Chapter Eighty-Five
Snape killed Dumbledore.
Snape killed Dumbledore.
No matter how many times Harry said in in his mind – over and over and over – he still couldn't make sense of it.
Each time he replayed the scene – Dumbledore standing fierce in front of him, suddenly falling to the ground, the room plunged into darkness – ending with Harry seeing that look in Snapes eyes, his breath would catch and he'd see something else.
He'd see a warm gaze, or feel a squeeze of his shoulder or a twitch of a smile and it couldn't – no matter how many times Harry had been fooled by him before – have all been a lie.
It couldn't have been.
Harry stood at the edge of the Gryffindor table, eyes upon the unmoving – almost peaceful – form of the Headmaster who had now been lain upon it.
Snape's eyes flashed before him. His little sister's smile. That sly look she'd get that Harry knew was from Snape.
And then his mum's grim face as she'd stepped up behind him – face flushed from the exertion of combat – and gently pulled him aside from where he and Malachi had been knelt over Mr. Black's unconscious form where he'd fallen, not meeting Harry's eyes nor saying a word, working in the same dazed state that Harry could feel himself in, now.
Ignoring – or simply immune – to the murmurs and whispers of those going on around where he stood in the middle of the Hall between the fallen – Professor Burbage's still form on the Hufflepuff table, in line with the Headmaster – the name 'Snape' hissed out with a venom that – even now, after this – made Harry prickle with indignation on his behalf, fighting back against the odd, instinctive urge to defend the indefensible – the evidence lying still and dead before Harry's very eyes.
He'd watched him die.
The Headmaster with his twinkling eyes and always a smile and a kind word for Harry, whenever their paths crossed, who had guided him and soothed his fears and doubts in those first two years of school.
Harry couldn't even mourn him – he couldn't feel the pain he ought to, seeing and knowing he was gone – because accepting that, allowing that, would mean to accept that Snape had actually killed him. And that was a truth that kept catching – unable to be swallowed – unable to be reconciled with all that Harry knew of him.
Several people were still gathered round, side by side with Harry, their eyes glimmering, some sobbing quietly onto the shoulders of those next to them, while those who still remained in the room – those who hadn't been called before the Ministry or departed for home – tended to the wounded, the volumes of their voices increasing as the minutes ticked on an hour past the battle.
There were groans and gasps filling the air as the last of the injuries were assessed and treated where they lay on the floor, amongst transfigured blankets, those that didn't have to be transferred to St Mungo's.
Harry swallowed, hard, his hands shaking as he took a backwards step and turned away – one of the last to leave Dumbledore's side – and he made his way back up to where Malachi and his mum were tending to Mr. Black at the rear of the room.
Harry noticed, with relief, that Malachi's dad was conscious, now, smiling and batting away his son's fussing.
"Dad, you're really hurt."
"No, no, I'm not –" Mr. Black said, from where he was laid on the floor, propped up on his arms, with his mum hovering over him and Malachi at his side, a fretful look on his face, one hand clutching his dad's arm and the other holding a cooling mitt to the side of his head, " – don't you worry, Son. I'm fi – AH!"
His mum shot an apologetic look Mr. Black's way, turning his leg a bit more gently by the ankle, before she lifted her wand – her hands not quite steady – and made a slow motion, cutting away the fabric of his trousers beneath his robes that were matted to the skin.
Harry and Malachi gaped at the wound in horror when his mum finally peeled the sodden fabric away.
"See," Mr. Black said, lightly, "Just a little break, is all. Easy fixed."
"It's a compound fracture," his mum said, carefully studying the injury.
"Healer talk," Mr. Black winked in the boys' direction.
Harry averted his eyes, sickened, unable to look at the blood and bone sticking out of Mr. Black's leg any longer, instead taking notice of his mum's shaking hands again and the grim set of her lips, as she went to lift her wand back up.
"Um, Lily," Mr. Black said, clearing his throat, and Harry noticed him eyeing her trembling hands with an unease that he hadn't exhibited even when he and Snape had actually been trying to kill one another, "Perhaps Madam Pomfrey – ah," he broke off at the look his mum shot him, "Nevermind. Nevermind."
Mr. Black glanced away, almost visibly bracing himself, before he met Harry's eyes, and the man quickly attempted to conceal his nervousness and shot a reassuring smile Harry's way, which looked far more like a grimace to him.
"Little pinch," his mum said.
Mr. Black raised his eyes to the ceiling – as if that might hide his apprehension at letting Harry's – clearly emotionally overwrought – mum lift her wand to him – lips pursed shut and waiting, as she swished it over the wound and started to mutter some incantations.
It took less than a minute, before his mum drew back, "All set."
Mr. Black glanced back down, releasing a breath and looking relieved just to find that his leg was still there – healed or not – and gave his mum a smile, "Much obliged."
