A History of Magic

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction created by and for readers of the Harry Potter books for no profit. No copyright or trademark infringement was intended, and all of the characters, situations et c. belong to, though aren't limited to, JK Rowling.

A/N: Thank you everyone who's read and reviewed, and those of you who have favourited the story. This fic has been betaed by the lovely RaeWhit: thank you.

Warning: This chapter contains violence, blood and death.

Part Three

-H-

Too weary to make it as far as his room, Harry collapsed on the couch. His head was spinning. With all the effort he could muster, he peeled off his wet clothes. Of course it was snowing today, the one day his research had led him outside. It never snowed. Bloody weather.

Harry could hear the sound of persistent tapping as he lost his grip on consciousness. He wondered idly whether it was the sound of hail pelting against glass, or perhaps just the sound of icicles rattling against his bones.

-S-

Harry was jerked awake by a crash and a stream of profanities. He sat up like a jack-knife, eyes wide and wild, wand in hand.

Snape was home.

"You're back," Harry said stupidly, wand still grasped in an unsteady hand.

Snape nodded impatiently. "I sent an owl ahead of time to alert you I would be home for the season. Why then, pray tell, have I come back to you all but naked, lounging in full view?"

Harry's teeth were starting to chatter, and he finally lowered his wand so that he could wrap his arms around himself.

"'M cold," he murmured.

"Well, you're going the wrong way about counteracting it," Snape said with a sneer. "Normally I find more clothes will inhibit coldness, rather than less."

"'M clothes're wet."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "So you stripped them off and fell asleep on the couch, despite having a perfectly comfortable bed in your room."

Harry nodded. "Dizzy," he supplied by way of explanation. "Didn'... didn' know you were comin' back."

"You didn't know, despite the fact that my owl should have arrived two days ago at the latest." Snape sighed heavily. "You had plenty of warning that I would be back on Christmas Eve –"

"Christmas Eve," Harry said with a gasp. He could feel his arms trembling against his ribcage. "I've been out since Monday."

"Out," Snape repeated.

Harry couldn't work up the energy to reply. This conversation had already drained him and he let his head fall back against the arm of the chair.

He could make out the indeterminate sounds of Snape mumbling, though could discern no words, and felt something warm and heavy wrapped around him. He tried to open his eyes (when had he closed them?) so he could see what had been settled over him, but some unnamed force stronger than Harry was keeping them shut.

His bones ached with cold and exhaustion and he let himself slip into sleep, the smell of Hogwarts cradling him and a familiar voice softly calling him a fool.

-S-

"Happy Christmas."

Snape sounded anything but filled with Christmas spirit, but then, Harry supposed, he had never really been the sort to be filled with the joy of the season. Harry eased himself up into a sitting position, clutching the blanket to his chest when it occurred to him he was still just in his boxers.

"Uh, Happy Christmas," he said.

Snape snorted. "You don't sound very certain."

"Just surprised that it's already Christmas, I guess." Harry wrapped the blanket carefully around himself so that he would remain covered when he stood, surprised to find that it was not a blanket, but a cloak. Snape's teaching cloak, in fact. "I lost quite a few days. Lucky the library's shut for the holidays, really, or I'd be out of a job." He pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders and made his way over to the bathroom.

"Cheers, by the way," he said. "For the cloak, I mean."

"Don't mention it," Snape said, his tone imperative rather than dismissive. "When you emerge from there, I expect you'll tell me why you have been passed out for half the week."

Harry ducked into the bathroom without answering, the call of warm water so strong he couldn't work up the dread for having to explain himself to Snape. He was already under the hammer of the shower when it occurred to him that, no matter what he said, however dodgy his excuse, Snape couldn't take points or give him a detention. He laughed out loud, tilting his head back to soak his hair as relief flooded him.

Washed and drip-dried, Harry poked his head out of the bathroom door to check whether the coast was clear.

It wasn't.

"Thomas, I have taken the liberty of leaving a towel and bathrobe by the door."

Harry glanced down and saw the two, then grinned sheepishly as he fetched them.

