In Color
"So a house-elf shows up in my bedroom..."A burst of laughter from a neighbouring table broke through the low din of voices filling the restaurant. Severus Snape fought the urge to roll his eyes as he took a sip from his wine glass. The idiots surrounding him didn’t seem to realise what day it was. They acted as though the war had never happened; as though ten years ago today the most evil wizard in the world hadn’t been destroyed by a young man with a desperate plan and insane luck.
He raised his glass to the invisible, ever-present ghosts that haunted his waking hours and let his mind wander. He no longer saw the dusty air filling the low-end restaurant where he sat, no longer heard the ribald jokes and obnoxious laughter filtering from the bar. He was a hundred miles away, watching a scene that he had watched a thousand times in the past decade.
* * *
He watched an aged Harry Potter sitting in front of his old school trunk, which was propped open against the wall of the attic in the house he shared with Ginny Weasley. Their nine-year-old son, James, was propped on his lap as they went through stacks old photos.
The veterans waved up cheerfully from the pictures as Harry pointed out old classmates. Seamus Finnigan had an arm slung around Dean Thomas’ shoulders in this one; that one showed a disgruntled Draco Malfoy edging away from the exuberant Weasley twins, who each had an arm slung over the blonde’s shoulders. Ron Weasley and his wife, Lavender, smiled happily at each other, then the camera, on their wedding day. Dumbledore had officiated the union at Order Headquarters three years into the war, when Lavender became pregnant. It hadn’t been anyone’s definition of a fairytale wedding, but the couple had been blissfully in love and happy. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy stood over a table covered in maps, heads together, gesturing now and then as they argued intensely over this or that battle plan. Hermione would occasionally glare up at the camera before returning her attention to the map before her. Draco studiously ignored the photographer, only making a rude gesture once.
“Tell me about the final battle, Dad!”
Harry chuckled and set the photos away. “I must have told you about it a hundred times, Jamie.” His smile held tolerant exasperation. “You could probably tell it better than me, now.”
“Dad…!” James’ brown eyes widened as his voice took on a noticeably whiny tone. Harry ruffled the already messy hair of his son as they stood. He made his way to the dusty armchair in the corner and sat with James perched on the arm.
“It was a mess, Jamie.” His smile turned a bit sad. “I know we all look happy in those pictures, but by the time the final battle came ‘round, we were all going a bit crazy.
“The war had been going four years at that point. We were all sick of fighting—even the Death Eaters, I think. Madame Pomphrey was a great medi-witch, but she even she couldn’t prevent the death toll rising. By the time Aunt Hermione and Mr. Malfoy formulated the strategy, the Order was barely thirty people strong.
“Our spies had told us about a Dark Revel that Voldemort was planning for Halloween at Hogwarts. By that time, you know, the school was abandoned. After Professor Dumbledore died, the wards became unstable. It was impossible for so few of us to hold such a large castle. That was a huge feather in Voldemort’s cap, let me tell you. He had been after Hogwarts from the beginning.
“Anyway, Mr. Malfoy knew what the Revels entailed, and he was able to give us a pretty detailed schedule of activities for that night. Aunt Hermione figured out when we would be able to sneak in while they had their wards down.
“We snuck in just before midnight. By that time, most of the entertainment was over, and the Death Eaters were pretty lax in their watch. Mr. Malfoy and Uncle Ron were on point,” Harry was getting lost in the telling now, using his hands to indicate the positions his friends took, “They led the way into the castle. Voldemort and his Death Eaters were all in the Great Hall, so we came in through the kitchens, to avoid them.
“Aunt Lavender and your mum were behind them—”
“Because Aunt Lavender refused to stay behind!” James interjected excitedly, leaning forward, as though the battle were actually unfolding in front of him. “Even though Max was still a baby.”
Ron and Lavender’s first son, Maximillian, had been born two months before the attack on Hogwarts. Lavender had recovered in record time when she found out about the planned battle. James was right: she had refused to be left behind while her husband went to battle.
“That’s right, Jamie.” Harry smiled indulgently at the interruption. “So, Aunt Lavender and Mum were right behind Uncle Ron and Mr. Malfoy. Then was me, with Aunt Hermione and Dean in the rear. It was our job to get inside and wait for the distraction that Uncle Fred and Uncle George were setting up outside for midnight.”
