A/N: So, I've realized that my writing style for this piece has become somewhat wooly since the first chapter. . . Thus, I've edited this chapter a wee bit. The conversation between them is long, but I couldn't really cut anything out of it.

Part III: Memorial

Three full days had passed since he'd left the confines of the infirmary. In that time, he had passed the days away in the seclusion of his private quarters. It was strange, being back in his dungeon chambers without having some overhanging sense of doom. It was strange to simply be, without having to think constantly of the possibility of impending danger; strange to be able to have private thoughts without worrying who might be trying to pry into his mind.

In the last twenty-odd years of his life, he'd hardly had time for leisure. Every waking moment he was on a mission, had a goal, whether it was to survive the day without hexing a first year (or, lately, Longbottom), or live-through another Deatheater meeting (wherein there was always a chance he might possibly be the main sport). The throb of his constant tension was so ingrained into his daily routine that its absence left something akin to an ache; so acclimatized, was he, to the assiduous violence and uncertainty that he found himself almost missing it. Truthfully, he didn't know how to behave, now that he was a free man.

Had he always had this pawn mentality? he wondered. When had he stopped thinking for himself? When had he given up his strings completely to his two master puppeteers? Did he remember how to be his own master? Had he ever learned?

That first day, he sat around, brooding over such things. He'd been afraid of this. It was part of the reason why he'd been both enthused and reluctant to leave the infirmary; enthused because he was so thankful to be outside of Poppy's jurisdiction (as someone had put it to him when he was still a student, she dealt with head wounds, not headcases), reluctant because of the inevitable confrontation of freedom. At least, there in the infirm, he didn't have a choice insofar as daily activities went; there, he was still a prisoner, could still function by that prisoner mindset.

But here? He looked around at his chambers, the comfy furnishings, the multitudes of books and journals, the occult artifacts that served both as decorations and subjects of study. This was him. All of it.

Merlin. Who was he?

As much as he wished to see absolutely no one, he found after the first day that it was nearly impossible for him to sit still with such thoughts nagging at his brain. He paced around his quarters in a flurry of thoughts, looking around the room, images of the past flashing up before his eyes. These rooms had seen the very worst of him: returning battered and bloody from Deatheater meetings and raids; sitting before the hearth and drinking until he no longer knew who he was; seething and snarling angrily in private fits of rage; leaning, almost helplessly, against a wall as he fought back whatever emotions had managed to snag a hold of him for a brief and unmerciful moment before they passed.

Yes. These rooms had acted both as a sanctuary for such private and unseemly displays, and as a prison, a place to live and relive and revel in his own personal hells. His private quarters were the only place he felt even mildly safe . . . and the one place he could hardly stand to be confined to. Years upon years of anguish, fury, jealousy, despair, and self-loathing had been etched into every nook and corner of these rooms, dripping black and unctuous from every wall. It was stifling. Suffocating.

Which is how, on the third night of his freedom from the hospital wing, he found himself, swathed in his usual billowing black robes, stalking the corridors of Hogwarts in the late hours of evening.

It was well and safely after curfew when he slunk out of his dungeon chambers. The prefects and House leaders had finished their post-curfew patrolling (which, he noted, had taken an extreme, if expected, turn for the lax since war's end); as such, he knew he would have the castle mostly to himself, leaving him free to wander where he may. All he need be wary of was the mangy ailurophile Filch and his avernal moggy, and even they were unlikely to be stalking about at this hour. . . .

His feet made next to no sound as he made his way through the lonesome halls and corridors. In the past, when he patrolled the hallways at night, his steps were usually either quick and exacting, or stealthy and spry; the steps of a man with intention, either to reach some destination or catch someone out of bed. Now, his steps held no such character. He found himself simply ambling along, his rhythm more of a leisurely stroll than anything else.

As he passed aimlessly through the hallways, eyeing the décor, the statues, other interesting marker, an unsettling multitude of vague memories and impressions washed over him. He had lived nearly all his life within these walls, he realized. There were other places he had been to, surely, but of those he had only fleeting (and often blood-soaked) memories; Hogwarts was the one focal point in his life, the one thing he always found himself returning to, like an ancestral home.

