A/N: This fic was originally written by KarenBrighton in Hungarian, but she was kind enough to let me transalte it.

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter books, but you already know that.

If you find any mistakes in my grammar, spelling or punctuation please inform me. I'm not a native speaker.

I've never been to many funerals in my life.

Actually, Dumbledore's funeral was the first, and until a few days ago the only, which I attended. But now, some days after the Final Battle, I feel like I've complemented my last seventeen years. A normal man wouldn't go to as many funerals as I've been in the last days.

No, I don't want to complain... for all of them were my friends. I loved them all, and each and every of them deserves my last farewell. They were fighting fairly in an idiotic war, and they sacrificed their lives for a better future.

It's ineffable, the way I miss them. Remus, Tonks, Fred, the Creevey brothers, Order members, Aurors, and some of the students. I knew almost every of them, at least from sight. Everytime it feels like a hundred Cruciatus curses are thrown at me... I could scream and welter from the pain, but I can't. I'm swallowing my tears down, and I'm just trying to breath, but it's like there was a hundredweight burden on my chest that won't let me breath.

People, who I had been talking to a few days ago, who I foolishly thought won't get harmed, are lying lifeless at my feet. And they will never be with me again.

So in the last days I had been to so many ceremonys, that I wouldn't be able to count them. And still, the one which will start anon, is the most... I don't know, maybe the most heartbreaking.

Not many are gathered, for the man who we are praparing to bury wasn't very popular in his life. For most people the past few days' events couldn't change this fact. They didn't come because they surely found out that their attendance wouldn't be any more than hypocrisy. I'm not sorry they didn't come, and I know that he wouldn't be either. He'd never liked crowd, ado, hypocrisy, or when he was in the middle. And well, it might sound silly, but people on their own funerals are quite in the middle.

For a moment I'm thinking that slowly I'm beginning to think as cynically, wearily, sarcastically as he did, so I divert my thoughts to the present instead. Ron hadn't come with us, vainly I had begged him to. He has lots of reasons, and I understand him. Mostly that one day after his brother's funeral he wouldn't be able to bear a new ordeal emotionally, but I also know that he can't think about this man differently, like others. He can't change the seven-year-long innervation in days, and I don't blame him for that.

I glance at the coffin. It's black, and a name is written in gold on it: Severus Snape.

Merlin, it suits him so much... strong, uncompromising... it could have been a support for me, but I found it out late. A lump formes in my throat, so I lower my eyes quickly, and I stare at a dry tussock to divert my attention.

I think about what can I expect this time. On the ceremonies I attended so far, rotund and long, but in the same time pointless speeches were said, that didn't ease the pain, by high-ranking officers, here and there even the Minister said speeches, or they were told by family members, collegues, alive Order members, or by McGonagall. But who would speak on his funeral? He hasn't any family, perhaps he never really had one, because what I could see in his Pensieve, can't be designated as much a family as the Dursleys are to me. He didn't have any friends, the Ministry persecuted him in the last year and thought about him as a number one public enemy, just like the staff at Hogwarts, as Voldemort made him be a headmaster in the last year. Two weeks ago even I would have cursed him if I came across with him accidentally.

The ceremony should have started ten minutes ago, but I feel bafflement growing in the air. Everyone is waiting, perhaps for McGonagall to say something, but the old teacher is sitting uncomfortably, like someone who have no idea what to say. I know, their relationship was never really good, they quarreled a lot through the years, as Heads of Houses, and as Order members, and even after the Final Battle she can't say anything about him.

When the silence is growing far too awkward, and the few people who came here are feeling uncomfortable, I glance at McGonagall one last time and I take a deep breath and stand up. Herimone, who is seated beside me, is looking at me in wonder, she doesn't know what I want, but I ignore her.

I walk up to the coffin, and for half a minute I'm just watching the golden letters, deep in my thoughts, then I look at the others and say quietly,

"I know that it's hard for all of us to say something. We don't really know how to say what's in our mind... but if you allow me, I'll try."

When no one say anything, I'm thinking about what the hell I am doing here for a moment, then I try to collect my thoughts.

