One Mistake

The morning dawn threw glorious light across the sleepers. Birds could be heard twittering like mad. A sweet breeze kissed skin with a gentle touch. Snape wished he were dead.

The morning after has always had a bad reputation, whatever your vice. No one would blame him for going out and quietly getting sloshed. Another death, another battle lost. He had recruited the man himself. He had pointed to himself as an example of a defection from Death Eater ranks that had succeeded, prospered. No one blamed him for taking that murder hard.

There was a delicate groan next to him.

Everyone would definitely blame him for sleeping with Minerva.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione had a migraine. No one was surprised by that. The whole point of the treatment was to tear down her defenses. Pain was famous for stripping you bare. Still, it was less cruel than memory. How she envied Professor Lockhart, also housed on the closed ward. Heaven seemed to her to consist of not knowing, of that peaceful innocence ignorance might grant. Even so, her traitorous mind swirled through the events that brought her to St. Mungo's searching for that one mistake, that one mistake where everything had gone wrong.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Burrow had been many things for Harry over the years. It was his first glimpse of what a magical and loving home could be. He had imagined what his own home and family might have been in a different world based on this place. It had become his refuge against an increasingly difficult situation at number four, Privet Drive. Until this moment the Burrow had never for a single minute been what his actions had made it these past several days...uncomfortable. The family had gathered around the cozy table to eat and, once again, Harry was finding it next to impossible to choke anything down. Ron's glares and Ginny's tear-stained face were more than enough to put him off his feed, but what made it unbearable was Mrs. Weasley's silence. He had seen her so angry that she yelled and shouted her family into submission. He had seen her stand up to her boys with unflinching authority. He had never seen her at a loss for words.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco stood in his cold, elegant room with clothes strewn around him. His mind was fuzzy and indecisive. Alone with no one watching, he found himself embarrassed at this new incompetence. He had never been aware that one could be embarrassed without an audience. He did not care for the feeling.

"I suppose this is what it feels like to be Longbottom, stupid git!" he muttered. "Who knew I wouldn't need you, father, to make me feel like a worm?" He walked to a mirror and gazed at the face within. "You were always so good at that. One word, a look, you made sure I knew I wasn't quite good enough for the Malfoy name, for you." His father's face, except for the pain in his eyes. The famous Malfoy composure was not quite perfect in him. Not today.

"Damn you, father, we all know you will burn in hell. You always knew it too, didn't you? But I won't." The quiet words surprised him. They surprised him greatly. It was a new resolution, and one he hadn't consciously made. Now, born whole in his thoughts it seemed he had never believed anything with so pure a determination. "Oh yes, father," he snarled in a low vicious tone, "I will forge my own path, and I will make my own name! If there is a heaven and a hell, you will find that even eternity can not bring me into your power again." Cool flame crowded out the betraying weakness in his eyes. Steady hands snatched shirt and trousers, then robes, all in black. Funeral attire.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dumbledore gazed out across the school grounds. Tonight would be his turn at the bedside vigil. It was an agony for them all, without exception. Not one of them would think of shirking. Still, this duty seemed to be more onerous, this grief more poignant, than those harrowing sorrows he remembered from the first war. The deaths saddened him, but could not break him. Death was no terror of his. Her wounds would heal, and the cruel black bruises soon fade. It was the look in her eyes that nearly took him to his knees. Those young clever eyes that had already seen more of the ugliest impulses that can infect the human heart than most wizards would see in a lifetime.

And how did this one get by you, Albus? He thought to himself. How did you think to defend every avenue Tom might use...but not this one? Could all my protests against anti-muggle bigotry have blinded me to some hidden weakness in my own attitude?

Those haunted brown eyes would go with him to his grave.