Title: Tearing Apart - Sequel to Hidden Truth
Part: One-shot
Author: MajinSakuko
E-Mail: MajinSakukoyahoo.de
Beta-Reader: Persephone Lupin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR everything else
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Main-Chara: SS, HP
Rating: PG
Genre/s: Drama, Angst
Warning/s: C/D
A/N: "They weren't alike. They were not family. They would never be.
And Severus sure as hell would not shed a tear." - Quote taken from Hidden Truth #13
-
Soft flocks of snow sailed slowly down to earth, down to cover the frozen ground with a thick, wintry layer. Monuments and crosses were strewn all over the large field, maintaining the memory of those who were already gone from this world. A marble angel, slightly disintegrated, held out her arms welcomingly, trying to soothe the loss in the hearts of those who hadn't left yet. But the angel's eyes were empty and her attempts were futile.
There were still countless visitors who mourned the deaths of those who'd died years ago by Voldemort's or his followers' hands. Hermione still came regularly to the cemetery, lightning candles and bringing fresh flowers; whether she'd known the deceased personally or not was beside the point, they had fought - and died - on the same side.
The snow continued to fall, now in heavier flocks; the sight was getting worse. White and pure while falling peacefully, the snow got wet and dirty as it touched the ground.
Too many feet bustled around, anxiously getting from one foot to the other. It was plain to see that this was not an ordinary gathering: Hundreds of people in dark robes and heavy cloaks to shield them from the cold were huddled close together, and though from their restless behaviour it was clear that they were apprehensive, they didn't talk at all. It was an almost painful silence, stretching out over the graveyard. The only sounds were coming from restrained shuffling and the occasional quiet sob.
Then, a tall, equally black-clad, figure cleared its throat, and the silence got even more deafening. The dark and plain robes looked so out of place on the normally so brightly and cheerfully clad wizard, that it was an almost painful sight in itself.
"Welcome," he said, and his voice carried clearly through the air. Light blue eyes shone with grief behind half-moon spectacles, as Albus Dumbledore spoke to the assembled audience. "We have gathered around here today to say goodbye to one of our midst. He was a great wizard-" Several people murmured "the best", "-and left us far too early. Harry Potter ..." Dumbledore fought against the knot in his throat.
"Sorcerers and sorceresses in the entire Wizarding World were well acquainted with the name of Harry Potter, but he was not only famous for thwarting Voldemort's-" Only a few soft gasps escaped at the still feared name, "-plans, he was also famous for his open-minded character and his strength at heart. Many an obstacle had been thrown in his way, but Harry Potter achieved the seemingly impossible ... and survived ..." Dumbledore's hoarse voice petered out, and the headmaster swallowed thickly. It was true that Harry had survived Voldemort, which was way longer than many had secretly believed. He had survived, but only for so long.
"24 years on this earth is far too short to see and experience all that is worth noticing. Even after over 150 years, I am not all-knowing myself. Many things Harry Potter never encountered and even though he was only 24, he was one of the few people ... unlucky people ... who had truly seen and known the dark side of magic. Harry Potter had been mature far beyond his age, and he fought a war for a better life. Seven years of this ... peaceful life were not enough to retain his lost childhood." Murmurs of agreement and still more miserable sobs arose from the crowd, as Dumbledore made a short pause to clear his constricting throat.
"To fight against the dark wizards was Harry Potter's life ... from the very beginning to the very end. His career as an Auror was outstanding and his abrupt ... demise was devastating to all of us. We suddenly lost Harry Potter, the hero, the wizard, but most of all the friend. He will always be remembered as the ... Boy-Who-Lived ... even in death."
Hermione burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. Crying miserably, her shoulders shook beneath her cloak which couldn't warm her despite its thickness.
Harry's death had come so out of the blue that she hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him what he meant to her, that she loved him like a brother. All those years with Voldemort after his neck had been hell, not knowing if they would survive to see the next day. But after the Dark Lord had been defeated, everything seemed perfect, they could accomplish all they wanted, they were immortal ... or so it seemed, that was.
