Prologue

Ridiculous



What a ridiculous way to die.

Somehow, that is the only thought wandering back and forth in my head as I lie on the dirty wooden floor.

Of course, it is no one's fault but my own. As was everything, always. But nevertheless. What an utterly ridiculous way to die.

Being struck down on the battlefield by one of my 'previous' allies – would have been expected and not anything to mourn.

Being executed by my own 'official' side for double-crossing – would have been irritating, but completely deserved a punishment for making a slip after years of immaculate spying.

Being struck down on the battlefield by one of my 'official' allies – would have been a logical result of placing myself between a curse and a person, and something I had always felt I was destined to do, for some reason.

Being executed by my 'previous' allies for the murder I have committed – would have been anticipated and generally liberating.

Being killed in a duel by the one person I had always felt I was destined to die protecting – would have been vaguely satisfying.

Being discarded by my 'official' side for reasons of pure convenience – was ridiculous.



If there is one thing about my predicament that is making it even more laughable, it is the fact that I am still alive. Instead of dying quickly and peacefully, with the knowledge of having fulfilled my duty, I have to die slowly and stupidly, with the knowledge of having been revoltingly melodramatic.

The one person I have to thank for that would be myself. No one forced my hand when I downed the potions I had prepared to increase my survival chances in a battle. Increased acuteness of the senses only gave me the opportunity to hear the distant sounds of battle. Enhanced coagulation only served to clot my wounds somewhat and leave the unbearable throbbing pain, which in itself was not enough to pass out on. Reduced heart rate only prevented me from losing enough blood to die, leaving something to remain barely alive, slipping in and out of consciousness but always regrettably returning.

I will last several hours before the effect of the potions wears off, and even if the wounds remain clotted, it will not be long before the combination of pain, blood loss, and the extreme weakness that is the price for drinking survival potions finishes me off.

It will not be long. That is a thought to hold on to. I will last several hours before 'it will not be long'. That is a thought that feels unbearable.

Somehow, the idea of having to wait hours before I can die is even more intolerable than the physical pain. Something in my mind tells me with crystal clarity that I am going to go insane before that. I cannot name a reason for it, because there are too many, entwined and combined in horrendous ways.

I cannot bear this. I do not have to bear this. I will not bear this.

Moving my hand, which inexplicably feels as if made of lead, is an ordeal. After some seconds, stretched beyond any human measure, I succeed in reaching into a miniature well-concealed pocket that has always held an escape. One can hardly be a double agent without always carrying an escape with them.

It will not be long after all. One thought still to hold on to.

My fingers grasp fabric. And nothing else.

No.

Gathering the remnants of my strength, I reach deeper.

Pain. Sharp for a moment, then dulling and fading into insignificance.

No.

I bring my hand in front of my eyes. A few shards of glass are piercing my fingers.

NO!

My eyes shut, I clench my fist on the shards, pressing them deep into the palm. A few drops of blood fall on my face. I feel them mingle with another pair of drops that escape from under my eyelids.

Chapter 1

Sufficient


I open my eyes. Morning. Three quarters past seven, judging from the length of the shadow in front of me. I forcefully stop my hand that tries to fly up to the neck, and the other hand that attempts to grasp around for – something – anything – a wand – a vial – an escape.

I order myself on my feet, reminding myself that there is no more need to grasp at the neck, no more call to look for an escape. I am alive. What a disappointment.

A hot shower takes away some of the soreness that is a direct result of another night in an armchair. Some day, one day, I will be able to sleep in a bed. Until that day, permanently stiff neck and shoulders are a small price to pay for being able to fall into a short-lived blackness before being drawn into dreams that are almost vivid enough to be mistaken for reality. Almost. There is always a part of my mind watching – observing – reminding myself that those are dreams.

Much better than the mind being seized from the midst of the twilight zone, and forced into reliving – believing – the inability to escape. For a few brief moments – judging from the number of times it can happen during the night, or during the few hours I can last before giving up and spending the rest of the night on my feet, pacing the house or wandering the streets under a Disillusionment charm. For hours at a time – judging from the fact that I relive the entire night every time, before opening my eyes and staring in front of myself. This part is possibly the worst – the brief seconds of reality during which I still believe myself to be… back there.

A range of bottles lines the shelf proudly as I open the cupboard. Firewhiskey. Dreamless Sleep. Oblivious Unction. Calming Draught – a particularly concentrated formula, used in the St. Mungo's long-term residence ward.

Every single bottle – untouched and sealed. Leaning to them on one side are two smaller vials. One with a perfectly – almost Veritaserum-clear – transparent liquid, which, as I had the opportunity to find out, does not kill through contact with wounds, and manifests a hitherto unknown added benefit of reacting with blood to leave scars of perfect Avada Kedavra green. Another, almost empty, with a small amount of silvery substance at the bottom.

I retrieve the tea box, a cup and, after a moment's consideration, the near-empty silvery vial.

Only after making a few sips of tea do I realize that I could have been saved the trouble of preparing it the Muggle way – lighting the fire with matches, handling the teapot, pouring. After all, the night was a relative success – according to my estimation, I spent three quarters of it sleeping. Today there is hardly any need to discipline myself by my own self-invented wand veto, imposed for the entire duration of every day preceded by a night spent wandering, pacing or thinking.

For the pure thrill of it, I down the scalding tea in one mouthful and pour another cup by means of a swish-and-flick. I smirk at the odd unconscious sense of elation, as the first spell in a week feels inexplicably like the first spell ever might to a Muggleborn first-year. Holding the wand in front of my eyes, I marvel at how the feel of it is almost unfamiliar after seven days of a completely Muggle existence, and muse on one of the central premises of the Statute of Secrecy. "Muggles would ask for magical solutions to their problems," the Ministry claims. In that case, the Statute serves to protect the Muggles rather than the wizards, because the former would be in for some of the most bitter disappointments in their lives. For what solutions could magic offer to the real problems? What could magic possibly do to bring back the dead, or earn forgiveness, or return self-respect, or hold on to a rapidly slipping sanity?

Magic can kill. But killing is probably one area where Muggles have surpassed the Wizarding World in inventiveness tens and hundreds of times. Magic can heal. But only the body.

Soul, mind, heart – the harming and healing of these have nothing to do with either magic or Muggle technologies. This is one side of life where magic or lack of matters not. The most important side of life.

What could magic possibly do to make someone understand things before it is far too late?

Magic can help one forget, I think, looking at the vial with the silver liquid. Yet however removed the actual memories are from one's mind, they leave traces.

One can remove the memory partially, to simply know the facts of it but isolate the feelings spurred by them. To know, however clichéd, in the mind but not the heart.

One can remove the memory completely. Yet that leaves an uncomfortable hollow in the midst of one's mind, a hollow that feels like a persistent tooth-ache, yearning to fill up, causing one to try to restore the missing moments, and slipping in strange sensations upon encountering notions that are somehow related to the banished events. I estimate that the many-times-considered but never tried course of action of forcefully removing all memories of the night in the Shrieking Shack from my mind would not aid me in getting proper sleep at nights. I would still be unable to bear the thought of lying down, only further aggravated with the inability to explain the reason.

On better days – like this one – I do ponder removing some of those memories temporarily, for the sheer curiosity of whether shreds of memories would still appear smooth and silvery, or roll up into drops, or freeze in shards.

Is there an impassive clerk with a self-inking quill that records everything, watching from the midst of a mind gradually slipping away? Is there any way to retrieve the log of a sinking ship?

There is a way to find out, currently stashed away on the topmost shelf of the same tantalizing cupboard, the result of a few weeks of meticulous crafting, and something I had started working on ever since I discovered my inability to retrieve the last memory from the vial in front of me. Its persistent refusal to settle in my mind finally made me realize that it was simply – not mine. Yet given to me. By accident – hardly.

It took me all these months to get to the bottom of the vial. However tempting it was to pour out its entire contents into my mind immediately and face the welcome death through sheer melodramatic emotional shock, I extracted one memory at a time, wishing I had access to a Pensieve to do them justice.

For want of a Pensieve, I decided to do the best I could, and made a point of visiting every possible place that resurfaced in the memories. A playground across the town. A forest clearing. Platform nine and three quarters – sufficiently Disillusioned. Hogsmeade station – likewise. An unremarkable windswept hilltop. Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. A lake deep in the Forest of Dean. That only left places within the Hogwarts grounds, and therefore out of bounds for me. I did my best to find sufficient replacements.

Cemetery at Little Hangleton. Cemetery at Godric's Hollow. Making tea by hand for two weeks after each.

There was something wrong with the memory resting on the bottom of the vial. It took me several failed attempts to understand it. Moreover, I knew perfectly clear that all my memories were returned to me. Nothing was forgotten. Nothing was hazy. I made sure of that.

Therefore, I became curious. Not as to whose memory I was presented with. That issue was crystal clear. But as to what that one wanted me to see. The very notion of that person going to a certain length to let me see something – was intriguing.

I was hardly busy these days, especially after successfully completing my meticulous tour of memorable places, my afternoons mercilessly idle save for experiments with purely non-magical herb mixtures, the most successful of which had eventually found their way to the local Muggle teashop, saving me the need to inquire whether my never overflowing Gringotts account was terminated by virtue of the owner being a war criminal. There was only so much Meadow Smile or Sunset Delight one could prepare before feeling extremely married to Madam Puddifoot – especially after learning the above 'marketable' names for the perfectly sensible 'chamomile and cornflower' and 'black rose and mint' mixtures. Still, they sold, and I was saved the trouble of interrupting my reclusion.

I occupied my free time by making a Pensieve, however arrogant it was to call the resulting crude disposable affair by that name. I was hardly in a position to procure proper materials. Dumbledore's Pensieve, according to my estimates, was made of magically blended granite and obsidian, while the runes around the edge appeared to be cut manually by a diamond chisel rather than any known or unknown spell. I did not have an opportunity to study any other Pensieves, however little of those were available these days, but I knew enough to understand that I needed the strongest material possible. However, assuming the temporary nature of the thought receptacle required, as only one memory would be viewed, I settled for wood, thoroughly soaked in the most concentrated Strengthening Solution I could brew, and coated with a new level of hardening spells every day of the two weeks it took to mature.

