The portkey dropped them in front of the garden gate at the Burrow. Harry managed not to land in a heap on the ground, but just barely. He would always hate portkey travel, probably.
Harry stood until the world stopped tilting on him, then followed the rest inside. It was almost an anticlimax when he stepped through the door to be greeted with the familiar sight of the Burrow, hardly changed from how it had ever looked. Never would he guess, just by looking at the familiar worn furniture, that the place had been invaded by Death Eaters the previous summer.
Ginny seated herself on the sofa in the living room next to her father while Ron immediately went upstairs, followed by Hermione. Harry followed Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen instead, where Bill was already seated at the table, reading a magazine that appeared to be written in Arabic. He couldn't tell whether it was magic or Muggle, as there were no images on the cover, only a flowing calligraphic script. Harry took a seat on the opposite end. Bill glanced up over his periodical, or whatever it was, then set it down on the table to look over at him. Harry did not meet his gaze but could feel him staring.
Mrs. Weasley finally stepped over and saved him from having to explain.
"Oh, that's just Harry Potter, dear, I'll explain later. Is Charlie back yet?"
Bill's eyes narrowed at Harry for just a moment but finally he picked his magazine back up.
"He's outside somewhere, I think. You know he doesn't like being cooped up. Fleur went out to do some shopping but said she'd return by supper time."
Mrs. Weasley went back to bustling about, opening and closing cupboards and drawers, perhaps checking to see what was still there. Bill kept glancing at Harry from time to time while keeping up the appearance of being absorbed in his magazine. Harry finally grew tired of being studied and slid off his seat, leaving the kitchen and slipping out the back door.
Outside, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and stood just outside the door, now unsure of why he had come out at all. He hated feeling the way he did now. He felt uncomfortable and miserable and ungrateful, but didn't know how to stop. Everything had changed overnight, literally. Voldemort is dead. Voldemort is dead. Why couldn't he just be relieved, at least, if not happy?
He just felt, somehow, that the price had been far too high. That maybe, he could have done more. But how could he have? He thought about the first time he'd seen Fred and George, teasing Ron and their mother outside Platform 9 ¾ that day, so many years ago. He had no idea where Remus and Tonks had been taken after the battle. He vaguely remembered McGonagall saying she'd try to find out, but had never gotten an answer.
He had a godson now. Would they have even asked him, if they'd known he wasn't really James Potter's son? Remus and Snape didn't constantly go at each other like Sirius and Snape had done, but they'd certainly never been friends.
Harry wandered aimlessly about the garden. He did not see Charlie, but wasn't really looking for him anyhow. He was in no mood to explain himself and was growing tired of feeling like a stranger in his own life. Harry propped himself against the old broom shed to watch the frogs hopping in and out of the pond.
After a while, Harry heard someone coming through the grass and weeds and looked up to see Mrs. Weasley. He felt another pang of guilt that she'd had to come after him. Her son's funeral was tomorrow and here he was, busy brooding over his own problems. He ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp. It felt like it needed washing, he thought. Maybe Ron would let him use some of his shampoo in the morning.
"Sorry Mrs. Weasley, just wanted a bit of fresh air."
She waved off his excuses.
"Don't mention it, dear. I did want to talk to you in private, actually. Not an easy thing to do inside the house, really..."
Mrs. Weasley seated herself on a low portion of the crumbling stone wall surrounding the garden. She patted another stone next to her in invitation. Harry hesitated a moment, then sat beside her, his eyes still following the movements of the pond frogs.
"Harry, you know Arthur and I consider you part of this family, right?"
Harry nodded, drawing in a deep breath through his nose.
"I know things have been very tough lately, I just wanted to remind you of that. You are always welcome here, no matter what. No matter what."
Harry looked up at her kind face, somewhat troubled by the emphasis of her repeated statement. She smiled at him, putting an arm over his shoulder.
"Harry, this business with the failed charm... I did not know your mother, but I certainly know what it's like to be a mother. You must trust that she only ever did what she thought was best for you."
A frog leapt from a stone into the pond, splashing loudly.
"I... I think I know that, Mrs. Weasley. I just don't really understand why."
"I don't know that I'm the right person to answer that question, Harry. I do know your parents loved you, both of them."
Harry felt a tightness in his chest, as though something heavy were bearing down on him.
"Professor McGonagall told me earlier that I needed to consider that I, er, that I might not be..."
Harry leaned back slightly and rubbed at his eyes as though they pained him. Mrs. Weasley did not let go of him.
"She said I might not actually be James Potter's son."
Mrs. Weasley did not respond immediately, but hugged him tighter against her side. He felt ridiculous to be going on about something that was, at this point, ancient history, when so much had happened in the last few days. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a detail, he supposed.
