TUESDAY, 3 MAY
Minerva sat at the staff table the next morning lingering over her tea and looking out over the remaining students eating their breakfast. Many had left, their parents coming to pick them up the previous day.
The last month of classes had been canceled and O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s postponed. The fifth and seventh years would be allowed to return next week to complete their studying before sitting exams, but the rest?
This was becoming something of a recurrence at Hogwarts of late. She knew the students didn't mind skipping their end-of-term exams but as a teacher, she felt they were being let down in their education. She dearly hoped with the war over and Voldemort lying dead and cold under a stasis charm down the hallway, that it would be the last year to end like this.
Harry was seated between his friends halfway down the Ravenclaw table. She noticed them holding closely to him now. They were worried for him, she knew. She wondered how much they truly guessed. Granger certainly had come to the truth in her own mind by now, it rarely took her long to connect up all the little details.
He needed to be told. They could not avoid it forever. She quailed at the thought of his likely reaction, her Gryffindor courage failing her in this matter. She knew Severus would probably be even worse, once he regained his strength and was no longer doped to the gills with pain-relieving potions and calming draughts and could feel properly shocked. She half hoped he would not remember their conversation last night, but did not wish to repeat it, either.
The morning's headlines did nothing to improve her mood either. "Harry Potter, Hero Missing in Action?" had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet immediately below the main feature on the battle and Voldemort's death.
Harry Potter, Slayer of Voldemort, last sighted on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry immediately following the battle in which the young hero dispatched the dark wizard Voldemort, has not been seen since Monday morning, the article went, Speculation that he has left the country would not be confirmed by the Ministry of Magic. "As far as we know, he is still a guest at Hogwarts," stated Kingsly Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic (Interim), "If he does not wish to speak to the press at this juncture, that is his own business."
The article descended into more wild speculation and rumor after that point. McGonagall couldn't be bothered to read the rest. It was more of the usual drivel that Skeeter woman churned out.
His own business indeed, thought McGonagall. Her respect for Shacklebolt went up a notch. If he was disinclined to the sort of obsequious politicking of his recent predecessors, all the better. If she ever got her hands on Rita Skeeter, however. That jackal of a woman was no doubt working on a completely rubbish biography of Harry right that moment, to pair up with the insulting one she'd spat out for Albus the previous summer.
Harry sat between his friends over breakfast on the morning of the day following the death of Voldemort. The sensation of unreality surrounding him only deepened, however. Part of him expected someone to tell him it was all an illusion or dream. He tried not to look to closely at his hands as he ate and to ignore the way he now had to keep pushing back his fringe to keep it out of his eyes.
More students had left following the celebration in Hogsmeade, leaving with family who had joined them for the fireworks. A few still lingered, those who could not yet return home for some reason or another, or who stayed behind to study for O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s.
Luna was gone and Harry thought that perhaps Xenophilius Lovegood must have been released from Azkaban already and come to collect her in Hogsmeade during the celebration, or else she'd left on her own. He's been annoyed with her before, but now wished her calm presence were still around.
What am I still doing here? he thought to himself. Where else did he have to go, though? Even if his aunt and uncle hadn't left Privet Drive, he had neither need nor any desire to return to that house he'd spent ten miserable years and more miserable summers in. Technically he still owned 12 Grimmauld Place, but the thought of returning there repulsed him. Perhaps Ron's parents would allow him to stay on with them for a while, or maybe Hermione's, once she retrieved them from Australia.
Unable to stand his own thoughts any longer, he stood up from the bench.
"Why don't we go see how Hagrid's getting along with rebuilding?"
He turned toward the doors without waiting to see if they were following him, but they caught up to him by the time he left the castle. He hesitated about halfway down the lawn, however. He had not spoken to Hagrid since his appearance had changed. What would he think?
"Harry? Are you alright? I'm sure Hagrid won't mind us dropping in."
Harry looked at Hermione and just shook his head. "It's nothing. I just... I guess we can just explain that something funny happened during the battle. I guess he'll believe that I'm, er.. me, if I show him..."
Harry rubbed at his scar and realized it had not hurt him since Voldemort's death. Not so much as the slightest twinge or tingle, even when he'd stood right outside the door of the room holding his remains. It was strange to him, so long it had been since he'd had the luxury of simply forgetting about it.
