Title: Fragile

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Eyes black as night, deep and cold in their emptiness. Hands white as ivory, skilled at their art.

An art that had now lost its passion, and who’s meaning had now gone.

The Potions Master seemed so far away now, after The War. His threats were now empty, said more out of habit than anything else. People noticed, but they didn’t talk about it now; just like they didn’t talk about Dumbledore. Or the names on the list.

Harry. He wasn’t talked about anymore either.

_______

Whispers traveled through the hall, penetrating the air like a plague. Every face was turned towards the door, and the boy who came walking through it.

His face was pale and soft, like that of an infant. Some would argue that this was what he was; but those who knew him could tell you he was anything but. He had an air of importance, and yet both his looks and posture told things of opposite. Instead, it was like a brilliant aura that shined through from inside, setting him apart from all those around him. His eyes were a brilliant emerald green, and his head a most unruly mop of black hair.

He sat on the farthest end of the table, and spoke to no one as he picked up his spoon.

A voice from the teacher’s table suddenly called for silence, and for a moment, all glances left the boy’s back.

“What has been done will stay as such, and we can only move ahead.” McGonagall’s voice was stern as steel, but was unusually quiet. Everyone, however, heard her every word. “Hogwarts, and all of the Wizarding Community, has suffered in these times past. There have been many losses, and tonight…” Her voice suddenly died. It was seconds before she continued. “…we will honor their memories, and remember them as they were when with life.”

Harry, the outcast among those he had saved, did not hear a thing. His mind had successfully built a wall against the outside, and he was now mechanically eating his soup. His tongue did not register flavor, but that didn’t matter anymore. His heart had stopped working so long ago. His tongue, it seemed, was no exception.

He did not here the names as they left McGonagall’s mouth, or the sobs that now rang through the Great Hall. Did not react to the names of his friends, now gone from this world forever.

Hermione Granger

Harry only knew one thing, and that was the plate sitting before him. The soup was excruciatingly hot, and the roof of his mouth was now sore with burns. He had yet to notice, and merely drank it down.

Draco Malfoy

Funny, the bowls weren’t the same as before. More simple; all one shade of gray.

Ron Weasley

Harry quietly finished his soup, and left the hall in mid ceremony. After all, he still had homework to do.

__________

The skies were a beautiful blue, white clouds dividing the heavens as perfectly as nature could have it. Somewhat ill fitting for those below.

The days that followed were from nightmares, and every pause was filled with tension. When people weren’t silently grieving for their loved ones, they were somehow grieving for themselves.

Among these crowds was Harry Potter, whom passed those with tears down their faces without a second glance, his face so passive it almost looked solemn. He held his books up to his chest, and his pace was steady. Although he seemed to blend into the hallway’s empty shadows, something in his gaze made it impossible for him to go unseen.

Potions was the same as always. That is, until the boy lost his nerve by the hands of the Master, for who else could break such a wall, so expertly made?

“Answer me. What is the Mangfer Potion used for, and who was the first to brew it?” The man’s voice was that of a snake. It was skilled in the craft of deceiving, and yet told nothing but the truth (If in a slightly more twisted way).

“It is an antidote for it’s brother; the Samiad Potion. It’s maker went by the name of Amanda Crow. ” If one could hear the voice of the dead, as they lay in their coffins, with bones brittle and their eyes eaten out, this is what it would sound like. Although his mouth was still alive, the words behind them had long been dead.

“And how is it made, Mister Potter?”

“One needs to brew it on the night of winter equinox, or else it is as deadly as the other.”

With the War over, and his destiny fulfilled, all he had were his studies to pour himself over. Snape knew this, somehow, and saw fit to see just how good the boy had become.

“Crimsynthia. Where is it found?”

“Southern Australia. It grows in dry climates and is illegal to cultivate anywhere but.”

The rest of class looked at him with an air of both disgust and awe. They were, unfortunately, disrupted from their thoughts as Snape once again barked at them as a whole.

“Write that down, all of you who feel the urge to have a chance at passing my class.” Although he did not glare at one person in particular, his gaze seemed to read every student’s mind.

The sound that now filled the dungeon was of scurrying quills and books being opened. Harry’s cauldron exploding, however, drowned those by a bit, if not completely.

All was violet as a gas was shot into the air, with enough force to knock those near him off their chairs. Snape however, did not flinch, but merely strode over to Harry’s seat and scowled.

