“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

“Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

“The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
--Wynstan Hugh Auden, Funeral Blues

~*~*~*~

Harry woke slowly and stretched. For the first time in what seemed forever, he'd finally gotten a decent night's sleep. It was then that it hit him. Sirius. Sirius was dead. He wanted to scream. He wanted to destroy things. He wanted... he wanted... he wanted to cry.

Now, his status was a gray area. If they'd been telling the truth, he wouldn't be going back the the Dursleys, and Sirius was... gone. School would be out soon and he had nowhere to go. Long experience with the Dursleys had taught him that emotional displays were a bad idea. They were a weakness that he could not currently afford, at least in public.

Following instinct instilled from years of living on Privet Drive, Harry slid out of bed, shoved his bare feet into his shoes, and sneaked out of the Hospital Wing. Once in the corridor, he started running, hurrying to one of the few places in the castle where he knew he would be all but guaranteed to be alone. No living creature would come for him there.

He hurried into the second floor girls bathroom, and sat down in a corner away from the stalls. He drew his knees to his chest and buried his face in them. Crying never did any good; he wouldn't cry now. But for a few minutes, he allowed himself to rock back and forth, comforting himself as he had when he was younger.

Harry wanted the nightmarish reality of Sirius's death to go away. He wanted Sirius to walk through the door and tell him that it had all been a mistake; that he hadn't died. He knew better, though. People who cared about him died. People who were close to him died. And death meant that loved ones got left behind. He didn't care about Dumbledore's version of death. Adventure, bah. Death meant that people you loved got left behind, left alone. Just like he was now.

He drew in a deep breath, but it caught. No, not in a sob. He would not cry. “What's the matter?” a vaguely familiar voice asked.

Cautiously, Harry looked up to find Moaning Myrtle floating near him. “What's the matter?” she asked again.

Harry bit his lip, determined not to cry. “My godfather died,” he said finally.

“Ohh, how terrible!” Myrtle squealed.

Harry shut his eyes tightly. Just what he needed. A gleeful ghost rejoicing in his misery. “He was murdered in front of me,” he said abruptly.

The sentence seemed to sober Myrtle. “I'm sorry, Harry,” she said. “But death isn't the end, you know.”

Hope flared in Harry's heart. “Does that mean he can come back?” he asked.

Myrtle shook her head. “This isn't living, Harry,” she said gently. “I decided to stay as a ghost for revenge, but everyone I wanted revenge on is long since gone.”

“But it means that my godfather isn't gone, doesn't it?” he questioned.

“In a way,” Myrtle admitted. “But if he wasn't afraid of death, he would have gone where most wizards go when they die.” She floated closer to him, sinking down until she was at his level.

Harry hugged his legs tighter. “It's my fault,” he murmured. “I'm the one who said that we should turn Voldemort's ambush against him.”

“Did you kill him?” she asked curiously.

Harry shook his head. “Bellatrix Lestrange did,” he said with a scowl. “She works for someone you might remember—Tom Riddle.”

It was Myrtle's turn to scowl. “He was nasty when the teachers weren't around,” she said. “Always picking on me and laughing at my glasses.”

Attempting to distract himself from Sirius's death, Harry changed the subject. “He was the one that killed you, you know,” he said conversationally. “It was his basilisk that did it, but it was his fault that you died.”

Myrtle's scowl deepened. “Olive Hornby is gone,” she mused. “But if I can find Tom, I could haunt him!”

Harry swallowed hard. A sudden idea popped into his head. He toyed with it for a few moments, examining it from different angles. It would work. He was sure of it! “Maybe you should talk to Professor Snape,” he suggested. “He could tell you how to find Riddle... but instead of haunting him, maybe you could spy on him and tell us his plans.”

A slow, evil smile slid over the ghost girl's face. “Oh yes,” she said. “Tommy will be sorry that his snake killed me,” Myrtle said gleefully. She started to leave, but seemingly changed her mind. “Harry, you'll see your godfather again,” she promised.

