Outside, the winds howled and the snow blew into high drifts. It was very cold, but the snow covered the remaining signs of war: damaged trees, half-knocked over walls, gouged-out spots in the lawns. After a while the storm faded and the clouds drifted off, content with their night's work. The moon shone on a world of gleaming white. It was a clean slate, a blank canvas, or a fresh start. To a lonely young wizard looking out a window, it was a magic he would never again know. For him, there was no chance at new beginnings. For him, the broken grounds were more representative of who and what he was.
Not so the gathering in the Great Hall. This year of all years, hardly anyone went home from Hogwarts. Since there were eight years during this term, that meant a great many students enjoying the Yule meal between trees magically decorated with fairy lights and other decorations. The tables were heaped with food and participants were filled with the joy and delight of the season.
"Come, my boy, you should enjoy the festivities."
"I'm not very much in the mood. I should have gone home with the rest of my house." He would have, if there had been any home to go to. His parents' estate had been stripped away, pending Wizengamot findings. His mother was reduced to taking charity from her Mudblood-lover of a sister while his father was in prison. He couldn't face his aunt, nor the werewolf-pup that they told him was his cousin.
"You stayed for a reason. You must have wanted to be part of this."
He stifled the urge to sigh petulantly and summoned the respectful mien that had gotten him through seven and a half years at Hogwarts. After all, Slughorn was now one of the heroes, and therefore a person who could help him. "Professor, I appreciate your concern, but I really think I'm better off out here."
"All right, my boy, if you're sure."
"Thank you, but I rather prefer the atmosphere out here."
Professor Slughorn went back into the Great Hall, and the young wizard finally heaved the sigh he had held in during the entire conversation. A wave of hopelessness worked through him. Even the pristine world outside seemed to reject him, now. The fury of the storm had suited him better.
He had once had a confidante within the walls of the school, but she had moved on, one of the ghosts who decided, after the struggles of the war and last battle, that whatever waited in the next life might be worth whatever trouble it took to get there. She had never been much of a friend, anyway. She would listen up to a point and then try to turn the conversation over to her own death. It was an obsession with her. Perhaps the death of her own murderer gave her the incentive to see what would happen to him in the next life.
A roar came from the Great Hall as the students started cheering for various people and causes. He listened as the inevitable people were named. Harry Potter came first, of course. It was insufferable that he should be in the same year as the Boy-who-lived, who went on to kill the Dark Lord. What did Potter know of adversity? Potter never had to deal with the family he had. Parents with an overblown sense of destiny and crazy relatives. He chided himself for a moment. His parents loved him, whatever else was true, and he had known real affection and never a single bit of want until the Dark Lord moved into their home.
"Three cheers for Harry Potter!" came from the hall.
"Whoop dee doo," responded the wizard at the window. He had offered Potter the hand of friendship at one time, and been rejected. There was a principle at stake, here. If Potter was so wonderful, let him offer friendship to him.
"Three cheers for Hermione Granger!"
"Not on your life," he muttered. He would never cheer for the Mudblood, even if he was under Imperio. She was far too much of a know at all to suit him. She had insinuated herself into a friendship with Potter, and she had become far too pretty to be allowed for someone who had everything else in the world at her disposal, now. Pretty? Where did that come from? There wasn't time to wonder.
"Three cheers for Ron Weasley!"
He shrugged and left it at that. Weasley wasn't a bad sort, really. It was hardly his fault that his family was so poor, and now he, himself, was in straits as dire. A childish wish sprung into his heart that the Wizengamot would be merciful to his family. The beginning of a tear came to his eye, but he swallowed hard and forced it away.
"Three cheers for Headmaster Dumbledore!"
Of course, it was inevitable, that they would cheer for the Headmaster who spent decades blaming one House for every problem that ever happened in the Wizarding world. He'd seen enough of it in his time, the way Dumbledore would constantly give all the credit for anything to Gryffindor. For one brief year the tables had been turned, but now the Headmistress was Gryffindor again, and although she obviously tried to be more fair than Dumbledore, there was still a bias.
"Three cheers for Severus Snape!"
He couldn't stop the tear from escaping this time as the gravestone next to Dumbledore's tomb seemed to gleam for an instante. Snape had been his head, his mentor, and, if he'd only recognized it during his sixth year, his best friend. If only he'd been paying more attention to his professor's advice, and if only he had looked out for his professor once in a while. No one ever understood what should have been plain to see, especially to anyone who was a Slytherin.
"Three cheers for Slytherin House."
It was said quietly from the floor below and caused him to whip around. He couldn't help sneering, although the only advantage he had anymore was that he was on the landing of the staircase while the other wizard was on the bottom. "I don't need you to condescend to me."
"It's not condescension."
"Oh, really? I'm beaten, not stupid. Your side won the war, and now you'll have the rest of our lives to lord it over me."
"So why did you come back to finish your education? Why not go to Durmstrang?"
He turned toward the window. "I needed to be near my parents."
"Your mother saved my life. I'm going to do everything I can to help them."
He turned back around and snarled, "And then you'll have the rest of our lives to lord that over me, too."
He had the pleasure of seeing Potter flinch. "That's not my intention. I just want everyone to get their due."
"Well, my due seems to be to suffer as the loser for a while and to watch my parents suffer. Congratulations to you."
"Your mother seems to be doing as well as she can, under the circumstances."
"How could you possibly know anything about my mother?"
"I hear from Mrs. Tonks about Teddy from time to time."
"Of course you do, but what could you possibly know about my mother?"
Potter shrugged. "I just meant... she says her sister is resting and seems to be as happy as possible."
"You should stay out of it, Potter. My aunt, such as she is, can't possibly know anything about a sister she ignored for twenty-five years." It wasn't true, but Potter couldn't know about the desperate-sounding cards that came every Christmas, begging for an acknowledgment from the family that had disowned her. His aunt had been only too pathetically happy to have a chance to do something for his mother. It was their family's only source of pride
"I know, I'm usually wrong about everything." Potter sighed and came half way up the stairs. "I know I was wrong when we were firsties and I rejected your friendship out of hand. I don't think it was possible for us to be friends, but we didn't have to be enemies."
It was a fair assessment of the situation. He shrugged noncommittally and said, "I suppose."
"Can you forgive me for that? For turning away your offer of friendship?"
He couldn't answer that question. It was outside of his experience to receive an apology, not like this.
"Because I'm still not sure we could be actual friends... not like I'm friends with Ron and Hermione... but I'd like to think we could be co-workers in whatever this new world of ours will look like. I'd like you to be one of the people who helps to rebuild."
It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, and yet it couldn't be anything but honest. Potter had no guile. If it had been Granger or even Weasley, he would wonder, but not Potter.
He looked out the window, at the blanket of snow. An unfamiliar sort of magic stole through his mind. Perhaps he could have a fresh start. He turned to Potter, whose hand was outstretched. Slowly, because he still wasn't sure if it was the best option, but because he knew it was his only option, he edged forward and stretched out his own hand.