“No matter what happens, or how much changes, some things remain as stupid and worthless as ever.” His voice was a caressing drawl, enveloping Harry in a world of hate and fear and all the things he tried so hard to forget. His body went limp, heavy like a mannequin off its stand. Eyes once brilliant green were now dull as stone, lost were they from all the warmth they once knew.

“Dismissed.” There was a crowd of uncertain faces, and when met with another cold stare from the Professor, they were abruptly reassured. He, however, held Harry in his deadly stare, and prohibited his leave.

His head shook slowly, a lock of black hair falling before his eyes. “Not so fast.” Every word he uttered was said with utmost hate, dripping with barely suppressed scorn. “I have yet to finish with you”.

Harry hadn’t moved. His eyes saw the same grain of dirt they had now seen for two minutes, and were so dark there was more black in them then green.

Snape had left the room sometime after that, and soon reclaimed his throne, now with a small vial in his grasp. “I once told you, Potter, that I would test your word with a potion that enabled you to say the truth, and only that. What did I say was its name?”

“Veritaserum.” The answer was immediate yet blunt in sound.

The Potions Master did not show any sign of having heard him, but merely placed it on the desk’s surface, under Harry’s very nose.

“Your arrogance always got in the way of everything. Even those you held dear came with bitter end in hand, and all because of you.”

Harry did not say a word.

“Those who did not die in the Final Battle feel only revulsion towards you. Or have you yet to notice, the ill looks they send your way? They finally see what I have known ever since the beginning.” Snape leaned forward, his breath hot on Harry’s face. “You were never worth the trouble. Merely a tool, waiting to be used and eventually discarded.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to the floor, dark lashes brushing against pale cheeks. He had known it, yes. But what fault had he done, in order to deserve such a fate?

You killed them. You killed them all.

“Look at me when I am talking to you. It is your own fault Albus is dead. Draco...So many died, and for what purpose? Another one will rise afterwards, and hundreds will pledge to his allegiance once more. But never should they have depended on a mere child. And a fool at that.”

Harry closed his eyes, while responding in the smallest of voices. “Put the Veritaserum away. You don’t have to tell me any of this. I have thought it so many times…nothing you say can make me feel any worse. And that is what you seek to do, is it not? Throw it all on me and go to hell with what I really feel?” He drew in a sighing breath, eyes opening to tiny slits. “Don’t worry, Professor. I myself have seen to that.”

Snape’s rage was then let loose. “Self-righteous brat! It is not all about you! I couldn’t care less for what you feel anymore. All I am doing is informing you of what you have achieved at this school, and just how much better you would have done us all had you stayed put in the Muggle world. That is where you belonged all along.”

Harry’s mouth smiled. “You have no idea how much I wish I was back under the stairs, safe in my cupboard. How I pray sometimes that this is merely a dream. That one day I will wake up, and forget this place with the morning’s rays, just like any other nightmare I might’ve had.”

The first tear since the War began slid down his smooth face. “Do you not think I suffer as well, Professor? Do you truly believe I enjoyed being used, enjoyed the moment realization dawned on me that my fate had been cast in stone long before the day I came…and how I had finished it at an age so young? Do you?”

Snape merely gazed at him, his mouth a thin line on his pallid face.

“Tell me, Professor. What will I do now? All that I ever loved is gone. I am nothing, nothing without them.” A second tear commenced its way down to the crook of his neck, cold in the dungeon’s torchlight. He stood and walked two steps, before crumbing onto the stone floor. The tears now flowed freely, his hands smearing them across his eyes. “Nothing.”

Something inside Snape, although he did not know what, made him kneel down before the boy. For once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

Harry looked up into those black orbs and choked back a sob. “Everything you say is true…I-I just don’t know what to think anymore. I can’t repay it in any way. So what am I to do?” His hands had now made knots on the front of Snape’s robes. The other man did not shove them away.

“For so many years I lived with the burden of facing Voldemort on my own. The Final Battle was something I hadn’t been prepared for. Something I hadn’t ever been asked to do.” He whimpered, resembling the child inside he had not let forth for so long. “I was merely expected.”

Snape found his voice, and now tried to stand up. Harry did not let him. “I was wrong. It isn’t your fault at all…it’s just that-” I can’t live with myself for letting it happen. Letting the only people who ever trusted me die.

Harry was now pressing against his stomach, craving for the warmth he lost that night that seemed so long ago. Craving for the touch of another. The touch of one who grieved the same way as he.

“Please don’t go--” I need you.

“I can’t, Harry. I won’t.”