Chapter 11

"The Day He Died"

Severus had always known that the day would come when Albus would ask him for his life. He hadn’t waited for it with bated breath of course, but he was old enough to understand that sooner or later, his life would be forfeit to the cause. He’d come to peace with it some time ago, and only in his most selfish of dreams had he hoped he wouldn’t be alone.

It was funny the way life worked itself out.

Muggle clothes, Albus had said. That was easy enough–he owned several pair of Muggle-style trousers and jumpers, and it was simple to match black and gray, and to tie his hair back. His wand went into his back pocket (despite the dangers of accidental buttock removal), a few pound notes and galleons went into his coat, and his Wizard Identification Card was tucked into the inside pocket of his shirt.

As an after-thought, he stopped mid movement and went to his bedroom. He had a small box of tokens, mementos of his years at Hogwarts, tucked away into the back of his wardrobe. He quickly removed it and tapped the lid with his wand twice, murmuring the unlocking spell.

He rummaged in it for a moment, pushing silly little trinkets aside until he reached the box, the very same one Harry had given him so many years ago. It was lined with soft red velvet, still wrapped in the tissue paper the boy had presented it to him in.

Harry opened one eye and grinned up at him with all the bumbling sweetness of a child going through the growing pains of life. "That’s normally what I say to you. Open it." 

It was such a lovely box, carved with a grace that Severus knew had influenced the boy towards his clocks in later years. He carefully cracked it open and gazed down at the tyro pin. It was exactly as he’d remembered it, detailed with medieval pictures of cauldron and wand, feathers and arrows for the subjects Severus had taught him.

He stroked over the words inscribed on the back. To Master and Friend, thank you.

Dear Merlin.

Severus choked back all that wanted to come forth and lifted himself up. Now was not the time to be thinking about this, to be considering this, to be letting the pain move over him. He pinned the tyro pin to his jumper and set the box back into his wardrobe before fleeing his bedroom.

He slipped into the Muggle coat and scarf, grabbed a Chocoball, and made sure that the letters he had written on the event of his death were obvious on his desk top table. A copy of his will, and a small, covered pensieve sat atop the lot. With a final glance to his beloved rooms, he turned and walked out.

The long trek to Potter’s rooms was now ingrained in his memory and he walked there without really thinking about it, chewing on the chocolate filled strawberry cream. He had come to know the castle like the back of his hand, every nook and cranny and portrait, every aisle and tunnel and secret entrance. He knew Hogwarts like he’d know a lover, and loved her like a mother–this castle had done nothing but nurture his existence, as prickly as it might have been, and kept him safe from the cold world’s prying eyes.

When he passed the north entrance, his fingers brushed the stone of the building, and in them, the love and radiance of Hogwarts reassured him safe passage home.

He passed Barnabas with his trolls, the Room of Requirement, and took a left before knocking on the doors he had been standing in front of only a few short hours ago. Strange how in this light the door did not seem threatening at all, but wary, waiting, hoping. It was nearing ten and the hallways, cold and sleepy with night, made him cross his arms over his chest.

Potter didn’t look any better than he did himself when he opened the door. Exhausted green eyes met his, heavy with sleepiness and something else, something worse. A keen kind of knowing, perhaps, that it was unlikely they would ever return to Hogwarts alive. In that, Severus felt brotherhood and companionship with Potter that he hadn’t for quite some time.

Something about encroaching death always made Severus wax sentimental.

"Oh, it’s you. Happy Christmas, Professor. Come in...I’m almost finished, here." Potter turned and Severus followed him inside. Harry’s rooms already had the strangely worn in feeling that apartments usually got when the person living in them had decided to stay for an extended amount of time. Potter’s things were spread everywhere, a cloak tossed over the back of a cozy chair, a cup of tea sitting on a small table beside the fireplace. Slippers, magazines, books. An enormous box of chocolates on his chair-side table.

He realized Potter was watching him, and not for the first time Severus found himself unable to speak. Now was most certainly not the time for his sarcasm.

Oh, who was he kidding.

"I never knew you to be an interior decorator," he said, arching a brow as he lifted a white sock between thumb and forefinger from the side of Potters equally messy desk.

The boy looked torn between laughter and tears. "I learned from the best," he said in a low voice, and pointed at the scrolls sitting in piles like Severus himself built up in corners of his rooms. "It’s Remus’ rooms. I just added my stuff to it."

