A Promise

A/N: Review responses at the bottom!

Disclaimer: Don't own it, so don't sue please :P And there's a quote of 'one warm beautiful thing', which was shamelessly taken from Minx's fan fiction of the same title. If you haven't read it yet, please do. And read all her other stuff. It's gorgeous.

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Chapter 4

Strange. There were burn marks and deep gouges in the tabletop that he had never noticed before tonight. The burns and some of the grooves were likely from that time back in his fifth year, when the Weasley twins had used magic to hover a steaming cauldron and bread knives to the table. He did not smile at the memory, despite the fact that he knew it was a pleasant one.

He wondered where the other chiselled marks had come from. Were they from when Sirius had been a boy and a similar scene had been enacted? Did Sirius’ mother create those marks out of anger when her eldest son left their home?

He took a moment to wonder why no one had ever brought up the noticeable imperfections in the kitchen table. He reflected on why no one had seen to ask about the flaws in the table’s surface. Were they so insignificant a detail that people ignored them? Or was it simply that no one cared enough to notice? And why had no one seen to fixing the small mistakes in the woodwork; all it would take was a simple patching spell applied to a new plank of wood. Then, all of the blemishes and imperfections would be hidden from the world, as if they had never existed.

Green eyes filled with tears for what felt like the millionth time in twelve hours. Harry hadn’t cried since those terrible moments in the Ministry of Magic atrium, and yet his eyes still felt the strain. But now, he did not know if he could continue to hold himself together. Because the thought of something so seemingly insignificant being covered up and forgotten, like so many things in life, was just dreadful. If the patching spell were applied right now, would people see the difference? Would people care, would they even give a fuck?

Harry slammed his hand down on the countertop to smother the thoughts swirling around his head. The tears that had been threatening came at last and his face screwed up in unimaginable pain. Unimaginable because he just couldn’t bear the thought of what life would be like without that one warm beautiful thing in his life: the man who had stolen his heart and kept it ransom for the past two years. The man who was right now laying on a cold, hard slab in the St. Mungo’s Hospital morgue awaiting the arrangement of his funeral. His funeral. Oh God. Harry hadn’t even thought about the service. How could he? He’d spent the entire day sitting at the kitchen table, alternately staring at the table and—when he became bored—the ceiling. Eventually, both Ron and Mr. Weasley had had to leave to look after their own affairs before the Order gathered. Harry had been left alone only when he had assured them that he would be fine on his own for a few hours. After all, in just a few minutes, the Order would meet to discuss the implications of the death of their one and only spy.

Harry scoffed bitterly through his tears. That was all anyone cared about; how the lack of information from the other side would affect their chances of winning the war. No one cared that a life had been taken too early. No one cared that a man who had risked his life to give them their precious information was now dead. No one cared about the man who had sneered and ridiculed them. No one cared that Harry was now so alone he could feel the darkness creeping in on him. And certainly no one cared that the man who had been an essential part of Harry’s life was now gone. Severus Snape was dead and no one gave a fucking—shit. Severus was like the table that Harry had been staring at for the better part of three hours. The table that had all these little imperfections that no one would remember if it was replaced.

And suddenly, Harry’s rage swelled within him. His magic responded to his intense emotions, swirling around him and rattling the glasses and dishware in the cabinets. If he had any say in it, no one was going to forget the flaws in the table; he would make certain of it. Harry stood, his emotions nearly too much to handle while sitting; and then he began putting his fury to good use. Harry threw punch after punch into the wooden grain of the table. The pain that blossomed in his knuckles was soon forgotten as his feelings grew too powerful to contain any longer. He jabbed at the table repeatedly, his magic helping him to gouge and burn and splinter the wooden surface.

He couldn’t stand to be still anymore and so moved frantically around the table, striking it again and again, creating more of the little flaws in its otherwise smooth surface. And when that was no longer enough, he moved to the side table holding Sirius’ old china and smashed the teapot on the floor. His anger knew no bounds; at the moment, he was all-powerful, he was pain, he was mercy. Mercy for the feelings that had no other way to be released than this cathartic ritual of smash—crash—tear. Smash—crash—tear. Smash-crash-tear. Smash-crash-tear. SmashCrashTear. Smash—

Harry felt the wind knocked out of him in the space of a heartbeat. The last object he had thrown was an ancient-looking crystal decanter that Sirius had once told him belonged to his great Auntie Melpomene. Harry remembered the story well, as it had been right after Arthur Weasley was attacked in the Department of Mysteries. They had been sitting alone in the kitchen following the news of the Weasley patriarch’s recovery, and Sirius had stood to grab the decanter, which was filled with a deep amber liquid.

