Chapter Four
After the hash he'd made of revealing himself to Snape, Harry waited a week before returning to Spinner's End.
During that week he helped George Weasley install a few alarm charms so that Harry, Hermione, and the Burrow would always be aware of Ron's emotional levels. To Harry's surprise, George was almost chatty. Tonks, who'd got it from Molly, who must have heard it from Ginny, said that George had commissioned Thornycroft to attempt a posthumous portrait of Fred. Harry traced the source of George's newfound cheer to the likelihood that it was finished and already hanging in the offices of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.
He hadn't actually seen the portrait, but he'd stood outside the office during his last visit and overheard two familiar, no, identical voices, Fred teasing and George sniping back with a note almost of joy. Harry had wanted to burst into the room, but he'd known that, no matter how it sounded, only one twin would be standing there. Better to give them privacy. Even Molly would rather her son keep to himself, invent new toys, and trade quips with his alter ego than go through life with the quenched spark and listless tread that had marked him since Fenrir was driven from Fred's savaged corpse.
"So, this Owen bloke," George broke the silence, while casting a handful of gaudy stars at the ceiling. "Still boffing Ginny, I take it?" The stars clung, twinkling like Dumbledore's spectacles, a tiny rainfall of glitter drifting down from their constellations. Ron cooed, and George ruffled his hair.
Envious, Harry watched the ease with which George touched his brother. The ghosts watched, too, but never receded enough that Harry could safely comfort Ron.
Harry shrugged. "Yeah." Owen hadn't been around much this week, which suited Harry just fine. The berk wouldn't stop badgering him to sit for a portrait, even though Harry had turned him down flat three times now.
"Think he's the one?" George tied off a bobbing handful of balloons, knotting their strings together and releasing them to tumble end over end from one wall to another.
"One what? Oh, uh. Couldn't say, mate. She's your sister, you ask her." Harry jumped a bit as the tail-end of a feel-good charm tickled over him, swirling and contracting in the balloons' wake.
"'Spect she'll spill the beans before it comes to that." The stocky, fox-faced redhead gazed curiously at Harry. "Got a smidgin of Veela in him, you noticed?"
"Owen?" Harry thought about it. "He might. Why?"
George was still pinning him with that look. "I was thinking it might be a great way for Gin to wean herself off certain other, 'scuse my saying so, romantic obsessions. A healthy dose of Veela sex, you follow me? Might be just the thing. Sometimes it takes a little magic, you know? To heal." He gave Harry a strange, lopsided smile. "You know it's not her fault, right?"
That she's having sex? Harry bunched his eyebrows in confusion.
"Ron," George said, and his brother wheeled around, giggling. "She didn't know he'd put himself in the line of fire. It was an accident – "
"Merlin," Harry said, "I know," because really, he couldn't have this conversation.
Sod it, it had been Harry who'd shouted, right? Pinned to a wall by two assailants, he'd felled one with a hex just in time to see Ginny's hair ignite. It was nobody's fault that Ron had got there first, that Harry's shout made him look up, that he answered his sister's scream.
Ron had Apparated at once from a blood-slippery, broken stairwell, past smashed desks and burning parchment scrolls. He'd peeled the fire off his burning sister, shouting, "Finite Incantatem!" Those had been his last words. He'd convulsed and collapsed at Ginny's side, his wand flying from his hand and snapping in two.
In the last minutes before the building caved in, Kingsley Shacklebolt had pulled Ginny out, and a sobbing Hermione had struggled to gather up Ron where he lay curled in a ball, clutching his head. Arthur Weasley had found them, and they'd managed a three-way Sidealong Apparition. The heat had been horrible, sparks exploding through the air in vicious jets of fire.
In the moment they'd whirled away, they'd heard screams cut through the windy roar of flames, and believed it was Voldemort, whose body was burning. No one had recognised Harry's voice.
George knew this, damn it. And Harry dreamed about it all the fucking time. "I feel responsible for making her happy," he stalled, feeling only a little guilty because this was no longer true. "If Owen can provide that, great."
"You're not jealous?"
Harry tipped one shoulder up. He almost blurted, "Relieved," but then decided that might be taking the compulsory confession thing a bit far.
About to clap him on the back, George caught himself and nodded. "So, you been sleeping all right yourself, then?"
Harry looked away. "Same as ever." His dreams had changed in the last week, but were no less disturbing for that.
"That bad, eh?"