Maybe spending Christmas with Snape wouldn't be as bad as he'd feared, he thought, roughly towelling his hair. Of course, knowing Snape, it could be a great deal worse.

-H-

A strong white glow suddenly augments the guttering light of the candles I have been reading by; I turn to see its source – Potter's Patronus – bow its head to me and wait patiently.

"What is it?" I snap. If Wormtail saw the ghostly stag canter into my study, he would know at once to whom it belonged.

The Patronus opens its mouth and Potter's urgent whisper spills out. "Snape, have you set up privacy wards?"

I silently Summon my wand, resentfully obeying as the stag surveys my work with knowing eyes.

"We must meet. I need your help before I can face Voldemort," I wince and damn that boy for foolishly running his mouth, "and the situation is growing urgent. Get in touch."

The stag dissipates. I do not appreciate direct commands from a boy less than half my age (and he remains less than half my age, however he may look), but it is not possible to challenge Potter in this. He would not risk contacting me if it were at all possible to avoid it. I am surprised that he does not hate me too much to approach me in the wake of what I did to Albus. My ruse has fooled all the others and they have all condemned me as Albus's...

Albus... Albus must have told the boy what to expect. I would be resentful, but where Albus is concerned all of my emotions are used up and spat out in a dry lump of hurt.

Whatever Potter wants from me, I must act quickly to give it to him. He has much to do if we are ever to see the Dark Lord slain. My wand is still in my hand, and I raise it, closing my eyes so that I can better picture a wide smile and expressive eyes.

My Patronus stands before me, head cocked to one side as she awaits instruction. It is with a wry smile that I relay my message for Potter; the Shrieking Shack may not be neutral ground for us, but it is as good a meeting place as any other I could name.

-S-

It is quarter to nine when Potter arrives, appearing mid-step in front of me and folding his Invisibility Cloak over his arm.

I tuck Albus's watch back into my pocket and scowl at him. "You are late," I say, allowing my irritation to bleed through into my voice. He had better have a good excuse.

His eyes snap up from the pocket where I have secreted Albus's watch and he meets my gaze steadily. "I know," he says blandly. "I had every intention of being late when I received word to arrive at half past."

I could throttle him; that I do not is a miracle akin to his survival of the Killing Curse. I do not have time that I can afford waste, and neither does he

"I got here half an hour ago. Scouted the perimeter in my Cloak, you know, made sure no one was lying in wait for an ambush, and I put up some wards. I watched you arrive and waited a decent amount of time to ensure you had not been followed."

My ire dissipates. I am surprised at his fore-planning; I have never thought Potter capable.

"Fine. What is it you require of me that's so sensitive as to motivate the likes of you to be cautious?" I say, wearing my familiar sneer.

"I'm dying."

The sneer freezes on my face. For a second, it feels as though my entire body has stopped.

And then my heart thumps painfully in my chest, and I suck in a gulp of air and I remember that I am alive. And the boy... the boy cannot be dying. It is impossible. He spoke in a voice of quiet resignation, so I cannot believe that he lied, but surely he is mistaken.

"How?" I ask, finally ungluing my tongue from the roof of my mouth so I may speak. I sound incredulous, but he must have known this would be hard to believe.

He stares at me, as though wrong-footed by the question. His mouth flaps uselessly, apparently unable to put the horror of his fatality into words. I do not attempt to urge him to answer quickly; I am not a merciful man by nature, but I have time enough to wait for this.

His hands move to his fly, and he ignores my shocked protests, tugging his jeans down to his knees, revealing baggy boxers, skinny legs, and a wound I recognise in an instant.

Horcrux damage; he has been as burnt by one of those damned things as the Headmaster was, his thigh blackened by necrosis and withered as though fixed to a corpse. This, then, is why he limps. This is the injury he has been concealing, living with, since before Albus's death.

Potter was not mistaken. He is dying.

Unless it is in my power to stop its progress. I was unable to save Albus, but I continued my research past the day he died at his behest. It is clear now why he asked that I do so.