"Yes, I know." At Harry’s questioning glance, Snape waved it away. "Professor Lupin and myself shared many cups of tea over OWLs. I Flooed here many times."

Harry fell silent again, fingers busy, and when he spoke again, his voice was very quiet but strong. "I miss him."

"Lupin?"

Harry nodded. "I wished I’d come to see him, before he died. He was the last part of my father’s family."

"I suppose he was."

"I loved him, you know. Not like a lover but...just as my friend. He was a good man."

And at that Severus had to agree–Lupin had been a good man for being a murdering werewolf. Even if the word ‘lover’ was in any way associated with Remus bloody Lupin. "He did his kind proud in the end."

Harry looked up. "Professor, can I ask you candidly about something?"

"That depends on how inane it is. And Mr. Potter, as we are traveling into the other world tonight, I believe it would not be remiss to call me by my first name, for I am not your professor any longer."

"And you can call me Harry." He looked down at his clothes, his worn jeans and cozy looking jumper, and grasped the chair where his cloak lay. "After I was gone...did you ever see anyone?"

Severus frowned, his mouth tightening. "That is none of your concern."

Harry refused to look away. "Did you?"

"Presumptuous little toad," Severus said, a sneer curling his lip. Terror made his pulse race, his hands sweat. "For your information, no, I have not "seen" anyone, not that its any of your business, nor would I care to see anyone if they turn me into a wretched pile of idiocy every time they’re near."

Hah! As if Harry didn’t do that to him already. He almost groaned.

Harry arched a brow. "Are you jealous of Madame Clooney?"

"No." Bloody bastard.

A strained but still cocky smile quirked Harry's lips. "Don't be jealous, Severus. She's just a friend."

Arrogant little bastard. "Not that I care, but one does not kiss their friends on the mouth in such a manner, Potter." How dare Harry know him so well!

"It’s Harry. And I used to kiss Hermione."

"This was different."

Harry didn’t quite meet Severus’ eyes. "Nothing going on with me and Madame Clooney, Severus. I don’t have time or patience for people who just don’t understand." He paused for a moment, rearranging his paper work with slightly trembling hands, and Severus felt the indignation fly out of him.

"That’s not what you meant to ask, is it?" Severus said, and watched the back of the young man’s head shake.

"It’s all happening so fast. In my nightmares, where I dreamed Voldemort came back stronger then ever, I always imagined it just like this. A race against time, as Dumbledore so eloquently put it." He looked up. "I always imagined you by my side." Harry fidgeted, his fingers nervously straightening the things on his desk that were already straight, uncomfortable with the admission he'd just made. "Look, I know it isn’t exactly the time to talk about it, but–"

"Why not?"

He was startled from speaking. "I’m sorry?"

"Why isn’t it the time?"

"Because we’re about to commit suicide to save the world, Severus. I think some things take precedence, don’t you?"

Severus felt his mouth turn down of its own volition. "It is very likely we will not return alive, yes. Given your knack for weaseling your way out of deadly scrapes, however, it is entirely possible that we will return successful. I have always known my life was going to be given for this cause, and you, Potter, must have always known the possibility as well."

"I did. It’s just really hard, finally coming up against it, after–"

After what happened tonight.

Severus cleared his throat and suddenly felt equally as uncomfortable under the boy’s gaze. "Do you understand now, the lives at stake? What should happen if we fail?"

"Yes. But I also understand that I've lived almost half my life hating you, and it's strange now to have that missing. To not hate you with every breath I draw." His green eyes flashed intently. "I understand what you did, Severus. And why. I don't forgive you for it--I never will. But I finally understand, I think. It's just... to be betrayed that deeply is one thing. But then to find out that I couldn't blame you, or my friends, or Dumbledore, the people who betrayed me, is the hard part. It's Voldemort I have to blame now. It's always Voldemort, no matter what happened. He's made my life hell." His hands shook where they gripped the chair. "He took my parents, my godfather, my friends, my family, my--he took everything from me. He took my innocence from me, Severus."

Severus was less than stunned by the hate in the boys voice. "Yes, he did."

