Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter NOR any of his friends NEITHER any of his enemies. It's hard to admit, but when I'm done with them all, I have to return them to Joanne K. Rowling in an original wrapping and unharmed. I make no money, I mean no harm.

Patchwork
A Helping Hand

"Do we have to go through all of this again?" Hermione asked in the most assertive voice she could muster. That wasn't much, for she was exhausted, if happy.

"I'm afraid so, Miss Granger," the official answered levelly. Hermione remembered her from Hogwarts - a Hufflepuff, who used to spend hours at the library, same year. Only this girl - a young witch - had graduated from Hogwarts nearly two months ago, about the time when Hermione, Harry and Ron had been dealing with Nagini. The last Horcrux. And an alive being.

"Go on then," Hermione sighed tiredly.

"So... when Harry killed Nagini, you all..."

"He didn't kill her," Hermione intervened impatiently. "She died of shock." Nagini had given them as much consent as a snake ever could, but Harry hadn't killed her. He had just - just! - destroyed the Horcrux within her. And he had cried when she had died anyway.

"She died," the other girl stated flatly, "because of something Harry did."

"He didn't want to kill her. But the removal of the ancient magic proved to be too much of a strain for her." It had been a strain for Harry, too. In order to destroy the Horcrux without killing Nagini, he had forgiven Voldemort, guessing rightly he had used his James Potter's murder to create that particular Horcrux. During the few minutes that had followed, with emotions still raw, he had witnessed Nagini's death. They had nearly postponed the rest of the operation, but reason had won - they had to use the surprise.

"And the nature of said ancient magic was?"

"Dark," Hermione supplied unhelpfully. They had decided on keeping the truth about Horcruxes secret and she had no reason - nor will - to change the decision.

The Ministry official sighed but moved on.

"So, Nagini died and you entered the inner circle of You-Know-Who's wards."

"Correct."

"How?"

"Severus Snape had made a potion for us that allowed us entrance."

"What kind of a potion was it?"

"You'll have to ask him - there was no time to discuss details then." Hermione watched with satisfaction how the poor girl's expression changed. Oh, she didn't want to question her former professor. She didn't want to even talk to him.

"Well, it doesn't matter. What did you do then?"

"We stole inside Voldemort's..." Hermione noted the flinch, "main hall. He was standing in the middle, surrounded by some Death Eathers. A battle followed. I don't remember details. But in the end, Ron and Harry were both injured. Ron was already out cold, I think, and Voldemort was leaning over Harry when I finished the last Death Eater." Hermione didn't recall whether she had killed him. Or her. She couldn't recall that either.

"And?" the official prompted her. As if they didn't know already - hadn't asked before - it was all there, in a file on the table, written down and signed.

"Voldemort used Legilimency on Harry. For a minute or so, they were just staring at each other. I think Harry was trying to fight him off, unsuccessfully. He had never been good at Occlumency." Hermione paused to compose herself. Memories of Harry were still very painful. "Then he probably gave up, or just lost, and Voldemort... he sort of flinched." It was hard to describe it: Voldemort, the Dark Lord, had been staring into Harry Potter's eyes, unable to break the contact, but trying to escape from... what? Maybe the love, fear and pain in Harry's heart.

"Flinched."

"Yes. As if he got caught in something painful. He didn't seem to be able to get out of Harry's mind. Then he died."

"Just like that?" This seemed to be the crucial part. The Ministry couldn't believe Voldemort had died because of seeing Harry Potter's mind and for some reason undetactable by anyone else they wanted to prove some dark magic had been performed.

"Just like that." There was nothing more to tell about it. Hermione - personally - thought it had been shock that had killed the darkest wizard of their time. The difference between the two of them had been simply too much. It had been probably the same thing that had killed Harry.

"What did you do then?" This question came for the first time.

"I checked Voldemort was really dead - we had prepared a special charm for the occassion - and went to help Ron." Oh, really? said a small voice in the back of her head.

"What about Harry?" Hermione gulped.

"Harry was dead. I checked." Liar, said the small voice, he wasn't dead yet - you just wanted to save Ron.

And if?

If you had helped Harry, he could have survived.

And Ron could have died. And Ron will be okay - he's already better now.

Maybe you could have saved both of them.

"Miss Granger?" Hermione snapped back to attention. "May I have your signature?"

"Of course." Hermione stilled her shaking hands and signed the parchment. The official watched her, suddenly sympathetic. Had she paled that much at the memory?

"Can I offer you something before you go? Coffee? You don't look well."

"No, thanks, I... no." Hermione got up and gathered her belongings hurriedly. "Is that all?"

"Yes, yes, of course it is. Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"Very sure." She escaped the tiny office, the nosy official, the whole bureaucratic building and decided to take a short walk across a nearby park. She couldn't very well Apparate in the state she was in.

You could have saved both of them, the small voice in the back of her head insisted. You were just being selfish.

"I didn't do it for myself," Hermione whispered, swallowing tears.