It came all crashing down, like a bucket full of ice-cold water, destroying their little bubble of perfect life. Just one moment of inattentiveness could end it all, especially in a job as dangerous as Harry's had been.
Ron awkwardly put his arms around his distressed friend, patting her back and whispering soothing words into her ear. He sighed softly, as Hermione buried her face into his chest.
Calming female friends wasn't one of the easiest tasks for him, and it really made him uncomfortable; even at such an occasion.
Draco couldn't leave Hogwarts and had asked (and threatened with haunting if refused) Ron to watch after Hermione. Draco should have known in the first place that Ron couldn't have done differently; after Harry's death Hermione was his best friend after all, and he would never let her down; least of all now.
"Come on, Hermione," Ron urged. "Please ... stop crying. You know I'm uncomfortable around crying women, don't you? I don't know what to do. Please, tell me what I shall do ... If it makes you feel better, I'll do anything, I swear ..." Ron stroked Hermione's bushy hair back to get a glimpse of her tear-streaked face. Her otherwise happy or determined face was crunched up in pain; pain too prominent to be merely physical.
"Make him come back ... bring him back ..."
"Anything ... within my power, Hermione. You know I can't do that. Nobody does. Bringing back the dead is impossible. Even ... Harry couldn't have done it."
"But-"
"Hermione ..."
"I miss him!"
"I know," Ron sighed. "I miss him as well. Look around you, all those people miss him. Even Malfoy would have come if he weren't ..."
"It's not fair!" Hermione wailed, clinging to Ron's cloak. "It's just not-"
"When was it ever fair, huh? Harry had had it tough, but he had never complained, had he not? Something must have been right in his life, or else he would have left."
"I ... I just ..."
"It's going to be all right, Hermione, eventually. Wouldn't he have said something like that?"
"I s'pose," Hermione murmured, sniffing. Rubbing her eyes on her cool cloak, she anxiously glimpsed around if her little nervous breakdown had gone by unnoticed. Fortunately, it had. All around them, people were crying and mourning or whispering and soothing.
Did they all suffer as much as she? Did Harry really know all those people as well as her? And did they all know the real Harry Potter?
Hermione imagined Harry being there, watching beneath his Invisibility Cloak how people reacted to his death, how they behaved during his funeral. Hermione smiled a sad little smile; he would have been a secret spectator, seeing with his own eyes that they didn't only love him because he got rid of Voldemort for them, but also because he was their friend.
"Why are you smiling?" Ron asked quietly, scrutinizing his friend. He tried to gauge her mental state but couldn't come up with anything that explained why she would cry hysterically one moment and smile the next. The mystery of a women's mind was something he hadn't solved yet.
"No particular reason, really. I was just thinking Harry was still here-"
"Mione," Ron murmured miserably.
"-under his Cloak. I wondered what he'd say about peoples' reactions. Do you think he would be happy to know how much they ... how much we cared for him?"
"I'm sure he did know, he still knows, wherever he is right now. And when we see him again, he'll tell us so."
"We won't be seeing him for a while, though."
"He'll remember," Ron said a bit more brightly. "He won't have much else to do anyway than thinking, I can't really picture him playing harp, residing on a fluffy cloud ... expect maybe if he meets his parents, then we'll have a problem."
Hermione cracked a small smile at this. "Right."
A heavy silence fell around them. Tears were dried, shuffling ceased. The few minutes of movement had seemed like hours, it left Hermione feeling utterly drained, as if she'd run a marathon.
All eyes shifted back to Dumbledore, who looked older and more tired than ever. Weakness radiated from him, never before seen by any of those present. A crinkled hand caressed the smooth surface of a golden urn, containing the mortal remnants of Harry Potter. Melted snow glistered in the dim light, as Dumbledore raised the urn so that everyone was able to see it.
His earlier speech had left him hoarse, everything had been said, everything except, "Farewell ... until we meet again."