Harry studied him intently. "Voldemort may be responsible for destroying my life, but you, and Dumbledore, and my friends, you all destroyed Harry Potter. You all made me the man you see today. An angry, emotional wreck, closed off privately and publicly irate, unable to trust enough to form even a friendship, unable to commit to anything. Dumbledore used you, Severus, like a tool, like he uses everyone else at his disposal, to make them do what he wanted. I know why he did it but that doesn't mean I like it. It doesn't mean I have to forgive it." His teeth grit. "All of you have given me justification upon justification, empty apologies that mean nothing because the person you're apologizing to doesn't exist anymore. But it will never be enough." He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I expected love and patience from you, when all you were doing was what the Order had told you to do."

For a moment, the sting of Harry’s words was so heavy, so sharp, that his masks clamped down into place and Severus felt a sneer cover his face. His justifications had meant nothing. Nothing. His words, all he held in his heart, meant nothing.

The damning thing was, he understood. If he had been in Harry’s shoes he wouldn’t have given so much as an inch. It made it hard to speak around the lump in his throat. "Your mind, though sound enough, is not the sharpest of knives. You were easily tricked."

"Yes, I was," Harry said, quietly. "But I think I wasn’t the only one who was tricked. I think you fell for your own game, Severus, just as I did. I think you fell in love with me."

"Don’t be absurd," Severus answered in kind, taking two steps back when Harry walked around the chair. He ruthlessly shoved his panic down. "I am always the master of my games, Potter."

"Yes, you are. I'll give you that," Harry said, refusing to drop angry, determined eyes from Severus'. "But I think this time you slipped. You shared too much with me, showed me too many things. You wouldn't have touched me or taught me how to touch myself, if you didn't care about me. If all you intended to do was send me away, you could have done that without teaching me anything about myself." His voice was still steady, though the anger was changing to something else, no less intense. "Back there at the meeting you looked like your entire family died when Dumbledore finally explained everything to me as an adult. That you'd done what you'd done to safe my life, and my sanity."

He was advancing with feline intensity, as though Severus were nothing more but the trembling mouse in his sights. Severus backed up as quickly as he was able, the hair on his body standing up as panic clawed at his throat. "You needed to know," he said defensively. "It was scandalous, Potter--I couldn't send you off without knowing how to pleasure yourself. Even the most idiotic of-age children know that."

"I don't think you ever had any intention of sending me off to any other lover," Harry said, very, very softly, only a few feet away and never stopping his advance until he was close enough for Severus to smell the honey from Harry's after-dinner tea on his breath. "You didn't want to let me go, and that's why you acted so strange near the end. And you looked for me because you saw something in me that I see in you." The intensity in Harry's voice was almost overwhelming so close to the source, and Severus couldn't stop the compulsive nervous swallow. "I think you panicked and ran out of my store when you realized it was me under the blond hair and blue eyes, and even now," his fingers drifted, almost feather light, over Severus' cheek, "I think you wish to God or Merlin or whatever deity you pray to that I would just...

"Kiss you." The words whispered over Severus' lips like a gentle caress, but before he could enjoy it...

Harry's mouth was as sweet, as beautiful, as clean and wholesome and wonderful as Severus remembered. It tasted like every candy he'd ever indulged in...hot dark, creamy white, and silky milk chocolate that melted on his tongue. He wanted more, and more, until he was delirious with it. The sweet, gentle slide of wet lips against wet lips had the rough pound of his heart slam up to a fever pitch, and his entire body flushed with a sudden, unspeakable desire. He found his hands bunched up in Harry's jumper, and his control, which had been tethered on a string, snapped.

He possessed; it was all he could do, when this glorious nirvana was being offered up to him with such a sweet hesitancy. Severus kissed that mouth, that face, that cheek, neck and ear, covering as much skin as he could with the kisses he’d always wanted to bestow on him and hadn’t been able to. He’d dreamed of Harry’s gasps in his ear, the returned kisses which grew more ferocious and deep with need every time they were shared.

Harry’s slender body rocked up against his--all wiry strength, the caresses and kisses they were sharing evoked carnal responses that grew more insistent, more dangerous, more glorious than either of them could have imagined.

And then Harry let go.

Severus gasped for breath, panting, matching the boy's trembling heaves against him. Somehow they'd ended up pressed against the book case, and several of the books had fallen around them without either realizing it. Harry's mouth was ruby red with the power of Severus' kisses, and in that moment, Severus wanted nothing more than to throw him on the ground and have his way with him.

