Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Spoilers from books 1-6.

Important Note: To all readers of "The Silver Mask," please go see my bios! I have an important announcement up.

x x x

Crimson Sky

- by sweet-apple-pie -

x x x

The summer sun shone low on the horizon, its last rays of the day streaming in through the rippling curtains and into the Headmaster's office of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Albus Dumbledore paid no heed to the decreasing temperature as he sat silently at his desk. He had done close to nothing else for the past three days. He felt tired, he felt old. Sitting here, with his face in his hands, having eaten nothing and not having gotten a wink of sleep in the last seventy-two hours, he knew this habit to be unhealthy. It didn't matter, though. He was almost finished waiting. The report would come, any minute now . . .

There was a knock at the door. He slowly looked up, twinkle-less blue eyes staring listlessly at the office door. "Enter," he called.

A young Auror in bright-colored uniform entered and strode dutifully inside. He almost flinched at the empty look in the Hogwarts Headmaster's eyes. Visibly willing himself not to look away, the young man inclined his head in a show of respect. Dumbledore didn't bother to acknowledge him.

"The bodies have been found," he confirmed quietly. "They were badly damaged. Both were burnt and charred by the powerful backlash of magic, definitely dead."

"The identification?" asked Dumbledore, directing his hollow gaze toward the Auror.

This time, the Auror couldn't stand meeting his eyes. He looked down at the carpeted floor of the circular office, his hands balling into fists so tight the knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath before he spoke. "We ran a few tests, and they have been easily identified. The bodies belonged to You-Know-Who and . . ." the young man paused, choking back a sob, ". . . and Harry Potter."

x x x

'His body has been found. Order meeting in an hour. You needn't attend. –A.D.'

The message had been delivered to number twelve, Grimmauld Place by a school owl, only to be snatched up by an anxious redhead. Ron stared at the short note for a moment before he angrily slammed it onto the kitchen table and stormed out of the room. Hermione, who had been sitting at the table with Ginny, wordlessly took the crumpled note and brought it close so that she and Ginny could read it. Unsurprisingly, Ginny burst into tears before she even looked at its contents, burying her face in her arms. Hermione could feel her own tears trickling down her cheeks as she placed a comforting hand on Ginny's back.

They had known that the news would eventually come. And come it did. The foreknowledge brought no consolation. Somehow, they all knew that Harry was not coming back when he left them three days ago.

The sound of Ginny's anguished sobs broke her heart. Ginny had been with Harry for almost ten years. Hermione could still remember well the day she, Ron and Harry graduated from Hogwarts. It was in the ever-growing danger of war that they had finished their schooling. Incidentally, it was on that very day that Harry had finally mustered the courage to ask Ginny out. Hermione had seen how fidgety they were around each other for a while before that, and she couldn't have helped the sigh of relief and exasperation that escaped her then.

Harry and Ginny had been in love for so long, even if they had dated different people at some point or another. She knew why Harry had hesitated to act on his feelings; he had been worried sick about Ginny becoming Voldemort's target because of their relationship. In the end, however, he had concluded that he would always regret it if he shunned her out from his life. Hermione would later tell him that she thought his decision had been right.

So that was how, on a fine spring morning, Harry approached Ginny with a shy smile and a blush to ask whether she would like a stammering, nervous wreck of an idiot for a boyfriend. Ginny had been ecstatic.

From then, Ginny had supported him with all her heart, as did she and Ron. And Harry had needed all the support he could get.

Twelve years ago, Voldemort had risen. Twelve years ago, Harry had witnessed Cedric's murder and the Dark Lord's rebirth. Had it really been that long ago? It seemed like only yesterday that she had first seen him cry on Mrs. Weasley's shoulder. Shortly after that, everything went downhill; Voldemort started to publicly attack cities, killing Muggles as well as wizards up and down the British Isle, plunging the wizarding world into darkness and chaos. The Ministry's feeble attempt to deny Voldemort's return had ended in about a week; after all, the assassination of the Minister of Magic wasn't something to be easily ignored, especially with a blazing Dark Mark hovering over the Minister's house.