"You managed to contain the spread?" I say at last, my voice hollow.

Potter shrugs. He makes no move to cover himself. "Albus... Whatever you did for him, he did for me. It barely hurts now. My compliments, on that formula."

I nod my acceptance. "I am further along with my research than I was even a month ago. It might be possible for me to prevent your death, though it is by no means certain." Potter is a Gryffindor; I hope my proclamation does not bolster him too much.

"No need," Potter counters. "Albus assured me you were informed of my... fate. I just need to get to Voldemort and his snake first. After that, any effort you've put into me will be wasted."

His voice breaks, though it is clear he tried to keep it even. His expression doesn't flicker, but his eyes are damp. For all that Draco's Curse aged him, he is still a boy. No one could expect him to face his death stoically.

My lips feel parched. I lick them and say, "It is best that you are at full strength when you face the Dark Lord. I have access to Darker texts now than I had before I... earned the Dark Lord's favour. I can reverse the damage you have sustained, perhaps permanently." And doesn't it rankle to be instilling optimism in the once-chronically optimistic?

Potter scowls, at last wrenching his trousers back up to his waist. "There's no time. I showed you that so that you would appreciate the urgency. I need to get to Voldemort, and soon. I've a while yet before it'll do me in," I wince at his irreverent choice of words, "but I won't be able to walk much longer, which will put me at too much of a disadvantage. You can take me to him."

I wonder if the boy means for me to take him now. Did he come here expecting this to be his last day? Expecting to die?

"No," I say.

"What do you mean, no? Of course you can take me to him! He will let you bring a prisoner through his wards. Listen, if I don't get the chance before he kills me, will you off Nagini for me? It's possible Voldemort'll take no chances this time and Avada me on sight."

I take a step towards Potter, and he clearly thinks this a sign that I've accepted his desperate plan. I shake my head sadly. "You are right; of course I can take you through his wards," I say, and Potter's face is torn between triumph and fear, "however, I won't."

I hold up a hand to request silence, and surprisingly he obeys, though not without narrowing his eyes. "You will submit to my attempts to cure you before I will even consider taking you to the Dark Lord. There are matters that need to be dealt with first, you understand?"

Potter attempts to advance on me, but whatever effect he was hoping for is lost when his legs buckle beneath him. I reach out with both hands and catch his elbows, not letting go even when he has managed to arrange both feet beneath him again. He flinches at my touch. "Lean on me," I advise, but he stubbornly stands on his own. I keep my hands on him.

"What else needs dealt with?" he says through gritted teeth.

"Albus suspected a number of Horcruxes in addition to –"

"I know," he says. "They've been taken care of." He finally gives in and leans against me, lifting the weight from his injured leg. One of his hands tightens around my arm, the other clutching his thigh; he glares at his leg as though to chastise it for being so useless.

"How is that possible?" The last I heard, there were three Horcruxes outstanding, in addition to Potter and the snake.

"I took care of them," he says as though it is an answer and not a worthless repetition. I will get nothing further out of him without Legilimency, I know. No doubt the reason he is avoiding my gaze. "Does that mean you will take me to Voldemort?"

"You must not persist in saying his name," I say, realising now that the boy has been using it for the duration of this conversation. It was careless of me not to notice earlier, but given what the boy was revealing, my carelessness is understandable, if not forgivable. "The word is gaining strength, and you risk discovery if you keep saying it."

Potter smirks at me. "Is that so?" he says, his voice a dead whisper.

"You risk both of us," I say in a rush before he can take advantage of this information. "And further, it will not be the Dark Lord who comes for you, and the prize of you dead is worth as much as you living. It needs to be the Dark Lord who kills you, you are aware."

"Of course I'm aware," Potter says viciously. "If it didn't need to be him, do you think I'd still be alive now?"

I wonder how long Potter knew about his death before he could talk about it in that cavalier way.

"I will not be taking you to the Dark Lord until I have healed your leg. We cannot risk the consequences of interplay between your injury and the Horcrux in you."

Potter winces against me, stumbling slightly and using a hand against my chest to steady himself.