Hogwarts was still empty and quiet, its corridors abandoned even by ghosts. Paintings, used to long summer dozes, were woken up by loud thumps, as Neville Longbottom jumped over a loose step on the stairs, slipped and had to run the rest of the stairs to prevent himself from falling. Grateful that no-one could laugh at him, Neville smoothed his robes and took the first turn to the right, only to return five minutes later from a dead corridor.

Neville spent ten more minutes checking every other corridor until finally he stood before the entry to Snape's personal rooms. He noticed the Potions classroom two doors down the corridor and his eyes flashed. He knew better than to break through Severus' wards, though, and he calmed himself down before knocking.

"Come in!" Severus called from the other side and the lock clicked loudly.

"Bloody hell, Severus," he complained as soon as the door clicked locked behind him again, "couldn't you just tell me you live a dozen steps from your old classroom? It would have saved me half an hour at the very least."

"How nice to see you and how are you, dear friend?" Severus said acidly from the fireplace. But during the long months of their friendship, if it could be called that, Neville had learnt all about acid, acerbity and even venom in Severus' voice.

"Your directions were about as helpful as your attitude during my school days," he said lightly, his anger quickly diminishing. He poured himself a glass of Firewhiskey. "You were probably the worst teacher ever." He saluted him with his glass and sipped the golden liquid.

"And I still am," Severus replied. Neville nodded, sipped some more Firewhiskey only to spit it out a second later, as Severus' words got processed by his brain.

"You what?"

"Minerva asked me to return to my former position as a Hogwarts professor."

"Oh. That's nice of her."

"Potions professor. She managed to persuade Moody to become a teacher again." A trace of bitterness stopped Neville from sniggering at the methods the Hogwarts' Headmistress had most likely used. Moody had fallen for her at the battlefield of Glasgow, where the last of Death Eaters had been defeated, witnessing her fighting abilities, strength and will at the same time. He had started his campaign for Minerva's heart immediately after the war and had led it successfully so far.

"Well, there's a great shortage..."

"She said she didn't want Slughorn to come back to Hogwarts. Said I was a better man than him," Severus continued angrily.

"You are," Neville said simply, calming the upcoming fit of rage with his steadiness.

"Get me some whiskey," Severus growled, tapping his left leg impatiently while Neville was filling their glasses.

"The knee giving you hell?" Neville asked. Severus ignored the question, as it was too stupid to be answered anyway. Neville sat down on the rug before the fireplace.

"Can't you sit in an armchair?" So the anger hadn't dissipated completely yet and Severus decided to aim it at Neville.

Neville just shrugged it off, letting the dance of flames lull him. Somehow, this unlikely friendship worked, although it was based only on a minute in the years the two had known each other.

Somehow, when Snape had brought an unconscious Draco into the Burrow, begging for help, something had broken in Neville. He couldn't be afraid of a broken man, just a man after all. Harry and Hermione, as he had found out later, had been taken aback by the fear Snape had been emanating. Neville had felt strangely attracted by it. He had been scared by that man for six years - only to find out he had been human after all, able to feel, to care, to panic...

And when Snape had collapsed, when he had lost all of his composure, falling on knees, not caring about his dignity, pride, image, Neville had stepped forth and knelt beside him and hugged him. Any other day, such an action would have brought him only pain and probably a meeting - or meetings - with a Healer - or, likely, more well educated Healers. Any other day - but that minute, only that minute, Snape had been willing to accept a helping pair of arms.

The glass hit the wooden desk more forcifully than the last time. Minerva didn't care. She poured a little more of brandy and then, after hesitating for a while, she doubled the portion before locking the bottle into her liquor cabinet.

"It's getting complicated," she complained loudly to no-one particular. "The students will arrive in eight days and I still don't have the Transfiguration Master." Most of the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses pretended to be fast asleep, only one opened an eye which twinkled merrily in the darkness.

"I'm sure you can cover the curriculum for some time, Minerva," the eye's owner said.

"For how long?" Minerva asked and sipped her brandy. She looked at the glass. She drank too much brandy these days.

"As long as will be necessary," he said firmly.

"Flattery is very nice, Albus, but it's not going to teach." Minerva finished her glass before pushing it away and standing up. She began pacing her office - from the desk to the window, from the window to the door, from the door back to the desk and once again to the window.

"You always managed - somehow - to find the teachers in time."

"Not always, Minerva, remember that Umbridge woman?"

"Well, that was once - but..." She sighed and stopped before him, tracing the lower part of the frame with her left hand.

"It all seemed so easy when you were here," she muttered.

"Every work seems easier while it's being done by someone else," Dumbledore reminded her. She looked up and met his eyes. He sat down on the floor on his painting, his robes falling around him like a tent, and held a palm against the real world. She raised her hand, but didn't touch the picture.

"This is so very much like you," she whispered.

"It is spelled to be so," he agreed and wriggled his fingers. Minerva let her hand fall against the painted one.

"I..." she trailed and cleared her throat. "We just miss you." She turned away abruptly and returned to her desk. There were papers to be dealt with - by the Headmistress, of course - and they couldn't be postponed any more. "We all miss you, but of course, you are right - we'll manage," she continued as she started reading through them. "We'll have to manage."

The next time she looked up, Dumbledore was sleeping in his painted chair, his eyes shut and his face peacefull.