Closure
31 October, 1996.
A hefty stack of parchment fell on the low table with a loud snap.
“I can’t believe it! A two-foot essay from Transfiguration and another one from Snape on those bloody Inferi — all for tomorrow!”
Hermione, sitting in an armchair with a book and Crookshanks in her lap, peered up at the raving redhead shrewdly.
“Maybe if you didn’t procrastinate so much, Ron—”
“Oi, Quidditch isn’t procrastinating. It’s just as important,” Ron refuted sharply, plopping down on the sofa beside Harry. “The first game’s soon, against Slytherin. Got to focus… But bloody hell, Mione, how do you do it? You’ve got twice as much work as us, and you barely look like you’re about to bend over.”
“You’ve been asking the same question for years, mate,” remarked Harry dryly. He, too, had books and parchment strewn all over and around himself. He and Hermione had decided to make use of the Common Room, since all the library spots were taken. “And you’d better get started on Snape’s essay first. But let’s do it together, it’s a lot of material.”
Ron groaned and reached into his bag to rummage for a paper and quill.
“Can’t wait till we’re out of school. Bet Fred and George are having more fun. You know, they wanted to send some of their limited-edition products. Made a whole new line just for Halloween, they did. Sales are going through the roof with their Popping Pumpkins and Acid Hippogriff Toffee… But they couldn’t ‘cause security’s gotten tighter…”
Harry looked up suddenly. “It has?”
Hermione answered him, her tone low. “It’s Halloween, Harry. The Ministry probably doesn’t want to take any chances with You-Know-Who. Like when he attacked Godric’s Hollow in the summer, merely because of something that happened hundreds of years ago? Who knows what he’s got planned next, and for when.”
Disgruntled by the news, Harry sank back against the cushion, his book now flat on his lap, forgotten. His stomach clenched uncomfortably at the thought of Voldemort trying something tonight.
“…Hey, uh, Harry?” said Ron after a stretch of silence. “You’re coming to the Feast later, aren’t you?”
Harry far from appreciated the bitter reminder of what day it was. Today marked the fifteenth anniversary of the deaths of Lily and James Potter. The anniversary of that fateful day.
For the better half of his life, Harry had believed his parents had died in a car crash as nothing but a pair of drunks. He hadn’t even known the date of their deaths! On Halloween, he’d always watched Dudley and his friends dress up and go stupid on their buckets of candy. It was needless to say that it wasn’t an activity his aunt and uncle had ever permitted him to do. So the holiday had always been just another ordinary day for him.
That had changed on discovering the truth, however.
So, no, Harry did not want to attend the Halloween Feast. Feasts were for celebrations. People there laughed, joked, ate themselves stupid, exchanged sweets, and pulled pranks and tricks. It was sickening. What did Harry have to celebrate about this day? The night his parents were murdered? The night he’d lost everything? The night his life had changed for the worse forever? The night he’d been marked as a sadist’s equal?
Every year, Harry attended the Feast. He wasn’t really sure why: maybe because the boys in his dorm would’ve always dragged him along. But this year he was finally drawing the line — a line that was very much overdue.
This day had been in the back of Harry’s mind since the beginning of October, always there, ever-present. It was a gnawing feeling, one that tightened his chest when it squeezed the air out of it. It was suffocating, to realize time and time again that today was that day. The day it all changed. A punch in the gut; a hand stealing his breath.
This year, Harry wanted to commemorate his parents. Properly. He wished he could go see their graves in Godric’s Hollow, but that seemed pretty impossible at the moment. He couldn’t ask Dumbledore or anyone else to take him for more reasons than not… But even still, he wanted to do something. Maybe to even commemorate Sirius’ death too, since there had never been a funeral.
Precisely these thoughts had been plaguing Harry’s mind for the last couple of days. And he was running out of time — it was nearing late evening.
“ —arry? Mate?”
Harry blinked. “Huh?”
Ron was looking at him all funny. “You alright? I asked if you were coming to the Feast later.”
“Uh, no,” he answered quickly.
“Why? You did last year.”
“I have a lot to study,” Harry replied shortly.