"When will you be able to do that?" he says sullenly. "After how many more deaths?"

Enraged, I grab his chin and force him to meet my eyes. "Would you like me to keep count for you, Potter? So that you can walk to your death knowing how many lives it cost for you to live this long?"

He doesn't answer me. He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. He just stares and stares at me, eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

It feels like aeons before he moves, eyes closing as though in pain. I feel him pull his chin free of my grasp and he turns away.

"Fine," he whispers. "You can heal me. Contact me in the usual way when you're ready."

He steps backwards, supporting himself once more. His leg seems to have gained strength from its brief respite; he turns on the spot, not looking at me once before he Apparates away.

-S-

"No!"

I wrap my arms around Potter's torso and wrench him back against me. I can feel his feet scrabbling against mine, and he squirms so violently I can barely keep hold of him. I don't let go.

Two feet in front of us, a jet of green light hits Weasley in the chest. He drops like a stone.

"Ron!"

Potter's still fighting to get to him, hands clawing at mine, feet scrambling and pushing off from the ground repeatedly so that for drawn out moments I'm supporting his entire body weight myself as he kicks furiously at my shins.

"Potter," I hiss in his ear. "Pull yourself together. This isn't over yet."

He turns on me, his face an inch from mine, hot breath ghosting across my lips, eyes glaring with such ferocity that for a second I expect to combust.

"I could have saved him. You stopped me. Why? I could have saved him!"

I want to turn away, but I meet those accusing eyes steadily. "If you had been killed, that would be the end of it for all of us. It was not worth the risk." I sound cold, calculating. Every inch the Slytherin.

"Ron was worth it," Potter says, his voice low and furious.

I grip Potter's shoulders firmly and shake. "Remember yourself," I say. There is no time for these histrionics; a battle rages around us, and were we not in this foul trench a spell would have decimated us both by now.

Potter looks at me blankly. I feel a flare in my left arm, and Potter flinches, hand reaching to his scar.

"He's here," Potter says, suddenly wearing a horrific grin. He breaks free of my grasp and strides away down the trench, the six inches of mud not slowing him one whit. Before he turns a corner of the serpentine tunnels and leaves my sight, he turns back to me and calls, "I'll see you around, Snape."

His gaze lingers on my face and he smiles so sadly I can almost feel the prickle of tears. I blink, and the sensation is gone. As is the boy.

-H-

Harry heard a key scrabble against the lock, and poked his head out of the bedroom.

"Alright?" he called when the door didn't open. "Need a hand?"

He wandered over to the door and dragged it open, revealing Snape struggling to juggle an owl cage with a screeching bird inside with one arm, and manoeuvre the key in his other hand with more dexterity.

Harry righted the cage and carried it into the flat, bouncing the door open with his hip so that Snape could follow.

"You're a bit late; I'm afraid I've already cooked and eaten dinner," Harry said, settling the cage on a side table and fishing in his pockets for some treat to appease the miserable creature inside.

Snape collapsed onto the sofa, tossing his head back and closing his eyes. "I decided to purchase an owl, a task which took more time and effort than I have ever been led to believe. The retailer was rather reluctant to accept that I intended to use him to deliver mail, rather than as ingredients in my next brew."

Harry grinned. "What's he called, then? If you've named him after a potion, I can understand the man's concern."

Snape peeled open one eye to glare at Harry, closing it again with a heavy sigh that rattled through his entire body.

"Don't be ridiculous. It doesn't have a name."

Harry looked at the owl, which shook out its wings in what was unmistakably the avian equivalent of shrugging. Harry rolled his eyes back and said quietly, "Never mind him; I'll think of something." How he could have forgotten Snape's preternatural hearing after six years of his classes, Harry didn't know.

"You'll do no such thing. Merlin knows what you could come up with, and hence what ridiculous name I'll be stuck calling every time I want the blasted thing to carry a message for me. It doesn't need a name, it responds well enough to owl." Snape pushed himself up so that he was sat normally on the sofa rather than slumped across it, toed off his shoes, and plonked his stockinged feet up on the coffee table.

