AN: Thanks for the kind notes, everyone :). Hope you are having a good day, wherever you all are.
Harry woke with a start a few hours later, the sun streaming in through the gaps in the curtains and warming the sitting room. Mrs Weasley stood in the dim light of the kitchen, facing the window over the sink, with her hands on the counter and her head hung downward. Her knitted jumper had more patches and fixes in it than the original structure, but looked warm and soft, draped over her strong shoulders. A tea mug was on the counter beside her right hand, chipped white porcelain with 'Mum' written on it in bright purple.
"I can take the next overnight," Harry offered, standing by the staircase on the kitchen threshold. "If you need. I mean, I'm not sleeping that well and I don't have anything else to do so…"
"That's very kind of you," Mrs Weasley replied. She seemed to straighten herself up before turning to face him, either by a quick stretch of her back or by a determined inner resolve. It was almost half nine, and looked like she'd been awake all night.
"Arthur's there now," she continued, giving him a small smile. "I've come home for a rest, but maybe you could keep him company later today."
"Okay," Harry agreed. Mrs Weasley glanced at her tea mug, giving it a considering look, and then Harry heard the kettle start to boil.
"How is he doing?"
"Looks the same as before," Mrs Weasley said. She looked toward the Weasley family clock, reluctantly returned to its regular home, as Mrs Weasley hadn't wanted to let go of the one thing that had kept her in constant update of her family. Harry smiled a very tiny bit as he noticed the change to Hospital.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, his voice rough and grumbly. "I was there and I didn't stop it and I should ha…"
"Shhhhhh," Mrs Weasley interrupted, shaking her head. "We all knew the risks, and no one blames you. You did your best, Harry. That's all you could have done."
He nodded, still not feeling like he was fully absolved from the blame. Harry had been marked out for years for this battle, but the Weasleys had volunteered. It wasn't fair.
"And you won," Mrs Weasley said as an after-thought, moving toward the kettle. Harry knew without a doubt that she didn't feel that way.
…..
London, 5 May, 9 am
Harry left a note for Ron and Hermione that he'd meet them at the hospital later and headed out to London. It was odd – here he was walking around Paddington Station with a paper cup of tea in his hand, people bustling around him and bumping into him, sorrys fading into the rush of the crowd as everyone moved through the streets on their way to work or school. The sun was shining, construction had started on a side street, bicycles were whizzing by, and Harry's chest constricted as he realised that despite the loss they'd just experienced, life was moving on. No one here seemed to care that so many students had died in the battle, that Fred was in hospital, that Hedwig was gone. A giant focus of Harry's life since it began was finally over and no one here cared.
It was terrifying.
His brain was whirling with thoughts and memories as he fought to find some semblance of normality to his days and there across the street was a man selling newspapers who looked so bored with the morning that he might fall asleep.
Harry shook his head and quickly walked to the north west, looking for an alley or a corner where he could apparate and not be seen.
Islington was no better.
Harry paused as he stood across the street from Grimmauld place, the same pavement he'd stood on years earlier when the house was first revealed to him. It had looked grand and foreboding then, a gothic old home with gas lamps in the window and family crest carved into the cement decor. Harry studied it again, noticing the blast marks on the front stoop, ripped curtain in the upper left window, water staining down the front facade. Gargoyles and grotesques watched from above, moss growing in between their features.
It was his house, his gift from Sirius, and it had never felt less like a home than it did right then.
Mrs Weasley still cared for him, Harry reminded himself, sitting down on a bench. She'd seen him as a lonely little boy at Kings Cross and immediately tried to help, not caring who he was. Mr Weasley had taken him in just the same, helping him with the Ministry and advice through his teenage years, a solid form of comfort and mentorship as Harry faced things no person should at such a young age.
But not right now. They were busy with Fred, with picking up the pieces of their broken family, and whilst they didn't mind Harry being there too, he couldn't ask for further help.
He looked up at the bright sunshine that temporarily blinded him as bus that had been blocking it drove on. He'd defeated a Dark Lord; finding a place to live and a job to do shouldn't be anywhere near as difficult. And maybe he wouldn't have to do it just yet; surely, he could take a week to process the battle that had just happened.