“You’ve been studying for hours, and you’ve gotta eat. Don’t tell me you’re skipping over some dumb essay Snape’s gonna fail you for anyway!”
Harry shook his head. “Really, Ron, I’d rather stay. Maybe save me a slice of treacle tart, will you?”
The redhead sighed through his nose and shrugged. “I suppose. But Hermione and I have to be there. Prefects,” he solemnly patted his chest over his heart, where his Prefect badge was proudly pinned. He always wore it, even though it wasn’t obligatory. Even Hermione’s wasn’t on her, for the record.
“You go ahead, then.”
“We’ll tell you if Dumbledore says anything important, Harry,” said Hermione. “Now, come on, I bet we can cram in a few more minutes of studying before Ron and I have to start patrol duty. I dread to imagine what Peeves’s got planned for tonight.
The three of them did, indeed, manage to cram in another half an hour of studying before the Gryffindor Common Room began filling with students returning from their late classes or study sessions in the library. Ron and Hermione took this as cue to leave for their Prefect duties while Harry was left on the couch still with his books.
Neville, Ginny, and Luna stopped by to ask whether he was coming, which of course earned a few curious glances at him from passersby, but luckily no one really questioned him. That was a relief. Harry supposed all the study material still scattered around him spoke for him.
Eventually, all the students had filed out, and Harry was left alone. It was quiet. Only the hearth of the large fireplace still sizzled and crackled occasionally. Harry snapped the Half-Blood Prince’s book shut, manually gathered up his things, and then left for the dormitory. There, he tucked everything away and instead got out the Marauders’ Map and Cloak.
Holding the two items in his hands, he paused. Uncertainty was warring in his stomach for a moment, then another two… But he eventually shook his head and swung the silky fabric around himself.
~***~
Silence occupied the corridors. Only the torch flames flickered. An occasional enchanted carved pumpkin would sometimes hover by. Everyone was in the Great Hall, no doubt stuffing their mouths with food and playing Exploding Snap. Harry briefly wondered if Dumbledore was even there — no one had seen much of the man as of late, and neither had Harry.
It was a cold, cynical feeling. Was he being kept in the dark again?
Harry didn’t know where his feet were taking him, but he trusted his instincts. Consulting the map from time to time, he knew these corridors were desolate of people. His shoes echoed audibly against the stone, sometimes marble, as he roamed up and down moving staircases and rounded corners, looking, searching for someplace…
He suddenly halted, doing a double take. A classroom door stood ajar; Harry recognized it as the unused classroom that was used as a storage space, littered with desks and different antiques. It was better known as the ‘Room of Unrequirement’ among some of the DA members, which Harry had always found amusing… In any case, he carefully peeked inside before entering it.
The room wasn’t big at all. It smelled strongly of must, and all the dust made his nostrils tingle. There, in a corner, stood a lone Victorian wardrobe, and the rest was old furniture. On the far side of the room was a single window. The sill was quite spacious.
Harry took a deep breath before slowly pulling off his cloak. He glanced around for a moment and then peeled off a few chunks of wood from an old desk, which he then placed on the sill. Raising his wand, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and gave it a curt swish and flick. The wood twitched… And a moment later stood three wax candles.
They weren’t anything too pretty to look at. In fact, all of them were different sizes and a bit disfigured, but it was as good as it was going to get, so Harry accepted it. He pulled himself up to sit against the wall on the sill. The cold of the store sent a momentary shiver up his spine. Everything about tonight felt cold. Cold and disconsolate.
Hoping to change that, Harry tapped the candle wicks one by one with the tip of his wand, uttering “Incendio!”. Thankfully the spellwork didn’t give him much grief this time. And now, the low flames were bathing a small area in orange. Harry pulled his knees up to his chest for warmth, resting his cheek on them.
Beyond this, he wasn’t sure what else he could do in commemoration. It still felt like the bare minimum or a lack of trying. But, alas, what more could be done?
It was pathetic. The Boy-Who-Lived, acknowledging his parents’ and godfather’s deaths with three transfigured candles in an old, musty, unused classroom. In secret.
While everyone else feasted.
The thought made him sick.
