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Death and the Open Mind	By : LoupGarou1750 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3186 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her business associates own the world of Harry Potter. I make no money from this, nor anything else.

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Death and the Open Mind

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MAY

Dark. Then light. Two diamond slivers. Too bright, they slash, pierce, rend, tear. So sharp he screams. Then dark again. Blessed dark. Cold dark. Perfect dark denying even the possibility of light.

Sleep. Then dreams. Blazing emeralds. Dull, amorphous shadows that flicker, fade, reform into a pale, worried face. Fading back into shadows. Into black. Into Dark.

Diamond light. Bloodred pain. Greenglass splinters. Anger. Effort. Agony. Nothing.

And still nothing. And more nothing. And still more. Nothing which is close to peace which is closer to death which is the definition of desire.

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Harry wasn't sure when the nightmares had started. He wasn't sure they could properly be called nightmares because he didn't think anything ever happened in them — no monsters, no one died, he wasn't running away, or being hurt. He would wake, unable to remember the specifics of the dreams that left him shaking and disoriented, sometimes terrified, and always feeling lonelier than ever. Nightmares. What other word was there?

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"Snape's funeral today," Harry said, trying for casual and knowing he'd failed.

Jaw tightening, Ginny responded with, "I know. And no, I'm not going. And no, I'm not going to argue with you again. You weren't here, Harry. You don't know how it was."

"What was he supposed—"

"Something. Anything. He could have, should have done something."

"There were Death Eaters—"

"I know. We've been over it and over it and over it. Do you need me to say he was a hero? Yes, absolutely, without a doubt he was a hero. He was also a bastard, responsible for George's ear and... Can we please not go over this again? You go. Pay your respects. I'll be here when you get home."

It was frustrating. Although she was clearly upset, Ginny's tone was so mild, so reasonable, there was nothing Harry could legitimately take offense at, no handle to grab onto that would justify the fight he hungered for. If he tried, if he pushed it, she had the unanswerable tactic of pulling her shirt up and showing him again the whip scars left by one of the Carrows, not that he needed reminding, not that he didn't feel the raw horror of them every time they made love.

Still, he thought she should come to the funeral, if not to show respect for Snape then for him. He needed her.

"He had no choice," Harry tried, unable to let it drop even though he knew it was pointless.

"Don't, Harry. Just don't. You weren't here."

And that's what it's really about, isn't it?Harry thought angrily. It was nothing to do with Snape at all; she was still furious that Harry had gone off with Ron and Hermione, leaving her behind.

"Maybe after some more time has passed...I'm just not ready to forgive and forget. Not yet."

He loved her, he truly did, but for sheer bloody-mindedness she had no rival.

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A grey mist crept over Hogwarts' grounds, so thick Harry couldn't see his feet which were wet and cold from walking across the grass. He looked bitterly at the assembled group: McGonagall, Flitwick, Hagrid, and surprisingly Binns – Harry'd never seen him outside the castle and the ghostly professor seemed less substantial than usual, fainter than the mist swirling about their legs – that was it for the professors. Madam Pomfrey was there as well, but no students except himself and Hermione. None but McGonagall and Hagrid from the Order, no one from the Ministry, neither Malfoys nor Weasleys bothered to attend. It was only Snape, after all.

Harry looked at Hermione and mouthed, "Ron?" but she just shrugged and shook her head. After all they'd been through together, Ron's absence felt a greater betrayal than Ginny's. Harry clenched his fists in anger and looked away.

McGonagall and Flitwick took their wands out and then Snape's body came, shrouded in white, floating just above the surface of the fog. A winding sheet encased the body from toes to neck, leaving the sallow face uncovered, a few strands of black hair escaping, exposing more of Snape's unlovely visage than he had ever allowed in life. Even though he knew to expect it, Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Madam Pomfrey's charm to preserve the body until burial had worked better than he'd expected; cheeks as full as they ever were — which wasn't saying much — and eyes rounded under their lids, Snape looked as if he were only sleeping, as if at any moment his chest would rise and fall and rise again, as if his eyes would open and his lips curl in the all too familiar sneer.

Once more Harry looked angrily at the ridiculously small group that had come to see Snape off, and then back at Snape's face, placid in death as it never had been in life.

This is all, then? After all I've done? They couldn't even give me the respect of showing up?

Harry's anger and sense of loss bewildered him. What was Snape to him, after all? Snape's love for Lily, and the knowledge of what he had sacrificed to bring about Voldemort's downfall, were not enough to explain the sour taste of grief that filled Harry's throat. He stuck his hand in his pocket and rolled around the vial of Snape's memories he'd carried with him. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe this was nothing more than a weird fixation. Maybe his grief was for all the questions about his mother that would now never be answered. Maybe it was his saving people thing, and the knowledge that he hadn't saved Snape, hadn't even tried.

Snape's small crypt, built of some dull grey stone, appeared mean and cramped sitting in the shadow of Dumbledore's massive white tomb. There had been protests when the spot had been announced. How dare they put the traitor, a Death Eater, next to the man he'd killed? Public outrage was one of the reasons the interment had been delayed so long. Shockingly it had been Professor Trelawney who'd come up with the argument that seemed to shut down the complainers. "For good or ill he was beloved by Albus Dumbledore. Who are we to argue?" In spite of that, Trelawney was not at the funeral.