When the last of the Solution was seeping in, I added a drop of Veritaserum in it as an afterthought. Not necessarily the safest course of action, yet the nature of the memory I was going to place in it required precautions, and avoidance of a misleading, whether deliberate or unconscious, was as good as any. The same notion was reinforced by the runes I carved along the circumference.

The hourglass – to show the past. The eye – to see the whole of it. The water – to flow freely. The star – to show the truth through. And the portal – to be able to leave at will.

That last one was not cowardice, I told myself firmly. Simply a precaution. A necessary one, given the source of the memory.

I rise from the table and open the cupboard again, pleased to find my hands steady as they place the homemade Pensieve on the table, as they uncork the vial, as they pour the silvery liquid. There can be nothing in that memory that can possibly hurt me. Not anymore.



I force my eyes open as I smell smoke. The hardened wood is smoldering. I let go of the table edge, having to pry my fingers open with every ounce of strength and vaguely surprised to find the wood of the table not charred like the Pensieve… Don't think of it! Too late…

Don't you DARE.

On your feet. Now. Turn. Three steps to the sink. Cold water in the palms. Careless enough to catch a glimpse of a reflection, pale just as my own face seen in the memory...

I'm not fussing, Hermione, but you cannot possibly understand…

Hands shaking, pouring lukewarm tea, the cup slipping and smashing on the floor before I can bring it to my lips. A puddle of tea with porcelain shards in it…

I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley, I'm fine. Sorry about the cup.

No tea. A glass of cold water. Opening the cabinet. The row of potion bottles…

What do you mean, 'beyond our efforts'? What do you mean, 'all we can do is wait'?

Four shaky steps towards the armchair. Sitting, folding, falling down.

Yes I can bloody well spend the night in this chair if I want to!

A sip of water. Teeth almost clattering against the glass.

I'm NOT losing it, Ron! Your Mum and Dad need you – you should go to them.

The green scars on my palm are observed briefly through the clear glass before it is hurled across the room and shatters on the wall. Face buried in the palms. Wrong thing to do.

Not you too. Everyone's gone now. Not you too.

I wish I had another glass to throw. All I can do is stare at the ceiling, as if the chipping plaster can possibly hold any answers.

"Damn you, Potter."

The words spoken into the silence do not seem to have any impact. I find myself on my feet, and a few seconds later the hapless teapot follows the glass.

"Do you realize what you've DONE?"

The shout in the empty room, accompanied by shattered glass, seems somehow more satisfying. I run my fingers through my hair, staring at the ceiling again. You may have learned earlier that any combination of Potter and Pensieves in one picture results in broken glass, a voice remarks at the back of my mind. A voice I have not heard for almost a year now.

I may have lost another of the few remaining shreds of my sanity just now – but it was good to have a different piece of my old self back. Were it not for the almost-forgotten caustic commentator, I would succumb to the overwhelming urge to sink to my knees and into despair. Anger, however, is a much more constructive emotion.

"Accio wand! Reparo! Reparo! Evanesco! And Hell," I curse, looking down at the state of my own robes. "Tergeo!"

I look around the room, disappointed at the lack of appropriate spell targets, then stride to the table holding the still slightly smoking Pensieve and bring my wand to my temple.

If I am to relive the events of that night, I will do that on my own terms, and through my own eyes rather than through a pair of pitying green ones, I think, tossing my own memory, sufficiently fluid and silvery, into the wooden bowl without removing the one still in it. The dangers – of viewing two related memories, of the unstable Pensieve, of the portal rune barely intact – discarded, I plunge forward.

Chapter 2

Incorporeal



"Harry Potter is dead."*

Voldemort's magnified voice is carried over to the dark room inside a dilapidated building, and a man sprawled on the floor opens his eyes.

"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him."*

The figure tries to move, but all he manages is scrabble his fingers across the floor as if reaching for something, while his deathly pale lips form the word 'no'.

"We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone."*

The eyes close again. The voice speaks more, but is not heard as the man's body is shaken by several terrible, shuddering dry sobs.

I need all of my effort to stop myself from turning away. I have to remind myself that my presence is incorporeal, and there should be no need to seek a wall or a chair to lean to.

The man on the floor lies lifelessly, his face void of any expression. Yet I know what is going through his mind at this time, know it as clearly as if his thoughts were written in the air.

In vain. For naught. All of it.

However brief the words, they take up the entirety of what still remains of his mind. I have to remind myself that my presence is incorporeal, and there should be no need to breathe, and therefore, the feeling of all air being gone from the room is but imaginary.

Lily.

On cue, his fingers close in a fist again, in a hope that the glass shards, already deep in his palm, can possibly bring more pain.

Unconsciously, my eyes fall down to the green lines on my hand.

Forgive me.

How weak, how ludicrous, how pathetic, to make a plea that even he knows not to be answered. Ever.

A long, trembling breath. I have to remind myself that my presence is incorporeal, and I cannot possibly feel any pain, regardless of what the man on the floor may be experiencing.

Let me die already. Fade. Blackness.

Fading into nothingness would certainly be a relief, or at least an expectation of one, because one can hardly feel any relief after one has faded into nothingness.

Blackness. Or not. See her. Be forgiven.

Be forgiven and never see her again, because there is one she loves, and wherever they had gone, they had gone together.

Be forgiven. Or not. See her. Be denied.

Be denied forgiveness, and have nothing to do to earn it, no place to escape, no way to die any further.

See her. Be denied. Or not see her at all.

Cross over and not find her there, not see her at all, have no one to plead to, no one to hope for… No one.

I cannot die now!

Oh, but you can, is it not something you have been waiting for so eagerly, for the past few hours?

I don't want to die!

What a strange desire all of a sudden. And the reason for it?

I… am… afraid…

'Don't call me coward,' indeed. I have to remind myself that my presence is incorporeal, and the man on the floor cannot possibly see me sneer.

I fight an urge to leave and save myself the pathetic display of myself. However, should I decide to be less pathetic, I should cease looking for escapes, even if the portal rune is still intact.

The man in front of me has no means to measure time, and therefore, neither do I. The surroundings, however, do not grow foggy, indicating him still being conscious. There must be a clerk with a self-inking quill after all, I conclude, pacing whatever little space I can cross without approaching the now lifeless-looking body, and trying to think what runes one could apply in order to have better control of the viewed memories. Pure academic interest, as I would definitely neither be making another Pensieve, nor viewing any more memories. Restraining myself enough to view this one to the end may turn out to be more of an ordeal than I might have expected. Inexplicably, not a single rune comes to my strangely distracted mind.

Whatever time has to have passed, passes. I can almost see the pulse on the man's neck now. On the exposed and unscathed left side. To think of how much trouble would have been spared, had Nagini chosen to bite there instead of on the right. No amount of survival potions would have helped me… him then.

The room seems to waver as if in a heat haze. My eyes are drawn to the doorway as I catch the sound on the edge of hearing. Footsteps? Or rather, running feet. More than one pair. Less than three.

Again, I have to remind myself that my presence is incorporeal, and there is no need to step away from the door and into the shadow.

A boy bursts into the room and stops frozen in his tracks, causing the girl that rushes in after him to nearly topple him over. Not noticing it, he takes a few shaky steps towards the body on the floor.

"I can't believe I've forgotten, Hermione," he mutters, looking down at the figure that now looks no more alive than a corpse. From his angle, at least.

I know that this is exactly the point when the man on the floor believes himself to have completely lost his mind.

Sweet welcome insanity. Harry Potter is dead. He cannot be here.

Furthermore, he cannot be here even if he were alive. You are the last person at whose side he would find himself kneeling like he does now.

The girl lays a sympathetic hand on the boy's shoulder and starts lowering herself on the floor next to him before making a soft sound and walking around the body.

"Lumos."

She holds her wand over the man's head, illuminating the display that appears monochrome save for the dark red. A gasp.

"He's bleeding!"

A strange chuckle from the other side.

"What'd you expect, Hermione? You saw what Voldemort did."

The girl's voice is shaking in a mixture of fury and anxiety, while her body language indicates a suppressed urge to slap her companion out of his trancelike state.

"I saw what Voldemort did, Harry, and I know that corpses don't bleed!"

Before the words can sink in, she cuts off strips of cloth from the sleeves of her robes with Diffindo and presses some of it to the wounds that are slowly resuming the bleeding, the previous clotting not enough to keep them closed now that the heart rate is returning.

"Right. Hold these. Carefully," she commands. A hand holds the cloth pressed, less than steadily, while the girl makes more bandages, out of her companion's sleeves this time.

"Hold his head with the other hand while I try to wrap these around. I don't trust my bandaging spell enough at this moment."

No movement on the boy's side, as his eyes seem to be fixed on the lifeless face before him.

"Bloody hell, Harry, you're not going to die from touching him! I don't know how on earth he hasn't bled to death, but he will soon lest we do something!" Hermione Granger snaps angrily. He complies.

"You wouldn't happen to have any useful potion on you, Professor, now would you?" the girl mutters, running her wand over the man's robes after laying the bandage hastily.

"Of course not, you've never made anyone's job any easier. What's this, though?" she reaches for the limp right hand, her eyes widening at the sight of the palm.

"Right. Whatever it was, we'd better not touch it. Harry, we need to do a double Mobilicorpus here to keep him in the air without doing more damage. Oh darn, oh damn, I wish I knew more about medicine. And I don't even have my bag with me! Come on, on the count of three. One, two, three – Mobilicorpus!"

"Mobilicorpus," the boy echoes. The girl holds her wand steady as she tugs on some hair stuck in the puddle of dried blood. For some reason, that small detail seems to mildly nauseate my incorporeal self. It may, however, be the fact of this being the second time of leaving the Shrieking Shack unconscious and hoisted in the air. Or, possibly, the effect of watching my not-quite-corpse being lifted in the air, however carefully and with different spells.