Harry pushed away from Severus, not quite angry but obviously not satisfied either. His back straightened, hands yanking his jumper back down from where it had been shoved up to his shoulders–how did it get up there?–and pulled his jeans back up as he glared hotly at Severus.

Slowly, Severus pushed away from the book case. "Well."

"Yes," Harry said, very softly, licking his lower lip, breathing raggedly through his parted lips. "That answers that question. I was right about you."

The tight grip of panic returned to Severus' throat when he heard Harry's murmured words. "It would be advisable for us to talk."

"We will." Harry paused for a moment, a fingertip coming up to gently trace over his own lower lip, as if memorizing the sensation. His quiet, lovely green eyes, misted the softest bit. "I wish this wasn't happening this way, Severus," he said in an almost dreamy tone. "There's so much left between us that's unresolved. I hate you so much, but there's something..." Harry snapped out of it, eyes clouding back over with a dark brood as he let the sentence trail off.

Yes. There was something. Something very good, and very fragile sat between them, like a seedling flower that had yet to blossom.

"Yes, there is, but such is life. We cannot turn back the clock, Mr. Potter."

Harry hesitated, thinking that over a moment before his shrewd little eyes flickered to him. "Severus, may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Were your intentions towards me–aside from the betrayal, and everything else–honorable?"

Oh, bloody hell.

His entire mind froze, and he stared at the open green eyes, the unguarded expression, and didn’t know how the blazes he could answer neutrally without totally falling apart. "You’ve asked me that before." He paused. "As much as was possible, Mr. Potter, though likely in ways you don’t like," he said carefully, "I had been caught in a very awkward situation–doing one thing for one master, and then later, prostrating myself in front of the other. It was...very difficult. We all had your safety in mind, Harry, even though at the moment nothing could seem further from the truth. It was our intention to keep you safe from the Dark Lord. There was nothing we could do to prevent him from taking over your mind as you’d failed abysmally at Occlumency."

"You're avoiding my question," Harry said softly, but the clock on the wall behind him chimed and pointed at, ‘time to go'. "But we'll resolve it when we get back. Saved by the bell, Severus." His words lacked the sharpness they should have had.

"Right then." He cleared his throat. "Let’s try to come back in one piece, shall we?"

"If we don’t live–"

"But we will, Mr. Potter.’

"--I just want to tell you that it's very hard for me to forgive and forget," he said, talking over Severus' interruption like he hadn't even spoken. "Gryffindors are like Slytherins in that respect. But you've saved my life more times than I can ever recount, purposely or otherwise. And though I'm still a childish brat sometimes, I finally understand the sacrifices you have made in regard to myself and the Order, and that you've suffered just as much, if not more, than I have." Harry said, very quietly, as he arranged his own letters and what was probably his will on his desk, before grabbing a slender denim jacket. "That's all, I suppose."

For the first time in nearly a decade, Severus, despite the looming death he knew was waiting for him, felt. Free. He felt like a sapling of friendship was being offered to him by this scarred young man, and he clung to it as tightly as he could. Harry could be an infuriating, arrogant and spiteful young man, but he was also no longer the boy he had been, but a man offering the relationship of an equal.

It made him all the more glad he'd thought to get the little glasses from Harry's tyro rooms. He took the small bits of wire and glass from his pocket, and held them in his hand, weighing them, looking at them, before he made his decision. The little glasses unfolded, and with the careful hands of a skilled Potions Master, he removed Harry's bulky black frames to replace them with the silver without a single messy lock of hair falling out of place on his forehead.

It was as close to a confession of love as he could give him, right now. And it would have to do. "So you might see better, Harry," he murmured, and looked away from the gratitude in the younger man’s eyes.

"Thank you. There's one stop I need to make before we go back to Grimmauld Place."

"All right," Severus answered awkwardly without thinking, "that will be fine. Dumbledore has appointed someone trustworthy, he has told me, to guide us. This guide will be waiting at Grimmauld place, so it is imperative we hurry."

Harry nodded, tightly, adjusting the papers once more, and Severus saw a tremor run through the boy’s shoulders. Before he could stop himself, before he could even think to stop himself, he set his hands atop them. "We will come back, Mr. Potter, and there’s no use in dwelling on the what if’s. I have too much left to do in my life, as do you. We are both young and strong, and we will succeed in this task given to us."

"Wishful thinking, professor?" Harry asked softly.