He slowly flexed his knee and then turned his ankle with a wince.
"You'll need to rest it for a couple of days," his mum told him, "Julia will keep you right."
Mr. Black chuckled, fondly, at that, "Oh, I'm sure she will."
He turned his smile upon Malachi, while Harry's mum continued to check the rest of him over, "See that, Beansprout! Good as new!"
Malachi eyed him appraisingly, looking at first pleased – a brief, small smile – and then annoyed.
"Dad –" Malachi tossed the cooling mitt he'd been holding aside, "Dad, why did you attack Severus?"
Mr. Black shifted, eyes going to Dumbledore before meeting his mum's eyes briefly – the look shared so fleeting that Harry almost missed it – and then he cleared his throat.
"Well, I would've thought that was obvious –"
"That was so stupid, Dad! He is a way better fighter than you are –"
Mr. Black's eyebrows lifted.
" – and he's your best friend! You didn't even give him a chance to explain! When Harry attacked me I knew it wasn't really him –"
Harry looked at Malachi sharply.
" – and obviously Severus isn't really working with Vold –"
"That's enough, Son. Have some –" he cleared his throat, lightly, "– respect."
"No, he's right!" Harry exclaimed, seizing on the only possible explanation for what had just happened, "He must have been possessed or something, like I was!"
Mr. Black and his mum shared another look, uneasy this time.
Harry shook his head, knowing it sounded utterly ridiculous – but not as ridiculous as it was that Snape had actually just willingly killed Dumbledore – and it had happened to him.
Harry had been possessed and almost killed Malachi that summer – someone who he would die, himself, before hurting – and he tried so, so hard not to think about the fact that there was no way it was Voldemort looking back at him when Snape had met his eyes over the Headmaster's lifeless form, seconds after he'd done it.
Desperate to cling to the lifeline that Malachi had just given him.
But Harry knew he'd been looking at Snape.
Not sarcastic, snarky, stoic Snape of years past, but the one he knew now, who was warmer, somehow, and a little less guarded and whose eyes would dance with amusement at Harry's jokes.
There had been none of that in the man's eyes, the moment Harry had looked at him, no – they'd been guarded, again, almost blank, the way he did when he was hiding – but he'd caught it, a little flash of pain, and they certainly weren't triumphant, or sneering or rejoicing in victory at what he had done.
"Mum," Harry grabbed his mum's arm and she met his eyes for the first time since it had happened – the first time she'd looked at anyone except Mr. Black – and her eyes weren't guarded or blank – Harry could see the grief in them – but surely she knew.
"Mum, Snape wouldn't do that!" he asserted, unable to believe what he'd seen, "He wouldn't – it must have been the Imperius – all those leaflets the Ministry's been handing out, about Imperiused people doing crazy things and to watch out for them – Voldemort, must have –"
Harry was suddenly drawn into his mum's arms, her lips against his ear, shushing him.
Harry clung to her, brow lowered, because this didn't feel like a hug meant for comfort. A thought that was only cemented further when he heard her whisper, "Stop. Don't."
Harry frowned, still held tight in his mum's arms, and it became an embrace, then, that he realised his mum needed.
Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her, and his eyes went over her shoulder, finding Mr. Black looking at Dumbledore; a contemplative little furrow on his brow, as if he were figuring something out.
Harry realised, then, with the looks that Mr. Black and his mum were sharing and the silence – the total lack of commentary either were making – they, Snape's best friend and his wife, kind-of, not saying a word or exchanging a single question between them about what had just happened – this great betrayal – and Harry realised that they must surely know something.
Something Harry didn't.
Something that would make all of this make sense.
Harry drew back, meeting her eyes.
"Mum, what's going on?"
But his mum looked just as lost as he felt.
Harry swallowed, adding more quietly, "What about Grace?"
Because he knew that even if he had been fooled about how Snape might feel about him, there was no lie in the way he'd melted in those memories with his little sister.
"And…and us? He…he wouldn't."
His mum caressed his cheek, opening her mouth as if to speak – maybe, even, to reassure him – but before she could Mr. Black said, lowly, "Boys, not a word."
Harry's eyes left his mum, glancing at him and noticed Mr. Black was mustering up a smile at people who were approaching from behind where Harry stood.
Tonks and Remus stepped up beside him just as he started to turn, both of them looking concerned – Remus far more so, Harry noticed, when he glanced at his mum – but Tonks was the first to speak.
"You alright, Uncle Reg? He got you good."
"Can't get rid of me that easily, Sweetheart."
"Well, he'll get what's coming to him," Tonks said, while Remus shifted, looking a little uncomfortable at her side, before she went on, "Ministry Aurors have got a lead on 'em. Death Eaters had a defector of their own tonight; Draco Malfoy."
