Disclaimer: They're not mine. I just like to borrow them and play with them.
Someone asked him once what he would do when the war was over.
He fixed his face with a well-known sneer and told them he hated Divination and dared not hope such a day would come to pass in his lifetime.
The concept of peace was frightening to one whose entire adult life had been lived in war. Those eleven years of bogus amity brought no respite for a man gambling on both sides of the coin; they only served to widen the chasm between himself and his awkward allies.
Sitting quietly in his chambers, two weeks after the Boy-Who-Lived did just that, he wondered what life would be like for the next generation of young witches and wizards. Growing up in a world of peace was as foreign a concept to him as those Muggle metal boxes filled with moving pictures.
The thought of freedom was strange, a word known but not really understood, having never been appreciated. And it was certainly not something he, of all people, deserved. There was no freedom for a heavy conscience. No peace in life for the damned. Hell would be a welcome respite, for no matters of the mind weighed on the souls of the dead.
Those who had thought him to be a friend had gone before him… many by his own wand, his own hand. Those who had fought shoulder to shoulder with him were the same people he had alienated himself from for the past twenty years. He had made a point of belittling and ridiculing them at every opportunity. Was it any wonder they eyed him suspiciously when he was looking, whispered baseless theories of twisted betrayal when he wasn't?
Certainly, the portrait of an old fool would smile with twinkling eyes and assure him he was blameless in the deaths of so many. Young fools would stare at him and whisper behind his back, positive his last-gasp display of power against the Dark Lord had been a means only to save his own skin, when the victor of the battle was all but known.
Of those left alive, only she knew the whole truth.
Only she understood who he really was, when all masks had been cast aside. Only she looked at him with compassion that could not be mistaken for pity, trust in place of hate, and, dare he even speak the word aloud, love.
Eighteen months had passed since the first night she had come to his aid. Eighteen long months of war, death and pain. Through it all, she had been the constant, the one thing that always remained, grounding him, bringing him back from the brink of his very sanity, chafed and battered by events of the present and memories of the past.
But that was over now, too.
The war had been won, and she was free.
Free to live her life beyond the sheltered walls of Hogwarts, free to be with whomever she chose.
He had never expected to survive the war; he had never wanted to, until she gave him a reason to exist.
She needed him, she had said. She loved him.
He'd foolishly told her she was too young to know what love was, and, if she survived the war, to experience the real world before making such brash proclamations.
She had brushed off his words as insecurity at the time, and so even in his doubt he hadn't expected her to take his words to heart.
He hadn't seen her since she'd finally been discharged from the Hospital Wing two days ago; he had confined himself to the solitude of his rooms, rather than have to face her inevitable departure from his life; it disturbed him how much he missed her already. Her absence was a painful reminder she had other, dearer friends to be with.
Someone had mentioned earlier that day she had gone to St Mungo's to visit her green-eyed friend. Potter had triumphed, but at a cost far greater than even he had expected. Trapped inside the terrifying realm of his own mind, no one knew whether the catatonic shadow of a man would ever recover.
The price had been high for others, too. The Weasleys' numbers had diminished by more than half, the last two infamous Marauders died fighting one another. The seventh year of Slytherin House was decimated, along with the recently graduated list; guilt weighed heavily on his soul that he hadn't been there to help guide the confused young students to better ends. His presence at Hogwarts in the final stages of the war was known to few, his purpose known to fewer. It was the only place he could work undisturbed… and more importantly undetected by the other side.
The Ministry, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade... not all casualties were human. Hogwarts only survived in the end because, after the wards had been breached, Potter had the insight to lead his foe elsewhere, to the rolling hills and thickets of gorse bush behind Godric's Hollow. That, too, was now only a memory.
Hearing the shouts of the people celebrating on the grounds far below, he drew his memory back to happier times, when raucous laughter of young minds filled these hallowed halls. He never thought he would miss that sound. It was a mark of most of the wizarding world's naivety that such joyful behaviour had persisted; most failed to recognise the looming shadow, descending ever closer with each passing day.
Ignorance is bliss, people used to say, but the bolt of green light looked the same in the end.
And there had been many. Even the grotesque glitter of the Dark Mark, floating high in the sky over the ruins of Godric's Hollow, dulled in comparison to the bright jets of light shooting across the open plain in both directions.
Perhaps those hit were the lucky ones.
After surviving the fight relatively unscathed, he had assisted the sorely diminished number of Aurors in identifying the dead. The followers of Voldemort showed no mercy; they took pleasure in their victims, in their screams and, in some cases, their bodies. Many were unrecognisable.
The Order killed quickly - out of need rather than pity – and it was these figures they asked him to identify. Tracking down the remaining known followers of the dead tyrant would be their utmost priority, and none knew Voldemort's ranks better than the Order's spy.
Until that was done, freedom would not be his, and nor could she be his, even if she wanted to. Too many former comrades wanted his blood for his betrayal. He would be forever looking over his shoulder. If they discovered his feelings for her, they would hurt her to hurt him; better he be alone by choice than lose her to their vengeance.
