Chapter One

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and barely avoided heaving from the metallic, well-known stench that surrounded me.

The smell of hot Gryffindor blood trickling through the grass, pooling in small, shallow puddles; and the cruel Slytherin corpses that looked vaguely threatening even as they lay there, lifeless. The smell of burned hair and feathers and skin of the dead smoking in the fire of a dropped lantern. Only the rain had kept the fire from spreading to the city.

And then I heard it: the raw, aching howl of a man in pain.

I started to make my way toward the sound. Stepping through the trees into a small clearing, I came upon a scene which had my knees buckling out from underneath me; my breath coming in short, painful gasps.

My youngest brother, my only brother, lay motionless in the dirt; his face smeared with blood and sweat. Muddied hair, once healthy and golden, now bunched together in oily clumps, falling over his eyes. His face was pale-grey in the early morning sun, and covered with a light sheen of dew.

Like our father and sister, like our aunts and uncles and too many of our friends, Matthew Potter was abandoned to live out his last moments in fear and pain, without a steady hand to hold, without a mother's arms for comfort. I gazed at his frozen form, willing him to take a breath and open eyes that would match my own. I tried to force myself to wake up from this nightmare.

I can not be the last. The last child of Lily Potter, who was the only family I had left now.

How I longed to fall and weep, to pound my fists in the grimy dirt and mourn the loss of yet another sibling. But a hawk does not cry, especially on the battlefield, surrounded by the dead, with only guards left as the living. A hawk does not scream and pull his hair and curse the wretched snakes who are responsible for the carnage.

Among my kind, tears were regarded as a dishonour to the dead and a humiliation to the living.

Gryffindor formality. It kept the heart from breaking with each new loss. It kept the soldiers fighting a war no one could win. It kept me standing tall when I had nothing to live for but heartache.

I could not cry, though I wanted to.

I pressed my lips together, forcing the images from my mind. It was a struggle to keep the sobs from escaping. I lifted dry eyes to the burly guards that surrounded me.

"Take him home. He needs a proper burial." My voice faltered a bit despite my resolve.

"Potter, you should come home, as well. It is not safe to linger here."

I turned to Ron, the commander of the finest flight in the Gryffindor militia, and took in the lines around his tired brown eyes. I noticed the faint streaks of grey that had not been in his hair a year ago. The crow had been my friend for years before he joined the guard, and I began to nod acquiesce to his words.

Another cry from the woods brought me to a sudden stop. I started walking towards the sound, but Ron grabbed my arm. "Not that one, my lord."

I would normally trust his judgement implicitly, but not here on the battlefields. I had been among these dead and blood-spattered fields ever since I was twelve; I could not simply shut my eyes in the centre of this carnage and ignore when someone was begging, with what was probably the tattered remains of his sanity, for help. "And why is that, Ronald?"

The crow knew he was in trouble the moment I addressed him by his full name, but still followed me as I stepped around the butchered corpses and closer to the voice. The rest of the flight remained behind, camouflaged in their second forms—crows and ravens, mostly. They would take my brother home only when I left.

"Harry." In response, I knew Ron was serious when he slipped into the informal and used my name instead of a deferential title or my surname, Potter. Very rarely did he ever call me Harry. It was an appeal to our lifelong intimacy when he used that name where it could be heard by someone else, so I stopped to listen. "That's Cadmus Snape. You don't want to go near him."

For a moment, I didn't recognize the name. With his torn, bloody clothes and face screwed up in intense pain, Cadmus Snape could have been anyone's brother, son or husband. But then the matted black hair and pale, creamy skin; along with the onyx signet ring and deep burgundy eyes that were the mark of the Snape line registered within my mind.

I did not have the energy to rage. Every emotion, every feeling of hate, was immersed in a deep set weariness that seemed to settle in my bones. I masked my face in the cloak of reserve I had learnt as a chick. I allowed no emotion past the shield that had become second nature to me.

Evidently the Slytherin prince recognised me as well, for his prayers caught in his throat, and his eyes closed warily.

I moved closer to him and heard my guards stand at attention, ready to attack if the fallen prince proved to be a threat.

It was hard to tell where the worst damage was, as his body was almost completely covered in scratches and small injuries. I saw a broken arm, a broken leg; he could heal from these.

What would I do if that was the worst? If he was hurt, but could still survive? This was the snake that had murdered my brother and led vicious attacks on my people. Would I turn a blind eye and let my guards finish him off, as all these fallen soldiers had not?

For a moment I imagined taking my dagger and slitting his throat, or thrusting it into his heart. I thought of carving him limb from limb, as my father had been. I entertained the fantasy of ending the life this monster still held while my brother lay down forever.

Despite Ron's protests, I bent down over his pale face and tried to summon the wrath I needed.

