Brynn
x Mournersx
"Severus…"
I count the twelfth and thirteenth drop, stir and then turn around. A petite woman with long green hair is standing in the doorway.
"Nymphadora."
The corner of her mouth quirks up, and I feel a spark of warmth enter the laboratory. Pity. I used to enjoy provoking her by calling her that – the reaction I receive now is nearly opposite. The little Hufflepuff has grown up.
She paces little idle steps forward, looking around as if interested in the facing of vessels with ingredients.
"Do you want something?" I ask impatiently. The potion I am working on is not too time-sensitive, but I dislike being interrupted in the middle of brewing. She blinks and glances at me, bewildered, as though the five seconds were enough to forget that I am here. "If not, the door is that way." I point behind her.
"Nice to know you don't change, Severus," she says with a smile, which drops immediately. "Memorial service is on Friday in the evening. The McKinnons have a separate one, but Dedalus, Pollux and Aurora will have a joint ritual on Moel Cynghorion Gweirdir."
"I shall be there."
She nods, gives me another fleeting smile, then shrugs and with odd, skipping steps moves to the exit. I revert my attention to the potion.
"You know, Severus…" I look up. It is disconcerting to see her so uncertain, so quiet. Her self-confidence has been badly damaged and it might cost her life some day in the near future. Another one of those who grow too fragile and then, long before their time, are shattered by someone without morals.
"Say what you want to say, Nymphadora."
"Dumbledore doesn't want the kids there, so they won't be told…" I sigh at the information – so like the Headmaster. Who cares that Potter has to this day debilitating nightmares about Diggory's death, as long as he does not risk his life by attending a memorial (along with fifty other Light wizards) that could bring him some kind of closure. "I think… at least Harry should be invited. I mean… he was there. He saw when it happened… he tried…" She takes a deep, ragged breath and prattles on, as if I needed persuading: "He tried to pry the dementor off Pollux. It was too late, but… I've never seen anyone with the guts to wrestle a dementor. And he's so tiny… smaller than Ginny. It's the D-Dursleys' fault…"
At this point I hit her with a Stinging Hex. She yelps, but recovers quickly.
"Sorry."
"Do you want some Dreamless Sleep?"
She nods; I pass her a flask that is still warm. She slips it into her pocket and finally leaves.
x
In the evening on Thursday I have the displeasure of meeting the complete Potter clique. Lovegood and, to my abject horror, Longbottom have joined the Gryffindors. I am mildly shocked to see how easily both new-comers have accepted Draco's presence. The Slytherin is currently lounging next to his magical guardian and reading a book that has a newspaper cover hiding its name.
Before I can say a word, though, I am accosted by a Malfoyesque blonde, who comes in right behind me and starts talking before I even know who she is.
"Bonsoir, Professeur!" It is Delacour, then. She had gone home sometimes in the beginning of August (called off by her parents, who were displeased to learn of her part in the July Battle of Hogwarts), and I have almost forgotten about her involvement with the Order. It was a pleasant respite… "I 'ave not seen you in a long time!" She is polite, even though not exactly ecstatic to see me. I am reminded that she was bred to become the wife of a politician, and ended with William only because she was chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament.
"Good evening, Miss Delacour," I reply. "How was your stay in France?"
Ginevra watches with interest as the woman nervously plays with her bracelet.
"Very nice, thank you," she says completely believably. "I came back immediately when I 'eard of the tragedy. Bill was distraught." As far as I can tell, she is quite happy that she was not here.
Having nothing to say to her, I nod. Everyone here was distraught, with the possible exception of myself. Fleur Delacour does not fit into this bleak house, with her beauty and happiness, and syrupy declarations of love. Ginevra's interest morphs into a frown. She burrows further into Potter's side, mirroring Draco. Potter gives her a brief glance and then looks up at me over the top of his book, also wrapped in newspaper. My eyes are drawn to the picture of a dead werewolf on what used to be Daily Prophet… I wonder whether it is a coincidence or a statement.
"We haven't seen you in a long time either," he remarks, quite correctly, since I was holed up in the laboratory, replenishing the stores of Hogwarts infirmary that were depleted after the battle for the last two days.
"That is none of your business, Potter," I tell him caustically. "Up and follow me. Without the army of bootlickers."
I briskly lead the way out of the library. Out in the hallway I have to wait for him while he fends off the fanclub and then assures Draco that my intention truly is not liberating several of Potter's vitally important organs to use them in some Dark concoctions.