Looking at the soft candle flames, Harry let his thoughts run wild. He imagined what his life could have looked like, had it not been for Pettigrew. He envisioned his parents’ faces, their complexions, even their clothes — all of which he treasured in his mind from the few photographs he had of them. Harry imagined receiving his Hogwarts Acceptance Letter, learning magic (charms, maybe?) from his mother, and how to ride a broomstick from his father.
The smile that graced his lips at that moment came at a price. Harry’s chest felt tight with emotion. Guilt and grief. These two emotions, Harry knew well by now. It was torment. But it wasn’t such blatant grief…
He was still grieving Sirius’ death, as well as Cedric’s, and that grief was raw and obvious to him. But the grief he felt for his parents… there was almost something empty about it. Wasn’t it strange to feel grief over people he’d never really known? All Harry had of Lily and James were a couple pictures and fond recollections about them from other people.
That fact was still a very bitter pill to swallow. A gritty potion that just couldn’t seem to go down his throat.
Sirius… Harry imagined him and Remus coming over for the holidays or on the weekends. Like a family gathering… But for some unknown reason, when Harry tried to concentrate on Sirius’ face, his features, his robes, facial hair, and eye color… the image in his mind came out strangely blurry. Which was ridiculous, since Harry knew what his late godfather looked like.
That was an unsettling something.
…
The sound of footfalls. Harry stilled, as did every cell in his body, and held his breath. He could hear them echoing in the corridor outside.
A pause. Then, the door creaked, a stripe of light coloring the floor and Harry. Just from the familiar, dark silhouette, Harry knew who it was. He couldn’t see his face, but his eyes were locked on it anyway.
A beat, then two, passed as the two wizards stared at each other, dread flooding Harry’s stomach while his heart pounded loudly in his ears…
At last, Snape let the door slowly swing shut behind him as he himself approached Harry at a slow pace. The boy just followed him with his eyes. There almost seemed to be a hint of hesitation in his step… Only when the man was close enough could Harry read the note of emotion his typically-statuesque expression bore, his dark orbs dancing between the three candles and Harry as if it were some puzzle.
Harry mentally braced himself. For what, he didn’t know.
“You aren’t at the Feast,” Snape said. His tone confused Harry — it was low, impassive…
“Why should I be? Not like I’ve anything to celebrate,” muttered Harry with a small shrug. There was a pause again, longer. All the while, Snape never took his gaze off of him.
Then he vaguely gestured at the sill with his chin. “May I?”
The request took Harry by surprise, but he didn’t decline it. He nodded.
“Why… How did you find me, sir?”
“You were not at the Feast.” Snape had said this as if it were self-explanatory. He was perched on the sill now.
Harry groaned in his throat. “Can’t the Boy-Who-Lived ever catch some peace and quiet? There isn’t a rule that would forbid me not to come to a stupid feast.”
A smirk tugged at Snape’s lips. “I do not believe those words fit with your track record,” he drawled.
Harry frowned and turned to stare back out of the grimy window, nesting his arms on his knees. “I’m not going to the Feast,” he informed.
“I do not intend to make you. Your… reasons are perfectly understandable.”
Green eyes snapped to the black ones. But the black ones were fixed on the only source of light in the room.
“For your parents and godfather, I presume?” Snape asked, tone impassive.
“It… felt like the right thing to do. I just wasn’t sure what else I could do for them, other than this.”
“I see…”
There ensued a pregnant pause, and Harry was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the tense silence. He wasn’t sure what was next — rather, what to expect. Snape could be… unpredictable sometimes.
“You have never visited their graves.”
It was posed as something between a statement and a question. Regardless of what it really was, it knocked the wind out of Harry. His green eyes met the dark ones out of startlement, and with shame he said, “No, sir.”
“Would you like to?” Snape asked slowly, as if weighing every letter of the offer.
“You would take me? Now?” Harry asked, his heart pounding in his chest with a mix of hope and dread.
“If you so wish.”
Harry wetted his dry lips. “But won’t Dumbl— Professor Dumbledore know—?”
“He is away.”