And Dumbledore put the urn into a small stone cube, pointing his wand at it and letting magical boundaries appear. The urn was still clearly visible from every side, only the edges of the cube protecting the grave were visible to the eye. Above the urn, a small marble cross was hovering. Small, plain and simple; something Harry would have approved of. Nothing extraordinary to make him feel uncomfortable, but nice and personal. The cross was tiny in comparison to many of the statues and gravestones around it, but its simple beauty stood out remarkably, no matter what it was compared to.
The snowing never ceased, and as people left the relatively small Wizarding section of Godric Hollow's cemetery, it covered up the evidences of them quickly enough. A red glimmering halo protected Harry's final resting place from the snow, which fell in never ending flocks. Soon, everything that was to be seen was the cold splendour.
White.
White.
Black.
White.
He could have been mistaken for a very realistic statue, if his cloak hadn't billow out quite so dramatically. Flashes of long dark hair could be seen peeking out under a hood which covered great parts of the man's face. Even if his most prominent feature - the severely crooked nose - hadn't been plainly visible, the way he held himself, the way his cloak seemed to have a life of its own, the way his aura seemed cooler than the icy snow penetrating his clothes ... that all were safe give-aways that the wizard must be one (and the one and only at that) Severus Snape.
There was the usual amount of stiffness emanating from his posture, which couldn't be led back to the cold, that suggested to everyone to back off - or chance losing a few digits when coming nearer. Not that he didn't always carry this impression around but being the single black spot in a vast place of white snow and graves just intensified the picture.
Severus pulled the hood slightly back to allow him a better view of the grave before him; the now stronger wind hurled angry snow flakes into his face.
"What am I doing here?" he whispered, not for the first time. He wasn't sure why he had gone out of his way to pay his last respect to Harry Potter - he didn't even respect him, so what was the point here? He wasn't sure why he had even considered it in the first place. And he wasn't sure why he hadn't put on his other cloak (the one with the spelled-in moisture repelling charm) when he knew it would be snowing like there was no tomorrow.
Severus didn't even like Harry - family connections be damned. He'd never had a real family beside his mother, never had needed one, and he'd turned out just fine, hadn't he? Harry, on the other hand, had been a weak-hearted fool (hence landing him in Gryffindor), there was no question to Snape why the boy hadn't coped so well without a proper family as he had. Even after all those years, even after he'd erased Voldemort from earth's surface (Snape still couldn't believe why he never used this information against the boy - maybe it was indeed being family and all, who knew?), Harry Potter still hadn't got out of his Hero Complex. Stupid; which proved the point with being a Gryffindor and all - not taken into account that a) Snape himself could have ended there and b) Harry could have been a Slytherin. What mattered in the end, was where the Sorting Hat finally put them, their respective houses; Gryffindor and Slytherin.
That was one point why he lived and Harry had had to die.
Often discussed recklessness and a serious case of an heroic inferiority complex were all it took to get Potter killed - and all by himself no less. Not that Severus knew exactly what had happened at this seemingly rather common Last Dark Wizard raid - he really didn't care that much to find out - but from the general buzz of information (which couldn't even be avoided when one lived 100 metres under the earth) it was clear that Potter had tried to take them all down single-handedly. He was - had been - one of the most if not really the most powerful wizard on earth, even Severus couldn't deny that, however much he tried, but even the almighty Golden Boy had only one pair of eyes and hands to work with - no supernatural premonition (except the thing with Voldemort) to begin with and certainly no borrowed additional eyes from the always watchful Filch. The added cold (even Potter had not been immune to the common flu) and his sense of duty to boot, Severus couldn't bring himself to be too surprised that he had ended dead; even though Potter had pulled through a lot more very similar things. Potter had always been a ticking self-destructing bomb - only a matter of time till he went off.