Soon, I find myself forced to run to keep up with the two as they rush down the underground passage maintaining the body in the air between them with surprising skill. I am surprised to find them have enough breath to swap remarks as the boy suddenly regains some speech.

"Damn it, Hermione, why didn't you bring your bag?"

"Well, pardon me for not dragging our entire camp and stock of potions with me wherever I go, especially after the end of it all!"

"I thought you always had dittany handy?"

"Pray explain how it would have helped a corpse! You told me he was dead!"

"He was! I thought he was!"

"Oh, look who's finally doing some thinking!"

"Stop sounding like him, Hermione!"

"Somebody has to, it seems! Just because you don't like someone doesn't mean you can't learn something from them!"

"Learn? Learn what?"

He has to wait for the answer for the minute it takes them to immobilize the Whomping Willow and climb out of the hole, the body trailing in the air behind them. The girl pushes her hair out of her face and measures the boy with a stern look.

"Well, for one thing, the way I see it, were your body hanging in the air and him helping me transport you, he wouldn't waste his breath arguing! Now step on it."

They run off. I remember to follow barely in time not to be banished from the memory, my incorporeal mind feeling strangely empty at the moment.

I have seen this before, I realize as I watch the two reach the Hospital wing, blessedly choosing empty corridors to run through and at least saving their charge – me – the humiliation of being dragged through the entire castle in the present sorry state.

Madam Pomfrey gasps softly, but asks no questions as she opens the doors of a separate ward.

"Over here."

I watch my body lowered on the bed with surprising care and see color drain from the matron's face as she points her wand at the bandage to see the wound before unwrapping it.

"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear," she whispers.

"Can you save him?" the boy asks in a strangely quiet voice, speaking for the first time after the brief conversation near the Whomping Willow.

"You've certainly done everything right, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, but the damage… I'm afraid there's very little I can do… By all rights, he should have been dead… for some hours already…"

"He's not going to die," Harry Potter states, his attempt at sounding confident disrupted by the tremor in his voice. Hermione's eyes dart from him to Poppy Pomfrey and back.

"Leave him to me now, Mr. Potter, I'll do what I can," the woman speaks as she ushers the two from the room. Before she can do that, however, the boy approaches the man, whom I know for certain to be deeply unconscious at the moment.

"Don't you DARE," he demands angrily before turning on his heel and stalking out. Hermione watches him for a moment before hurrying after him. I have no choice but to follow, making a mental note of being right to dispute the notion of people in a coma hearing what is being said to them. Potter is hardly in a position to make orders, and the person he is trying to order around is hardly in one to follow any – but had I heard it in my faint, there would have been a high probability of dying out of pure spite.

In the corridor, I lean against the wall out of sheer habit, incorporeal or not, and observe the boy wearing a hole in the stone floor.

"I can't believe it, Hermione! Very little she can do! This is ridiculous! She's gotten people out of worse fixes, hasn't she?"

"I don't know, Harry," the girl replies quietly, watching him from her position against the wall just opposite me. He is not satisfied with the answer.

"I wish someone knew, then. Maybe at St. Mungo's…"

"He cannot possibly survive the trip. Apparition is out of question, and any other means are too slow. Not much point now because-"

"Because he's going to die anyway, is that what you mean?" he spins, glaring angrily. She looks down.

"If that's what you think, why did we bother dragging him here from the Shrieking Shack at all?"

"You'd rather leave him there, then? For Merlin's sake, Harry, I know what you've been through, and that's the only reason I'm still here! You're completely intolerable! And I can't believe you're fussing – yes, fussing! – over Snape of all people like that! One would think he was-" she trails off.

"One would think he was what, Hermione?" Potter asks, stopping in mid-step.

"Your best friend, or something," she shrugs, obviously swallowing the first answer.

"Or something," the boy mutters, sitting down on one of the chairs. Hermione lowers herself next to him.

"It was somewhat of a shock for me too, when you told me he's been on our side all this time," she admits.

"You always gave him the benefit of doubt, though."

"Well, yes. But it was never, well, personal for me like it was for you, if you know what I mean…"

"I know what you mean…" he sighs. "And I'm sorry for being intolerable. I'm not fussing, Hermione, but you cannot possibly understand…"

"You can tell me if you'd feel better for it."

"No… not yet. Sorry. There are things I need to work out on my own."

"Alright. I'll go check on Ron and Ginny and be back in a moment."

"Right."

She leaves, and the boy leans his elbows on his knees, burying the fingers of his hands in his hair.

The clock against the wall seems to blur briefly, showing that half an hour has passed.

Molly Weasley appears at the other end of the corridor.

"Harry, dear."

He forces a weary smile on his face.

"Good to see you, Mrs. Weasley. I never got a chance to say how amazing you were."

"Did you see – Oh, of course you did," she smiles weakly, but genuinely. "There will be plenty of time to discuss everything, dear, but you definitely need to rest now."

"I'm fine," his answer seems to leave his lips bypassing the brain completely. The woman sighs.

"Then again, you probably know best. I hope Madam Pomfrey won't mind me taking over her teapot for a few moments."

"She's… busy right now, so I guess not."

A few minutes later, Potter is twirling a teacup in his hands, his eyes fixed on it and unwilling to look anywhere else. However little empathy I am generally capable of, his wish to be left alone is clear even to me. But not to the woman by the boy's side.

"Harry, Hermione told me what happened."

"Uh-huh."

"None of us have any reasons to doubt your judgment."

"Uh-huh."

"However," she pries carefully, "we cannot help but wonder-"

"If you cannot help but wonder, Mrs. Weasley, then you do have a reason to doubt my judgment. Or else you and whoever else is wondering with you, would not wonder," Potter replies in a voice so level he could be making a statement in court.

"I was just trying to say that should, Sna-, um, Prof-, um, Severus recover, Kingsley would really like to talk to him."

Were there time, I would be amused at her fumble with my name, but there's a crash as a cup shatters on the floor.

"Harry, you look pale, darling."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley, I'm fine. Sorry about the cup."

"Reparo. So, I was saying-"

"No."

"Sorry, dear?"

"No one's going to talk to him unless he says he wants to talk to them."

"But Harry…"

"No one," the boy repeats, looking in front of himself. I have to remind myself that I am still incorporeal, and he cannot possibly see me, even though his eyes seem to be directly on me.



My head turns together with those of the other two as the doors to the ward open. The boy, against my semi-expectation, does not get to his feet, simply looking up at Madam Pomfrey, his face a picture of hopelessness rather than a silent question. The matron gives him a kindly look – kindly, yet sad.

"I've done everything possible, Mr. Potter."

"He's…"

"He's alive, but it is beyond our – or anyone's – efforts right now. All we can do is wait."

Patience is definitely not something that Potter could ever master easily – nor is he capable of it now as he leaps to his feet again, nearly knocking the hapless cup out of Mrs. Weasley's fingers.

"What do you mean, 'beyond our efforts'? What do you mean, 'all we can do is wait'?"

The expression on Poppy Pomfrey's face shows that she, just as before, does not appreciate being shouted at in her own kingdom.

"I mean exactly what I said, Mr. Potter," she speaks more sternly than before. "He has lost a lot of blood and survived without aid for a truly unrealistic amount of time, especially given his less than hearty constitution. From what I could judge, the very fact of Professor Snape's survival until the moment you and Ms. Granger have delivered him here can only be accounted for by an extraordinary power of will – hardly the will to live, even, but rather the refusal to die. That, and the fact of him being the Potions Master, of course. All we do now is hope that his take on staying alive remains unchanged."

"Right. Right," mutters the boy, sitting back down.

"Now, Mr. Potter, I will not insist on you doing anything like getting some rest or eating something while Molly, who has kindly agreed to help, and I tend to my other patients – because I have treated you often enough to know how completely intractable you can be unless severely bed-ridden. However, should you indeed care about Severus's well-being as much as you appear to, I will trust you not to disturb him."

She walks off, trailing a slightly aghast Molly Weasley behind her. I find myself desperately wishing for a way to review parts of memories to be able to make sure I have heard all the words correctly. Against my will, I am reminded of the drop of Veritaserum, the confounded precaution that has mercilessly cut off the possible excuse of mishearing.

The surroundings blur briefly again and reappear, as if unchanged. I find my eyes drawn to the clock, the first impression being that it is still the same nine in the morning, the second realization, assisted by the darkness outside the window – that, in fact, twelve hours have passed. The third realization is that the hallway appears empty, which makes little sense, for the sheer reason of my being able to remain there.

Footsteps indicate two people approaching.

"Are you sure, Hermione?.." a male voice asks just out of sight.

"Trust me, Ron, he's here alright," the girl answers, turning the corner. "Hold this," she says, thrusting a mug and a plate into Ron Weasley's hands and approaching the chair in which she – and I – have last seen Potter. Her hand passes through the air, meeting no obstacle.

"Very smart, Harry," the girl makes a face and reaches out in the direction of the other chair, her fingers grasping something invisible this time and revealing Potter, hunched, weary-looking and irate.

"Next time you try to make it look like you actually left this place, at least be bothered enough to create a believable illusion of yourself sleeping in your dorm, and sit further away from where you used to be."

"I'll keep that in mind," he answers, looking too tired to snap back. Or simply resigned.

"You can't spend the night in this chair, you know," the red-haired boy states, eyeing his friend warily, no wonder being forewarned of the dangers of arguing with him at this time. Hermione Granger rolls her eyes and shakes her head as Potter snarls back, too predictably for her already,

"Yes I can bloody well spend the night in this chair if I want to!"

"Of course he can, Ron," the girl sighs in the typical female 'I told you so' fashion. "He can spend the night, and the following day, and the next week in this chair if he wants to, and there is nothing we can say or do to persuade him otherwise, so we're not even going to try, right?"

Ronald Weasley nods, while Potter eyes the two suspiciously. His sentiment is justified, as Granger draws her wand and taps it over her hand meaningfully.