It had been well over a year now since he'd last indulged in any kind of fantasy about having had a different sort of childhood, a different life, about anything other than the here and now. He'd had to push it all aside to get through the job that had been placed before him.
He'd truly thought that he was well past this sort of thing. A pity his heart did not now seem inclined to listen to his rational mind. Some things could be deferred, he supposed, but not forgotten entirely, and now that the urgency of destroying Voldemort was past, it seemed it was too easy for his mind to wander.
"Harry dear, I want you to listen to me closely. You are James Potter's son, regardless of blood. He loved you enough to protect you with his life. Do try and remember that. We can talk about this later, perhaps. There are a few things I need to tend to today, but don't think for a minute that I could forget about you."
She gave him one last pat and stood up, retreating back to the house.
If Harry had felt vaguely guilty before, the sensation returned tenfold, like a vice around his chest, nearly stealing his breath away. He suddenly felt like an interloper, a cuckoo's egg stealing another's warmth.
Born to those who have thrice defied him... Harry laughed to himself bitterly. What a farce. Perhaps it had meant Neville all along, but much like he'd usurped James Potter's fatherly love and sacrifice, and his best friend's family, he'd somehow scooped up another's destiny as well.
Well, at least he'd managed to finish the job.
THURSDAY, 5 MAY
The funeral the following day turned out to be a simple graveside affair in an old cemetery on the other side of Ottery St. Catchpole, but he should not have been surprised. Anything elaborate would have been too costly. He felt guilty that it had not even crossed his mind that he perhaps should have offered... Well, they'd have refused, anyway, he knew. It might have even been insulting. Ron definitely would have resented it. Maybe it was better, then, that he'd not.
Beyond the Weasley clan, several distant relations and family friends were in attendance. Harry recognized only about half of them. His memory of most of the service was forever a haze afterward. The raw grief of Mrs. Weasley was nearly unbearable, as was Mr. Weasley's largely failed attempt at stoicism. Ginny had wept until her entire face was nearly as red as her hair and Ron had managed to tear his dress robes, wringing them in his hands almost unconsciously.
George disappeared about halfway though a droning eulogy being given by some sort of minister that Harry didn't know, and he briefly worried for Fred's twin. But only briefly. Harry ducked his head to hide his grin at the first crackle. A few heads glanced around and the droning voice paused only a moment before continuing on.
A loud bang, this time, off behind a hedgerow at the edge of the graveyard. Harry glanced up and caught Ginny smiling despite her tears. Mrs. Weasley stood, trying to catch sight of Fred's twin, to no avail.
A few screamed and covered their heads when suddenly the entire graveyard lit up like New Years' Eve, brilliant fireworks in every color shooting out from hedges and rocketing up from behind gravestones, filling the air with smoke and the scent of gunpowder, the display rivaling the one when George and his brother had departed Hogwarts, scattering witches and wizards, some of them leaping to hide behind headstones or vaulting over the hedges and fencing, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were shouting over the cacophony at everyone not to panic. Hermione simply remained standing where she was, a carefully schooled expression on her face save for a slight tilt at the corner of her mouth.
Harry calmly scanned his surroundings, spying a flash of red hair dodging through the gate on the farthest edge of the cemetery. Harry grinned and tore off after the fleeing figure. A heartbeat later Ron and Ginny followed behind.
He could not stop the high, giddy laughter that bubbled up from some deep place within him. He suddenly felt lighter than he had in years.
He was able to sit up largely unaided now, at least. Minerva watched him scowl in frustration as he struggled with the simple task of finishing a meal. His hands shook, badly. Peripheral nerve damage, Smethwyck had said, as though that meant something to her. It sounded like a Muggle term, but she had not cared to ask the distasteful man for further explanation. Poppy might have confidence in the healer's abilities, but the more Minerva spoke to him, the less she liked him. He seemed to regard Severus as some sort of laboratory rat in an experimental potions project. At least he had turned up in person to verify that the venom had been entirely purged from Severus's body.
Though not, apparently, before it exacted its price. A very high price, indeed, for someone such as Severus. His days as one of the world's most respected Potions Masters may well be over. It was questionable how well he'd be able to handle wand work, if nothing improved.
Smethwyck had been non-committal and vague when she'd asked whether the effect would diminish over time. Severus was the only one, apparently, who had survived this particular class and strength of cursed venom and Smethwyck refused to give any prognosis.
Severus himself had not uttered a single word during the healer's visit, but his angry, hawk-like gaze had followed the other man around the room unwaveringly as Smethwyck resorted to discussing him with Minerva as though he were not in the room.