Hagrid had, indeed, made admirable progress with his home. It looked completed, at least from the outside. Harry knocked on the door and heard heavy footsteps crossing the floor.
"Just a minute!"
The new, still unpainted door swung open on old, mismatched brass hinges. Hagrid looked down at the trio.
"Well hallo, Ron, Hermione... er..."
Hagrid peered down at Harry, his broad smile faltering slightly. Harry sighed and shoved his fringe back to reveal his lightning-bolt scar. Hagrid blinked in surprise.
"Well, now. A charm, I guess? Trying to avoid the reporters that have been buzzing around, eh, Harry? Odd look to choose, though, yeh almost look like a young Professor S—"
Hermione chose that moment to barrel past them all, shoving her way under Hagrid's arm propped on the doorframe, interrupting him.
"It's getting a bit hot out, isn't it? Let's all just come inside out of the sun."
Hagrid stepped back, allowing Ron and Harry to follow her.
"Er, I suppose it might be? Fine day if I say so meself, though."
The structure of the hut itself was finished but it was still largely unfurnished. A large, moth-eaten looking rug was thrown across the floor in front of a small hearth built of freshly cut stone. Probably dragged out of some storage room in the castle, Harry thought, along with the large, rough-hewn bench standing in the center of the room that looked similar to the ones in some of the classrooms.
Gone was the old table where in years past the three of them had risked chipped teeth and more on Hagrid's rock cakes and stoat sandwiches. Fang was sleeping peacefully on a pile of rags in another corner, his front paws still bandaged. Harry thought he was starting to look rather gray about the muzzle.
Hagrid sat down on an upturned crate and left the bench to his visitors.
"I'm afraid I haven't got anythin' to share at the moment, been a bit busy wi' other things. I could make some tea, I s'pose. Err..."
Harry glanced at the empty hearth across the room, wondering now why he'd come down here. He really had wanted to see Hagrid, but now he was unsure why or what to say. Hermione and Ron looked at him where he sat between them, yet again.
"Um, Hagrid... I'm, uh. It's not really a disguise."
"Er, your face, you mean? Then what... Um, does seem a bit odd, I mean—"
"Something happened, after the battle. The curse he used on me. Voldemort, I mean."
Harry noticed that Hagrid no longer flinched at the name. It somehow gave him the courage he needed to continue.
"Um, it disrupted something. A charm, I think. Hermione found a book in the library and, uh, Professor Flitwick did something to check."
Harry finally looked up at Hagrid, who had a gentle, if puzzled, expression.
"They, er, think my mother did something to make me look more like my dad. I don't know why. It's gone now though, I guess. This is just... what I look like... apparently."
Hermione's hand had come to cover his own sometime during his sudden confession. He realized that he'd started shaking at some point and struggled to breath evenly. Hagrid was looking at him with an odd expression that Harry didn't think he'd ever seen on his friend's face before.
Maybe Hagrid didn't believe him. He still didn't want to believe what had happened himself. He wasn't sure why he was saying all of this, now, but somehow he just couldn't stand the thought of lying to Hagrid, even by omission, no matter how easy it was to lie to himself.
"Oh, er, uh.. alright then, Harry. Don't matter none, really, though, does it? Don't matter what you look like, yer still Harry, aren't yeh?"
Hagrid's smile had returned but looked rather forced, Harry thought. He reached over and patted Harry's knee, not quite looking him in the eye any longer.
After a few more minutes of stilted conversation on nothing important, Harry and his friends had excused themselves from Hagrid and began walking back to the castle. There was something else the half-giant knew or suspected, Harry thought, but for once Hagrid had managed to hold his tongue, whatever it was.
Ron and Hermione trailed behind him, whispering to one another. Harry couldn't make out what they were saying, but decided he didn't care. He did not like it when they argued, but knew better than to try to intervene anymore.
After arriving at the castle, Hermione left them to return to the library, saying she wanted to do some more research on the charm Harry had been under. He didn't see the point, really – Flitwick had already confirmed her original conclusion which meant that his mother had, indeed, sought to conceal something about him before he was even born. The implications of it made him feel slightly nauseous and he didn't want to think about it. Maybe she thought there was some way to put the charm back.
