was ready because he was proud. His hand rushed to his head. For a moment he had thought he had felt antlers growing. Laughing even more about his own stupidity, he got up, knowing that if he had walked into Hogsmeade or anywhere else like this, people would have ran away, screaming their souls out. But he was too weak to Apparate. Though the try of wiping tears and blood from his face, messed it even more, he realised.
Now, he thought, he knew what being drunk felt like, before toppling over the edge. It was as if a million stars were dancing around his head when he walked downstairs. A million stars, one more beautiful than the other. Reaching the dark ground level, he bumped into the wall.
“Ye bampo’!”, Severus muttered to himself, remembering that the shack had never had a door.
So he stepped back, moved his wand to the other hand and pointed it at the wall.
“Bombarda!”, the word was shouted with a laugh.
He just felt like using incantations right now. There was an enormous clattering sound and wooden boards burst outside into the cool morning air. Through more dust, he stepped out and breathed in. Every breath he took was like a choir of angels singing in his lungs. Tilting his head backwards with closed eyes, he inhaled. The smell of burnt wood and smoke laid in the fresh air. Students were cheering down in Hogsmeade, the students who had been able to flee through Aberforth’s tunnel.
Finally turning off the light, he held his wand upside-down over his head. A shower of clear water rushed from it, soaking his hair and torn, clothes. The cloak hung like a heavy sack on his shoulders, but it felt amazing. He shook off the water like a dog and wiped his hair back; all the blood and tears were gone from his skin. Then he dried his eyes with his hand, buttoned up his shirt and robe and gave the clothes a repairing flick. Just for the fun, for the irony of it, he pointed his wand over the roof of the shack.
“Morsmordre!”, he grinned on the greatness of the idiocy – hoping it would be the last time that this thing ever appeared in the sky. “Lumos Solem!”
The bright shine of conjured daylight let the Mark vanish immediately. For a check, Severus held his left hand up. Bit by bit it turned invisible and visible again. Then, in a whirl of glowing white fog, he took off and flew up in direction of the destroyed school, becoming invisible shortly before he crossed the border of the grounds. The only evidence of his presence had been the water falling from the sky, of which he still hoped that no one had seen it. The next thing he remembered was that he had crashed into something equally invisible, seen too late, creating a huge mess of four legs, arms and a massive heap of black and purple fabric on the burnt grass, between some rubble – the slightly foggy image of a bewildered, but most welcome familiar face before him in the chaos. Words echoing in his head. Words as clear as if they came again, from the lips before him.
“Stay.”
“For tonight.”
“Forever.”
“Not yet.”, he had whispered back in the dark, the moon’s light gone from the roofs in the yard.
“When then.”
“Soon.”
“When is soon? When do you consider the world peaceful enough?”
“In another life.”
“In this life.”, the watery crystals, raddled by so many things, had begged.
“No. In another. On another dawn – and an eternity thereafter.”
Months had passed between, but the crystals had remained, somehow, miraculously, on this earth. Crystals in a clear lake shimmering before him, all the grief washed away, a faint breath hit his ears from below.
“The sun is rising.”
“I think so. ’Aven’ seen tha ’orizon.”
“There too, yes.”
He laid flat on his back, his left arm about his head, the other around her. Tenderly she ran her fingers across the scars on his chest and neck, the only visible signs of what had happened back then. Two pairs of eyes staring into nothingness, they listened to the sound of the waves coming through the window.
An old Dreamcatcher and a purple woollen scarf were hanging from the shelf above the bed, the scarf laid around and the string on the Dreamcatcher ballasted by a golden bowl with a golden spoon in it, which had never returned to the kitchen under the Great Hall. Though having been used in twenty-one winters and even some days in summers, the scarf looked like almost never worn, its stars still as shiny as on the first day. Never – speak to anyone about it. Her voice echoed in his head. Not until you have found someone you love as much as you love me. They shall know. He had told her that would never happen. But what she had replied, was something that had taken him fifteen years to understand and another twenty-one to accept. Can you predict the future? No? So don’t say it this way. Because I said `as much´, not `in the same way´.
He watched the dusty feathers and the thin purple braids at the ends of the scarf dangle in the breeze coming in, also blowing the fairly light blue, silky curtains at the window. A glass bottle filled with clear water stood on a chest of drawers to his left, a shrunken black pouch with purple embroidery and a silver locket lying next to it. She had removed those before – he thought of the moving photos around the golden bowl. Most of them he had taken without anyone noticing – or simply copied.