Another pause, this one longer. Snape sat, apparently, awaiting his answer. This unusual patience unnerved the Gryffindor. For several long minutes, he seemed unable to answer, be it to take up Snape’s offer or not… But ultimately, he gave a nod with his head, hoping it was enough.
It was. An emotion flashed in Snape’s eyes at this, Harry could’ve sworn, but he couldn’t decipher it. Then the man stood. Harry followed suit, feeling his legs asleep.
“Then put on your Cloak.”
~***~
The momentum of the Apparition nearly sent Harry rocketing to the ground, but he managed to find his footing seconds before it was too late. The late October’s chill grazed his face. He straightened up and gazed about, only to find himself and Snape standing in the middle of a cobblestone road.
It looked like a neighborhood. Many lamp posts were on, casting warm light over the many piles of leaves littering the cobbled street. It was pretty desolate of people, however, and the silence was broken only by the rustle of dead, dry leaves on those sinister branches, strong gusts of wind occasionally aggravating them. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak off his head.
He almost couldn’t believe it.
Godric’s Hollow.
This was the place it had all happened — when it had all started. Fifteen years ago, on this very fateful night. So many emotions were coursing through his body at this moment that they were all in dissonance with each other. Harry was home… Or, where it was supposed to have been.
This was where Voldemort had attacked a few months ago, leaving countless dead, mourning, or homeless.
“Potter.”
Snape was already beckoning at him to follow, who appeared almost restless. But Harry didn’t question it and re-donned his cloak.
As Snape led the way, Harry had to keep his head bent against the howling wind. He could feel the chill creeping under his two-layered sweaters, and it acutely reminded him of that feeling of discomfort he so hated. Like no amount of clothes he put on would ever suffice to keep the cold out.
The hopeless kind of feeling.
Looking around, one wouldn’t be able to tell that the place had been burned and in shambles a few months ago. The Ministry really had compensated for the damage.
Not the lives, though — the bitter, chilling thought drifted through Harry’s mind. Lives… Lives can’t be compensated.
They emerged at a crossing that appeared to be the center of the town. In the center was a small bench area, in the middle of which stood a war memorial. Initially, Harry thought nothing of it… until it shifted in his periphery. The memorial, he saw in the orange glow of a nearby street lamp, was of three people.
A beautiful woman with long, wavy hair, standing beside a tall, handsome man wearing rectangular frames, his hair a mess. In the woman’s arms was a bundle.
Harry’s mouth was dry as he unknowingly approached it.
But up close, the stone Lily and James Potter looked slightly off from the photos Harry had.
The sight… The sight was bitter, painful — it constricted Harry’s chest. He might as well have been eleven again, peering into the Mirror of Erised… Aside from that, it felt strange, seeing himself represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead…
Meanwhile, from a little ways from him, Severus’s mouth was equally dry. Guilt… The guilt was once more resurging, tenfold more than it ever had. It felt as though he were finally facing some kind of unidentified, haunting demon.
And he knew this was only the beginning.
The man said nothing for as long as the boy stood there, still as the statue before him. But eventually, they continued on. How or when — it all seemed a blur.
And as Severus led the way, his every step felt heavier and heavier.
Harry was pulled out of his thoughts when his feet stopped dead before a wooden fence gate. Looking up, he recognized he and Snape had arrived at a small church, and that just behind it stretched a cemetery.
When Snape’s voice registered within his head, the words sounded as though they were spoken through a long tunnel.
“…I am not forcing you. Should you wish to return—”
“No,” Harry immediately shook his head. “No, I want… this. I have to do this. It’s… I can’t run from it.”
Snape nodded at this in what seemed like understanding and tapped the gate with his wand. It swung open, and the two walked inside.
Rows upon rows of graves stretched… One of those flagstones was the one Harry was looking for with dread. His green eyes raked over the vast selection… But then, Snape began to lead him. The pair wove through stones and plaques for a bit, looking for two specific names under Severus' lit Lumos. Piles of fallen leaves rustled beneath their feet, often squelching from the earlier downpour. It wasn't as dark as the street, though — many candles had been set up and lit, casting a warming glow over the morbid place.
Unfortunately, the journey consumed much less time than Harry would have liked. And at last, his eyes fixated, and he seemed to have lost all movement of his body.