"I understand that, for all of us, even for me... it's hard to say anything about him... because none of us really knew him. What we saw, I think, was not him. Not really him. We were all thinking about him as an enemy. A low-down traitor, a Death Eater, Voldemort's follower, who has the Dark Mark on his arm... a loathsome, unbearable man who couldn't love, who kept himself for himself, who was an unfair and strict teacher for no reason."

Many people bow their heads or look down, they know that I'm right, and they're a bit sorry that this happened, just like me. Are they guilty? I don't know. I think I am. Moreover, I'm starting to be sure about it. The others will have to think about what they feel themselves.

"I have known him for seven years. There was two things between us from the first moment... instinctive and mutual antipathy... which, now that I'm thinking on it, neither of us was to blame for... the other is an implicit agreement, that if I'm ever in big trouble, I can always count on him. He was always there, he always turned up in the last moment to help me. But aside from this, we hated each other with inhuman vehemence for six years. However, this battle between us often gave us more strength... the hatred we felt for the other... helped... to survive. Throught the years, a lot of things he did gained meaning for me, but back then... I couldn't understand it when I was a child."

I can hear McGonagall sigh in the first line, and I can see in her glassy eyes that she's thinking about old memories, just like me.

"Now, I see a lot of things differently," I continue. "Now, I see that his hatred wasn't directed at me, and I see that it wasn't irrational. It was rooted in several old, deep wounds that would never stop bleeding. Such deep wounds, that they wouldn't have healed had he lived forever. The causes of these wounds were mostly people who was close to me. Or rather could have been close to me if I had the chance to know them. Now, as an adult," Someone snaps their head up with raised eyebrows. "Yes, I'm seventeen and I say I'm an adult... I think I have the right to say this... So, now I can see why those feelings of his were directed at me.

"Now I am able to see," I continue after a few seconds of silence, "that he saved my life several times since I was eleven until now. If he hadn't lived, I would have died when I was eleven and Voldemort tried to kill me."

Some of the present people still shudder at hearing his name, but I ignore them. It will take a long time for them to realize that it's finally over, it might take generations till they can say the hated name.

"- He was a maximalist in this also, thus he didn't ease my job, neither in acceptance nor in learning. He always expected his students to do their best. It was usual for him, and he gained a lot of haters with this, just like me."

There's a lump in my throat again. It's already hard to talk about past things, and then even Sirius comes to my mind. As if I am torturing myself with this whole thing, so I think about other things instead.

"Yes, in our bad ralationship, I am at least as guilty as he is. I never paid attention to him, I never obeyed him... I talked back in his lessons... I was always suspecting him behind his back... and I could never understand why Dumbledore trusted him. Now I know that he was the only man who Dumbledore could really confide in. He did everything Dumbledore asked him to. This meant to risk his life, but he did them anyway. His life was never important... he faced Voldemort numerous times when Dumbledore ordered him to. If this was unearthly courage or just such great bitterness when he cared about nothing anymore, I do not know. I suspect both. But to me, this doesn't reduce the value and importance in what he did. In the end, he even killed Dumbledore. Although, when he returned to Dumbledore he swore that he would never kill again. And still, he did it, because Dumbledore asked him to. He had the strength... even when it must have been inhumanly difficult... to kill a friend. His only friend."

The memories of that night come to my mind, and for a few moments I'm unable to continue.

"He could never rely on any other than the Headmaster before, and since that moment, he was absolutely alone, and he had to flee. I believe I don't have to speak about this to anyone. I also hated him then. As the whole world seemed to get lost with Dumbledore's death. We didn't know... except for him, that Dumbledore would have died anyway. All we could see was, that Dumbledore... our last hope, the only who Voldemort was afraid of, is dead, and that he was the one who killed Dumbledore. Half the Wizarding World was hunting him, but he was only following Dumbledore's orders, like in most of his life.

"In his whole life, he was living between two worlds. He didn't belong to either. Long ago, he had turned against Voldemort and his old self... and he returned to the Light side. But the Light hadn't accepted him either, saying once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater. No one trusted him except for Dumbledore. Everyone rejected him, looked down on him, or in the best case thought abouth him as nothing more than air. He didn't belong anywhere, and through the years, he had built such walls around himself, that it was impossible to break. Neither from the inside, nor from outside.