Except now, instead of feeling like a safe-haven, a stronghold for him to hole up in, it felt more like a tomb.

He'd buried all of his worst memories here. All was quiet in the castle, yet every stone jeered at him, an endless caterwauling echoing in his ears.

Unconsciously, as he zeroed in on the din, his pace quickened, feet sliding past each other with growing rapidity. Yes, he could hear it clearly: screaming, wails, insane laughter, screeching, all emanating from the very foundations of the school, from the very bellows of the earth upon which it was standing. His feet were eating up the ground now, his steps whispering panic as his breathing grew shorter with the lengthening of his stride.

Now practically flying tantivy through the hallways, he came upon a set of heavy double doors, which he pushed open without hesitation or seeming effort, leading him out into a covered colonnade surrounding the lesser courtyards. The chill of the winter air nipped sharply at his cheeks, but he continued his path, turning a corner sharply—

His racing heart nearly thudded to a complete halt when he saw another figure in his path. A shorter person, about fifteen feet ahead of him, steps so light that they were practically gliding across the floor. He himself cast in shadow, Severus watched the person come into a slant of moonlight.

As soon as Severus recognized the person, he was hit with a sting of annoyance, though it was much overpowered by an almost comforting sense of bewilderment. . . .

Without thinking, he opened his mouth, and said hoarsely, "You. . . ."

The blonde-headed figure stopped in its tracks, caught in the glow of moonlight. Turning slowly, he was indeed greeted by the contented, dreamy face of none other than Luna Lovegood.

"Hello, Professor. Out for a stroll?"

He ignored her question, surveying her up and down. The little chit was dressed in her day clothes, eternally ripped jeans, a mossy green pullover hoodie (that definitely did not look like it was made for the cold) hanging from her thin torso, bright yellow high-tops peeking out from under her jeans. In her right hand, she clutched her wand; in her left, there was a small, black satchel.

And, as usual, there was the twinkle of newborn stars in her smile.

"Don't you ever sleep?" he grated out roughly, slanting his gaze downward at her. He hadn't realized that he'd drawn closer towards her, but suddenly he found himself little more than four feet away.

She tilted her head up to match his gaze. Her slim shoulders gave a simple shrug. "Not really."

For all his formidable wit and acidic rhetorical skills, he did not have a riposte for that answer, so indifferent with smooth lemony-sullen undertones. He simply stared at her (a default stance when speaking with her, apparently), and she, ever the nonchalantly fearless one (even for one so small, so birdlike and delicate-looking) gazed back with those brilliant blue eyes.

Salazar have him, what was he supposed to do? If memory served, he normally handed out severe punishments to students found out of bed—but he wasn't even a professor any longer, not really. Did he still have that kind of judicial power? he wondered cynically.

Seeming to (uncannily) follow his train of thought, Luna blinked slowly at him, ghostly eyebrows shifting slightly.

"Are you going to give me a detention?" completely without inflection, without the remotest trace of interest. As if it didn't matter to her either way.

Merlin, she was beginning to be as terrible a rule-breaker as Potter.

Doing his best not to sigh, he intoned, "I see little to no point in doing so."

"Well, you were always my most astute professor, sir."

He scoffed. "Is that a compliment, Ms. Lovegood?" From anyone else—Granger, say—that might have been a way to butter him up for not doling out any form of punishment.

But from her . . . well, he already knew the answer.

"Nope."

Simple, straightforward, unapologetic. Nope.

Hm. The longer he watched her, the more he became aware of a strange warmth settling inside his chest, one that he wasn't at all sure he liked. Casting around for something to break the silence, he took her form again, attention drawn this time to the satchel in her hand.

"Permit me, Ms. Lovegood, to inquire: precisely where are you heading this hour of the night and what," he nodded by way of pointing, "is that?"

He might as well have told her that he was Father Christmas. He fought not to shield his eyes from her blinding enthusiasm.

"Would you like to see?"

He had barely opened his mouth to give verbal consent before she turned her heel, and began walking again, calling out over her shoulder, "Come along then, Professor."

