Full credit to JKR/ SS/RL implied, character death. One-shot.

Lupin's Sorrow

By WittchWay

Lupin's death so close on the heels of Sirius Black's was not good. For morale of the Order of Phoenix, for those that still fought the good fight, for Harry Potter… Potter who has lost so many… who would lose more in the coming weeks, months, years…. How ever long it would take to kill the Dark Lord Voldemort.

A young man that has not spoken since Lupin's death a day ago. Sitting on the sofa. His knees drawn up to his chest. Tear streaming quietly down his face.

There had been small measures of comfort extended to the boy, by Molly Weasley, the short-lived mother of us all. She spent a long time talking to him softly but he didn't respond. Arthur Weasley had simply clasped the boy on the shoulder… the only comfort given to a boy, a child trying to be an adult. Trying to grow up before his time.

Potter's shoulders slumped. As the Weasley's walked away to console their own grief and that of their children.

Potter has no family, no one and now not even that of his dead fathers friends. Potter himself has friends, people who care about him in the way one cares about a great great aunt they only see once every few years.

Potter, the Chosen one. Would we be here if he wasn't?

Most likely not.

The Weasley's may care about Harry, may say he is a son, a member of the family but they would sacrifice his life in a minute if it would save one of their own. Any decent parent would.

The Granger girl is stuck with family in the muggle world and knows nothing of Lupin's death. Though she is an intelligent girl, she would reason it was part of life, that war is about sacrifice. About death. The experience of the young and sheltered is taxing at times.

Potter isn't young, even though he's just seventeen, he has never been sheltered.

Potter doesn't need to hear ideals and systematic grief from those that have never experienced such things.

McGonagall is not here. She went to get Lupin's body with Kingsley Shacklebolt… the latter also likes the boy well enough. Though he doesn't know the boy. Said he seemed smart. But Kingsley doesn't care for children, nor teenage boys.

McGonagall of course cares immensely for the boy. Though their relationship has not been the same since Dumbledore's death. Strained and tired it is. There is an ice of politeness when they speak to each other. I always thought it was ironic really.

No one else moves toward him. Though they are all looking at him. Some of them have a look on their face as if thinking of the right thing to say before they approach. Though none seem to know what those words are.

I sigh and put down my drink.

Sometimes I feel like the last intelligent man in the world…. surrounded by fools.

Some times it is not words one desires.

I walk over and sit on the sofa next to him, closer than I normally would to a Potter.

He rubs his nose on the cuff of his robe . His face is red and blotchy looking as he looks up at me. A crust of dried snort rims his nose. Burying his face in the fabric.

I place my hand on his shoulder pulling slightly. He turns and looks at me again, as if seeing me for the first time. And then in realization of what I want. And then in gratitude of what he needs.

He slumps against me hurriedly. His head buried in my chest. His fists twisted in my robes. Half on my lap.

And he cries.

Without holding it back, without denying himself of what he really needs… never mind what they think.

I look each of them straight in the eye as I wrap my arms around him. Holding him, comforting him.

Molly moves toward us… me, with intent to take my position. She knows this is where she should be. Arthur stops her with a hand, shaking his head.

Its to late now.

A hug him tighter. Letting him cry.

I whisper no words of wisdom or of bereavement. It would sound fake coming from me.

Its not what he needs.

I don't think while I'm holding him, my face buried in his hair.

It's a simple comfort. Its all we have.

After a while the house is silent. As silent as it should be in moments like these. Darkness settles around us. The curtains close of their own accord signaling night has fully settled around us.

Most have left by now, drifting off to their homes or the rooms upstairs.

He's leaning against me. Still curled in a ball. His breathing even, if not slightly shallow. His arms wrapped around my waist.

I know he's awake. I know he doesn't want to move. It soothing being held. To know some else feels his pain.

We would stay like this forever if we could but he fidgets and my stomach growls. He pulls away slightly.

"Thank you" he whispers so softly that It takes my brain a moment to process what he said.

I nod. Stretching my hands up over my head, arching my stiff back.

"Hungry?" I say standing, moving toward the door, my back to him.

He's still curl on the sofa., "yeah" he says in the same whispered tones … as if he doesn't trust his voice yet to speak any louder. He runs a hand through his hair. A nervous habit.

I push open the door .

"How long were you together?"

I turn back toward him. He's wiping the tip of his nose again on his cuff.

I stare at him. Again I can not process… was he talking to me. Did he speak at all.

My knees feel as if they are going to buckle. My hands shake. My skin grows cold. It feels as if bricks are sitting on my chest, I can not breath.

He knows… he knows, Pound in my ears.

I open my mouth to protest, to scream how dare you. How dare you say such things but I don't.

He pats the cushion next to him.

And like a fool I move toward it… toward him. I slump down into the plush green velvet sofa in the front parlor of Grimmauld Place. A house neither of us wants to be in. A house haunted with to many memories.

His head is again against my chest, weeping and gasping with sorrow and grief.

It takes me a moment but I put my arms around him and hold him tight. As tight as I can.

I bury my face in his messy head of hair. My eyes squeezed shut.

Potter and I… Severus Snape sit on that sofa until morning. Him crying softly on my chest, my arms wrapped around him. Grieving. For out lost comrade… our lost friend. Our lost brother in arms. For the former professor… a man that was the last link to his dead parents.

And I for a school hood mate. A man I despised, disliked, a man whom was always polite to me no matter how much of a bastard I was toward him. A man who's soft spoken words irritated the living piss out of me…who grew on me with time.

…Later a lover.

A lover…

"Two years… one month…sixteen days …. And a few odd hours…" I say finally, wiping the tip of my nose with the cuff of my robe.

The End