Despite the fact the he was still a student, the Headmaster had quickly inducted Harry into the secret organization that worked as the resistance against Lord Voldemort and his forces; the Order of the Phoenix.

He had started to receive private lessons from Dumbledore in his fifth year. No one knew what went on in those lessons, for neither Harry nor Dumbledore were forthcoming in their answers, but they could see that Harry was training extremely hard. He usually came back stumbling into the common room well after curfew, looking exhausted, before sluggishly climbing up the stairs to his dorm and sleeping like a log until morning.

But the training paid off. By the end of his seventh year, Harry was a force to be reckoned with. His skills in battle were as good as any Auror or hit-wizard, and what he lacked in experience he made up for by sheer power and determination. Three years later, they went so far as to say that his power exceeded Dumbledore's.

After graduation, though, Harry did not show up as often as expected in the fights against Death Eaters, which continued to rage, led by Headmaster Dumbledore. Instead, he would disappear for extended periods of time without telling them where he was going. By that time, Hermione, Ron and Ginny had also joined the Order, but what Harry did during his disappearances was a mystery to all, it seemed, except for Dumbledore and Harry themselves. When Hermione had confronted Harry about it, he would answer evasively that he was going on some secret mission for Dumbledore.

They had not liked the way Harry was hiding things, Ron being most vocal of them all. After a while, however, they relented and let Harry have his way. After all, it was only until the war was over. Then, there would be no more secrets. They could go back to being friends without being hindered by dangerous pieces of knowledge.

The three of them were always scared for him when Harry was called away to fight. Even when they went with him, Harry was always at the front lines with the Aurors, risking the most exposure, while they watched their backs. But they always had faith that he would survive.

No one could deny that Harry was extremely careful, never taking unnecessarily dangerous risks. That was one of the most noticeable changes in Harry; when in his fourth year, he would have rushed to take a curse to save someone else, Harry now seemed to have grown a sense of self-preservation. He took his comrades' sacrifices surprisingly well, even the deaths of Order members that he had grown close to.

But then again, perhaps not.

Hermione had feared that Harry would go mad with grief when the Deputy Headmistress died. And then there was the time Draco Malfoy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, inadvertently taking the Killing Curse that was meant for his childhood enemy. Harry had shut himself in his room for days after both incidents.

But what mattered was that Harry hadn't even blinked in the face of either death, which happened amidst the flurry of battle. He never stopped to mourn the dead on a battlefield, continuing to move as swiftly and efficiently through any circumstances. Harry knew he couldn't afford to slow down while dueling against twenty Death Eaters. And so he never ceased fire even as he saw his comrades fall. He continued to hurl spells and curses into Voldemort's forces with the same grim determination, as if he was saving his own sacrifice for the very end . . . .

A violent shudder wracked Hermione's body. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps he knew he was going to die facing down Voldemort.

"He knew," a shaky voice whispered as though sensing her thoughts, and she almost jumped. She relaxed when she recognized the voice as Ginny's. Ginny lifted her face slightly to meet her gaze, and Hermione saw that she looked truly heartbroken. "He knew he wasn't coming back, Hermione . . . . He was smiling when we said g-goodbye, but I felt him shaking when he hugged me . . . for the l-last time . . . ."

Hermione began to draw circles on her back, trying to ease the fresh bout of sobs that overtook Ginny. "I know," said Hermione quietly, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. It came out as miserable as she currently felt.

In the last five years, she, Ron, Ginny and Harry had taken to practically living in Sirius' house. Sirius, after being pardoned by the Ministry eight years ago, had given the whole family property to his godson. Harry hadn't really wanted it, but because he could see that Sirius wanted it less, he had loaned the Black Manor to Dumbledore to continue using as the Order's headquarters. The four of them usually spent time together in this gloomy house. As dark and depressing as it was, the house had become comforting in its own way. Somehow, it seemed fitting that they should live in a house that reflected the gloom of the world outside.

