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It Wasn't Enough	By : ObsidianGrace Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 2082 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything in the Harry Potter fandom. The characters, locations or magical phrases used in this story. I do not make any profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-It Wasn't Enough
- 1
This is my first attempt to publish and share a fanfiction. A special thanks goes out to my beta, Slave4Severus. Any typos or errors are mine. If this story receives a good reception I may post the sequel. Thank you for reading this story.

It Wasn't Enough

by Obsidian Grace

“Would anyone like to speak?”

It seems that most people only ever try to find the good, speak only of another's kindnesses and good deeds at the one time when that person will not be there to hear or appreciate it. Why do people only ever have something nice to say about the dead? Why don’t people tend to tell the whole truth about the deceased? Some might say that they do it out of respect, but the truth of the matter is that they usually do it out of cowardice or a strange need to let the dead remain a loving thought – a lie in the hearts and minds of those who knew the truth.

Harry Potter thought that was a load of rubbish – an absolute load of shite.

But what could be said about Hogwart’s former Potions Master, come Headmaster? Most of the witches and wizards in attendance at Severus Snape’s funeral were the few brave souls that had survived the bloody battle against Lord Voldemort and his following of Death Eaters.

To the young hero, one of the many, to the wizarding world the small gathering didn’t seem like nearly enough for Snape; a man who had dedicated his life and given so much, even in the face of distrust, torture and ultimately his demise.

The raven haired, bespeckled, young man had been very outspoken against anyone who wrote or spoke a harsh word or assumption about the sallow faced Slytherin. Try as he might though, even the emerald eyed, Gryffindor could not convince the entire wizarding world of Snape’s true part in the Order’s victory in the war.

That is not to say that Harry thought new, kind thoughts about the hooked nose man. Severus Snape had spent Harry’s entire school career scowling and belittling the youth and the rest of Gryffindor house. Taking house points and sharing his obvious dislike of Harry’s father and through association Harry – to not just the class but the entire school. There was not one witch or wizard that had attended Hogwarts during Harry’s years of schooling that was not aware of their animosity towards each other.

So, when Harry had appealed to the ministry publicly about clearing Snape’s name the headlines in the Daily Prophet read: Young Savior Confounded by dead Death Eater?

He had been livid, sending the paper a demand for an apology and retraction as well as the name of his newly hired wizarding lawyer, Warren Warbright. Upon receiving the letter confirming that Britain’s most ruthless lawyer was in Harry’s employ – the Prophet did as was demanded. On page ten in two sentences.

Still, he supposed it was something.

The watery voice of a wizened old wizard spoke up once more, a little louder now in an attempt to cover the awkward moment, tearing Harry away from his thoughts. When no one immediately stepped forward Harry’s entire body momentarily quaked with silent rage. The dark charcoal grey robes he wore clung tight across his chest as he took a deep, steadying breath. Before he could stalk to the front of the gathering a wrinkled, slender hand firmly grasped his shoulder.

Harry glared back, ready to verbally attack anyone who would deny him a chance to speak when the words died on his lips and his gaze softened. He nodded silently at Professor McGonagall, his fists loosening at his sides. He met her weary gaze briefly before stepping aside to allow her a clear path past him. The grey-haired witch strode to the front of the small gathering, her soft black robes falling limply around her as she clasped her veiny hands together.

“I watched Severus grow from a quiet, scholarly young wizard into one of the finest Potions Masters in all of Britain. He was loyal and passionate not only to his Slytherins but to the cause. He loved to read the classics and he had an appreciation for aged whiskey. Hopefully now he will have a chance at the peace that eluded him in life.” The elderly witches pale eyes met Harry’s and she smiled sadly.

He squared his shoulders, walking up the few steps to the head of the podium and halting beside his former professor. He took a shuddering breath, silently glancing over the small crowd before speaking. “Severus Snape was not a kind man but he was the bravest man that I ever knew. He went out night after night to answer Voldemort’s summons, knowing that each time he left he could very well be going to his death. The information that he gathered and the chances he took on a daily basis to save as many lives as he could, should not be forgotten. He was a hero – he was my hero and he was yours. May he find peace.”

Harry refused to bow his head at that sentiment, instead meeting the eyes of every witch and wizard there in turn.

It should have been more but for now…for now it would do.