Severus wondered fleetingly if it might be a good idea to not put the new-to-be-sorted students at Hogwarts not into the houses they would were destined for. In another house, they would have the possibility to broaden their horizon; first year Slytherins were already cunning, after all, and Gryffindors reckless; why should they improve in things they were good at from the start? Maybe Potter wouldn't have cultivated his reckless abandon to this dimensions then, but that was all plain speculatively after all. Speculative and too late.
The Potions master neared the small marble cross, wondering why it wasn't lost in the vast number of monuments despite its simplicity. It shouldn't really have surprise him; the plain but valuable cross had a lot in common with the late Boy-Who-Lived. Both were nothing special on the first sight, only looking closer revealed the hidden secrets; and look closer one had to because they both - had - worked like a magnet, drawing the interest of those around towards them.
The urn beneath the cross, Severus snorted, was most likely going to becoming something akin to a Mecca when it got into the news where Potter's grave was.
"As if you needed any more attention," Severus growled lightly. "I hope you're happy now, Potter. All these people that will undoubtedly go on a pilgrimage to catch a glimpse of your grave; like some Wizarding Elvis. This must be heaven for you ..."
The Potions master actually stopped at that point. Heaven? Potter was dead and buried (beside the double grave of his parents, he noted by the way); the boy shouldn't be in heaven - not now, not ever.
"This is entirely your fault," Severus snarled. How harsh and bitter against life had he become to not even feel the slightest pang of sorrow at losing his last family member? Had he finally succeeded in erecting and perfecting his mental walls that prevented everyone from entering his world? Was he now not able anymore to emerge himself?
"Damn you, Potter."
It could have been different; maybe not unconditionally better from his point of view, but different. In a different world, living a different life, things could have worked out, Severus could have made them work out. He didn't know that Potter hadn't been as clueless as he'd thought him to be.
Now they'd never know.
"Goodbye, Potter," Severus whispered with a last glance at the grave. He rearranged his hood, effectively shielding him again from the frosty snow. Turning around, he left the cemetery forever, leaving behind only three words and three tears.
"Sleep well, Harry."
Part: One-shot
Author: MajinSakuko
E-Mail: MajinSakukoyahoo.de
Beta-Reader: Persephone Lupin
Disclaimer: I own nothing, JKR everything else
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing/Main-Chara: SS, HP
Rating: PG
Genre/s: Drama, Angst
Warning/s: C/D
A/N: "They weren't alike. They were not family. They would never be.
And Severus sure as hell would not shed a tear." - Quote taken from Hidden Truth #13
-
Soft flocks of snow sailed slowly down to earth, down to cover the frozen ground with a thick, wintry layer. Monuments and crosses were strewn all over the large field, maintaining the memory of those who were already gone from this world. A marble angel, slightly disintegrated, held out her arms welcomingly, trying to soothe the loss in the hearts of those who hadn't left yet. But the angel's eyes were empty and her attempts were futile.
There were still countless visitors who mourned the deaths of those who'd died years ago by Voldemort's or his followers' hands. Hermione still came regularly to the cemetery, lightning candles and bringing fresh flowers; whether she'd known the deceased personally or not was beside the point, they had fought - and died - on the same side.
The snow continued to fall, now in heavier flocks; the sight was getting worse. White and pure while falling peacefully, the snow got wet and dirty as it touched the ground.
Too many feet bustled around, anxiously getting from one foot to the other. It was plain to see that this was not an ordinary gathering: Hundreds of people in dark robes and heavy cloaks to shield them from the cold were huddled close together, and though from their restless behaviour it was clear that they were apprehensive, they didn't talk at all. It was an almost painful silence, stretching out over the graveyard. The only sounds were coming from restrained shuffling and the occasional quiet sob.
Then, a tall, equally black-clad, figure cleared its throat, and the silence got even more deafening. The dark and plain robes looked so out of place on the normally so brightly and cheerfully clad wizard, that it was an almost painful sight in itself.
