A Victory to Last by bridgewater

When Harry emerged into Spinner’s End, he thought he might have come to the wrong address. The room he emerged into looked like part of a broken-down warehouse. The walls were full of bookshelves, but books were missing at random, their neighbors slumped into each other across the empty spaces. The missing books were sprawled on the floor and propped up in various places, pages open like pale dead birds. The curtains were all closed viciously against the pale light from outside, and the only thing to fight back the gloom was a single flickering candle-lamp hung from the ceiling.

Snape was pacing when Harry came in. The floor was littered with loose notes cast among the discarded books, but he seemed to have kicked them aside to form a narrow corridor along which he walked. At Harry’s entrance, he turned sharply to face him.

“Expecto Patronum!” called Snape, conjuring a silver doe which dazzled the room. “Go to Harry Potter,” he said, and at a snap of his fingers, the doe bounded over to Harry, gazed at him for a second, and then vanished into mist.

“So it’s you,” said Snape. “What happened?”

His voice was tight. His arms were crossed in front of him, but he was clutching his arm hard, digging into the fabric of his robe, and every line in his body was rigid. There was a horrible tension in the air.

“What do you mean, what happened?” said Harry. He sought a more balanced stance and cast a quick glance behind him, locating the bag of Floo powder on the mantle.

“Lupin said you told the Order of your training and of the battle. Tell me how you (em>survived.”

There was a hungry, feral gleam in Snape’s eyes.

“My blood’s in Voldemort’s veins.”

Snape was frozen for a moment, and they stared at each other across the room, faces half-obscured by shadow. Then, almost imperceptibly, the tension eased out of Snape’s body. And though he barely moved a muscle, Harry got the impression he was slumping in on himself.

“I see,” said Snape. Deliberately, he untangled his fingers from his robes, though he continued to stare, his eyes black and fathomless. “Pure luck. Pure chance.”

Harry didn’t respond.

“And your scar is inert?” said Snape.

“Right.”

“Well.” Snape’s lips slid into a mocking smile as the last of the rigidity eased out of his body. “Fortune smiles upon you, as always. And what will you do now?”

Harry felt uncomfortably off balance, and he glanced around at the dark walls uneasily. Something felt strange. The Order had asked him about his battle with Voldemort and, after that, hounded him with accusations about being Dark. Snape seemed not to care. It was as if the topic of Harry’s missing year and his suicide mission had already been handled and dismissed, and now, bewilderingly, Snape was moving on to the next concern.

What now? Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I’d still prefer the Dark Lord’s Ministry gone.”

Snape tensed. “And how do you intend to do that?” He said, his voice softer now. “Ah -- my mistake. You’re Harry Potter; surely they will all abandon their posts the moment you snap your fingers and command them to do so.”

“I won’t --”

“You had your chance and you ruined it,” said Snape, suddenly harsh. “You are no longer immortal, for he will figure out the blood connection and purge it, be certain of that. Your attack this morning accomplished nothing but losing your immortality and your element of surprise. You had a chance this morning -- yes, I believe you did -- but now all your cards have been played, and you are back where you started.”

“Worse,” said Harry, looking steadily into Snape’s sallow, sickly face.

“Yes.” He smiled cruelly. “Worse. So tell me: how precisely do you intend to take down the Dark Lord’s Ministry?”

There was another silence, every second of it seeming to heap more tension upon the room. But Snape seemed unaffected. Lithe and smooth, he crossed the shadows and came to stand in front of Harry. The firelight sharpened the shadows around his face.

“If you have no outstanding plans, Mr. Potter,” said Snape, “allow me to make a suggestion.”

“Alright.” The heat of the fire behind Harry was searing his back, but he backed further towards the hearth. Harry realized he was taller than Snape now by at least two inches -- Merlin’s beard, it’s really been a year -- but it gave him no sense of ease.

“You recall Sybill Trelawney’s first prophecy, I hope,” said Snape. “She has said that you have a power the Dark Lord knows not. Well, try to figure out what it is. I’m afraid the task will not be nearly as glamorous as charging heroically into the enemy stronghold, but at this juncture, you should take what you can get.”

“I don’t think I have a hidden power,” said Harry.

Snape had been about to say something serious, but at Harry’s words, his lips curled into a malicious smile. “My, my,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready to be so honest with yourself? It’s a dangerous path -- for you...”

“I don’t think I have a hidden power,” repeated Harry.

Snape’s sneer faded and he watched Harry closely, narrowing his eyes slightly. The harsh light made his face look pale and skeletal. “Indeed you may not,” Snape said smoothly. “The Prophecy might not be true, as Dumbledore has insisted over and over again. And if it is true, if you do indeed have a hidden power, I think you would have realized it by now.

