A History of Magic
Disclaimer:The following is a work of fiction created by and for readers of the Harry Potter books for no profit. No copyright or trademark infringement was intended, and all of the characters, situations et c. belong to, though aren't limited to, JK Rowling.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed, and those of you who have favourited the story. RaeWhit was the fantastic beta for this fic.
Warning: This chapter contains character death.
Part Seven
-H-
It has been years since I have felt like this.
My head is heavy and my arms are too long for my body. I know that when I reach for my glass, I will reach too far and knock it. The thing's damn near empty anyway, so there's nothing to be spilt. I grab for it, downing the last of my pint triumphantly.
"Reckon that makes it my round," I say. "Same again, is it?"
My colleagues from the Welsh reserve all make sounds of agreement, some more decipherable than others.
I surge to my feet. My hand pats my pocket, reassuring me that the pouch where I keep my money is still on me. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and staying upright. When I finally reach the bar, I collapse over it, landing heavily on my elbows.
"Alright, Snape," the barmaid says, grinning.
"My turn to buy the drinks. Don't make me say what they're all having."
She laughs.
"Wouldn't dream of it. I'll get you refilled with the usual round, yeah?"
I nod and lay two Galleons on the bar. I haven't paid for a round yet, but there're eight of us drinking so two seems about right.
The first couple of times I came to the West Witch no one would let me pay, presumably to keep me coming. I'm surprised to find that I don't need the incentive. I've too long had to be too careful; I've since found that getting pissed on a Friday night suits me.
I stumble back with a pocketful of Sickles and Knuts. I've not yet reached my chair when I see our glasses become full once more.
"The drinks're in!" I announce, to much cheering.
"Here, Snape," Finley says, putting his glass down too heavily so that ale spills over his fingers, "I don't suppose you'd know owt about it? I mean, I'd guess you're as out of the loop as I am, but you never know. You knew 'im once."
I frown, trying to determine whether an actual question has been asked of me.
"It's Harry Potter," Hettie puts in. "You don't take the Prophet anymore, do you?"
"Of course it's Potter," I say, spitting out the syllables like I did a lifetime ago in a dungeon classroom. "What's the idiot gone and done now? He's not back in hospital, is he?"
Hettie shakes her head. "Not yet, but he'll be headed there if he's lucky. The crazy sod's upped and said the Forbidden Forest 'round Hogwarts is teaming with Acromantulas, and that he's off in after them."
It takes me a moment to comprehend the words. Even sober, I do not think I would understand this on the first telling.
"He is taking his Auror team into the Forbidden Forest to fight a family of creatures that no one knows how to fight?" I ask. My drink is in my hand, but I am hesitant to raise it to my mouth; I have no desire to spray beer on my companions.
Hettie is shaking her head again, but she doesn't answer me.
Collins takes up her mantle. "Worse. He's going in alone."
My head falls to the table. "Of course he's going in alone," I mumble to the wood. He always goes in alone these days. He has seen one too many of the people he cares about drop dead in front of him, I'd wager.
I raise my head slightly, with much more difficulty than usual, and ask, "And the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has given him leave for this?"
"Threatened to quit. Not that I'm convinced it would be a bad thing. The lad's clearly unhinged." Hettie has found her voice again.
"They should let him quit."
I do not want Potter going into the Forbidden Forest. He has embraced Death too many times. One day, she will not let him go.
"They would, if they had any decency, but Potter's done them a right lot of good. He's rounded up as many of the escaped Death Eaters alone as the others have put together; likely because he doesn't seem to care one jot if he makes it out alive. Plus, there's a certain cachet to having him work for the Ministry. He's an endorsement, even if he's madder than a boxful of Chocolate Frogs."
Hettie no longer has full control of her volume. Her last sentence is shouted, and a few witches sat gossiping at the next table look over, clearly scandalised. Hettie pulls a face at them, and I can't contain a snort at their disgusted gasps.
Collins leans forward, his thick elbows resting on the table. "It's a crying shame they let him out of Mungo's Closed Ward when they did."
I remember pyjamas and bare feet shifting over cold stone and the unexpected power of Potter's defence.
"– been barking ever since he killed You Know Who," Jacks is saying.
I am suddenly sick of this conversation.
"The day that Potter killed the Dark Lord, he watched his best friend die. That alone would be enough to drive stronger men to insanity, and we all know that Potter faced more – worse – than that. Potter is not mad, but he of everyone I know has every right to be."