Harry pulled his jacket tighter around his chest, pressing against the pain in the centre of it as if to check it was still there. Across the way, two doors down from Grimmauld's, an older man stood in a window and gave Harry a friendly wave.
An owl softly hooted at him, and Harry, self-consciously, waved back at the man before turning to his right.
This afternoon, at half one.
N.S.
Come by yourself, and do not share this address.
Drawn at the bottom of the letter was a fairly accurate reproduction of an animal claw, and when Harry's thumb rubbed it a little, the lines of the drawing unfurled themselves into the address.
Harry had never been north of London before, other than for school, and his immediate thought was to ask Mr Weasley how to get there. He smiled bitterly to himself, annoyed at how easy it was to forget that he was no longer a kid, and could just apparate.
"He is here," Hermione's voice suddenly rang out. Harry could see her approaching from the corner of his eye.
"Course he is," Ron said, nodding. "Told you."
Harry smiled ever so slightly in amusement, squinting into the sun as he looked up at them. However out of sorts he was feeling now, at the very least Ron and Hermione wouldn't let him be alone for too long.
"Budge over, mate," Ron said, plopping himself down on the bench next to Harry.
"You weren't at the hospital," Hermione explained. "Ron immediately knew you'd be here."
"Guess I don't have a lot of other places to go," Harry shrugged. He bit his lip shortly after saying it, realizing that for Hermione the situation was the same.
They all looked toward Grimmauld Place, a lugubrious presence over the sunny square and parade of muggles going about their day. In the distance, the wail of an ambulance siren started up and sounded as if it was headed their way.
"Let's go," Harry muttered. "George said the mediwizards wanted to talk to us."
"Not without some caffeine first," Ron said, plucking Harry's tea out of his hand and taking a sip.
"Oi," Harry said, kicking Ron's foot till Ron gave it back.
…..
"What can you remember from when it happened?" Mr Weasley asked, a biro pen on a notebook page as he looked up toward the group. The healer also had a quill and parchment ready, and looked unbothered that Mr Weasley was taking secondary notes.
"Not much," Harry said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He'd written down some notes just after Fred had gone to hospital, because he didn't trust that he'd keep the memory straight.
"We were fighting a few people," Ron nodded.
"And Percy made a joke about putting in his resignation," Harry added, looking to his left. Percy was sitting in a chair by the wall, away from the group, and looked like he was holding back from saying anything. Harry thought he looked a bit ashamed.
"No one actually cursed Fred," Harry continued. "The air just shifted and everything exploded."
"It wasn't like a regular explosion though," George offered, staring at his brother. "This one felt like it was trying to suck the life out of everything around it."
"Like a specific explosion curse?" the healer asked. "Instead of just damage from a collapsing wall?"
George nodded.
"But we didn't see who did it, or what it was."
"There are quite a few ways to cause an explosion using magic, of course," the healer said, scribbling something quickly on his parchment. "With varying degrees of physical damage to witches and wizards who are the target. In this case, Frederick does not appear to have been a specific target nor has he suffered catastrophic physical injuries."
Mr Weasley looked slightly stricken, his eyes darting back and forth between Fred and the healer.
"But he won't wake up," Ron said, voicing what everyone in the room was thinking.
The healer nodded.
"His brain would have also suffered a shock from the explosion as well."
Harry swallowed roughly, thinking of the Janus Thickley Ward and how Neville's parents had never left it. He knew that St Mungo's would do their best, of course, but Harry now felt even more determined to find a way to help Fred.
…..
Bletchley, 5 May, 1:25pm
Harry stared up at the building in front of him, double checking he had the right spot. Cars whizzed by behind him on the road, disappearing under the bridge to his right, and a younger teen almost bumped into him on the pavement, Sainsbury's bags filled with tins and close to breaking as the teen walked. The building housed a pizza chain Harry had seen around but never actually gone to, a bakery cafe next door, and a row of plain, white windows on the top floor that had no advertisements in them at all.
