The clouds hung low, blocking out the sun. A steady downpour filled the street with pitter-patter sounds, drowning out all others.

There was no one to be seen, each warming up in front of their fires, enjoying the respite from the depressive air that had been floating around the past year.

Harry hurried down the street, holding his hat in one hand and a cloak in another. He went up the stairs of No 12, unlocked it quickly, and stepped into the welcoming warmth.

Closing the door behind him, Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the ever-present roaring of wind muffled at last.

The house was silent. The kitchen was dark when Harry entered. He lit the torches with his wand and went to the cupboard in search of food. He wished Kreacher were here — he was feeling too hungry to cook.

At last, deciding on cereal again, Harry took out a bowl, spoon, and milk and sat at the huge empty table. He sent a spell at the fireplace and the flames roared up, sending a comforting warmth and light. Leaning back in his chair, Harry sighed and tried to relax.

He had too much on his mind, however. He had just come back from a difficult day at the ministry, arguing with arrogant jurisdiction officials about the innocence of Snape. He had spoken to Kingsley too, to finalise the funeral.

Harry still hadn't come to terms with Snape's death or innocence. Oh, he believed that Snape was on their side, but that raised so many questions that Harry's mind spun. Most of them were 'What if's.

What if Snape had told him about his mother? Would Harry have trusted him more? What if Snape had lived? Would they have come to an understanding? What if Dumbledore hadn't been dying? Would Snape have still killed him?

The door slammed and Harry looked up from his empty bowl to the kitchen door. Seconds later, Ron appeared, looking harassed.

"This bloody weather!"

"How was it?" Harry asked, cutting off what he was sure was the beginning of a tirade.

"Hi, mate. Terrible! Mom can't stop crying and George has locked himself away in his room. Ginny seems to be trying to make up for the loss of pranks, and Dad's distracting himself with muggle toys. Percy is getting underfoot, determined to apologise in every way known!"

Harry's heart felt heavy. The Burrow had always been a source of comfort for him, with the shouts and laughter and bangs that rang around all the time. Harry wasn't surprised, of course, by the somber mood that had taken hold, but it was still disheartening.

"What about the funeral?" Harry asked, as Ron got his own bowl and spoon.

"Cereal again, great," Ron said sourly. All the same, he began devouring his bowl. "What'd you say? Oh, that! Next week, at the cemetery in Ottery St Catchpole. You're coming right?"

"Of course," Harry said. The Weasleys had done so much for him, the least he could do was attend Fred's funeral, no matter how much he felt that he should give them space.

He knew the Weasleys would be terribly upset if he mentioned that though, so he kept silent and holed himself in Grimmauld Place.

"What's happening with Snape?" Ron asked, getting up and putting the kettle on.

"Tomorrow," Harry answered.

"That was fast," Ron remarked.

"Yeah," Harry said. "They're only agreeing to it because I'm the 'Boy-Who-Lived', or whatever. They'd rather not have it at all, so they're getting it out of the way."

"Makes sense. They want to concentrate on the heroes — wring it out as much as they can," Ron said in a disgusted voice, pouring the water into two cups with tea bags. He sat Harry's down in front of him and added milk and sugar to his own.

"Thanks," Harry said, wrapping his hands around the cup, which turned red from the blood rushing back to them. "Either way, it works in my favour as I won't have to worry about the funerals clashing."

"We won't, you mean."

Harry looked up in surprise. "You're coming?"

"Of course, I am, mate."

"Thanks," Harry said gratefully and got up to wash his cup. Ron left a few minutes later, citing that his mom would be getting worried soon. Harry saw him off at the door, wondering what he had done to deserve such a great friend.

…

The sun shone on the field, an unusual day for May. There were depressingly few people in the chairs.

But then, Harry thought, Snape would probably prefer it this way.

Professor McGonagall finished her speech, a faint tremble in her voice which spoke of guilt. Hagrid's loud sobs echoed around the graveyard, causing the Ministry officials to glare at him.

"And now," the Ministry official announced. "Harry Potter would like to say a few words."

Ron nudged him and Harry blanked his expression. Standing up, he walked to the front. This wasn't part of the plan, he thought sourly.

Glaring at the official, he took a deep breath. "I never liked Professor Snape, everyone knows that. He gave me no reason to like him, and every cause to hate him.

"Despite that, today I will say that I never truly knew Severus Snape. I still don't, but I know him more than I did a week ago. Today I can stand here and say that he was the bravest man I've ever known. May he rest in peace."

The officials looked disappointed. They wanted more, he knew. He paid them no mind — Professor Snape wouldn't have wanted him speaking at his funeral anyway.

In any event, organising and attending the funeral helped Harry feel at peace with Snape at last. He could now think of him without feeling anger or hate.

And that, Harry thought, is the least I can do.

The End