Costing Not Less than Everything, a harry potter fanfic

I am a humble fan fiction writer, which means I don't own anything but some of the ideas. The title comes from a fan fiction I read once; it was the title of a subchapter. Unfortunately, I have no idea who or what story it came from, if some were to tell me, I would gladly give them credit. This takes place throughout the war, with a slightly different perception on things. Special Kudos goes to Alryssa for telling me the origin of "Costing not less than everything". It's T. S. Elliot, from the poem Little Gidding. Thanks! Also, upon further reflection, the thought of tying emotions/actions/occurrences comes from Tuesdays with Morrie.

Reviews are welcomed/encouraged. I cannot grow as a writer without reviews letting me know what I am doing well, and where I need work.

Costing Not Less than Everything

By Jenna Black

The milk was too white, if such a thing could be said.

It was Sunday morning, and Severus was having his breakfast. Looking down at the glass in his hand, he tried not to let it affect him. The milk was pure, and reminded him of everything he was not. Tainted since childhood, the past few years had done nothing but concentrate his distorted soul. The war had gone on too long, and with every passing day he was reminded more of how things should have been. He should have been relaxing, reading a book quietly at home, not here in this bustling kitchen, trying to find the solution to all the worlds' problems in a glass of milk. 'Oh well,' he thought, 'We play the cards we're dealt, and do with them what we can.'

The sun was too yellow, if such a thing could be said.

It mocked him, as if to tell him there was something he should be doing. He had never liked it, even as a babe, and had never truly felt its rays since a potion had made him allergic to it. The magical barrier between the suns warmth and him only served to remind him he was different. It was a Sunday again, and the others were out enjoying themselves at the beach for a change. "Only the Weasley twins could convince Minerva McGonagall to create a group portkey to Jamaica" He muttered. The silence at headquarters would have been nice, but now all he notices are the voices he should be hearing. He had discovered Tonk's body on a mission last night, but had bit his tongue to give the others one day of respite. Now, he couldn't help but hear her laughter, in the corner of the room, in the corner of his mind. He was glad the others were enjoying their day; with all that was going on they deserved it, and it would be a long time until they had another. 'We must all grab whatever happiness we can.'

Her hair was too orange, if such a thing could be said.

It was yet another Sunday; instead of having breakfast as he wished, he was here at the park, looking for her. The terrible report had come in last night. As of the conclusion of last night's raid, she was an orphan, and the last Weasley. There had been an attack, and she had been the only Weasley not home. The others were all dead; falling like the old nursery rhyme - one by one until there was none. It is cloudy outside, but her hair still shines like a beacon, making it far too easy to find her. He had hoped for more time to put off the inevitable. He was not the bastard everyone supposed, and he could not stand this part of his job. The wind shifts, and with it her gaze. She sees him, and knows that something is terribly wrong. As she sobs into his shoulder he tells her the truth, and in that moment he would give his life to erase her pain.

The grass was too green, if such a thing could be said.

Sundays were the worst days, he had found. They were the days where people did not return from missions, or the days when you finally found out why. Today was one of those days. It did not seem right for the earth to be so alive, when so many of those who should be walking it were dead. 'The blood renews, and gives strength to those behind' he muttered, but he did not feel that way. It did not matter to him that things would one day be renewed, not when Minerva was in the ground. She had fought long and hard, and she had been so close- just five more feet and she would have escaped Lucius' clutches. Now she was gone on to whatever comes after this life, just as so many more before her had done.

The water was too blue, if such a thing could be said.

It was Sunday, and another terrible thing had happened. Their spy was dead. The thing that bothered him most was that in this terrible time they could not even mourn the person, only the information he had provided. He had been found out when Voldemort had looked into his eyes; those eyes that contained more secrets than one should ever have to hold. Severus was standing alone at the edge of a cliff now, executing Draco Malfoy's last wishes. His body had already been desecrated and destroyed by the Death Eaters. The ashes of his belongings had been thrown in, in his body's stead. The ocean swallowed the ashes quickly, it's hungry countenance erasing all trace of the boy who had fought so hard to change. 'It was only in dying that he was free.' Severus thinks, knowing his only escape would be death as well. The thought saddens him.