"Welcome," he said, and his voice carried clearly through the air. Light blue eyes shone with grief behind half-moon spectacles, as Albus Dumbledore spoke to the assembled audience. "We have gathered around here today to say goodbye to one of our midst. He was a great wizard-" Several people murmured "the best", "-and left us far too early. Harry Potter ..." Dumbledore fought against the knot in his throat.
"Sorcerers and sorceresses in the entire Wizarding World were well acquainted with the name of Harry Potter, but he was not only famous for thwarting Voldemort's-" Only a few soft gasps escaped at the still feared name, "-plans, he was also famous for his open-minded character and his strength at heart. Many an obstacle had been thrown in his way, but Harry Potter achieved the seemingly impossible ... and survived ..." Dumbledore's hoarse voice petered out, and the headmaster swallowed thickly. It was true that Harry had survived Voldemort, which was way longer than many had secretly believed. He had survived, but only for so long.
"24 years on this earth is far too short to see and experience all that is worth noticing. Even after over 150 years, I am not all-knowing myself. Many things Harry Potter never encountered and even though he was only 24, he was one of the few people ... unlucky people ... who had truly seen and known the dark side of magic. Harry Potter had been mature far beyond his age, and he fought a war for a better life. Seven years of this ... peaceful life were not enough to retain his lost childhood." Murmurs of agreement and still more miserable sobs arose from the crowd, as Dumbledore made a short pause to clear his constricting throat.
"To fight against the dark wizards was Harry Potter's life ... from the very beginning to the very end. His career as an Auror was outstanding and his abrupt ... demise was devastating to all of us. We suddenly lost Harry Potter, the hero, the wizard, but most of all the friend. He will always be remembered as the ... Boy-Who-Lived ... even in death."
Hermione burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. Crying miserably, her shoulders shook beneath her cloak which couldn't warm her despite its thickness.
Harry's death had come so out of the blue that she hadn't even gotten the chance to tell him what he meant to her, that she loved him like a brother. All those years with Voldemort after his neck had been hell, not knowing if they would survive to see the next day. But after the Dark Lord had been defeated, everything seemed perfect, they could accomplish all they wanted, they were immortal ... or so it seemed, that was.
It came all crashing down, like a bucket full of ice-cold water, destroying their little bubble of perfect life. Just one moment of inattentiveness could end it all, especially in a job as dangerous as Harry's had been.
Ron awkwardly put his arms around his distressed friend, patting her back and whispering soothing words into her ear. He sighed softly, as Hermione buried her face into his chest.
Calming female friends wasn't one of the easiest tasks for him, and it really made him uncomfortable; even at such an occasion.
Draco couldn't leave Hogwarts and had asked (and threatened with haunting if refused) Ron to watch after Hermione. Draco should have known in the first place that Ron couldn't have done differently; after Harry's death Hermione was his best friend after all, and he would never let her down; least of all now.
"Come on, Hermione," Ron urged. "Please ... stop crying. You know I'm uncomfortable around crying women, don't you? I don't know what to do. Please, tell me what I shall do ... If it makes you feel better, I'll do anything, I swear ..." Ron stroked Hermione's bushy hair back to get a glimpse of her tear-streaked face. Her otherwise happy or determined face was crunched up in pain; pain too prominent to be merely physical.
"Make him come back ... bring him back ..."
"Anything ... within my power, Hermione. You know I can't do that. Nobody does. Bringing back the dead is impossible. Even ... Harry couldn't have done it."
"But-"
"Hermione ..."
"I miss him!"
"I know," Ron sighed. "I miss him as well. Look around you, all those people miss him. Even Malfoy would have come if he weren't ..."
"It's not fair!" Hermione wailed, clinging to Ron's cloak. "It's just not-"
"When was it ever fair, huh? Harry had had it tough, but he had never complained, had he not? Something must have been right in his life, or else he would have left."
"I ... I just ..."
"It's going to be all right, Hermione, eventually. Wouldn't he have said something like that?"