"You know, if you got to Tonks before Remus, you wouldn't have this problem," he says softly, having closed the door behind him. The robe he wears is a standard Hogwarts uniform with a Slytherin crest. It is fitting… too well for my liking… but Potter is no Slytherin and he should not be wearing the crest. The robe was most likely Regulus's once upon a time, but the twenty odd years since it was used have not affected it due to endurance charms.
For a moment I simply stare at him. It is inconceivable that this petite runt threw himself at a dementor to save a man he had never known. Inconceivable that he touched the creature at all… not to speak about the past experiences he must have… He might be the only person alive and relatively sane to have seen what is hidden under a dementor's hood.
"What are you insinuating now, you wretch?"
"I simply revisit our argument from July, Snape," he says with blankness that is supposed to indicate that his point is fairly obvious, he should not have to explain it, and that he feels it has nothing or very little to do with him. It is as fake as his indifference on Wednesday, but at the same time it shows that he is on the path from sarcasm to cynicism. This time, I fail to be surprised.
"Which one?" Merlin knows we do have a lot of them. Suspiciously many, to tell the truth.
He leans against the wall (apparently considering it the perfect gesture to create an air of nonchalance around himself), and I wait for the punch-line.
"If you had a woman to bed on regular basis, you wouldn't have to take out your frustrations on me."
My knuckles whiten as I clench my fists. This I have not expected – I have managed to forget that we ever had that particular confrontation. It is disturbing to hear Potter speculate about my sex-life – or lack thereof (especially since it makes me more likely to blow at him, which would give him more fuel). This is the reason why I never traded insults with Lucius – he would steer them to a field in which I had no chance on besting him.
This kind of conversation makes me intensely uncomfortable.
"Nymphadora informed me of something she thinks should be brought to your attention."
There is a brief flash of amusement in his eyes when I mention the woman, but it disappears immediately, replaced by sombre interest.
"Why didn't she tell me, then?"
"The Headmaster does not wish you to know."
The blank mask slides over his face, hiding an emotion he does not want to show to me. I surmise it is due to the Headmaster, not my involvement – he has seen me act against orders too many times to be surprised by this turn of events. Nymphadora never was the obedient pet either – even though she had to learn discipline in Auror training, she remains inventive, wilful, and fiercely, Gryffindorly righteous.
"What is it?" he asks simply.
"The memorial service for Diggle, Merrythought and Sinistra takes place tomorrow."
Potter closes his eyes, hangs his head and his lips form soundless words. He is not aware of my skill in lip-reading, and therefore does not control himself in disparaging Dumbledore and his ancestors.
"That is enough, Potter." He glances up at me. "Be prepared to leave at noon. Do not tell any of your friends of this – that means not even Draco. We are doing you a large favour as it is."
I turn around and set out back to the laboratory.
"And I do appreciate it, Professor," he says, almost respectfully, to my back.
x
As per our agreement, I have not concerned myself with Potter further. Whether he went or not or who accompanied him was not all that important to me, except that it was my responsibility to ensure that Potter does not kill anyone along the way. I, however, doubt that the Dark Lord is likely to attempt possession today, or during waking hours.
I am the first of those not involved in organisation of the ritual to arrive at the Meadow. I walk away from the group preparing the pyres, looking downwards so that I would not step on any of the Snowdon Lilies that litter the ground. When I do not hear voices anymore I halt and gaze into the distance in the opposite direction from them, altogether ignoring their presence. I breath in the air and take time to simply enjoy the raw beauty of the nature around me. This is one of the most enthralling places I have ever been to, though I forbade myself to come here unless there is a cause. Gods know I do come too often anyway, for the Order of the Phoenix chose this site to be their semi-official place for the ultimate valedictions.
When the crowd behind me grows, I abandon my contemplation and, as always, stand on the edge. I do not particularly feel like listening to any of these people telling me that I should not be here, though a part of me believes there to be a grain of truth in such accusation. Many of those present here have not been present at the battle, but I am different in that I was not tied to any of the deceased by a tie of emotion (except for having enjoyed playing chess against Sinistra).
As to not aggravate them overly, I stand aside, singling myself out before they single me out. I briefly wonder if it is not a kind of self-pity as well.
I wonder what I am doing here. I did not know the people, I have not witnessed their deaths, and I do not feel any obligation to them. I am a stranger here, unwelcome, and without particular desire to attend. I do not have to watch Potter, if he even is here, and I did not need to take a trip to country-side.