Mr. Black straightened up where he sat, "Is he alright?"
"Bit shaken. Mad-Eye wanted him interrogated right away but he's underage, so he's entitled to a representative in with him. I offered but he wasn't interested."
Mr. Black inclined his chin, getting a wry smile, easily picking up on her hint, "Well, if he doesn't want you, he certainly isn't going to be wanting me."
Tonks smiled at him.
"He's asked for you."
Mr. Black got a fleeting look of surprise, before he shifted, and Malachi helped him to his feet.
"Where are they?"
"Professor McGonagall's office."
Mr. Black gave Malachi a smile and his shoulder a squeeze, before he headed across the hall – with a slight limp he tried to conceal – and Harry noticed him looking at Dumbledore again as he passed, before he left the room.
Harry's mum straightened back up, getting to her feet from where she'd been crouched, brushing off her robes and avoiding Remus' attempts to catch her eye.
"Gotta say you held yourself great out there, Harry," Tonks said to him, giving him one of her smiles that were hard not to return, despite the heaviness of what had just happened weighing upon him.
"Oh, well, Malachi helped – "
"Excuse me, I think there's more – um – wounded –" his mum said, not waiting for a response and heading away, leaving him and Malachi with Remus and Tonks.
"Someone in my team's taking credit for you joining us when this whole school business is done and dusted, he says?" Tonks asked him, raising an eyebrow.
Harry smiled a little, nodding, remembering the over-zealous auror who'd tried to recruit him earlier that summer, "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."
"Glad to hear that, could use someone like you out on the field. Right Remus?"
Remus started – his eyes having been following his mum – and Harry noticed that she was walking out of the Hall completely, making a conscious effort not to look at anyone as she left.
Remus shifted, drawing Harry's attention back to him, and he gave Harry a warm smile, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.
"You were outstanding, Harry. Both of you were," Remus said, giving Malachi a smile, before he leaned forward towards them, raising an eyebrow, "Even if I did tell you to run."
Harry and Malachi chuckled a little, sharing a look, and then Harry's eyes were drawn to Dumbledore again and he wondered if, maybe, he should have.
Maybe then he wouldn't have seen it.
Remus patted his shoulder and then he stepped away – giving Tonks a smile and her arm a squeeze – before he left without giving an excuse, while Tonks continued to engage Harry and Malachi in conversation, and Harry listened closely – to all that she said – hoping her voice could drown out the words that were carrying through the hall now and making his blood run cold.
How Severus Snape had betrayed them all and murdered Albus Dumbledore.
Lily stumbled out into the darkness – the dead of the night – unable to listen to any more of what was being said amongst those in the Castle.
But even there, in the courtyard, people were moving around, whispers and murmurs filling the air – some tearful, some venomous – as all tried to make sense of what had happened.
She heard Severus' name whispered on the wind, followed by You-Know-Who, Dumbledore and murderer, as she made her way down the pavement in a daze, not even sure where she was going.
Not sure about anything at all.
Unable to bear the lost, devastated look in her son's eyes as he turned them upon her, begging for answers that she didn't have to give.
It was quieter at the back of the courtyard and it was tempting to keep going – to just keep walking – but she ducked into the furthest alcove, drawn in by the shadows.
Her breaths came out unsteady as she reached up, pressing her hands to her face, and tried as hard as she could to steady her thoughts.
Severus' words from earlier that evening came back to her.
I have to do something…you will know when it happens...
Say nothing. Trust me.
Lily called on that – on faith – and pushed aside anything that may lead her to doubt or question.
Tried, hard as she could, not to think about the fact that Albus Dumbledore had but weeks ago threatened the life of their son – remembering Severus' other words from earlier that night – asserting that they must work together, all of them united, in spite of the fact.
And Lily remembered, in a flash, how Dumbledore had met Severus' eyes and hadn't fought back.
She turned, as spells fired forth around her, taking her eyes from her opponent for only a second when they stumbled, backwards, having sensed Severus pass by her.
Sensing his stillness a few feet ahead.
She saw the look – the warmth in the Headmaster's eyes – but, even then, she had been unable to read or understand or know what was going on and Severus drew on him so quickly – the spell fired forth in an instant of him stopping in his steps – that Lily barely realised it had happened.
The room suddenly plunged into darkness as Dumbledore's lifeless body hit the floor.
It was only the darkness that fell upon them that spared her from her own opponent, the Death Eater she fought rendered as immobile as she – as all in the room had become – in the moments that followed.
And, then, the battle resumed and Lily watched Regulus – Regulus – fire a spell forth and he and Severus quickly engaged in a duel with such ferocity that, had she not known them as well as she did, she would most certainly be fooled.
But she did know them.
