Harry Potter stood in the graveyard on Christmas Eve, snow gently falling around him. The world was hushed, as if holding its breath in the cold winter night. The cemetery near Hogwarts was peaceful, serene, but Harry felt none of that peace. His breath came in shallow puffs of mist, his gloved fingers pressed against the cold, worn stone of the grave in front of him.
"Severus Snape," the tombstone read in simple, stark lettering, and below, the date of death: 2 May 1998. It was a tombstone that Harry had never thought he would stand before, not in the way he was now filled with confusion, regret, and an overwhelming sense of loss.
His heart twisted painfully, the memories of that final moment—Severus's final moments—flashing in his mind. How long had it taken him to truly understand the man who had tormented him for so many years, the man who had been, in his own complex, twisted way, his protector? Harry had never truly acknowledged it until it was too late.
“Merry Christmas, Severus,” Harry whispered softly, his breath fogging in the air as he bent his head. The words felt fragile, inadequate—there was so much more he had wanted to say, things left unsaid when Severus had still been alive.
But Harry knew now—he would never have the chance.
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1.
The Great Hall was alive with laughter, music, and twinkling lights. It was a stark contrast to the tension that ran through Harry’s veins as he watched the students of Hogwarts mingle and dance. The Yule Ball was supposed to be a time of celebration, but for Harry, it only highlighted how much he didn’t belong in the world of festivity and warmth.
He watched from the side of the room, where the Gryffindor students mingled. There was something off in the way people moved around him, like they were trying to pretend that the war wasn’t on the horizon. And then his eyes fell upon him—Severus Snape.
The Potions Master was standing just outside the glow of the enchanted lights, his black robes flowing like shadows against the radiance of the evening. His expression was as unreadable as ever, and Harry’s chest tightened with the familiar mix of hatred and suspicion.
Harry’s eyes followed Snape as he observed the students, his lips tight, his gaze calculating. There was something unsettling in the way he held himself, as if he were waiting for something—waiting for the perfect moment to strike, or perhaps to pull the strings from behind the scenes. Harry couldn’t decide, but one thing was certain: Snape was a man of many secrets, and none of them were good.
A sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Potter,” Snape sneered, drawing Harry’s attention. “I’m sure you’re enjoying this pitiful display, but don’t mistake this charade for anything of true worth.”
Harry stiffened. “What’s your problem, Professor?” he muttered, taking a step forward, his hands clenching.
Snape’s lips curled into a disdainful smile. “A display of festivity, in the midst of war. How... naive.”
The words stung more than they should have. “What are you trying to say?” Harry demanded, his fists balling at his sides.
Snape didn’t reply. He simply turned, walking away, but not before he cast one final glance over his shoulder, his dark eyes catching Harry’s. There was something about the look—something so much more than contempt—that made Harry’s heart flutter painfully.
He could never understand Severus Snape.
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2.
The Gryffindor common room was eerily quiet, the usual warmth and cheer absent. Harry sat alone, staring at the fire that crackled dimly in the hearth. The loss of Dumbledore still gnawed at him, the gaping wound in his chest refusing to heal. It was Christmas, but Harry had no reason to celebrate. The world felt empty and cold.
He had seen it with his own eyes. Severus Snape had killed Dumbledore. The image of Snape’s cold, calculating gaze as he struck down his former mentor was burned into Harry’s memory. He couldn’t forget it. The betrayal was too much.
“How could you, Severus?” Harry whispered to the empty room, the echo of his voice mingling with the flames. “You were one of us. You said you’d help. And then you...”
Harry’s words died in his throat as the anger burned within him. How could Snape do it? How could he kill the one person who had believed in him, trusted him? How could Snape betray Dumbledore like that?
But even as Harry’s mind spiraled in confusion and fury, he remembered something else. The way Snape had looked at him when they encountered under the Astronomy Tower, the fleeting softness in his gaze that Harry had never noticed before.
Could it be possible? Was Snape truly working for the Order, like he had claimed? Or was Harry just clutching at straws, trying to make sense of a world that no longer made sense?
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3.
The battle at Hogwarts was over. The final war had been fought, the Dark Lord was dead, but the victory had come at an unbearable cost. The scars of the battle ran deep, in both the land and the hearts of those who had survived.
Harry stood over Severus Snape’s grave, his body weary from the long months that had come before this day. The snow fell gently, but there was no peace to be found here, no warmth to comfort him.
The memory of Severus’s death was still vivid in Harry’s mind. He had been there, in the Shrieking Shack, when Snape had fallen, his life taken by Nagini.
There had been no grand speech, no confession of a long-hidden truth, nothing but those memory. Harry still cannot understand why Snape chose to give those memory to him, maybe oneday he will, eventually.
Harry’s heart still ached with the weight of that loss, that confusion. Snape’s final words—the cryptic, barely audible "Look at me"—had haunted him long after the battle. Those eyes, the pain in them, the complex storm of emotions there. It was a glimpse into a side of Severus Snape that Harry would never fully understand.
That was the thing about Severus. The man had never explained himself, never asked for understanding. He had simply lived, with all his contradictions and bitterness. He had protected Harry in ways Harry couldn’t comprehend, and in the end, Harry had learned that Snape had made a great sacrifice, not out of duty, but out of love—though a love complicated by years of pain and regret.
Still, Harry couldn't fully grasp it. The man who had saved him had also been the one to cause him so much suffering. There was no clarity, no peace in it.
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4.
Harry took a deep breath, his fingers trembling slightly as he placed a hand on Severus’s grave. His breath came out in soft puffs, the cold air settling around him like a blanket. The cemetery was silent, save for the soft whispers of snow falling gently around him.
“Merry Christmas, Severus,” Harry said again, his voice low, barely a whisper in the cold night.
The words felt inadequate. There was so much more Harry wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He would never have the chance to.
He thought back to the past Christmases—the ones that had been filled with anger, misunderstanding, and too many missed chances. He thought of the bitterness in his chest when he had seen Snape standing in the shadows of the Yule Ball, the rage he felt when he thought Snape had murdered Dumbledore, and the grief he had carried when he learned the truth too late.
All that remained now was the silence between them. The silence of unspoken words. The silence of what could have been.