It was a little moving family album of mostly dark wooden frames, set in half round terraces. Right behind the bowl, the creators of the scarf, in separate photos. Left to Hermione, age sixteen, was Lily, smiling equally bright at his side, the baby Harry on their arms. There was a similar photo to that one’s left, with a different man on. James, not believing his luck – never gotten to know it had been a lie – or had he? Then, two photos taken from the Prophet, showing Harry. In front of the bowl, a smaller photo, a copy of one Hagrid had taken – snatched from him secretly. Four happy children were laughing from it, wearing their Hogwarts uniforms. They had gone through incredible danger until then already, the House Cup in their hands being not enough honour to their acts. Yes, if they had known then, what they would have yet had to master..
Right to Luna, a photo Colin Creevey had taken of Ronald Weasley when he had won his first Quidditch match; in its bottom corner, a small photo of Colin with his camera and his little brother, a piece of paper between the photos, framing Colin’s side in black. Right to Ron, three wedding photos: he and Hermione – as well as Harry and Ron’s only sister Ginevra, both of them holding a broom, and Charity, her flowy soft ivory coloured dress soaked with the water she splashed at the otherwise calm beach, her hair, white floral bouquet and wreath a total mess from the wind and her childishness. A fourth photo was temporarily gone from there, as Hermione would neither comprehend nor understand its genuineness.
Piling up at this side of the shelf, the pure Weasley part of the family, sticking out, a glittering frame with the twins in colourful suits: a commercial photography in front of their newly opened shop in Diagon Alley – a black ribbon bound around the corner above Fred, who gave it the one or other frustrated glance on occasions. Upwards from Luna alone, a photo of her, Rolf and their two sons along with their godfather Neville, their frame as colourful as the one of the Weasley Twins.
The left side of the shelf was owned by photos of Harry’s and Ginevra’s children, more of Lily, photos she had taken of herself and Severus together all over the years at Hogwarts and even one of the young Marauders. There were also more photos Charity could be seen on: only her grin on her head with pigtails at the bottom end in front of him and Lily and one in which Lily was missing as it had been taken many years after her death, by Charity herself, only months before she had met with a similar fate. However, the grin was the same, so was the single pigtail, a disturbing contrast to the other half of her hair that had been cut short, almost shaved. Both photos were framed black. Just like two more: of the Slytherin Quidditch Team from nineteen seventy-seven, where he and Regulus had swapped seats in order to sustain Horace Slughorn’s life, and one of the two friends alone, arm in arm by the Black Lake. Last was a peculiar one of a Banshee, a way too tall Goblin, the possibly tallest cat mummy in the world, a black cloaked skeleton that looked utmost annoyed, a House-Elf and the Mistress of the Dark herself, just with little less deep cleavage, all of them strangely having met Horace Slughorn.
Next row above all those pictures, was filled with mostly group photos: in the middle, the Order of the Phoenix in two bigger frames – in the late seventies and after reunited. Left, the DA and an ancient black and white portrait of the Dumbledore family, obviously taken shortly before Percival’s incarceration. Photos of Severus’ teachers Lily had taken, having had been as obsessed as she had. Right to the resistance groups, Ted and Andromeda Tonks with their daughter Nymphadora, son-in-law Remus Lupin and the newborn Teddy, recognisable by a bush of hair that would even there change its colour at liking. Then Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy with their twelve year old Draco as well as Draco with his wife Astoria and son Scorpius, his godmother Hannah Longbottom kneeling to his side, the smiles not as pure as happiness should be – that photo had been taken in the Malfoys’ house at Loch Etive, seeming to be the lightest place in the entire country though, despite the gloom appearing to emit from Astoria.
A photo of the old Malfoy Manor’s garden gates, the house in the distance. The people on it were a then much younger Draco with his not yet estranged girlfriend Hannah, together carrying a huge pair of iron scissors, attempting to cut a broad white ribbon that was taut between the hedges. Around the two, many small children and some adults holding babies. In a purple and blue robe behind the couple, towering them, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt. There were iron letters topping the gate: Malfoy-Snape Orphanage. Something he had only silently accepted as Draco hadn’t known at that point that he had survived.