Not seeing a door he should go to, Harry glanced at the scribbled note again, finding nothing. He shrugged, glad he'd arrived early, and started to walk around to the back of the building. He had no idea what the name of the place he was looking for, but figured it wouldn't be on the building anyway. Down the side of the building facing the train tracks, Harry found a plain white door with chipping paint on it and a No Solicitation sign above the buzzer. Harry checked his watch, figuring five minutes before meeting time was okay, and pressed the button.
"Potter, right?"
Harry spun around, hand falling to where his wand pocket was, studying the man staring at him. He was an older man, curly hair more grey than brown, with a soft face and a slight pudge around the middle. He was carrying a pile of boxes with the bakery's logo on it, and Harry could see fine muscle along his forearms from years of working.
"Yeah," Harry said.
"The door's out front. The bakery," the man said, nodding with his head and beckoning that Harry followed.
The smell of baked goods reminded Harry that he hadn't eaten much, and he eyed the pastries in a display case at the front as he waited for New Scamander, curious at the shapes and intricate designs of them.
"Look familiar?" the man asked, having dumped his boxes in the back of the shop.
"The animals?" Harry asked, "yeah, just a little. They're, uh,"
Harry paused and looked around the café, noting an older couple having a morning tea and treat in a booth by the window.
"From our world?" The man smiled, sticking out his hand. "Aleksander Kowalski."
"Harry Potter."
"Oh, I know. Go on up, they're waiting upstairs for you." Aleksander tilted his head toward a slightly ajar door that had a slanted staircase behind it.
…..
At the top was a door with a simple sign on it, NS Research, and curiously a scratch mark on the door. Harry knocked, and the door opened itself not a second after he moved his hand.
"Mr Potter! Glad you could make it."
A spry older man walked toward him, hand out to shake Harry's with enthusiasm and energy that Harry wasn't expecting.
It was a larger room than Harry thought it would be, being over a bakery, filled with an old leather chesterfield, a large coffee table with a collection of mugs and a plate of biscuits on it, and several bookcases along the back wall. Two desks were under the windows, cluttered with paperwork, photographs in frames, a few plants both dead and alive, and an alarming number of animal artifacts. Four cages of varying sizes were placed strategically around the room so that the occupants couldn't reach each other. Travel and muggle defence propaganda posters were hung on a few of the walls, and a giant dog was sleeping in the corner, snoring away.
"I'm not really sure where I am, but I'm glad to be here," Harry said, sitting on the chesterfield. He was offered a tea immediately, and caught it as it floated over to him.
"Here doesn't really have a name," the man told him. He dragged a desk chair toward the chesterfield, and plopped himself down in it. Harry gave a small smile when he noted a little green bowtruckle poking its head out of the man's jacket pocket. "Well, it does, as you saw on the door. But not an official one."
"Official with the Ministry?" Harry asked.
"When we'd like to be," Newt Scamander considered. "I suspect you've already had correspondence from the Ministry about the outcome of the war. Should you join us working here, you won't need to follow up with them. We are connected in that sort of sense, but it requires very high clearance to access anything that we work on."
Harry nodded, but didn't say anything. The office had a chaotic cosiness to it; a large hand-knit blanket haphazardly hanging off the back of Newt's chair, a few food and water bowls on the floor around the desks, forgotten mugs balanced on stacks of books, and not a single floor lamp that matched.
It rather reminded him of the first time he visited the Burrow; an incredible stark difference from the cold Ministry of Magic corridors.
"This little office, that isn't, is a sort of research station. There's a few of us here, some names you know, some you don't, and we do some background research on major incidents that have happened in the wizarding world."
"What sort of research?" Harry asked, sipping his tea. He knew that Scamander had been very hands-on with his forays into the wilderness to find animals before. Harry had had enough of his camping trip over the last year to know that he didn't want to continue more of that sort of information hunt.
"Records," Scamander easily answered. "We solicit people with specific information and have them document everything. We then catalogue it and use it to prevent similar events in the future."
