It was a dark and stormy night late in September -- the kind of night that makes one grateful for the cozy comforts of an old, broken-in castle, crackling fireplaces, and snug beds piled high with soft blankets. A heavy rain pelted the thick old glass windows of the castle, rattling them in their frames. It was the sort of night that was best spent in the Great Hall, with the company of good friends and hot buttered rum or spiced wine, or even rich, dark hot chocolate. A cutthroat game of wizard's chess played by the light of thousands of flickering candles, jokes and stories and laughter -- it was these things which made a cold and wet autumn evening very bearable, indeed.
It was such a setting that Harry Potter had just departed, and he made his way around the familiar corridors of Hogwart's. He'd waved goodbye to Ron and Hermione earlier in the Great Hall, ignoring the worried looks on their faces.
"I just need to be alone for a while, that's all," he'd told them. "I just need some time to kick back and relax."
"You shouldn't wander the castle alone, Harry," Hermione had said, anxiously twisting the new gold band on her left hand. She and Ron, like many other young couples during the war, were newlyweds. Only a week before, they had exchanged their vows in the Great Hall. It had been a heart-warming ceremony. Most of the Order had turned out, and the Hall had been gaily decorated. For a few short hours, they had put the war behind them, and had ate and drank and sang and danced. Even Snape, leaning heavily on his cane, had proposed a humorously sarcastic toast from the head table. From anyone else, it would have been funny, but coming from Snape, it had been doubly so, and the Hall had rang with laughter. His shy smile -- a far cry from the bitter, twisted grimace that had used to pass for a smile -- had lit up the room, and had only faltered when a laughing Hagrid had slapped him heartily on the back, causing him to fall headlong across the table.
Harry chuckled at the memory. Far from being angry, Snape had laughed along with the rest of the room, when Hagrid had picked him up and tried to brush him off. Fortunately Dumbledore had been close by, and was able to prevent any more damage to the recuperating former double-agent.
It was amazing, thought Harry, how much that the last few days had wrought such an incredible change in the dour former potions master. Harry supposed that he understood, though. What kind of strain must it have been, living a double life for so long? He wondered if Snape would miss living on the edge, miss the challenge and uncertainty, or if he would be able to relax now and enjoy himself more. From what Harry could see, the latter appeared to be most likely -- as much as anyone could enjoy themselves, living with the threat of Voldemort's forces day in and day out. Still, unlike many, Snape was positive and optimistic about the outcome. Harry couldn't see where he came by his optimism, though. Things were looking bad for the good guys.
After a few moments, Harry ascended the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, as he had countless times before. No matter where he'd been raised, the old dormitory was home to him as nowhere else could ever be. Nothing could soothe his inner turmoil as walking up these stairs could. Some of the happiest times of his life had been in this tower. It seemed as though if he listened hard enough, he could hear old laughter and tears, old jests and arguments, for these things had surely soaked into the ancient stone walls. Harry paused, halfway up the stairs, and leaned against the railing, a reminiscent smile on his face. How many times had he laughed himself silly at something Fred and George said or did here? How many times had he been stopped, blinking furiously, after being accosted by the Creevey brothers and their damned cameras? How many times had he slipped out of this very tower, wearing his Invisibility Cloak? And this tower was where he had first kissed Ginny…
He knew that no matter what the future brought, wherever he ended up, that this would always be his best home. He ran lightly up the last set of steps and stopped in front of the door to the tower.
"Password, please." The Fat Lady stared down at him dispassionately.
"Whoop-dee-doo," Harry said. There was no need to have passwords anymore -- there were no more students. Hogwart's served as the headquarters of the Order, and now, the home of the Ministry. But he supposed that even the Fat Lady needed to feel useful. He understood how she felt. Boy, did he ever. Being the "Chosen One" meant being the "Sheltered One", lately.
"You'll be more involved soon enough, Harry," Dumbledore had said to him just last night. "I know it's hard to see your friends and colleagues involved in the war effort, and for you not to be with them. But Harry, you know the Prophecy. We need you, Harry. We need you alive. We need you to face Voldemort. We're just your supporting act. You're the star of the show, Harry. And we need you alive for that."
Yeah, whatever, Harry thought as the portrait swung open. He stepped through, and ran up the stairs to his old dormitory, where he still slept. It didn't make it any easier to see his loved ones risking death every day, with him cooped up here in the castle.
Sure, he helped in whatever way that he could, he thought as he sat in his favourite window seat. A chilly draft came in through the windows -- it felt refreshing. It was dark outside, and he could just make out the stars in the inky sky though the tall windows. The storm had broken, and the air was clean and crisp and alive. Down below, on the grounds, a white, ghostly shape galloped joyfully in the dark, in the safe confines of Hogwart's property -- Firenze, out for his nightly run. In the starlight, Harry could see mud and water being kicked up by Firenze's hooves. His silvery-blonde hair, grown long now, streamed in the wind behind him, and his powerful body leaned forwards, as though to gather more speed. Harry wondered if Firenze would ever be able to make it up with the other Centaurs. Then again, there weren't many of them left, were there? Thanks to Voldemort and his mates, Firenze was probably one of the last few left. Besides, Harry knew that Firenze would never be separated from Sybill Trelawney, not if he had any say in the matter.