"However, he knows that I am fully capable of putting a Full Body-Bind on him and pouring a Dreamless Sleep potion down his throat even if Ron refuses to cooperate with me for the fear of future retribution-"

"Hey!"

"Well, I don't think Harry would hit or hex me," she smiles mischievously, "you on the other hand… Nevertheless, he is fully aware of the truth of my words, and would rather eat these sandwiches and drink the hot chocolate we brought, knowing that the sooner he does that, the sooner he will have us out of his hair. Is that correct, Harry?"

Potter looks at the two silently for a few moments before something resembling a smile crawls onto his face – not forced this time.

"Can you ever be not correct, Hermione?" he chuckles lightly, reaching for the mug and almost bringing it to his lips before pausing.

"I'd rather one of you take a sip first, though. Joking!" he adds hastily, drinking from the mug hastily as a wand is pointed his way. The wand does nothing but deliver a sandwich, which he picks up from mid-air.

"Thanks, guys," Potter speaks after finishing eating, his previous attempts at speaking thwarted by the threats of Silencio should he say another word before the food is gone.

"Really. I mean it."

Hermione smiles, while Ronald looks positively relieved.

"Good to have you back, mate. I knew Hermione was exaggerating."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you were. He looks quite normal, although one would indeed think he's losing it, stuck here for the whole day."

"I'm NOT losing it, Ron!" Potter retorts, immediately back to the defensive stance. "Your Mum and Dad need you – you should go to them."

"Sorry, Hermione," the freckled teen mutters as the girl shrugs. Potter finally makes an attempt at self-restraint, obviously remorseful over the lash-out.

"Really, guys. You're both needed elsewhere."

"What about you, Harry? What about people who need you?"

"You two know where to find me. Besides…" he looks down, not bothering to conceal a sigh. "Everyone's got someone. Right?" he shoots them a questioning look. Ronald's hand finds Hermione's just as her fingers reach out for his.

"Right," Weasley confirms.

"Right. So everyone needs someone, and everyone's got someone. While I have a place I need to be right now. Do you think I could have that, at least for a little while?"

The couple looks at each other before nodding at Potter in unison. He manages a weak smile again before the girl drapes his Cloak over him again. I feel a pang of undisputable envy. Understanding is a gift given to precious few, and the 'precious few' where I never belonged seem to include Potter, again. Issues of gifts being deserved or not disregarded.

The boy's disembodied voice feels strange in the empty corridor.

"Everyone's got someone. But somehow, as soon as I think I've got someone – they're gone. Not you too. Everyone's gone now. Not you too."

Part of me wonders whether he realizes he is saying those words aloud. I rationalize that the very fact of me hearing them puts that well out of question.

Chapter 3

Belated



Mercifully, the scene seems to shift, and I find myself behind the doors of the ward, taking in the surroundings and thinking that the person seemingly asleep in the bed would have blended very easily with the bed sheets, were it not for his black hair. I know myself to be conscious at this point in time, yet for the life of me cannot recall the exact thoughts, possibly for the lack of them.

No thoughts. Only sensations. Silence. Comfort. Solitude. Dulled pain. The combination of these seem to indicate being alive. Torn between resentful disappointment and the impossibly reluctant, yet all-encompassing, sweeping sense of relief. An immediate stab of self-despise spurred by it. Followed by the contemplation of sanity or lack of.

I observe myself stir ever so lightly, pause to see if the movement provokes any reaction on the part of the rest of the world, then open the eyes carefully. At this time, the room does not swim in front of them as it used to. A further experiment in moving results in discovering a bandaged neck, the mobility of which I did not dare test at the time, and a likewise wrapped-up right hand. I can recall marvelling at Poppy Pomfrey's talent, the only reason finger movement appeared possible even then.

Whatever little could be done at this point in time, my bed-ridden self has already attempted, and the incorporeal part of me has no choice but to sit down in one of the chairs in the other end of the room – or concentrate enough to imagine sitting there, at least – and try to ponder the meaning of some words heard earlier.

What could possibly explain Potter's strange sentiments towards my extremely humble – especially at the time – person? The excursion to the Shrieking Shack was intended as a corpse-retrieval mission, something I could remotely expect from a Gryffindor such as Potter. The appearance of – however inappropriate the word sounds when applied to the person in question – guilt at my breathless-appearing body could barely be comprehended, possibly categorised under the feelings one could experience over forgetting to tend to the fallen of their own side. The strange conversation with Hermione Granger along the underground corridor could be attributed to the shock – quite easily, an unpleasant one – of finding me alive. I would be the first person to admit that it complicated matters quite a bit.

The rest, however, made very little sense – and the only reason for using this rather mild formula instead of a categorical 'made no sense whatsoever' would be my general reluctance to reject hypotheses, however improbable, without at least a token consideration.

The hypotheses, however, are too unthinkable to consider.

I am temporarily saved the unpleasantness by the ward doors opening to admit Madam Pomfrey, closely followed by none other than Potter himself, appearing paler and somehow older since our last one-sided meeting in the corridor.

"As you can see, Mr. Potter, Professor Snape is well on his way to recovery, but I regret to inform you that he has not woken yet," the matron informs in a low voice, the emphasis on her final words indicating a question asked too often even for her saintly patience.

"It's been two days."

Has it? I have, apparently, failed to notice how brief my short spells of consciousness truly were throughout that time, nor did I recall any ministrations, that have undoubtedly taken place, given Poppy's comment on my current state.

"Indeed, Mr. Potter, as you have astutely noted, is has been two days, and I cannot help but notice how the majority of your activity throughout them seemed to revolve around the Hospital Wing one way or another. However glad may all of your friends be for the frequent visits you pay them, I am regretfully forced to state that you are hereby banned from visiting the patients until you appear healthier yourself. An alternative, of course, is occupying one of the beds in the neighbouring ward to finally give me a proper chance to tend to you."

"I'm perfectly fine!" The boy backs out quickly from under the matron's scrutinising look until she has a chance to prove otherwise.

"But you'll tell me when he wakes up, won't you?" he asks from behind the door already.

"As I promised, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey assures him, following him. The doors close.

I feel deep gratitude to the water rune etched into the, apparently and miraculously, still intact wooden Pensieve, allowing to transit between interrupted memories smoothly and saving me the tedious hours of observing myself pretend to sleep. A welcome change makes itself apparent on what seems to be day four, when I can see myself attempt to sit up, having previously made sure of the absence of the matron. The attempt would count as successful, were it not for said matron sweeping in as soon as my bare feet touch the floor.

"Good evening, Professor," she says with a smile, her expression all of a sudden making me feel like a student caught in the middle of a mischief – a rather unfamiliar sensation, assuming how getting caught was usually the job I would leave up to the less elegant mischief-makers.

"I'd say 'welcome back', but I do realise that the welcome would be rather belated."

This earns a raised eyebrow.

"Do you honestly think that your prolonged rest would not appear unnatural to me, given the nature of your injuries and the complete lack of sleeping potions among the remedies I have been administering you? That, even disregarding the sensory charms the wards are equipped with to inform me of the true state of my patients?"

The expression on my face is truly amusing at this moment. I recall the main train of thought going through my mind at that moment being along the lines of 'blast'. That, and feeling extremely foolish.

For want of alternatives, the embarrassed part of me lies back down, while the amused one observes.

"I understand that you may be feeling less talkative than usual at the moment," Madam Pomfrey continues, "however, rather than subjecting you to more diagnostic spells, I would rather employ the natural way of checking whether your voice chords remain undamaged."

That is something I vaguely remember wondering myself, despite a large part of me that would prefer having lost the voice completely and therefore being saved the trouble of speaking ever again.

"I…" I hear myself begin, the single sound being the entire vocal extent I can manage before a cough fit gets the best of me, and wondering whether coughing is a good idea. No warning, however, comes from the matron, so after clearing the throat enough, my recovering self tries again,

"I think I'm fine."

"Wonderful." The matron smiles, and even the observing part of me cannot help but revel in the momentary feeling of comfort and the guilty wish to remain in the rather unfamiliar state of being, if not cared for, then at least taken care of.

The feeling, however, is indeed momentary as the memory of a promise said to have been made resurfaces, and with it, the burning desire to make a plea and the sheer impossibility of admitting the need to do so.

"However fine you feel now, Professor," Poppy Pomfrey continues, "it is still advisable to spend as much time as possible resting and leaving most of the healing to your own body, and only the remaining little share – to my little remedies."

My eyes follow her gesture to the small row of potions bottles on the nightstand.

"It will, nevertheless, make my job easier if you are kind enough to sit up whenever the remedies are to be administered. That will be my only request for you."

I watch myself nod quietly, my expression almost calm enough to conceal the inner agony between the wish to make my own only request and the insufferable pride that I would not be able to let go of even if I wanted.

Madam Pomfrey turns and heads for the doors. I see my lips part as if to speak, then close again. No. No pleas. No more.

"Incidentally, Professor," the woman speaks as she turns, her hand on the door handle, "my professional opinion is that peace and quiet will be as beneficial as any potion to your health right now. Therefore, visitors are out of question for the time being. Should you wish to dispute my recommendation, however…"

She does not finish the sentence, watching me attentively and expecting a reply. I remember experiencing the already familiar overwhelming feeling of relief, and the compulsory accompanying guilt. Nevertheless, I compose myself enough to speak.

"Thank you."

She smiles again and departs. I observe myself lie back on the pillow and take a deep breath. Another observation I cannot help but make is that, quite possibly, sometimes, the gift of understanding may be granted even to the ones not belonging to the elite circle. However underserved the gift may be.

Peace and quiet indeed seem to do my health a world of good, and even hearing Potter's voice outside the ward doors rather frequently – more frequently than desirable, definitely – do not provide a sufficient enough disturbance. During the next few days, the most exciting activity my bed-ridden self gets up to is testing one's strength to first stand up and then – walk across the room. Both ventures are eventually successful, and whatever Madam Pomfrey's sensory charms may inform her of, she makes no comment during her visits.