They would never track the escapees down, anyway. Not all of them.
Convicting those who had escaped the fracas of Godric's Hollow would be almost impossible, for when the Dark Lord had fallen, the Dark Mark had vanished from the arm of every supporter.
Once the Boy-Who-Lived had prevailed, taking down more enemies before they could flee had been the last thing on his – or anybody else's – mind.
His own Mark had burnt blind agony into his arm before it vanished for the last time; not even an outline remained to remind him of what he had once been, what many said he still was.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he turned to see his light, his love, standing not twenty feet away, bloodied, bruised, but alive. Her eyes locked with his for a moment, full of joy yet marred with sorrow that could never be quantified in words.
His move towards her had faltered, though, as her gaze swung across the field to where her two best friends lay, fallen beside the monster they had finally defeated.
She ran to them, throwing herself down beside the red-haired one and shaking him futilely until her actions became almost violent. Then, she turned to the other one; he could see her relief even from a distance to find one of her friends alive, and the shaking of her shoulders as she bent forwards, her face close to that of the scarred boy as she wept.
He felt like an intruder on a scene in which he had no part, no understanding of. All across the field, people were hugging, crying, grieving… yet celebrating. The Light had prevailed; they were finally free.
But he stood alone and, for the first time since he could remember, he allowed himself to weep.
Those who saw the dark, stoic man, crying quietly on the desolate battlefield, all had their own theories to his grief; he wept for freedom, he wept for the death of his Master, he wept for the death of the former Headmaster by his own hand.
The truth was, he wept for the love of a young woman kneeling beside her best friends, one dead, one close, begging them not to leave her. He wept because, though the world was free, he was not; he would never be free to love her as she deserved.
He knew, in that moment, as he stood alone amidst jubilant cries of victory, that he would never be part of a friendship as sound, a love as strong. She had inexplicably stolen his heart, a heart he had doubted even still existed these few years past, but he could never take hers; he could never match the bond those three shared, a bond that had defied the odds, defied fate, and would even defy the separation of death.
He turned away, occupying his thoughts with matters at hand, covering the dead and tending the wounded. Each set of eyes he closed, each face he covered, was another weight on a weary soul.
He turned back once and saw her limping across the field, half-holding, half-dragging the saviour of the wizarding world on one side, and pulling along the limp hand of the youngest Weasley son on the other.
A nearby survivor garnered his attention and, when he looked again, she was gone.
Two days of bodies, blood and the rancid stench of death, and he was finally able to retreat to his solitude.
The two weeks following held little time for contemplation. Potions were in high demand; Hogwarts' stores of ingredients one of few left intact and quickly accessible.
He had hoped to see her, appearing via the Floo or entering quietly via the old classroom door. This was where he had come to know her – truly know her – after all. Long, sleepless nights spend working on dubious brews; poisons for the enemy, soul-binding potions to destroy the Horcruxes, strengthening potions for the Order members, who were near breaking point as it was.
Two years out of school, her studies had fallen by the wayside in favour of the war. She could get on with her life when she was free to live it, she had said. By the end of the war she was as competent and insightful as any apprentice just short of gaining their Mastery.
The last few days, the demand for potions was diminishing; those who had required healing had been released, and little could be done for those who remained.
And without work, he was left with only his thoughts, only his memories, gathering in the corners of the darkened room like growing shadows, reaching out to him in the depths of the night. Memories of death, of lives lost and needless sacrifices, mingled with memories of her. All were painful.
Now, there was only pain.
Familiar, comfortable, welcome pain.
He eyed the silver goblet, half-empty with a well-aged merlot.
He picked up the other object on the small table; a tiny glass phial filled with liquid. Holding it up to eye level, the dim light of the candlelit room barely penetrated the viscous fluid, illuminating it a deep, dark red.
Red.
Blood.
Wine.
Poison.
An eternal nightcap for the damned.
The feast would be starting soon. He really should be making his way down to the Great Hall. Now that those who survived were up and able to receive them, the ceremony awarding those who fought had been arranged post-haste.
He emptied the contents of the phial into the goblet, watching as the potion merged seamlessly with the wine.
He stood from his chair, smoothing his dark dress robes, and walked to the window, savouring the last rays of incandescent sunlight on his face.
To victory. He raised his goblet in a silent toast to the victorious.
After all, it would not do for one of the heroes of the war to be late for their own celebration.
To life. He watched the hundreds of celebrating figures in the grounds far below.
They would be moving inside soon; he wondered if they would start the presentations without him.
As he raised the goblet to his lips in a final salute, he wondered if she would even notice his absence.
To freedom.
finite
Author's Note: Many thanks to Keladry Lupin and Potion Mistress for beta-reading!
Eternal Nightcap is the name of an album by The Whitlams. The second verse of their song Charlie No. 3 inspired this story.
There may be more to this story some time in the distant future, but it stands as a one shot for now. I have some ideas, but there are other things to be finished first.