"I s'pose," Hermione murmured, sniffing. Rubbing her eyes on her cool cloak, she anxiously glimpsed around if her little nervous breakdown had gone by unnoticed. Fortunately, it had. All around them, people were crying and mourning or whispering and soothing.
Did they all suffer as much as she? Did Harry really know all those people as well as her? And did they all know the real Harry Potter?
Hermione imagined Harry being there, watching beneath his Invisibility Cloak how people reacted to his death, how they behaved during his funeral. Hermione smiled a sad little smile; he would have been a secret spectator, seeing with his own eyes that they didn't only love him because he got rid of Voldemort for them, but also because he was their friend.
"Why are you smiling?" Ron asked quietly, scrutinizing his friend. He tried to gauge her mental state but couldn't come up with anything that explained why she would cry hysterically one moment and smile the next. The mystery of a women's mind was something he hadn't solved yet.
"No particular reason, really. I was just thinking Harry was still here-"
"Mione," Ron murmured miserably.
"-under his Cloak. I wondered what he'd say about peoples' reactions. Do you think he would be happy to know how much they ... how much we cared for him?"
"I'm sure he did know, he still knows, wherever he is right now. And when we see him again, he'll tell us so."
"We won't be seeing him for a while, though."
"He'll remember," Ron said a bit more brightly. "He won't have much else to do anyway than thinking, I can't really picture him playing harp, residing on a fluffy cloud ... expect maybe if he meets his parents, then we'll have a problem."
Hermione cracked a small smile at this. "Right."
A heavy silence fell around them. Tears were dried, shuffling ceased. The few minutes of movement had seemed like hours, it left Hermione feeling utterly drained, as if she'd run a marathon.
All eyes shifted back to Dumbledore, who looked older and more tired than ever. Weakness radiated from him, never before seen by any of those present. A crinkled hand caressed the smooth surface of a golden urn, containing the mortal remnants of Harry Potter. Melted snow glistered in the dim light, as Dumbledore raised the urn so that everyone was able to see it.
His earlier speech had left him hoarse, everything had been said, everything except, "Farewell ... until we meet again."
And Dumbledore put the urn into a small stone cube, pointing his wand at it and letting magical boundaries appear. The urn was still clearly visible from every side, only the edges of the cube protecting the grave were visible to the eye. Above the urn, a small marble cross was hovering. Small, plain and simple; something Harry would have approved of. Nothing extraordinary to make him feel uncomfortable, but nice and personal. The cross was tiny in comparison to many of the statues and gravestones around it, but its simple beauty stood out remarkably, no matter what it was compared to.
The snowing never ceased, and as people left the relatively small Wizarding section of Godric Hollow's cemetery, it covered up the evidences of them quickly enough. A red glimmering halo protected Harry's final resting place from the snow, which fell in never ending flocks. Soon, everything that was to be seen was the cold splendour.
White.
White.
Black.
White.
He could have been mistaken for a very realistic statue, if his cloak hadn't billow out quite so dramatically. Flashes of long dark hair could be seen peeking out under a hood which covered great parts of the man's face. Even if his most prominent feature - the severely crooked nose - hadn't been plainly visible, the way he held himself, the way his cloak seemed to have a life of its own, the way his aura seemed cooler than the icy snow penetrating his clothes ... that all were safe give-aways that the wizard must be one (and the one and only at that) Severus Snape.
There was the usual amount of stiffness emanating from his posture, which couldn't be led back to the cold, that suggested to everyone to back off - or chance losing a few digits when coming nearer. Not that he didn't always carry this impression around but being the single black spot in a vast place of white snow and graves just intensified the picture.
Severus pulled the hood slightly back to allow him a better view of the grave before him; the now stronger wind hurled angry snow flakes into his face.
"What am I doing here?" he whispered, not for the first time. He wasn't sure why he had gone out of his way to pay his last respect to Harry Potter - he didn't even respect him, so what was the point here? He wasn't sure why he had even considered it in the first place. And he wasn't sure why he hadn't put on his other cloak (the one with the spelled-in moisture repelling charm) when he knew it would be snowing like there was no tomorrow.
