Disclaimer: I do not own Harry, Draco, Snape or any other character from the Harry Potter series. They all belong to J.K. Rowling – I simply play with them from time to time. The only thing about this story is the plot – the words I have written and the ideas those words shape.
Author's Note: This story simply begged me to write it. I don't normally feel like identifying with Snape, but the concept was irresistible to me – the 'hero' showing his appreciation for the 'behind the scenes' men without whom his victory would've been impossible. And when I sat down to write it, the Snape narration voice just came to me, and everything fitted together beautifully.
This story is Harry/Draco if you squint, and maybe Severus/Draco if you really screw your eyes up, but even I'm not sure about that. There's absolutely nothing explicit about it – it's all just hints and allusions – so feel free to ignore it if you like.
Some Kind of Hero
"Every man is a hero to someone." – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Everything is finally over, finished, done with, and though everything I've been working for has finally been realised, I can't help but feel a little sad. This is the end, one way or another. Whatever happens to me, I cannot go back. In some ways this war, this deception, this terror, has become normal to me, almost comfortable. I am almost frightened to live in a peaceful world, a world without lies. I do not know who I am any more. I do not know what will happen to me when I step outside the door of this house without my cloak and mask, as myself rather than some faceless Death Eater. I do not know if they will imprison me for what I have done. I do not even know if I deserve to walk free.
It is late. Night has fallen outside the house and moonlight shines over the accursed Muggle street. This is a place I have never felt any affection for, and yet now I must leave I find myself strangely reluctant to do so. Here, I am safe. But safety is stifling, and I will never be happy locked away here for the rest of my life. Whether I can ever be happy again anywhere is yet another thing I do not know. But there are other considerations. I am not only responsible for myself any more. I have a duty to the truth. I have a duty to my little household, strange though it is. For their sakes, I must brave the slings and arrows of public opinion, and the very real possibility of living out the rest of my days in a cell in Azkaban.
Would it be worth it? I look over at the hearthrug, and see that Draco is basking in the heat of the flames. Fawkes sits on his stomach, and the boy is stroking the phoenix's head gently. The beautiful, wondrous, healing song drifts through the room, and I know that I am only not panicking at the sudden turn the war has taken because I am being soothed by my companion. It was Albus' last act, to send his familiar to his murderer. I have often wondered why. Did he think that the Order would be more likely to believe my story if I carried with me their mascot? Or did he want to assure me that he knew I had not broken faith with him?
For that is the truth: I have never broken faith with Albus Dumbledore, though I killed him and made his protégé's life a misery. Since that fateful day long in my past, when I ran to him and threw myself on his mercy, appalled by what I had done, I have remained faithful. Everything I have done has been for him, even if not done on his orders. I killed him because he was dying. I killed him because that way I could finally cement my position, prove my unwavering feigned loyalty to the monstrous Dark Lord. I killed him because only so could I save Draco, spare Narcissa, help the Order win the battle that they have just won.
I do not expect anyone to believe me. No, not even if they question me under Veritaserum. I was a professor of potions for fifteen years, and everyone knows that; whatever I say they will suspect that I have somehow managed to lie. I do hope that I can save Draco. I think I ought to be able to. The Order knows of him and of his true allegiances, but I know them and their prejudices. I am sure that most of them would be happy to see the boy join me in living hell. 'Good' people are only good to their own kind, and Draco and I are not their soul-kin. We are touched by darkness, and must fend for ourselves.
He clears his throat, and I look over at him, allowing my eyes to show that I am willing to hear what he has to say. "Are we allowed to be happy about this?" he asks, his doubt and fear showing in grey eyes that have never – fortunately – been deadened like Lucius'. "He's gone. That's what we've been working for. So we ought to celebrate with everyone else. But will they kill us on sight?" He has stopped stroking Fawkes, and is wringing his hands with ill-concealed nervous tension. I know why. He fears death above all things, the young Malfoy. He is one of those who has not yet realised that to die is not so terrible.
I have no comfort to give him, and even to attempt it would be contrary to my nature. We are close, my fellow fugitive and I, but I have not changed that much in these past years. "It's hard to say," I edge around the issue and hope that he doesn't press. I don't want to tell him that I'm almost certain I'm going to die. He has become attached to me. I am more than his information source, though I never really intended to be. "You'll probably be safe," I add, by way of consolation. "I'd like to think that the honourable Gryffindors will remember who helped them to achieve the near-impossible."
He laughs, coldly and bitterly, because he believes that honour is dead and that the world is full of hypocrites. "You helped," he says, as if that will save me when the vengeful come to call. "If it hadn't been for you, I'd have had nothing to tell them. I wouldn't have been valuable. They would have thrown me out for the vultures to get me, and left my mother to her merciless relatives." His eyes glow with emotion. "You saved me, Severus," he says, and it is apparent that he means every word. He believes what he is saying, believes it implicitly. "I'd be lost – I'd be dead – without you."