“It’s scotch,” Sirius had explained at Harry’s look. “Remus introduced me to it a few years back. It helps with the nerves.”

Sirius had given Harry a look of contemplation before shaking his head and filling just the one glass, which matched the crystal antique. He downed the glass in one gulp and refilled it, then came to sit next to Harry.

“These glasses and that crystal monstrosity belonged to my great Auntie Melpomene. She left the collection to my mother, although Mum never did have much use for the drink,” Sirius had huffed, taking another sip. “Aunt Melpomene had a knack for wards. She used to say one could never be too careful. Although for her, I guess you couldn’t be.”

“What do you mean?” Harry had questioned, curious despite the sombre mood.

“Well, her husband Artie Black, or Artemius, well he didn’t quite believe in wards. He used to say that if someone wanted to see him that badly, he might as well just let them in. One night, while Aunt Melpomene was visiting her mother with their baby, a few of Grindelwald’s lackeys came a-calling. See, in that day, the Black name was respected. We weren’t light, but we weren’t quite dark either. Neutral, you could say. So one night, Grindelwald’s pack of followers came looking for poor Artie, and well—” Sirius raised his glass in a silent salute before downing the rest of his drink. “Needless to say, Melpomene was never quite the same. I always thought it was a bit ironic, that.”

“How so?” Harry had asked, confused.

“Melpomene is a figure from Greek mythology, Harry. She was the muse of tragedy.”

And how ironic was it now that that particular memory had come back to haunt him? Now that his very own tragedy had occurred, now that his own lover was dead, and he was sitting here, breaking the last remnants of that tragic past. Harry kicked some glass out of his way, returning to seat himself at the table. Now that his anger and resentment were gone, he felt drained all over again. His breaths were coming in gasps that burned his lungs coming in. He closed his eyes and focused on calming his breathing, trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Once he felt relatively calm again, he opened his eyes and returned to staring at the mangled table.

Now that it had been so thoroughly chewed up, it was easier to see other facets to the table. It was not only filled with small marks and grooves—although Harry had just vastly improved upon the surface’s weary look—but it also showed hints of beauty and splendour. The quality of wood, for example. It must have been a very expensive wizard’s oak, charmed for durability. And the particular stain of the timber—a mash-up of brown, dark chocolate, and black—was gorgeous. Harry found an unmarked section of the wood, tracing the whorls and lines made by years of growth. It really was a beautiful table, once you got past the unattractive bits. And wasn’t that just the perfect metaphor for Severus, he thought with a tremulous smile.

Severus had held no appeal to Harry when he’d been younger. Then Harry had grown up and discovered that the world was not so rose-tinted as he had once thought. He had begun to see things in a different way; as a consequence, he had begun to see people, and eventually Severus, in a whole new way. He started to watch his former Professor at Order meetings, trying to discern what made the older man tick, why he felt the need to be so cruel, why Harry had never seen him with anyone—male or female.

Some would say it was the Professor’s unpleasant features and even more repellent personality that had driven away any suitor dense enough to pursue him. But to Harry’s keen eye, Severus’ features distinguished him from any other and made him seem dignified. His patrician nose, which was a poor sight to most, held a different appeal to Harry; he couldn’t quite explain it, but he loved the beaky nose. Maybe it was the way it bumped Harry’s cheek when they spooned together on nights when they could sleep in the same bed, or the endearing manner in which it always seemed to get in the way of their kisses. Severus’ eyes, which to most were cold and lifeless, never failed to catch Harry’s full attention. Harry thought of them as the most expressive features his lover possessed and he often caught himself staring into them, enthralled by their intensity. Severus’ teeth were crooked and slightly yellowed, but to Harry, that didn’t matter one whit, because the tongue that lay beyond that barrier was talented and clever in a way Harry had never known. Severus’ hair, which some thought was in a perpetual state of greasiness, was fine and soft as feathers—once the potion fumes that clung to the midnight tresses were washed away.

As for the man’s personality, Harry had found that Severus was like an onion; once Harry had peeled away all of the layers, Severus was a man worth getting to know. Beyond the sarcasm, sneers, and scathing retorts was a kind, gentle, and loving soul. It had taken Harry at least a year to peel back enough layers to be able to actually see the true personality of his lover, and even now, Harry didn’t think he was finished peeling. He let out a pained laugh that turned into a half-sob near the end. More tears fell as he realized all over again that he would never get the chance to find out what lay beneath the seeming hundreds of layers of his lover’s character. He felt broken all over again, shattered into tiny pieces like the shards of crystal and china that were scattered across the kitchen. As he lay his head down on his folded arms, he wondered if he would ever feel whole again.