“But perhaps not,” said Snape, once more with a lazy vindictiveness. “It wouldn’t be the first time something’s gone over your head, would it?”

An angry retort came to Harry’s mind, but it faded just as quickly. Something nagged at him. He was missing something important, a key part of this interaction which would explain why Snape, who had always hated him, was behaving like this. Nothing since their first confrontation a year ago made sense. Harry’s inability to piece together Snape’s motivations, while standing so vulnerable in Snape’s own house, made him deeply uneasy.

“So what do you think I should do?” said Harry shortly.

“Figure out the next best approach to investigate your power,” said Snape. “Consider it carefully. If there is an answer to be found, we must assume at this point that it will be rather esoteric. Come speak to me later and I will assist you; I have skills and resources which you --” his lip twitched into a sneer -- “badly lack.”

Harry was sweating and his back felt prickly from the heat. Seeming to notice, Snape took a small step back, but Harry did not move. He watched Snape carefully.

“You know,” said Harry casually, ignoring the heat, “You ought to be bullying me for lying and getting you kicked out of Grimmauld Place. You ought to be calling everything I’ve done in the past year selfish and arrogant and conceited. You do it all the time for far, far less. Why haven’t you?”

“What’s this?” said Snape mildly. “You actually think you’re to blame, the one time in your life you aren’t?”

“What?”