George might have said more, but Ron barreled into him, squealing with delight as he blundered after the balloons. In their languid crisscross of the upper air, the bright, weightless spheres had floated to the ceiling. One of them, bumping softly, pricked itself on the glittering point of a star and with a noiseless pop chucked its contents. A hail of chocolate frogs and glorious well-being tumbled down. Standing beneath this fountain of sweetness, all three of them laughed, and for a moment Harry basked in it, remembering what it was like to be happy.
"Who's a big boy, then?" George tore the wrapping from a chocolate frog and let it go, then slung an affectionate arm around Ron as he gaped, not daring to move, watching the frog spring from his sleeve to his shoulder. George caught it and held it for Ron to bite, before pushing back his fringe and angling a sideways glance at Harry. "We through here for now? I could sure use a cuppa."
It was also, by chance, the week of the full moon. Tonks had Auror patrol on two of the three nights, so Harry filled in for her on werewolf-watch. He didn't mind. It was better than the sleep-perchance-to-dream thing. Besides, in the mornings he enjoyed bringing Remus tea and scones and chocolate on a tray.
Hunched inside a tatty embroidered blanket, in which lingered, rumour had it, the faint fragrance of Sirius Black, Lupin sat letting the steam from his Earl Grey drift around his worn, whiskery face. Hermione brewed his Wolfsbane fresh each month, but Remus had confided to Harry that it twisted his guts and gave him diarrhea. Snape's version had been superior, but he mustn't say a word. He was grateful for whatever Hermione gave him.
At dawn, as the eastern sky edged the rooftops with fire, Remus had come painfully out of his crouch, stumbling and bumping his way to the bathroom. In his absence, Harry rummaged for an incense stick and lit it. He kept his back turned to the burning horizon as he waved the stick around, and then passed the time rearranging the tea things. Remus made no apology on his return. They said little as the sun bored holes through the gloom, and the room lightened by degrees to a pale gold. It smelled of bergamot and dog fur and singed rose petals. Remus snuffled sleepily and sucked on his chocolate.
"I have a question."
A mild silence followed. Remus ran a finger behind one ear and scratched, blinking quizzically.
"Would you – " Harry paused, but couldn't imagine a subtle or secretive way to put this. "If Dumbledore had asked you, do you think you could have killed him?"
The weary eyes fastened on his, and slowly Remus sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He tilted his head back, and Harry realised he was scenting the air, probably searching for a whiff of nerves or troubled sleep or, perhaps, candlewax and potions. For the first time Harry wondered, did his ghosts have an odour? He resisted the urge to sniff himself.
Finally Lupin said, in a troubled undertone, "Perhaps. But I couldn't swear to it." He squinted past Harry at the door, as if watching the scene play out before him. Then his brow cleared, and he shook his head, in fact his whole body shuddered. "No. Not like that. It would have been beyond me."
"Thought not." Harry nodded.
Remus turned on him a shaggy, doleful look. "Harry, you fail to understand. If it had been up to me, we would have lost the war."
Appalled, Harry scrambled to correct his mistake. "That's not what I – "
"Shh, it's all right. I know." Remus studied him, smiled a little, then snapped off a lozenge from the chocolate bar, curled his tongue around it, and tipped a few quiet swallows of hot tea into his mouth. After the chocolate had melted and the sweetened beverage slid down his throat, he tried again. "Many traumatic things happened during the War, but Albus' death was one of the worst. I'll forever regret that you were put in the position of watching him die."
"He didn't just die," Harry growled. "He was murdered."
"Murdered," echoed Lupin, in a dull voice that made Harry glance at him in concern. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry. It was…yes. Horrible. But a sacrifice that paid off in the end. Please keep in mind, Albus chose that path largely because he had faith in Severus. Not even you can deny that we had need of an inside agent, and without Severus – " He shrugged.
"We'd have destroyed the horcuxes without him," Harry argued, not bothering to camouflage his disgust. "We needed Professor Dumbledore far more than we ever needed Snape."
"But, Harry, the plan was Dumbledore's. And since his sacrifice could not be undone, let's just thank Merlin that it worked." Harry twitched in protest, and Remus gazed unseeing into his half-empty cup. Then he drank more tea and wiped his upper lip. "Except for the part about you being there. I sincerely doubt Albus would have wanted you to bear witness to that, had he been given a choice in the matter."
He sighed then, burped a little, and propped himself against the back of the sofa, eyelids drooping. "My point being, as I've said before, you can't blame Severus for carrying out what were in fact Dumbledore's orders. I'd hazard a guess that, even more than the friends who accompanied you to the Ministry and whose love helped you survive, it was Severus who got you through."