Many more funerals followed, and after the dust had settled, he found himself returning to Snape's grave on the first anniversary of his funeral. Standing alone before a plain grey tombstone, Harry’s lips were set in a harsh line of disappointment, his eyes emotionless. He hugged his coat around him, savoring whatever warmth the dark blue trench coat had to offer as a cold breeze shifted the dead leaves around him.

Harry’s mind was racing with memories, quick flashes that in time, slowed to a crawl allowing the young man to immerse himself in remembrance. Snape had saved him time and time again. He never broadcasted the events and never sought thanks. Harry remembered glancing over at the Quidditch stands just moments before his broom started to buck back and forth in an attempt to throw him off. For a brief instant his green eyes met Snape’s black ones and there was something there within the other wizard’s bottomless onyx gaze.

Of course there was the usual disdain but beneath that…Harry could just barely make out a hint of worry before the Professor’s mask of indifference was firmly back in place.

Looking back, Harry was not so foolish as to believe that Snape’s attitude and dislike towards him had been an act. The greasy haired professor was vindictive and spiteful and yet, he still continued to save Harry time and time again. Life debt, obligation or not, he was there when he was needed the most. When no other adult, professor or otherwise, not even the headmaster, would take a stand with the Gryffindor – Snape had been there. A whisper of black. Protecting Harry from the Death Eaters after completing his promise to Dumbledore; by way of murder, by delivering believable but non-life-threatening hexes. Before that incident, Snape attempted to protect the golden trio from Remus Lupin in his wolf form even though it could have meant death or becoming one of the very beasts that he seemed to hate.

Harry ran his slender fingers through his shaggy dark hair and sighed. Off-handedly, he knew that Snape would hate that action – so reminiscent of the way James Potter used to mess-up his hair in an attempt to look slightly rough and more appealing to the opposite sex. The corner of Harry’s full lips twitched in a barely there smile as he knelt down onto the cold grass that had grown over Snape’s grave that year.

The site was bare of flowers, letters, mementos or even a tombstone fit for a wizard posthumously awarded the order of merlin, first class. The washed-out looking stone; already crumbling - seemed to mock everything that the wizard had done and it wasn’t nearly enough.

“How could they forget you?” Harry inquired softly. “I suppose it’s fairly easy for them. Especially those people who weren’t involved and didn’t see –“ His words broke off as he lifted his gaze from the ground. Had anyone who didn’t know Harry Potter seen the look in his eyes they might have suggested that he had gone mad. Had any of his friends been present they would have stated with an understanding clarity that he was resolved.

A month after visiting Snape’s grave Harry’s friends sent owls to his home and to Hogwarts, where the staff and many former students were still rebuilding. The letters piled up at 12 Grimmauld Place, but Harry left them untouched, having more pressing matters to attend to. He tried to involve the Ministry Of Magic in his newest project, a memorial for Severus Snape, but the current minister’s secretary had sent a polite letter declining their interest. After fuming about the quick response he decided that perhaps that was the way that it was meant to be.

No ceremony, no publicity; just a simple gesture – something – a silent reminder.

Deciding to forgo contracts and notoriety for what he wanted to accomplish he downed enough concentration draught potion to last months. Six months to be exact and in that time the he studied art, anatomy, craftwork and his memories of Snape until finally, he felt prepared for the next portion of his task.

Harry searched high and low, traveling not just out of the city but out of the country in an effort to find the perfect piece of marble for his creation. Harry searched through various shops in England, France, America – all over the globe until he finally happened upon a shop owned by a wizarding family in Italy. The shop was a work of art in its own right, with large columns that seemed to go into the heavens. Everything had the look of pristine marble and sparkling gold, from the floor to the ceiling.

An olive skinned wizard stood beside the register, which rested on a beautifully crafted table of marble. Upon spotting Harry he motioned at various display pieces available on the floor. The Gryffindor shook his head and he explained in broken Italian what he was looking for. The clerk smiled brightly, his white teeth nearly blinding in his tanned face and he led Harry behind the register counter, past a deep purple curtain into the back of the shop.

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the piece. It was large and unshapely – almost awkward. It was perfect. The Gryffindor paid a heavy sum for the slab but he knew that it was worth every bit of what he paid and more. One thing was certain, Snape wouldn’t have been able to insinuate that he had used his fame to obtain a better deal since the young wizard had used a glamour whenever he traveled abroad.