“Of course you would have insisted on sacrificing yourself the minute you believed it to be necessary. What else would you have done? No, I could hardly hold that against you.” He paused, his eyes glittering as he considered Harry. “I do have one grievance, however.” Another still pause, black eyes boring into Harry. “You’ve escaped death twice,” he said, “once when you were an infant, and again just today. You’ve had two second lives, if you will, two miraculous chances to live again. My question is: why couldn’t one of those have been spared for your mother?”

~~~

“Harry, as I have said,” said Lupin wearily, “this isn’t my story to tell. You didn’t even try to ask him --”

“I don’t want to ask him,” said Harry. They were in Grimmauld Place. The sitting room by the Floo hearth was abandoned, and as Harry shifted in his armchair, clouds of dust went up into the air. “Let me tell you a story,” he said. “Once upon a time, in Knockturn Alley, I was trying to sell a huge crate of potions I’d acquired. I was Polyjuiced, of course. Everyone is always Polyjuiced there. I ended up selling the potions to a witch. It was only later that day that someone mentioned casually that he’d seen who she was before she’d taken her Polyjuice: it was Alecto Carrow, the Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

Lupin was pale. “What did you sell her?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t bloody know what was in the crate.” Lupin was asking a question, but Harry spoke over him. “If I’d known who she was, obviously, I’d probably have checked to see what I was giving her. Now -- who knows? Maybe I sold her gallons of healing potion. Maybe I sold her gallons of some liquid Cruciatus.”

Harry could see Lupin’s mind trying to race through the story, but Harry was not interested in explaining to him the mechanics of Knockturn Alley. “The point is,” said Harry, “I’d really like information now about Snape.” It could never hurt, only help.

“Harry --”

There was more arguing and wrangling. Then at long last Lupin began to relent.

“The reason Sirius and I never mentioned this to you is because -- we believed, at least -- that Lily herself came to regard her previous friendship with Severus to be a mistake.”

Harry said nothing, only stared, content to draw out the silence for all it was worth. Lupin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, not really meeting Harry’s eyes, and Harry felt like an interrogator.

“After we graduated from Hogwarts,” said Lupin, “Lily never spoke of Severus, not to me and not even to James. There was a time, though, when our squad of four -- me, James, Sirius, and her -- were fighting during a pitched battle within the Ministry.” Lupin gave a mild shrug. “Well, they still trusted me back then.

“We’d all gone through the same training, and one thing was important: we never deserted each other. But that day, when we were fighting a congregation of Death Eaters, Lily took off without warning, charging down the Ministry halls. We lost her and James was frantic. We caught up to her eventually in a deserted stairway, only to find her pounding her fists against a Cursed Barrier, screaming insults up the stairwell which shocked even Sirius. It was Severus that she’d seen across the battlefield, she later explained; the Death Eaters all tended to look the same, but it was some minute mannerism -- a flick of the wrist, I believe -- which had given him away.

“The look on her face in that stairwell, Harry, as she’d realized that Severus had escaped...” Lupin was staring into the distance, immersed in the memory. “It was hatred, complete and utter hatred: it seemed to course through her, utterly without barriers, utterly without inhibition. There was no ambiguity to make her pause in her hatred; there was no condition nor nuance which made her think, perhaps one day I can forgive him. It consumed her completely in that moment. And then she apologized for abandoning us and we returned to the battle, but all the same, there was a distance in her eyes that didn’t go away until a couple days later.”

The recollection finished, Lupin drew back into himself, and he reddened slightly as if ashamed. “But that could have meant anything,” he said quickly, “Or maybe it was my own overactive imagination --”

Harry had the strong urge to rest his head in his hands, but he didn’t do so here. Instead he said, rather aloof, “Don’t you think I ought to have known a little earlier about this? My mum knew something about Snape that caused her to despise him -- that’s important.”

“She wouldn’t have hidden anything from us,” said Lupin hastily. “Especially not something about him that she thought would be relevant to the war. No, it was nothing like that.” Lupin’s voice became quiet. “But still she...”

Lupin’s eyes shifted restlessly around the ground. He trailed off, then said with new energy, “Remember this at least. Severus may have changed a lot since the end of the last war, and if you were to judge him only by his actions from twenty years ago, your picture of him may not be accurate.”

“Why are you so reluctant to tell me all this?”

“Your mother would have preferred --” Lupin hesitated, starting again. “We’ve had only so much time together to talk about Lily, and I preferred to focus on the happier times of her life. This holds no relevance to --”

“But I don’t know,” said Harry, leaning forward, angling for a reaction. “It seems like it’s more than that. If I were to guess, I’d say you’re afraid to speak against Snape.”

Lupin looked startled. “Harry, we have enough dissension within the Order without more fighting...” Lupin continued on that tack for some time, talking about harmony between everybody.

Harry listened for a bit, and at a convenient pause, excused himself. He left the dreary sitting room, closing the door behind him and barricading himself in a dark, narrow stairwell. He sighed, leaning against one of the walls, staring up at the black ceiling.

He missed Knockturn Alley -- so much! At that moment, he would have liked very much to be walking down its twists and turns, utterly anonymous, surrounded on all sides by people who were just as unknown as he was. That place held a very peculiar kind of humanity, strange and cruel -- yet free, unlike this dusty warren which pressed down on him from all sides.

And Harry turned his thoughts grimly towards the Order. Upon Harry’s return from Malfoy Manor, he’d been ready to walk out the door the minute he’d seen the hostility in the Order’s eyes. Yet, so far, it hadn’t become violent. And tense though the atmosphere was, Harry didn’t think it would escalate too quickly, either.

And so, Harry realized that at some point during the last several hours, he’d decided to continue to interact with the Order. Some deep curiosity compelled him. His initial dismissiveness turned into some kind of raw desire to act, to dispel the mystery, and to find himself on solid footing once more.

And, Harry knew, that meant speaking to Ron and Hermione, rather than fleeing. Harry felt all his newfound resolve nearly go out the window at that; he didn’t know what he would do if they hated him just as much as the Order did, if their support for him earlier had just been a front. But he forced himself to move forward. Soon he was standing in front of the door to Ron’s room, as he remembered it from last year. He knocked on the door and, when answered, open it to find Ron and Hermione both sitting on the covers of the twin bed, discussing something intently.

Harry’s heart stilled for what seemed like an endless moment, but he ought to have had more faith in his friends. Barely had they registered him – barely had they understood that he wanted to speak to them, intended to stay -- when Hermione was striding across the room towards him, wrapping him in a vicious hug. “How could you!” she cried, her voice shrill and wild in his ear. “How could you! How could you!” And all that time she was wrapping him tight enough to leave bruises, clinging to him, as if she couldn’t bear to let go again.

And Ron was coming up to his side, twiddling with his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. He looked concerned. “You shouldn’t have done all that, mate,” he said, “you really shouldn’t have done all that...”

Harry felt like a rag doll in Hermione’s arms, so weak was he with relief.

~~~

Hermione was bursting with accusations, angry questions, and shrill criticisms. Ron, pulling his features into a scowl once they had settled down on the bed, had begun to say something about Mrs. Weasley and a watch. But then, suddenly, something changed in his expression; he leaned over to Hermione and whispered something into her ear, and she quieted too, and the anger melted away from her expression.

“Mate,” said Ron, his brow creased in concern. “Have you eaten today?”

“Er,” said Harry. He was still trying to find his voice. He was perched on one end of the bed, feeling as though his thoughts had just scattered in all different directions, torn by the way he’d hurt them, touched ineffably by the way they’d forgiven him. “Er. No, I don’t think I’ve eaten today.” Dryly, he added, “Things have been a little hectic.”