I storm to the bar and order a double of whiskey. It is gone before the barmaid can bring my change.
"Alright?" she asks. She honestly sounds concerned.
"No. No, I'm not. And neither's he."
She doesn't ask who he is. I don't know if she overheard the conversation of if she thinks she's respecting my privacy.
A minute later, a second whiskey lands in front of me.
"On me," she says.
I sip this one.
I need time to cool before I return to the table. I have not been drunk for so long – the risks for a spy are innumerable – and I am sorry to say I no longer know how to handle my drink and my temper together.
"Oi, Snape. Your pint's going flat," Collins calls.
I push up from the bar and slowly weave my way back to my chair. I eye my drink.
"I assume by 'flat' you meant that it was becoming two dimensional," I say. There is nothing left but foam coating the bottom of the glass.
"Waste not, want not," says Finley, looking entirely too smug.
I send a hex at the hand he has around his own drink, and then Summon the cider to myself. I take a swig, grimacing.
"This is foul, Finley," I say, but I have another mouthful regardless.
"You'll not be wanting any more of it, in that case," Finley says, his wand out.
His aim is off. Before he has a second chance, I gulp down the rest, thinking of anything but the taste in my mouth.
I allow Finley to Summon the glass back and he stares at it in horror. "Empty!" he moans, like a man injured.
"All's fair in love and war," I say, though I don't mean it. It's an old lie, that one. The kind that trips easily from the tongue.
"Snape, you having another?" Hettie is standing, her hands rifling through her handbag for her purse.
I don't need another. I will splinch myself getting home tonight, or fall out of the wrong grate, and I will wake up half-dressed on top of my bedcovers, and my head will pound and pound and pound, and my throat will rasp, and my stomach will churn, and I won't be able to face breakfast or daylight or myself in the mirror, and –
"Yes. Whiskey again, if you would."
-H-
Harry wanted to sink back against the soft down of the bed and never get up.
"Bugger off, Snape," he said through gritted teeth.
"Snape?" Severus said. "So it's to be last names now that you've done what you came here to do? In that case, maybe you'd be so good as to give me yours."
"What the fuck are you on about, Severus?" Harry badly wanted to see to his thigh, but he was reluctant to drop his trousers until Severus had left.
The Prophet slapped him in the face. He grabbed it, glaring at Severus before dropping his gaze to the headline.
GRINGOTTS ROBBED
Aurors Say That Thief Had Key
Harry's heart was pounding. He forced himself to speak in an even voice.
"And?"
Severus strode over, stopping in front of Harry so that he could loom over him.
"Idiot. Read on."
Harry read on, eyes struggling to make out the words. He caught enough, though.
Goblin officials state, "He had the key. It's none of your business."... Jones... currently employed at the National Library of Magical Reference... most recent to have access...
"Fuck."
"Indeed."
Harry looked up. He couldn't meet Severus's eyes.
"I need to get out of here."
There was no time for sensibilities now. Harry fell back against the bed and began to worm his way out of his jeans.
"What on Earth do you think –?"
"Belt up, Severus," Harry said, flinging off his ruined shirt as well.
"Accio wand." Wand in hand, Harry Summoned his trunk. He riffled through, pulling out vials of potions, all the while aware that he was sat in his boxers with Severus watching.
He ignored the weight of that gaze, turning his eyes to his blackened leg. He untied the makeshift bandage and drew it away, wincing as dried blood kept it clinging to the wound.
He heard Severus's intake of breath.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
Harry ignored him.
He poked at his leg, teeth clenched. He could do nothing against the Horcrux damage; he didn't even know what had happened to him. But he could do something to stop the bleeding and to shut up that damn hole he'd carved into his own fucking leg.
He found the bottle he wanted and pulled the stopper.
"Wait."
A cold hand clasped his wrist.
He glanced up through his fringe.
"Disinfectant first. Hold on."
Severus marched from the room, returning a moment later with a blue potion. He knelt next to the bed, his face level with Harry's injury.
"This will hurt."
Harry nodded, his fingers curling into the sheets. A hand found his and squeezed.
Harry's breath was ripped from him in sharp gasps. His fingers knotted with Severus's and he held on. If he let go, he would slide away, he knew it. He would ride waves of pain until he was somewhere else, alone.
"Don't let go." Someone said it between pants.