Harry simply shrugged, still lost in the tangle of his own emotions.

“He won't come back as a ghost, you know,” she said conversationally. “We ghosts aren't really alive at all. We're more like echoes of the people we were in life.”

“It's just--”

“You miss him,” Myrtle filled in. “Though if you die, I still wouldn't mind sharing my toilet with you,” she said with a nervous giggle before sinking through the floor.

Tired, but thankful he'd managed to get rid of Myrtle, Harry slumped against the wall, folded his arms on top of his knees and buried his face in them.

Part of him felt like destroying things. Another wanted to start crying and never stop. The biggest portion of Harry, however, simply wanted Sirius back. He knew it was impossible, even if, for a few precious moments, he had allowed himself a bit of hope.

He'd learned years ago that wishing the dead back simply wasn't possible. If it was, he would never have lived with the Dursleys. Magic was wonderful, but there were some things that even it couldn't fix—death was one of those things.

Harry knew better than to hope, but five years of living in the wizarding world had made him re-learn how to dream. But... at times like this, he still wished he'd never left the cupboard. Sure it had been a miserable existence, but at least he hadn't allowed himself the hope of something better. There was something to be said for resignation.

When he'd lived in the cupboard, he hadn't really known there was anything else—at least for him. He should have remembered one of the first lessons he'd learned with the Dursleys—for him, nothing good ever lasted, and every good thing was paid for in pain. While things had changed for him somewhat since he had gotten his Hogwarts letter, in a way they hadn't. He had gone from being the Dursley's whipping boy to being the whipping boy for the entire wizarding world.

“Harry!”

He lifted his head from his knees and stood. It was Ginny's voice—she'd recently found his hiding spot. Mentally, he decided that he'd have to find a new one, so that he couldn't be found by anyone if he didn't want to be. Ginny's bright hair was visible as she poked her head through the door. “I knew you'd be here,” she said.

Harry looked at the tile floor. “You know me too well,” he said quietly. “I just needed to be alone for a while.”

Ginny came closer to him and laid her hand on his arm. He tried to conceal a flinch. “I know,” was her soft answer. “But Madame Pomfrey has everyone looking for you—she said that she needs to take a look at you before she can officially allow you to be released.”

Harry scuffed the sole of his worn trainer against the floor before answering. “All right,” he said finally.

Ginny smiled at him, then tugged gently on his arm. He ignored the funny feeling in the pit of his stomach at her soft touch and followed her out of the bathroom. After Madame Pomfrey looked him over, he promised himself that he'd find his new, out-of-the-way hiding spot where nobody would find him.

~*~*~*~

“Harry?”

Harry looked up to see Professor Snape standing in the doorway. He leaned back against the pillows and began to pick at lint on the blanket covering his bed in the hospital wing.

“Yes, sir?” he answered. “I'm afraid I'm stuck here until Madame Pomfrey decides to let me go, sir,” he volunteered.

Harry was still examining the weave of the blanket, so he didn't see the half-smile on his Professor's face. “We can talk here,” Snape said. He drew privacy screens around the bed, cast a few quick anti-eavesdropping spells, and sat down on a chair next to him.

Harry bit his lip and darted a glance at the potions professor. “Professor?” he ventured finally. “Why are you here?” He didn't know what to make of the expression on the man's face.

“First,” Professor Snape began, “My condolences on the death of your godfather.”

“But you hated him,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Professor Snape inclined his head. “We didn't get on,” he acknowledged. “However, his death leaves us at an impasse concerning you—we cannot send you back to the Dursleys when term ends, the reading of Black's will won't take place until things settle down, and there is a complete dearth of blood relatives on either side of your family.”

Harry slumped back against his pillows. “I knew escaping the Dursleys was too good to be true,” he muttered.

Seemingly ignoring what Harry had said, Professor Snape pressed on. “I'm sure Black told you of my promise to you mother,” he said.

