Remember Him, or, Penance

Two more tasks to complete - two more, and then I can finally rest. I dread it - because when this really *is* over, when I have done all that I can possibly do, I will have to accept all that has happened. Take stock of the situation. Catalogue the dead. Remember them.

I have not slept for many days, and I stumble as I make my way through the grounds, which are deadly silent now, eerie in the grey twilight, a debris of discarded wands, torn cloaks, shattered glass, and congealing blood.

As I reach the door of the battered hut, my mind turns of its own accord to Hermione Granger and the youngest Weasley, who so recently sought the protection of this place, inadequate as that had been - but they protected the young ones, among them some of my children, and for that I am grateful. I owe Granger a debt which will be repaid; my debt to Ginny Weasley, as was the case with James Potter, never will be in this life.

I do not need to knock on the hut's door; as I approach, it opens, and Potter steps out. He appears to have aged during the course of the day - there is a desperate weariness in his emerald eyes, a helplessness in his manner I have never seen before; and a bitterness in the cool gaze he gives me which reminds me, to my tremendous regret, of myself. Some muggle writer, I believe, once said that we become the thing we hate the most. I would not wish that on Potter...or on anyone. It has, I think, always been his secret fear. Perhaps some of his arrogance could be explained in that way - an acceptance of fate, a recognition that one's happiness is but brief and limited, which gives way to a kind of jaded recklessness. I know it well myself. Many times in the last few years I have risked my life, uncaringly, without fear, simply because I have come to understand that whatever death is, it cannot be worse than this.

Melodramatic, perhaps, but true enough.

Potter gazes at me, his exhaustion and grief evident in those expressive, no-longer-innocent eyes. A lock of dark hair falls untidily across his forehead and without thinking, I reach out and smooth it back. We are both too drained to react with any surprise to this curious, almost affectionate gesture. I do not know myself what compelled me to do it - only that I feel an intimacy with Potter born of our mutual suffering; and our common enemy, by which I do not mean Voldemort, for he is gone: the enemy now is more elusive, difficult to recognise, far harder to defeat. Potter's new foe has been mine already for decades: it has no simple name, cannot be easily explained to those lucky ones who have never known it, but once it sets in, like a chronic illness, it is almost impossible to destroy. A kind of exhaustion born of sorrow; a lack of engagement with the world - the loss of the basic ability to enjoy and appreciate living. I have sometimes wished this on Potter - merely that he would understand me, and perhaps not judge so harshly, for his hatred of me stings deeper than I would care to admit - but now I regret every cruel thought I have harboured against the youth. He looks...distraught.

"Is there something I can do for you, Professor?" he asks, in a soft, tired voice. Always so respectful, on the surface - I believe, though, that he really *does* respect me now; wrongly perhaps, seeing courage where in truth there is only desperation; seeing compassion where there is in reality a need for redemption.

"No," I tell him. My voice sounds gravelly, even to my own ears, the silkiness roughened by exhaustion. "Your godfather is looking for you," I explain, neutrally.

A touch of surprise breaks through his dissipated air, then a moment of self-anger I can almost feel, as though our physical proximity is projecting his emotions into my mind. The night is coming on, and darkness has pushed us together.

"Sirius." He murmurs. "I should never have left him alone...but Hagrid...he was upset. There was no one else to take care of him." A pause. Potter gazes for a moment into the night, then, tentatively,

"Professor...how bad is Sirius?"

The truth would be damaging at this moment, on top of everything else. I have no desire to spend the next hour or so trying to calm the boy. To be blunt would be counterproductive.

"He is exhausted and in shock, I believe, but I'm sure he will recover with time."

Potter nods, but doesn't believe me. Usually I am an excellent liar, the skill being well honed, but tonight I am finding it difficult to organise my thoughts enough even to speak.

"You will find him in the hospital wing." I add, as Potter seems lost in thought.

With a last glance at Hagrid's hut, Potter turns towards the school, and we walk slowly back to the building together.

"I'm sorry about Malfoy." The words come suddenly out of the night. I glance quickly at Potter, but there is little to be seen of him in the gloom. I cannot make out the expression on his face, but his tone tells me he is sincere.

"It was necessary." I reply, simply, my own words feeling like a betrayal of Draco.

"I know." Potter agrees readily enough, but there is sadness in his voice. "But...well, I sometimes wonder how he'd have turned out if it hadn't been for Lucius. If he'd been given a chance. I didn't hate him, you know, Professor - I felt sorry for him in the end."

"Yes." I whisper, disturbed to note that my voice almost breaks on that single word. It is difficult to bear Potter's compassion. He does not understand anything about what Draco suffered as a child...and as a man. He cannot know the complex relationship the boy had with his father, the desperate need to love and be loved which ultimately destroyed him. Potter is right, Draco should have had a chance - and I should have been the one to give it to him. But my own selfish needs...

