Bravura

bruh-VYOO R-uh, -VOO R-uh | noun

2: an act of daring; brilliant performance

No one knew why he had done it. He'd been a traitor, a turncoat. He'd killed their leader, the venerable Albus Dumbledore. He'd tortured children. Before, mentally, then when he was allowed free reign, physically. He had personally held children under the cruciatus. He had sneered at their pain. He was an awful example of humanity. He was almost universally hated in the wizarding community.

And yet.

Hermione stood over the casket at a funeral that no one knew why they were holding, for a man that no one loved, and stared down into the cold, still face of the man who had saved her life. She knew no better than anyone else why he had done it. The man had despised her in life. Why he had chosen to trade his for hers, she hadn't a clue. Perhaps he was just tired of his life and the curse barreling toward her chest had proven a convenient end. She certainly knew that it would not have been an instinctive act for him to throw a person out of harm's way.

And yet.

In her first year, he had tried, in his way, to protect them. It hadn't been his fault that the lot of nosy first-years did not find ignorance to be bliss. In her third year, he had stepped in front of a werewolf to protect them, despite the fear that she could feel rolling off of him in waves. Despite the fact that he had treated them all, frankly, like shit during their school years, she had been shocked when his loyalties had been revealed for what they were. She had always truly believed in his goodness at heart. He was an ass, sure, but did that really make him a bad guy? In the end, he had been there right when she had needed him.

She hadn't even known that he was near her. She was too engrossed in her own battle with Rowle to notice him. Rowle wasn't a big man, but Merlin, did he pack a punch. She was on the very tips of her toes just keeping up with him, completely unable to get a hit in of her own. He barked a quick bombarda, which she deflected, flinching only slightly when it exploded the wall beside her, and then followed it up with a quick-moving jet of green that she recognized instantly. She hadn't ever given much consideration to those muggle movie moments where time slowed down when you saw your death approaching. But that's exactly what happened.

Her eyes went wide. Her mouth formed words that, looking back now, she couldn't remember precisely, but could probably guess. Then he was there. He sent his own flash of green at her attacker while he was in motion. His body collided with hers and she met his gaze as she sailed backwards to the floor. His eyes seemed almost empty – she didn't see any emotion at all. She saw the exact moment that the curse hit him. The light left his black, empty eyes. He crumpled to the floor. Rowle followed him down a split second later. She had wanted to take a moment to just sit there on the floor and stare at his body in shock. She hadn't had a moment. The battle raged on around her and she had to rejoin it.

It had been shortly after that that Voldemort had announced that he would spare the lives of all those present if Harry were to surrender himself. Hermione had rushed to find him, to stop him, but it had been too late. In the end, Voldemort had fallen, Harry was miraculously revived, and the battle had been suddenly over.

And no one knew why he'd done it. The Death Eaters that had been rounded up all swore that he was loyal through and through and spoke of the atrocities that he had committed. Hermione looked down at the empty body and tried to picture him doing half of the things that they had spoken of. Her imagination failed her, and for that she was thankful. She didn't want to think of all the lives he had taken. He had saved hers. But why?

She would likely never know. How would she possibly ever know? The only person on God's green Earth who could have answered the question was lying in a coffin before her. It was a question that she knew would haunt her for the rest of her life. Thirty years later, lying in bed unable to fall asleep, it would float across her mind like an itch that she would never, ever be able to scratch.

She was almost angry with him for having done it. What if he truly was the scum of the earth? What if he had had no redeeming qualities at all and it had all just been an act when she was young? She would still owe him her life nonetheless. A cold-blooded killer.

What if everything that the Death Eaters had seen was the act? What if he had been on their side all along? She would never be able to thank him.

And she would never know which was the truth. Perhaps it wasn't so black and white. Maybe the truth was somewhere in the middle. She would never know. She wanted to cry. She wanted to cry for the possibility of what he might have been. It was silly, she knew. He could have been everything that Rodolphus Lestrange claimed that he was and more. She wouldn't want to have cried for him, then.

But if he truly were good and no one cried for him, it would be tragic.

It didn't matter anyway. Hermione didn't think that she could cry any more tears. She was all cried out. It had been a hellish week of funeral after funeral for people who had died much too young. There was hardly anyone at this one, and she couldn't say that she was surprised. She didn't really even know why she was here.

But she stared down into the coffin anyway and traced the lines of his face with her eyes. This was the most peaceful she had ever seen him. It saddened her. That only death brought him such tranquility. She doubted the man had known peace even in slumber.

She decided that she would believe he was good. She didn't know why he had done it, why he had taken a killing curse for her. She didn't have the faintest clue as to his motivations in life. She didn't even know what he had wanted for himself. Did he have goals? Dreams? Aspirations? She had no clue.

She couldn't come up with a scenario in which he was the good guy. But she decided that she needed to believe that he was, or it would eat her away slowly over the days, months, years. Anyway, why would he have saved her if he wasn't?

Hermione realized that she had been at the casket for quite some time. Other funeral-goers were beginning to look at her strangely. The man had saved her life. She could stand for an uncomfortably long time staring at his dead face if she wanted to. At least she wasn't stroking his hair like she had seen others do at other funerals that week. She had no desire at all to touch him. At least there was that.

She would have liked to resolve to live her life to the fullest to honor his sacrifice, but to be frank, she doubted that he would have given a flying fuck one way or the other. But what did she know about him after all?

A/N: I'm aware that the scene with Snape trying to protect them from the werewolf only happened in the movie. I liked it, so I included it. Bite me.

Why do you think he did it?