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Arthur Weasley stepped into Grimmauld Place with his wife, ten minutes before the Order meeting was scheduled to begin. As he hung his cloak in the entryway, he did not know what to expect when he arrived in the kitchen. There was no doubt in his mind that Harry had not left the small space since Arthur and Ron had departed earlier that afternoon, as none of the other lamps in the house were burning. He took the time to wave the flames on in the hallway leading to the kitchen before he and Molly walked towards the room at the end of the hall.

Arthur’s eyes widened when they stepped across the threshold. All around them, debris and chaos lay in spades. The side table that had held all of the china and crystal drinking glasses had been overturned and its contents spilled all over the narrow kitchen. Dishes from the cupboards had also fallen out and the one window pane had cracked, while the drapes had been torn to shreds. Harry himself was sitting in the same chair he’d been sat in since that morning, his head pillowed on his folded arms as he shook with silent sobs. From what they could see, his knuckles were bleeding and no wonder; Arthur’s eyes took in the not-insubstantial damage to the table surface with disbelief.

“Oh Harry,” Arthur’s wife lamented gently, rushing around the table to lay her hands on his shoulders.

Harry had stiffened slightly when he heard her speak, but as soon as she touched him, he turned into her arms, embracing her fiercely.

“I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m s-s-s-so s-sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” the young man blubbered.

Molly hushed him gently, pulling him to stand with her so that she could take him into her arms properly. Despite not being the tallest of men, Harry still seemed to tower over Molly, but he immediately laid his head on her shoulder and continued to cry inconsolably.

Arthur, feeling useless, began tidying up. He used his wand to sweep around the room, slowly putting everything to rights. He felt tired. The kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation, even though he knew he’d had less sleep than he should. This war was starting to take its toll on him. After all, it had been fifteen years since the Dark Lord had risen again, and the Order had been working tirelessly to stop him from gaining more power. Arthur knew that he was not the only one to feel this way, and yet he felt even more worn down, now more than ever. Perhaps it was the lengthy hours that he had been working lately, or the extra effort he put in to guard some of the Ministry’s secrets. But he had been doing this for years. Perhaps it was the knowledge that after today, they would have no more intelligence coming from the inside; or maybe the fact that one of his boys was hurting. Because that was exactly how he saw Harry now, as one of his own. The young man had become a permanent fixture at Sunday dinners and Arthur had come to love him like he was his own blood.
Arthur sighed as he continued to tidy the room and repair the broken objects and heirlooms. He was tired.

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Meanwhile, Molly Weasley had managed to calm Harry enough to sit him down and begin to repair the damage to his bloody knuckles. She tutted when she saw the extent to which Harry had hurt himself, pausing a moment to stroke the boy’s cheek. Because at this moment, Harry was but a child to her, one that needed her and one that she had to try to heal. Not just the physical wounds he had done himself, but the invisible hurts that she knew would stay with him much longer. One never was quite whole once someone you loved passed away. She would know. But she couldn’t think about her brothers now, they were long dead and she had more pressing matters to take care of: Harry, for one.

“All right, dear; now I can see you’ve got splinters stuck in your fists. I’ll have to remove them with magic, but don’t worry, I’ll do them one by one and you’ll only feel a little pinch,” Molly assured her charge.

“No. P-please. I just—I need you to take them all out. Please? Mrs. W-Weasley, I just need to feel something. Anything else. Please,” Harry beseeched her, his stunning green eyes full of moisture.

“Harry, dear, if I take them all out at once, it will be quite painful,” Molly tried to dissuade him, concerned for his well-being above all.

He took a shaky breath before meeting her square in the eye, determined. She had seen that look before. She knew it meant he was not going to give in. “I need to know I can feel something other than this—this pressure. Please.”

Molly looked unsure, but she eventually nodded.

“If you’re quite certain,” she queried, hoping he would change his mind.

“I am.”

She inhaled deeply and then directed him to lay his hands on his knees, knuckles facing upwards. She told him to take a few deep breaths and soothingly explained that she would have them all out in a jiffy. She took another deep breath with him and then said the incantation.

