Chapter Twenty-Seven: Not Dead, Apparently
There are no clear images, only bright whiteness where he is. It's too much at first, and he closes his eyes, not sure whatever is out there is worth his attention or any further discomfort.
He senses a dull ache all across his body and his limbs are all so heavy, too, seem to weigh a ton each. Even his eyelids, they are too hard to open again, and he's much more comfortable like that, shaded from the light, unmoving.
His lips are parched though, and he tries to swallow, however not a drop of saliva gathers under his tongue.
He grunts, discomfort growing, even though he's barely conscious enough to realize his own existence. He wishes to return to the soft nothingness or whatever was before; before all this light and dull ache and thirst and heaviness.
Something wet touches his lips, and he opens his mouth. Something is being poured down his throat, and he swallows eagerly. Whatever wondrous potion it is, it's the most delicious substance Harry's tongue has ever tasted.
When it's taken away, he lets out a displeased sound and tries to move after the glass.
"Easy now, Harry," says a gentle, old voice.
Strengthened by whatever magical liquid that was, Harry opens his eyes again. The brightness is there once more, greeting his first awakened moments with vicious enthusiasm, and he squints, peering through only his eyelashes at first.
"Here, have some more…"
His mouth opens on its own and cool glass touches against his lower lip. There it is again that sweet refreshing liquid, but the more aware he is, the less magical it tastes and by the time he empties the glass, he realizes it's nothing but plain old water indeed.
Harry blinks at the eerie brightness, but cannot take out anything.
The voice he recognises though. "Professor Dumbledore?"
"Yes, my dear boy?"
Harry's not sure how else to phrase it, so he just simply asks, "Am I dead, sir?"
Dumbledore chuckles. "Neither in body, nor in spirit, Harry. You are perhaps more alive than you were a week ago."
"Where are we, Professor? It's so bright…"
"I always thought these white walls did nothing to lift one's spirit. A dash of colour would not hurt anyone, yet Madam Pomfrey insists on the pallor."
It takes a moment for Harry's numb mind to stagger through that sentence. "I'm… I'm in the Infirmary?"
A moment later, his glasses are carefully slipped onto his face. Suddenly his surrounding is getting much clearer, although not less bright.
The worn face of a white-haired, old wizard swims into his view. Dumbledore seems somewhat older than he was the last time Harry had seen him, although in the heat of the battle, a lot could have missed his attention.
"Quite right you are, Harry. Unfortunately, your ill-fated death, while short-lived, still resulted with a scar that needed some medical attention."
Harry lifts a hand to his chest and touches it. He still feels the strange soreness, but there's no actual pain. He's only tired, and his muscles are tense as if he had a cold for a few days.
"I am afraid, Tom did not leave anything for chance. Much like the one on your forehead, your new scar will regrettably serve as a lifelong memorandum of your heroism, however, this time I can guarantee you, it is nothing more than a regular scar." Dumbledore looks thoughtful for a moment, then smiles mischievously. "If you can call the evidence of surviving the Deadly Curse, for no less than the second time, regular."
Harry looks into blue eyes over half-moon glasses, awaiting a confirmation for a question he doesn't dare ask.
Dumbledore nods. "You did amazingly well, Harry."
Harry lets out a faint breath. "He's gone? Really gone?" he whispers.
Warm smile spreads on Dumbledore's face. "Gone forever, thanks to your sacrifice."
"Me? What did I do?"
"You died," comes the cheerful answer, and Harry can't help the snort that comes out of him. "There is an order to things and magic has its rules as everything else in the universe. Your death was needed and there was a time and place for it, too. You had to die in the exact way you did. Unarmed, willingly sacrificing yourself for us. Only then could your mother's magic in you save you, while Voldemort's own spell killed the Horcrux within you."
Harry nods, digesting all that. "Did you know? That I will come back?"
A shadow crosses Dumbledore's face: regret.
"No," he answers honestly. "I just hoped. What else do we have in these dark times than that, after all? Luckily, sometimes, hope is enough."
Dumbledore looks out the large window. That's where the brightness comes from. It must be midday, the sun is high in the sky, which is cloudless for now. With the end of Autumn, days like this are hard to come by, and Harry basks in the light for a moment.
"Who died?" He doesn't know how else to ask it. He almost wants to avoid the whole topic altogether, but he must know.
He remembers that moment, facing Voldemort too vividly now, remembers that Severus was right behind him, remembers wanting nothing more than to protect him. He's not sure whether he's ready to hear the man's name among the fallen, but he has to be certain.
"Many," comes Dumbledore's quiet answer.
The Death Eaters knew little mercy, but the Acromantulas and other beasts knew even less.
The Headmaster lists the names of wizards and witches, some even Harry had known, some he attended classes with. Dumbledore does not summon a parchment; he can recall the names by heart. From the heart indeed – the old man looks as if for every death he were to blame, as if he were the one who made these people face the enemy, the one who attacked an army of dark creatures and wizards to gain glory.