The more time is spent awake, however, the clearer it becomes that this spell of peace, already much, much longer than deserved, is coming to an end, and the best way to face that end would be sufficiently dressed and on one's own feet – rather than being escorted to a courtroom, or Azkaban, which is more likely, garbed in a hospital gown.

Another session of planning an escape – a familiar activity, to say the least – is interrupted by a discussion on the other side of the doors.

"Harry, do you honestly think he'll appreciate you being the first thing he sees upon waking up, especially considering the circumstances he saw you last?" Hermione Granger's voice is carried through the slightly open door.

"I don't think he'll appreciate anything, Hermione, and frankly – I couldn't care less," Potter's voice replies. Both of myself present in the room share a smirk. Nothing else was expected, certainly. Which, unfortunately, still fails to explain Potter's insistent wish to see me, my older self notes.

"I'm not doing this for him, you know. I'm doing this because I feel I have to. So my reasons are utterly selfish. He'd be pleased to hear that, at least."

"Even though you couldn't care less."

"Exactly! Now please watch out for Madam Pomfrey, I overheard her saying she was leaving for Mungo's, which should take her at least an hour. I only need a few minutes, okay? And do watch out, because I won't be able to go to Australia with you if she skins me alive for disturbing her favourite patient."

The girl's reply is a mixture of a huff and a chuckle, half-lost as the door closes after admitting Potter, appearing healthier and cleaner since his last appearance, and dressed in Muggle clothes.

The boy approaches my prone figure that is busy perfectly imitating deep sleep.

"So," he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. I observe with some interest, because while this visit of Potter's is definitely part of my own memories, I was saved the pleasure of seeing him during it.

"Um. Glad to see you're doing better, Professor. Merlin, do I sound stupid or what? You can't hear me. And good thing, too, 'cause I wouldn't be here if you could."

"I do sound stupid," he concludes astutely, "but that's no different from what you'd say anyway, so it should be okay."

I raise my eyebrow at the uncharacteristic delivery of half a dozen of generally correct statements in a row. In the meantime, the boy retrieves a painfully familiar vial from his pocket. It has been a long time since I had to remind myself of my being incorporeal, yet I have to do it again to avoid the strange desire to have the power to interfere.

"Figured I should return these," Potter says, fiddling with the vial before placing it on the nightstand alongside Poppy's 'little remedies', then taking it again.

"Can't risk it…" he mutters, then assumes a strange expression before placing the vial in my hand, careful to allow as little contact as possible, but forced to close my fingers over the glass. I take pride in maintaining the perfect illusion of sleep throughout the entire interaction.

"There. That's all, then."

If that is all, why is the boy standing there with an all too familiar look of unease – or rather, awkwardness?

"By the way, I don't believe that thing about unconscious people able to hear when they're spoken to," he blurts all of a sudden. I smirk slightly, remembering the painfully suppressed urge to do the very same when I first heard the words. Turns out we share a belief. How ingratiatingly sweet.

"Then again, you're supposed to be simply sleeping now, so it doesn't even apply. Anyway."

He shuffles his feet.

"It's funny what thoughts can come to one's mind, you know. The most bizarre ideas possible, it seems. One hounding me lately, for example, seems to be the wish to get hold of a Time-Turner and travel some seven years back, to slip a bookmark in my first potions textbook, in the page on bezoars. Silly, huh. It's not like it would change anything, of course. Oh, and another textbook, of course… Turns out you did manage to teach me something. Had to learn the hard way, the dunderhead that I am, of course. Still."

After a few seconds of seemingly self-absorbed silence, Potter mutters,

"Idiot. Who cares to know that?"

He continues in a more normal voice, however,

"What I'm actually spectacularly failing to say here, Professor – good thing you can't hear me, huh, because you'd have thrown me out after the first twenty seconds, I reckon… Damn. There I go again. What I mean to say, however, is… Thank you. It'd be rather hypocritical to say 'for everything', of course… But still. Thanks. For everything that gratitude is due for. Which is more than I could've expected. Of course, even if you heard me say this, it wouldn't really change anything, would it? Some things can't be fixed with a 'sorry' or 'thank you', because… because some things can't be fixed. It's too late to change anything. Not only stupid now, but also dramatic, am I? I'm being honest, though. And – and I'm off before I talk enough gibberish to have to find someone to Obliviate me to save myself the embarrassment."

Potter turns on his heel, but does not start walking before taking a deep breath. Or is it a sigh?

My corporeal and incorporeal self share the feeling of complete obliviousness to the surroundings for the indefinite amount of time after the door closes. The observer, however, obviously needs more time to recover, for seeing the display in addition to hearing the words heard earlier and originally filed away under 'strange, save for future consideration' had a more profound impact than expected.

In fact, by the time I emerge from the strange thoughtless state, I can see myself finishing getting dressed in robes found in a nearby cabinet – definitely mine, but clean and whole, no doubt fetched from my own quarters by the all-understanding Madam Pomfrey. I can but admire her after finding my own wand stashed away neatly in one of the pockets. Obviously, the wise woman knew me enough to understand that should I wish to leave, lack of a wand would possibly slow me down, but not stop me altogether.

It appears to be well past midnight, and the castle is quiet as I follow myself to the main gates and across the grounds, no Disillusionment charm employed. Hiding, after all, is not my priority at this moment – unlike the wish to spend whatever little time I have left, at home and free of distractions. Were my house connected to the Floo network, I might have had the nerve to stroll into my quarters and use the fireplace. As it is not, I make my way across the grounds to the nearest Apparition-possible point.

My unsuspecting self holds the wand ready while the observing part of me cannot help but wince. Even after all these months, remembering this moment makes me cringe badly.

"Glad to see you're doing better, Professor."

Then again, it could have gone worse. At least I mustered enough self-restraint to prevent myself from turning. Now I can see that Potter did not even bother with his Invisibility Cloak, simply hovering in the shadow of a pillar. It is also easy to remember the exact wording of thoughts travelling through my mind at that moment.

Liar. Cheat. Sneak. You should have been in Slytherin.

"Actually, I really am going to Australia with Hermione," Potter notes to my back. "Nevertheless. Thank you. I wanted to say it while being sure that you can hear me."

I watch myself Disapparate, ending the momentary yet painful struggle to prevent myself from turning around, and not yet knowing what the following months would contain.

The observing part of me is finally forced back to reality, knowing full well that whatever this night will contain, sleep will not be an integral part.

Chapter 4

Theoretical


I cannot help but welcome my return to reality, trying my best to persuade myself that the mild nausea experienced is the result of small yet persistent amounts of smoke inhaled by my corporeal body, hunched over the severely charred Pensieve for what, judging from the clock on the kitchen wall, appears to have been a few hours. I am unwilling to admit, even to myself, the return of the old dislike for viewing my own memories. It had never been particularly pleasant, mostly for the objective reason of being forced to relive moments I had not relished even the first time. Another consideration was the strange, yet highly uncomfortable mix of forced detachment – how else can one feel when observing oneself from the side? – and repressed empathy. Not to mention that travelling through shreds of interrupted memories, and incomplete recollection of my thoughts throughout it, gave me a persistent feeling of suffering a form of dementia, possibly defensive amnesia. How many fates worse than that could there be, for someone who has always been trying so hard to discipline his so often disobedient mind?

Quite a few, actually, the mind in question supplements. I reach for the wand to replace my own memories in my head and the other one – in the vial, then put a logical conclusion to the Pensieve with an Incendio. It takes a degree of self-control to stop myself from performing the last action first.

For the remaining part of the day I find my thoughts scattering and refusing to cooperate, as I Repair the offensive cup neglected earlier, as I seek cowardly refuge in my tea-lore, as I force down some dinner, prepared the Muggle way to purposefully prolong my being occupied. In the evening, however, when the bags with half a dozen new tea mixes based on early summer flowers and herbs line the counter, and the cup rests in the cupboard together with the dinner dishes, I walk to the living room. Lighting the fire in the fireplace with my wand, I turn to look at the room and am filled with a sudden sense of sorrowful pity with an aftertaste of revulsion, as I seem to truly see my living room for the first time in weeks, or possibly months.

Dust lining the bookshelves that cover the walls. Which would not be as bad, were it not for an even thicker layer of dust on my working desk at the window, not a single disturbance to indicate anything being done at the desk or even taken from it – indeed, not even approached. The high-backed chair usually occupying its rightful place facing the desk and back turned to the window is currently in the opposite corner of the room – not quite in the corner, but close enough. The couch normally facing the fireplace – moved to a location not far from that of the chair. I am struck with the realisation that both the chair and the couch are positioned in a way that allows their occupant to see both doors – the one leading to the rest of the house and the front one – as well as the window. Slowly, I make my way across the room, trying to fully comprehend the nature of the person living in it.

Were it not for my knowledge of that person leaving the house only to make deliveries to the local teashop or wander the streets on particularly stormy nights, I would assume that the room spoke of someone who only ever comes home for brief spells of sleep – too brief to even bother with a proper bed, the couch sufficing for the few hours of shut-eye before being on one's way. Unfortunately, the above knowledge leads me to a more unpleasant conclusion regarding the occupant – rather than a person too busy to live in his house, a person too afraid to live, in his house or anywhere else. The room indeed seems to reek of fear. Everything in it – the armchair and couch turned to keep the entrances visible, the untouched desk, a book lying abandoned on the floor near the shelf it must have fallen from.

A person who has lost everything worth fighting for – and after all these years, finally admitted defeat. A person who was afraid to die – and yet did not muster the strength to live.

"Severus Snape," I speak into the silence of the room, trying to tie the name in with it, with the image of the person formed in my mind. Failing.

Severus Snape should have died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. At best, Severus Snape should have been in Azkaban for a year already.

I can remember the days that followed my escape from the Hospital Wing. I was busy putting what little possessions I had in order, so as not to be called a slob in addition to the Death Eater and the murderer that I was. I was eagerly expecting Aurors at my doors. Two days, I gave them. Two days to learn of my disappearance and question whoever they could find about my location.