Hermione was sure, however, that the next time she left the house would be the last. She didn't ever want to set foot inside this place again. It was a place that held painful memories of a green-eyed friend. Grimmauld Place would no longer provide comfort; it would become a just depressing house.

It was in this very room that they had seen Harry last. The kitchen had been empty save for the four of them, and they had been waiting for the news on the battle that was going on in the northern part of Scotland. After months of research, the Order had finally unearthed Voldemort's main base, and was executing the largest ambush they had yet attempted. Harry was restlessly pacing the length of the room. This was nothing out of the ordinary. She, herself, had been nervous.

The door to the kitchen suddenly burst open and they all turned sharply. Dumbledore stood in the doorframe, obviously having come straight from the battlefield, with his robes singed in places but otherwise looking uninjured. He strode inside and nodded in acknowledgement. Hermione rather thought he looked paler than usual.

"Well?" Harry demanded, always to the point.

"The attack is going far better than we anticipated," said Dumbledore without preamble. This surprised her as well as Ron and Ginny, and they stood up immediately. There had been scarcely any good news these days. "All the Dark Creatures have been subdued or incapacitated. The infiltration on the base is nearly over. Only a few Death Eaters and Voldemort himself remain, trapped by the wards we set up."

Ginny beamed at the Headmaster as Hermione felt her heart race. So they had Voldemort cornered. This could finally be the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel, the triumph they had all been praying for.

"Brilliant!" exclaimed Ron, "Are we to go and help?"

Dumbledore opened his mouth to reply, but paused, seemingly at a loss for words. He turned to Harry and looked at him searchingly, as if he were unsure. Dumbledore's face was ashen despite the fact that the situation was working in their favor. This had been the first sign of alarm.

Harry placed a hand on Ron's shoulder, forcing him to sit back down as he stepped forward. "I'm going. But you three stay here," he said to them, "The war's as good as over. There are probably enough Order members there to finish what's left of Voldemort's forces, but I'll be damned if I can't personally kick his ass and see to it that he rots in hell." He then turned to Dumbledore, returning that intense gaze that seemed to have a hidden meaning beyond what the rest of them could comprehend. "You'll allow me to, won't you?" he asked the Headmaster, a little forcefully.

Dumbledore regarded him with a sorrowful gaze. He wordlessly nodded before walking out of the kitchen door.

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione, giving them the customary hugs as he prepared to go. Ron clapped on Harry's back. "Good luck, mate. Kick his ass for me, will you?" he said brightly, but his sapphire eyes betrayed the concern and uncertainty he felt inside. Thick as he sometimes was, he shared the same unease as Hermione this time. There was something off about both Harry and Dumbledore. "Be careful, Harry," Hermione added as she squeezed his hand.

"I will," he reassured and went to embrace Ginny firmly in a hug that lasted a bit longer than the ones for Ron and Hermione. When they parted, Ginny was looking up at him worriedly, seeming reluctant to let go of him. "Are you all right, Harry?" she asked tentatively, to which he responded with a smile.

He had smiled.

Harry never smiled before going into battle. They had seen him numerous times as he prepared to jump into the fire. His face was always devoid of emotions, his eyes so hard and serious it almost scared them. But this scared them even more.

"Of course I'm all right," he offered, giving every indication of eagerness for revenge, "This is something I've got to do." After a moment, however, his emerald eyes softened. "Be safe, guys. See you later."

And before any of them had the chance to call him back, he was gone.

Out of the door and out of their lives.

Hermione's efforts did nothing to stop the flow of her tears. She couldn't believe that had been three days ago. An hour after Harry's departure they received information of a massive magical explosion on the battle site. The last Order fighter to flee the field was said to have witnessed the fierce duel between Harry and Voldemort, escaping seconds before the burst of magic rocked the area of three-mile radius surrounding the Dark Lord's base.

The Ministry's sensors had gone haywire. The level of magic emitted from the explosion was off-scale on all magical devices. So intense was the magic in the air around the site that experts deemed it extremely hazardous to the health—fatal, even—to approach the ruin of the Dark Lord's base for at least seventy-two hours. No one knew what had become of Harry Potter, and they had waited for the last three days for the news of Harry's safety.