The immediate violent exchange between Severus and Regulus – which was so convincing to others – had been more reassuring to her, than anything, for it was certainly part of a plan – one she was apparently not aware of – for she knew – just as well as Malachi, his son – that Regulus would not be so foolish as to just attack without question.
Not when all others who cared for and loved him – unable to reconcile what had just happened with what they knew of him – were suddenly plagued with doubt, even Remus refusing to engage with him.
Lily touched her forehead to the stone wall of the alcove, the thought that they may have just planned it all – Severus and Albus and Regulus – and had known that this was to be done, only lifted the slightest of weight away for it still left behind the reality.
That Albus Dumbledore was dead and Severus Snape had killed him.
And that was all anyone was to know.
And now, Severus was gone, taking a place in the shadows, amongst enemies – enemies on all sides, now – and Lily fought back a sob, that released itself in a strangled gasp from her throat, as she wondered how on earth he – any one of them – were ever going to be able to come back from this.
How Severus could even survive it.
"Lily."
Lily froze, eyes still closed, her back to the person – the familiar voice – and she shook her head.
"I'm okay, Remus."
Neither of them said anything – Lily waiting for the sound of retreating footsteps that didn't come – until, knowing he wasn't going to leave, Lily drew in a trembling breath, and wiped at a tear that had managed to slip free, before she turned to face him.
She hadn't known what to expect.
If it would be revulsion at her grief for a man whom all around them continued to call a traitor and a murderer; a triumph in his eyes that he had been right all along, that theirs was a relationship doomed to only bring heartache; or, perhaps, just a knowing pity that they had been fighting for a future he had told her would never be worth it.
Instead, Lily was met with concern and warmth in Remus' eyes when they met hers and she could see it in him, too. A doubt – a confusion – an uncertainty and a tiny bit of something that could only be there from knowing who Severus truly was.
Someone who had already seen all that he had given up and all that he had been willing to do on behalf of his family and this war.
Giving away every bit of himself, piece by piece, for them.
And how he would not – could not – throw it all away now.
Remus stepped towards her, his hand going to her arm, and his voice quiet, "I don't know what the hell that was, Lily. But…"
Remus broke off.
And then he shook his head, turning to what he did know instead.
"I know you can't be okay."
Lily released a breath, eyes closing once more, and she crumbled then – saying nothing, as Severus had told her not to – and Remus stepped in closer, drawing her into his arms, and held her as she wept for him.
Draco sat in the chair on the guest side of the desk in Professor McGonagall's office, eyes on the floor, as Regulus stepped into the room.
His little cousin didn't look up at him as he approached, ignoring the searing burn in his leg with each step, and Regulus tried to lower himself into the chair beside him without looking too grateful to be back off his feet.
The two of them sat there in silence, Regulus giving him the chance to speak first.
Draco drew in a breath, not meeting his eyes when he finally did.
"My mum –" he broke off, his voice shaky, before he went on, a little more certainly, "My mum said that you're a fool. And that if we went with you, we'd be as good as dead."
Draco's voice broke on the last word and he looked down at his hands, palms pressed together where they were in a vice-grip between his knees.
"So, she made us stay. But…"
Draco drew in a breath, meeting Regulus' eyes.
"I'd rather be dead."
The look in his little cousin's eyes was haunted – broken – a look far too familiar, that made Regulus' stomach tighten and a lump rise in his throat.
He pushed it down, his hand going to the boy's shoulder, "Well. That is just not an option."
Draco looked at him, searchingly, as if unable to believe someone were offering him kindness.
"She's dead," Draco whispered, his eyes brimming, "Mum's dead. She died and no one cared."
Regulus squeezed his shoulder.
"I cared. I loved your mum, Draco."
A tear slipped down Draco's cheek and Regulus leaned forward, meaning to comfort him, but the door swung open in a slam and Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, strode into the room, unapologetically, shooting a contemptuous glance Draco's way as took a seat on the opposite side of the desk.
"So, Draco Malfoy," Scrimgeour said, not even looking at him as he adjusted the chair to his liking, "And Regulus Black –" he said it without any hint of warmth, whatsoever, "I hear your cousin is seeking safeguard from his own self-professed Lord. Well. What can you give us that would make such a waste of our current time and resources worth it, boy?"
Regulus straightened up, "He is a minor, Scrimgeour. A child. And he has yet to commit any…crimes –" he hesitated on the statement, not entirely sure if that was true, " – against those who fight on the side of ours."
"Is that right, hm?" Scrimgeour looked unforgivingly at Draco, before then turning to Regulus, eyeing him.
"You may have Barty and my aurors wrapped around your finger, Mr. Black, but make no mistake that when I am Minister, I will remember the day that you saw fit to start harbouring Death Eaters."
Regulus raised an eyebrow, the hand that had been on Draco's shoulder going to the back of the chair his cousin sat upon, staying close as Scrimgeour leaned back in his chair, still eyeing Regulus appraisingly.