"You want me to write about everything I did during the war?" Harry asked, shifting the mug of tea in his hands. It was quite hot, hot enough that he should have left it on the table a bit longer, but he was too stubborn to do so.
"No, not exactly. I want you to write about what you were hunting," Scamander replied. His brown eyes studied Harry intently, as if waiting for a reaction.
"What I was hunting," Harry stated.
"Quite," Scamander said. "Albus may have told you it was a secret, but I'm afraid to say, it wasn't, not to us."
Scamander trailed off a little, and Harry got the impression that he'd not only known Dumbledore, but that he was familiar with Dumbledore's method of work.
"I want you to write a report on them, the horcruxes, so that we're better prepared for next time."
"Better prepared?" Harry asked, taking another small sip of tea and looking at Scamander over the edge of the teacup. "You think there will be a next time?"
Scamander sat back in his chair, the creaking weary as if the chair had dealt with his frenetic energy over many years.
"I've been in three wars in my life. Four, of a sort, though I wasn't as involved this time around as I have been in the past."
Harry nodded and glanced toward the corner of the room, where the dog had woken up and was watching him carefully. None of the history books had ever mentioned Newt Scamander playing part in past wars.
"Are you affiliated with the aurors or the unspeakables?" Harry asked.
"No," Scamander replied. He didn't seem put off by Harry's bluntness.
"Do they ever get information from you?" Harry asked. "Because I've been asked to give them an interview."
"Yes, about that," Scamander answered, picking up a notepad. "I would really rather prefer that you didn't."
"I'd rather not either," Harry honestly answered. "I'm not particularly fond of the Ministry right now."
"I do believe you have the power to tell them no," Scamander said, with an amused half smile. "Having successfully rid the world of You Know Who. But given my brother was once head of the auror department, I believe a short note from me shall resolve it."
"Right," Harry nodded, blinking. He glanced around as Scamander wrote his message and saw a few faded war medals and newspaper clippings interspersed with the pictures of creatures on the wall. Newt Scamander had certainly done far more in his life than just document the life and habits of magical creatures.
"You wouldn't be working here longterm," Scamander continued. "Only a few weeks or months whilst you document your experience with the horcruxes and their part in the war."
"Theoretical knowledge only, right?" Harry clarified. "Because I'm not making one. Not for any reason."
"Oh goodness, no," Scamander blurted, looking alarmed at the thought. "That'd be very unethical!"
Harry nodded with a firm expression.
"Very much no," Scamander said again. "You'd be writing a report and we would then have it edited and bound, and kept in our archive."
"Like a library of restricted knowledge," Harry said, wondering if he could bring Hermione for a visit.
"It's more of an unspoken archive of information," Scamander replied. He looked even more animated, as if he couldn't wait to ask his next question. "Have you ever travelled in time?"
Harry had lifted the cup to his lips and kept steady as he spoke around the edge of the cup.
"All the ministry time turners have been destroyed," Harry carefully said. Scamander had a lot of energy for an older man, and whilst writing a report on the horcruxes sounded boring and useful, time travel was another matter.
"Not exactly what I asked," Scamander said, a small grin stretching the wrinkles around his mouth. "Time travel, in general, is illegal. The Ministry only allows it if plenty of paperwork and scrutiny take place before the event. Time turners themselves are a registration-only ownership device from the Ministry, and are rather limited in how long they can be used. Not so suitable for our purposes."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"Because they don't go back far enough."
"Yes, and the ability to change the past is too great of a temptation for most wizards," Scamander said, and for the first time Harry thought Scamander could see through him, see that the idea of going back to try to help Fred was forefront in his mind.
"We do a sort of time observation. You can go back and re-watch events, but you can't change anything."
"Right," Harry said, trailing off in thought. Going back to save Fred still wasn't out of the question, though. There was less pressure if he couldn't accidentally change the present and future, but if he somehow was able to go back and find out what exactly had happened, he might be able to change things for the better anyway.
"You aren't planning to change a past event, are you?" Scamander asked, eyebrow raised.
Harry immediately shook his head, truthfully.
"No," Harry answered. "Some of the horcruxes… they happened more than fifty years ago. One change that long ago…."