He stared after her retreating form, watching her long blonde hair swished back and forth about her waist. He couldn't recall a student ever walking away from him before, in such a careless manner. Truthfully, his bafflement at the situation could have kept him there endlessly; but, he considered as he watched her go, that he would be more a fool to stay put than to simply follow her as she intended.

Insufferable. Presumptuous.

And to think: he had thought those were Gryffindor traits.


The place to where Lovegood intended to lead him was actually fairly close. After a minute or so of walking along the colonnade, passing large archways revealing one snow-covered courtyard after another, she finally slowed to a stop. Severus (who had remained a respectably cool distance behind, despite that his strides could have easily outstripped her), came up to her where she was standing, and turned to look where her vague gaze was occupied.

He found himself peering through another gothic archway like the ones they had just passed, save for that this one was smaller and much narrower. And whereas, peering into the other archways, he had been able to discern the shapes of statues and topiary arrangements, the only thing he could see through this archway was flat, barren earth.

A glance at the smallish girl at his side, however, revealed her a small grin that told him he wasn't seeing everything.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt icy small, icy fingers tugging at his hand where it hung at his side.

Looking down, he saw that it was indeed Lovegood, tugging at his fingers as she stepped away from him, forwards into the archway, urging him to follow. As she stepped through, her hand left his, and he was once again left watching her retreating form as she wandered into the barren enclosure.

He stood for a moment, and let his eyes close, relishing for a moment the blackness. He breathed in the crisp, harsh winter air, exhaling and inhaling deeply and slowly. He felt the dull thud of blood through his body, whispering beneath his robes.

Letting out a long, controlled breath that may or may not have been a sigh, he opened his black eyes once more, and stepped through the archway after her.

What he found was that the plot in this particular space was not nearly as big as the other courtyards; in fact, it was quite small. A square-shaped enclosure, it was probably twenty feet on every side. There was nothing in the way of decoration or garden work, no statues or shrubbery to speak of. The only thing of interest at the moment was Lovegood, who was now crouched over a spot of earth, fumbling with something in her hands while she examined the ground. . . .

Severus paused. The ground. Eyes narrowed, he pulled his wand out from his robes, muttered a quick "Lumos" and pointed his wand downwards, illuminating some of the earth around his feet.

All around him—and all over the small enclosure, it looked like—were little raised patches of dirt, no more than a knut in diameter, as if the earth itself had goosebumps from the cold.

Looking up again, he saw that Lovegood was now fiddling around in the satchel she brought with her, sifting through the contents for something.

Snow crunched under his feet as he approached her. And, hearing his cautious advance, the girl spoke to him, voice ringing out clear and stark in the desert winterscape.

"Two-hundred and thirty seven people died at Hogwarts this year—three-hundred and fifty-one, if you include Deatheaters." No inflection, none whatsoever; a recitation of fact, as if she were giving him a history lesson.

"A little more than one fourth of the student population, and one third of the staff."

He was three feet from her now, simply staring down at the back of her mossy green hoodie.

"Sixty-four people helped to recover all of the bodies and remove them from the grounds; even still, it took three days."

He had been unconscious for all of that, comatose in the infirmary, oblivious to anything and everything, believing himself to be dead.

"It took another four to identify everyone. Some of the bodies were so badly mangled they were only recognizable by the remnants of their magical signatures."

He watched as she began preening the dirt with her hands, her fingers digging in and pushing dirt around, creating a small hole. Something in the back of his brain recalled her hands again, dirty and resting in her lap while she spoke to him about this and that in the early hours of the morning.

"Some bodies were never found. The Headmistress surmises that this is the result of discintegrating hexes, but we are also assuming that Greyback and his pack ate at least ten people."

Now, she was reaching into her black satchel, rummaging around again.

"The official list of names keeps growing, but I have enough to work with." She removed a small jar, full of what looked like small, ivory stones.

And suddenly, all the wind left Severus' lungs. His mind came to a frightening stand-still, and his throat ran dry.

Of its own accord, his mouth creaked open, and a raspy question escaped his parted lips.

"What . . . what is this?"

Only now did she stop, her hands about to untwist the lid of the jar, freezing in their action as she turned her crouched form to look back and up at him, face not so serene as uncannily expressionless.