James Potter, born 27 March 1960, died 31 October 1981
Lily Potter, born 30 January 1960, died 31 October 1981
The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.
It was made of simple white marble, but it was beautiful in its own way. Countless wreaths of flowers decorated it alongside candles and lanterns left by other people. It was both a breathtaking and heart-wrenching sight to behold.
White noise had filled Harry’s ears. He stared down at the resting place of his parents, and he was torn at what he was supposed to feel.
Grief? He’d never even known them.
Regret?
Oh, there were so many things he regretted…
But guilt?
Its hands were slowly closing around his chest. Cold hands. Guilt’s movements were immaculate, surgical, knowing exactly where to probe and prod… They proceeded to his throat, where they now threatened to choke him.
Harry wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing. He wasn’t even sure at what point his Cloak had slipped off him. He knelt down. The wet leaves squelched beneath his knees — the cold and wet seeped through his fabric, its acute chill piercing his skin… Harry brushed away a few of the fallen leaves off the grave.
He was at quite a loss for what he should do. Thoughts were running through his head. Those same, earlier thoughts. Thoughts of what might have been, thoughts of that fateful, green-filled night. Thoughts of Sirius — how Harry had predictably assumed that his own godfather had betrayed the Potters and killed Pettigrew…
Bellatrix's cackles rang in the back of his mind.
He wished there had been a burial for Sirius. He should have been buried here.
But Harry had been ripped of even that. It seemed any time he had a chance at family, it was ripped, torn away from him by one fate or another, as easily as silk.
Harry tried to envision Sirius’ kind features, his mischievous smile, the radiant warmth and mirth in his eyes, his long, wavy hair… But the face in his mind was blurry… disfigured… as though he were trying to read without his glasses. He couldn’t seem to remember; the image in his head…
Another mental blow.
No longer could Harry feel the night’s chill biting its fangs into his face. He was vaguely aware of the hot streams of salty water leaking out of his eyes. But even though his throat had closed up, even despite the rage and grief pent up in his chest, begging to burst—
He kept perfectly silent. As he’d been conditioned to his whole childhood.
Severus stood a little ways away, staring uselessly. Even still, he had to wonder why he’d done this — why he’d brought the boy here. Obligation? Redemption? Guilt? His own will? No, surely not. This was torment for the Death Eater, far greater than torture by the Dark Lord’s hand.
It was penance. It was torment. Because Lily’s son was at her grave. It was torment, because both of them were where they were because of Severus.
For a while, Severus continued to watch the boy, feeling like he was intruding on something very personal. He continued awaiting… something. Severus was simply staring at the tombstone, the inscription, kneeling and back turned to the Death Eater. The body appeared statuesque. Severus said not a word.
Until, Potter finally uttered his first two.
“I’m sorry,” the boy choked out, his voice thick.
It felt as if something heavy had crashed down on him. Those two words were crippling; they nearly undid the man. The breath was knocked out of his lungs, and acidic bile rose in Severus’ throat. He swallowed hard, feeling lightheaded. Something was constricting his chest and conscience — unmistakable quilt and remorse — catching him in a paralyzed chokehold as he registered the meaning behind the apology.
How could the boy be apologizing? For what? If anyone, Severus should be the one uttering those words, begging for forgiveness—
“…The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...“
Sybil Trelawney’s voice echoed in his head in a mantra. It never failed not to on this night.
However, there was another voice in his head. It was telling him to send a hateful remark, a scathing comment at the boy. Potter was the cause of his torment, his agony, was he not? The voice was screaming at him, louder and louder: to hate him again, to eject this source of pain out of his life—
But he couldn’t. Severus quickly buried the voice. Indeed, life had been easier when he’d hated the boy — or, that is, what he’d symbolized.
But now…? That vitriol had gone somewhere, long since, replaced with an emotional tangent that he could not quite unravel.
Eventually, the Gryffindor rose on visibly shaky feet. He did not turn around, nor did he say anything. Aside from the whistling wind, silence reigned… Severus slowly drew his wand, gave it a slight flourish, and the pair of them watched beautiful white lilies grow, weaving elegantly around the marble stone. Severus did this every year.