"No. I’ve little time or patience for wishful thinking, Mr. Potter, you should know that by now." Something in Severus’ conviction seemed to touch Harry’s heart, because when the young man looked up, there was stubborn set to his jaw. "There, there’s that Gryffindor foolhardiness of which we stand in such desperate need."

"Courage. Right," Harry said, as he grasped the pendant with the Sorcerer’s Stone and tucked it securely into his pocket.

And with that, they left. Harry locked his rooms behind him and together they walked through the quiet, comforting castle. It was snowing, a heavy mist that seemed to fit perfectly with Severus’ mood. Sometimes he wondered if Albus, albeit without thought, could control the weather, because the snow, falling thick and muddy on the grassy, boggy slopes of Hogwarts, matched everyone’s mood.

They trekked out of the school with Hagrid to escort them as far as the wards. The half-giant sobbed quietly into a hanky the size of a tablecloth as he clapped Harry on the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward.

They Apparated, with Harry in the lead, though not to Grimmauld Place. Instead he led them to a street Severus had never seen, with Muggle houses in perfect rows, with perfect lawns and perfectly boring flowers growing from the perfectly straight little walks up to perfect little doors.

Nauseating.

The snow was lighter here yet the night was deeper, and Severus knew, just from a look at Harry’s drawn face that this had to be the street where he’d lived with those ignorant Muggles.

He followed the young man through the dark, matching Harry’s long stride up the walk of what Severus could barely make out through the snowfall to be Number 4.

Harry rang the doorbell, the tremors in his hands not totally accounted for by the cold. Severus stood beside him, waiting for what, he did not know, but waiting.

The woman, for her part, did not scream when she opened the door. Her pallid, thin face, with a large mouth and slanted little eyes, merely looked at them both as if they were vermin, settling on Harry’s face with a mixture of horror, disgust, and strangely enough, resignation.

"Aunt Petunia. I’m sorry to bother you after so long."

"There’s no money here, Potter. You can just be on your way, then," the woman snarled and moved to close to the door.

She would have slammed the door shut if Harry hadn’t put his foot in the doorway. Severus watched him wince with slight sympathy. "Aunt Petunia. May I come in?"

"I’ve already told you, I don’t have any money!" Petunia's voice got slightly shriller as she raised it.

Severus realized, standing there beside Harry, just what the young man was doing. At first Severus thought they had come here so Harry could say goodbye to his family...now, Severus realized Harry had come to say goodbye to the ghosts of his past. Closure–a way to end a chapter of his life that had influenced him into the man he was today.

Severus never got that closure, not with his sisters, his beautiful mother, or his repulsive father. He doubted he ever would.

To Severus’ astonishment, Arabella Figg stepped up behind the horse-faced woman. "Shhh. Petunia, come now, come now, let’s get some tea and let the gentlemen in. It’s nippy, and Christmas night, after all. Come in, come in, Harry," Mrs. Figg smiled at Severus. "And you, Professor Snape, please. Come now, Petunia." She led Petunia away from the door with a gentle arm about her shoulders.

The house was one of the most impersonal residences Severus had ever set foot into, and that was saying something, considering he had been to Malfoy Manor. The furniture was old and out of fashion but clean, despite the obviously questionable mental state of Harry’s aunt. The young man had told him many years ago that he had an uncle and a cousin as well, but neither appeared to be there.

Severus followed him through the front entrance and into the sitting room, where Mrs. Figg had sat Petunia down and was gently patting her arms. "It’s quite all right, Harry. Please, sit. Professor Snape, you as well. Don’t mind Petunia, she’s been a bit under the weather." From the words, and the way Mrs. Figg said them, Severus could deduce Petunia had been a bit under the weather for many years. "What brings you both here?"

"I..." Harry stuttered for a moment, and Severus realized the Harry hadn’t thought up an excuse to come see the wretched woman after so long.

The trials of youth.

"Harry just arrived in the country, Mrs. Figg, and he wished to see his aunt on Christmas day. I accompanied him," Severus said, smoothly.

Harry nodded and he sank onto the sofa opposite Petunia and Mrs. Figg. Severus stood beside him silently. "Aunt Petunia, what happened? Where...where’s Dudley and Uncle Vernon?"

The woman’s scream could have peeled the paint from the walls.