"A memorial."

A wave of vertigo hit him like a vicious flurry of snow, and he tried his best not to stagger back, away from this changeling girl and her hollowed gaze. A feeling that he could only liken to a vague sense of horror undulated within him; soft but unrepentant, a warm, heavy blanket waiting to suffocate him.

Luna continued to watch him, and, as his attention refocused itself, it struck him that her face had changed drastically. Whereas before everything about her, from her mouth, to her eyes, to that off-and-on dimple on her left cheek, was teetering on the edge of a teasing, gentle smile . . . now, her heart-shaped face bore none of its usual levity. And suddenly, with stinging realization, Severus could see the deep shadows around her eyes, her painfully chapped lips, the tired crease of her blonde brow. She looked much older than her sixteen years.

Despite her wan comportment, she attempted to give him a smile. It shriveled and mellowed in sadness. Raising a hand, she beckoned him down to her level.

Careful not to jar his still-healing injuries, he descended slowly, crouching down beside her. She looked at him appraisingly, and he felt as if she were trying to scour his very soul with that eerie blue gaze. Then, picking up the faintly glowing jar at her side, she held it up in front of his face.

"They're moonstones," she clarified. Bringing her other hand to the jar, she continued opening the lid. "Each has the name of someone who died written on it."

Indeed, as he looked closer, he saw that each individual ivory stone had gold-silver lettering laced around their smooth, polished surfaces. The lettering shined faintly in the moonlight, only appearing when the stones were observed from certain angles. With all of them crammed in the jar, he couldn't make out any full names. Thank Circe for small favors.

"You bathe them in a mixture of rosewater, salt, and tarantacula venom," she said softly, setting the lid down beside her and reaching in for one of the stones. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, looking at it with a vague expression of wonder.

Finding that he was regaining some of his former composure, Severus asked with slight scoffing incredulity, "And where, pray tell, did you manage to get that?"

"Hagrid. He's friends with some of them, you know—the tarantacula. I imagine he's friends with quite a lot of magical beings—even though his knowledge of species is somewhat limited. He didn't even know what a larinkle was." She set about putting the stone in the ground.

Snape nodded silently, not wishing to make her privy to the fact that he didn't have the slightest idea what a larinkle was either. "And the rosewater?"

"Professor Sprout. She also tried to give me gloves to work with, but I like to have a more intimate connection with the dirt. I like the way it feels in my hands." She patted the earth where she had buried the stone, and brought her dirty fingers up, as if to show him. "So she gave me a hand-shovel instead. The moonstones I had on hand already—at least, I had one. They're all duplicates, you see, from the same stone."

"I see. And where did the original come from?"

A small, fleeting smile flickered across her face.

"Papa gave it to me, just before I was taken to Malfoy Manor."

Severus' expression grew quiet.

"He said it was charmed, that it would keep me safe. He shoved it into my hand just before you grabbed me."

What? Severus raised his eyebrows at the girl, surveying her critically. It had indeed been he who had grabbed her during the raid of the rook house that had been the Lovegood home . . . but there was no way she could have known that. He had been robed, like the others, in Deatheater garb—he had portrayed no sign of his identity. It wasn't until Malfoy Manor that he disrobed.

Thinking back on the scene in Malfoy Manor, he suppressed a shivering grimace.

"How," he put his question to her carefully, "could you have possibly known that it was I who accosted you?"

Lovegood looked away from him for a moment, casting her eyes down to the dirt. Absently, she picked up a small twig and began to trace patterns in it.

"When the Deatheaters entered my house . . . there were five, I think. Everyone else immediately when after Papa, but . . . you," she drew a spiral, winding her path outwards, "you didn't. You didn't even look at my father."

Because I knew what his fate was, Severus thought to himself. I knew he was not going to live.

"When you came across the threshold of our home . . . you glanced around for maybe a second," her voice was quieter now, her eyes shut tightly. The spiral was growing larger, but her circles were overlapping each other chaotically.

"Your head turned towards me. You came at me. A straight path. You knocked over Papa's myriadoscope, and our kitchen table. And came at me in a straight line."

With a sick crack, the twig snapped, a sound that echoed grimly in the desolate courtyard.