"I won't," Severus said, his nails digging into the back of Harry's hand.
Harry felt someone stroking his hair away from his face. He closed his eyes and leant into the touch.
He sagged, his body dropping sideways as agony loosened its grip of him. He saw a flash of black as he tried to open his eyes, and then there was a warm body next to him, holding him up.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Severus didn't say anything. His hand found its way back to Harry's hair and he was petting him.
When Harry opened his eyes, it was in time to see Severus pour the Healing Potion into the gaping cut on his legs.
"It will likely scar," Severus said, his voice hushed.
Harry smiled. "I don't mind scars," he said, equally quiet.
A gentle finger smoothed over the black skin of his thigh.
"I have something to re-grow skin tissue. It will take some time to work –"
"I don't have time," Harry said. "And I doubt it'd do me any good. Curse-caused means anti-curse-fixed."
Severus held his chin and turned him, his eyes searching Harry's face.
"Do you know the anti-curse?"
"No."
The hand at his chin tightened. Severus looked away.
Harry rushed to reassure Severus. "I know someone who might be able to stop it, if only..."
"If only?"
"I don't know how to get back."
Severus drew away so swiftly that Harry nearly fell.
He was stood again. Harry didn't bother to look up.
"You robbed Gringotts, you stole from the Ministry of Magic, and you don't know how to get back?"
He was shouting, shattering the softness and stillness that a moment ago had enveloped them.
"It's not that easy."
Severus was pacing, not looking at Harry. "You're a fool. You must have known you'd be discovered. How can you have done something this monumentally stupid? How can you possibly not know the way back to wherever the hell you fucking came from?"
Harry erupted to his feet. "Shut up! Alright, just shut up. Someone cast a spell on me to get me here. You have no idea how much I want to go home now, but I have researched year after fucking year and I still don't know how I even got here."
He licked his lips, and said, "It'd be easier thinking of a counter to the Killing Curse."
There was no counter. He knew there wasn't. But Severus knew so much that Harry didn't. Maybe he could help.
Severus snorted. "There's no counter to the Killing Curse."
Harry sighed. God knew what he was going to do now. Fugitives were hardly members of the local library. How was he going to find a way back? Forward. Whatever.
"The best you can hope for is to cast yours first."
"I – wait, what?"
Harry's heart was pounding. He wasn't considering this.
"I said the best you can hope for is to cast yours first." Severus was looking at him strangely, but Harry didn't care.
"Cast yours... That's it. That's got to be it. And you can self-cast, I know that. As long as you have the proper motivation, you can cast at anything, so I just –"
"Tom, are you contemplating suicide?" Severus's voice was higher than usual.
Harry was wavering on his feet. A way home. There was a way home. "No, no. Fuck. Oh fuck, thank you, Severus. Thank you thank you thank you!"
He half fell the two feet into Severus and planted a kiss unthinking on his lips. When he pulled back, the smile had fallen from his face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"
Severus's hands clutched Harry's shoulders. He crushed their lips together. Harry's knees failed him. He dropped against Severus's chest, feet fumbling to find purchase.
Severus's arms shifted around his back to hold him up. Their chests pressed together.
Harry opened his mouth desperately.
His hands couldn't settle. They were fisted against Severus's chest, and then smoothing over his shoulders, and then toying with his hair, holding his head in place, sliding round to cup his face gently.
Harry gasped into Severus's mouth, his lips still moving.
The hands on his back sank lower, sliding inside his boxers and pushing.
Harry felt his groin thrust against Severus's thigh and a groan was torn from him. He pressed a soft kiss to Severus's jaw.
"I have to go."
Severus threw his head back. "I know."
Harry devoted himself, lips, teeth, and tongue, to the exposed throat. "Soon. I have to go soon."
Hands tightened against his arse. "I know."
Harry pulled Severus's face down to his and whispered against his lips. "I'm sorry."
"I know."
Severus stepped back. His gaze was like a hand, a physical pressure over Harry's body. He smirked at the obvious tent in Harry's boxers.
Harry turned away, his heart aching. He pulled a white shirt out of his trunk, tugging it on and hastily fastening the buttons. He left the ones at the cuffs undone, racing to get a pair of black trousers on. He decided not to bother with socks, just slipping his trainers on bare feet.
He heard Severus approach behind him.
"I dropped the key in Gringotts. They have nothing to connect it to you."
Severus touched his shoulder.