"Years and years of deception. Quite the feat your dear friend, Severus Snape, has pulled off tonight, wouldn't you say?"
"No friend of mine."
Regulus' free hand rubbed his thigh, in over-the-top indication to his now totally-fine leg, but Scrimgeour followed the motion with his eyes, no doubt already aware from the reports he would have received on his arrival as to what had occurred between himself and Severus in the aftermath of Albus' death.
An altercation orchestrated by Severus – a fight to the, apparent, death – that Regulus knew to be for his own benefit, as well as Severus' – covering both their backs with those they answered to – should he face suspicion and accusations such as this one.
Scrimgeour's eyes went to Draco.
"Now. Your crimes, first, Mr. Malfoy. Before we discuss your…wishes."
"I – um…" Draco swallowed, nervously, "I…I took his Mark –"
"Let me see it."
Draco did, pulling up the sleeve of his shirt.
Scrimgeour eyed it, this new rumoured truth that had been going about since those captured at New Year had been discovered sporting the very same marking on their arms, that all Death Eaters shared this Mark – this dark magic – that linked them all to their master.
Regulus caught the way Scrimgeour's eyes glanced from Draco's to Regulus'covered arm behind his cousin, contemplatively, but the man stopped short of asking him to show him whether or not he, too, bore this Mark.
A question – due to prior ignorance – that had never been asked of him by any of those in authority once before.
Because all already knew what he had been, even if they had never found proof, and few had ever been inclined to do so, in recent years.
Wrapped around his finger, as Scrimgeour put it.
Scrimgeour held Regulus' eyes for a moment – an obvious threat in them – before he turned his eyes back to Draco. Seeming to decide against throwing the founder of the Foundation – that was currently standing strong with Ministry in drawing upon the opposition to Voldemort – back into Azkaban.
Morale checked enough, this night, by the death of Albus Dumbledore.
For now, at least.
"Go on."
"And I…I helped my father tonight. To get into the Castle."
"Explain."
Draco did. Telling in most incriminating detail how he and Lucius had connected the two Vanishing Cabinets, creating a pathway through which the Death Eaters had successfully managed to infiltrate Hogwarts and murder two professors – one Albus Dumbledore, no less – and injure countless more, while children fearfully listened and watched, where possible, from their dormitories.
"Yet to commit any crimes," Scrimgeour repeated Regulus' words, slowly, when Draco finished up his story, but his eyes remained entirely on the boy before him, who trembled, looking as though all hope was lost, before he went on, "You have certainly served your master well. And, so, I ask; what can you give us, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco drew in a nervous breath, his voice almost stuttering, when he said, "I – I know where Astoria Greengrass is."
Scrimgeour raised his eyebrows.
Draco nodded, his confidence bolstered by the man's interest, while Regulus felt himself become slightly uneasy, before his cousin went on, his unease increasing with each statement he made.
"I know where they all are. There's a few places they hide out but only one after a big victory like this. They'll all be there. My father. The Dark Lord. Snape –"
Regulus almost flinched, Scrimgeour's eyes carefully upon him at the name, before turning back to Draco, raising an eyebrow that he go on.
"Malfoy Manor."
Scrimgeour sat very still for a moment, contemplating the information, and then he got to his feet, striding to the door.
He flung it open, pointing a finger at where Regulus and Draco sat as he addressed the guarding aurors on the other side of the threshold; "Eyes on these two at all times."
The two aurors stepped into the room as Scrimgeour left, slamming the door shut behind him.
Regulus turned his back to them, where they took up spots on either side of the doorframe, the hand on the back of Draco's chair reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
A silent word spoken to the deities, that Severus still had his wits about him, when the Ministry Aurors came down upon them at the Manor.
Severus vomited, on his knees, retching violently in the pristine washroom of the accommodations that had been granted to him in the Manor, barely able to muster up the necessary silencing charm as he'd stumbled into the room, bile rising and his hands clammy and shaking.
He had barely held it together, once the adrenaline of battle had worn off, and they had arrived – summoning the Dark Lord with the joint press of their fingers to their Marks – the more, the stronger the call – all aware that tonight was a night for celebration.
A night they need not fear the Dark Lord's presence.
Other than, of course, Lucius, who had sought an audience immediately – but had been told to wait, cast aside and ignored, one of his most devoted, and then 'crucioed' when he had attempted to insist – as their master sought to heap praise upon Severus in front of all and speak of his grand ambitions, delighting in Dumbledore's much sought for demise.
Severus had put on a good show – if he did say so, himself – of appreciating the praise and the admiration and awe of his 'brothers', as they stood in place before the Dark Lord; as he rejoiced in his Death Eaters' success until he'd finally dismissed them.