The Headmaster seems to age another decade by the time he enumerates even the last name, yet the ones Harry fears the most to hear have not been uttered. He stares at the man, more hopeful than ever.
"Yes, indeed, the list would have been much longer without luck in our favour," he smiles, eyes twinkling.
"Whoever came up with that should get an Order of Merlin."
"Yes, I myself have already advocated for Professor Snape to receive the appropriate commendation for his services. He however insists to be, and I quote, left the hell alone from now on."
Something clicks in Harry's mind then: long white arms covered in streaks and specks of gold, a potion mishap due to his own excited magic.
He laughs. "Sounds just like him," he notes gleefully.
Dumbledore's blue gaze is filled with mirth, too. "Kingsley insists that Professor Snape should give account of what happened, and while I think it important Severus is recognized for all his efforts, to tell you the truth, I do not find it in myself to tell no for the man who just killed the Dark Lord," he winks.
"Oh, he did?"
"Yes, and if you ask me, it was merciful. Tom's tattered soul could barely hold his body together at that point."
"Yeah, I don't know, Professor, but I don't think Severus did it out of mercy."
Dumbledore looks at him then, one eyebrow raised, his expression questioning. He must have picked up on the first name, but Harry doesn't feel like apologising or even to pretend it didn't happen.
Dumbledore takes a deep breath as if getting ready for a serious talk. "Yes, regarding that…" He looks strict for a moment, but then his expression softens. If anything, he seems sad as he says, "You have earned my respect and admiration in more than one way in the past years, Harry. You are brave and smart, but above all, you are kind. That you can forgive Severus… that you can love him is… commendable." His soft sigh carries a strange sense of pain. "It must not have been easy to do the right thing when you thought it would bring nothing but suffering to the one you love."
"I don't… I don't understand, sir…" Harry says as he sits up straighter.
"Have you not wondered why you are greeted by me and not by him, Harry?" Dumbledore asks quietly. "After all, it has been a week."
"A week?" Harry gapes. "I've been out for a week?"
Then he swallows, thinking about what Dumbledore just said.
Yeah, why isn't Severus here? Isn't that a little strange after everything that has happened? Harry did die that dawn, does that not matter at all? Seven days have passed since then, so… where is Severus?
Something uncomfortable twists in his stomach, something that has a lot to do with that moment, with that one glimpse he caught when Snape was looking at Ginny. Could that have to do anything with the man's absence? Has Severus changed his mind about them? Surely not.
His sudden despair must be written on his face, because Dumbledore lays a gentle hand on his arm.
"Harry, you haven't known Severus for as long as I have, and I cannot truly say I know his person at all. But I do know one thing, my boy. He is only trying to do what is right."
"Where is he, Professor?" Harry asks with a growing sense of anxiousness.
"He is down in the dungeons for now. He will leave the school in a few days, and he does not wish to return."
"Can I… can I speak to him, sir?"
"Naturally. But it would be best for your health if you could stay in bed for a short while, at least until Madam Pomfrey allows you to get up. I will let Severus know you have woken up." Dumbledore stands up, makes a few hesitant steps, then stops. He turns back to Harry, eyes cast down at first, then the blue gaze is on him once more. The Headmaster seems to contemplate whether to say something more or not, but in the end, only adds, "I will talk to Severus."
He walks out of the infirmary, leaving Harry all alone with his thoughts.
What's going on? Why is Severus leaving Hogwarts? Why is he not here to begin with?
Harry rakes his brain for any explanation, but finds none. His thoughts are jumbled, messed up, murky. It just doesn't make sense. Why does he feel dreadful, apprehensive now, when he should be joyful?
They both survived the war! That was the only scenario they never even dared to entertain. Even in their dream, that twisted, strange, happy reality they have both existed in during the past few weeks didn't allow for hope of such a positive outcome.
Only at times when Harry managed to forget why he was stuck there at Grimmauld place, when he was nearly asleep, did he dare daydream of a future so far from reality even his imagination struggled with it.
A future with both of them in it, with chess matches with Ron on winter evenings, with the knitted black jumper under the Christmas tree, with falling asleep next to Severus every night, and drinking coffee in the morning while degrading the Daily Prophet.
Even now, as he sits in bed, it's hard to imagine it. Where does Snape go and what will he do if he's not here at Hogwarts (and not at Grimmauld Place either?)
Did they ever even have a possibility for a shared future? Can a relationship like theirs, stemmed from a deal – a sexual one at that – grow into something more? Hasn't it already?
Harry's more confused than ever. Death complicated everything when it should have been the very event that simplified it. There are no hardships any more, at least only mundane ones every wizard and witch must experience. No obstacles have stayed in their way to stir them off a road they could walk together. And yet…
Could it be that while they thrive during hardships, can work together, live together, love each other when doom looms around, once tranquillity settles, when it's all about Ministry functions and grocery shopping and a pint with boys, it – they fall apart?
