Harry Potter sat alone by the fireplace at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Snow fell outside the windows of the study. Normally Harry would be at the Burrow on a night like tonight, sharing in the Christmas preparations with Molly, Arthur and their family. Ginny and Harry had rekindled their relationship soon after the Battle of Hogwarts and were going strong—nearly as strong as Ron and Hermione, although not quite. Once those two finally got started, they really took off, almost as if they were trying to make up for lost time. Harry had accompanied Ron into Diagon Alley a few weeks previous, and he knew that Ron was planning to propose to Hermione tonight—Christmas Eve.
Tonight of all nights, Harry should have been at the Burrow celebrating with his friends; his family. There was something different about tonight, though. All day Harry had felt a sense of brooding, a loneliness he couldn't shake. Even surrounded by people, he had felt himself alone. Feigning a headache, he had brushed off Molly's offers of ginger tea (“It does wonders for the sinuses, dear!”) and insisted all he needed was a quick nap at home, away from the noise. Bill and Fleur were here from Shell Cottage for the holidays, as was Charlie in from Romania, and Percy from London. Andromeda would be arriving soon with baby Teddy. The house was even more full than usual, so Harry's excuse flew without much trouble.
Now he was sitting at home, without even Kreacher for company. The ageing elf was spending the holidays at Hogwarts, since Hermione had pointed out to Harry that he would otherwise be alone over the week Harry was to spend at the Burrow. So Harry had come home to a cold, dark hall. He had lit the fireplace and a few candles and now was simply sitting here in a threadbare, musty armchair, thinking.
The past six months had been the longest of Harry's life, longer even than hunting for Horcruxes or summers at the Dursleys. The dangers of Horcrux hunting had at least kept life a little interesting—at least it seemed so in retrospect—and the Dursleys' had been lonely, but somehow not as lonely as this.
As the days had passed leading up to Christmas, full of merriment and good cheer, Harry had begun to reflect on those who could no longer partake in all of this goodness with them; those who never would again. He knew they had fought willingly, had died for a cause they believed in enough to give their lives for. Still, the unfairness of it all weighed on him. He missed them. He missed them, and he couldn't shake the feeling that if he had somehow done better, done more, been more...he could have saved them.
A small part of Harry's brain told him he was acting like an angsty teenager again. He had a home. He had a family. They had survived a war, an awful war. People died in wars. With that in mind, they hadn't lost so much, had they? And yet, as he stared into the flames, the faces of all those who were lost flashed before him.
Hedwig...Mad-Eye...Snape...Remus...Tonks...Fred...Snape...Dobby...Snape... “Snape?” Harry sat up straighter. Snape's head was sitting in his fireplace. Not so corporeally as even a Floo-message, translucent and cloudy, but clearly visible.
“Don't look so flabbergasted, Potter,” the apparition said, rising effortlessly out of the flames and coming to rest, standing on the hearthrug. “It makes your already ape-like countenance appear positively comatose.”
“W-what?” Harry stammered. “You're dead.”
“I am deceased, yes,” the apparition commented drily. “Deceased and on a schedule. I haven't time to waste on your irritating knack for stating the obvious, Potter.”
“But you're not a ghost,” Harry insisted. “You moved on.”
“Yes, I did. And I've come back tonight, with much reluctance, because as content as I would be to see Dumbledore's golden boy living out his life in gloom and loneliness, much as I di—” here the ghost seemed to catch himself, and began again “—much as you deserve, I am forced to admit that for the good of the wizarding world, which seems rather absurdly fond of you, you'd do well to move on yourself.” Snape regarded Harry with distaste, biting off each word as if it was indeed forced from him against his will.
Harry stared at his ghostly professor in fear and confusion. “You...you died for that world. Snape—Professor...Severus, you gave your life.” Overwhelmed by a sudden gratitude and—he shocked himself to think it—respect for his old teacher, Harry began to extend his hand toward the pearly apparition. Snape eyed the hand with distaste. “You were loyal,” Harry continued. “to Dumbledore, to my mother—”
“That's quite enough sentimental gibberish, Potter,” the ghost snapped suddenly, taking a step back toward the fireplace. His cloak swirled gracefully and noiselessly about his ankles, a far cry from its bat-like flapping of years past. “Time is of the essence. There is much I must show you before the night is through.”
“Show me?” Harry repeated, his hand frozen in midair a few centimeters from Snape's barely extended hand. “Show me what? And why?”
“You'll see what when you see it,” Snape said. “As for why...so that you'll stop wallowing in your idiotic self-pity and consider yourself as lucky as the rest of the world does.”
Snape closed the gap between his hand and Harry's. Their fingers met with a shock of cold and wind. The room blurred around them, and with an unmistakable sense of motion, everything went black.
Comfort and Joy by Luna_Lover
Story Notes:
Thank you to my wonderful sister for beta-ing this for me! Happy Christmas, everyone!
Chapter Endnotes: Please review! Thanks for reading! Happy Christmas!