I have run out of excuses. Watching the procession, the burning, the grieving friends and families and bystanders is singularly boring. I do not have it in myself to disturb the memorial by Disapparating now, and walking away would look just as offending. They hate me enough as it is, and, despite my lack of attachment, I do have a measure of respect for the three dead wizards who are being celebrated.
I have come here, so I will endure it until the end.
Three pillars of ugly black smoke rise on the background of light grey sky, and I brace myself against the crying that reaches my ears. Leda Merrythought clutches a handkerchief to her face, but otherwise stares blankly at the gradually disappearing body of her son. Next to her stands a solemn Dumbledore, who could not even for this occasion leave behind his wild clothing style and pretend sanity: he wears (although black) robes with gold and silver embroidered phoenix. It must be a new acquisition of his, because at the last memorial service I have attended with him he was dressed in different, albeit similarly unconventional, garment. I slide over the rows of familiar and semi-familiar faces of children, young people, adults and elders. It is a cogent sample of one half of the magical society.
Down the line, quite far from the burning corpses, Tonks and Moody flank a small person clad in a simple black robe, wearing a hat. As if they sensed me looking at them, they lift their head, and over the distance of sixty yards I meet a pair of green eyes. Potter pulls the brim of the hat lower, hiding his face, and returns to watching the ritual with an interest bordering on academic.
I find it ironic that for him, who lost so many people we was attached to, it is the first time he attends a memorial service.
x
Dumbledore remains behind to speak to the closest surviving kin as the crowd scatters and gradually leaves the Meadow. Under different circumstances, I might have stayed longer as well, but the situation was made uncomfortable to me, and I relish the freedom of departing.
I arrive at Grimmauld Place closely behind the trinity of two Aurors and Potter. Moody refrains from remarks towards me (which is rather unusual) and holds the door open for all three of us. He latches it once we are inside. Potter walks on without a word and disappears in the house.
Tonks, for some unfathomable reason, hugs me briefly, letting go before I can detach any of her limbs. I do not understand, but she does not deign to explain, vanishing in Potter's suit.
"It is hard for the lass." I realise that this is the first time Moody voluntarily speaks civilly to me. I have not met him one on one since my open betrayal in the July Battle, but it is likely that it was that, which finally convinced him that I am truly on the so-called 'Light side'.
"It is hard for everyone," I reply simply, still weary of the man who used to make my life as much worse than it already was as possible. Moody nods, though, not getting into my face, even though he could. This time he even would have a morally legitimate reason.
"Ignore the idiots, Snape. Sometimes it's harder to stay behind than rush ahead… you did as you were told."
Yes, and that is the problem. Should I have done as I was told?
"Sometimes orders should be disobeyed."
Moody lets out a short, bark-like laugh, spinning his artificial eye so that it is trained somewhere upstairs. His mouth tightens, rearranging the mass of scars and wrinkles around it, and I wonder whether I should have kept my mouth shut. He has seemed to have understanding for non-compliance at instances in the past, but I have been a Death Eater, and that shifts the points of view of the most.
"That they should, but we have Potter for that, Snape. You're not the only one watching that kid and, let me tell you, he's something else. He should get proper training, and in two or three years I'd pitch him against Riddle with no worries. He's got that Lion Heart…"
"He is losing his sanity," I hiss, forgetting who I am talking to. However, Moody does not blow up or start accusing me of attempting to discredit the brat.
"And how's that surprising? I've seen two generations of Aurors from the cradle to the grave, Snape, and none of them were sane in the end. The good ones learn to deal with it, the bad ones die. That's the way it is. Potter's going mad because he gets patronised. They'd wrap him in cotton and wait until the very last moment, then stand him in front of Riddle and tell him: 'Kill!'." He scoffs and shakes his head in disgust. "Idiots!"
I remain silent. Moody is one of the very few entities that I would not want to confront under any circumstances, ranking up there with the Dark Lord, Rookwood, Greyback, Dumbledore and, newly, Potter (although the latter only extends to battle and insults related to personal matters).
"You keep on watching the kid, Snape, and help him learn to survive, understand?"
That is not exactly what I expected him to say, although it does not make me happy either. I have been consentient to taking care of Potter's continued moderately sane survival, but teaching the little brat is another matter altogether. Although I now concede that he is intelligent enough to not be a waste of time, past experience shows that he is not agreeable to my teaching style.