Harry gave him a cautious nod. “He didn't say exactly what the promise was.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. “I promised her that I would protect you,” he said. “It has occurred to me that the best way to keep my promise is to become your guardian.”

Harry shut his eyes tightly. It was a nightmare. It had to be. At least with the Dursleys, he knew what to expect. Over the past few months, Snape had become unpredictable to him—his behavior towards Harry had changed so dramatically that he no longer knew what to think anymore.

Professor Snape continued. “I thought it best that I consult you in this matter,” he said. “I promise that you will have decent clothing that fits, a place to live, and food to eat. I also promise that you will never be beaten by me, and I shall make sure that you receive the training you need to survive the war.”

It was still a nightmare. Harry opened his eyes cautiously and gave Snape a suspicious glare. “What's in it for you?” he asked.

“This is my duty, Harry,” he said quietly. “I made an unbreakable vow to your mother that I would try to ensure your safety. I can't promise to replace your parents. Frankly, I still don't like you; but I will do my absolute best to keep you safe as I prefer to keep breathing. Is that agreeable?”

Harry thought about it for a few minutes. He didn't like Snape, either, but in a strange sort of way, he'd grown to, sort of, trust him. That is, he trusted him more than most grown-ups, but not as much as Sirius and definitely not as much as he trusted Ron and Hermione. He had learned, however, that when the man gave his word, unbreakable vow or no, he did his best to keep it. He'd also come to realize that Snape always told him the truth, and never sugar-coated it.

“Can I think about it?” he asked finally.

Snape inclined his head. “You may,” he said. “Though you should know that the guardianship papers have already been signed; I thought that you deserved input in this matter.” With that as a parting shot, the Potions Master stood up and left the room.

Harry pulled his knees to his chest and put his arms around them, ignoring the way the gesture made the sheets and blankets bunch up. Summer with Snape. To make matters worse, summer lessons with Snape. Yes, Occlumency had gotten better, but how would defense lessons be? Would living with Snape be worse or better than the Dursleys?

Harry was inclined to think it would be worse, but Snape's promises stopped him. He swallowed hard. Professor Snape had never lied to him, ever. He had always kept his word as well. That meant that what he said was true. He sighed. It wasn't like it really mattered anyway—he didn't matter much in the long run. The fact that Dumbledore had spent all year ignoring him proved that.

As late as last year, he had believed that the Headmaster cared about him, but he didn't believe it anymore. He was just weird Harry—a freak among Muggles and a freak among Wizardkind -- that no one knew what to do with. Harry was convinced that it was simply the way things were supposed to be.

~*~*~*~

Harry sat curled up in a squashy chair in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room. He had Quidditch Through the Ages open in front of him, but he wasn't really reading. Instead, he was thinking. Ron and Hermione had been handling him with kid gloves as if he would fall apart any minute. Granted, he was still upset over Sirius' death, but he preferred to do his grieving in private. Ingrained Dursley habits reinforced that tendency.

Sometimes he wondered why Ron had been so jealous of him the previous year. The way Harry saw it, he had nothing to be jealous of! He wasn't just mourning Sirius' death—he was mourning the loss of his last chance at a real home. He wouldn't delude himself—Snape was offering him a place to stay, not a home. He wouldn't put it past the man to stow him away in a garret; technically that would still fulfill his vow to Harry's mother.

He supposed it would be better than being a ward of the ministry. If that happened, he'd be dead within a week; someone would offer Fudge a large enough bribe, and he'd hand him over to Voldemort or the Death Eaters. After the year he'd had, Harry possessed a low opinion of the minister and his lackeys.

“Harry?” He looked up to find Neville shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Yeah?”

“Got a letter from m'Gran,” he said. Neville collapsed into the couch. “I told her about your godfather,” he said simply. “And I told her that you hadn't anywhere to go for the summer.”