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The effect was instantaneous. The splinters, called by the magic, shot out of Harry’s knuckles like deadly little missiles and hovered in the air between his hands and Mrs. Weasley’s wand. Harry let out a choked-off yell of pain, his eyes tearing and overflowing despite his resolve. It hurt exactly as she had said it would, like a thousand needles being torn from his skin and tearing it on the way out. He shut his eyes and breathed through his teeth in fast gasps, feeling like the Cruciatus Curse had just been applied solely to his hands. But it had worked. The crushing weight that had been pressing down on him since this morning had finally abated and he could breathe. He took a few moments to appreciate the ease of his breaths and then opened his eyes again, unclenching his fists from his knees.

Mrs. Weasley looked like she regretted causing him so much pain, but Harry quickly assuaged that guilt by leaning over and giving her a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning his head to kiss her cheek swiftly. “I’m going to go take a shower. I’ll be down in time for the meeting.”

“But Harry dear, what about your hands? I’ve still got to heal the wounds,” Molly fretted.

Harry had stood and made his way to the kitchen door before her words had halted him. He turned slightly, swallowing hard.

“I’ve got po—I’ve got things upstairs that will heal them. Don’t worry.”

He had to be careful. He couldn’t afford a slip so grave as that. Because if he thought of potions—no, no, no, don’t think it, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. Can’t afford to think about who brewed them, whose concern had made Harry stock them in his medicine cabinet, who was now dead. No. Stop it, Harry. Must keep calm, must not think, must not think, must not think. Because if he thought, he would be lost all over again. And he couldn’t afford that.

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Downstairs, most of the Order was now arriving. The kitchen was abuzz with the news in the Evening Prophet, that of Harry Potter and Severus Snape. On the front page was a picture from that very morning, of Harry laying down with his arms around Severus. Kingsley Shacklebolt was furious, of course, that someone had managed to sneak a camera in and take a picture on top of it all. He had wanted to spare Harry the press for at least a day, but it seemed that word had travelled fast. It always did when it came to Harry Potter, Auror extraordinaire and hope of the Wizarding World.

However, all of the gossiping and disbelieving exclamations of did you know? halted as soon as Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room. Everyone quickly took their seats and a hush fell over the room as their usually fearless leader walked sombrely to the head of the table. No one dared touch the empty chair to the old man’s right, which was a stolid reminder that they had lost one of the most essential pieces of their cause. And no one commented on the empty seat between Ron Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks, where Harry Potter was supposed to be sitting. When Albus was finally seated in his chair, he looked to Minerva McGonagall on his left, sending her the ghost of a smile.

She looked to be the worst in the room besides him. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face pale and drawn. She had taught Severus when he was at Hogwarts, mentored him when he came to teach a few years later, fought alongside him when the war began heating up, patched him up when he came back too hurt to do it himself, and been his friend for more than twenty-five years. She was devastated, but not as much as Albus had been...was still.

He had announced the news of Severus’ death that morning, as soon as he had known, and the shock, horror, and deep anguish lining his face was something few had ever seen from him before. Minerva had only remembered seeing it one other time: the night James and Lily Potter had been murdered. And speaking of the Potters...where was Harry?

Albus took a moment to collect himself and looked around the room at the people that he had been working with for the better part of fifteen years and upwards. All of the faces looking back at him were grim, some more than others. Some of the faces were quite sad, while others were determined. It was that second set of faces that he tried to focus on, lest he become consumed by his grief once more.

“My friends,” he spoke at last, his voice soft but firm in its resolve. “Today, we have lost—”

Albus halted as the man that he had wanted to talk to all day stood on the threshold of the kitchen. The man who was apparently much closer to the deceased than they had all thought.

“Harry, dear boy. Please, join us,” he implored, raising a hand to indicate the empty seat left for him between Ron and Tonks.

Harry hesitated briefly at the door before taking in a deep breath and stepping inside. He had to tell them about Severus. He had to let them know about the man that Severus had been when he was with Harry. He had to make sure they wouldn’t forget.

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Word_Slave: Thanks so much! I never know if I'm doing this at all right, so to hear that you were in tears (even though I'm sad that I made you sad--if that makes any sense lol) is a huge compliment.

dominique1: Ah, you'll just have to see where I go with this ;)

valswickedgrin: I'm blushing so hard right now :) That is the nicest thing, even though I'm regretful to have put you in the state of eating yummy chocolate ice cream while crying :( Hope you like the rest!

Stargirl77: Again, you'll have to see where I go with this. But thank you so much for telling me I'm writing Harry's grief well. I don't get emotional over my writing, so to hear that other people are affected is a HUGE compliment. Thanks and hope you enjoyed this chapter!