The sound of soft steps pulls Harry from his wild thoughts.
Apprehension sits in his stomach heavy like stone, like a whole cliff, an entire mountain, pressing his organs, squishing his body from the inside out.
The door to the infirmary is open and Harry hears the footsteps hesitate for a moment, then continue on with a purposeful stride. He'd know those steps, the quiet click of the heel on stone, would recognise anywhere the sound of fluttering robes, too.
He closes his eyes as he listens to the man approaching. He soaks in every little noise like the sunshine that comes through the windows. What if this is the last time he hears them?
The steps slow down as the man approaches his bed. Snape must think he's asleep and something in him doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to face this reality. He wants his dream back. He wants to be at Grimmauld Place again, he wants the Horcrux inside him, and wants Voldemort alive, he wants… he wants everything as it was.
Yet, he says, "Hello, Severus," then looks at the man.
The sight of him, like fresh water to parched lips, makes him crave more, more, more.
Snape has changed nothing. The shoulder-length hair, the crooked nose, the thin lips, the black robes, it's all there. Why then does Harry's heart suddenly thunder, as if he has not seen this man in his life? Why then does it feel like a silent, two-dimensional character from his dreams has suddenly walked out of his imagination and solidified into a real human?
Harry wants to jump off the bed, crash against him, even if he tackles the man to the ground. He wants to hold him tight until bones nearly break in that lithe body, kiss him until he cannot breathe.
Yet he sits there, motionless, watching.
Snape approaches the bed. Timid steps carry him closer. His hands are folded behind his back, but Harry knows, were he seated, his legs would bounce, would he have a drink in hand, his fingers were drumming against it. He knows this man, yet now he's lost.
"Harry," he says the name reverently, as if he himself wouldn't believe that he's talking to its owner again. He swallows. "How are you?" he asks.
"Not dead, apparently."
Thin lips twitch, and Harry allows himself a small smile, too.
"Yes, as resilient as always," he nods. "Do you have any headaches? Muscle pain?"
Something is wrong.
While Severus is mere inches from the bed, he does not touch Harry to make sure he's real. He does not sit down on the edge of white linen, does not drive fingers through Harry's no doubt messy hair. He does not tell him how relieved he is. He does not kiss Harry either.
Harry shakes his head. "Nothing more than expected after a week of lying in bed."
Snape nods again, reserved, almost robotic. He pulls his wand and flicks it. Two vials appear in front of him, hovering in the air. He takes them and holds up one, tall and purple. "This is for your headaches." He places it on the nightstand then shows the other to Harry. It's small, big bellied and dirty yellow. "Take this every night for the next week. It will strengthen your muscles."
Harry wants to scream. He doesn't care about potions. He doesn't want potions for his headache, he wants a hand gently rubbing the back of his neck. And he most definitely doesn't want to regain the strength in his muscles like that, either. There are other ways, more… naked ways, for that.
"Severus…" he starts as he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. Snape moves away, steps back, but Harry catches the front of his robes and tugs him closer. He looks into black eyes trying to read them, but they are more guarded than ever. Or perhaps, just empty. "It's over. The war's over."
Snape swallows, nods. He looks nearly frightened, skittish. "Yes," he breathes.
Harry tugs on the fabric again, cranes his neck. "And we're not dead."
Pale fingers envelope Harry's. He feels them tighten for a second. "Seems like it…" Snape whispers.
Harry pulls him down and for a moment, the world seems to right itself. They are back in the dream, or the dream itself became reality.
But then Snape shifts away, takes Harry's hand off himself, and steps back.
He inhales deeply, shakily, then straightens his robes as if to collect himself.
"What will you do?" The hopeful lull of his voice breaks Harry's heart even more.
He wants to scream again. The pain in his chest grows even more. The mountain becomes a planet, the planet a star, and a dying one at that.
He looks at Snape, and what he hates more than anything is that the question is genuine. He knows Snape wants him to have the best of life and with that he understands why this happens.
"Don't do this, Severus…" he whispers, softer than a breeze.
"Ease my mind and tell me. What w-… Snape's voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, but then he takes another deep breath and asks again. "What will you do?"
"I don't know." Harry admits. "I haven't… haven't thought of after."
"No, you haven't." Snape nods as if that would be the answer to all of this.
And it's true, they have not thought of the after, have they? They have never planned this for the long run. The deal had an expiration date and whatever that was between them in the end, did, too – till death.
Snape takes Harry's hand and lifts it up. He places a kiss on his knuckles. A thumb drifts gently across the joints of his fingers.
"You got your life back, Mr. Potter. It's high time you start living it," he says, then turns around and walks away.
"Severus! Severus!" Harry cries, but the resolute steps don't falter.
Three days later, Snape moves out of Hogwarts and never returns.