"OH, don’t you speak to me of them, don’t you speak to me of them; hooligans, filth, the both of them!" Petunia screamed, and Mrs. Figg let out a shrill sound of distress, petting Petunia through her wails. The horse-faced woman sounded very much like Mrs. Black, and when Severus glanced down to make the observation to Harry, he saw the same thing in his face. "Lying, deceitful bastards, leaving me here alone!"

Mrs. Figg stood quickly and dragged Petunia to the steps. "Please sit, gentlemen, I’ll be back in just a minute. Let me put Petunia to rest." And she was gone, Petunia’s insane weeping, punctuated by inarticulate shrieks, echoing through the house.

Which gave Severus the proper opportunity to poke around.

Normally, Severus didn’t socialize with Muggles if he didn’t have to. He found them entirely barbaric to tell the honest truth–fascinating, but barbaric. He’d done a study on Muggle hospitals for his Muggle Studies research project in his seventh year, because though he hated them at the time, understanding the enemy was the best way to begin Evil In Training at DE Inc. He could remember quite clearly how hard the floor had been when he’d fallen in a dead faint after seeing what they did to treat severe wounds.

Surgery. Honestly.

As Harry sat on the sofa, silent and withdrawn, Severus looked over the mantle. The oddly still photographs depicted a very overweight little boy, a wide set adolescent, and a thickly muscled, terrifying young man who looked rather psychotic. There were photos of a family of three; the Petunia woman, a heavy set man and the blond boy, but there were no photos of Harry. None, at all.

"Don’t look for them."

Severus glanced up, eyebrow raised. "I’m sorry?"

"For pictures of me." Harry’s face was drawn, tired, and older than his twenty four years. "They never took pictures of me. I’ll bet there isn’t a single one of me in the whole house–I’ll bet everything that ever suggested I lived here is already gone."

Severus frowned deeply. "Miserable Muggles, Potter. They’re all alike."

"Maybe. At least these were," Harry answered quietly, and their conversation broke as Mrs. Figg came back down the steps, out of breath, her carpet slippers slapping against the wood.

"I’m so sorry, so sorry; would you both like something to drink?"

Harry shook his head but rose from his seat, following the tiny woman into the kitchen. "Mrs. Figg, what are you doing here? Where are Dudley and Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked, as he held the kitchen door open for Severus.

"Oh, Harry, Harry. I knew you'd left England, but your Aunt and Uncle didn’t and, oh, just..." Mrs. Figg began to wring her hands. "Please, sit. Tea?"

Neither Harry nor Severus agreed to it, but Mrs. Figg apparently needed something to do with her trembling hands because she began to make a big pot. "The year after you left, Harry, that Dudley boy, and, oh, what a lump he was, got mixed up in the wrong crowd–he and his little friend Piers, the both of them, nasty little things. Drugs, you know how that is. Dudley’s been in prison for three years now and has, from what little Petunia will ever speak of it, quite a long while to go," Mrs. Figg clucked sadly.

"Dudley’s in prison?" Harry asked, in a near whisper, his eyes wide. "I can’t say I didn’t see it coming, Mrs. Figg."

"Don’t I know it! Dreadfully spoilt child, thought he was invincible, that one. Nasty shock for him, I’d wager. Your aunt and uncle divorced soon after, and Vernon, last I heard, was running around the Canary Islands with a slip of a blonde. Left Petunia in a lurch, he did, said he couldn’t take it anymore, and when you didn’t come back and they had to bury you..." Mrs. Figg sighed. "I do the best I can, you know, to keep her company, but she’s sick. Has the anxieties, the tremors, you know."

Severus searched for a shred of remorse inside of him, and found he couldn’t, to his sadistic glee.

Harry didn’t seem to be thinking about that. "Bury me, Mrs. Figg?"

"Oh, yes. Didn’t I say? They held a little funeral for you, cheapest plot and cross made of plywood, quite terrible, at the cemetery in London. Didn’t even have a priest come and bless you. Thought they were top of the world, them." Mrs. Figg slammed the tea pot down.

"Mrs. Figg, we can’t stay..I only.." Harry stopped, as if gathering his thoughts. "I wanted to come see them. Bury something in myself, I suppose." He reached into his pocket, took out a small box and enlarged it with a tap of his wand. "I..I brought this for them. You don’t have to tell Aunt Petunia it’s from me. You know how she gets." He opened the box and took out one of the finely crafted clocks; the very one Severus had seen Harry drawing in France. Rather than "time for such and such", or lunar movements, or potions ingredients around the face, it held spoons of the Dursley family, with Harry included at the bottom. The chubby blond boy’s spoon pointed at "depressed", Vernon’s pointed at, "upset", Petunia’s at "mad"–though if it was the literal or figurative sense Severus didn’t know. Harry’s pointed between "scared" and "sad".