Luna's voice floated in the dim like icy fog.

"When you reached out for me . . . when you grabbed my wrist . . . it wasn't what I was expecting."

Severus found himself swallowing hard. She was now making a series of X's and S's in the dirt with the broken twig, continuing to stare at the ground.

"What was it?" he asked her softly. "What gave me away?"

Luna Lovegood stilled.

Suddenly, without warning, a pale, slender hand shot out like a jumping spider, startling him, and latching onto his wrist.

Severus nearly yelped in surprise, less at the realization that Lovegood was touching him and more at the fact that her hand was blistering hot.

"Your blood was singing to me," she whispered, her grip vice-like on his wrist. She was so small a girl, so waif-like—but he was half-convinced that his bones would shatter in her hold.

"Your touch was rough, but panicked, but protective. Harsh, but unconvincing." Her voice was odd now, rough, throaty, uncharacteristically heavy; an odd sensation was blooming from his wrist where her hand was, spreading along his arm, seeping into his veins.

"You didn't want to be there."

And yes, there it was, like liquid fire running through him, as if someone was pumping his bloodstream with firewhiskey. He was beginning to see orange.

"Your hands were screaming no, but your palms were dry."

He could no longer feel the cold air around him, nor the sharp snow digging into the other palm that held him steady against the ground. And now he really couldn't see, as if someone had shot down the moon and plunged the courtyard into pitch blackness, punctured by a voice that wasn't really Lovegood and a cacophony of scarlet and crimson.

"—And your blood was singing to me, and mine was singing back."

And, suddenly, she let go.

Severus' world returned to him in a rush of cool blue moonlight. He blinked several times, trying to dispel the last of the heady orange that had inexplicably clouded his vision.

When, finally, he was able to see properly again, he saw that Lovegood was bringing her hands away from where they had been wiping at her eyes. A painful, annoying, and uncharacteristic pang of concern shot through him. Was she crying? The coward in him didn't want to find out; he was utterly useless at comforting distraught young females.

And knowing that someone like Lovegood was crying . . . well, it put an unpleasant taste in his mouth. People like Luna Lovegood shouldn't cry. Ever. It was unnatural. It made his stomach turn.

Seconds of quiet stretched between them, nothing but the faint call of owls in the distance and each of their breaths, out of sync but still weaving together unfathomably. Severus kept his gaze trained on the ground, unwilling to look at the girl next to him.

After a few more moments, there was a soft clinking at his side—the sound of the moonstones being moved around in their glass jar.

"This memorial is supposed to be for the people that died here at Hogwarts—that died because of Voldemort. But I made a stone for my father as well. Is alright, do you think?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes. Yes, that is right."

He heard a soft metallic scraping, the sound of her using the shovel to dig another hole for a stone—to dig another grave.

"I want to thank you, Professor."

His head was beginning to ache, and a tightness was forming in the back of his throat. He swallowed uncomfortably. What the bloody hell for?

More scraping as she dug the half-frozen dirt. "If it hadn't been you . . . if someone else had grabbed me . . . I'm not sure I would have felt as safe as I did."

The words were flying out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "You are a damn fool, Lovegood, if you managed to feel safe in the middle of a Deatheater raid, much less in Malfoy Manor—and if that sense of security was because of me, then you are as daft and demented as your peers say!"

He never dreamed that he would ever see Luna Lovegood's face grown stiff with anything but sleep; however, when she looked at him now, there was definite disapproval in her countenance.

"I may be a fool . . . but at least I am a fool who sees things plainly." More quietly, she added: "Don't ever look me in the eye unless you want to see yourself exactly as you are."

Her words sent a chill down his spine, but he ignored it, spitting at her: "Indeed. You couldn't have possibly known—I had the entire wizarding world believing me to be a traitor of the worst kind—and you claim that you believed in my innocence, even in my darkest hour? I think not."

She turned her face away from him, concentrating again on her work. A single milky stone was plucked from the collection and slipping into the small hole she had created. Though she was no longer looking at him, he could discern that something in her expression changed; the faint displeasure that should have been magnified by his petulant words was now nowhere to be seen. Her face was cool and smooth as the surface of a rippleless lake.