"Then we will have to hope that they believe you," I say, gravely. "If they believe in you and you vouch for me, we may both be vindicated." I do not believe myself, so I would not blame him if he doubted me. The chances are that Draco will be set free, because the Gryffindors have some honour. He will be set free into a world that cares nothing for him, to be surrounded by people who hate and distrust him. And I – who will speak for me? They will not listen to him. They will give him his life and his liberty and expect him to be grateful, as though in allowing him what he deserves they are giving him some gift.
Draco knows that. He's not a fool. And yet it is better that we do not say these things out loud. If we do not speak the words, we do not have to accept the truth in them. He does not want me to die. I do not want to live, if living means life in Azkaban. I am a murderer who refuses to pay the price for his crimes. I believe I have already paid. That was Albus' promise. He knew me. He kept me away from the punishment of the world because he knew that real punishment and real remorse comes from within. I have judged myself and passed sentence, and I will die before I will let them make a mockery of my penance. I do not expect them to understand that.
The knock at the door is jarring to my thoughts. I let out a deep sigh. I knew that it would not be long. How they found me so quickly I do not know, but I go to face my fate. Running is for cowards. I am no coward. Draco, on the other hand, sits bolt upright, dislodging Fawkes, who trills disapprovingly. He is afraid. I do not have to look at him to know that he is afraid. He fears death, and he believes that death is imminent. I pass through into the hall towards the door. It is polite of them to knock. It suggests that they want to take us alive. That they are not afraid of us. And why should they be?
I am almost at the door when I realise from the silhouette outside that there is no 'they'. There is only one person on the other side of the door. One against two would be bad odds whoever the one might be. That means, surely, that this person has come here expecting not to have to fight. This is someone who knows the truth. The thought that a living soul aside from Draco and I might know the truth is strangely comforting. That there is someone, anyone, who might be prevailed upon to swear that I am faithful seems impossible, too good to be true, but the thought is alluring and refuses to leave me.
I open the door, much less carefully than I ought to, and am startled enough to gasp. It is raining outside and the porch roof has a leak, so our visitor is soaked to the skin. Said skin is pale, though not as pale as mine, and certainly not as pale as Draco's. His hair is plastered to his head in a way that looks surreal and unnatural, considering its usual arrangement. It is black as coal and sodden, water-logged like puddles on tarmac. He smiles awkwardly, and I wonder how I could ever have thought him arrogant. His father would have waltzed in as if he owned the place. No, his father would never have come here at all.
"Snape," he says, and I am shocked to hear that there is no anger, no blazing rage, no hatred, behind his voice any more. The last time I saw him he swore to kill me, and now he stands on my porch as if it is the most natural thing in the world, smiling as if he has not just won an epic battle. He looks more like a neighbour come to borrow some milk than a saviour come to spare me from the fate that awaits me. He is not a hero. I realise this now, looking at him, and I cannot understand how I was so blind before. He never was a hero. He killed the Dark Lord and freed me, but he is no more a hero than I am.
"Potter," I reply, in kind, and step back so that he can come in. I do not know how he found us. But I do know that he isn't here to hurt us. If he had come for that, he would not have come alone. Gryffindors hunt in prides, like lionesses. He steps into the hallway and looks about. His eyes rove around over the pictures and furnishings but he makes no comment. He shows no pity. He probably feels none. He has never professed to like me, and I do not imagine that he does, even now. He has come because he feels it is his duty, and I understand that. I do not resent it. Duty is no stranger to me.
He moves into the room with the fire without my direction, following the phoenix song. I see him look at the bird, perched on Draco's knee, and I notice that although there are several emotions warring for precedence on his face, surprise is not one of them. "Somehow, I thought he'd be here," he says, in a voice barely more than a whisper. Draco is watching him as though he is a poisonous breed of snake. He meets my eyes and I can see that he is afraid, with a tinge of anger there as well. I nod at him over Potter's shoulder and he relaxes, but only slightly.
I cross the floor and seat myself in the most comfortable chair and wave him towards another. He sits, and the phoenix flutters over to sit on his shoulder, crooning in his ear. "You expected to find Fawkes with us, then?" I ask, curious as to what the bird is saying to him. I have found that I can understand him sometimes, and I wonder if Potter can too. "Do you not find it a little strange that he should be here, with the man who killed Albus Dumbledore?" It nearly doesn't hurt any more to say that. I nearly don't die a little bit more every time I say that I killed the only person I have ever called a friend. Draco is many things, but I have never thought of him as a friend.