A gift so Slytherin that it made Severus’ lips quirk.

"‘And they were miserable for the rest of their days’," he quoted, softly. Harry’s face, though shuttered, was open enough for Severus to see the truth in what he said. "A very good choice, Harry." And then to Mrs. Figg, "Thank you, madame, for your hospitality. Give our regards to Mrs. Dursley. It’s time to go, Harry."

Harry rose and Severus followed him out of the kitchen and down the dreary hallway. He stopped just when Severus knew he would, in front of the cupboard Severus had been trying valiantly not to acknowledge. The young man didn’t open it, didn’t make a move toward it, only looked at the little white door as though he was finally understanding something important.

"We never forget where we come from, Harry," Severus murmured. "For you, living in a space barely large enough to store anything. For myself, living in a one room flat with too many mouths to feed and no food to feed them." He set his hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Our roots define what we are, not who we are."

Harry nodded, silently, and didn’t speak for a long moment. Severus didn’t have to look at him to see the shimmer in his eyes, and instead stood by Harry’s side, tragic young man that he was. "Come along, Harry," he murmured, and pulled him towards the door

The night was very, very cold. The snow had stopped for a bit but the chill clung to the air, making Severus shiver the smallest bit. Harry walked beside him, strangely quiet. "Severus?"

Severus glanced down at his companion. "Yes?"

"There's something else. It’ll only take a few minutes."

"Well, then. Lead the way, Mr. Potter."

They began to walk through the cold street, with the falling snow blanketing their steps. Harry slid a hand into his pocket and rooted out a pack of cigarettes, gently tapping one out. His limp was not as bad as it sometimes was, but Severus still slowed his pace down to compensate regardless. The cold always tightened muscles, just as his own knee, which he’d broken only a few years ago, attested to..

Harry lit the fag, pulling a long drag from it with pale, drawn lips before blowing the smoke from his nose. His fingers were trembling.

"That’s a nasty habit."

"Don’t I know it."

They walked in silence for several minutes, boots crunching on show. Harry went through two more cigarettes, enough to calm his nerves Severus supposed. "Back at my aunt’s...you said you had brothers and sisters?"

"Only sisters. Seven of them."

He couldn’t help but be quietly pleased when Harry gaped, cigarette not quite poised to his lips. "Seven?"

"Indeed. I was the youngest, and the only boy. My father took quite a bit of pride in me."

"Growing up must have been strange."

"Not as strange as you’d think." Severus crossed his arms behind his back. "We had nothing but our name and our family honor–Grandfather Snape lost most of the family fortune to the Malfoys the night he paid for our schooling." When Harry looked at him curiously, Severus explained. "In proper magical society it is custom for Witches and Wizards to pave the way for their grandchildren to Hogwarts, you see. What none of us expected was for him to pay for it, and then gamble the rest away in a single night. Regardless, aside from living in genteel poverty I had a good childhood, despite what many people think."

"It must have been fun, then. Seven older sisters."

"You’d think," Severus snorted. "When I was very little I realized I was, in actuality, the baby, the doggie, the horsy, and whatever bloody else they decided to make me during their dress up games." Since it made Harry smile in that way he liked, a smile too rare, Severus continued. "I was also the fetcher, as none of us could perform magic outside of school. If they lost something and were to large to get it? Send Severus. Crawl down the pipe, Severus. Hoist up over the roof, Severus. Can you reach into the snake hole, Severus?"

Harry smiled again. "Sounds like something Ginny would say. Especially with brothers like Fred and George." He quieted. "Why haven’t I ever seen any Snapes?"

"Because when they married they took their husbands names, or are dead," Severus answered, as he looked down at Harry with an eyebrow raised. "I was the only boy, and so, am the only one to retain the family name. The end of the Snape line is with me, as I am homosexual."

"Wouldn’t have guessed," Harry smirked. Severus appreciated the jibe, and inclined his head toward him. "What were their names?"

