Remember Him, or, Penance

The battlefield is chaotic, like every other battlefield when the war is finally over. There are bodies everywhere, some of them twisted and blackened, some eerily unmarked, though the life force is equally destroyed. Slowly I move among the dead, the dying, the wounded, desperate to find even one of my children still alive and intact in this place of horror. I cannot imagine that many will have survived - unlike the others, my children were under threat from both sides, from the Dark and from the Light, caught between two powerful opposing forces neither of which truly cared about their fate. My poor lost ones.

Dimly I hear the cries and moans of the injured, and those tending them - a sob of anguish from a familiar voice draws my dazed attention for a moment, and I see Black kneeling over the body of his werewolf, keening something unintelligible. Potter is beside Black, trying to calm him, but it will be a miracle, I muse, if Black's already fragile sanity survives this new bereavement. Potter looks up briefly, his eyes meeting mine for a moment, and then dropping, as though realising there is no help to be found here. Potter and his entourage are not my concern; there are others, plenty of them, to mind the youth and his friends. But I must search for my children, for fear that no one else will.

My search is thus far fruitless - I stumble upon the lifeless body of twelve year old Maria Brockace, one of my second years, forcing myself to gaze for a moment into her empty blue eyes - penance - before gently closing them. I can do nothing for her, and I move on, flitting like a shadow between the cooling corpses littering the once beautiful and peaceful Hogwarts grounds.

I have yet to find what I seek - I do, however, find the Weasley twins. One of them, I know not which, is lying on the ground, covered in blood and convulsing mildly; the other kneels helplessly above him, turning a tear-streaked face to me in mute appeal as I drift past. Barely aware of my own voice I call for help, conjure a stretcher for the wounded man, conjure a blanket to cover him, and leave him and his brother in the care of one of the healers. I move on.

Rain is falling now from a dark grey sky; night is drawing on, the air becoming colder; not much time is left. Those uninjured enough to walk have not been idle - looking around I see no more moving bodies, only still, dead ones, and they very few in number, most having been swiftly spirited away. I move towards the gamekeeper's hut, which is battered but still standing, more or less, reasoning that some sensible child might have taken refuge there. My guess is correct - I find many young ones, cowering in a huddle on the floor. Not one of them older than thirteen or fourteen. They are not alone, however - in a corner crouches Hermione Granger, turning her head anxiously from side to side, trying to locate the source of the sound I make as I enter - her eyes are empty, scorched and blinded by some vicious curse. She is cradling another young woman in her arms - I recognise the youngest Weasley, Ginny. Granger's breathing quickens as I move close to her; to assuage her fears I speak.

"Miss Granger? Miss Granger, do not be afraid. The battle is over. You are safe now."

"Oh, professor..." she sobs, reaching out a dirty, bloody, trembling hand. I take it for a moment in mine. She speaks again.

"Ginny's hurt...we brought the children here to protect them, but part of the wall collapsed. She was trapped...she needs medical attention..."

I gaze down at Ginny Weasley's still form. Her body is broken. Her eyes are open but unseeing. Blood oozes in a chilling trail from the corner of her mouth. No medicine, no magic can save her. Gently I lift the slight body - it is a dead weight.

"I will take her back to the castle. Wait here till I return."

Granger sobs something inarticulate. I carry the poor Weasley girl's body back to the castle in my arms, leave her with Poppy, and return as I promised to the hovel. Granger and the children are there, waiting. The children appear mostly unharmed, though terrified and weeping. Two of them are Slytherins. For the first time in my life I bless the bravery of those headstrong Gryffindors. My children run to me, and I lift them both at once, cradling them as I call to the others.

"Follow me. Stay close." I lead them to the castle, and return once more, for Hermione. Despite her protests that she can walk, I carry her to safety, also.

In the hospital wing, which has been extended as far as possible to accommodate the increasing numbers of wounded, I find Albus, apparently unharmed, but with a dullness in his calm blue eyes which pierces me to the heart, for I know what it means - that in the peaceful days to follow, when all this is really over, there will be fresh grief to be born. I cannot think of that now, and I push the thought away.

"You've done enough, Severus." He says - almost whispers, and I realise again how weak he is, as he grasps my arm as though needing support. "Rest, now."