"Could be devastating, yes," Scamander nodded, glancing up to Harry's forehead. "You should not be able to change anything. But nothing is absolute in magic, so every employee is warned."
Harry fought the urge to scowl as he usually did when someone pointed out his scar and how different it made him. Instead, Harry summarized what he understood.
"For this job I would time-observe, and investigate and record everything about the horcruxes. You would then archive it. How can I trust that what you're doing here is going to be used for good? That it's not going to fall into the hands of someone who will try to use it for bad?"
Scamander nodded, and dug through his desk for a treat for the dog.
"Not that I have any reason to doubt you," Harry continued, calmly. "But just as much, I don't have a reason to trust you completely either."
"Yes, yes, I thought you might say that," Scamander nodded. He stood up and tossed the treat toward the dog, beckoning Harry to follow him.
They walked down a narrow and slightly wonky hallway with two old wooden doors on each side and one at the end. Scamander led Harry to the door at the end and paused as he held the handle.
"You can ask him."
Scamander swung the door open just as Harry's wand slipped into his hand, revealing a small office with an empty desk along one wall and an occupied one in the further corner.
Harry's mouth dropped open as the occupant slowly spun his chair around, with dramatic flair that was entirely unnecessary and, quite frankly, almost narcissistic.
"What the fuck?" Harry exhaled, nearly dropping his wand.
"What exquisite eloquence," Snape said, crossing his arms. There were piles of things on his desk and bits of coloured papers and flyers tacked to the wall behind him, but Harry couldn't make any of it come into focus as he just stared at Snape.
"I watched you die," Harry said, tearing his eyes away from Snape long enough to glance back at Scamander, who had the audacity to look pleased by this reunion, instead of horrified at the world shift that Harry was experiencing.
"Clearly you were incorrect," Snape said.
The words bit into Harry's skin, ten-year long feelings of irritation and hatred at being constantly belittled and corrected.
"Whose book did I learn spells from in sixth year?" Harry demanded, drawing his wand.
"He is not an impostor," Scamander commented, though he didn't try to lower Harry's arm.
The amused smirk slipped off Snape's face, though his dark gaze didn't break contact with Harry's.
"Mine. The Half-Blood Prince," Snape snapped. "Which is why you should not be surprised at all that I survived."
He wore slightly more modern clothing, with his jacket looking more like the muggle type than wizard one. He still wore a high-necked collar, and though Harry couldn't see the scars from the snake, he knew they were there. The scent of Snape's blood filled his nostrils again and his hands felt sweaty, moist, as if the blood was slipping through his fingers. He started to feel unnaturally warm, remembering the panic and rush he'd felt to try and staunch the bleeding, to save Snape.
"And you didn't think to tell anyone?" Harry pressed, shoving his wand roughly in his pocket. "We thought you were dead."
Harry could feel his chest constricting as he spoke, the centre mark where he'd been hit with the curse from Voldemort pulsing with a deep ache.
"I shall let you catch up," Scamander quietly said, stepping back out of the room.
"You thought I was, and never came back to check," Snape accused, and Harry fought the urge to throw the closest object at him.
"Of course I did," Harry barked. I came back to find the shack covered in blood and dirt and rags of your clothes. I thought the Death Eaters had destroyed your body."
"You of all should know not to trust a body disappearing," Snape said, and Harry almost laughed as Snape crossed his arms and stood taller, an imposing action that was ruined by the fact that Snape was not wearing his long robes.
"There was so much blood," Harry said. "What else was I supposed to think? You angered enough people that someone taking your body wasn't impossible."
"Ah," Snape said, his grin malicious and triumphant. "Yes, I certainly have, and that's why you're surprised, Mr Potter. You wanted me dead."
"No, I didn't," Harry immediately denied. His mind was crowded with images and memories that he'd seen of Snape, of immense loneliness, a mixture of guilt and determination permeating the scenes. "Do you know how many people we lost?"
"I am not privy to a list," Snape said. There'd been absolutely no word about Snape surviving before, and Harry knew that it was characteristic of Snape to bugger off into hiding without telling anyone, but he still felt irrationally angry.