The three days had felt like an eternity. And after the eternity came the devastation. The constant threat in their lives had disappeared. Lord Voldemort was no more, but Harry had left them forever.

The tremors running through Ginny had abated somewhat, and she looked up, attempting to smile. Hermione wasn't surprised when it came out more like a grimace. Ginny appeared calmer, she thought distractedly, but no less pained. "Thanks for the comfort, Hermione," she said, "But I really think Ron needs you now. You should go see him. I'll stay here for a little while."

Nodding, Hermione stood and left the kitchen. She climbed up the stairs in a daze, her feet leading her to where she knew Ron to be. She knocked on the door gently before she slowly swung the door open.

There he was. Predictably, Ron was in the room he used to share with Harry before they got their own rooms. No matter how many times Harry had joked that he was glad to be able to sleep free of Ron's snoring, she knew how much Harry had appreciated his presence when he woke from nightmares and visions in the dead of night. She suspected Ron did too. He was on one of the beds, lying on his stomach and unmoving. She might have mistaken him to be asleep had it not been for the small shudders that ran through him as well as his erratic breathing.

Hermione moved closer to her boyfriend and knelt at the foot of the bed, covering the larger hand with her own.

"Ron," she tried to speak. "Ron, I . . ."

The problem was, she didn't know what to say. What was there to say? 'It's alright, everything will be fine'? No, of course not. It wasn't all right, and nothing they could do would bring their best friend back. How could she possibly speak words of consolation when she, herself, was far from being consoled?

Without another word, she collapsed in a heap against the bed. She was crying in earnest before she even realized it. Ron shifted slightly and gave her hand a squeeze. Hermione could only clutch it close to her, holding on as desperately as she would a lifeline.

x x x

"You knew, didn't you?" Sirius Black said quietly, his voice quivering from barely suppressed fury. "You knew he was planning to take Voldemort with him. You knew he was going to die and you let him!"

Echoing silence reigned over the adjoining chamber to the Headmaster's office, usually reserved for emergency Order meetings. Every pair of eyes was fixed upon the subject of accusation. Some were disturbed, some were furious, some were sad, some were shocked, some were disappointed and some were a mix of all those emotions, but none were happy. Dumbledore met their gazes without a flinch.

He had expected everyone to be disgusted by his choices. He was disgusted at himself. He had as good as killed Harry.

Dumbledore had watched over Harry for so long. It was he who taught Harry to fight in combat, he who helped discover his true powers and taught him to wield magic in a way that only Harry could. He relayed any and all knowledge he possessed that could potentially kill or weaken the seemingly infallible Tom Riddle. Telling Harry about the prophecy had been the first step.

A small part of him had died that night as he regarded Harry over the silvery light of the Pensieve. Dumbledore could remember vividly the way the boy's face had paled, his expressive eyes showing transparent terror as the implications of Sybil Trelawny's prediction hit. Dumbledore had stolen the last of his childhood then.

But Harry had been strong. The haunting words of the prophecy did nothing to waver his will to fight, or to instill inside him the fear of death. If anything, they reinforced his already firm will. Harry was determined to do whatever it took to defeat Lord Voldemort, and his strong resolve showed in his training. The private tutoring the Headmaster gave involved much physical, mental and magical exertion, and Dumbledore had been anything but lax. There were days when Harry would pass out in the middle of the training from sheer depletion of energy. However, not once did he complain about the training, nor about the burden of his destiny. Dumbledore had quickly come to respect the youth. He had come to love him like a grandson.

And yet, at the same time, another part of Dumbledore died. He was aware of how his own actions were molding Harry—the boy for whom he cared so deeply—into a weapon. A mere tool in the war against Voldemort. He cursed the heavens for the unfairness of it all and loathed himself for using Harry in a way no one should be used. Harry knew this. He knew and still he did not object. He understood better than anyone the need to exterminate the Dark Lord, and he accepted the possibility of his untimely death.