Rather than wait for delivery Harry elected to pick up his purchase himself. He performed a weightless charm on the marble, shrunk it down to the size of a large marble ball, pocketed it and with a polite farewell to the store clerk he quickly walked to the nearest apparition point.

He arrived on the sidewalk outside of Grimmauld Place and after giving his wards a moment to recognize his magical signature he opened the front door and stepped inside. Harry took a moment to check the strength of his wards adding another layer of strength to them until he was satisfied with his work. Finally content with the security that currently protected his home he hurried up the creaking, narrow stairs until he reached the second floor landing.

There was a strange sort of excitement mingled in with Harry’s impatience and he didn’t stop running until he reached the large room at the end of the hall, slightly out of breath. The room, once a large guestroom with a view of the back garden, now stood empty in preparation of Harry’s project. He withdrew the small marble from his robe pocket and rolled it around in his palm for a second before he set it on the ground.

There were charms set in place to protect the wooden flooring so he wasn’t worried about damage to the room as he removed the shrinking spell from the stone. The tiny piece of marble seemed to have a life of its own as it stretched across the floor taking shape inch by inch until finally the large slab was restored to its original dimensions.

Harry thoughtfully tapped a slender digit against his stubbled chin while he slowly walked around the mass of stone. Finding a starting point he accio’d a chair from the dining room. He stripped out of his robes and he set them haphazardly across the back of the chair. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, grasped his wand firmly in his hand and he set to work, determination etched into every line of his face. Most wizards would have thought that Harry Potter had gone off the deep end as he circled and turned, this way and that, slashing his wand to remove a chunk of marble here or carving a line there. Ron would have huffed at his best mate and suggested that he visit St.Mungo's or at the very least Transfigure the stone, however, transfiguring the stone wouldn’t have been the same to him.

True, Harry’s magic more or less read his desired intentions while he worked, rather than relying on artistic talent alone, but he wanted to put himself into this piece. He wanted to give something back to the reluctant hero.

After the first three weeks the lump of marble began to take the shape of a man. Harry found himself using three different cleaning spells to clear out the large chunks and fine dust that had collected during that time. It was another two months before he finished sculpting enough of the lean robed body to progress to the face. Another week passed before Harry saw the first true signs of progress.

Strangely enough, it happened by accident. Harry had been carefully working on what he hoped would resemble one of Snape’s high cheekbones when his wand arm, exhausted from countless hours at work, slipped. The cut was jagged and took with it a lump of white marble – right where the nose was slowly, carefully, being worked in. Just as Harry was about to mutter a quick ‘repairo’, his tired emerald gaze traveled over the damaged area of the face.

His mouth went slack and he stared dumbly at the newly formed, perfectly imperfect and absolutely recognizable hooked nose of one Severus Snape. Without a second thought to process what he was doing, he tentatively reached out a slightly trembling, white powder covered hand to touch the curious mistake. Quidditch roughened fingertips smoothed over the hooked portion of stone and Harry felt something unexplainable swell within his chest.

Realizing how lucky he had been and not wanting to push that luck, Harry forced himself to retire for the evening, or early morning as it was well past one in the morning. He used a lot more caution from that day forward taking care to eat and sleep regularly. Sometimes sleep did not always come easily, his thoughts filled with a longing to see his friends and perhaps pick up where he had left off with Ginny Weasley.

He made a silent promise to himself, although he preferred to think that it was also a promise to the memory of Snape as well, that he would not let anything distract him from his task until it was complete. Too bad Ron and Hermione hadn’t gotten the memo.

One evening at dinner, having just finished the lines of Snape’s brow, a familiar crimson envelope peeked out from the pile of mail. Harry barely had a chance to set down his fork and brace himself when the letter erupted with the angry voices of his two best friends.

Hermione’s voice echoed off of the bare walls of the dining room, sounding to Harry ten times louder. “How dare you cut us off – you know that we have been worried sick!”

“Yeah! What the bloody Hell have you got up to in that creepy, old place!?” Ron sounded thoroughly annoyed and more than just a little bit curious, whether about Harry’s welfare or the happenings, Harry couldn’t be certain. As the howler continued its rant, Harry raised a containment spell around the horrible thing and walked away. Stifling a yawn, he grimaced. Tomorrow.