Potter's lips twitch slightly at the reminder, and a little of the angry fire I expected to see earlier flares up in his eyes. Then he is still again. "Not really, no," he replies. "Though you should thank Hermione for that." Of course, it would be too much to hope for that he should have reached any conclusions by himself. That girl always did his thinking for him. He must see these thoughts on my face, because he laughs, shortly, and continues, "She hasn't realised yet. She gave me the idea, but she doesn't know herself. I – well, I've thought a lot, these past few years." All the hardships he has suffered flash across his face in the space of a few seconds, and I feel a little sorry for him. He has defeated the Dark Lord. He has done what was expected of him. Has anyone said 'about time' yet?
Some things can never change, so I say, "I'd never realised you were capable of such a thing, Potter." There is very little animosity in the tone. I don't really hate him. I am no longer sure that I ever did. But I cannot resist the chance to drop an insult, particularly given such an opportunity.
It seems that he understands, because he shrugs, smiles sadly and says, "Neither did I." I almost smile back, but I am out of practice. "I didn't realise for the longest time," he adds. "I – just – in the confusion, no one thought to ask where Fawkes had gone. By the time anyone did, he'd vanished. I knew he hadn't died. Phoenixes don't. So he had to have gone somewhere. And after a while, I realised that you were the only one left that he could have gone to. That meant that you had to be – not innocent, exactly, because I saw you do it – but you had to have done it on his orders. Or something. And that was when I remembered that he'd said that the potion wouldn't kill him immediately."
He looks up, his eyes asking if he is accurate so far. "He was dying," I agree. Potter nods, something like relief settling on his features. "And he didn't want a sixteen-year-old boy to sully his soul with the Killing Curse."
"It was the only way," says Potter, quietly. "It took me three years to see that, but I know now that it was the only way." He has grown up, I think. When did that happen? No need to ask why. He grew up because a boy could not have defeated the Dark Lord. He grew up because he had to. Out of the blue, he says, "Tom Riddle was sixteen, the first time he used the Killing Curse." I am surprised at this knowledge. I did not know that. I have seen what Tom Riddle became, I have served him loyally and not-so-loyally, I have been his trusted servant, the viper in his bosom, but I did not know that. Draco's back stiffens; he is uncomfortable with the comparison. There are few people who would not be.
"There is a difference," I say, almost gently, "between Tom Riddle and Draco Malfoy."
He nods. "I know," he replies. "There always was." His eyes flicker over to where Draco sits, by the fire. It is the first sign he has shown of being aware of the other boy's presence. He turns back to me. "Once I'd realised where Fawkes must be, it wasn't such a leap to realise who Malfoy's mysterious informant was," he says. "A Death Eater above suspicion and beyond reproach." There is a slight amount of irony behind the twisted smile on his face. No one in the Dark Lord's service is 'beyond reproach'. "Tom never suspected you, but I did." He scratches his chin, reflectively. "I've come to offer you what you deserve," he blurts, suddenly. "My stock's through the roof at the moment. They eat out of my hand."
If he did not look so embarrassed about it, I might hate him for it. "You did defeat the Dark Lord," I point out, as if there is any chance that he could have forgotten. He shrugs, as if that achievement was something utterly commonplace. I would be angry at this indifference, but I realise that it springs only from the fact that he has always been told that he would win. How could he ever picture any other outcome? This is how it ends. This is how it is supposed to end. "You have come to say that you will plead for me at my trial." It is not a question. I know why he is here. I knew from the moment I saw him. It is like Albus all over again, only different, because Potter expects nothing in return, not even friendship.
He sighs. "That," he says, "and for Malfoy, too, if he wants."
Draco jerks slightly at this. I am not sure why he should be surprised. He must know Potter better than I. In a hoarse, brittle voice unlike his usual drawl, he says, "You like the fact that I need your help." He makes it an accusation. I wonder if he knows how stupid he's being, spurning the person who can save him. Then I remember that this is Potter, and he would never let a few angry words stand in the way of seeing justice done. Draco is clever. "You want to have something you can hold over my head."
Potter shrugs. "Would you trust me if I didn't have an ulterior motive?" It seems his vocabulary has improved in the past few years.
"How did you find us?" Draco asks, petulantly, not wanting to answer the question. He doesn't want to prove Potter right. "This place is protected. No one knows where it is, except us. And my mother." His eyes widened. "No. She wouldn't have told you."
"Wouldn't she?" Potter looks amused, and I realise that he really has changed since I saw him last. He is less like his father than ever. "I knew that she must know where you were. I went and asked. Like I said, my stock's high at the moment. Not to mention that she's alive because my people have been hiding her so well." Suddenly he smirks. "Oh, and I said that it was vital to her dear Draco's future that I be able to find him. She told me pretty quickly after that." He looks innocent as he says it, but I realise that this insufferable Gryffindor has learnt at least something about manipulation since I knew him last.