The ones to the right: a broadly grinning Lucius, obviously holding the camera in front of him, pulling a young, not very amused Severus close – the beginning of a strange friendship; and similarly, a photo of Severus with Charity again, this time with a high ponytail that was decorated with coloured pencils and the rest of her head cut short around it, her black painted lips carrying rainbow glitter. Severus had just started teaching then, not knowing that two months later his life would be another once more. Then there was the copy of a press photo for the Daily Prophet showing all Hogwarts graduates from nineteen seventy-eight, holding their certificates as well as one of Francis Carlisle and his twin brother playing Exploding Snap on his office desk at St Mungo’s, the wall behind plastered with certificates too. The last time Castiel should hold such cards in hand. He had been murdered later that day, by having been transformed into a catfish and left to suffocate in his own kitchen by a Death Eater and former classmate he himself had had transformed into a fish for fun during their school days, however by the lake. Ever since then Francis had worn his catfish beard, to honour the memory of his brother.
At the very end, taken at the beach below, Severus and Igor sitting behind baskets filled with fish, laughing happily – proof that anything could have a negative or positive meaning, depending on the viewer’s perspective. Second last, one with an additional person presenting an askew, scarred grin and some dead hares. The final photo of the row had been taken in front of a simple hut, palm-trees in the back and was a sensation: the only moving photo of the Dursleys that existed and in addition, the only they were shown on along with people that were capable of magic.
There were no black ribbons in this long row, but a single branch with green leaves lying all along, a small black rose growing on it for each of those who were no longer alive, counting the exact number in front of every photo. The most flowers bloomed by the Order.
At the very top of the shelf, three photos in white frames, a long, ornamented dark wand placed before them. The right, Severus, fifteen years old with his mother and in an elegant black robe with silver embroidery he had bought himself with his first salary, the left, the Potters with James as a baby and in the middle, Eileen and Tobias Snape with their small twins, shortly before one of them had had to leave.
It was a real miracle that they even laid in this bed. Showing Hermione the house after the others had decided to get out for a day in all fairness, had been a strange experience. She had laughed or smirked at almost every corner, mostly referring to his way of still sorting everything neatly and much too familiar or curious objects of his housemates, and a select Thestral figurine in supposedly every room, obviously another reason to strangle Luna. Igor’s room had been taboo however, for reasons he hadn’t needed to tell her. The knives between darts on a table before a dartboard in the cellar that indeed hosted a large swimming pool, stone bench sitting area and a peculiar purple tree that looked like it could well have been a gift from Luna too, had been convincing enough.
However, there must be another house mate, as there was a second bedroom on the groundfloor, held in beige, browns, grey and a dull blue. Of course it could be a guest room, as there was only a single bed in it, but the furniture and how the shelves and desk were cluttered, suggested differently. Also there was a huge painting above the bed, opposite to the veranda-side windows, that had looked vaguely familiar to Hermione. Though the look she had been granted, had been too short as to tell what was on the painting. Already before the house tour, Moody had shooed her back out, as she had picked the wrong door when meaning to go to the bathroom, which as she noticed, looked more like it was forced into the remaining L-shaped space and in addition was the passage to the stairs into the cellar. Suspicious enough, whenever she had meant to ask about that bedroom, she had found herself distracted with the oddest questions she couldn’t help but answer.
Still, according to her, it was a `small, dark version of the Burrow, though the complete opposite in terms of order´. But when they had reached the second floor; under the roof that only had a small attic with a hatch above the top landing; which, along with an open sitting room with chimney, hosted Igor’s sanctuary and Severus’ chamber serving as bedroom and study, she had broken into tears, once having spotted the shelf – after the black upright piano in the other corner, behind the desk that faced the bed-and-shelf-side wall.
“Severus?”, she whispered. “What are you thinking about?”
“Ye shouldn’ ’ve come ’ere.”, he said emotionless.
“Then why are you alive, if your were willing to die? Why did you grab your – second chance?”
“I couldn’ bear tha way ye looked at me when I talked ’bou’ ’avin’ ter die. I couldn’ – look in tha mirror.”, his lips curled. “I though’ tha’ ’is mus’ be tha reason. Ter no’ make ye drown in grief. Tha’ ye weren’ ter be doomed ter tha same fate tha’d come upon me when Lily died. An’ when I laid on tha floor in tha shack anuther time, I knew it’d been fer Harry’s welfare. Maybe, mos’ly fer Harry.”
“Interesting. So it didn’t come to your mind, I could go looking for you? Honestly – what logic is this? You don’t want me to grieve for you and therefore you decide to not just lie there and die; breaking all the promises you have made to yourself about sacrifice, but then telling me I should have accepted it and forget, while you obviously couldn’t forget Lily, no matter if she was still alive or not? Severus – saying I shouldn’t have come here, doesn’t make any sense at all!”