I nod anyway, because having Moody off my back is worth it.
x
I do attend dinner due to mind-numbing hunger. I have not realised how many meals I have missed, and quenching the pain in my stomach is worth suffering the brats.
Molly, who spent the entire day on duty in the kitchen, is tired, which I appreciate because it means that she does not have the energy to gripe on me and my lack of eating habits. The students are quiet, as they usually are in my presence (unless their temper temporarily overrides their self-preservation), but there is none of the grim atmosphere that seems prevalent whenever three or more members of the Order meet in one room. They, with the exception of Potter and, to smaller extent also, Draco, remain untouched by the war so far. It should be a positive thought, but I only feel bitter.
I notice Ronald passing Draco a bowl of something or other, exchanging simple pleasantries, and realise that the enmity that was there weeks ago seems to have greatly lessened. Granger and Ginevra have come to accept the Slytherin as a friend, even, although not yet a close one. Still, the picture is one I have never imagined I would see.
I am ripped out of my thoughts as a spoon rattles on a plate. Potter is pressing both his palms against his mouth. His shoulders move forwards as he gags, staring at the surface of white dill soup.
"Harry?!" Granger yelps, worried. Potter ignores her, which raises a wave of exclamations of concern. Draco, sitting next to him, grips his chin and forces him to turn away from the food.
"Harry," he says. Potter realises what is going on, gulps, and lets his hands down. He closes his eyes for a few seconds and when he opens them they are empty. He gazes at Draco.
"I need to keep my mind off it… I need a distraction."
"Do you want to..?" There is a strange, breathy quality to Draco's voice. Potter's eyes widen and his lips part ever so slightly.
"Please," he replies, lengthening the vowel, as if I throes of some emotion. Draco nods, stands and touches the back of Potter's neck.
"I'll just stop by our room for the essentials. Meet you there." And he walks out.
All those present need a while to recover, and then gape at Potter as though he said he was going to join Voldemort and his Inner Circle in a orgy. I avoid even glancing in the idiot's direction. They might have just as well announced to everyone that they are having sex! Morons-
Although, on second thought, it was an awfully obvious conclusion, considering the acting abilities I know both of them possess. This might be exactly what they wanted everyone to think… But then, what are they doing that is so illicit that they would pretend to have a sordid affair? Is it Dark Arts? Are they worshipping some evil deity (I do not see that of either of them – not because of the 'evil', but because of the 'deity' part)? Are they torturing small animals?
I admit that I do not have any idea. Potter rises from the table and sets out. I want to follow him, but find that I cannot. The little bastard (one of them) Stuck me to the bench. It takes too long to counter, and by that time Potter is lost in the maze that is this house.
One day, I am going to paint his hide blue.
x
Around eight the two re-emerge, looking tired and worse for wear, but content. They lack any specific signs of afterglow, which settles any doubts I might have had about them, but their obvious closeness and exhaustion is enough to convince the onlookers. No one has the bravery to remark upon it, even though thinly-veiled disgust, horror or incredulity is visible on many faces as they enter the kitchen.
I am present only because Molly is ready to fall asleep on her feet and no one except me could take over the duty. In a fit of altruism (she hopefully won't remember tomorrow) I have offered my assistance. That was before I found that a number of Order members were coming to finalise the plans for tomorrow. The Hogwarts Express is going to be heavily warded and guarded this year, even though it seems to me that an attack is not as likely as it was last year. The open warfare is the only true difference. As depleted as the Dark Lord's forces are, the likelihood of the train being targeted is minimal.
Potter and Draco obviously did not know about the meeting either, because they momentarily stop in the doorway. They recover quickly and aim straight for the basket with rolls, ignoring the looks they are getting when Draco reaches out and takes Potter's hand. They make it look perfectly natural, as though they were both used to it. I know for a fact that it is all an act, but it raises protests among the guests in Potter's house.
"You shouldn't hang around the likes of him, Potter."
All eyes are suddenly on the man who spoke. It takes me a while to place the face, but then I remember. A Gryffindor (naturally, I could have guessed that as soon as he opened his mouth); graduated four or five years ago. Level of intelligence approximately that of Crabbe and Goyle. Skilled in altogether nothing, much like Peter Pettigrew used to be. He has changed – dyed his hair blond, had his ears pierced, lost weight and grew an offensively repulsive goatee.
"Who are you?" Potter asks tonelessly.
