Oblation: (n.) the act of offering a sacrifice.

Harry stood in the Great Hall, listening to the sounds of grieving, of Madam Pomfrey directing her healing apprentices, of the Order trying to establish a plan of action. His knees felt weak as he walked among the others, Ginny alongside him as they levitated the two bodies. It had been a long trek from the Shrieking Shack, longer still with conflict still waged on the grounds, but for how ragged the robes of the two men had become, they were still whole, still in one piece.

Lowering them onto a pair of blankets spread out on the ground, Harry watched as Percy’s hand flopped from where it had been laid across his chest, as if even in death the young man still wished to be close to Severus. Their heads were turned towards one another, each with one arm reaching for the other, and Harry knelt beside them, staring at Percy’s face with tears in his eyes.

It pains me to criticise our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the black and silver scroll case, climbing up the stairs, uncertain of where his feet would lead him. He could hear Molly Weasley’s desperate cries turn louder as she saw Percy laid out on the ground, Ginny and Ron seeking comfort from their mother. When Harry turned to look at the Weasleys, though, none touched Percy with the reverence and desperation that they had given to Fred.

I got a new one. I don’t need anything that’s in that one, but you could probably use some of the things in there at school.

There were dozens more dead, but Harry thought about what both Severus Snape and Percy Weasley had risked for him, for Dumbledore, for the cause, and one another. He thought of Percy’s face and how wane he had looked in the years that Harry had known him, ever since the Chamber of Secrets had been opened and Harry had found Percy, crumpled and unconscious on the cold stone floor.

Life isn’t like homework, Hermione. You can’t just write a report on it and turn it in and get feedback.

Harry pulled out the small notebook he had kept, and inside, glued to a page with a sticking charm, was the note in Percy’s handwriting, Sometimes they are alive. He stood before the Headmaster’s office and within the scroll case were two notes, just as small as the first.

Both must die. in Percy’s handwriting and Zugzwang in Severus Snape’s.

He stood before the gargoyle and stared at the blank stone gaze before he whispered. “Zugzwang.” The gargoyle moved, spiraling and revealing the staircase, leading Harry to the Headmaster’s quarters.

You’re so used to having everything handed to you, did you think it was all fate? Did you think that it was free will? Dumbledore was pulling your strings, he still is even from beyond the grave. Your little suicide mission proves that. Well now you’re on your own and no one is coming to save you.

The quarters were different than when Dumbledore had occupied them. They were austere, with dark texts held within cabinets. The moment Harry stepped foot within the cabinet that held the pensieve opened, revealing the smooth, shallow basin. He collected the vial that Hermione had given him to take the memories dripping from Percy and Snape’s eyes, mingled together in the single vial, inseparable even in death.

That’s the thing, isn’t it? You hesitate to sacrifice those that mean the most to you. But that’s the name of this game. Sacrifice. And believe me, Harry Potter, it’s a game that’s designed to hurt.

A shaking hand poured the memories within and the silver liquid turned to familiar black ink within the pensieve.

No, My Lord, that isn’t true. It’s simply not true.

Harry thought of Percy’s desperate, terrified eyes, thought of Severus’ pallid face drawn tight in fear, fear not for himself but for Percy, alone, at the mercy of the Dark Lord.

He thought of Percy’s last words.

I’m sorry.

Grimmauld Place looked so different now that the weight of secrecy, of “headquarters” was lifted. Harry and Ginny had moved in together at Grimmauld Place. It had been a spur of the moment decision, neither of them could sleep alone and Ron and Hermione had gotten their own apartment after completing their Hogwarts educations. Ginny and Harry had purchased an enormous tree to decorate for Yule, it was so big that they had used shrinking charms to get it into the house. It was festooned with popcorn and old Yuletide ornaments and decorations that Kreacher had happily dug up for them, explaining the importance and history of each one. Harry had even allowed Kreacher the honor of hanging one that had Regulus Black’s initials on it, close to the base of the tree so that Kreacher could see it every day.