Harry's powers grew much faster and greater than he could have imagined, and soon Dumbledore had told him of his speculation about Voldemort using Horcruxes and the possible location of where he could find the confirmation. Harry surprised him by bringing him a vial of memory, a week later, which contained enough evidence to assume this suspicion true. He had hunted down Horace Slughorn by himself and had interrogated him. Hardly a method he could approve of, but efficient.

After graduation, Harry had begun searching for the remaining Horcruxes. It took him nine years, but he had succeeded in destroying all six. The only one that remained was the Dark Lord himself.

Over the years, Dumbledore had learned how Harry's mind worked, and so he knew at one glance into Harry's grim emerald eyes what he was thinking of when he taught him one of the most dangerous spells in existence. Iactura Abiudico; a spell to spend one's life force to take another's life. Bordering on Dark magic and definitely illegal, it involved a branch of Necromancy that had been banned several centuries ago. For the spell to work, a part of the caster's magic was taken permanently. It was a few weeks ago that they hit upon this spell in their research. Dumbledore's heart broke even as he smiled and complimented Harry on executing the experimental spell flawlessly on a lab rat. Harry hadn't broken a sweat.

But they both knew that using the spell on Voldemort would take Harry's life. The greater the power of the subject, the more it took for the caster to kill. They also knew that this spell had the best chance of destroying Voldemort. The Dark Lord was simply too powerful to defeat in a duel.

The location of Voldemort's base had, in fact, been known to both him and Harry for years. It was Severus Snape who had disclosed the secret. Dumbledore supposed that the only reason Severus stayed undiscovered as a spy was because the Order hadn't acted on the information. It was Voldemort's reasoning that if Snape actually was a spy and was leaking secrets into the Order, the base would have been under fire a long time ago.

In truth, they could have attacked the base any time in the past, if Dumbledore so wished. But he had saved it for after Harry had finished hunting for the Horcruxes, and after they had found a fail-safe method to ridding off Voldemort for good. And recently, all conditions had been fulfilled. At long last, Dumbledore decided it was time to act. He set up the traps, he prepared the army, and he readied the ultimate sacrifice. Harry Potter.

So yes, he was well aware of Harry's plan of using this spell as a means of ending the war. Dumbledore knew he would forever regret his decision to teach Harry the deadly spell, but he taught him nonetheless. He couldn't deny Sirius' accusation, nor did he intend to. He answered with the plain truth.

"Yes. I did."

What little restraint Sirius might have maintained snapped right there and then, the fragile rein on his emotions broken by just three words. He launched himself at Dumbledore with a roar of rage. Before the Animagus could inflict any damage, however, a beam of light struck Sirius in the back and he rigidly tumbled forward, crashing onto the floor several feet in front of Dumbledore. The Headmaster sighed.

"You needn't have interfered, Severus," he said softly as he waved his wand. "Finite Incantatem."

With a snarl, Sirius got off the floor and glared murderously at the Potions Master. Remus, expecting some aggressive move from his long-time friend, held him back firmly as Sirius made a lunge for their childhood nemesis. Remus understood the sorrow Sirius felt, for he was experiencing the same loss. He, too, hated Dumbledore at the moment; hated him for using Harry as a weapon, hated him for so calmly admitting his faults. The intensity of the emotion surprised even himself. But his friend needed to learn that venting his anger out on the Headmaster solved none of their problems. Snape only gazed down at them over his long hooked nose and sneered disdainfully.

"Control your mutt, Lupin, or he'll have to go," he said snidely as he stowed his wand. "Attacking the headmaster is hardly what we have come here to do. Such show of disrespect and stupidity. You should be proud. I've no doubt Potter picked up those particular traits from you, Black."

Sirius' stormy gray eyes widened, and they could see that there was almost a mad look to them. "DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT HIM!" he bellowed as he struggled against Remus' grip, "Don't you dare talk about Harry, you worthless murderer! You're happy that he died, aren't you? You're bloody happy your Master took James' son with him. Well? AREN'T YOU, SNIVELLUS?"