The Weasley twins had led a separate task force, consisting mostly of former Gryffindors like Seamus Finnigan and Lee Jordan, out on the Quidditch pitch. Their distraction was a variation on their legendary leaving of Hogwarts back in Harry’s fifth year. It consisted of a lot of fireworks, explosions, and screaming. Simplistic in the extreme, but they had been a bit desperate.
“At midnight, we were hiding in the Entrance Hall when the first explosion went off. After that, it was mayhem. The Death Eaters came pouring out of the Great Hall, the Order and Ministry Aurors met them outside the castle, and we slipped into the Great Hall where Voldemort and his inner circle still waited.
“Uncle Ron and Mr. Malfoy drew most of the inner circle, and your mum, Aunt Hermione, and Dean took the rest.”
“Except for Professor Snape, right?” James’ hero worship of the potions master caused no end of consternation for his father. “He was helping you, right, Dad?”
Harry barely managed to stop his eyes from rolling. “That’s right. Professor Snape helped me get to Voldemort by interrupting the shields that were raised around him.” His voice dropped and all levity was lost.
“With all of the curses being thrown around, the room seemed to be lit red. The night’s ‘entertainment’ was still bleeding out on the floor. Voldemort was gearing up for one of his speeches. He predicted my death by the end—again. By that point, it was almost scripted. We fought for a while before our wands locked. I pulled out the secondary wand that Mr. Malfoy had given me, and then it was just a matter of saying the words.
“After he was dead, Professor Snape burned the remains, and we finished off the inner circle. Outside, the Order wasn’t doing as well. Professor McGonagall and Rufus Scrimgeour had led two hundred people into battle. By the time we were done, there were a little less than half left.” Harry’s voice was a whisper now and James had to lean in to hear.
“But you won, right, Dad?” His voice was tense, his eyes filled with apprehension as though the outcome of the story might have changed since he heard it last. Harry blinked and smiled.
“Yes, son, we won.” He leaned back in the chair. “Your Uncle Charlie saved the day with his dragons. They flew in and rounded up the remaining Death Eaters like it was nothing.”
James beamed excitedly at the mention of the dragons. His love of the large beasts was only eclipsed by his admiration of Harry’s old potions professor.
“Harry, James!” Ginny’s voice preempted any further conversation. “Dinner’s ready!”
“C’mon, boyo,” Harry pushed to his feet and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, “Let’s go get washed up.”
James led the way to the attic stairs at a bouncing run, still peppering his father with questions about the dragons, Uncle Charlie, and Professor Snape.
* * *
Severus smiled sadly down at the headstone in front of him. He had left the pub sometime during his ruminations, and now stood in the wizarding cemetery in Diagon Alley. He thought about the desperate attack that Harry had led ten years ago today.
He thought about the parts that hadn’t been in Harry’s imagined recounting. The mist of blood that clung to everything after the Dark Lord had fallen; the tang of sweat, fear, and death that lingered in the air; the blood red curse that had flown from Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand when she had seen her master fall. He thought about the look on Harry’s face when that curse had pierced through his torso like a blade. The shock, followed by a wry smile as he looked down at the blood pouring from the hole in his chest. He thought about Ginny’s desperate scream, Draco’s furious swearing, Ron’s angry Avada Kedavra, and Bella’s insane laughter cut off as she followed her lord. He thought about Dean limping over from where he had restrained Lucius Malfoy and sitting beside his friend where Harry had fallen, rearranging the splayed limbs and closing those green eyes. If not for the blood soaking his clothing, Harry would have looked to be sleeping.
Severus looked up at the sky, clouds slowly moving in front of the newly-risen moon, and remembered. He remembered the tears, the angry denials, the savage beating of Bella’s corpse by the youngest Weasley.
“You were all too young,” he said to the granite slab in front of him, “Much, much too young. Old men started that war, and you were the ones to suffer.”
Harry James Potter
31 July 1980—31 October 2001
Now I lay in my grave at age 21
Long before you were born
Before I bore a son
What good did it do?
Well hopefully for you
A world without war
A life full of color
* end *
A/N: This story was depressing to write, and not just because of the end. The title and Harry’s epitaph are from the Carbon Leaf song “The War Was in Color.” You can read the full lyrics here.