Harry bit back a laugh, just thinking about those two. Speculation had it that they were a couple, but he didn't think so. Somehow, from Firenze's disdain for Trelawney, and her bitter resentment of his very existence (Harry smiled, remembering the time that she had referred to him as the 'usurping nag'), a slow, grudging respect for each other's abilities had come about; and then, from that common ground, a great, great friendship had grown. Maybe there was more; Harry didn't know, and he wasn't about to ask. But they were rarely apart -- even now, Harry could see Trelawney on Firenze's back, her arms wrapped around his strong waist, her frizzy hair streaming in the wind as Firenze ran, and he remembered Bane's words from many years before. "Are you a common mule?"
Common, Harry thought. Common? No. Bane really had been an idiot. There had never been anything common about the young, gentle Centaur who cared so much about others that he had given up the only home he had ever known, just to try to help. All he had ever wanted to do was help. For all his kindness, tolerance, wisdom and knowledge, Firenze had a heart the size of a mountain. Harry was proud to call him friend.
Harry saw Firenze skid to a halt, and Trelawney jump off, laughing. They stood down by the tower for a moment, gazing up at the stars. He saw Firenze point out something in the sky, and Trelawney nod. Then he saw Firenze take Trelawney by the hand, and make their way back into the castle. Harry smiled at the sight. Whether they were a couple or not, they certainly were happy with each other's company, and in these dark, uncertain times, that was all that mattered. That was all that ever mattered.
He yawned, and stretched. His time at the castle wasn't all bad -- he had his friends, and he had Ginny. Snape and Lupin -- make that Commander Snape, and Captain Lupin -- talked to him daily, including him in as much of the war effort as possible. His friendship with Lupin had only grown stronger, and with Snape -- well, it was a surprise, but now that they had made their peace, they were finding much common ground. And the man was brilliant, no doubt about it. Maybe someday they would become friends -- it was a possibility -- but for now, Snape had Harry's respect and allegiance. Harry couldn't think of anyone he'd rather have leading the Order of the Phoenix.
But that didn't make it any easier, waiting on tenterhooks with Hermione and Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing, waiting to treat the wounded as they poured through the large, ornate old doors. Hermione hadn't planned on serving as a Medi-witch, but the shortage of trained personnel had forced her to learn new skills quickly. And Harry, with no experience or training, had quickly been forced into service as a nurse, squeezing in training whenever possible. They did all they could to help the overworked Madame Pomfrey and Minerva McGonagle, and prayed that it was enough.
Indeed, such service had been the source of the one and only major fight between him and Ginny. He'd wanted her to train as a nurse also, and she'd outright refused. Her brothers were contributing, her father was helping hold things together as much as they could at the makeshift Ministry, and no way in hell would she sit back and let them manage without her. She and Harry had argued bitterly, long into the night, but finally Harry had backed down, realizing that Ginny's spirit was much of what he loved about her and he couldn't ask her to change who and what she was, no more than she would ask him to do so of himself. Still, every time those doors to the hospital wing swung open, his guts turned to water. He wondered what he would do if she was ever one of the wounded, being brought in on a stretcher. He wondered what he would do if she was ever one the ones being brought in, not for treatment, but for burial.
He would go mad, he thought, closing his eyes. He would go mad. And heaven help anyone who stood in his way…
Harry sighed, and leaned his head back against the damp stone windowsill. Don't think about it, he commanded himself. Just don't worry about it. What will be, will be. And in the meantime, he would keep slipping the Felix Felices into her drinks prior to her going on duty. If Ginny had noticed, she had not said anything. He was sure that she knew, though, and that was one more thing that he loved about her -- that she would accept just the small bit of protection that he could offer her, and not complain about it. If he could have done more, he would have.
Just then, Hedwig slipped into the room, and gently set down beside him. Tied to her leg was an elegant roll of green parchment, edged with silver. Harry made no move to take it. He knew what it was.
Just two weeks ago, when Snape -- Commander Snape -- had been brought into the hospital wing, more dead than alive, limp in Remus Lupin's arms -- Snape had requested, as he began to recover, a private meeting with Harry. He wished to talk to Harry, he said. The time had come for Harry to know all. The truth. The reason for his scar, which so precisely matched the one on Snape's chest. It was time to know how, and why, his parents died. What happened that night. It was time for Snape to tell Harry everything.