Now, though, alone, on his hands and knees on the marble floor, Severus could hold it together no longer.
Haunted by the calm blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore – he, the last person to see the life in them – and the green eyes of Harry Potter, so full of betrayal and grief and confusion – his hurt palpable in that one glance they had shared.
Severus touched his forehead to the floor, when his retching finally stopped, his breaths coming in gasps.
Sobs, he realised, unable to be controlled.
He knew not how long he crouched there.
It could have been minutes. Hours. Days even, before he heard the sounds of disturbance outside the door to the hallway.
A crash.
Yells.
The obvious sound of scuffle. Of battle.
Severus quickly pulled himself together, getting to his feet, swishing his wand and cleaning up the mess he'd made of the room, just as he heard the sound of the door to his own room bang open.
Severus composed himself – drawing on a strength he didn't know he had left – and gripped his wand tight as he stepped out of the washroom.
Mad-Eye Moody was standing there, face of thunder as he spat his name.
"Snape."
Vaguely behind the auror, Severus could hear the voices of the others – the shrieks of battle, the spells being fired, the arrests being made – and he lifted his chin, staring down his own opponent.
Fantastic.
The cherry on top of an already glorious night.
That after finally carrying out the deed he had been deliberating for months – unable to bear even the thought of it – he should still end up rotting in Azkaban, useless to the fight he and his loved ones so desperately needed won.
Moody fired first.
Severus blocked it, and the adrenaline hit, then – fuelled by grief and hate and his determination that he would not allow all that he had done, such dreadful acts, to be have been committed in vain – and he fought as if his life – the lives of all those he loved – depended on it.
For they did.
The spells fired between them mercilessly, Severus struck once, twice, by spells meant to wound rather than kill – slices on his arm, his shoulder, that he had been unable to deflect – but neither cut as deep as the words that slipped past Moody's lips.
"Coward."
A flash of purple.
"Murderer."
Severus fought back – driven on by the grief that swelled up within him – and then he blasted out the glass of the window behind him, running and jumping from it, the room high enough that he just had the time to cast a levitation charm to break his fall and he hit the ground running – noticing other Death Eaters doing the same – as they fled the Manor, deep into the night.
Spells fired from the windows on their heels, striking the ground all around them, as those who could made their escape.
Harry stared at the door to Snape's office.
The office he'd been coming to, so often, it could have been almost every night this term, without a worry or a care or a suspicion that the man on the other side of it didn't care for him. For his mum. For his sister.
That they weren't family.
That Snape fought with them – for them – and Harry swallowed, as the memories of their time this past year came back to him.
Snape sitting with him at his mum's bedside, assuring him he was not to blame for what had happened to her.
Harry running into Snape's office, finally admitting to himself that he cared, and begging Snape not to die. To always come back to them.
Snape's brutal honesty when he'd confessed to being responsible for delivering the prophecy and then the conviction in his assertion that Harry was not alone. That he would be there, with him, for whatever was to come his way.
How terrible Snape had looked all summer when he'd come to the house – insistent that Harry's occlumency, his means of protecting himself, continue – and how he'd batted away any concern Harry had for his wellbeing, in turn.
The first time he'd smiled at him, when Harry had agreed to his plan, to work with him to strengthen himself, to make him better, in every way Snape knew he could help.
The first time he'd let him see pain, when his memories of Grace were revealed to him.
The time he'd held Harry close, saying he was sorry – and Harry knew he'd meant it – his voice harsh with a raw emotion that Harry had never heard from him, before.
Harry's lip trembled and he realised he was standing in the middle of the Slytherin corridors near tears, waiting for his girlfriend, where anyone could see him.
Crying for a man who everyone – everyone – that morning was branding a traitor, wishing for his death, his torture, his torment, while Harry could only sit there and will it all to be a lie, a nightmare, something that Voldemort was sending into this mind because he couldn't bear any of this to be the truth.
Harry turned away, making his way up the stairs, knowing he couldn't be seen like this.
Whether Snape was on their side or not, Harry could not be seen crying for him.
He swiped at his eyes, finding it easier to get himself under control when he was in the entrance lobby, where memories were scarce and the hustle and bustle of everyone getting collected to head home from school for the holidays was happening.
Parents had been told they may collect their children early – many appearing before dawn, having learned of the battle and desperate check upon them – should they not be one of the students wishing to remain for the holidays, classes now suspended for the last few days of term.
Harry saw Malachi standing up ahead, by the closed doors of the Great Hall and Harry wondered, with a sickening jolt, if the reason it was closed off was because Dumbledore and Professor Burbage were still in there.
He walked up to Malachi where he stood, noticing his eyes were lingering on Luna Lovegood – a familiar longing in his gaze – where she was standing outside the main doors in the courtyard, swaying slightly, obviously waiting for her father.
