Chapter One: Understanding

Harry Potter tossed and turned fitfully in his bed, unable to sleep after the difficult day he had just endured. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and yet had rarely felt so restless; it was as if in spite of all that had happened, something was still left undone. His body could not find comfort as his mind raced erratically over all that he had experienced, trying to find the key to the peaceful sleep he needed and deserved.

With a frustrated sigh, Harry finally gave up and sat in his bed. For a brief moment, he was confused: expecting to wake up in a chilly tent pitched in the middle of a dark forest, instead he found himself tucked into a comfortable four-poster with moonlight streaming in through a glass window. The milky glow illuminated the other residents of the room: Neville, Dean, and Seamus had all returned to their former beds in the Gryffindor dormitory as well, and slept soundly throughout the circular room.

Harry frowned as he noticed Ron’s empty bed. His heart started to race in panic, until he realized with a flash of insight that Ron was probably with Hermione. Though he had come up to the dorm with the others, Harry vaguely remembered his best friend later sneaking out. Given all that had happened between Ron and Hermione during the battle, Harry instinctively knew his friends were together somewhere.

Quietly, Harry rose from his bed and tossed on his clothes from the day before. They were ripped and dirty and bore the unmistakable scars of battle, but they were comfortable. For some reason, Harry wasn’t ready to change, to clean up and acknowledge that the fight was over and that they had won. In many ways, he did not feel like they had won, for so many had been lost; he also knew that there was still something he had to do, and he could not move on until he did.

Grabbing his invisibility cloak and padding softly downstairs, Harry entered the common room to see Ron and Hermione entwined on the couch, sleeping peacefully. Hermione was resting against the edge of the couch, her head back and her arms cradling Ron as he lay exhausted in her lap. Harry sighed to himself once more as he envied their closeness; but then he shook his head of childish resentment and reminded himself that his two best friends had been a long time coming to the realization that they were meant for each other. He pictured the way Hermione had run up to Ron in the middle of the battle and kissed him, and he smiled for their happiness. He made sure not to disturb them as he walked quietly toward the portrait hole.

With a second look at his sleeping friends, Harry pulled the invisibility cloak around his shoulders. He marveled at the fact that the cloak he had used to sneak around for the past seven years was in fact one of the three Deathly Hallows, ancient relics that had survived the test of time and granted him powers he had never dreamed of having. He could not have imagined that his father’s old cloak was so much more, or that it would be so important for his victory. His reverie was stopped, however, as soon as he stepped through the portrait hole: the devastation of the final battle was immediately evident, and Harry swallowed hard as he began to make his way through the ruined corridors of Hogwarts.

An eerie silence lay over the castle like a smothering blanket, and Harry felt himself growing morose as he made his way toward the castle entrance. The quiet seemed foreboding, though there was a sad, mournful quality to the stillness as well. It was if the castle itself was sadly grieving the loss of its own; as Harry neared the Great Hall, that grief was made audible in the soft weeping coming from the room where so many lay dead and gone.

For a moment Harry was tempted to keep walking; indeed he suddenly wanted to run, to escape the terrible reality of death that filled the room which had once welcomed them all to Hogwarts. He stood at the entrance to the Hall, staring into its shadowy depths. He felt repulsed and yet compelled to enter, and took a single faltering step forward before resolutely making his way inside. He owed them that, after all; these people had all died because of him.

Though many had retired to the dormitories, there were still friends and family scattered about, mourning the loss of their loved ones before the sun came up and the bodies were finally taken away for funerals and burials. Harry knew it would be a long process, for so many had died that had been so dear. He felt his chest tighten as he passed each body, and he clenched his fists as he struggled to hold back the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He was grateful that no one could see him; he did not think he could deal with his own grief, let alone the grief of those who wept quietly throughout the hall.

He came to two bodies lying side by side and finally fell to his knees: Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. The happy couple had celebrated the birth of their son this past year, and had even named Harry godfather. Now, like his own parents, they had perished at the hands of Dark Magic and left young Teddy alone. Harry felt a sudden closeness to the young boy when he realized this and vowed he would do everything he could for his godson. He knew how hard it was to grow up without parents; and though he knew Teddy would be looked over by family members far more loving than Harry’s own had been, he also knew the boy would still need all the love and care that he himself had sometimes missed at Privet Drive.

Standing, Harry wiped his face of tears and made a silent promise to his friend and mentor that he would look after his son. With a deep breath, he continued his somber walk through the heartbreaking tomb that the Great Hall had become.

With a second jolt, Harry came across the body of Fred Weasley. The horrible scene in the corridor flashed across his mind, and he shook his head to force the searing image away. He had been there when Fred had been killed and had no wish to relive that moment ever again; he felt as if he too had lost a brother.

The Weasley family was camped out around Fred’s body. George sat next to him, holding his twin’s hand. He already looked like a different man: pale and broken, his face still bruised and battered from the battle. Harry couldn’t imagine what George must be going through, to lose someone so close. His heart pumped loudly in his chest and he choked back tears for the brother left behind.