There was something else entirely that he felt the need to pursue at the moment.
"Ron, why don't you go with Hermione. I need to go find Professor McGonagall about something."
"Are you sure? I can come with you, I don't mind."
Harry shook his head and tried for a casual smile. "No, go keep her company. I'll be fine."
Ron looked unconvinced. "Well, you know where to find us, then. I mean, about this charm business, Hagrid is right, it doesn't really matter. It's all water under the bridge at this point, right?"
Harry's "casual smile" failed entirely at that. "I'm not talking about that. I need to know what they're planning on doing with Voldemort."
Ron turned slightly green. "That's, er, a bit disgusting, really, but if it's that important to you..."
Harry shrugged and parted ways with his friends.
The Auror Proudfoot didn't challenge Minerva this time when she appeared at the door of the Headmaster's office. His partner did not appear to be present. Poppy was already inside, seated in the armchair, her head propped on her hand as she watched her patient. She looked exhausted.
How often had she done just this, Minerva wondered. Poppy rarely said anything on the matter, having the sense of privacy and confidentiality appropriate to a healer, but had probably spent more time over the years with Severus Snape than anyone else save perhaps Albus Dumbledore.
She had been one of very few healers entrusted with his care, even in the years between Voldemort's first downfall and his return following the Tri-Wizard Tournament, as the Order could not risk the reaction of an unvetted healer to the Dark Mark he bore.
How many times had he returned to Hogwarts after a meeting with the other Death Eaters, with Voldemort himself, having suffered under the displeasure or suspicion of his "master" and returned bearing the marks of his testing at Voldemort's hands?
Minerva came to stand beside Poppy, startling her briefly.
"Oh.. Minerva. I did not hear you come in. He woke up for a little while, earlier, but... Did you need something?"
Minerva smiled fondly at the healer. The students were often somewhat terrified of her, as she had a stern and occasionally perfunctory manner, mostly because they so often disobeyed her, to their own detriment. Minerva knew that underneath the bluster, Poppy had always been rather softhearted.
"How is he, Poppy?"
"Truthfully, Minerva? I do not know. He has not grown worse, but he is no better than yesterday. I can keep giving him blood-replenishing potions and changing the dressings but it is a stop-gap measure at best. He needs a proper antidote. Smethwyk... He's the head healer of St. Mungo's creature-induced injuries ward, you know... He is working on the matter himself now but I have not heard from him since last night."
She sounds nearly as tired as she looks, Minerva thought.
"I can sit with him for a while if you need to return to the students in the Hospital wing. Who is left, by the way?"
Poppy Pomfrey stood, joints cracking as she stretched
"Terry Boot only, but I imagine he'll be ready to leave this evening, if he has done as I told him to and stayed put in bed. I suppose he'll be staying on to study for his N.E.W.T.s next week but I am not sure."
Poppy looked down at Severus again, smoothing a hand over a pale cheek briefly before turning to leave. He did not stir under her touch.
"I suppose I should rest for a while myself. Let me know if he needs anything."
Minerva sat down, considering the man before her again. He was breathing evenly and looked almost peaceful; Poppy must have just dosed him again with a calming draught before she'd arrived. Were it not for the bandages he might merely be sleeping.
"What will you say, I wonder, when you finally see him, Severus? You always detested him for his resemblance to James. It's not as though you ever bothered to take the time to really know him. I suppose you'll have to find some other excuse to speak to him horridly."
"He may surprise you, Minerva."
She looked up at the canvas where the portrait of Albus Dumbledore sat.
"Finally decided to put in your opinion, have you? I am still quite angry with you, Albus, I will have you know."
"I know that I made mistakes. Many of them, in fact. But I did the best that I could, Minerva, please believe that."
The image of Albus Dumbledore at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed of himself, but Minerva was not quite ready to let everything go, just yet. A few of the other portraits stirred but none of them spoke, although Phineas Nigellus Black looked as though he might.
"I truly do not wish to speak to you at the moment, Albus, please forgive me."
The portrait nodded to her but otherwise respected her request, for which she was grateful. The revelations of the last two days were still too close to the surface for her to be reasonable about it all. She really did not care to get into an argument with a portrait standing over her stricken colleague.
