Title: Devil's Workday
Summary: Postwar fic. Harry deals, or doesn't, as the case may be. Implied Snape/Harry, Harry/Ginny. Character death! Yes. There is.
Warnings: SLIGHT spoilers for Half-Blood Prince. Well, okay, rather large spoilers.
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, Harry Potter and all affiliated characters belong to JK Rowling in her infinite wisdom, we all know. "Devil's Workday" belongs to Modest Mouse, I just ganked the lyrics for a little bit.
--
Well, let's take this potted plant into the woods and set it free.
I'm gonna tell the owners just how nice that was of me.
I could buy myself a reason; I could sell myself a job,
I could hang myself for treason, because I am my own damn god.
-"Devil's Workday," Modest Mouse
--
(1)
I used to dream:
"Potter, choose." Oh, that knife-edged word. Stiffen, whisper, no, and jerk the wand from his pocket, why was it in his pocket and not in his hands already? A black-robed grease-smear is clutched tight in the hands of the Dark Lord, no, Voldemort. Never a lord, never ever. Snape's eyes are vacant, gaze falling away and in. He may be alive, but no one is home.
The blood-washed Druid stones are beside us, and stand beyond. Inside they are glowing with the remnants of a power draw. It seems like a beautiful place to die.
A memory:
"Severus… please…"
A nightmare:
Never has he ever, would he ever trust that man. What a lie.
"I chose." A slight motion, the words rising involuntarily onto his lips, spilling, "AVADA—"
"—KEDAVRA!" Wand to Snape's throat. "Death for traitors, Harry!"
A flash of green, brilliant, blinding, and the scream cowering under his skin, and he falls, limp and a slick flush on the spring pale grass—with an incoherent shriek, Harry rushes, trembling, letting the purpose meld with rage and briefly glad that he cannot be seen anymore.
He is beyond caring, and all he can see are the bodies, and the body, and the knowledge that he will commit murder, kill another, and god, is he going to enjoy fulfilling the prophecy.
--
(2)
I never dream anymore. All screaming, all nightmares. The war has risen and fallen well past the dénouement and crumbled the rest of our lives.
After, all I could hope was for the whisper of, "Potter, never in my life."
Wait for him to say, to touch.
Every time I see the school, get the image of his body out of my mind, all I can hear is, "Severus… please…"
Hear me trembling, "Please."
McGonagall thinks I should stay at the shambles of Hogwarts and let the last of the warding keep my sanity. I'm too tired to fight anymore. After listening to me, she begins to think I should stay in St. Mungo's. Hermione and Ron fight that.
I crumpled after the battle, that last, swift, slick flight. Closed my eyes and shuddered. Closed and screamed, and let the blood wash from my skin, because I'd made sure that his end wouldn't be swift, wouldn't be just a killing curse—it would be just. After he had destroyed everything.
It would be just.
Curled into the arms of my friends, fell asleep with the shuddery mumbling, "Oh, god, Harry…" Oh, Hermione, Ron. Oh. My friends, they're so good to me.
Even Ron held me still, though I knew that some amount of black humor was there—Snape was dead, and here I was, screaming over the bodies.
--
(3)
Memorial. A private memorial, something for the school, for the Order of the Phoenix, for the rest of us who have destroyed someone else in order to save our world.
I sit and stare blankly ahead, knowing Ginny is beside me, clutching at my hand and wondering why I kept tracing the name S. Snape over and over onto the marble-threaded memorial. Know Hermione isn't wondering, and Ron is blissfully quiet and keeping his mouth shut for once.
Know that I must have said something.
They haven't buried him here. Refuse. They mention him in the loss of teachers, because… well, he was lost.
McGonagall is talking. Talking talking talking. So many words. They all died so long ago—starting with my parents? Starting with Quirrell and the unicorns in First Year? Dumbledore? Ending with S. Snape and the Dark Lord Voldemort. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Welcome to the Riddle House. I laugh, uncertainly, trying to muffle it into my palm.
"Harry Potter."
Ginny, Hermione, Ron, all of them jerk up with a protective, "But…", but they can't say anything, because I stand up. It's Hagrid, now.
"I'm not saying anything, anymore." The words start on their own. God, am I bitter. "What do you want?"
Hagrid looks startled and briefly hurt, beady eyes widening under the bush of beard. "Thought y'd like ter say goodbye."
"Death for traitors, Harry!" And that rage, that sharp—
Shudder. Shake. I draw in a slow breath, whisper, "Goodbye…" Ginny flashes me a confused glance. Hermione touches my leg briefly.
I smile, bitterly, letting it go. "We've lost everyone," I start, stumble. "If you're still intact, good for you." I move start to move away from the cheap, Muggle-style folding chairs, kicking irritably.
"'arry--"
Cut him off. "But the rest of us aren't intact. We've lost someone; we've lost everyone, friends, and family, everyone that matters."
I pull back, step away from the crowd, sneakers slick with mud and wet. Slip on the grass, finally making it away from the privacy and the chairs. "They're gone and you have to let them go!" I'm yelling, now. Screaming.
Hands are reaching for me, calling my name, and I feel anger hitch my breath. Mrs. Weasley reaches out, tries to clutch at me, going, "Harry," but I jerk the edge of my shirt away. I've been wearing Muggle clothing all month. The last of my robes were lost, stiff with blood, grime, and panicked, raw, raging tears, and it isn't safe to drop into Diagon Alley, being the Boy That Killed The Dark Lord.
She snuffles. Ron reaches over and pulls her away from me.
Finally, I make it to the podium, ignoring everyone, ignoring me. I pause, breathe. Lean forward and bellow:
"Goodbye!"
--
(4)
I know you didn't mean to kill him.
Oh, god, I hope he-you thought it was necessary.
I want to hate you. Want to despise you for killing Dumbledore.
But I keep coming back to this memorial, to these graves, an entire graveyard for the dead of that last battle. Keep dropping the roses.
Keep whispering the promises.
Never have I ever would I ever trust that man.
I remember.
Remember revulsion and hatred. Wanting you dead.
Remember touching, ice-pale skin, dark whispers in the hallway, dysfunctional kisses.
I remember and I want and I miss and I need. It's been a year, and even imperturbable Harry Potter sometimes feels like Voldemort left something more in him, took over a part of him.
The Boy Who Lived, yes, that's who I am now, still. Sometimes, I feel like the dark is trying to swallow my soul.
No one else will ever know who you really were, Severus, I promise. Even wherever that Ginny thing goes, I will never let anyone else know.
(fin)