I smile properly this time, and his eyes widen. "Very Slytherin, Potter," I say.
"I almost was," he declares, and somehow I am not surprised. Draco, on the other hand, sucks in his breath sharply. I look over at him and see that he is rapidly re-evaluating Potter. Three words have succeeded where the defeat of the Dark Lord failed. "My name is Harry," he adds, standing up. "But you don't have to use it. It's just – I'm not my father, you know." I do know. I have known for a while. James Potter would never have prevailed against Him. Harry crosses the room to where Draco lays and looks at him. He speaks directly to the boy who has always hated him. "I'm not doing this to get one over on you," he says, sternly, his arms folded over his chest.
Draco scowls. "You just want to prove you're the perfect Gryffindor," he accuses. "You want everyone to say how generous you are, speaking out to save your enemies from the terrible prison." Sarcasm drips from his voice. He is deadly serious. I realise that he loathes the very idea of being saved by Potter.
Harry, for his part, is angered by this response. "You aren't my enemy," he says, forcefully. "You haven't been ever since you joined the right side. You certainly aren't now you've helped us to win. And generosity has nothing to do with it. I want to do what's right. It's only justice. You don't deserve to go to prison. You've more than made up for anything you did wrong."
I cannot resist asking the question. "And I, Harry?" His Christian name sounds strange to me, and I find it hard to say. "I am a killer, remember."
He turns halfway towards me and spreads his arms wide. "As am I," he says. "I've killed a lot of people. Mainly because I was angry. Killing in cold blood is hard." He nods at Draco. "You know that. But it's horribly easy to kill when you're angry." He waves his hand as if holding a wand. "Two simple words and then you've taken someone's life away. Avada Kedavra. Two words. So easy. And yet it's impossible – impossible – to make that person alive again." He shudders. "I've never enjoyed it. Did you, Snape?"
I think of my career as a murderer. "Never," I say, with perfect honesty. "But it was necessary." He nods, shortly, and he looks relieved. Perhaps he didn't want to find out that he was defending a monster. I wonder if he knows what I mean by 'necessary'. When I was a genuine Death Eater, it was necessary to rid the world of the Muggle-tainted. Later, it was necessary to maintain my cover. Necessary to nudge me one step closer to where I wanted to be, at the Dark Lord's side, poisoning his every venture. Necessaryto make sure the 'right side' won. Necessary, but never agreeable. I have never liked killing.
He turns back to Draco. "Do you see now?" he asks, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "If it wasn't for you, we might not have won. If anything, I owe you already. So this is me paying you back for something you've already done. I'm not trying to get something to hold over your head. It's just" – he sighs, almost hopelessly – "people have this tendency to forget the people who did all of the work. I want them to know the part that you played. I don't want them to be able to get away from it. If people start believing that all Slytherins are evil, we might as well put our heads on the chopping block and wait for the next Dark Lord to come along." I find myself almost admiring his thought process. Can this be the muddleheaded boy I remember from Potions classes? He holds out a hand to Draco. "I'll help you regardless," he says, "but I'll be in your debt if you'll accept – truce, if not friendship."
Something in Draco's eyes flickers, and I know that I have lost him already. I never really had him to start with. He reaches up and gives Harry his hand. "Truce," he says, definitely. "Friendship can come later." He frowns. "What will the – I mean, Weasley and Granger say?" He looks half worried, half pleased with himself. I know, better than anyone else, that Draco has always wanted to get Harry away from those two.
Harry shrugs. "Hard to explain," he says. "It's like we've gone from being Harry, Ron and Hermione to being Harry and Ron-and-Hermione." He sighs. "I need other friends," he adds. "It's not healthy for any of us if I spend all my time with them, not now that they're together. They might not understand at first. But they'll come round. They always do." Part of me is annoyed with him for taking his friends for granted. Another part knows that his declaration is not complacency but plain truth, and I wish, just for a moment, that I had had friends like those.
Draco smiles. He is in good hands, I know. He will forget me. Harry will forget me, once he has done his duty and helped me walk free of Azkaban. My fate will be the one I imagined for Draco – I will be free to suffer alone, free to be hated, free to be ignored. But could I ever have expected any better? Harry pulls Draco to his feet with the hand still entwined in his. And neither of them lets go when he is upright, either. I allow myself the smallest of smiles. They will both be happy. I have kept my promise to Narcissa. Her son will live. And as the friend – or possibly more; I would not be surprised – of Harry Potter, he will be able to live without fear.
And perhaps, once in a while, they will remember me.