For all Sirius' anger, every Order member in the room could see who would win a verbal fight in this situation. A slow smile spread on Snape's thin lips as he studied the aggrieved man, ignoring Dumbledore's warning look.

"Why, you're absolutely right, Black! First time for everything, it seems," he added nastily. "I am happier than you could ever know. The Dark Lord and Potter went and killed each other; what more could I have hoped for? Pardon me, I take that back. I would be happier if you'd died as well—"

Sirius bared his teeth. "You . . ."

"Enough!" shouted Dumbledore. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as the air around him flared with tangible power. Everyone fell silent at once. After a few moments, Dumbledore seemed to regain control of his own emotions. He sighed.

"That is quite enough, gentlemen. Sirius, you will behave in a civilized manner while you are in this room. After the meeting is over, you are free to seek me anytime and strike me to your heart's content if you so wish. And Severus . . . not one more word against Harry will be tolerated in my presence. This meeting has been convened to make arrangements for Harry's funeral, and all who are gathered here have cared for him greatly. You will not provoke further resentment by speaking out inappropriately."

Sirius made no acknowledgement at Dumbledore's command, though he stopped struggling against Remus and settled for glaring at Snape, his chest heaving and face white with rage. Snape merely gave a mocking bow.

Still smirking viciously, the Potions master watched Sirius and Remus sulk as the meeting finally progressed into making plans for the funeral. If the remaining Marauders thought that Snape had said what he did simply to get a rise out of them, they were sourly mistaken.

He had meant every word of it. Every hateful syllable rang true. Many were of the opinion that Harry Potter was a saint, that it was impossible not to love and admire the wizarding hero who had dedicated his life for the demise of evil. Potter was pure and strong. Potter was noble and brave. Potter was just like his parents. And Severus Snape detested all those characteristics—every single one that marked him as the perfect savior—with a vengeance.

But it was Potter's ridiculously selfless actions that disgusted him above all else, even surpassing his heritage as a Potter that Snape so blatantly hated.

Arrogance. That was what it was. So sure was Potter of his own abilities that he allowed himself to be used by Dumbledore. Snape was not blind; he knew how manipulative the Headmaster could be when he wanted to be. Potter, however, took little to no persuasion on Dumbledore's part. He was already hell-bent on following the prophecy, to walk the path that had been created for him to walk on since before his birth. Potter had been aware of his role in the war, and he had accepted to becoming a weapon without a second thought, without the tiniest hesitation, happily sacrificing his life 'for the greater good.'

Did Potter ever see that there were those who were not gifted with the luxury of living a life already laid out for them? That there were those who chose their own paths, even if such paths went against all their beliefs, just so that they could live to see the morning next? No. Potter had succumbed to the prophecy, throwing his life away in the name of 'the greater good,' oh so willingly. It sickened him.

'Survival of the fittest' was the Slytherin motto. It was not passed on as a tradition, like Ravenclaw's official motto, 'Knowledge is power,' or Gryffindor's unofficial motto, 'Action before consideration.' And yet, it was a fact of life that every Slytherin learned, usually in the hard way, at some stage in their life. Potter had been hideously powerful for someone as young as twenty-six, Snape would grant him that. And contrary to his impression of Potter in his first few Hogwarts years, the boy's brains had not been as hopeless as his sidekick's, and his temper more controllable. Not quite what he would call cunning, but sufficient. And he had certainly been ambitious.

Harry Potter, ironically, met all requirements expected in a student of Slytherin house. All except one.

There was one vital trait Potter was missing that distinguished him clearly as a Gryffindor. It was a trait that showed in a Slytherin if one watched closely enough, a trait that came before all else in a time of crisis.

It was the persistence to live, the determination to fight tooth and nail and cling onto life.

Snape's life, it seemed, had always been ruled by this particular trait. His strong instinct for survival was one of the main reasons he joined the Death Eaters in the first place. Growing up in a community whose colors were hardly Light, the only people that welcomed him with open arms had been those in league with the Dark Lord. He was aware that the mortality rate was not so high in the Dark Lord's service. It was, however, higher than out of his service. From the day he became a marked Death Eater, he had killed and tortured and maimed, if not for pleasure or affinity for power, then for the insurance of his own survival.