Harry glanced at him, "You not gonna say bye?"
Malachi kept his eyes on her.
Slowly, he shook his head. His voice was quiet when he spoke.
"You saw how she kept coming at me."
Harry swallowed. Remembering the battle – the insane woman – who had targeted Malachi, throwing Killing Curses at him, at every opportunity.
"They were coming at me, too."
Malachi drew in a breath, shaking his head, his eyes still on Luna.
"They want to hurt my dad. They don't want him dead. They want him broken. They'll break anyone and everyone they can, just to do that," Malachi glanced down, "Nowhere's safe. Not even Hogwarts."
Harry looked at his best friend, unable to give him any words of reassurance that he was wrong because Harry knew what Malachi had said was true.
And truth – blatant, honest, simple truths – weren't something to be pushed away.
Harry reached out squeezing Malachi's arm, noticing Mr. Black approaching and coming in the main doors, "I'll see you soon, alright?"
Malachi smiled, giving him a nod, before he stepped towards him, hugging Harry tight, and Harry knew it wasn't for himself – for Malachi – that he'd done it, and he accepted the comfort, hugging him in turn.
And then Malachi stepped away from him, heading for his dad, who gave him a warm smile – a bit more subdued, this time, than their usual reunions, no doubt accounting for the fact they'd fought for their lives, side-by-side, less than twelve hours before – and he threw an arm around his son, drawing him close and pressing a kiss to his head, before the two of them walked from the Castle.
Harry watched the scene, his own heart heavy, tears prickling his eyes.
Thought of Snape, again, unable to help it.
"Hey."
Harry glanced to the side, seeing Daphne there, and he forced a smile, "Hi."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in close, not saying anything.
Daphne just held him, and Harry realised she had been worried – she'd obviously heard the stories of what had happened, that he'd been there – and he drew her closer, burying his own face into her shoulder.
They stood like that for a while, Harry didn't know or care how long for, before he slowly drew back, just far enough to lean his forehead to hers and explain.
"I'm sorry," he told her quietly, "I have to go home for Christmas. My…my mum –"
"It's okay," she nodded, eyes full of understanding, "Of course you do."
Harry gave her a small smile. She understood even when she knew nothing of the truth. The dreadful truth of his life and the lies and the secrets and betrayals and he looked into her eyes, seeking the light that was in them, for as long as he could.
And then something over her shoulder caught his attention.
Harry frowned, "Oh. Are you going home too?"
Daphne drew back, frowningly, also, "What?"
"Isn't that your dad?"
Daphne turned to look and, as she did, another person stepped out from behind Elijah Greengrass.
Daphne's eyes widened, taking in the sight of the girl who had come with him.
Astoria.
Daphne's voice was a whisper, "Tori."
Astoria smiled at her from where she stood but – even from this distance – Harry could tell she didn't look great. Thinner. Her clothes filthy. The sparkle in her eyes not there, her smile not quite meeting them.
And they glimmered as she looked at Daphne across the room.
Daphne stepped out of Harry's arms, hurrying across the room to her sister, reaching her quickly and the two of them looked at one another – Daphne's hands on either side of her sister's face – before they gave small, laughing sobs and hugged tightly in the lobby.
Harry smiled as he watched them. Another family reunited.
Swallowed the lump in his throat.
He waited there another ten minutes – Daphne turning, smiling her goodbyes to him, before she left with her father and sister, not bothering to pack or take anything with her – before Remus came to his side, hand placed gently upon his shoulder, and when Harry met his eyes there was the same understanding in them that Daphne's had.
An unconditional affection, regardless of the fact neither knew what was really going on, and Harry leaned into him, letting him wrap an arm around his shoulders, and the two of them headed on their way, Remus taking him back to the house.
Home.
And Harry tried to push away the dread he felt at going back there.
Going back to the home that he shared with Snape and all of the memories and hopes for the future – that could now never be – that just being trapped in those four walls would bring.
"Tell me about Hogwarts, Harry," Grace insisted, becoming impatient at Harry's refusal to engage with her, while the three of them sat at the dinner table.
Harry met his little sister's eyes, reluctantly, unable to help but notice – again – how much she looked like her dad when she was annoyed.
The very same look of Snape's that just haunted him now.
Harry looked away from her, back at his plate, "Um. Everyone misses you, Grace. Said it's not the same without you."
"Even Professor Snape?" Grace asked, delightedly, her tone full of hope.
Harry stabbed at the piece of chicken on his plate, "Even him."
"I miss him too!" Grace announced, turning her eyes to their mum, to Harry's relief, speaking to her next, "Professor Snape was my favourite teacher, Mummy. He made Potions too. Like Daddy."
Harry noticed his mum's attempt at a smile falter, her hand not quite steady when she reached up, brushing the hair back from Grace's forehead.