“Ter ye.”, he aspirated sadly, even though her words didn’t fully manage to reach his consciousness that was a disaster of spinning thoughts and memories and lastly the try to lock out the reason for Igor’s approval.
“Second, it’s my life. I can decide as well, whom I’d like to spend my time with and how. If Lily could, why can’t I?”
“Sto’ referrin’ ter ’er.”, he said entirely cold.
“But how else to give you examples? You don’t have any other experiences in relationships.”, Severus snorted.
“’Avin’ kissed Viktor Krum makes ye more experienced, I see.”
“What?”, she slightly sat up, staring down on him. “You – that was totally Ron-ish of you to say, you know?”
“Ron-ish?”
“Having kissed Viktor – that was – I don’t know what it was, just not – a relationship. And besides, it’s ancient history. We both had just two in our entire life. Look at me, when I talk to you!”, only his eyes moved, but in the other direction.
Gritting her teeth, she let out a grunt. But as much as her hazel eyes drilled into those ebony ones, he wouldn’t let them meet. A short look around, and she crawled out of the blanket, stepped over him, grabbed the locket and went for her clothes that had been scattered all over the floor.
“There is one good thing at last.”, she mumbled, stomping around in the room, picking up the pieces after she had put the necklace on. “You look much younger than twenty years ago.”, that made him sit up instantly.
“Firs’ I ’aven’ changed, ’en tha years lef’ ’eir marks an’ now it’s I’d looked like near sixty while I’d been forty an’ look forty when I’m sixty? Can ye decide fer once?”, he contorted his face with the moaning. “’Ones’ly, ’ave ye ever grown up?”
“No and no, because you haven’t either. Chose a life, Severus!”, she spun around, her clothes pressed to her naked body. “So did I! And so I will!”, she threw down the pile and clenched her fists, sad cold fury facing sad cold fury. “Pretending to be dead and uninterested in the world away from your new cage that was built up on more murder, but sneaking around in the shadows, taking photos as some sort of spare time activity?”
“Bein’ a perfec’ lovin’ mother an’ lawyer, bu’ goin’ ’ikin’ once a year, updatin’ a map?”, eyelids falling, she lowered her head, all tension blown away radically. “Dun’ condemn people fer bein’ exac’ly as ye are. Frustration does neither vanish, nor ease tha’ way.”, he shook his head, “I mus’ know.”, and raised his left eyebrow. “An’ I though’, ye’d understoo’ as much as ’e did.”
“Exactly as that, yes!”, Hermione raged. “Exactly that! He’s your son, Severus!”
“So suddenly ’t’s no’ ’bou’ us anymore?”
“No, it isn’t! Forever grieving about your so-called mistakes and then making them again – do you ever learn? Is it so hard for you to see? All he ever wanted – all you ever wanted – and still you – after all these years – can’t – can’t you see what you have done?”
Slowly letting her breath out, she shuffled to the window; ignoring the exact lying papers and quills on the desk and the crystal ashtray that was filled with clear water, some white flower heads floating on its surface or the large gum tree in the door side corner which was still adorned with now tarnished silver and golden Christmas decoration; limply hooked her fingers onto the sill and stared outside, silent tears starting to trickle. The cool wind made her flesh crawl, but she didn’t care. Nor did she notice that she started to tremble while she gazed at the plain horizon. Warming arms around her. His right hand moving under the silver locket that still rested on her chest – after all these years.
Ron had asked only once. When she had told him that nothing was in there, he had never mentioned it again, just as if he had known that there really was absolutely nothing inside, but faded smiles, perhaps – now that she thought about it, he may have removed the photos before leaving the piece to her. The other hand in her hair, a thumb caressing her right cheek, her head tenderly pressed against his. She leant back, just breathing, looking at the sea, sadness hanging like a hungry Dementor above them, sucking out every thought that could cause even a flicker of a smile.
Slowly, Hermione took his hands and gently pushed them off, turning from his arms. Her back on him, she dressed. Severus only watched her.
“You have one week.”, she said, no detectable emotion in her voice, took off the silver locket again and dropped it on the floor with a clank.
Then she was gone. Silent.
~~#~~
It was an exceptionally sunny day. Dust danced in silvery golden rays inside and a soft breeze brushed around the ancient walls outside. Humming a random melody, Neville strode down the marble staircase to the Great Hall, his hands in the pockets of his too big, old brown cloak, wearing one of his nearly famous sloppy cardigans and trousers, a light cobalt shirt and a brown plaid tie beneath. His best friend had gotten some days off and had come to Hogwarts, for a more pleasing reason than lectures in D.A.D.A.