"Disgleirio Dearborn. You might have heard about my uncle." Potter nods thoughtfully. Wherever he has heard about Caradoc Dearborn from, it left a mark somewhere in that crowded head. 'Disgleirio' flashes a smile full of unnaturally white teeth that makes Draco and the oldest Weasley cringe. Potter pretends that he does not see it.
"Come on, we could hang out and get to know each other… you don't have to be staying here with them."
The insult does not truly penetrate my thick skin, but Draco is not as used to these idiots as I am. He frowns, yet a moment later exchanges an amused glance with Potter. The Gryffindor leisurely leans on the table and exaggeratedly surveys Dearborn from blue leather shoes up to the top of his bleached head, pausing for a moment at the goatee. It is probably meant to be attractive, but Potter obviously does not consider it such.
"But I have to stay with Snape. He's my baby-sitter. If you really want to, he could maybe go with us?"
I watch with curiosity, slightly displeased about being called 'a baby-sitter'. However, the barb was directed at Dumbledore and his toadies and I do have appreciation for suitably scathing sarcasm.
Draco rapidly turns away from the scene and presses his hand against his mouth to stifle his sniggering. I strongly suspect some kind of private joke, but Dearborn remains oblivious, taken in by Potter's faux cluelessness.
"You should get away from him. He'll try to corrupt you. He was a Dark wizard-"
"He is a Dark wizard," Potter protests on my behalf. I suppress the urge to hex him, and a moment later the urge to name the eldest Gorgon sister. Claiming that I used to be a Dark wizard is bad enough among these people – if they realise that I am still what one would call a Dark wizard will result in rather painful lack of defence against the crowd with stones.
But Potter, the moronic nutcracker, does not know when to shut up once he gets annoyed. He glares at the man and freezes the victorious expression off his goateed face.
"Darkness is not something that can be cleaned or healed." Or enlightened. Yes, very nice, very true, and five minutes past the time when I should have shut him up. But there are too many Order members around – I would not be able to dispose of all the witnesses… "On the other hand, I don't understand why Darkness should be 'rectified'."
Great Merlin, they will crucify us together – Draco, Potter and me. It will be a cosy little Golgotha here. I just hope they will not let me die upside-down.
"He is evil!" exclaims the scorned Dearborn. Draco sits on the floor, clutching on his belly, laughing openly. He receives a number of scowls, apparently having just outed himself as another paragon of true evil.
"Wow!" Potter gasps with wonder. He stares at Dearborn with wide eyes. The goateed idiot steps forward, mistakenly secure in his knowledge of Potter's adoration of his intelligence. Apparently, irony is a concept he has yet to encounter. "And how did you figure that?"
"He kills people," Dearborn solemnly explains. Potter looks away from him, frowns, scratches his head and looks back.
"I do, too. Does that make me evil?" Molly chokes and he spins to face her, abandoning the sarcasm for genuine exasperation. "Oh, please, Mrs Weasley, don't go into hysterics. Death is something that happens exactly as often as life. It's a part of a cycle. And sometimes it's necessary to bring it about so that truly bad things don't happen."
The woman is taken aback by Potter's rant, enough to not start yelling at him. It is nice to see that I am not the only person confused by the whelp – the rest of them are simply too stupid to realise it.
"But… you're just a boy-"
Some people do not learn. Has he not told Dumbledore straight a few days ago that he will not be treated as a child?
"You knew I killed to save Ginny… I was twelve at the time." I did not know that! Damn him! Just when I think he would not surprise me again… Although I should have known that Dumbledore would not have given out a Special Award for Services to the School cheaply.
"Why did it not matter back then, but it does now?" He slowly turns around, meeting the eyes of everyone in the dining room, his disappointment becoming gradually more pronounced. "The point is, Snape's not evil. He's cranky, crabby and cynical… but that does not add together to evil."
Should I be flattered?
"They have already corrupted you, Potter!" Dearborn exclaims and with flourish lifts his wand. Potter has ample time to shield or avoid, but he ignores the threat, calmly watching the approaching non-verbal (and therefore unidentified) hex.
It bounces off his personal ward and hits Dearborn in the face, scalding off all of his facial hair – eyebrows, eyelashes and the damnable excuse for a goatee – and rendering him unconscious. Potter approaches the sprawled body and takes a close look.
"Yep. Definitely became smarter."
In the corner of the room, Draco catches second breath and continues with his hysterical fit of giggles.