My wait, however, became prolonged as no-one showed up, and the initial attempts to have as little contact with the house as possible became a habit. By the time I realised that no one would come for me, the limbo of the state of expectation had become a status quo, a status quo I was unwilling to let go of at that point. So I gave myself another week, persuading myself that I had been simply given a brief respite to face the Wizengamot in a less faint condition, and another week insisting that the Ministry must have had a lot to do those days. Too busy to bring the murderer of Albus Dumbledore to justice. It sounded unconvincing even to me. Yet two weeks turned into four, months went by, winter came and left, spring brought summer, and here I was, for the first time seeing the life I have been leading for this year. Between the poles of living and existing. Not quite at the very end of the axis, but the second worst stage, possibly. Surviving.

Ironically, I feel that I have one and the same person to thank both for my failing to die when death was due and for escaping my rightful fate. Potter had saved my life. And judging from what I have seen in his memory, it was none other than Potter that persuaded the Ministry to leave me alone.

Who is to blame, then, for my turning into the person refusing to live beyond surviving, afraid to sleep at nights and unable to conquer his own mind?

Surely you are not trying to blame the child for this too, are you?

Who is to blame, then?

Any bright ideas, Professor?

With a few wand movements, I restore the room to its usual state, then force myself to move away from the mantelpiece to which I have just found myself leaning throughout the entire journey down yet another memory lane. Today must truly be a day to remember, so to speak. What day is it, come to think of it? I know it is June, the first half of it, judging by the plants and the stars, but what day?

My hand finds the mantelpiece again as the enormity of the question seems to press on me. I shake my head and make myself walk to the desk, lighting a few candles on the way. As I sit down, back firmly turned to the window, I ask myself another one. What is it that I was trying to achieve throughout this year? What have I done, apart from surviving?

The answer comes quickly. Memories. The deliberately careful and thorough viewing of the memories seemed to have an underlying purpose, and only now do I realise it. Some part of me, the part that was unsettled with the wrongness of being alive and free, has been trying to lead me through a set of motions and close the circle logically. It was just a classical passing of one's life in front of one's eyes, only stretched out in time. What would the next step be?

I twirl the wand in my hands, well aware of both the answer and the fact that my current expression can possibly be best described as 'horrified'. It must have been indeed long since I last tried to discipline my mind, if I was blind enough to allow it play such tricks on me. On me! My own mind!

I dedicate the next few hours to Occlumency exercises, disgusted by the need to use the candle flame during the first hour, failing to concentrate properly otherwise. Me!

The revulsion at that, however, soon takes its place with the rest of the emotions, leaving me nothing but cold, cool, rational thought. The last impulse that is safely tucked away is a strange feeling of satisfaction at having discovered my condition, however belatedly. The accompanying thought of the actual circumstances that forced my eyes open is locked up as well, however logical it may be.

It is time now to analyse the issue that had been safely filed away for months, until deliberately – quite deliberately – unleashed today. The uncharacteristic behaviour of a certain individual in respect of another. That would sum up the problem in general terms.

Now, the best way to analyse a situation that is impossible to recreate for a reliable study basis is to try to model it with an appropriate analogy. I have always found that the study of potions has greatly helped me to analyse human behaviour. There is no reason it should fail this time.

Why would a potion – a person – with a known set of ingredients – traits – react differently with another, different from the very definite reaction exhibited in a number of cases that sufficient to constitute a sound statistical sample?

Very well. Case in point: a potion displays hitherto unmanifested properties. All potion ingredients remain unchanged. Question: what is the reason for such? A first-year theoretical problem.

The First Potions Axiom states that a blend of a specified set of ingredients, combined in a specified fashion, will exhibit the same properties under the same circumstances of application. Corollary One: if a blend of a specified set of ingredients exhibits properties different from those manifested under the specified circumstances of application, the process of its preparation has differed from the specification. Corollary Two: if a blend is known to contain a specified set of ingredients combined in a specified fashion, the reason for the manifestation of different properties is a change in the circumstances of its application.

Answer: the potion displays hitherto unmanifested properties due to the change in the circumstances of its application. The exact reason may be given only provided a detailed description of the brewing process. That, or a repeated experiment.

A detailed description will have to suffice, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, however correct the above solution is, it does nothing to further my analysis. For however hard I try, the changed circumstances, namely my being gravely injured, still fail to make me imagine Potter either rushing to my aid or spending time by my sickbed.

I hold my head in my hands, trying to contain the splitting headache. Somehow, the usually helpful method for analysis seems to come apart under my very fingers.

Desperate, I turn to another one.

Case in point: addition of an unknown ingredient causes a potion to display a different reaction upon contact with another potion. Question: what is the added ingredient? Description of reaction: see Attachment One.

I reach for a quill and a piece of parchment, jotting down my Attachment One.

Irritability. Nervousness. Denial. Anger. Restlessness. Pro-

My quill scratches the parchment as I stare at the word I was about to write. This cannot be right. I force my hand, telling myself to continue writing down the impressions and verify their reliability later.

… Protectiveness. Stubborn refusal to depart. Sadness.

Or rather, grief?

Worry. Persistent attempts to make contact. Addressing an obviously absent person. Acknowledgement? Gratitude? Relief. Insistent gratitude.

I regard the list, fighting the urge to add more question marks to it, and an even stronger urge to scrap it and toss it in the fire. Nevertheless, I stare at the parchment, almost daring the words to disappear. They stare back defiantly. The worst thing, however, is that I fail to find any flaws in the impassive list in front of me, followed by a question.

Question: What is the added ingredient?

Answer: …

Oh damn. It is impossible. It does not make any sense. Except that unfortunately, it does. And therefore, it is not. In fact, it is the only possible answer to the problem at hand.

My hand scrawls a word on the parchment, and only after a minute of blank staring at it do I realise how correct it appears there. Smiling bitterly, I suppress the wish to grade the solution. Nothing short of 'Outstanding', even if it took me a year to solve it. One year. Or seventeen?

The good thing about problems, however, is that they remain written down and theoretical. It is when they suddenly spring to life from the parchment in front of one that they become difficult. Part of me wonders whether teaching is a perpetual attempt to escape from the real life problems by surrounding oneself with theoretical ones.

The fire seems to go out. I get to my feet, not intending to stoke it. Tonight, I will not be sleeping in the living-room.

Of course, the chances are that tonight I will not be sleeping at all, wherever. Yet no matter what nightmares may plague me in the bedroom that I have been avoiding for a year, I realise as I Tergeo the dust from the room, I would rather spend the night there than in the same room with the desk, with the parchment, with the thoughtlessly scribbled word that locked in place with horrifying precision.

Realising the familiar train of my thoughts, I grin darkly and go back to the room to carry the parchment with me. Folding it so that it can be propped up on the bedside table and only the last line is visible, I lie down, fully clothed, refusing to put out the candle and stubbornly, as if staring the parchment down can possibly change the meaning of its contents, bore the two words with my eyes.

Answer: Lily.

Chapter 5

Civil


I fail to hear the visitor at my front door over the sound of the rain. Of this I am informed by the insistent rapping on the back door that I do hear while drinking one of my latest tea experiments in the kitchen by the window, left open and Imperviused to prevent the water from pouring in, but allowing me to enjoy the sound. Setting the cup down, I curb the impulse of curiosity at who on earth would pay visits on a delightfully stormy evening such as this one, put on a sneer deserved by any visitor impertinent enough to go around to the back door when the front one is not answered, and pull the door open.

The sneer, at least, does not go to waste.

"'Evening, Professor."

"Potter." It takes an effort to avoid the question-mark at the end of my reply, which would appear odd there, as there can be no doubt as to my visitor's identity.

A number of facts are lined up in my mind as we stand on the different sides of the threshold. The first is an impassive assessment of the boy's appearance – dripping wet and taller still since our last meeting. The second is that it is quite difficult to remember the latest meeting at which both parties actually faced each other while neither was dying or actively trying to kill the other. Indeed, it must have been over two years since then. After that it was… the flight from Hogwarts, the Shrieking Shack and the silent Disapparition. And the memories. The thought of them makes me want to shut the door in his face. The realisation of this being rather ungrateful intensifies the wish.

Nevertheless, I take a step back to admit him. Civil conduct, hospitality… and more excuses. Do have the courage to admit that while you are definitely less than happy to see him, now that he is actually here, you would rather hear what he has to say.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I inquire, my hand pointedly on the door handle, indicating that while he was invited inside and out of the rain, the welcome is decidedly brief.

"Well, there's this letter," he pulls out a rolled-up scroll from his pocket, by the look of it – enchanted by the sender to prevent it from turning as soggy as the boy's clothes. I accept it with a slightly raised eyebrow, which arches a little more at the sight of the Hogwarts seal.

"I was not aware of the sudden plague that must have befallen the school owls, Mr. Potter," I remark, reaching for my wand to unseal the parchment.

"Huh?" he frowns.

"Well, something truly extraordinary must have happened, if a celebrity such as yourself is caught delivering messages."

He is silent. Walking across the kitchen, I run my wand along the scroll and scan the message with my eyes. And again.

"I suppose I'd better be on my way," Potter remarks as I do my best to look at the letter rather than stare.

"I think not, Mr. Potter," I reply, shutting the door with a flick of the wand.

"Not until you explain this," I lift the parchment. "And unless you have been doing some advanced Occlumency practice throughout the last year, I suggest you do not try to assume that expression intended to persuade me that you have absolutely no idea as to the contents of the message you so kindly delivered."

"Well, there isn't much to explain, is it?" he shrugs, dripping water on the floor. "It's from Professor McGonagall, asking if you'd like to teach Potions at Hogwarts again. She also said there's another opening, the usual one. Not sure if she mentioned that one in writing."

She did, as a matter of fact, yet it took me a third read to notice. The sheer enormity and impossibility of the situation seemed to dull my usually sharp attention to details.