"We're still making it," Harry told him. "They're going to do a memorial for everyone, some other stuff probably too. And you never would have told anyone, would you?"
Snape furrowed his eyebrows at that, giving Harry a look of annoyed disbelief.
"You are not responsible for my wellbeing, Potter," Snape said. "Whether I lived or died in this war was my choice. Not yours."
He sat back down in his chair, his shoulders hunched and feet planted on the floor in a way that exuded a very strong 'do not bother me' air about him.
Harry snapped his mouth shut, slamming the office door behind him and only at the last second confirming to Scamander that he'd be back the next day.
…..
It was particularly odd that no one in the muggle world had noticed the increase in strangely dressed people gathering around an old department store building, but Harry supposed the enchantments were quite strong on it, and most of their focus had gone to the strange fireworks and owl behaviour that had cautiously spread across the country as Voldemort's demise had been confirmed. Harry slipped through the entrance and bypassed the front desk, the trail familiar as it had been back in fifth year as he headed to the stairs and back to Fred's room.
He'd lost track of what day it was, but knew it had been two actual nights since the battle. Two nights people had been coming and going from St Mungo's, the easier to fix hexes and curses healed and their casualties sent on their way. The harder ones remaining, as time was now a required element of treatment, or a necessity for the staff to figure out what was wrong.
If only they had a potions master on staff that could perform miracles, Harry bitterly thought. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt bitter, perhaps from being fooled after watching Snape perform a very realistic-looking act of dying. And had Harry never answered Newt Scamander, would he even have known Snape survived?
Harry pushed through the doors of the 4th floor and absentmindedly noted the quietness he was suddenly enveloped in. Snape had told them on the very first day that he could put a stopper in death, in an overly-theatrical speech that most of the students thought a load of bunk. Clearly there was truth to it though, and given Snape's dedication to the cause for nearly twenty years, maybe he did deserve to disappear after all the dust had settled.
Or he could have fucking told them he'd survived. Harry passed a door that was open and looked in, finding a serene looking elderly witch sitting calmly in her bed, giving him a soft smile. He waved, awkwardly, feeling some of his anger slip as he kept on. There'd been so much death and injury that Harry refused to chide himself for being angry with Snape's deception, for wanting to feel one more win that someone else had made it through. But he allowed for some understanding, because if he was truly honest with himself, he'd thought about disappearing too.
"Potter!"
Harry paused in his walk but didn't turn around immediately. He knew this voice, never would forget the voice of Lucius Malfoy, but it no longer brought fear or the stomach-dropping concern of something malicious that was about to happen to him. Harry took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back a little, standing straighter and slightly taller.
"Malfoy," Harry responded, turning to face him. Harry crossed his arms casually, feeling his chest muscles tighten and feeling surer of himself with the movement.
"I don't know what you're doing here," Malfoy hissed, his unkempt hair swinging forward as he looked down at Harry. "But you will go downstairs to the head mediwitche and tell her to prioritise Draco over others."
Harry's eyes glanced over Malfoy, noting that whilst he wore a fine set of robes, the buttons were dirty, the hem slightly torn, and his boots had streaks of mud on them from the castle grounds.
"No, I don't think I will," Harry replied. He wasn't going to leave until Malfoy did, because he didn't want to give away Fred's location. A small part of him was curious as to why Draco was in hospital, but not enough to investigate.
"What barbarism is this?" Malfoy seethed. "For a hero you certainly are quite willing to put others to death."
"I don't remember cursing him, actually. I do remember saving him when his idiot mate set the room we were in on fire," Harry said, his tone as dry as he could manage.
Malfoy's face turned uglier, the scowl deepening as he went to take a step forward toward Harry but hesitated.
"I know what Narcissa did for you. Draco is too young to die –"
"And I wasn't?" Harry challenged, dropping his arms and pointing at Malfoy. "Narcissa only did what she did because she wanted to know if Draco was still alive. I confirmed, she paid back the favour and said I was dead. She didn't do it to save me."