"Seraphine, Sabrina, Simona, Sidra, Samuela, Sela, Sapphire, and myself. My parents thought it amusing. We all thought it trite." A snort. "Seraphine died giving birth, and I never met her. Simona and Sidra were both Death Eaters, and died when I started at Hogwarts. Samuela, Sela and Sapphire are all married, though the first two live in the Americas and I haven’t seen them in over twenty years. Sapphire married Flitwick; she was the woman with the blond hair at the Order meeting, if you remember. Sabrina is a Potions Mistress, single, who took up residence in Hong Kong ten years ago. She taught me much of what I know about the subject, enabling me to become Professor Heartstring's tyro later in life."

"Wow," Harry said, quietly, and then under his breath, "Midget sex. Weird." A moment. "What about your parents?"

"Both dead."

"You kind of regard Dumbledore as your father, don’t you?" Harry asked, and when Severus didn’t answer, he continued. "Aren’t you angry at him? He manipulated you as much as me. He knew about the stone necklace and didn’t tell you, he knew about it all and didn’t tell you. Where I was...what had happened. He knew it all, Severus."

"I am furious with him, Mr. Potter. However, now is not the time to indulge in it, when so much of what we care for is at stake. I will tell him just what I think of him in due time."

Something must have spoken for Severus in his tone of voice because Harry let it drop, and Severus was grateful. Those demons had stayed dormant for far too long, so long even that the scabs of their wounds had sealed and closed to keep the pain away. Lied to, manipulated. No use bringing it up only hours before they died for the man.

They walked for a few more minutes before Severus realized just where they were going. The snow had started up more fiercely, and he wound his scarf around his neck. With Harry firmly at his side, they passed through the southern gate of the London Cemetery.

Severus’ first impression was dreary–here was where the impoverished went to bury their dead. The headstones, if they were made of stone at all, were chipped, decayed. The wooden ones were covered with mold, disgusting in a way that had nothing to do with filth.

They followed the rows up through the cemetery. Harry seemed to know where he was going so Severus followed and tried to ignore the tingles of unease graveyards always gave him. His sisters and mother were buried in Manchester at the family plot, laid to rest with all the other Snapes. His uncles, grandparents, and father were also buried there–bastards, the lot of them, in Severus’ most heartfelt opinion. He would rather die a thousand deaths than be buried there. No, he had made it quite clear that he wanted a plot right beside Remus, so they might spend eternity rotting together in companionable silence.

Severus followed Harry down the rows of head stones, gradually growing more ornate and lovely, until they reached a small section of land that had been closed off with an iron fence. A murmured "Alohamora," and Harry stepped inside.

Nestled beside James and Lily Potter’s ornate, marble headstone sat a snow covered, moldy wooden cross. It was set within a small collection of crosses and marble headstones, all with the name "Potter" on them.

Merlin, coming here was a bad idea.

Harry crouched before the moldy cross. "Potter. 1980-1997."

""This stone is blank. The only thought in cutting it was of the essentials of the grave, and there was no other care than to make this stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man. No name can be read there."" Severus murmured.

Beside him, Harry stiffened up, his shoulders tensing as he rose to his feet. "You know, the irony of it all is, ever since I came back I’ve been telling everyone that Harry Potter is dead." Harry looked up. "And now? He is."

Severus looked down at the simple plaque, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s shoulder. They stood in silence together, the snow falling around them, and looked down at the pitiful cross. Severus wondered if beneath his feet, an empty casket lay with no body, as empty as the life the child had been born into.

"You are not dead, no more than I. Think of this instead, Harry, as a cleansing of those Muggles you were forced to live with, who burned their nephew’s penis with bleach, and locked him in a cupboard when he did no more misbehave than take an extra biscuit from the tin." His fingers tightened on Harry’s shoulder. "You are not that Harry Potter anymore, forced to bow down to anyone. To hell with them, Harry. You’ve seen where they landed. Prison and madness."

Harry looked up at him, his eyes awash with tears.

"Come along, Harry," Severus murmured, and carefully helped the young man to his feet. "Goodbye to them, goodbye and good riddance." He paused, hoping to lighten Harry’s depressed mood, and murmured in his ear, "If they used bleach, they really had no idea what to do with it. Your poor Uncle; do you think Petunia used it as foreplay?"

A little, wet laugh, before the warm weight of Harry’s head pressed onto his shoulder. Severus’ breath hitch. "You’re really morbid, did you know that, Severus?"

"You have no idea."

Chapter 12    

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