Severus didn't even like Harry - family connections be damned. He'd never had a real family beside his mother, never had needed one, and he'd turned out just fine, hadn't he? Harry, on the other hand, had been a weak-hearted fool (hence landing him in Gryffindor), there was no question to Snape why the boy hadn't coped so well without a proper family as he had. Even after all those years, even after he'd erased Voldemort from earth's surface (Snape still couldn't believe why he never used this information against the boy - maybe it was indeed being family and all, who knew?), Harry Potter still hadn't got out of his Hero Complex. Stupid; which proved the point with being a Gryffindor and all - not taken into account that a) Snape himself could have ended there and b) Harry could have been a Slytherin. What mattered in the end, was where the Sorting Hat finally put them, their respective houses; Gryffindor and Slytherin.
That was one point why he lived and Harry had had to die.
Often discussed recklessness and a serious case of an heroic inferiority complex were all it took to get Potter killed - and all by himself no less. Not that Severus knew exactly what had happened at this seemingly rather common Last Dark Wizard raid - he really didn't care that much to find out - but from the general buzz of information (which couldn't even be avoided when one lived 100 metres under the earth) it was clear that Potter had tried to take them all down single-handedly. He was - had been - one of the most if not really the most powerful wizard on earth, even Severus couldn't deny that, however much he tried, but even the almighty Golden Boy had only one pair of eyes and hands to work with - no supernatural premonition (except the thing with Voldemort) to begin with and certainly no borrowed additional eyes from the always watchful Filch. The added cold (even Potter had not been immune to the common flu) and his sense of duty to boot, Severus couldn't bring himself to be too surprised that he had ended dead; even though Potter had pulled through a lot more very similar things. Potter had always been a ticking self-destructing bomb - only a matter of time till he went off.
Severus wondered fleetingly if it might be a good idea to not put the new-to-be-sorted students at Hogwarts not into the houses they would were destined for. In another house, they would have the possibility to broaden their horizon; first year Slytherins were already cunning, after all, and Gryffindors reckless; why should they improve in things they were good at from the start? Maybe Potter wouldn't have cultivated his reckless abandon to this dimensions then, but that was all plain speculatively after all. Speculative and too late.
The Potions master neared the small marble cross, wondering why it wasn't lost in the vast number of monuments despite its simplicity. It shouldn't really have surprise him; the plain but valuable cross had a lot in common with the late Boy-Who-Lived. Both were nothing special on the first sight, only looking closer revealed the hidden secrets; and look closer one had to because they both - had - worked like a magnet, drawing the interest of those around towards them.
The urn beneath the cross, Severus snorted, was most likely going to becoming something akin to a Mecca when it got into the news where Potter's grave was.
"As if you needed any more attention," Severus growled lightly. "I hope you're happy now, Potter. All these people that will undoubtedly go on a pilgrimage to catch a glimpse of your grave; like some Wizarding Elvis. This must be heaven for you ..."
The Potions master actually stopped at that point. Heaven? Potter was dead and buried (beside the double grave of his parents, he noted by the way); the boy shouldn't be in heaven - not now, not ever.
"This is entirely your fault," Severus snarled. How harsh and bitter against life had he become to not even feel the slightest pang of sorrow at losing his last family member? Had he finally succeeded in erecting and perfecting his mental walls that prevented everyone from entering his world? Was he now not able anymore to emerge himself?
"Damn you, Potter."
It could have been different; maybe not unconditionally better from his point of view, but different. In a different world, living a different life, things could have worked out, Severus could have made them work out. He didn't know that Potter hadn't been as clueless as he'd thought him to be.
Now they'd never know.
"Goodbye, Potter," Severus whispered with a last glance at the grave. He rearranged his hood, effectively shielding him again from the frosty snow. Turning around, he left the cemetery forever, leaving behind only three words and three tears.
"Sleep well, Harry."