"That's not…"
"Her motivation was self-serving and we both know it," Harry coldly interrupted. "Go talk to the healers yourself. I owe you nothing."
Harry watched Malfoy storm off, his hand strangling his wand as he walked away toward the stairs. It had felt good, momentarily, to take some of the power back from their strange history of interactions and deny Malfoy, but it didn't quite settle right with Harry. He owed neither Narcissa nor Lucious Malfoy anything, but he hadn't forgotten Draco lying about who he was at the manor when they'd been captured.
Harry stepped toward Fred's door and squinted his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds of Hermione screaming from that night. Maybe he would see about putting a word in for Draco on his way out.
…..
Dinner that night was the same muted affair as the night before, except Mr Weasley was home and trying valiantly to stay awake long enough to finish his plate. Once again conversation was quiet, with plans being made for the next day only, not any further out. Percy confirmed that he'd had the Ministry interviews cancelled for everyone, and received a grumble of thanks in reply.
Kreacher, who'd taken up residence in the airing cupboard Mr Weasley had built off the back of the house, kicked them out of the kitchen shortly before nine. Harry had explicitly told Kreacher that he could hang out at Hogwarts, could relax and not work for a while, but it seemed Kreacher needed to feel useful as well and had been feeding various Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione as they'd come and gone from the house.
"Spare bed's back upstairs," Ron said, pausing on the first landing as if he was expecting Harry to follow him. Harry, who'd gone to the sitting room, saw that the blankets he'd used were missing. "Blankets too."
"I'm fine down here," Harry said, looking up with a bit of confusion.
"I'm not," Ron countered, with a scoff. He idly scratched at his shoulder and shifted his feet, but didn't move further up the stairs.
"But you and Hermione…" Harry started, glancing between the couch and Ron.
"Yeah, we appreciated the first night," Ron said, his cheeks turning pink. "But, uh, you walked to your own death alone. That's… mate. No."
He traced his finger along the railing and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, but instead flicked his wand toward Harry's bag and sent it upstairs with magic. Ron quickly trailed after it, jogging up the steps.
Harry smiled to himself and followed.
"Where'd you go today?" Ron asked, yawning as he entered his room and took off his shirt. Like Harry, Ron was covered in bruises and cuts in various states of healing.
Harry dropped his wand on Ron's desk and dug through his bag for a shirt.
"Do you remember Newt Scamander?"
Harry subtly turned to face the window as he swapped his shirt. The bruising and cuts were a shared experience, but the mark in the middle of Harry's chest from the killing curse was still a dark purple-ish black, and he didn't want to talk about it not healing.
"The animal bloke, yeah," Ron confirmed. "He's still alive?"
"He is," Harry said, leaning on the window sill and looking out over the garden. The stars and fireflies were out in numbers, and Harry saw a firefly that looked to be pacing in circles near Mr Weasley's shed.
"He sent me an owl yesterday. He's asked me to document everything that went on during the war, so it can't be forgotten in the future."
"Huh," Ron said, nearly tripping as he tried to kick off his trousers. "Sounds like you're doing homework, a few days after the war's ended?"
Harry sat on the spare bed in his pants and shirt, fluffing up the pillow a bit. It did sound mad when Ron put it that way, but it also sounded a hell of a lot saner than immediately jumping into aurorship and chasing down more evil wizards. Or hanging around Hogwarts and surrounding himself with grief and destruction.
"He knew about the horcruxes," Harry finally said. "Seems he'd worked with Dumbledore in the past. I think it's legitimate."
A knock sounded on the door and the following two second pause was long enough for Harry to shove his legs under the blanket on his bed.
"Your door is not sound proof," Hermione stated, walking into the room and casting muffliato with a practised flick of her wrist. The door closed gently behind her as she dropped her bag of toiletries on Ron's desk. "What is legitimate?"
"Harry's got a job already," Ron said, flinging back the quilt on his bed and diving in.
Hermione looked a little concerned, but waited for Harry to clarify. She also seemed a little embarrassed to be slipping into the same bed as Ron, and instead sat on the side so that Harry could still clearly see both of them.