His eyes flickered open and met mine. Cadmus Snape's eyes were a dull shade of red, and filled with sadness, pain and dread. The dread bothered me the most. This man – this boy – was only a few years younger than I was, and scared of death. He did not deserve this horror, did not deserve to die so young. My brother had died alone surrounded by the screams of the dying, and the echoes of swords clashing against each other. I was determined not to let it happen to another while I could prevent it.

A sent a quick prayer to Matthew, asking for forgiveness. I had loved him, but I could not murder his killer. I could not look into the eyes of a boy terrified of death and shaking from pain, and plunge a dagger into his heart. This was a life; albeit Slytherin, but still a life. There was a heart beating in his chest, blood pumping through his veins. Who was I to steal it?

Only as I withdrew did I see did I see the jagged wound on his stomach, where a serrated knife had been dragged across the soft flesh, one of the most painful of fatal blows. His attacker must have died before he could finish the deed.

Perhaps Matthew had held the blade. Had he lain dying alone like this afterward?

I felt a single tear trailing down my cheek, and this was enough to crack my carefully controlled mask. A sob escaped me, and then another, and like an avalanche all the months of pain and hardship became too much to keep in, and I cried. Cadmus Snape was the enemy, but here on the battlefield he was just another brother to a sister, a son to a mother, fallen on the field. I would not cry for my own brother; he would not want me to. But for this hated stranger – this murderer of my people, and for years of endless slaughter I could mourn without restraint.

I turned on Ron, my voice shaking with anger. "This is why this stupid war goes on. Because even when he's dying, you can only feel your hate," I spat, quietly, so the Slytherin prince wouldn't hear. "If I was in this man's place, I would pray for someone to kneel by my side and comfort me. And I wouldn't care if that person was Severus Snape himself."

Ron bent down awkwardly beside me. Unexpectedly, his hand rested over my hand for a moment. His eyes met mine, and I heard him sigh softly with understanding.

I turned back to the Slytherin. "I'm here now; don't worry," I said as I smoothed back the hair from Cadmus's face.

His eyes filled with tears and he muttered something that sounded like "Thank you." Then he met my eyes and said, in a strangled voice, "End it. Please."

I flinched. Even though I had been thinking the same thing moments before, and I knew it would end the pain, I did not want to end another's life.

"Harry?" Ron asked worriedly, when he saw me close my eyes in pain.

I shook my head and grabbed Cadmus's cold hand. His muscles tightened, and suddenly he was gripping my hand in a death-grip, as if I was his last anchor to earth. "Please," he repeated softly.

When I drew my knife, Ron grabbed my hand in warning.

As quietly as I could, I whispered, "It could take him hours to die like this. He'll be in constant pain."

"Let the hours pass," Ron said, though he looked troubled by the idea. "Slytherins believe in mercy killing, but not when it's the other side who does it. Not when it's the heir to the throne who kills one of their two surviving princes."

So we sat in the field, waiting out the hours in the hot, wilting sun, until Cadmus's eyes closed and his ragged breathing froze. As I had often done for Gryffindor soldiers, I sang to distract him from the pain. Songs about freedom, and about children who could sing and dance without worrying about death; carefree in the warm summer's sun.

My favourite song, though, was the one mother used to sing to me when I was a child, before I was handed over to the care of nurses and servants. Before she had somehow become a distant queen with too much formality to care for me. I would give up all the pampering and respect I had gained these past few years if I could just climb into her arms again and go back to a time when Father was here; laughing his warm, easy laugh; and my sister was sitting brushing her hair; and my brother and I would run around for hours playing "Catch".

I had heard of Slytherins and Gryffindors who had lived for two hundred years or more, but that was impossible now. In a time when both sides lost hundreds of soldiers every day, who could expect to live until tomorrow?

The only male heir left to the Slytherin throne was Severus Snape, a poisonous cobra whose vile name was never mentioned in our society. If he died… hopefully the rest of the disgusting royal house would die with him. But now that Cadmus Snape, the last brother of our greatest foe, was slain in front of me, I could not find happiness or even relief. All I could do was sing softly the old lullaby called "Hawksong" that was once sung to me long ago.

I wish to you sunlight, my dear one,

my dear one. And treetops for you to soar past.

I wish to you innocence, my child, my

child. I pray you don't grow up too fast.

Never know pain, my dear one, my

dear one. Nor hunger nor fear nor sorrow.

Never know war, my child, my child.

Remember your hope for tomorrow.

As I lay down on my soft bed at night, back in Godric's Hollow, my throat was tight with too many tears unshed, shrieks unuttered and prayers whose words I could never seem to find.

Author's Notes:

The song is copied from Hawksong entirely, while some sentences have been, uh, borrowed. We get to meet Severus soon!

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