"I think he'd prefer a real name, like... Oscar or something," Harry said, addressing the owl rather than Snape so he had a greater chance of approval.

He heard Snape snort. "Oscar the owl? How... original."

Harry ignored him, but unfortunately the as yet unnamed owl did not seem any keener than Snape on 'Oscar'; it turned its head away in a fairly uncomfortable-looking contortion so that it was facing the wall rather than Harry.

"Okay," Harry said, defeated, "not Oscar. How about Icarus? He liked flying, though a bit too much. What do you think?"

The owl hooted, turning back to Harry. This was likely prompted more by the offer of food than a great liking for the name, but Snape didn't need to know that Harry had bribed his owl.

"Perfect! Icarus it is."

Harry turned back to Snape triumphantly, taking in the scowl and laughing softly.

"Come on, Icarus isn't that stupid a name," he said.

Snape only grunted in response. He looked exhausted.

"You've got to be hungry. Want me to sort out some food for you? I've a better idea what we have in." Harry didn't wait for an answer before heading into the kitchen and getting to work on a quick stir-fry. He made more than he usually would, heaping the vegetables onto a generous plate of rice. Snape seemed grateful to see the mountain of food, digging in without any complaints when Harry set it down before him.

Harry waited until there was little left before asking the question he had been wondering since he'd been informed Snape was on his way back.

"So, how long before you want me out? I've been looking, but there's not anywhere yet, really. At least, not that I've seen. My stuff's all packed and ready to go, though, and I know a hostel that might have a vacancy if you wanted me gone tonight."

Snape dropped his fork, letting it hit the plate with a painful clink, and stared at Harry.

"You are prepared to leave tonight?" he said, voice oddly pitched.

Harry held back his disappointment. He knew Snape would want him out as quickly as possible – hell, it wasn't like he wanted to live in a one-bedroom flat with Snape – he had just hoped he would be able to find somewhere better to move on to. And maybe go there in daylight.

"Sure," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "I couldn't reserve a booking, but the owner of The Fox and Hound said that often travellers didn't show, so there's a good chance one of the rooms has since freed up. I'll just –"

"Sit," Snape said, and Harry sat, forgetting when confronted with that tone that he didn't have to obey Snape's every word.

"I was not insisting that you depart immediately. Or at all, in fact. I was merely remarking the fact that you had readied yourself to be ousted the moment I returned."

Snape leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and Harry felt pierced by his stare like a butterfly pinned to a board.

"Now, did you find it unbearable sharing my abode over Christmas?"

Harry dumbly shook his head.

"And were you misleading me when you informed me you now work night shifts and sleep during the day?"

Harry shook his head once more. "No, I –"

"Very well," Snape said smoothly. "Then there is no reason why we can't cohabit as we did the last time I was here. Granted, you spent most of that time sleeping on a Transfigured sofa, but as your sleeping habits now complement my own, we can simply take it in turns using the bed."

Harry didn't reply, but he hoped his expression communicated his disbelief for him.

Snape relaxed his posture, allowing one hand to drop so he could rearrange the knife and fork on his plate.

"I do not have many allies at present, or, rather, there are few willing to proclaim themselves as such. It may be some time before there are enough landlords willing to let to me for it to be a viable choice for me to move. It makes sense for you to continue to lease this place from me while I am working, and in that instance you may as well continue to live here. Do you agree?"

Harry licked his lips, thinking it over. He didn't exactly want to live with Snape, no, but truthfully they would not see a lot of each other, and Christmas had been an unexpectedly tolerable experience. There was really no need for him to leave.

"Sure, sounds great," Harry said, smiling with a relief he hadn't realised he would feel.

"Very well," Snape said, his own lips quirked in what could almost be called a smile. He reached a hand over, and Harry took it. Snape's grip as he shook was firm. "It looks as though we have an accord, Thomas..."

"Uh, Jones," Harry supplied, taking his hand back.

"Jones," Snape said. "Your name is Thomas Jones."

"Yeah, Jones. It's not that unus– ah, uncommon, is it?"