Molly Weasley sat propped up against the wall, her arms around Ginny, both their eyes closed. In spite of his grief, Harry could not help but gaze at them in admiration, for they had fought bravely in the final battle. He was so proud of Ginny, and so thankful she had survived. Of course, that was in part due to her mother, who had demonstrated her fierce protective instincts as well as her amazing power when she had killed Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry knew Neville might have wanted to do so himself, but after seeing Mrs. Weasley in action he was grateful to her for stepping up and doing what had to be done.

Mr. Weasley lay nearby, with Charlie sprawled out next to him. Like Ron, Bill and Fleur had retired to Gryffindor Tower to an empty dormitory room, to rest and grieve in private. Harry wondered again why Ron had chosen to return to Gryffindor with him and Hermione instead of remaining with his family. Knowing Ron, he was probably not ready to accept what had happened, and would return to his family and grieve in his own time. As he turned to leave, Harry was slightly startled to see Ron making his way down the Great Hall; apparently his friend could not sleep either.

Harry knew he should go and leave his best friend his privacy, but at the same time he wanted to be sure that Ron was okay. Fred’s death was still a raw wound for them all, and Ron had not said anything about his lost brother since that fateful moment. Ron slowly made his way toward Fred’s body, his sorrowful face growing paler with each step. He stood and stared down at Fred’s still form, a look of shock on his face. George glanced up with dead eyes. Finally Ron collapsed, and Harry saw his shoulders begin to shake with great sobs. His own heart broke for his best friend’s pain, and he started to move toward him as he, too, cried for Ron’s loss.

Mr. Weasley was there first. With a gentle hand, he took Ron in his arms and held him as they mourned together. In some ways Harry longed to join them, but knew this was a very personal moment for their family. Finally he could stand it no longer and turned to leave; he suddenly found himself running from the Great Hall, from the pain and the loss, as he desperately tried to escape the overwhelming sadness. His breath came in gasping sobs as the heartbreak began to engulf him. He came to the Entrance Hall and burst through the ruined oak doors without looking back.

Harry continued across the lawn, running as fast as he could from the anguish that flowed from the castle. At last he collapsed near the banks of the black lake and allowed his own sorrow to take over. He wept for all those who had died, for all those who had been injured, for all that had been lost. He howled to the night in anger and cried to the stars in agony. He purged himself of everything that he had bottled up for so long, hoping desperately for relief from the deep ache in his chest. He wanted the long night to be over: he needed the nightmare to be done. He longed for closure, for an end to the heartbreak; but he knew deep down it would be a long time before he – or anyone else - moved on from the terrible day they left behind.

* * *

Harry didn’t know if it was minutes or hours later that he woke after falling asleep on the hard ground. He was stiff and tired and chilled to the bone in spite of the blanket someone had carefully laid across him. The barest hint of rosy light touched the horizon and Harry knew the castle would soon be awakening to the dawn of a new and bitter day. With a groan, he stood and stretched cramped muscles. He ran a hand through his hair and shook the exhaustion from his shoulders. The feeling of something still undone returned, and he frowned, looking around the shadowy grounds.

He thought he saw the barest hint of movement by the white marble tomb that marked Dumbledore’s final resting place; yet after he wiped the sleep from his dry eyes, he saw nothing but the faint breeze ruffling the trees and sending small ripples across the black lake.

Harry sighed as gazed across the ruined landscape of the castle grounds; his eyes stopped on the Whomping Willow. The gnarled tree had sustained considerable damage in the battle and was unmoving in the dim light before dawn. The sight of the tree increased the sense of something left undone, and he made his way toward it with another frown, racking his brain to find what nagged at the back of his mind.

He stopped abruptly when he realized what was bothering him: Snape.

Severus Snape had been killed in the Shrieking Shack the previous day, struck down by Voldemort in a vain attempt to gain mastery over the Elder Wand that Dumbledore had possessed. The actual killing blow had been dealt by Nagini, the great python that had housed a piece of Voldemort’s soul; it was an inglorious end to a life that had remained enigmatic until the very end, and it had not even succeeded in its purpose, for Snape had never been master of the wand.

Harry almost turned around, ready to leave the former Potions master, headmaster, and spy to rot in the shack where he had suffered and died. Yet the nagging voice in his head urged him on, for he now knew the truth about Severus Snape, however hard it was to accept. With a reluctance that bordered on paralyzing, Harry forced his feet forward once more, moving slowly toward the tunnel entrance that lay beneath the Whomping Willow.

As he walked, he pondered all that he had learned about Snape in the Pensieve the day before. His mind still struggled to accept what should have been so obvious: Snape had been friends with his mother. He had even loved her, and while she had returned that love in her own way, she had also rejected him for choosing Dark Magic over everything else, including her friendship. Harry could only imagine the pain it had caused them both.

He also struggled to accept that so much of what Snape had done in the years since Lily’s death he had done for his love of Harry’s mother. He had protected Harry in ways Harry could scarcely comprehend, sacrificing so much in honor of the woman he had failed to save. Harry had always felt Snape hated him, and in many ways this was probably true; yet the spy had set that aside and in his own way had guided and guarded Harry through his years at Hogwarts.