"And his death... no, it wasn't in vain... I would lie if said that, but it would have happened like this. The reason Voldemort killed him... was a huge mistake. Voldemort's last, orbital mistake. For the Dark Lord could have not won, whether he spared his life or not. But his insane lust for power didn't let him see this. I was there with him in his last moments..." I look at the black coffin again, with a sunken heart.

Many raise their heads, shocked, because we had never spoken to anyone about this. Only McGonagall and the court who we handed our memories to know how and why exactly had Snape to die. And I don't belive anyone else should know. We can't change his life now, but I feel like we owe him after his death at least with this.

"He gave me his memories... and then... for a few moments... I could see him as he really was. A wounded, tired, sentimental man. A few minutes ago I said that we thought he was not able to love. This was one of our biggest failure about him. Once, a very-very long time ago, he loved someone. Truly, whoule-heartedly, in a way a man could only love once. My mother..."

Tears roll down my face, and I have to concentrate on pulling myself together if I want to continue.

"And this love and my mother's death accompanied him through his life. This pain was destroying him since twenty years ago. Even I reminded him of her... when he looked into my eyes, he saw my mother in front of him... I know that it's not my fault, but it's not even his fault that he hated me for this. I'm not angry with him. Now, that I understand why things happened the way they did, I'm not anymore. And I know that the reason he looked after me in the background, that he even fought his hatred down to save me, is because he swore to my mother's vestige that he would do it. And he kept it until his death."

I'm thinking about what I could say, but everything that comes to my mind belongs to me. I will come here sometime, and tell him my thoughts. But for now, I think it's enough.

"Well... that's all I can say... and maybe that... in the otherworld... or where those go who leave this world... I hope that he will find the peace he hadn't here. He deserves it... for all he did for the Wizarding World... and for me."

A few more tears escape my eyes, but I'm going to finish what I started.

"I will not ever forget him. He was equally the hero of this crazy war, as anyone who fought trough these inhuman battles. In my life, I will think about him with respect, and I ask you to do the same."

I look up, and I see that Hermione's crying, McGonagall is sniffing, but the others are just dumbfounded at my words. It doesn't matter. They have to know. They have to know the truth. I owed Snape with at least this. I look around to see if someone wants to say anything, but they're not crowding. Most of them just stare with glassy eyes, trying to digest what I just said. I don't really expect them to speak. Maybe, I'd expect it from Draco. Since he was Draco's godfather. But as I look at the blonde, seeing his red-rimmed, broken eyes, I understand that the grief is too recent, too personal for him to speak about it. I can almost feel that he'll shut himself from the world, just like his godfater did in his whole life. He doesn't want to show or share his pain with anyone, because it's the only thing left to him. Just like for me. Memories and pain.

"Well," I start a bit hesitantly, "if nobody else wants to say something... please, ma'am..." I look at McGonagall, and the witch stands up hesitantly and comes next to me. She waves her wand in a difficult way, and the coffin fades just to leave a black marble tombstone behind. The same name with the same golden letters is written on the headstone.

For a few more minutes, we stand in silent respect for the deceased, then the others start to go away. After a little while, McGonagall puts her hands on my shoulders encouragingly and leaves.

I know, I feel that Hermione is the only one standing with me. She stands behind me, embraces me, lowers her head on my shoulder and cries, and my tears are flowing, too. There are so many things which should have happened differently... Merlin... if I knew things in the past that I know now...I would have done so many things differently. But I can't change these things now. I can't change the past, and I can't bring back the dead. Not my parents, not Sirius, not Remus, not Severus Snape. But I will meet them sometime. I will meet them, and I will finally tell them things I could not in the life... that I love, respect, honor them. That I'm grateful for everything they did for me. That I would never have been able to do what I did without them. But until that moment, all I have left from them is... the aching pain in my heart, and the respectful rememrance. I turn slowly, hug the crying Hermione for a while, then I take her hand and we start walking towards the castle.

We stop once more to look back. It's like I can hear Snape's voice from somewhere, 'Don't be so pathetically sentimental, Potter! Get out from my sight!'

I smile bitterly through my tears. 'I'm going, professor!' Maybe for the first time in my life, I obey him, take Hermione's hand again, and slowly we get back to the castle.