But I cannot rest - not yet. I have not found my children outside - the only place left to look is here. Gently manoeuvring Albus, who seems to be in shock, to a seat, I scan the hospital wing. Poppy Pomfrey is struggling to maintain professional detachment as she tends to the wounded, some of which will blatantly not recover. On a bed nearby is Hermione, and she is not alone, I am somewhat relieved to observe - her fiancé Ron Weasley is with her, holding her in his arms. He is gently explaining that his sister is dead, while Granger weeps; Weasley does not appear to notice his own tears running down his pale, dirty face. His older brother Bill is also dead, I gather, killed trying to protect his mother and father - successfully, for they are also in the hospital wing, sitting beside the bed of the injured twin (it was George, apparently), who is unconscious but not, I think, dying.

A little further on, I walk right into Black, who is wandering around in a daze. He pauses, drawing back from me, his dark eyes hollow, touching mine briefly before drifting away.

"Snape." He murmurs, almost to himself - perhaps he is cataloguing survivors?

"Black." I reply, coldly. His wandering gaze returns to me.

"All right, are you?" He asks, oddly courteous. I nod sharply.

"And you?"

"I've...been better." A pause. "Remus...he...there was nothing they could do. Thought I ought to tell...have you seen Harry?" His strange calmness is deeply ominous.

"No."

"Oh...all right..." he wanders off, staggering slightly. I continue on my way, searching every inch of the hospital wing.

Not finding what I seek, and realising now that I will never find my children in the way I wish, I make my way slowly through the groaning, weeping, suffering crowd to an innocuous white door. I pause for a moment before opening it - the only place I did not want to find my children is here.

I step inside, nonetheless - penance. It is empty and silent in here; the chaos of the hospital wing seems a million miles away. All I see is peaceful rows of beds, each holding a still, waxlike figure, covered with a white sheet. Before I begin to move among them, I perceive, unexpectedly, that I am not the only one of the living currently disturbing their final rest.

"Filch." Someone must do the job, and it is only to be expected that it would be him. He is moving quietly among the dead, closing their glassy eyes, straightening their broken limbs, covering their masklike faces and stiffening bodies with more white sheets. He weeps as he does this. Looks up as I speak his name.

"Professor. Were you...looking for someone...particular?" His voice is gruffer than normal, but otherwise he speaks as though I have walked into his office asking about students on detention.

"Are you here alone, Filch?" I wonder at such cruelty. Filch is harsh and bitter, not inhuman. Not a monster. There is a difference.

"Hagrid was helping me." He explains, seeming relieved for a few minutes' respite. "Sentimental git couldn't take it...they 'ad to cart him off, give him a potion to calm him down..." Potter's absence was explained, then.

"Where is he?"

"Went to his hut, I think."

I store this information for later use. As for now...I have not yet scrutinised the faces of those lying so still upon their beds. Filch does not object as I lift the covering sheets. The first face is not familiar to me - a middle-aged woman. The second...

...is Draco. For an instant it all becomes too much - I stumble, grabbing the bed for support, Filch moving quickly to my side, holding me up. Penance...

Roughly I thrust the caretaker away from me.

"I'm all right...get back to your work."

He withdraws, eyes remaining locked for a moment on mine, new tears forming in them. Then he returns attention to his tragic duty.

I continue to move among the rows of bodies. They are here, my lost ones, as I had always known, in my heart...I gaze into each of their faces, burning them into my mind. Penance.

The tenth or eleventh sheet I lift reveals the haggard features of Draco's father. As I stare down at him, wondering how it is that I feel nothing at the sight of corpse of someone I once loved and hated with all my soul, memories flit, barely noticed, through my mind, as they did with Draco...Lucius at eleven years old, the first time I met him, confident, self-assured, arrogant as the devil. Thirteen years old, popular, handsome, everything I wasn't. Fifteen - surrounded by admirers of both sexes, sneaking off to Hogsmeade on dates while I stayed at the castle to write his essays for him. In return I received his respect, his protection, and something akin to a twisted form of love - or so I flattered myself. The images flash more and more swiftly, the riffling pages of a photo album - Lucius graduating, a self-satisfied smirk on his face; Lucius screaming not with pain but with ecstasy as the Dark Mark is burned into his arm; Lucius on his wedding day, aloof and beautiful in dress robes of shimmering silver; Lucius murdering the screaming child of a couple who refused to follow the Dark Lord, before her parents' horrified eyes...Lucius, in vibrant, vicious living colour; Lucius, cold, grey, still, dead.

With my heart in my throat I move on.

My next task is to find Potter.