With a start, Harry realized that Snape had done this not only for his mother, but for Dumbledore as well. Snape had been, more than anyone, loyal to Dumbledore until the very end. The sudden insight shook Harry to his core and moved him to a new impression of Snape, and he quickened his pace as he neared the Whomping Willow. He would honor both his mother and his mentor by recognizing their most loyal friend and servant in the fight against Voldemort. He would bury Snape as he deserved to be buried: in a place of honor next to the headmaster’s tomb.

The Whomping Willow was still as Harry made his way toward the base. He felt saddened by the old tree’s injury and made note to mention it to Madam Pomfrey when he returned to the castle. Carefully he slipped into the tunnel that had once taken Remus Lupin to the Shrieking Shack. He felt the familiar lump in his throat return as he thought about his former professor using the dilapidated old house for his transformations. With a sigh of sadness, he realized once more that the last of his father’s friends had now joined James and Lily beyond the veil; the Marauders were truly no more.

Resolutely he continued on, determined to pay his respects to the man who lay dead at the end of the tunnel. His thoughts returned to the scenes he had witnessed in the Pensieve, from Snape’s first meeting with his mother, to his final meetings with Albus Dumbledore as he stayed true to his word to protect Lily’s son. As he crawled through the dark tunnel, Harry marveled not only at the loyalty Snape had demonstrated to both Lily Evans and Albus Dumbledore, but at the man’s unflinching bravery in maintaining the charade that allowed him to function as a double agent.

Finally Harry reached the hole where they had entered the shack the day before. He had moved the old crate back over the entrance, at the time without knowing why. Perhaps he had hoped to protect Snape’s privacy; perhaps even then he had planned to come back. Now he saw that the crate was moved, and with a frown he pulled himself up into the darkened shack, unsure of what he would find.

“Lumos,� he muttered as he pulled out his wand to light the dark room. The dust that had been disturbed by Voldemort’s forces had settled once more, though there were still glaring marks and smudges that were testament to the Dark Lord’s presence. Glancing around, Harry immediately knew without searching the house that Snape’s body was gone: whoever had moved the crate had taken him, to what purpose Harry might never know.

He felt a surprising sense of regret that he would not be able to do this one thing for the man who had done so much for him, however unknowingly or unwillingly. His eyes began to sting and he angrily wiped them dry, not wanting to shed tears for his disappointment. Instead, he channeled his frustration into anger and pointed his wand at a nearby table. “Reducto!� he cried, and it shattered into pieces. It did not, however, alleviate his sense of loss, and with a furious glance around the Shrieking Shack one last time, he plunged back into the tunnel and began making his way back toward Hogwarts. He knew he would never return.

As he crawled he held back the tears once more and forced his mind to dwell on other things. He told himself it did not matter that Snape’s body was gone, that it was not for him to worry about, and that he should not be angry or upset that the man who had caused him such pain would never know his gratitude. When he finally stepped back onto the grounds, he began to make his way purposefully toward the castle doors, still determined to ignore his disappointment. He also tried to disregard the feeling that he was missing something, and that he had still not accomplished what he had set out to do so many hours ago. He stomped past the black lake and was just about to pass Dumbledore’s tomb when his heart stopped.

There, next to the headmaster’s marble resting place, was a large plot of newly turned earth. Harry stumbled to the tomb and fell to the ground, stunned. Without knowing how, he instinctively knew that Snape had found his final resting place next to that of the one man who had trusted him. Someone had done what Harry had set out to do, and it was someone who most likely knew the truth as well as Harry did. He wondered who would have done such a thing; Ron and Hermione were still in the castle, and he had told no one else about Snape’s body. A Death Eater would have hardly bothered, let alone laid the spy next to Albus Dumbledore, the Dark Lord’s greatest enemy.

It occurred to Harry that perhaps something truly magical had happened. Yet the rational part of his mind that often spoke in Hermione’s voice told him it must have been the same person who had given Harry the blanket as he lay next to the black lake in fitful sleep. He just had no idea who that might be. Nevertheless, he was thankful, and lowered his head before the unmarked grave in tribute.

As the sun rose gently to cast its pale light over the scene, Harry was startled out of his private contemplation by a soft song. Glancing up, he was amazed to see Fawkes the phoenix sitting on Dumbledore’s tomb, singing a mournful song. He had thought Fawkes had left forever when the headmaster had died, but apparently the golden bird had returned to pay one last tribute as well.

“Hello, Fawkes,� he whispered, his throat tight. The beautiful bird gave a sad squawk and rose into the air. Something fell from his talons as he flew away toward the rising sun. It was a single tail feather, and Harry knew it wasn’t for him.

“Thanks,� he said softly, taking up the feather. He buried it at the head of Snape’s grave, and for some reason was not surprised when a small shoot began to rise from the earth. It grew quickly into a small willow tree, and Harry knew that Snape’s grave had been marked by the love and trust of those he had lived – and died – for.

With a sigh, he stood and made his way back toward the castle, ready to face the new day and the coming challenges ahead. Behind him the willow tree moved gently in the breeze, a poignant reminder of sacrifice and loss.

* * *

A/N: Many thanks to myownmuggle for her wonderful beta work! And to JKR for leaving the door open for so many more stories.