"I would never presume anything about your innocence, sir. But I did believe in you. I still do."

As if she had deflated him somehow, he let out a tired half-sigh. "Why?" he asked wearily.

"I believe what I want to, because I want to," she replied simply, patting the earth smooth. "Something doesn't have to be evident, or corporeal for me to believe in it. Do you know anything about gods, Professor?"

"I have never met a single one, only mortals that like to play-act."

"Well . . . it's like that. No one has proof, but plenty believe anyway."

"There is a substantial difference between the time-honored worship of omnipotent beings and unsupported, blind belief in criminals—or belief in spontaneously dreamed-up denizens."

She gave an infuriating shrug. "Well, all the same. I just wanted to say thank you."

The urge to scream at her was so tempting he found himself almost literally biting his tongue. Inane, sentimental, ludicrous little. . . . Brat. He ground his teeth. He didn't deserve her thanks. Or her tolerance. Or anything she was so carelessly throwing at him. It made him angry beyond comprehension. . . .

And, at the same time, he felt grateful.

"You are . . . welcome."

Sneaking a glance at him, she flashed him one of her trademark sweet-dreamy smiles. He realized it had been a long time since anyone had genuinely smiled at him.

Picking up the jar and hand shovel, she held the latter out to him and set the former between them. "Would you like to help?" she asked.

Wordless, he took the shovel from her.


They stayed in that barren courtyard for another half-hour, burying (or "planting") the inscribed moonstones where Luna designated them. Though it was indiscernible to Severus himself, there was evidently some sort of order to where the stones were placed. She told him about the spell she used to inscribe the moonstones—a Naming charm, an old piece of magic used to enchant inanimate objects. It was tiresome work, and took quite some preparation, so she typically created ten to twelve stones per week. She had managed to make fifteen this week, which put the total in the courtyard at about forty-six.

"A little less than two-hundred to go!" she remarked cheerily as she put her tools back in the satchel.

He gifted her with a slight thinning of his lips that may or may not have been his attempt to smile. Minerva was right: the girl really was touched in the head.

And he'd shove his foot in his mouth before he actually said so, but it was rather endearing, in a way.

Upon leaving the courtyard and entering the more insulated, and therefore less chilly, castle, he insisted on escorting her all the way to her dorms. For her part, Lovegood made no objection, and they walked together in silence, Severus slowing his long strides so that she could keep pace.

As they came to a stop by the door to the Ravenclaw common room, Severus found himself itching to say something. After Lovegood answered the riddle and the door opened, he broke the comfortable silence between them.

"Ms. Lovegood."

She turned to him where she stood in the entry-way, cheeks still pink from the cold. Her blonde eyebrows shifted in question.

"I . . ."

As his words died in his throat, he realized that his courage failed him for one reason: he wanted to apologize. He sincerely wished to tell her that he was contrite—for everything. For being such a crass and insolent prat, for yelling at her, for calling her a fool. He was sorry for taking her from her home and destroying it in the process, for taking her away from her father, for not being able to stop him from dying. He was sorry for interrogating her at Malfoy Manor. For having to leave her there and return to school. He, Severus Snape, who hadn't sincerely apologized to anyone for anything in decades, wished very desperately to tell Luna Lovegood that he was, indeed, sorry.

But he couldn't. So instead, he told her something that was even more difficult to say.

"Thank you."

Even though she was mostly cast in shadow, he could see the outline of her smile in the darkness.

"You're welcome, Professor."


The next morning, whilst he was milling about in his chambers, Minerva sent word in the form of a house-elf that she needed to speak with him. Having already resigned himself to the particular conversation that would no doubt ensue, he accepted, and spent the rest of the morning preparing himself. Minerva would have plenty of questions for him, but he had some of his own to pose to her.

It was high-time he made an actual inquiry about Ms. Luna Lovegood.


a/n: So, thusfar . . . Severus is torn and recovering. Luna has insomnia and a scary side. We'll find out more about that later, I assure you. McGonagall reveals all.

where it says "a knut in diameter", I mentally equate knuts with pennies (copper), and therefore view them as the same size.