Harry did not hear the words that accompanied Snape to his rest, refused to speak any of his own. Where's the fairness in this? played over and over in his mind. When they were done, when Snape was forever shut away in his dark crypt, Harry shook off Hermione's consoling hand, walked quickly to the gates and Disapparated.

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Grimmauld Place felt as cold and dank as Snape's crypt even though a fire blazed in the grate and Ginny was waiting for him as she'd promised. He returned her hug halfheartedly before disengaging himself and moving across the room to the drinks cabinet.

"You didn't have to stay," he said, still spoiling for the fight he hadn't managed that morning.

"How was it?" she asked quietly after Harry had poured himself a double measure of firewhisky and finally settled in. He had first ensconced himself in among the sofa's pillows, then, not wanting her to sit next to him, shifted to a wingback chair near the window.

Harry swirled the firewhisky around in his glass, took a big gulp and started coughing. He wasn't used to drinking, but he was cold and it seemed like the kind of thing one did after a funeral. He was embarrassed by his lack of finesse and now his throat burned. "Smashing success. The throngs raged and wept and rent their clothes – all seven of us. The evil, filthy bastard is finally locked away where he can do no more harm. You must be pleased."

Ginny refused to rise to the bait. "Mum sent food – steak and mushroom pie, from the smell of it. You like that and I know you didn't eat this morning."

"Funeral meats." Harry laughed hollowly. "I'm not hungry." His fingers sought the vial in his pocket; he had intended to leave the memories with Snape's body.

"You need to eat something."

Rising halfway from his seat, Harry hurled his glass, and the sudden roar of firewhisky-fueled flame filled the room. "I'm not hungry!" he shouted as the fire died down again. He sank back into his chair, digging his palms into his eyes. "Go back to the Burrow. I'm not fit company tonight."

"How long are you planning to punish me for not going?" Ginny asked, standing in front of him, her arms folded across her breasts.

Overwhelmed with tiredness and anger he couldn't explain, Harry let his head fall against the tall back of his armchair. "Such a sheltered life you've had. If you think this is punishment, you don't know the meaning of the word," he said nastily. Then, feeling guilty, he opened his eyes, looked at her and added, "We'll talk tomorrow, yeah? I'm sorry. Really, I just need to be alone tonight."

"It's barely noon, Harry," Ginny said.

"Noon, midnight, what's the difference? Is being left alone too much to ask?" He was nearly shouting again and he didn't know why. Ginny hadn't done anything to earn that kind of rage. His fingers twitched with the urge to slap her, but the look on her face made him feel as if he'd deliberately crushed a puffskein between his fingers. "I'm sorry, Gin. I'm just really, really tired. You said I was restless last night, right? And–"

"No, I'm sorry. I know today was hard on you, and I know you're disappointed that I didn't go with you." She made a motion as if to stroke his arm and Harry jerked away, his eyes narrowing. Ginny let her hand fall back to her side. "Maybe after you eat something and take a nap you'll feel better. It'd probably be smart for me to spend the night in my own bed tonight, anyway. I think Mum may be getting a little suspicious. Even with all the uproar, she doesn't miss much."

She let herself out and Harry was asleep in his chair before the front door snicked shut.

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Bitter cold. Impenetrable dark. Restless. Anxious. Confused.

Above, the grey Portland stone of Waterloo bridge, its visibility at odds with the moonless sky. Far ahead, an antipathy of people, backs rigid, walking away, leaving him behind. He opens his mouth. No sound comes out. No sound at all, only the echo of footsteps. "Come back," he screams, to no avail. No sound comes out. A solitary figure stops, turns, looks, shrugs, walks away. He raises his arm and waves it furiously. "Come back!" No sound comes out.

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Flailing in his sleep, Harry smacked himself in the head and woke with a start and a shout. "Fuck," he said, rubbing his bruised cheek.

Serves you right for walking away.

"Shut up," Harry said aloud to the voice in his head. "Walking away from what? I don't even know what that was about! I was dreaming. It was a dream, that's all." Out of habit he reached for Ginny and found her side of the bed empty, which explained why he felt so cold. What he couldn't explain was why he was in bed instead of downstairs in his chair; he didn't remember coming to bed.

In the kitchen he set the kettle to boil and idly opened a cupboard as he waited. In confusion he stared at a half-eaten pie. He couldn't remember eating, but it was true he didn't feel nearly as hungry as he should after a day's fast. Shaking his head, he took out the pie and cut himself a neat slab, warmed it with a charm and sat down to eat. Without thinking, he salted it before taking a bite, something he never did with Molly's food.

It's only to be expected – death changes you.

And there was a thought that made sense, finally. He had died, and come back. He had killed Voldemort, and lived. Was it any wonder the world seemed different to him? Any wonder things looked and tasted and felt flat?

Loneliness crashed over him like a tidal wave.

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Death and the Open Mind