“I don’t know why you are so insistent, Harry dear, but here it is.” Molly held out Percy’s bag. It had been stuck in probate court for so long that Harry had almost thought that it had been destroyed along with the contents. “It just has some books and things in it.”

“Thank you, Missus Weasley,” Harry hugged her tightly, smiling as he placed the bag aside. “And the photographs?”

“Oh, dear, I haven’t been able to find them, but they’re probably somewhere.” Molly smiled at him. “But don’t you worry about it, it’s Yuletide and we’re going to celebrate as a - a family.” Her voice cracked on the last word and Harry thought of Fred and Percy, buried in the family plot in Ottery St. Catchpole. He had visited the graves. While Fred’s was festooned with flowers and ornaments and decorations, Percy’s had a simple wreath of white lilies and green ivy laid upon the ground.

Harry guided Molly into the kitchen where the other Weasleys were already making themselves comfortable along with Neville and his grandmother, Hermione and her parents (their memories restored with minimal issues), and Luna and Xenophilius. It was warmth and merriment and joy, interrupted as they all silently thanked the Green God and Triple Goddess for those who had survived the year, and asked for intercession for those who had passed.

They shared endless stories of Fred’s high jinks and jokes and what a fun boy he was, even before Hogwarts. When time came to speak of Percy, though, the Weasleys murmured only words about how brave he had been and toasted him without any stories to be told.

After everyone had either gone home or occupied one of the dozens of guest rooms in the house Harry sat in the parlour, before the fir tree, enchanted by Kreacher to stay fresh and smell as if it had just been dragged in from the snow, and opened Percy’s bag.

He found a beautiful purple tasseomancy teaset, a tarot card deck in a leather case, books on a variety of subjects, a beautiful muggle pen enchanted to remain always full of ink, and a stack of several diaries.

They were filled with a variety of things, mundane and simple or important to Percy’s job, but it wasn’t those things that Harry searched for. He found in the pages of one a photograph of Snape from his younger years, ripped from a Daily Prophet article about the man’s trial. Mirroring that page was a photograph of Headmaster Snape from the announcement of his succession of Dumbledore. There was a clear path, worn by Percy’s fingers, over the side of the face of the photograph, down the image’s chest, fading the ink oddly as Severus Snape looked out of the image at the viewer.

There were notes on Horcruxes in older ones, there was speculation about the horcruxes, of Nagini and the Gaunt Ring. He wrote about the night where Arthur Weasley was hurt, tears staining the page as he apologized to the pages, over and over again. He wrote about Cornelius Fudge, Rufus Scrimgeour, Pius Thicknesse. He wrote about Dolores Umbridge and how she was a nightmare of a woman but a valuable resource to know what was going on at Hogwarts, how Ron and Ginny were faring. He wrote about Mafalda Hopkirk and how she was such a good woman, better than the Ministry deserved, and how Percy hoped that she would survive the coming hostile takeover. He wrote about living with Voldemort, the terror and fear he felt. He wrote about Lucius Malfoy and the disgust he felt as he let the man use him, how he felt for Narcissa who was trapped in a situation beyond her own control, her son sacrificed like a lamb on an altar.

I know that I am destined to die. I have given Ron my bag containing the enchanted scroll case, Secrets of the Darkest Arts, and I have, beyond all understanding, drawn the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat to give to Harry Potter. I hope that whoever finds this journal knows and understands that I did what I had to do to save my family, the ones that I love.

Should the one who finds this journal be Severus Snape: Know that I have never loved as fully and completely until I met you, that I will never love another as I have loved you. If I have died before you, I will wait in whatever vast beyond for us to be reunited for our love will last until the stars turn cold.

Harry dug through the box of photographs that Molly Weasley had given him, rescued from the attic. There were no pictures of just Percy in the entire box it seemed. He was always flanked by his siblings, and short of his school photograph there was nothing else to show he had even existed outside of his relationships with his siblings. Going to Minerva one day, Harry waited until she was summoned away from their afternoon tea by urgent Hogwarts business before he stepped towards the portrait of Severus Snape, who was reading a book in his portrait.