"Newt Scamander apparently runs some sort of secret department to document all these events that happen in the wizarding world. I guess it's so that they know exactly what led to it and they can head it off in the future if it starts happening again. He wants me to write about the horcruxes."
"Not many people know about those," Hermione thoughtfully said, playing with the hem of her shirt. Harry couldn't tell if her interest was solely regarding the horcruxes, or the fact that there was a secret archive of wizarding history.
"He did," Harry replied, tracing the stitched pattern on his bedquilt with his finger. "But that's not the only thing that convinced me. His office is full of weird animals of course, but also a ton of manuscripts and books and official ministry letterheads for things."
"Anyone can fake those though," Ron said. "Look at us, we broke into the Ministry, twice."
He smiled a bit, as if he still couldn't believe that they'd successfully done it. Harry privately agreed.
"And Gringotts," Hermione murmured, stretching her arms across her sternum in a practised routine.
"He said that he thought I'd be suspicious," Harry continued, watching them both carefully. "Took me to another office and said there was someone I'd probably believe more."
"Someone else?" Hermione asked, dropping her arms. "Like Dumbledore? He had a portrait?"
"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "Severus Snape."
Harry was not expecting the surprised bark of laughter from Ron.
"Snape had a portrait made?" Ron snorted. "Mighty vain of him."
"Er, no," Harry tried to correct.
"All the Headmasters do, even ones put in by dictators," Hermione said, looking over her shoulder at Ron.
"No, it's not a portrait," Harry interrupted. "Snape's alive."
The surprised silence in the room didn't surprise Harry at all and he gave his friends a few seconds to process what he'd said. Both Hermione and Ron had been with him in the Shack and seen the body, and Harry knew it was jarring to think that Snape had survived it.
"Harry, we watched him bleed out," Hermione gently said. "He couldn't have survived."
"Yeah, I thought the same," Harry said, running his fingers through his hair. "There was blood everywhere, and it happened so fast. But I saw him today. I spoke to him."
"Is it Polyjuice?" Ron asked, sitting up slightly and leaning up on the bed with his elbow.
"No," Harry answered. He laid back onto the pillow and crossed his hands under his head. "I asked a security question, like we did over the past year."
"Bloody hell," Ron said. "Guess he really could put a stopper in death."
"Did he say how he did it?" Hermione asked. "It looked…I mean. That was a giant snake."
"I didn't really ask," Harry said, frowning. "I should have but… I had this feeling of rage and relief. I – he wasn't even going to tell me. I thought he'd died, that I'd failed at saving him. Someone I was close to has died every year since Cedric, and I didn't even like Snape but he was such, such a big part of Hogwarts and this whole war and to find out that he'd survived was, I don't know. I was relieved. But…."
"You wanted to punch him," Ron nodded sagely, his hand rubbing circles on Hermione's back.
"I still might," Harry considered. "We maybe yelled a bit."
Hermione smiled at Harry and put her wand on Ron's bedside cabinet.
"Sounds like the real Snape."
"It definitely was," Harry said, turning onto his side. "Of course he would have found a way to survive."
"I think," Hermione said, using her wand to extinguish the lights, "he maybe knew that no one else would try to help him."
Harry frowned into the darkness, knowing that Hermione was right. Snape had never given any indication, other than with his workings with Dumbledore, that he was dependant on anyone, or had anyone other than Dumbledore who had looked out for him.
Compared to Fred, Harry thought, who had a round the clock rotation of someone with him at the hospital.
The silence in the room stretched and Harry rolled again, causing the camp bed to squeak with unnecessary volume.
"I can sleep somewhere else tomorrow, if, you know," Harry said. "It's been a long year."
There was no response for a minute and Harry thought that maybe his friends had already fallen asleep. Outside an owl hooted, and the crickets started up.
"We woke up in the middle of the night and you weren't here," Ron suddenly said, talking into the darkness. Harry could hear the blankets shuffle slightly, as if Hermione had grabbed his hand.
"And it wasn't good," Ron continued, his voice less steady than before.