"I can still read, Mr. Potter, thank you very much," I reply dryly. "My questions are of a different nature. Namely – why me, why now, and why you?"

"Slughorn's retiring again, the term's just ended, and I volunteered," the boy fires the answers at me in a manner that I would rather expect from his friend Granger.

"Well, of course," I smirk at the latter statement, while my mind is quickly flipping through questions that require to be asked. I am gripped with a strange urge to not let the boy walk out that door before doing something I had not even thought of for eight years now – attempting to hold a civil conversation.

Naturally, the best time for it would be some other day, when I have had the time to comprehend the message held in my hand and come up with a polite enough refusal. Unfortunately, I cannot remotely fathom a situation in which Potter would show up at my doorstep again, and even less so – one in which I would invite him to come back another day. Therefore, whatever I intend to endeavour must be done today, in the scope of the next few minutes that he can remain standing where he is before feeling sufficiently foolish to make his exit.

Suddenly, a perfectly civil and, above all, non-committal, question dawns on me.

"By the way, Potter, may I ask how you managed to find me? Did Minerva give you my address?"

"Well, actually, McGonagall did ask if I knew where you lived, and I said yes, but then I sort of Apparated on the other end of the town, and it was some time before I found someone to ask where Spinner's End was, and they told me to look for the chimney, but it was rather dark already so-"

"You are rambling, Potter. What I actually asked you was – how did you know where to look?"

"I went to ask my Aunt Petunia," the boy answers. My teeth clench at the thought of that girl – a woman now, I correct myself.

"So she told me where she and… um, where she lived as a child," he finishes. I do not miss the little badly covered-up blunder. The non-committal question suddenly turns onto dangerous ground. Ignoring the patch of metaphorical quicksand just beneath me, I quickly supplement another question,

"I see. So you have grandparents here, don't you, Potter?"

He looks uncomfortable.

"Used to."

"Condolences."

"Thanks."

In my mind's eye, I watch myself sink waist-deep in the sandpit of my own creation.

"Never knew I had them, anyway," he mutters.

The temperature in the room seems to lower a few degrees. The word 'condolences' can do that, I know that very well. And wonder how often he had to hear that word over the past year. Condolences. That is all that the world can offer. A fittingly cold word from a cold world. Such is life. It is something I have told myself many times, enough to actually believe it. But not enough to prevent me from feeling a momentary, yet intense swell of pity for the rain-soaked boy in the middle of my kitchen. If anything, he must have heard that word more often than I did.

The kitchen is filled with sounds of rain outside, the fire in the iron stove, and an occasional drop of water into the puddle formed around the boy's feet. I pull myself back into the framework of a civilised conversation. What is one supposed to do, again? Ah, of course.

"Well, have a seat, Potter." I gesture at the second chair at the table. "Just leave your shoes by the door."

"And the cloak," I note as I turn away to retrieve a second cup from the cabinet in time for him not to notice the array of potion bottles – still untouched, still sealed tight, even after the two weeks that have passed since my Pensieve experiment.

Seated across the table from the boy, I notice him trying to rub his fingers inconspicuously. Never pondered the benefits of charmed rain-proof cloaks, or simply dressing appropriately, have you? I wave the wand at the window and then at the cabinet behind his back, shutting the former and making a bottle float towards the table from the latter.

"I am currently out of Pepper-Up potion, so this will have to suffice, unless you plan to spend the next week with a miserable cold." I pour a little Firewhiskey in the boy's tea before Levitating the cup to him. He watches me with a strange expression before muttering a thank-you and sipping carefully.

I struggle into the next chapter of Severus Snape's Guide to Civil Conversation – making small talk with someone you would rather never set your eyes on.

"So. How is Hogwarts?"

"Still standing. Oh, you mean… Well, McGonagall's Headmistress, ever since… Um."

"Ever since my exit through the window, thank you, Potter," I sneer, semi-hoping him to choke on his tea for the reminder.

"Yeah. Flitwick is Deputy Headmaster. Everything else is the same. We still have trouble finding a Transfiguration instructor and a Head of House for Gryffindor, though. Bill Weasley filled the post last year, but he's married and all, so he'd forewarned he'd only do one year."

"I recall Slughorn saying Weasley had a job with Gringotts before the war. One would have to be deaf to miss the lamentations at him not having been in the little Slug Club."

"Yeah, that must've been disappointing. He didn't return to the bank, though. Frankly, our relations with the goblins could do better. They don't let anyone visit the vaults these days, delivering everything by hand, completely obsessed with security still, and it's been over a year now…"

"Over a year since your exit… through the roof, I believe it was, Potter?"

"Thank you, Professor. The Goblin Liaison office still sends me a Howler a week over that."

"Fan mail can indeed be bothersome, Mr. Potter," I remark. He sighs and drinks more tea.

"Anyway, so now there's three positions to fill, and everyone is sort of hoping that you'd-"

"A moment, Potter. Three positions? Potions, Transfigurations and Defence Against the Dark Arts, I presume. You have skated over the latter in your overview of the last year. Who taught that and why cannot he or she remain another year? The curse should have lifted already."

"Well, old rumours die hard, you know, so nobody's too eager…"

"Going back to my question, Potter, which I cannot help but notice you avoiding. Who taught the subject throughout the last year? Who had the courage to brave the infamous job?"

The boy fiddles with the empty cup. I point my wand at the teapot while looking at him intently.

"Well, it's rather… I don't think you want to hear it, Professor."

"Your sensitivity astounds me, Potter." I refrain from rolling my eyes, redirecting the wand to the Firewhiskey bottle to pour the exact same measure of it in the boy's tea.

"Really, why don't I just-"

"Answer my question, Potter."

"Fine! I thought you've figured it out already. You want me to say it – okay. It was me."

The wand almost slips in my hand, resulting in the measure of Firewhiskey in the tea being rather more generous than intended. I cast around for a reply and end up simply staring at the boy.

"It all started almost as a joke, really, we were talking of Dumbledore's Army, and then someone asked me to help them with a Patronus, and the next thing I knew…"

"I see," I finally manage, whatever doubts I could have had about the letter currently lying on the table like a coiled snake, dispelled, any notions I dared entertain – banished. Spending any length of time under the same roof as Potter, with the added benefit of having no authority over him… A moment. The Defence position was mentioned as vacant.

"The curse has lifted, has it not, Potter?" I inquire, rather sure about it myself, knowing full well that no curse could possibly survive the insufferable boy.

"I guess…"

"Why is it than you are leaving, then? Have you been presented with a more, ah, prestigious job offer?"

He gives no answer, taking a strange interest in the charred mark on the tabletop. Wondering how interested he would be, were he to know the origins of it, I continue to grill him relentlessly, bent on unveiling the true reason behind his resignation or upsetting him enough to snap and act more naturally.

"The Ministry, perhaps? Department of Magical Law Enforcement? A person of your… talents would make a truly dazzling career in a flash there, no doubt advancing to Head of Auror Office within a few years, especially if Shacklebolt is still around to guide you. Acclaim, popularity, vast opportunities to utilise your skills – much better than spending days in a classroom and evenings grading essays, correcting wand movement and trying to get at least some knowledge into the heads of bored students… Oh, but forgive me, how could I even suggest that you would be received with anything short of rapt fascination? Your students were probably hanging on to your every word, and who needs essays, anyway? You must have become weary of the burden of popularity, though. Oh, but of course, there's always another path. After all, the combined inheritance of your family and the Blacks should be enough to last you a lifetime, even should you wish to pursue a fittingly lavish lifestyle."

I finish my speech by drinking some lukewarm tea from my cup, somewhat surprised at having been allowed to talk so much. I was expecting the boy to snarl a denial somewhere around 'dazzling career' and 'Head of Auror Office'. I observe him with a sneer, while some part of me feels oddly disappointed. If he does not deem necessary to deny my words, they should be true, at least to a degree. Of course, I could hardly expect anything else from Potter, yet… For a moment, I was wishing he would cut me off. Desperately so. Well, serves me right for giving him too much of the benefit of doubt… Any, that is.

"Well, Mr. Potter, if either of the described pathways is true for you, then I fail to see the reason to take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you for the message and the news. Now if you would please excuse me-"

"It's not."

Cut in mid-word, I arch my eyebrows at the boy, whose eyes seem to have never left the burnt wood of the table.

"Pardon?"

"Not true, what you said. I'd be honoured to stay at Hogwarts. Even if you came back to teach there." He glares at me for a moment. I smirk.

"Well, Mr. Potter, if your wish to remain at Hogwarts is great enough to even tolerate my presence there, why then, do you leave?"

"Same reason Bill's leaving." His gaze drops back down. I frown slightly.

"Well, more or less, anyway," the boy clarifies to no avail.

"I fail to see the analogy, Potter."

Potter sighs, finishing the tea, or however the mixture in his cup should be properly named, looks at me for some fifteen seconds with the same strange expression he had assumed earlier, then resumes examining the tabletop. After a minute of pregnant silence, his voice is barely heard above the muffled sound of the rain outside.

"I'm getting married."

Chapter 6

Desperate


Over the next minute or so I cannot help but be disappointed at how much my never sterling communication skills must have deteriorated over the solitary year. Enough control, however, is summoned to stop the first, instinctive reply along the lines of 'you are what?'. That kind of reaction I would not allow myself even at Potter's age, let alone now. After pondering the options acceptable in the framework of the same civil conversation, although still failing to grasp the underlying purpose of actually having one, I settle for,

"Congratulations."

"Thanks," he replies, even more glum than before, if at all possible, successfully confusing me further.

Furthermore, he seems to leave it up to me to keep the feebly struggling conversation afloat. Stifling the impulse to wrap it up with some perfectly acceptable reason – then again, my wish to rid myself of the boy's presence should be acceptable enough – I offer another question.

"When is the happy occasion?"

Contrary to my expectations, he does not wince at the last two words, replying quietly,

"Next month."

I watch the last shreds of the civil conversation give up and sink into the same quicksand pit where I have been submerged some time earlier, feeling little remorse over its untimely demise. It was hardly worth the effort.