And then he got wind that the Ministry of Magic was beginning to suspect him of Death Eater activities. By that time, the Ministry was desperate; he knew that they could arrest him with minimal evidence, and that he would be sentenced to life in Azkaban or be administered the Kiss if they saw fit to interrogate him under the effects of Veritaserum. That was when he'd made the choice to seek shelter from Dumbledore by becoming a double-crosser.

How very ironic. The very instinct that had made him turn toward the Dark had tossed him into the Light. But for him, survival was everything. It was not in his nature to act selflessly. He hated Potter for being the exact opposite.

He hadn't even noticed that Dumbledore had ended the meeting. Tomorrow at five, the funeral would take place. That, and the rest of procedures taken care of, somber-faced Order members were beginning to file out of the door. Snape got up as well, and striding right past the Marauders without further comment, he exited the room.

Attending Potter's funeral tomorrow was not on his agenda. He had better things to do than to watch hundreds of moping wizards and witches give meaningless praise to the late Boy Who Lived. Snape walked out of the castle and into the pleasantly cool summer night. He didn't plan on coming back to Hogwarts as a Potions professor, either. He was done being ordered around by Dumbledore. It was time he took advantage of his freedom to do what he wanted. Never again would he serve another.

Snape halted in his steps. It nearly killed him to admit, but Potter was the one that had unwittingly saved him from his life of servitude for his two 'Master's. Despite all the hatred he felt for Potter, and all the hatred Potter felt for him, his sacrifice to save the wizarding world had had a direct impact on Snape himself.

Potter had saved him. After all Snape's efforts to live, after everything he did to survive, Potter had been the one that saved him in the end. All along, Potter had been the only one who ever held the power to set him free. Snape knew that he would forever be in the boy's debt, however much he loathed the thought. With Potter gone, it was a debt that he would never be able to repay.

Just as he had never gotten to repay the debt he owed to James Potter.

All the more reason to hate the boy.

Snape cast a glance at the starry skies overhead and grimaced. Try as he might to deny his treacherous thoughts, he supposed he owed Potter a word of gratitude. He knew one praise that he was sure Potter would be glad to hear.

"I still stand by what I said, Potter," he murmured bitterly, "how extraordinarily like your father you were."

x x x

". . . word from Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

As the priest made the introduction, Dumbledore stood and walked onto the podium set up on the lake's shore. Here, he had a clear view of everyone present. Many had come to pay their last respects to the wizarding world's savior. Magical folks young and old, men and women alike, had gathered on the Hogwarts ground, where the funeral was held.

Even those who had become at odds with Dumbledore had come. Sirius and Remus were here. All of Harry's friends—that is to say, all the surviving ones—had come as well. Even if it was almost unbearably sad to accept Harry's death, they wanted to honor his memory by attending today. Severus had not made an appearance. Dumbledore had not expected him to. The Potions master had left the school grounds yesterday, and he hadn't seen him since. In fact, he rather suspected that the man was never coming back.

Dumbledore took a moment to glance over the lake and at the marble tombstone on the other side of the waters' banks. The lake's smooth surface sparkled in the setting sun, but the white tomb remained strangely untainted by the bloody color that painted the rest of the scenery. Just like Harry, he thought.

He wrenched his gaze away from the entrancing sight and focused his attention back on the silent crowd before him.

"Harry Potter was, undeniably, a hero," he began, his face unsmiling and eyes devoid of twinkling warmth. "Though I am sure that Harry himself would rather be remembered as a good friend and as a fellow member of the wizarding community like any other, his name shall be passed on as a legend. He was a beacon of light for many of us. His dedication and unwavering will to fight the overwhelming darkness have sparked hopes within the most discouraged of hearts, ignited a fire of determination deep inside us to stand up for our loved ones and for our future. That Harry has saved us all from the clutches of evil is not an overstatement.