I force myself to stop. Now is not the time. Afterward, I can wallow in self-hatred for as long as I wish - tonight, I have a final task to do, the greatest of them, the most difficult.

I have to face Albus.

Potter and I part company, he to offer what comfort he can to his godfather , I to find the man who should have been *my* father. He is not in the hospital wing, the first place I look; not in his office, the second. He is not in the great hall, where large numbers of survivors, and relatives of survivors and those who did not live, are congregating, seeking comfort in one another. I scan the large room for Albus, decide he is not there, and am about to leave when a man and woman come over to me. They are clearly Muggles, and clearly in a state of mild shock.. The man holds out his hand to me.

"Professor Snape?"

"Yes?" Again, my voice sounds strained, hoarse and weak. I do not care.

"I wanted to thank you..." the man says chokingly, while the woman beside him, presumably his wife, nods vigorously. "You saved my daughter's life..." I merely gaze at him blankly. He seems to realise that I have no idea who he is, and adds quickly, "My name's Granger..."

"Yes, of course." I murmur - or rather rasp. "I did nothing out of the ordinary, Mr Granger, and further, you should know that your daughter is a remarkable young woman."

Yet another thought I have never been willing to put into words before. I have always held great respect for Hermione Granger; her intellect and her courage. She reminds me a little of myself in childhood - bookish, occasionally too clever for her own good. My jealousy and her association with Potter always prevented my praising her abilities; not that she needed any encouragement from me, getting plenty of attention from the other teachers. Why now do I feel compelled to express my long-hidden admiration for the girl? Coming on top of my behaviour towards Potter, I can only explain it by thinking that there is something very final about everything I do. Every action, every interaction, every word and gesture, feels like the last. Disconcerting. Perhaps it's shock, but I don't think so. A premonition? A subconsciously made decision?

"Professor Snape..." The Grangers are looking concerned.

"My apologies. I was distracted. Have you seen the headmaster?" Find Albus - that is the next task. That is why I'm here.

"He was here about ten minutes ago," offers Mrs. Granger. She is a pretty woman, but at this moment her eyes are red and swollen with crying, and her voice trembles.

"Thank you." I hesitate before sweeping away, and, surprising myself once more, I clasp Mr. Granger's hand again, firmly.

"Please give my regards to Hermione...and Ron," I mutter, too tired to be embarrassed, feeling confused. The Grangers notice nothing out of the ordinary - after all they don't know me - and their words of gratitude follow me as I leave the hall.

Where *is* Albus? The corridors are empty and dark. I pause for a moment to think - where else might he have gone? On a whim I check the Gryffindor common room. Albus is not there - but Minerva is.

She looks up wearily as I enter.

"Hello, Severus."

"Minerva."

"Looking for Albus?" I must look surprised, because she shrugs and offers a half-smile. "So was I. Perhaps he doesn't want to be found."

"Perhaps not. Nevertheless..."

"I know." There is something off-putting about the way she looks at me...with something that might be sympathy in her eyes. She speaks gently, as though concerned about my feelings - as though I am fragile. Do I look so vulnerable, so hurt? I find it hard to accept that people who before considered me as nothing but a waspish, miserable old git - or worse - are treating me now with respect, with affection, or, like Minerva, with kid-gloves. She knows how volatile I used to be, but also, I assume, she realises that the old fire has long since been put out. Life will do that for you.

"Perhaps Albus wants to be alone for a while," she says again, and with that curious, uncanny skill I seem to have developed of reading people's feelings - a side effect perhaps of interactions between the many curses I have been struck with during the battle - I sense that she is hiding something. She has seen Albus, I half-deduce, half-pick up, and it is not her belief in his desire for solitude which makes her try to put me off finding him. She is concerned about *me* - and this realisation brings a touch of fear. Albus' condition must be worse than I'd thought if Minerva is afraid my seeing him would be damaging to me in my apparently *fragile* state. Her attempt at protection annoys me; I am not a child, and even when I was, I was quite capable of managing my own affairs - and feelings.

"I doubt it," I tell her, shortly. "He shouldn't be left alone at this time." A pause, while she resigns herself to my determination. Then I ask,

"Where is he, Minerva?"

"In the Mirror Room," she says quietly. Her eyes meet mine for a moment; there is concern and warning in them. She does not trust me to be delicate when the need arises.

"Thank you," I say stiffly, and storm off with an attempt at my usual graceful irritability. Trying to behave normally. It is harder than I expected.

The Mirror Room. I had hoped it wouldn't come to that.