“What’s that song?”, Harry chuckled, walking to his right, the upper buttons of his Oxford blue robe opened lazily and the ends of his more than shoulder-length hair standing off in their usual weird directions of preference.
“Dunno,”, Neville shrugged. “Just came to my mind.”, they turned into the hall.
“She looks horrible these days.”, sighed Harry, gazing up to the big chair in the middle of the staff table.
Minerva McGonagall more hung onto the table than she sat at it, half through breakfast. Her tired eyes drifted over the headlines of the Daily Prophet, not caring for the text or photos below, face blank. She thoughtfully massaged the short scar on her left cheek that she had kept from the final battle of the Second Wizarding War, almost two decades ago. When the horrors of that night had sunken in, she hadn’t been such a wreck. Nearly every day she thought back on the real Albus Dumbledore, every time she looked at his portrait, having died more than thirty years older than she was now, not even half as messy, despite having managed to catch himself a fatal curse.
Shakily flipping pages, she wished back a youth she though believed she would never get anymore. How could anyone, not being ill at all, possibly be that exhausted, she thought. She needed rest. Someone to replace her. But who? They all looked up to her, as being the one who had held Hogwarts when Harry Potter had done his final steps to destroy Lord Voldemort, not bothering that it would never had been this way, if it hadn’t been for the help of many others. Many others that had let their lives for the good – and the most mysterious child she had ever taught; vanished to hell only knew to start anew. Why couldn’t she just pretend to die and start anew as well? A question she had asked herself so many times ever since then, and never implemented.
“Yeah. Muttering about wanting someone else to do her job.”
“What about you?”
“Me? No. Definitely. I’d never want that chair. You know I cannot be trusted with responsibility.”
“I told you ten years ago to forget Robards.”
“And you know I still do tend to forget things. But – but some things – you never – look. You’re a big one in the Ministry. Can’t you just force some Transfigurer to start teaching in her stead?”
“Auror Office, if you remember.”
“Ha, ha.”, pouted Neville.
“That’s got nothing to do with Hogwarts, you know that as much as I do. And Hogwarts isn’t supposed to be relying on the Ministry. Already Dumbledore stated that clearly.”
“Yeah. Good ol’ Albus Dumbledore.”, Neville sighed. “Ever heard from Aberforth again?”
“Not a single goat’s cry here since they broke up. So sad. I still think they were a wonderful couple. Maybe she’d feel better if he was around.”
“I hope he’s not dead. That’d be really sad. Especially after Molly had taught him how to cook.”
Laughing wearily, they went past Harry’s sons, both busy. James Sirius was totally eager to be in centre, while Albus Severus was the quiet one, concentrated on checking his timetable. If he wouldn’t be like that at home as well, Harry would have felt need to worry whether his younger boy was actually going to be accepted by the others. Naturally, he didn’t speak too much, but if he did, the sentences were well thought. And he had a habit of hitting James with books, if he would freak out at last.
Luna Lovegood had once said, that people always got the names they deserved, even if this fact developed all throughout life. So had Draco Malfoy confirmed to share her opinion. Maybe there was some truth to it. Tough what gave him some seconds of pondering before a familiar voice tore him from it, Draco’s son was equally devoted to his timetable as Albus was, but slightly less agreeing with the arrangement, which he emphasised with the arsenal of grimaces he went through along with the lines and columns.
“You are holding it wrong.”, Rose Weasley told James, her snooty voice piercing into the morning murmurs in the hall above all others in her surrounding. “If you do it like this, it is no wonder, you get a cramp in your hand all the time. And anyway, you aren’t supposed to wave your wand outside classes and practice rooms, you know? You could get in real trouble for that.”
“Well, then give me yours.”
“What?”
“Oh shut it. I’m older than you.”
“Even more time wasted, when they expel you.”
“Totally Hermione.”, chuckled Neville.
“Totally.”
Harry waved over to Hagrid who; bits of his grey hair and beard singed from his last escalated lesson with some Blast-Ended Skrewts and the bald area with scars from the foolish try to catch a Nundu shining in the soft light; waved back with his goblet, spilling some of his drink over the table, not only due to his fingers in bandages. Shaking his head with a grin, Harry looked at Draco, finally startling up from gazing at his son, who had decided to ignore that fact. Draco sent Harry a dull smile back.
“How’s she, by the way?”