"Today, we are here to mourn the loss of a fine young man. Harry has always been pure at heart, and what he wanted for the world, he worked so hard to achieve. Peace is one of them. Of the numerous gifts Harry has bestowed upon us, it is perhaps the most precious of all, and by far the most fragile. Peace is something easily broken and extremely difficult to maintain. We must always keep in mind that Harry Potter, as well as many others, had valued peace above their lives, and that we must treasure and guard this gift most jealously."

Dumbledore paused, his gaze sweeping over the mass of mourning people. Nearly all of them were weeping. Harry had meant that much to all of them. Dumbledore, however, had not shed a tear at the news of his favorite pupil's death. He had no right to cry; after all, it was he who had brought this upon Harry. Upon the whole of wizarding world.

Upon himself.

"This war that Lord Voldemort has begun has affected us in a way we will never forget. Many have lost their lives defying him. Still others suffered by his hand. Family and friends were torn apart in the most cruel way as he spread influence over everywhere he could reach. And though I doubt there is a single person here unaffected by the war, some have paid a higher price than others. Some, like Harry, took a more direct means than others to actively end the war. The least we survivors can do is to respect their wishes from this moment on. We must rebuild the wizarding world from the ruins left by the storm that was Lord Voldemort. We must take measures to ensure that such tragedies will never repeat themselves in the future."

Yes, he thought, the Ministry of Magic would soon become busy with the reconstruction of the wizarding world. They had much to do to compensate for the inefficiency they showed in the rise of Lord Voldemort and during his reign of terror; wizarding establishments to repair, corrupted laws to revise, the after-care of the families that have been morally and financially damaged, and Death Eaters to capture.

Dumbledore was not particularly worried about Voldemort's ex-followers. It had been Voldemort's talent and charisma that had bound them together to make a formidable force. With him gone, they were scattered, and regrouping would be near impossible in the Headmaster's opinion. They were nothing but dangerous individuals.

He had no doubt, however, that the Ministry would come to him, seeking help and advice. Little did they know that they would not receive the expected help from him, for they will not find him after this funeral was over.

Dumbledore was going to officially step down from his role as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and was going to mysteriously disappear. He had no intention of staying to see the wizarding world regain its prosperity and enjoy its peace that had long been missing. He would no longer have hand in important Ministry issues. Throughout the war, he had learned that his meddling in the Ministry and in the lives of key individuals—namely Harry—was sometimes more damaging than helping.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently had he questioned his ways earlier. Perhaps Harry would still be alive.

Now, though, he would never find out. He, himself, had made sure of that. So no, he would no longer meddle in the business that wasn't his. It was high time the Ministry stopped being dependant on his words anyway.

After another brief glance at the tomb, Dumbledore took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at the heavens above. Red. Deep red, as if all the blood that had been spilt over the years of the war had painted the sky in a reminder. There were no clouds, and at this moment, not a patch of blue or purple could be seen in the vast, empty canvas. Just the color of blood stretching endlessly for as far as the eye could see.

On any other day, Dumbledore might have found the sight breathtakingly beautiful. Today, he found it frighteningly depressing, but strangely appropriate.

"The war is over," he continued, still gazing heavenwards. Perhaps the burning in his eyes won't spill if continued to speak that way. He never noticed, or cared for that matter, that the audience was also following his gaze up into the sky. "We have reached the end of a long era of fear and darkness. The evil that has plagued us for over a decade has been vanquished, and the wizarding world now stands, facing a new dawn."

A dawn? he asked himself. To most, perhaps. To him and some select others, though, the time reflected their views. It was dusk, for the sun in their lives have disappeared beneath the horizon. Harry Potter was gone.

"But let us always keep in our hearts those who have brought us this new morning. Let us always honor the sacrifices they made. Let us remember Harry Potter." A lone set of tears leaked from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "Let us remember this crimson sky."

x x x

Fin.

A/N: Pretty sad, don't you think? This was my first one-shot, and I really enjoyed writing it, but . . . (sniffles) . . . it's rather depressing. Anyway, let me know what you think. You can even say that my attempt to dampen the mood was hilariously pathetic :) Please review!