“Well then.” Ron stood with the air of going on a great mission. “I’ll be right back.”

And so, for the first time that day, Harry relaxed. And for the first time that year, Harry was in the company of his friends. Ron arrived soon after with a plate piled high with at least twenty sandwiches, shoving them all at Harry without delay. Harry leaned back against a corner of the wall, eating, and Hermione sat at the foot of the bed while Ron dragged in a chair for himself.

And they talked. Harry saw some concern and some resentment lingering in their eyes when they glanced at him, but it seemed overshadowed by their relief to have him back. He could hardly believe it was all turning out as it was. And by unspoken agreement, they never brought up his Dark Arts or anything he had done in the past year.

They told him what they’d been doing in the past year. “Hermione couldn’t go to school last year,” said Ron, “but I did. It was...”

Hermione jumped in quickly. “The DA’s going really strong, Harry. It’s incredible. With the school administration being what it is --”

“Being Death Eaters,” supplied Ron.

“It’s been really easy to recruit people. Nearly everyone from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff joined up, all the way from first years to seventh years. It’s grown so much.”

“It’s a little hard to get a job as a blood traitor nowadays,” said Ron casually.

“Or as a Muggleborn,” agreed Hermione. “So starting from now on, we and the rest of the Alumni DA are planning to do all we can to help the members who remain at Hogwarts. Fred and George are going to keep helping us. If we can keep the organization secret and smuggle enough weapons --”

“She means prank items,” said Ron.

“Into Hogwarts, we’ll be able to make a difference if there’s ever a battle at Hogwarts. I know it.”

“Maybe we can act even before that,” said Ron.

Harry remembered the DA with a twinge of sourness. Zacharias Smith had tried to challenge Harry starting from their very first lesson, and hadn’t a lot of students just come for the drama of that? And then there had been Marietta’s betrayal, of course. But not wanting to ruin the mood, Harry smiled at his friends. “That sounds great,” he said cheerfully.

As Harry leaned back against a pillow, they told him all about how the different members of the DA were doing. Neville had kept on getting better and better at dueling, and he’d gotten together with Hannah Abbott. Luna was seeing fewer Wrackspurts and more Heliopaths.

The setting sun cast a cheery glow into the room, and the pillow behind him was beyond soft. Harry felt he could melt into the cushions where he sat and never move again. At some point, Ron had brought out a chess set, and Hermione was glancing rapidly back and forth between the state of the board and a book on chess strategy. Ron was leaning back casually, grinning at her as she steadily lost the match, piece by piece.

After she’d lost, the board devolved into chaotic fighting between the pieces, and Hermione turned to Harry deliberately. “So,” she said cautiously, “what are you going to do now that you’re back, Harry?”

She seemed to think the very topic might bring Harry to tears. Harry just shrugged; his situation wasn’t that bad. Then he thought the question through.

“D’you know how the Prophecy says I have a power the Dark Lord knows not?” said Harry casually. “Any ideas what it might be?”

Ron gaped at him; Hermione blinked in confusion. A pawn dove off the chess board as Harry repeated the question helpfully.

“Er,” said Ron, his eyebrows scrunched in frustration. “No, I have no idea, mate. But -- are you really supposed to, you know, actually think about it?” When Hermione looked at him questioningly, he said, “I mean, I always thought you weren’t supposed to game the system, when it comes to prophecies. Didn’t Trelawney say they’re supposed to just... happen?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, “but Snape thinks this is our next best lead, considering how powerful Voldemort is now.”

“Snape?” he said, making a face. Then he turned to Hermione, rolling his eyes. “I know what you’ll say. You’ve always said to trust him, and you’ve always been proven right and all that. But still --”

Harry jumped in before Hermione could respond. “Snape offered to help me figure out what my hidden power is. I think he’s got the right idea; we can’t hope to beat Voldemort conventionally, he’s just too strong. We need to be looking for some kind of cheat. That said...”

Hermione leaned forward. “What?”

Snape makes me very uneasy. Harry shrugged. “Nothing,” he said casually. “I think I’ll talk to him more about it tomorrow, before lunch. Yep -- That’s where I’ll be. If I don’t come back, tell the Order that he was the one who murdered me, and that they can avenge me at Spinner’s End.”

Looking at their suddenly solemn faces, Harry realized that he’d ruined the mood. They didn’t view death as flippantly as he did. “I was just joking,” he said quickly. “Exploding Snap, guys? I haven’t played it in ages.”

“Oh, sure.” Ron got up, eager for a distraction. “Where’d I put the cards...”