Chapter Text
Boy-Who-Lived and Malfoy Heir denounced and arrested following Ministry blow-up.
Saviour and ex-Auror Harry Potter (25) has been detained in conjunction with the arrest of ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy (25) following a long string of cover-ups and collusion, and gross abuse of Auror Privileges. Though a trial date has yet to be set, neither is refuting the charges. The extent of the conspiracy has yet to be ascertained and both are being represented by Junior Wizengamot Hermione Granger, recently named as potential future Minister for Magic. Neither family – Potter or Malfoy – have given statements at this time. More details to follow.
Minerva reads aloud, the paper spread out across the desk that had once been Dumbledore’s, as much for his benefit – hanging high on the wall above them – than for the ghost lingering at her shoulder.
A good thing too. His eyesight is as good as it ever was, but Severus Snape cannot put meaning to the words in front of him.
He had been feeling it for months now; the distinct knowing that something had happened, that something was wrong. Something with Draco. Though it was impossible to pin down. That wasn’t unusual though. As a new ghost, everything was impossible to pin down. Time flowed differently for the dead, and even though he’d been deceased for a good – how long was it? – seven years, that was nothing compared to eternity. In spirit-terms, he was little more than a baby, still finding his feet and acclimatizing to this new state of being. Every moment of his life lingered as one, each one barely distinguishable from another. And so many were Draco.
The baby nestled in Lucius’s arms as they walked through the Manor’s grounds, Severus regarding the new human with appropriate wariness as his friend confessed his fear of fatherhood, the uncertainty that he was capable of doing a good job, and the hope that he would. Then, more cautious than Lucius had ever been, the question of, “I want you for godfather, Sev. I’d trust no-one else.” And the sudden heft of responsibility for this little life.
It feels like a moment ago.
“Do you know who I am?”
The child regarded him warily, grey-blue eyes flicking upwards towards his father, seeking permission.
“He doesn’t speak,” said Lucius, voice clipped with an aged irritation. “That’s the problem.”
Severus remained crouched, the same height as the four-year-old. “Can’t or won’t? Is he ill?”
“Won’t. And as far as anyone can tell, no, there is nothing wrong with him. Just stubborn belligerence.”
Severus grinned. “I wonder who he inherited that from?” But the joke was not received in the manner intended.
Lucius turned on his heel with a curt, “Fix him by the time Cissa and I return.”
It didn’t take much, just time and patience and kindness, before he coaxed the tiniest scrap of voice from his godson. It felt monumental, like he’d actually achieved something significant and made a positive difference to this boy. Elation was not a familiar sensation, but Severus had felt it then, and it grew into something warmer, permanent, love, when Draco – the most solemn child he’d even encountered – reflected his smile. It bound them together irrevocably.
“D’you have to go?”
How many times had he been asked that? The tiny voice drifting from the hesitant figure from the doorway, so much fragile hope in those four syllables.
And how many times had he replied with, ‘I’m sorry’?
Because he couldn’t stand being there, fighting with Lucius, unable to protect Draco, restricted and helpless in his role as godfather, tutor, servant.
Because Dumbledore had summoned him away.
Because he had a job and other responsibilities.
A life that wasn’t there with Draco.
How many times had he promised, ‘I’ll come back’ and ‘I’ll see you soon’? And meant it too.
Severus always went back, even if it was too late or not enough, always did his best to put Draco back together before leaving again too soon.
“Please,” he’d begged, in this very office, twice. “Let Draco stay here. He isn’t safe—”
And twice Dumbledore told him, “No,” and, “It wouldn’t be appropriate. I cannot make an exception for one and not the others.”
He never asked, Why not the others too? thinking of himself, of Lucius, of his Slytherins, because he could not bear the inevitable answer. Just resolved to do what little he could in lieu of safety. Patching up bruises, keeping his door open, defending his Slytherins over and over against a world which set them up to fail, and keeping Draco alive – whether that meant protecting the boy from himself or his father or Voldemort.
He’d left too early. Draco wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready.
“The Dark Lord has sent for you, Severus.”
He remembers exactly how it felt, the words he’d been waiting for, falling from Lucius’s lips, heavy with regret, settling with finality at the bottom of his stomach. He’d been waiting for months, had thought himself prepared, ready to die and fulfill his last duty, but, in the moment, it was too soon. There was too much he hadn’t done. Too much he hadn’t finished. Hadn’t said goodbye to Draco. Had barely been able to speak with him at all since negotiating his way back to Hogwarts. Couldn’t even imagine where Draco might be at that moment were he to steal five minutes more.
For the best, Severus told himself. Because what would he say, even given the chance? He would never be able to explain in words that Draco could understand.
He continued tidying his desk, closing the book he hadn’t finished reading and cleaning the nib of his favourite pen, then turned to Lucius. He was as haggard as Draco had been; little more than a ghost of himself. Barely existing. Their friendship had been tried and tested beyond fraying point, but a thread remained intact still. No matter what, it had been Lucius who had pulled him up from nothing, made him realise he was worth more than his tattered clothes and muggle father, more than the jibes thrown at him from the Gryffindor table. Lucius whose faith had maintained him through the loss of Lily, who trusted him to be godfather to the precious Malfoy heir. Who was there at the beginning and here at the end.