"No," Snape said, and he was definitely smiling now. "No, I suppose it's not unusual at all."

-H-

I never expected to be alive to see it. Somehow, whenever I pictured this day, this moment, I always assumed I would be dead.

I have the perfect view. All of the Death Eaters in my path have been slain and at the bottom of the slope I can see Potter on his knees facing the Dark Lord. I am close enough to see Potter's face screwed up in effort against mental intrusion.

My Mark burns dully, only one of a myriad of hurts.

Potter's scar pours blood down his face. It is smeared over the inside of his glasses, which sit crookedly on his nose. He makes no move to check the flow, and I find my hands itching to wipe it away.

"See something you like?" he says, teeth clenched.

The Dark Lord's face is twisted in fury. There is something else there, something I have never seen on him before.

"You've killed Nagini," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

Potter smiles. "Oh, yes. She's very much dead now." He glances over his shoulder, whether intentionally or not I do not know, and both the Dark Lord and I follow his gaze to a sword lying discarded like so much litter, stained with blood and filth.

If not for the rubies glinting in its hilt, I would never have guessed the true worth of the sword.

"It was quite easy. Almost as easy, I'd guess, as killing a baby. Not that you'd know."

I want to intervene. I know why the boy is taunting the Dark Lord, what he is goading him into doing, but still I want to shake him for allowing his foolish mouth to run.

Voldemort lifts his wand idly. "I will not repeat my mistakes," he says. He aims and Potter doesn't move an inch, continuing to look him straight in the eye as though he has nothing to fear. "Goodbye, Harry Potter."

I do not hear the words. The verdant light has the attention of everyone on the battlefield. We stare uselessly, wand arms dropping and incantations dying on our lips.

Both Potter and the Dark Lord have fallen.

It is silent as the grave, and I count my heartbeats as I stare.

One.

Still no one has moved.

Two.

A masked Death Eater steps forward.

Three.

She takes another step, and then another. And then she sprints.

She falls to her knees at the Dark Lord's side. Still, no one else dares to move.

Four.

I can hear her crooning. Bellatrix Lestrange mourning the death of her Lord. Her voice is abruptly cut off.

A white hand clasps hers, and together she and the Dark Lord rise to their feet.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Potter remains on the ground, lying awkwardly on his back with his legs folded beneath him. The Dark Lord's face will feed nightmares forever. You can see, as plainly as if the word were written there, victory spelled out across his expression.

"Harry Potter is dead!" he announces. "Who dares oppose me now?"

My wand is in my hand and I am moving, moving closer so I can get a clear shot. My heart has stopped pounding, has stopped beating, and is instead humming inside my chest. I feel as though it will burst out.

Closer. Will I be able to do this? The prophecy indicated... But Potter is dead, and with him the final Horcrux destroyed. It should be well within my power, if only I could stir my tongue and form the words and –

A blade erupts through the Dark Lord's chest. It twists and withdraws, only to reappear moments later. This time, when it disappears, the Dark Lord collapses, his mouth open in a slight 'O' of surprise, and his eyes glassy.

He is dead.

Standing over him on shaky legs, bloodstained sword in hand, clothes torn and expression hard, is Potter.

Gryffindor's sword falls from his grasp and he follows it to the ground.

He lies on his back, chest heaving, and taking in the sky with hollow eyes.

No one approaches him. The remaining Death Eaters are dealt with and I am led away to join them.

When I turn back, Granger has her arms around Potter, and she is weeping loudly. Someone is levitating the Dark Lord's body away, and it obscures Potter's face.

I see his face once before I am Apparated away. It has not changed since the moment he held the sword. The lines of his face look as though they will never change again, as though now they have been carved into granite, immutable except to the passing of the seasons.

I am deposited on the rock that is Azkaban, in a cold and damp cell. Already, the atmosphere seeps through my robes and into my bones. I shiver.

The Dark Lord is dead. I am finally free.

The smell of the ocean batters me, and I lie back on my pallet.

I close my eyes and smile.

-H-