Harry wanted to object—he didn't need anyone else to know about his problems! Instead, he simply nodded and motioned his friend to continue. “Neville, you really shouldn't--”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But you're my friend, and friends help when you need it,” was the stubborn reply. “Gran said to tell you that you can come and live with us—we've got really old wards, and we get goblin warders in every year to strengthen and update them, so you'll be safe there.”

A lump rose in Harry's throat. “Tell her thank you for me?” he requested. “I-I'd like that, but I seem to have acquired a new guardian since Sirius died.”

“But that was just last night!” Neville objected.

“I know,” Harry said tiredly. “Think of the most unlikely person to take me in, and you'll know who my new guardian is.”

Neville considered it for a moment. “V-V-V-Voldemort?” he ventured finally.

“Close.”

“Snape.” Neville looked terrified at the thought.

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

“Mate, I am so sorry,” said Neville. “Should I start planning your funeral?”

“Might be a good idea,” said Harry with a grimace.

Neville stood up, clapped him on the shoulder with a sympathetic look, and headed towards the dormitory stairs. Harry slumped into the comforting embrace of the chair and leaned his head against his closed fist. At least Neville had taken the news better than his other friends. Hermione was currently calming Ron down—he hadn't exactly taken it well. It wasn't that he was mad at Harry, exactly, it was that he was incensed that it was Snape who had stepped in.

He'd informed Harry in no uncertain terms that he would always be welcome at the Burrow, and that his parents had said more than once that they'd like to adopt him. He was again interrupted by a soft hand running through his hair. Harry tried not to flinch and looked up to find Ginny perched on the arm of his chair. “Ron's mad,” she said.

“I know.”

“I think he wanted you for our brother,” she said.

Harry was quiet for a few minutes. “Fred and George said that we were the little twins,” he admitted.

“I'm sorry about Snape; if he does anything bad, we'll get the twins to prank him into oblivion,” said Ginny.

Harry smiled a little. The thought made him feel a bit better—he might have to go live with Snape for the summer, but he hadn't been abandoned. “Not unless something happens,” he said. “I still have to live with the man.”

“Who knows?” Ginny said. “Maybe he'll be different away from school, and you'll learn to like him. Maybe he won't be such an utter bastard.”

“Maybe.”

“Michael and I broke up,” Ginny said, abruptly changing the subject.

With something to focus on besides his own situation, Harry perked up a bit. “Sorry, Ginny. I know you liked him.”

She shrugged. “We didn't have much in common,” she admitted. “I mean, he got kinda weird after the Gryffindor/Ravenclaw match, and he believed that you were lying at the beginning of the year.”

“I wasn't,” he said softly. She was still running her hand through his hair, and it was making him sleepy. Perhaps if he went to sleep, he'd dream of Sirius. Mayhap Sirius wasn't mad at him for the fiasco at the Department of the Mysteries.

“We all know that, Harry.” Ginny stopped stroking his hair and laid her hand on his arm. “I also wanted to say that I'm sorry about Sirius; I liked him.”

The lump returned to Harry's throat. “He was the closest I've ever had to a dad, you know?”

“I know.” Ginny put her hand under his chin and gently made him look at her. “You still have us,” she said. “When my grandmother died, my parents told me that she was just behind the veil, waiting for me.” She was silent for a moment. “Sirius loved you, Harry. I think that he and your parents are like my Grandmother; they're waiting for you right behind the veil.”

Harry liked that idea. He'd heard death referred to as a door once, but a veil was better. Doors were hard, solid barriers, but veils weren't. Veils were thin, wispy, and easily brushed aside. He really liked that. “Thanks, Ginny,” he murmured.

Ginny released his chin, put her arms around him, and gave him a short hug. She released him, stood up, and smiled. “For the record,” she began, “I'm glad that you're not my brother.”

Harry watched her walk away and frowned. He'd actually liked the hug; it made him feel less alone. But what she'd just said-- He shrugged. That settled it. Girls were just weird.