“You will fight,” said Lucius in not quite a question, closing the door behind him. “Severus? You’re not going to simply—”
“It’s alright. All will be as it is meant to be.” Dumbledore’s words slid neatly from his tongue as though his own. Lucius didn’t step away from the door, his body a last desperate barricade. “I have to go, Lucius.”
“You can’t. Say you’ll fight. You have to. You would win, if you tried—”
Severus laughed, the first and last time he’d ever laughed in his office. “Against the Dark Lord?”
Lucius remained as solid and immovable as he’d always been. “I know you,” he said. “You may fool everyone else, but I know you.”
The implication hung significantly between them.
“I have to go,” said Severus again. Then, when Lucius finally stepped aside, “One favour, Lucius.”
“Yes.”
“Protect Draco. No matter what. Promise me.”
The worst hesitation, then, softly, “I promise.”
“And tell him I’m sorry and I love him. Tell him—” But if he kept talking, kept thinking, he’d never do what had to be done. So Severus shook his head and shut his mouth, and turned his back on Lucius for the last time, pushing away all lasting thoughts of Draco – the little boy he had been, the teenager he had turned into, the man he would become.
By the time Severus woke up, body missing, it was all over; a year finished. And it had taken the whole journey from the Shrieking Shack to the Headmaster’s Office, passing through crowds of staring children who started at his presence – though that was nothing unusual – to start realizing that something wasn’t right. He pushed on the door and went straight through to find Minerva McGonagall frozen at Dumbledore’s desk, staring like he was a ghost.
A ghost.
It is not Severus Snape’s preferred state of being.
Sir Nick says he’s the most restless spirit he’s ever met, and recently – for the last few months – it’s only become worse.
Because something’s happening.
He can feel it.
Something with Draco.
Draco needs him.
And there is nothing Severus can do about it.
As it was in life, so to is it in death.
“I need to go to him.”
Minerva folds the paper in a slow, precise crease. “You know you can’t, Severus.”
He knows. He hates it. He is bound to this place for the rest of eternity, and never has the castle felt more like a cage. Severus angles away from her, away from the paper ablaze with Draco’s name and image, barely recognizable from the boy he’d known. Almost mistakeable for Lucius though he is all himself. In the picture, he pushes at an immovable wall of Aurors, face set somewhere between fury and terror, mouth moving in a silent shout, looking out into the unknowable distance beyond the photo.
Severus’s energy is palpable. Minerva can feel it in the prickle on her skin like static electricity. As a rule, she does not spend much time in close proximity to ghosts, but for Severus she has made an exception. They were friends in life, even through the catastrophe of ’97, and death has not changed that. She remembers him as a student, sullen and insecure, and she should’ve done more for him them. She tried, when he joined the faculty. She tries even harder now. New ghosts are like children, trying to find their feet and their place in a restless world. Though it’s been seven years, that is barely a blip compared to the infinity he is destined to remain here. He finds ways to be useful, bothering Slughorn as an uninvited teaching-assistant, taking responsibility for the pastoral care of the Slytherins for which Minerva is grateful. They need support, maybe more than the rest in light of the war, and few are either willing or qualified to give it. Severus has always been personally dedicated to his old house. It had surprised her, in the beginning, when he’d come to Hogwarts as a young teacher having never struck her as the sentimental type during his school years. And he wasn’t. Not really. But that’s not what the Slytherins required.
Whatever it was, Snape provided it, and Minerva is glad he continues to do so. Even when he forgets he’s dead and has to be reminded of his physical limitations.
It is hard for him, and hard for her too – witnessing the flash of shock every time he remembers that he’s dead, that he’s stuck here, that he is unable to do what he feels needs to be done. He has come to her often, claiming an urgent need to leave immediately and usually the states cause is Draco Malfoy – a promise to babysit, a promise to the boy, a letter asking for help. It is common, according to the castle’s ghosts, to lose track of time, to get caught up in the past and believe it’s another pre-death year. Usually it takes only the smallest reminder, Malfoy isn’t a boy anymore, he’s a grown man who doesn’t need looking after, and usually such phases pass quickly with bleak acceptance – Severus has always been one to make do and make the best of a poor situation. Minerva waits for that now, watched over by her interested predecessors.
It doesn’t come.
She watches his expression twist into a grimace as though plagued by a particularly painful migraine, hand to his forehead. He is struggling, more badly than usual, fighting the confines of purgatory. And she realises that this is different. Not a simple matter of being snagged in time, this is present and real, and it isn’t just going to pass.
Minerva McGonagall turns in her seat to give the young ghost of full attention.
“How can I help?”
The letter is penned in neat, emerald cursive.
My dearest Draco, it begins.