“What’s in the book?”

“The book is a prop,” Snape held up the book and showed that while the pages turned, there was nothing on them. “Speak up, Potter, I don’t have time for your inane prattling.”

“Do you have any pictures of Percy?” Harry asked curiously.

The portrait stiffened and then glared at him. “If I did then why would I give them to you, Potter? For you to let Rita Skeeter slander his name even more than she already has?”

“No, I’m making a portrait of him,” Harry stared at Snape, as open as he possibly could. “You were both instrumental in the war, in me even being able to destroy the horcruxes. Without his book, his scroll case, we wouldn’t have been able to win.”

Those fathomless dark eyes that had always scared Harry stared back at him. “There is a false bottom in the Headmistress’ top left desk drawer, tap your wand upon it and say Tacenda.”

Harry moved quickly to the desk, pulling the drawer free and removing the papers Minerva stored in it. When the false bottom sprung open there were endless numbers of letters from Percy to Severus, bundled together in tight twine, and photographs, sketches, all of them muggle, all of them frozen in place, but all of them taken in quiet, intimate moments where Percy clearly didn’t know he had been photographed.

All except for one.

There was a fireplace in what Harry recognized as Spinner’s End’s sitting room and Percy was sitting at Severus’ feet, his head resting upon the darkly clad knee of the older man, his glasses sliding down his nose as he happily smiled up at Snape, his lips in the process of forming a word as he reached for the camera.

“I had an old polaroid that I confiscated from a student,” Snape explained softly. “Years ago. I found it again and… I knew there was no future for us. The best we could hope for was a swift death.” Snape stared sadly down at the photographs. “People truly die when no one tells their stories. Portraits can only be properly made when someone living can tell the artist the stories.”

Harry stared at Severus Snape and saw a man who was so painfully, deeply alone, even in death. He remembered speaking to the artist about Snape, Minerva and Draco must have also spoken about the man.

But who would tell Percy’s stories? No one knew what he had done other than Harry and Snape and their lives had never been intertwined as fully as Snape as Percy had been.

“Do you know his stories?”

“I am a portrait, Harry,” Snape whispered. “I do not know his stories, only the memories you were shown, and only that I loved him beyond life itself.”

Rita Skeeter’s tell-all biography of Severus Snape was exactly as Harry had expected. On the ink black cover, framed with lurid green writing declaring Snape: Scoundrel or Saint? was a black and white photograph of a scowling Professor Snape. Inside it was garbage of the same caliber as The Life And Lies Of Albus Dumbledore. Slanderous in many sections, and practically fictional in others.

It detailed the sad, miserable life of an angry, resentful child, raised by an equally angry father and resentful mother into a monstrously cruel man. It, thankfully, made no mention of Lily Potter in any capacity beyond their Hogwarts years, and Harry wondered what Severus would think of her name being mentioned in Rita Skeeter’s garbage at all.

Three quarters of the way through the book Harry froze when he noticed an entire four chapter section dedicated to Percival Ignatius Weasley and when Harry gets to the first page of that section he is struck by sudden nausea at the photograph used. There, for millions of witches and wizards to see, detailed in full color, were the dead bodies of Severus and Percy, clutching at one another in rigor mortis, their eyes not even closed. It was a violation of the highest caliber that made Harry’s hands tremble as he threatened to tear the book to pieces.

Percival Weasley was a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from 1987 to 1994. Little is known about Mister Weasley prior to his employment at the Ministry of Magic other than that he was a quiet, sullen boy and a rule follower of the highest caliber. He graduated in 1994 with his peers, top of his class despite an apparently lackluster ability regarding spellcasting and potions. He was an unremarkable boy only made remarkable by his ability to pass a test.

Or so it seems.

