Not Alone
Sounds of running water reached his ears before anything else. Soft grass touched his skin, uncomfortable and soothingly familiar at the same time. Sirius had taught him that, when in an unfamiliar place, absorb all you can before opening you eyes.
Might save your life, Harry.
Harry's stomach lurched at the memory of his godfather, a subdued intensity that was as real as Dumbledore's death, as close as Fred's demise. Dumbledore…Fred…Hogwarts…the battle!
What about the battle?
His eyes snapped open.
He was sitting in a shaded alcove, near a small creek, dappled and cool with dawning night. Was it the Forbidden Forest? His eyes searched the unfamiliar surroundings. No…no, it wasn't. The trees were far too young, far too narrow. The absence of dangerous creatures was as much a confirmant of the unknown as a comfort. Harry struggled to place his sense of time.
He, Ron, and Hermione had gone under the protection of James' Invisibility Cloak, venturing to the Shrieking Shack after Voldemort had rattled the foundations of Hogwartian resolve with his dire threat. Ron and Hermione vowed to stick with him to the bloody end. They had just entered the threshold of the abandoned house when there was a shout. Several, actually: Ron's unhindered gasp of surprise and dismay as the Cloak was unceremoniously ripped off by a rusty, twisted, overhanging nail; Hermione's shrill cry of protest and desperation; and Voldemort's cold shout of glee and malice as his scarlet, snakelike eyes met those of his unexpected guests. Harry's last glimpses of the scene were the coiling snake Nagini in her eerie, suspended cage, Voldemort's shapeless, waxy features consumed with elation, and one other man, standing slightly off to the side, half of his face obscured by a curtain of black hair. The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Ron.
"No!" shouted Harry, flinging himself in his friend's path, his being uniting into one dominant thought of protecting his friends, his family, Hogwarts, as he watched Voldemort's lips form the words: Avada Kedavra. There was a flash of green light, a blinding pain, and then nothing.
He awoke in a King's Cross station where he was met by Dumbledore, both hands whole and untarnished. The old wizard explained the Horcruxes and the Hallows, their connection to his past, his friendship with Grindelwald, both Voldemort's soul and Harry's, and why Harry was not, truly, dead. He had given his life for another, had stepped in front of the line of fire with the intention to protect Ron, Hermione, and his home. But most of all, Dumbledore had begged Harry for forgiveness: forgiveness from himself. Harry could not find it in his heart to stay angry with his Headmaster, not after what Dumbledore had confessed to him and, most probably, no one else save his brother, who was only privy to the knowledge because he had been present when the events in question had occurred. Dumbledore left Harry with a customarily heartwarming and enigmatic statement, and Harry knew he would love the old wizard now and forever. His guidance was the only thing that had led Harry to where he was now, and he would never forget it.
Speaking of which…where, exactly, was he?
"Awake yet, Potter?"
Severus Snape's cruel, deep drawl cut through Harry's thoughts with a pointed sizzle, like raw meat hitting the flame of an open grill. Harry stood quickly, his insides protesting against the sudden movement with a flash of dizzying pain and nausea as he snatched his wand from his robes…only to find that that slim, familiar piece of wood was absent, as was the sensation of the cool holly pressing against his chest. Snape's lips quirked with the beginnings of a sneer, accenting his black goatee, as he extracted Harry's wand from within the depths of his midnight robes. He twirled it tauntingly in his hand, his eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry clenched his fists, clenched, then unclenched his teeth, and managed to say:
"Give me my fucking wand." He swayed slightly, and grabbed a tree branch for support.
"Such language, Mister Potter," replied Snape, his tongue maliciously lengthening the's' and fairly spitting out Harry's surname.
"Why waste polite formalities on a piece of shit like yourself?" asked Harry, with a boldness that surprised him.
"Don't make me curse you with your own wand," growled Snape sharply, gripping the phoenix-feather wand between his long fingers, raising it pointedly.
"Where are the rest of your Death Eater friends, huh? Where the hell am I?"
"Keep demanding answers and you'll receive none. And in this manner as well; what would your dear father say?" Snape tsked in the back of his throat, a grin of malice spreading across his face as he watched Harry's fists tighten, nails inscribing half-moon kisses on his palms.
"Where. Am. I?" repeated Harry, each word bitten tightly off at the end.
"I'd really rather not give you such information right now," said Snape unconcernedly.
Harry took several deep breaths, then launched himself at Snape.
A burning mix of hate and anger, packaged in the lithe form of Harry Potter, knocked Snape off of his feet and onto the grass. Harry grabbed hold of the hand that was clutching his wand. Snape jerked away, whacking Harry in the face and sending his glasses tumbling onto the ground. Harry grabbed the offending arm and put it in his mouth, biting down with all the force he could muster. Snape let out a howl of rage and pain, dropping the boy's wand. It rolled silently onto the grass.
He tried to grab onto the boy's clothes but ended up with air. Moving away from his adversary, Harry scrambled upward, snatched his wand and glasses from the grass, slammed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and leveled his wand at the prostrate Snape. The former Potion's master had nearly risen before he found the full weight of the Boy Who Lived pressing painfully into his forearms. Harry's knees pinned Snape's arms to the ground, the remainder of his body resting on Snape's lower torso, immobilizing him. The phoenix-feather wand pressed against Snape's throat, making breathing an agonizing chore.
Harry's hand was shaking.
"Tell me. Tell me why I shouldn't end your miserable life right here and now. After all the pain and despair you've caused me. After everything you've done to me and my family – my father, my mother, Hermione, the Weaselys, the Gryffindors, Hogwarts, everything, everything I've ever loved – TELL ME WHY, SNAPE!"
His anguished voice peaked to a cry of hurt and fury and sorrow, a single tear breaking free of his flashing green eyes and slipping unheeded onto his cheek.
The moment froze, a moonlit tableau, shaking shadows cast on the grass, waiting, expectantly fearful, for an answer.
"You would really kill me, Potter?" said Snape, his voice, for once, devoid of menace, as though he had already resigned himself to his fate. Harry bit his lip in a way, Snape thought absently, that was entirely too agreeable to be allowed. There were a few more moments of baited breath before Harry slid fluidly off of Snape's torso, standing and then turning his back to the other man.
"No. I won't. I won't grant myself the power that you Death Eaters take so sickeningly lightly: that's your job, you bastard," said Harry, his words but a little louder than a whisper.
"How noble of you, Potter," said Snape, rising in one swift movement and brushing stray strands of grass from his robes.
Harry whipped around. "I just—"
"As if I would have let you kill me," said Snape, tone dripping with disdain.
I might have let him, actually: what poetic justice, thought Snape in retrospect, as he watched Harry kick the grass in frustration and run Seeker-slim fingers through silken black hair.
No one deserves it more than I.
Silence formed, heavy in the air around Snape's thoughts, the sounds of the forest a paradoxical soundtrack clashing headlong with the gravity of the moment.
"Why am I here, Professor?" asked Harry quietly, as he stared at the ground.