Minerva now sat gripping the arm rests of the chair, refusing to give in to the temptation to rush over to him and help. The proud man would not likely appreciate it, and certainly not accept it.
The Aurors still would not let him leave, either. They had declined to question him, as of yet. Savage had dashed back to the Ministry to report to Shacklebolt as soon as he'd been relatively sure that his suspect was going to live. A day later, now Proudfoot sat in his usual place, ostensibly reading a copy of the Daily Prophet while pretending that he wasn't watching Severus's every move (and fooling exactly no one).
Finally Severus huffed and shoved the plate aside, a sudden unintended jerk at the end of the gesture sending it a bit further than he'd intended, resulting in a couple pieces of bread skittering across the floor. He leaned back in his seat, the high winged sides of the backrest more or less keeping him upright. Poppy had returned earlier, unshrinking another large, well-padded armchair from her pocket, placing it beside the one where she and Minerva had been sitting for much of the past few days and conjuring a small table between them.
"There is absolutely no reason for you to remain in this room, Minerva. I rather doubt your dear friend in the corner there will allow me to slip away."
Severus's upper lip curled at the side in his trademark sneer (well, one of several trademark sneers, he had a collection ranging from "merely sardonic" to "you are something disgusting I just stepped in"). Something about the familiar gesture comforted Minerva.
He snorted derisively. "He hardly lets me go as far as the toilet without standing on my heels."
They might have been chatting over supper in the Great Hall, were it not for the sweat beading on his forehead and the intermittent, uncontrollable tremors he could not suppress.
Minerva shrugged blandly and did not move. She suspected that Proudfoot and Savage were less worried about Severus trying to scarper and more concerned that he'd fall and break his neck before they could get him in front of the Wizengamot (or whatever was left of it).
Minerva was no Legilimens, but had a feeling that the two resident Aurors had not only already viewed Severus's memories but made their own conclusions already. And they did not seem unduly hurried to shuffle him off to Azkaban. Proudfoot seemed almost concerned with his charge, she thought.
It was no guarantee of a favorable outcome, of course. Minerva trusted Kingsly Shacklebolt's judgment but others may be far less equitable about it. Severus Snape had, indeed, killed Albus Dumbledore, with an Unforgivable Curse. That Albus had asked – indeed, begged – him to do so, may not altogether exonerate him. And then, there were those who still believe he never should have been spared Azkaban the first time around, as a Dark Mark, in their eyes, was all they needed to know.
But they would have to cross that bridge when they reached it. For the time being, his wrecked nerves and black mood were her primary concern. And the matter of Harry Potter.
Severus glanced at her again, catching her eye from the corner of his own, his expression carrying a threat, albeit an empty one. His voice was less ravaged than before, but retained a rough edge.
"I do not need you here. I do not want you here."
Minerva shrugged, again.
"And yet, I am here, Severus, and I do not altogether care right now what you want, so you may as well get used to my presence. You do not want to hear it, but I will tell you anyhow. We simply owe you too much to let you sit here and destroy yourself, as you no doubt are keen to get on with."
He responded by grumbling something unintelligible but no doubt insulting under his breath and refusing to look at her. He stared into the fireplace for several moments, apparently torn between his desire to ignore her and his need for information.
"Where is my wand," he suddenly demanded.
"It wasn't with you when you were brought back, I'm afraid. It may still be in the Shrieking Shack somewhere. I'll ask Filius to have a look later."
He raised his hand, but dropped it again. He could hardly expect to intimidate her while it still shook like a flower in a hailstorm, she thought. He settled for leaning forward and baring crooked teeth at her.
"I want it now, Minerva."
She paused and looked at him with the most impassive expression she could manage.
"They would not allow you to hold it at the moment anyhow, Severus, you are still under suspicion, as it were." She nodded toward Proudfoot, who ducked behind his newspaper.
Severus breathed heavily through his nose, clenching his jaw until a muscle at the side of his head twitched. Minerva glanced up at the portraits. The image of Albus Dumbledore was sitting quietly but with a burdened look as he watched his living counterpart.
After several minutes of seething, Severus deflated slightly, slumping in his chair and settling for scowling with all the unmitigated bile of a four year old child who'd just been soundly refused something they wanted, which made Minerva feel suddenly a bit childish herself.
"Well, you just keep that expression and nobody will ever make the connection, I suppose."
Severus turned slightly and cocked an eyebrow at her.
"Connection about what?"
"He may resemble you now, but I don't think he's ever quite perfected that expression, no matter how cross he gets."
He looked at her now as though she'd suddenly grown a second head.
"Have you swallowed a babbling beverage? Who—"
"Your son, Severus. We discussed this matter not too long ago, I believe? I admit, you were a bit out of sorts still, but you seemed lucid enough."