After his rather sudden hiring by Bartemius Crouch Senior Percy Weasley was quickly whisked into politics of a much darker and more sinister nature. Dolores Umbridge, ex-Ministry employee and temporary Headmistress of Hogwarts in 1996, said that he was a rather power hungry little creature, and while his relationship with Severus Snape was previously unknown and unspoken of, until one source, who preferred to remain anonymous, broke their silence for the purposes of this very book.

Harry flicked to the next page and saw a picture of Percy Weasley, smoking a cigarette outside of a Ministry building, looking exhausted and pale.

-Percy Weasley was merely a boy of sixteen when he became sexually involved with Severus Snape. During this torrid affair he was gifted a sinister artifact by his much older lover: The Diary of Tom Riddle, now known to be a Horcrux created during the Dark Lord’s school years. Using this Diary in a bid to resurrect the Dark Lord, it was revealed that Percy Weasley was unable to resist the Imperius curse, a fact that was later brought up in his hearing regarding his involvement in the death of Bartemius Crouch Senior. During this year of secret passion-

Harry flicked until there was another page with a photograph. This one was of Percy at a press conference following Minister Scrimgeour’s declaration of the Ministry’s strength. No words could be heard, but Percy’s lips moved as he spoke to the crowds.

-clearly Severus Snape’s influence, among other things, rubbed off on Percy Weasley when he used a poison to murder Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour following the press conference pictured above. Such a cruel, involved seduction had turned the infatuated young man into a slave to the whims of then-Headmaster Snape.

“It’s rubbish, all of it,” Ginny’s voice hissed and Harry closed the book quickly, looking over his shoulder at her. “She should be ashamed of the lies she tells.”

Harry looked down at the book, at Severus Snape’s scowling face, and frowned. “Someone should make the truth known. They were… They were good people. They made bad decisions, but they risked so much… For all of us.”

A tear tracked down Ginny’s cheek, catching on the scar that Percy had given her all those years ago. Harry hadn’t seen that memory, but he wondered if Percy had cried after he had raised his wand to his sister the same way tears had leaked from his eyes when he had seen her as he lay dying.

“I think… I think I know how,” He whispered, frowning at the cover of the book.

Albus Severus Potter tip-toed down the hallway, his fingers laced tightly with Scorpius Malfoy’s own pale fingers. “It’s this way!” He hissed, tugging Scorpius as the boy frowned and dug his heels in.

“That’s a girl’s lavatory,” Scorpius made a face at Albus. “Al, is there something you are trying to tell me?”

“Oh shut up, you jackass, let me show you! It’s really cool!” Albus managed to haul Scorpius into the lavatory, searching for the proper sink. He turned the taps until he found one that didn’t work at all, staring at the mirror for a long moment. “Tacenda.”

The sink lowered into the ground, grinding stone against stone, until it revealed a spiraling staircase leading into the bowels of the school. Scorpius squeezed at Albus’ fingers as they looked down, Albus hesitating before he rummaged through his pockets. He found a knut and dropped it down the stairs. It rattled and rolled and clinked and fell and the sound became more and more distant but didn’t stop.

“How deep does it go?” Scorpius asked, curiously peering down into the darkness beyond the grey stone steps.

“I don’t know,” Albus squeezed Scorpius’ fingers back.

“Let’s find out!”

The two of them descended the steps slowly, carefully, until they realized that the steps wouldn’t allow them to slip or fall, not the way the staircases in the rest of the castle would move to abandon or drop students at random. They raced down the steps at a breakneck speed, their laughter filling the stairwell as they sometimes paused to shout up towards the top, wondering if anyone could hear them at all.

When they came to a great circular doorway that mimicked the sewage and water pipes that surrounded them, they froze, cautiously peering into the new room.

“Is this… It’s the Chamber of Secrets!” Scorpius hissed excitedly as he dragged Albus deeper into the chamber. “Look, look, it’s Salazar Slytherin!” The enormous carved head of the man had a long beard and serpentine hair flowing and coiling away from his face. “Oh my god, Albus, how did you find out that was the password? The location?”