Harry had come to Snape's bedside at Dumbledore's request, and had sat beside the ill man for hours, while Snape babbled deliriously. He could not understand very much of his words. Harry caught passages such as "curse shield", and "Petunia and Lily", "animagus", "Pettigrew" and "Black", but very little of it made sense. After hours, when Snape had finally fallen into a deep, exhausted doze, Harry had checked his vital signs, and had changed Snape's sweat-soaked sheets, using fresh sheets from the warmer. He'd used a replenishing spell to help replace Snape's lost bodily fluids, and plumped up his pillow, to make him more comfortable. Then he'd sat there for a while longer, watching Snape -- Commander Snape -- sleep. Snape's face was peaceful, and looked years younger. Even the bitterness was beginning to fade away. Exhausted, Harry had grabbed a catnap in a spare bed beside Snape's, in case he awoke during the night and was able to converse.
Since his release from the hospital wing, Commander Snape had asked Harry several times to come to his office, so he could have a proper talk with him. He wanted to explain everything to Harry.
Harry had refused every invitation.
He didn't know why, he couldn't explain it, but he just wasn't ready to hear the truth. A line from some old Muggle movie that Dudley had enjoyed came to mind. "You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"
That was how he felt, he thought. It was a truth that he wasn't ready to handle. He couldn't. Not yet, anyway. And what did it matter, after all? The past was the past. It was the future that mattered. It was their actions in the here and now to ensure that there even was some sort of a future that mattered. Still, he supposed he should talk to Snape himself, and explain. In all honesty, he was rather glad that Snape had been unable to talk that night -- it had given Harry time to think about things, and to decide. And his decision was that it just didn't matter anymore.
His mind wandering idly, he gently stroked Hedwig's feathers, and wondered how Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley liked their new home in the United States. They had not wanted to come to the castle for safety, so the Ministry had arranged for them to be transported to a state called Michigan. Aunt Petunia's last letter, carefully worded, had talked about the loveliness of their surroundings and how much Uncle Vernon was enjoying his new position. She, herself, was enjoying American television and the shopping. He smiled to himself. Odd how it had taken a war to bring him closer to his remaining family. Well, to Aunt Petunia, anyway. Even Uncle Vernon was kinder. And as for Dudley…well, Dudley was Dudley. Still, Harry wished them well, and had even promised to visit, if he ever could. He had been surprisingly touched to read in her letter that they had made up a bedroom for him.
A soft noise from the common room made him jump to his feet, wand out. He relaxed, though, when he heard a familiar scraping noise, and a familiar silky voice cursing. "Damned stairs, much better in the dungeons, hardly any stairs there…" Harry bit back a laugh and ran to the top of the stairs. There, two steps up, was Severus Snape, trying to inch his way up using the walls for support.
"Prof…I mean, Commander…wait."
Severus Snape looked up, his face grim and intent. "Oh, Potter. There you are." He tried to smile, but it was more a grimace of pain.
"Stay there, sir. I'll come down." Harry hopped down, two stairs at a time, pausing until Snape had cleared the way, then skidded to a landing at the floor of the common room. It was deserted, except for Hedwig, who had flown down with Harry and landed carefully on his shoulder. Snape stood there, looking at them.
"Can I help you, sir?"
"Don't call me 'sir' anymore. Call me Severus. Unless the circumstances warrant it, then you must call me Commander Snape. I'm not your potions master anymore." Snape's lean face relaxed into a small smile.
" Yes, Commander."
"Severus," Snape said firmly.
Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. There was no getting away from it this time. "Prof…er, Severus…may I speak to you about something? It's about your invitations…about the night that my parents…"
Snape sighed. "Sit down, Po…Harry. Sit down, Harry. We're long overdue for a talk, and this is the last chance for a while to do it."
"Why is that, Sir…Severus?" Harry regarded him curiously.
"Because this war is swiftly drawing to a close, and if Albus Dumbledore's mission today and tomorrow are successful, we shall be very busy in the upcoming weeks. But for now…" Snape tapped his wand against the table by the fire, and a decanter of wine, with two silver goblets, appeared there. He then tapped the cold fireplace, and a warm, crackling blaze sprang to life. "Sit. Please." With a grateful sigh, he himself sank into one of the plushy chairs. "Oh, this is much better. Very comfortable."
Harry sat. He accepted a goblet of wine from Snape, and simply watched him for a moment. He guessed that this time, he couldn't refuse -- this time, he'd have to just be patient, and listen, after all. Snape took a meditative sip, and stared into the fire, as though looking for something. After a moment, he drained his goblet in one gulp, and poured himself another, offering a refill to Harry, who held his goblet out for more. Snape poured carefully, the flames reflecting in his dark, dark eyes and glinting off the silver threads in his long hair. Then he smiled sadly. "Harry. It's time that I told you exactly what happened, twenty years ago. What happened the night that your parents died. I've been carrying these secrets around for so long, and now I must speak of them."
His voice was soft, and filled with old, careworn regret.
"It's time, Harry, that you knew the truth."