His mum didn't say anything.
Harry had been home a full day and a half, already, and still his mum hadn't said anything.
Harry didn't either.
They just walked around in almost complete silence, neither of them addressing the massive hippogriff in the room – that Snape had killed Dumbledore – pretending as if nothing was even wrong.
But there were no smiles.
No laughter.
No joy whatsoever in their home, without Snape there.
Despite the fact that Snape had never truly ever been there with them, in the first place.
Harry felt it – a loss, deep in his gut that he couldn't shake – every time he looked at his little sister's face, or at the door to the basement he dare not go near now, or at the stupid chairs at the table, remembering the mortifying incident with Snape and his mum in the summer.
Harry abruptly got to his feet, ignoring Grace's protest that he hadn't finished his dinner – his mum piping up, a rare moment of actual vocalisation, that he hadn't eaten anything – and left the table. Left the room and went upstairs, to his bedroom, tossed his glasses onto the nightstand and laid down on the bed, face buried in his pillow.
Harry felt stupid for not believing in him.
And then felt stupid when he did.
Flipping back and forth, unable to make sense of what he had seen and what he knew; evidence of his care for them and evidence of his betrayal, so conflicting that it was impossible for him to understand it.
Unable to reconcile betrayal with the man he'd come to know and to…
Harry could cry there, he realised, and no one would wonder why.
His mum had surely cried for Snape.
Even if they shouldn't.
It was just another secret.
That was just their life.
Harry sniffed as his tears came, the sounds muffled, his shoulders shaking.
Allowed himself to just feel what he was feeling and not let anyone or anything tell him that he shouldn't feel it. That he should never have cared or let himself trust or let himself hope, and he remembered how it had happened every time.
Every time he had trusted Snape, something worse had happened.
"I trusted you…Every time I think that I can, or that I do, you do something crazy."
Harry pressed his face tighter into his pillow, remembering the words.
Every time Harry trusted Snape; he did something crazy.
Things like erasing Grace's memories.
Or chopping off people's hands to revive Voldemort.
Though, in light of recent events, the behanding no longer seemed quite so shocking.
But.
For them.
It was always for them.
Harry drew in a trembling breath at the thought.
That maybe – for some reason – he had killed Dumbledore for them.
But even that thought made Harry's blood run cold.
That that might be the reality of their life and the things they were going to have to do.
The war wasn't over yet.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently tugging him, so that he'd turn, and Harry did, rolling to meet his mum's eyes where she was sat on the edge of his bed.
Her own eyes were red and shined with unshed tears – her chin lifting, slightly – and Harry slowly sat up, surprised that she had come.
That, maybe, they were going to talk.
His mum just looked at him at first, reaching up and brushing away the wetness on his cheek with her thumb.
"Sweetheart," she whispered.
"I don't understand," Harry shook his head, "I…I don't know if it's stupid that I don't want to believe it. I was there and I saw him, like everyone else did. So it's silly of me, now, to keep trying to come up with excuses because it's just me believing what I want to believe, right?"
His mum shook her head, lips pursed together, as Harry went on.
"Everyone else thinks he's guilty. That he's a traitor but…that just doesn't make any sense. I know what I saw but it doesn't make any sense. And I'm scared to even talk about it because – because what if he is still with us and I give it all away. What if he sees me thinking about it and…and I know that's why you and Mr. Black kept stopping me and Malachi from saying his name. Because he might look. So…do you know something? Something you can't tell me? Just nod or something, if I'm right and that he's still good."
His mum drew in a breath, caressing his cheek, and she shook her head again.
"I only know what you do, Sweetheart. Who he is. And who he's fighting for."
His mum drew in a breath, and saying quietly, whispered, almost, as if the words were something forbidden.
"You are right. He loves us. So much. Everything he does is for us. But yes; we can't talk about it."
Harry nodded and his fingers went to his scar.
His mum reached up, taking his hand, drawing it away from his forehead and squeezing it, tight.
"We just have to trust him. Have faith and be brave."
Harry stared back at her.
"I did trust him."
He lowered his eyes for a second, thinking about it, before he met his mum's eyes again, frowningly, when he realised.
"I do trust him."
That was why none of this made any sense.
Because of all that he had seen of him, all that Snape had let him see, trusting Harry to know – despite the undeniable truth before him – he still trusted Snape.
He was just stupid, maybe.
Maybe they both were.
But Snape…he'd never let them down before.
His mum smiled at him before her chin dipped and Harry saw she was still trying to hold back the tears he had noticed when she'd arrived.
Trying to be strong for him.
Harry shook his head.
"Mum."
Harry moved in closer, sliding his arms around her, and holding her tight.
His mum didn't fight him, leaning upon him, and the two of them allowed the tears – of both of them – to fall.