The sky was too purple, if such a thing could be said.

Another Sunday, another mindless sacrifice. 'The show must go on' He thinks, as he throws the first bit of dirt onto Ginny Weasley's grave. The sun was setting, and at the moment it was that 'magic' time of day- at least that's what she and Hermione had called it. The sun's reflected rays cast everything into a purple light, with the sky above brilliant shades of blues, pinks, oranges, reds, and gold's. He remembers the day when he was told that phrase, as they gathered ingredients for potions. She has been happy then, unlike the past few weeks. She had retreated inside herself after the death of her family, and Severus had watched her die a little bit each day. It was not inevitable that she would be lost soon. It was sadly, morbidly surprising that she had lasted this long. Brought up in a loving family, the world had not been kind to her. The smile that used to grace her face in youth will stay etched in his mind forever, as will the desperateness of her suicide mission and the fervor with which she fought for it.

The dirt was too brown, if such a thing could be said.

'It was swallowing them up one by one' was his first thought. His second thought was that it was Sunday. This time the earth had opened to welcome Remus Lupin, the last surviving member of the 'old crowd'. He did not count himself as belonging to any crowd except his own in solidarity. The crowd around his grave was small; there was no one left to mourn. All that remained were a few minor Order Members that had been promoted due to circumstance and need, the inner circle had almost all died off. All that remained was Hermione, Harry and himself. He did not care about Harry – times had not changed enough for the chasm between them to be crossed. Hermione though, had become his symbol of light. She was one of the only things that remained right, and true, in this world. She stood to his right, and held his hand for comfort. He would not pull his hand away; it felt humanizing to be needed, and he knew that when they returned to headquarters they would be doing a lot more than holding hands. But it wasn't sex, it was solace.

The blood was too red, if such a thing could be said.

'It was not a Sunday' was his first thought, as he looked at her broken body lying lifelessly on the ground. It had been over a month since they had buried the last of their friends, and they had found an unknown comfort in each other. The solace and comfort that had been their days together had kept him going, as the war steadily stripped them to their core. He did not allow himself to cry as he attended to her body, but could not stop the tears from flowing when he lay in bed alone.

His heart was too black, if such a thing could be said.

It was a Sunday, and for everyone else, it was a day of celebration. The war was actually over. Potter had done what he had to do, and the nighttime that had enveloped them for years was giving way to a new day. For everyone, that is, but him. Looking around him he only saw people laughing, and dancing. They were happy, in a way he could never be. Haunted by the ghosts of what the war had cost, he would never allow himself to forget, or move on, or rejoice. The cynical smile that crossed his face from time to time would be the best he could do to acknowledge the gaiety around him. Even that little action took tremendous effort as he struggled not to turn away from the joy. He knew in the end he would retreat though. He would go back to being the solitary figure, alone but for his memories, and lost in his thoughts. 'I have lived too long.' He thought, feeling a hollow place where his heart used to be.

The truth was too clear, if such a thing could be said.

He had been alone for years know, forgotten to the outside world and finding whatever peace he could in his cabin in the woods. The world had recovered, as it always did, and he had been left behind, as he always was. But he existed, and he took comfort in that simple fact. But it was a bittersweet comfort; too many people were lost that should not have been, and too many living should have been lost. He lived his life as he wanted to now, and had for many years; doing what he could, everyday, to grow, and make amends for the past. He was working to amend the past, without ever truly thinking of it. Today was different though, he could not stop dwelling on the past, and the pain that accompanied it. He was still somewhat surprised the pain had not dulled with the years, and wondered if in the short time he had left it ever would. 'We play the cards were dealt, and do with them what we can' he thought, as he took another sip of coffee. Rising to put the mug in the sink, he looks to the calendar hanging on the wall, and everything fell into place.

It was a Sunday.