He would write to them tomorrow - and tell them what exactly? He hadn’t a clue. That night like most, was a restless one. The young man tossed from side to side but his best friends howler weighed heavily on his mind. How would they react? If he had commissioned an artist to create the piece, Harry was certain that Hermione would have thought it was a great idea but if she knew all that he had done…what would she really think?

He suspected that Ron would think he had gone barmy, regardless of his level of involvement. Ron stated that very fact every time Harry stood up and spoke out against those attempting to slander the deceased Potion’s Master. “Why do you bother, Harry? He treated you awful. From day one he’d been a right git.” When that approach didn’t work Ron tried another tactic. “If he were alive and the situation reversed do you think that that greasy git would give you even half a thought?”

Sometimes things were more complicated than that. Sometimes, it was about more than niceness and there is always more to a person that meets the eye. No one was completely good or evil, aside from Voldemort.

It was with those troubling thoughts weighing on his mind that Harry Potter fell into an uneasy sleep. Initially Harry was in ‘the void’, the place that his mind took him to during the transition into the dreaming state. Harry referred to the endless space surrounding him as ‘the void’ because it didn’t seem to be anywhere. As far as he could tell the darkness was endless. It was so dark that had Harry the ability to move his hand in front of his face he was certain that he would never see it.

Something seemed different this time however – it was changed somehow. There seemed to be a presence so close…Something tickled the shell of his ear but, unable to move he simply called out “Hello?” For the first time that he could remember he had a voice. “Hello?” Harry tried again, he attempted to sound brave but for his entire life there had been one unchangeable constant, one sanctuary of sorts – his void.

“Leave,” a voice whispered in what felt like a chilled breeze passing by his ear. “What? Who are you?” Harry asked. Waiting seconds that seemed like hours, he repeated his questions. “Leave this place,” the smoky, dark whisper demanded and Harry shivered at the frigid sensation that he felt against his ear once again. It was then that he realized that this time in the void, he had not just ears but apparently a body as well.

He squared his jaw and he clenched his empty hands into fists at his sides. “You won’t scare me off that easily,” Harry stated boldly, defiance coloring his tone. “Oh?” The silky, unidentifiable whisper inquired. Harry could have sworn that there was a hint of amusement there but before he had time to explore that thought further a harsh grip closed around his upper arms pushing him backward until he bumped into a rough wall.

The pressure around his upper arms felt like icy imprints of long, tapered fingers. “How about this then?” the whispering voice hissed and without further warning chilled lips took possession of his mouth. Harry’s eyes went as wide around as saucers and he scrambled for purchase against the wall, trying to get away from his unseen assailant. The icy mouth against his opened and a wicked tongue trailed along the seam of his lips. The tongue withdrew and Harry could feel the mouth against his spread into a cruel smile. The young man shoved hard against the stone wall for all that he was worth and his assailant released him just as suddenly.

With a gasp Harry bolted upright in bed, sweat drenching his shirt, forcing the garment to stick to his clammy chest. “What the Hell was that!?” Harry gasped. Knowing that sleep would not soon return, he blindly reached for his glasses, which he had placed on the nightstand beside his large mahogany bed. Disturbed by his dream encounter, he peeled the clammy shirt off of his body, replacing it with a fresh one. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he realized he wouldn't get any more rest that night. 'Might as well see if I can work on the statue', he thought to himself, padding barefoot across the room.

Upon entering his well lit work room he calmly walked around the statue. Harry could’ve sworn that there was another months work left when he went to bed, but looking at the alabaster creation he realized that after a few fine touch-ups the statue would be ready to take its place of honor at Snape’s grave. For some unexplainable reason this saddened Harry as much as it elated him.

He raised himself up on tip-toes and peered into the familiar face of his once thought enemy. Even as a statue, there was something about the look of the other man that made Harry Potter feel like a first year. The morning went well into the afternoon with Harry working his wand over the haughty face and thin frame until finally he finished on the Potion Master's full lips, his eyes lingering on them for a fraction of a second. Stepped back, he knew that he was finished, “Perfect,” he breathed, his emerald orbs staring intently at Snape.
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It Wasn't Enough