That’s when he noticed the boy’s hunched shoulders trembling. Something in Severus shattered. Harry’s head was bent, arms wrapped around himself, and he continued to stand there, not a sound emerging from him — that, or his voice was simply lost in the whistling wind.
Severus didn’t give his next action much thought. Though still hesitantly, he carefully laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder, stepping a bit closer. He was half-expecting the boy to shrug him away or flinch, but instead was surprised when he felt him leaning into the ostensibly comforting touch…
Severus was unfamiliar with those. But what else could he possibly offer the boy?
Did he even deserve to touch him, to try to comfort him, when it was his actions that had caused his pain and settled his fate fifteen years ago?
Merlin and Great Circe, what was he doing?
How do you live with yourself?...
What if he knew…?
Severus’ eyes internally widened at the last thought. No. No, the boy — Harry — could never know. It would cripple Severus. He could never know the truth. Ever.
You fear… You fear his rejection.
And though he would not admit it aloud, he feared it almost more than death itself.
But here he was now, his long, slender hand still planted on the scrawny shoulder. Severus wasn’t entirely sure how, or when, but he and Harry were now standing shoulder to shoulder, almost but not quite in a half-embrace. Or maybe the boy was just cold? He didn’t appear dressed too warmly…
Severus wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Harry’s breath was hitching, him taking large gulps of air in an attempt to regain control of himself… But when, eventually, Harry’s trembling subsided, Severus cautiously cleared his throat.
“They did not die in vain,” he offered — a quiet mumble.
Gruffly, Harry stubbornly replied, “Maybe they did.”
“They did not… In fact, they… they would be proud of you. Do not discredit their deaths by assuming otherwise. You are doing them a great disservice.”
The boy didn’t say anything more to this. He was busy wiping any traces of tears with the back of his sleeve, averting his head in shame.
Grief was lingering in the air still, vacuuming it out. As it would for a while. For one, it felt suffocating — like a collar strapped too tight…
Lily… The Prophecy…
For the other — the grief felt misplaced, confusing.
He’d never truly even known them… They had died for him.
Harry finally stepped away from Severus, though with slight reluctance.
“The… The flowers are a nice touch,” he mumbled quietly to Severus. A brief pause… “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death,” he read aloud, frowning. “Isn’t that a… a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?”
Severus cast his gaze upon the inscription the boy was referring to, the one he’d pondered for some years now. He could see why Harry would think that.
“It does not mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it,” Severus explained, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It means you live beyond death. Living after death.”
And like before, Harry offered no reply, only a meek, somewhat dissatisfied shrug.
There they stood, a pair of lost souls. Neither further spoke. Perhaps because there was something tacit in the air, tying them to this spot, this place, this night. It was almost melancholic, almost palpable. So unspoken, and yet it felt like no words were necessary.
The ground on which they both stood was a common ground.
The pair remained as they were for another few minutes — in them, it seemed so many unspoken words passed between them, understood words, yet they were somehow cryptic still… Eventually, however, the professor led them away, back the way they came through the rows of headstones and through the gate, all until they disapparated into the night.
The rest of the journey into the castle seemed a blur to the both of them. Harry was back under his cloak, just a step behind Snape. Both were quiet; both were consumed by their thoughts… And then, they’d arrived at a corridor that branched off in the general directions of the dungeons and Gryffindor Tower.
“This is where I leave you,” Severus informed, certain that the coast was clear. “I trust you not to wander the corridors at ungodly hours. Should anyone ask…”
“I know, sir… Professor?” the green eyes locked solemnly with his dark ones. “Thank you. I’m glad I finally visited them… Was, uh… pretty overdue.”
“No gratitude required…” Severus replied, and studied him closely. “Do you require a Calming Draught?”
Harry shook his head, feeling strangely warm at the offer. For a moment, he thought there was concern in Snape’s eyes. But again, he was tired. “No. I’m fine. Goodnight, sir.”
“To you as well,” Severus nodded.
He did not take his eyes off of the retreating figure until it disappeared under the Invisibility Cloak, musing over a single thought:
Maybe this night had given at least one of them a measure of closure.