He didn't turn. He bundled his robes over his arm, hoping that Severus wouldn't see the Gryffindor crest. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath.
"Thank you," Harry said, his voice hoarse. "For everything. You... you're too good for me to say. Don't doubt that."
"Tom..."
"Don't." Harry didn't want to hear it. "I'll... I'll see you again, okay? I'll make sure I see you again."
He lifted his wand from the bed. He needed nothing else from his trunk. He didn't turn for one last look. He didn't dare. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
-H-
I take the Daily Prophet and the Evening Prophet now. I can date this to the night I was told of Potter's most recent fool's errand. Following the leak, he has refused to give interviews or comment.
It has been a week.
I am toying with the idea that, like so many other things, this story on Potter is naught but lies. I would have concluded thus instantly – at the very least as soon as I had woken with a pounding hangover – if not for Granger.
"He has made a decision he won't be dissuaded from."
If no one can dissuade the boy from walking into a forest of Dark Creatures in search of Acromantulas, then he truly is mad.
But perhaps he has been dissuaded. Or restrained. Were I in charge of the boy's care, he would find himself strapped to his bed and unable to leave until he saw sense. He would likely end up tied down for years, the blithering idiot. But at least he would be alive.
No news is good news.
He hasn't been to the Forest, or even back to Hogwarts. I have scoured the papers to make sure.
My nerves are getting to me as I work. While I'm brewing, I see the owl come and go, and usually can spare a minute to at least check the headline. Fieldwork, however, is a sort of torture. I have watched over Potter for more years than I care to admit. Perhaps it is a mistake for me to stop now.
But I have washed my hands of him, of everything. After everything I have done, I have earned this.
I touch down on solid land. The dragon in front of me is clearly ill. He shoots flames in wheezing breaths, and the grass brushing his scales is scorched.
"Snape," shouts Collins over another rasping, flame-throwing breath. "Reckon we need Pepper Down. Six litres."
I draw the correct potion from my case and hand it over to be administered.
"You'll need this as well," I say, giving the vet a three-litre bottle of Dragon's Ease. "Likely he'll have a headache. I recommend curing that first."
I hear Finley snort behind me.
I watch impassively, my thoughts still with Potter. It is possible that the Daily Prophet has arrived, that it is sitting on my desk. And that it bears news that Potter has changed his mind, that he has recovered his senses – or that he has crashed onwards and paid dearly for it.
I am not a patient man, not in this. I cannot live with waiting.
I must speak to my owl tomorrow.
-S-
I lean against a rock, watching. They've given her the draught I prepared, but I am in no hurry to fly away. Not least because I can't remember the name of the mountain I'm stood on, and have no desire to lose myself in the Welsh countryside.
Something is coming. At first I think it must be someone from the reserve, but the fleck in the sky is much too small.
It is an owl.
My owl. The owl I told to drop off my paper at base if there was no news of Potter, but to bring it to me if he was so much as mentioned in passing.
My heart leaps to my throat.
Please let him be mentioned in passing.
I untie the paper from the owl, catching a glimpse of the headline as I do so.
He is not mentioned in passing.
BOY WHO LIVED – NO MORE!
As I watch the letters transform.
HARRY POTTER DIES TODAY AGED NINETEEN
There is a picture. I unroll the paper slowly, my fingers unsteady.
The Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. Empty beds stand, regimented, in two rows. A curtain is drawn around a bed in the distance, sunlight streaming from the window giving the white fabric an unearthly glow.
Poppy walks into the frame. Her head is bowed and her pace sedate rather than her customary bustle. She lifts a hand to her face, and her shoulders tense.
She disappears behind the curtain
The picture begins again.
My chest hurts. I can't breathe.
I'm shouting.
My colleagues are running over to me. I cannot look at them, cannot answer their questions, but then someone catches sight of the newspaper gripped in my hands.
"Jesus."
"Dead?"
"It can't be true. He's not – he couldn't be."
I ball up the paper and throw it as hard as I can. My hands are shaking.
The boy's already died once. Surely that's enough?
"Snape? Jesus, Snape, you okay?"
It must be Collins asking; he's Muggle-born. No one else would say Jesus.
I shake my head.
"Fuck. Let's get him back. Johnston, Finley, you stay with the dragon. She's going to need watching if she wakes up early with that potion in her."
I feel a hand urging me to walk away. It is a bad idea to Apparate immediately in the vicinity of a dragon, and I am in no state to straddle a broom.