“Busy. Just every now and then, I bump into her – in a lift. Ron’s the same, since Nez– he’s been here and there for months. If I wasn’t his sort-of-boss and needing to check his reports before they go to Kingsley, I’d never see him. But it’s my own fault anyway, having left him with the option to drop in and out whenever he wants. Yet luckily there’s something like birthdays or Christmas.”
“Sorry for that last, by the way. They really trapped me there.”
Someone came walking through the doors of the Great Hall behind them. Curious students’ heads turning towards the unknown, staring at the waving crimson velvet robes and cloak, ornamental silver clasps down the chest.
“Who’s that?”, whispers all around.
“I don’t know.”, equally quiet answers.
Minerva raised her head, looking for the source of the rapid silence. As she did, Harry and Neville spun around, following her eyes with interest. A loud clank. She had dropped her yoghurt spoon, which had fallen noisily into her almost empty golden bowl at the very same time as the big cup had slipped out of Hagrid’s massive hand. Minerva’s face was just the same as Harry’s, both believing they were fooled by their glasses.
Some of his long black hair slid over his shoulder, when he took a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling and over the tables, a faint smile on his lips. His ebony eyes met with a pair of green ones. For a moment, his smile grew; and was returned by the boy. Then he gazed straight to the front face, shortly into Minerva’s eyes, before he finally looked directly at Harry.
“Am I goin’ mad now?”, Neville whispered, though still heard by everyone due to the general lack of sound.
“Merlin’s beard – ”, Horace Slughorn joined in, the last parts of existing hair so thin it could hardly be seen, if it hadn’t been for some sunlight in it – even the thinning famous walrus-beard; and his belly grown much bigger.
Filius Flitwick climbed on his chair to get a better view. Sybill Trelawney, staring likewise, didn’t notice that she hadn’t stopped chewing at all. Madam Pomfrey, a hand on her mouth, started crying quietly. Draco only crossed his arms and leant back in his chair with a smile that was returned. The rest of the hall, had either seen him on photos, a painted portrait that kept creeping around, or never before. Too much time had passed.
“It has been a while, indeed.”, he spoke with his deep calm voice, sending shivers up everyone’s spine, the shorter hair at the front falling partly into his face when he lightly lowered his head, eyes still on Harry, as if he was looking across the reading specs he carried hidden in a pocket. “Quite a while.”, he nodded nostalgically. “But it seems, Hogwarts hasn’t changed much. Congratulations, Minerva.”
“And I thought, she fooled me then! You are indeed – ”
“Alive.”, Harry finished the old woman’s sentence. “At last.”
“There is a saying my mother taught me when I was young.”, he pondered; everything that could be read as a smile, left him as though swept away by an icy wind. “`You are responsible for the lives you saved´. I think – she convinced me that I felt responsible enough to acquit myself of a promise I gave, more than nineteen years ago, in a dusty, haunted girls’ lavatory.”, Harry’s eyes narrowed in confusion, when he stared back at him. “I promised Hermione to concoct no more lies and I am ashamed to admit, how long it has taken me to realise, how much I was to lie no more. I am sorry, I needed such a long time to – grow up.”, his eyes were filled with tears and his lips curled. “An’ anyway, we’re done.”
“You’re kidding?”, Harry chuckled.
“No.”, he took one more deep breath. “Harry – would ye – min’ – ’avin’ a word wit’ me,”
A dead tranquillity laid like a veil of mist all over the heads in the ancient hall. Until then crackling, the fire in the chimney seemed to hold its breath as well. Barely audible, a sniff drifted through Poppy Pomfrey’s hand. As lonely as a forgotten child, a single tear trickled down a pale cheek and over the corner of trembling lips. His eyes closed and his head sank to his chest, the lips’ movement starting to infest the entire body, without really knowing why or how to stop it.
Though placed careful, the sound of a shoe put forward echoed between the high walls and windows. Another. Breathless and hollow looking, Harry stepped closer.
Warming arms. A soothing song. Eyes filled with love. Safety. All a child could desire, when seemingly left alone in a cold, cruel world. Ever there. Never gone. Hidden in the shadows. Far away, but close. Always.
Washed dark brown rocks falling into a green sea. Understanding. Knowing. Warming arms, slowly laid around a neck. Air sucked through an open mouth – the breath of life; though shaking. Two more arms, wandering up a back for allowing an embrace so longed for every second in time, and finally uncovered. No need to hide anymore. No distance anymore. Nothing that could tear apart. Nothing.
Softly whispered words, yet loud enough for nearly everyone to hear.
“Welcome home,”
Only one more – healing – mending all the scars of the past – erasing all that could ever hurt –
“Dad.”
~~#~~