"Bollocks," cried Harry. If Remus was going to switch sides like that, he'd prefer a prior warning, thanks very much. He scrambled to his feet and started pacing, ghosts darting from one end of his body to the other.
A sudden pang constricted his heart. "God, Remus, don't tell me you've forgiven him!"
"Forgiven?" Remus rolled his head sideways and gazed out the window, blinking at the pink and peach-coloured sky, a tracery of silhouetted branches framing the view like stained glass. Harry noticed that the paint on the windowsill was peeling. "I haven't stopped to consider it, actually. I'm not at all clear what I think of Severus these days." He slumped back, yawning. "I've always found him something of an enigma, and that's certainly not changed with age. But I'd say gratitude. Maybe a dash of admiration."
"I don't believe you," Harry spluttered. His trainers squeaked on the wooden planks as he spun around. "A cold-blooded killer and you admire him?"
"By your rather strict construction, we're all cold-blooded killers. It's what the times have made of us. But I'm not awake enough right now to split hairs." Remus was obviously struggling to keep his eyes open. "You're alive," he said simply. "Snape played a part in that."
In the silence that followed, Harry heard the chirping of birds outside. He paced, while the sound of gentle wheezing, the prelude to even gentler snoring, issued from the sofa. The restless dead climbed his spine like Dragon's Snare, spreading over his shoulders, burning and stinging. It gave him the shakes. Raising one hand, he tried blowing on it for warmth. Merlin. Was that a blue tinge? He could sense unknown fingers worming their way through his own, delicate as dark lines of poison. The next thing he knew, he was clutching his wand. He hadn't summoned it, but the tingle of power reassured him. He ran his fingers along the radiant heat, stroking it, feeling the throb of magic.
His dreams worried him. Lately they featured Snape – no surprise there – and Harry's hands petting, circling his throat, gradually bearing down, while, one by one, flames sprang into being around them. Fire spiraled up the walls, rippling in long streamers that left sooty shadows, chewing steadily, the smoke sifting through the room. Sometimes Snape appeared seated, swathed from neck to ankle in robes so dense, the body inside them was pure surmise. Sometimes he was below Harry on the floor, lying flat on his back, his white shirt peeled open and his dressing gown flung out like wings, his inky hair staining the scuffed wood.
Throughout the dream all Snape did was stare at the ceiling. That forced Harry out of the tight cocoon of sleep, although, until he was awake and remembering, he didn't know why.
Snape never fought back. That was the thing. He let Harry choke him. Harry's hands frozen with ghostly bile. Harry's rage burning the walls around them.
Just thinking about it made him angry. He started to say something along the lines of, "The ugly git's been keeping me awake nights," but what came out instead was, "I went to his house."
The wheezing paused. Damn. He'd thought Remus was asleep. "I'd heard rumours to that effect," the werewolf mumbled. "That you'd taken it upon yourself to, erm – "
"Spy?" Harry supplied gruffly.
"Say rather, keep an eye on him. So, how did he seem?"
"Arrogant. Sarcastic. All things Snape. Just like he'd get when Slytherin lost the House Cup." After a moment, though, honesty won out. "Kind of desperate, I think, being cooped up in there. He gave me a glass of port."
"He did?"
"And I drank it. Barmy, right? Nearly choked to death."
Remus sat up quickly. "Please don't tell me he put something in it."
"Didn't have to. It's port. Went right up my nose. You ask me, it tastes like cough syrup."
Remus relaxed. "Young philistine. I'm surprised Severus wasted the good stuff on you." He eyed Harry from the depths of the sofa cushions. "So, would you say he's having a tough time of it?" At Harry's scathing look, he added hastily, "Adjusting to life after Voldemort, I mean."
"Ask me if I care. Come on, Remus. He still snarls at the drop of a hat." Harry fiddled with his wand and was on the verge of sticking it in his mouth, when he felt Remus' eyes on him. The tip was thoroughly riddled with toothmarks. Swallowing, he slid the wand up his sleeve. At least his hands had stopped bothering him.
"He's lost weight. And he looks," that brought to mind so many conflicting impressions that he settled for, "really tired."
A faint smile stretched the tawny grey stubble along Lupin's jaw. "He's not alone in that. I'd wager we all look a bit ragged around the edges."
Harry removed his glasses, breathed on them, polished the lenses, and hooked them back atop his ears. Sadly, the world remained the same. Remus heaved a sigh. "He's not a sympathetic figure, Harry. I'm well aware of that. But you're mistaken if you think he didn't suffer."
"Not enough," Harry whispered. The words burned the roof of his mouth and hung in the air, even after Remus had drifted to sleep.