Albus flushed and cleared his throat. “I, um… I asked Headmaster Snape’s portrait a question.” He didn’t tell Scorpius that he had asked both of his namesakes about love, about how they could live with loves that were so secret that no one knew about them. Albus Dumbledore had hemmed and hawed and gave rather cryptic non-answers. Severus Snape had smiled and waited until his neighbour had dozed off before he leaned forward and whispered.

“Some things are better left unsaid, some things are better to be seen yourself.”

It had taken a few more times, a few more conversations, before Snape had told him about an old Slytherin myth and how the boy could find it.

Albus looked at the chamber before he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Hello?”

“What are you doing?” Scorpius looked at him like he might have grown a second head.

“The portrait said there was something important here,” Albus turned to fully face Salazar Slytherin, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Tacenda!”

The mouth of the great death mask opened, revealing an entrance to a second chamber, a pale, ethereal glow spilling past grey stone lips. The two boys hesitated only for a moment before Scorpius grasped at Albus’ hand and dragged him forward, foolish and braver than any Gryffindor could have hoped to be.

The chamber was small, dominated by a pair of statues carved in black, green, red, and white stones, pieced together to make a quiet tableaux. The two figures rested on a table that was no taller than hip height, their bodies sprawled supine on the surface, as if they were asleep. One figure was dressed in masterfully carved green robes, the folds and embroidery details so realistic that Albus was sure if he touched cold stone he’d feel warm wool instead. The other figure was dressed in red robes, the fabric spilling over the edge of the table like pooled blood, the color matching the short red curls of the man’s hair, the horn-rimmed glasses that rested on the young man’s face seeming to interrupt his hair as naturally as if it was freshly washed and feathery soft.

The faces of the two figures were turned towards one another and each one had a hand laced with the other, their heads resting on the edge of a small, circular basin. They looked so sad, the lines of their faces speaking of grief and worry and fear beyond what Albus could comprehend. There were tear tracks carved into their faces, faint lines of pure silver following the trails in marble skin, as if those silver tears were dripping into the basin itself.

“A penseive,” Scorpius traced his fingers through the water of the basin, glittering silver memories dripping from his fingers before he looked at Albus. “Want to look?”

They were silent for a few long moments before Albus nodded and the both of them leaned into the penseive to view the memory.

It was a rush of disjointed memories, each one swirling and blending into the next, but they were all memories of love. Intimate moments caught like butterflies in a field, showing Severus Snape staring down at Percy Weasley, sharing a rare smile with the younger man. The two of them laying in bed, covered by clean white sheets and whispering sweet nothings. Dancing together in a dingy yellow kitchen to the tune of some old song that Albus couldn’t name but recognized instinctively. Silent evenings in the Dungeons, Percy observing Severus discretely, not realizing the man was doing the same to him for all those quiet moments. Tears, so much pain, but love all the same, treated with such care and reverence it was breathtaking to see it.

“No one can ever know,” Severus Snape whispered as he looked down at Percy, stroking his fingers over a soft cheek, Percy’s head tilted into his palm as those adoring green eyes stared up at him.

“Nobody needs to know,” Percy agreed, reaching up to tangle in dark hair. “This is only for us.”

The memories ended and Albus and Scorpius pulled out of the penseive, looking at the water, their fingers still clutched together as they stared at the two statues, still looking as if they were merely sleeping, like they might wake at any moment. Albus avoided Scorpius’ eyes, instead staring at the black stone of Severus Snape’s hair, spilling over the edge of the table in finely carved wisps.

“This… This chamber is a secret,” Albus looked at Scorpius and swallowed. “Nothing… Nothing said here could ever be heard by anyone else… It’s why they’re down here.”

Their lips were so close that when Scorpius spoke, it was words that Albus felt more than heard. “Kiss me, Albus.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”