"You don't seem too happy about it, Potter."

This earns a rather wry grin, but not a look still.

"Non-verbal and wandless Legilimency? And you weren't even looking me in the eye, Professor."

Well, well. Not quite glum enough to refrain from the usual cheekiness.

"Why do you care, anyway?" he suddenly glares up at me fiercely.

"Who says I do?" I shrug, drinking more tea just to occupy the hands.

"I must be an idiot." The boy shakes his head, getting to his feet. I watch impassively.

"What prompted this observation?"

"Well, what else can you call me – correction, what else can I call myself, you'd never call me anything else anyway – for letting you think that I was fooled by your words for even a moment? You don't give a damn about me, so why even bother to pretend to have a civilised talk? I'm not that desperate for someone to talk to, and my life is none of your business, Professor, since you're not even my teacher anymore! So save yourself the effort of feigning interest and just tell me what to tell McGonagall so I could be on my way."

"Gladly, Mr. Potter. As soon as you answer a simple question of mine."

He glowers in lieu of a 'what?'.

"What in the name of Merlin could possibly make me feign interest in your person?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

He sputters, indignant replies obviously appearing and vanishing before he can voice them. After watching him for a few seconds, I continue.

"No interest was feigned on my part, and be it far from me to pry in your highly personal affairs. If I recall, it was you who first informed of your upcoming wedding, and did not bother to do so in a manner that would prevent unwanted questions, from which it would be logical to conclude that questions were welcome, despite your outward unwillingness to answer them."

"What're you getting at?" Potter asks grimly, not making any more efforts to leave, however.

"If it is the bottom line you want, Mr. Potter, I would say there are two. First: do not accuse anyone of falsity unless you are entirely convinced of your own sincerity. And second: whether you are aware of it or not, you are exactly as desperate as you claim not to be. Do not deny it again, lest you want the apparent depth of your desperation to increase."

The boy flares up for a moment, letting me see exactly how grave his situation must be, then composes himself enough to comprehend my last sentence and looks away with a sigh.

"You're not suggesting-"

"I am not suggesting anything¸ Potter."

"This is ridiculous." He chuckles, looking anywhere but at me. "You couldn't possibly… I'd never… you wouldn't understand, anyway…"

"Do you expect me to persuade you to talk? Don't."

More hesitation, more shuffling of feet.

"It's not like I have much choice, anyway."

His voice carries a hint of a veiled consent yearning for approval. In vain.

"Oh, there is always a choice, Mr. Potter. Always."

The boy's eyes finally meet mine.

"It is simply much easier to fool oneself into thinking that there is none. Easier than admit to choosing something you would rather not."

He appears to consider this, slowly looking from me towards the exit and then back to me. Good, Potter. Good.

The boy returns to his seat across from me, his expression determined. I do my best to conceal a smile of an unknown origin. Maybe it is simply a rather unfamiliar satisfaction of seeing some of my words actually sinking in.

Potter sits quietly, seeming to study my face. I look back calmly. To his credit be it said that he does understand that no questions will be asked. He chose to talk, and I agreed to listen, but there would be no help on my behalf. His eyes leave my face and scan the table, finally stopping on the Firewhiskey.

"Do you think I could have some more of that?" he asks. I give him a one-shoulder shrug.

"If you believe it will help you."

"Worth a try."

"Fair enough." I Summon a more appropriate glass, as not even in my house would one drink Firewhiskey from a teacup, and pour a moderate measure, refraining from offering any ice in view of his condition. The boy fiddles with the glass, then takes a sip, a breath, and starts talking.

"We came back from Australia, me and Hermione, that is. Some journey it was, took us almost a month to find her parents, because you see, she made sure they would leave no trace should the Death Eaters look – but no trace for us either. I always knew she was serious about everything she does, she's Hermione, for Merlin' s sake, but only then I saw how grim she thought things were… well, they were probably that grim indeed. She was almost entirely sure she wouldn't survive that year, or that even if she did, there'd be nothing in Britain for her parents to come back to…"

He sighs. I do my best to restore the missing facts from his jumbled speech, knowing better than to ask questions.

"We found them eventually, she broke the Memory Charm, and it worked for her dad, but not her mum at first, so she was rather hysterical by then – Hermione, that is, and I was helpless, because I couldn't do a Memory Charm to save my life. I managed to talk to her father a bit, explain what happened… Anyway, eventually it all worked out – that is, she managed to make her mum remember everything, and we moved them back – but she was quite a wreck by then. It wasn't me that should've been with her all that time, and neither of us expected it to take so long. I was a complete prat, I should've realised what travelling with me must've felt like for her. It was Ron all over again, and they couldn't even write to each other. She kept crying when she thought no one was around, and…"

Potter takes a larger sip from his glass, shaking his head lightly.

"I know I sound completely off, because it's not Hermione I'm marrying, after all, but… When we came back, she and Ron wouldn't let go of each other for hours, and we were all staying at the Burrow then, I guess it was better for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to have more people around, and then I saw Ginny looking at the two of them – Ron and Hermione, not her parents, and I wondered whether… And then she looked my way, and… I guess I went a little crazy by then, what with everything, 'cause I'd never do something like that otherwise… I wanted to do something to make sure I'd never lose her again, and it seemed like the only thing I could come up with…"

So he proposed to her. He was afraid of losing her. So he proposed to her. I turn the idea around in my mind, trying to comprehend my own reaction to it.

"And suddenly everything was great. Well, not everything. In fact, nothing was great, apart from that. But it felt like everything was great, it was… like a reason to go on. Because there were times I felt I'd rather not. Then I saw her off to Hogwarts, and then it was really stupid, but I Apparated to Hogsmeade to catch a glimpse of her at the station, and ran into Neville and Luna, then got caught up talking to Hagrid… Anyway, you know what happened next. It was really awkward at first, and…"

The boy grins uneasily for a moment.

"I know what a big-headed prat you think me to be, you've made your point enough times, but I promised them that if I heard 'Professor Potter' even once, joke or no joke, I'd quit there and then. Good thing they took it seriously, because I'd have to break that promise otherwise."

Something must show in my face, because he feels it necessary to explain.

"I didn't for a moment think I ever had the right to teach anyone, but I was doing the best I could, and – I couldn't, I never would walk out on them, not before I felt I'd taught them everything I knew, anything that could help them defend themselves, and other people, should... I know I sound like a pathetic worrywart, but where's the guarantee that what happened once, doesn't happen again? If not Voldemort, then someone else. There'll always be someone, somewhere, and the worst thing I can imagine is being helpless, unable to protect someone... you care for."

I refill his glass using the wand, reluctant to handle the bottle manually to avoid any unnecessary displays of… anything.

"You probably think this has nothing to do with Ginny, or the wedding, or…" he continues.

As a matter of fact, I can see his point perfectly clearly, but let him find his own words.

"I've been thinking about it ever since she said 'yes'. How dared I do something like that, knowing full well who I am, what I've become? It sounds horribly conceited even as I say it, but if something happens again, they'll expect, they'll trust me to be one of the first to do something about it. A person like me has no right to belong, to get attached… or let anyone get attached to them. Not if I can go off and never return one day. I was looking at Teddy one of these days and I realised – oh, but you don't know who Teddy is, do you…"

I shake my head lightly. The boy eyes his glass as if it holds answers to any of his questions.

"I'm… Never thought it'd be so hard to say... I'm a godfather. To Teddy… Teddy Lupin. Ginny and I are helping Andromeda, Mrs. Tonks, that is, to take care of him."

Details line up quickly in my head, and I cannot help but wish I was wrong. If I am not… it explains a lot. Potter's words that follow leave no room for hope or doubt.

"He's a little over a year now, and he knows the faces of his Gran, mine, and Ginny's. He can't talk yet, but I thought I could hear something like 'Da' from him once. How old must he be when he has to learn that I'm not? How old must he be to understand what happened to his father? Who will tell him? His grandmother? His godfather? It'll have to be me, you know. Even thinking of it horrifies me, and to actually say it? It's… it's not something I'd wish anyone to face one day… Especially not Ginny."

He pauses, examining the table again. A few minutes pass before he speaks again.

"That's one scenario. There's a worse one – worse from my own selfish perspective, of course. What if…"

Two terrifying words, as piercingly chilling as 'condolences' is dully cold.

"What if something happens to her… because of me? Imagine Voldemort had not come back eight years ago. Imagine he came back now. What would be the easiest way to get to me? And I wouldn’t be able to do anything if he threatened her. I'd plead with him, I'd give myself up, I'd serve him, I'd kill on his order. Anything to grant her safety. Anything."

I force myself to keep looking at him, even though the room feels completely void of air. But he holds my gaze, and looking away from the two green eyes seems impossible.

"That's why I can't be with her, now or ever. I'd do anything, I'd be anything, I'd take the Dark Mark in exchange for her life. I know I would. Because I wouldn't be able to go on knowing I'm the cause of her death. You… you remember when you said I was weak? Well, you were right…"

He finally looks down, and for that I thank every power in the world and beyond, for I cannot fathom the look on my face at that moment. The strange thoughtlessness experienced before descends on me again, and I can barely hear him when he continues, in little more than a whisper,

"I'm… not like you."

However corporeal I am at the moment, I am nevertheless unable to convince myself of mishearing, or at least misinterpreting his words. I wish I could deny the obvious. What other way is there, when the obvious is too impossible not to deny?

The boy is silent, and with horror, I realise it must be my turn to speak. As if listening was not bad enough. I look at him intently, trying to find words – any words. Failing. The only way seems to voice the only thought that seems to have formed in my mind, the thought unthinkable, the words unspeakable – yet the only thing in a situation as unfathomable as this.

"No, you're not."

Don't look up. For the sake of everything and anything, don't look at me.

The green eyes meet mine. I look away, but it does not seem enough. Unable to meet his gaze anymore, unable to hear anything else he might say, I find myself on my feet and out in the rain. I cannot even remember walking across the room or opening the door.