If he'd been pale and sallow before, he now looked positively green. She was briefly afraid he might faint, but he merely slid down in his seat like an abandoned puppet.
"I thought I'd dreamt that you'd told me..."
Minerva sighed, wondering if this was how he dealt with everything he didn't really want to know. And if she should have delayed this discussion, yet again. Too late now. She stood and came before him, staring down at him with her hands on her hips, leaving him no way to avoid her. He would not ignore this, she was absolutely determined that he would not. If he never wished to speak two words to Harry ever again, that was his own decision, but he would not deny a simple truth, not on her watch.
"The conversation was not a dream, Severus, and neither was it any dream over seventeen years ago, whatever you may have thought at the time. Harry is real, he is your son, and one of these days you are bloody well going to have to face that fact. So is he, for that matter, and you will not make it any easier for him, or yourself, by sticking your head in the sand."
His dark eyes had taken on a glassy, faraway look, but she knew he could still hear her.
"He and his friends managed to defeat the most dangerous wizard in the last several centuries, you could do far worse, you know."
He blinked up at her, something like normality returning to his features, but he did not respond. Minerva rolled her eyes and returned to her seat, conjuring a pot of tea and a cup from the kitchens far below to appear on the table and helping herself.
After a long while, a small, muttered comment reached her ears.
"I doubt he'll thank me in the least for the misfortune of inheriting anything of my appearance..."
Minerva managed fair imitation of his trademark derisive snort herself.
"Of everything you could possibly comment upon, you choose that? Well, I daresay he's still handsome enough to be getting on with. Of course he doesn't have your penchant for forever scowling at all and sundry and that certainly helps. His eyes are unchanged, Severus. That, at least, was no charm... or rather, I should say it's a perfectly natural one. Once he gets used to it, I honestly don't think he'll care. Unlike some, he's never judged people primarily on their appearance."
Minerva waited for his response, or some sort of reaction, but nothing was forthcoming. She glanced at him and found him staring blankly ahead.
"Well, Severus, I haven't told him everything yet, if you'd prefer to speak to him yourself. I think he has accepted that he is not related by blood to James Potter. The Weasleys dropped by and fetched him along with their son and Hermione Granger yesterday, I believe poor Fred's funeral was this afternoon. I told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the gist of the problem before they left, but I do not know if they are willing or even able to speak to him of the entire matter, although I must admit I somewhat selfishly hope they do, and spare me the task."
Minera paused, glancing at Severus again. He was looking somewhat less like he'd just mistakenly stepped out into thin air from a great height, but his expression was guarded.
"Severus, it occurs to me that perhaps it really would be best if you spoke to him directly. And honestly."
"He hates me."
A simple statement of fact, devoid of emotion. So, he was going to play it like that then. Well, she could handle a cold debate in her sleep.
"He did, certainly. I am not at all certain that is true anymore. I suspect his opinion of you is rather less clear now."
"Unlikely."
"He did ask if he could see you, earlier. I mentioned that you were under guard by the Aurors, it might've put him off, as he did not ask a second time. You certainly gave him enough to consider with those memories, Severus. Your conversation with Albus seems straightforward and necessary enough, but all of those memories of his mother, my word..."
"His... Lily? What memories...?"
He slouched forward in his seat, placing both hands against the armrests as though preparing to lever himself upright, but he could not seem to bear his own weight at the moment, his arms trembling where he leaned on them. She could see him craning his neck toward the shelf where the Headmaster's pensieve was normally stored. It was, of course, not there at the moment. The Ministry had seized the entire thing along with its contents, to prevent any accusation of tampering.
"Minerva, where—"
His voice came out as a rasp, as it had days before; he was nearing the edge of panic now, she could tell. He was no longer at death's door but would not do himself any favors in his still-fragile condition by descending to hysterics. Minerva stood and moved to gently press him back into his seat by his shoulders, feeling the outline of his bones under the thin robe Poppy had brought him.
"Severus, please. What is done is done. I... I suppose you may have offered up rather more than you'd intended, apparently, but there's no taking it back now, not until the ministry releases them back to you. Please, Severus, you..."
She hesitated, unsure of how to comfort him, or if it was even possible. She'd nearly said, you have nothing to be ashamed of, but she knew it was an empty platitude at best, however hard he'd toiled and suffered all these years to make amends for his misspent youth. He snarled at her, and shrugged off her touch, turning his head into the corner of the wingback chair to avoid her looking at her.
Minerva gave up, moving back to her seat and leaving him to nurse his pain and embarrassment. What a wretched life you've led, she thought. She picked up her teacup from the table, but the tea had gone cold.