After all, it was just canvas, paint and some clever charm work. Albus Dumbledore was dead. There was no point in dwelling on her anger and, if she were honest, her disappointment in a wizard she had idolized for much of her life and in later years counted as a dear friend. It was unsettling to find out so many secrets he'd kept from her, when she had believed herself to have his confidence, at least to a degree.
Oh, she wasn't a complete fool, she knew he'd held back where necessary, but just how much he'd kept to himself was truly astonishing. He'd had "plots inside of plans inside of schemes" as one of his detractors had once remarked to her, provoking laughter at the time.
Now it seems it would be left to her to clean up the messes he left behind, including the veritable wreck that was Severus Snape. She watched him breathe for a while, reassuring herself that he was, indeed, still alive, then left.
This time it did not take ages for Harry to find Professor McGonagall. He found her as she was leaving the Headmaster's office. She looked mildly upset about something, though, and he hesitated, but she saved him the trouble of having to speak first.
"Well, is there something you need?"
"Er, yes, Professor. I wanted to know... that is... that room off to the side of the Great Hall. I know he's in there."
Whatever the witch had been expecting him to say, apparently that was not it.
"Somebody told you then? Hagrid I suppose... I will have to speak to the staff, I thought I had made it clear that it was not to be discussed..."
"Er, no, nobody told me. Especially not Hagrid."
She looked at him skeptically.
"How on Earth do you know, then?"
"I'm... not sure? I just knew, somehow, when I walked past the door yesterday. He is in there, right? Voldemort's, er, remains, I mean."
Professor McGonagall sighed and crossed her arms, making him feel like one of her students again, one who had just given the wrong answer.
"Oh fine, Potter, yes, it is being kept there for the moment. I assure you he is really quite dead and you do not need to be concerned. Someone from the Ministry will likely come by to deal with the problem once a final decision is made."
"That's sort of the problem, Professor. I'm not sure I trust the Ministry to, er, deal with the problem."
"I'm not sure what you mean, Potter."
"Professor, I, er... I feel I ought to have some say in the matter, is all. Considering that I did finish him off. Obviously I had help from everyone, but still."
She stood for a moment, apparently thinking over what he'd said.
"Well, I suppose I do see your point, but the matter is out of my hands. You will have to take it up with the Ministry. I can't imagine it even matters much, though? Anyone who might mourn that wretched man is either dead or in Azkaban."
Harry glanced at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office behind her, briefly distracted, but recovered himself.
"Er, that's not what I'm concerned about. I don't want there to be some kind of, um, permanent... I don't want there to be, uh..."
"Well? Out with it, Potter."
Her impatient outburst seemed to cause his meandering thoughts to gel, finally.
"What I mean is that there are still people who might sympathize with some of the things that Voldemort said or did. And someday they might forget just how much he destroyed. I don't want there to be an actual grave. Or any kind of monument at all. Not to him. I think they should just burn it and be done with it. That's all."
McGonagall seemed slightly taken aback by his impromptu speech.
"Well, then. I suppose I can give your concerns to one of the Aurors to pass to the Minister, but I can't guarantee you they will listen. I expect there are some who might feel a permanent monument would be a very good idea - to serve as a warning."
"If they want something like that, then it should be a monument to his victims and to those who fought him, not anything to do with Voldemort himself."
"Perhaps you are right. But as I said, the decision is not mine."
McGonagall glanced back toward the gargoyle as Harry had done moments ago.
"Was there something else you needed? Or wished to discuss?"
Harry knew Snape was being held in the Headmaster's office, of course.
"Er, is he doing alright? Snape?"
"He is much the same today as he was yesterday, I'm afraid. The same healer who developed the original antidote for Mr Weasley is still working on a new one."
Harry considered for a moment whether or not he should ask to go up to see the man, but something in him resisted the impulse. He did not hate him anymore, exactly, not now that he knew who Snape really was, as far as such a thing was possible, but he wasn't sure he had any desire to actually go speak to the man. Possibly ever. He was still a git, after all, even if he had turned out to be a very brave one.
Harry nodded at McGonagall's answer and turned to leave when he was stopped by the witch's hand on his shoulder.
"Harry..."
"Yes, Professor?"
She squeezed his shoulder lightly and smiled at him, a bit sadly, apparently changing her mind about whatever it was she'd been about to say, and let him go.