"Hold on to me now, Snape."
I shake my head again.
"Come on, we'll get you home. A good stiff drink –"
"I am going to Hogwarts." My voice is frigid and hard. It could cut rock.
"Wh – what?"
I smile wolfishly.
"Someone there permitted the fool to go into the Forbidden Forest. I am going to find out who."
And before I can be stopped, I Apparate to the outskirts of Hogsmeade.
The castle stands before me, mocking me with familiarity.
I blend in with the villagers now. Everyone is wearing black.
I walk.
-S-
Minerva is surprised to see me. Her red-rimmed eyes widen with shock.
"Severus, what –?"
"Potter," I say. I do not say anything further. There is no need to.
She nods understandingly.
"He – his... body is in the Hospital Wing."
I do not answer this.
"The funeral will take place here on Tuesday. You are invited, of course. Details... details haven't been agreed on yet."
The portraits of other headmasters watch me. They have all witnessed my debates with Albus over the boy, after all.
Albus is not here.
I turn my gaze back to Minerva.
The silence stretches out between us, brittle and fraught with emotion.
I turn on my heel and march away. I can hear her calling to me, promising to be in touch. The grinding of the stone staircase taking me down almost obscures her words.
My feet carry me onwards. I do not remember making the decision to come here, but I find myself stood in the Hospital Wing.
One bed has curtains drawn around it. I can see half a dozen silhouettes through the thin veil of fabric.
Poppy rushes over to me.
"Severus," she says in a low hush. "Why are you here?"
"How did it happen?" I ask, realising as I form the words that I have no idea. My voice is harsh.
Poppy's eyes dart to the curtained bed and back. "Severus, perhaps we should..." She indicates her office.
"What happened to him?" I am speaking too loudly. A head pops out from round the curtains. The youngest Weasley is staring at me, her mouth a round 'O'.
Poppy has no choice but to answer me. She is a poor imitation of her usual brisk self.
"Acromantula venom. The poison killed him before anyone found him. He'd been in there a day and a half when Firenze brought him out."
I close my eyes.
Venom. Acromantula venom. Something so easy to counter; he could have even brought a vial of antivenin with him. I should have insisted...
"How long?"
"Excuse me?"
"How long was the little imbecile poisoned for? Surely he could have made it out of the forest in time to be saved. Acromantula venom is not overly debilitating, and it is slow acting."
"I – I – Evidence suggests he was bitten about six hours after he went in. It was his leg; likely he couldn't walk out again easily."
I have healed his leg once before, and from something much harder to counter. The fool. The absolute fool. He needn't have died on this pathetic excuse of a case, this suicide mission, this –
But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps Harry Potter walked into the Forbidden Forest yesterday with no intention of coming out alive.
The bastard.
-H-
Harry flew to Hogwarts. It was quicker this time; he knew what he was doing, knew when to dive into the clouds, when to soar above them, and when it was safe to fly below.
He flew mindlessly. All the thoughts that had been crowding him vanished the moment he pushed off from the earth on a stolen broomstick.
Whenever the thoughts crept back, he would loop, somersault, dive. He didn't want to think. It was unbearable.
It was dark when he reached Hogwarts. Most of the students would be in bed. Harry dropped the broom and threw the Cloak over himself. He walked up the lawn, the grass soft and spongy beneath his feet. The castle doors were shut but not locked. There were no voices inside.
He went in.
He knew where he was going. The curse had flung him back from a boys' bathroom, and the effects of returning would be softened if he reversed the curse from the same place. At least that way he would only be flying through one dimension.
He stood staring into a cracked mirror, the bottom edges of his robes gathering water.
He looked nothing like himself.
He dyed his hair back with magic. The black only made him look paler, more ghostly. The contacts were next, hazel eyes turning once more to green. His reflection blurred. The prosthetic peeled away with the counter to the Sticking Charm. Harry could just make out the famous scar. Tracing it with a finger, he readied himself.
He raised his wand. He wanted to go home. He needed to go home.
If this didn't work...
There's no place like home.
"Avada Kedavra ."
Green light burnt his eyes.
Harry felt like he was being torn to pieces, like he was being turned inside out and back again, and then he felt something much larger than he was slam into him.
His lungs lost air with the impact. He was flung like a ragdoll from where he was standing. He was dead. He was dying. He was –
Everything went black.
-S-