"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings." - J.R.R. Tolkien

What's a spy to do when the war is over and she has lost her purpose in life? Especially when she never even expected to survive the war. Harry's aunt Civia Potter - the murderer of Albus Dumbledore, a traitor to the Order, and ultimately a spy - wakes in the hospital wing after the Battle of Hogwarts, redeemed and pardoned, with her dearest friend and confidant at her side, in a new era.

Chapter 1

September 1975

The knock echoed loudly in the Headmaster's Office.

"Come in," Albus Dumbledore called curiously.

A small sixth year entered, dark haired and olive skinned.

"Professor," she nodded respectfully.

"Miss Potter," the Headmaster returned. "Please sit. May I offer you a lemon drop?"

The girl sat down quickly, reserved in her movements and calm in her expression. "No thank you, Professor."

"What brings you here tonight, Miss Potter?"

Sixteen year old Civia Potter met his eyes calmly. "I wish to inform you that tonight I have joined the ranks of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters."

The Headmaster's eyebrows furrowed in consternation. "I'm sorry?" He must have misheard—

"I am a Death Eater, Professor Dumbledore," she rephrased it, perfectly at peace as she rolled up her left sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark, stark upon her skin.

"How did this happen?"

"Last year I seduced Lucius Malfoy," she replied slowly, knowing very well that he knew the now-graduated young wizard was engaged to Narcissa Black. "He introduced me to the Dark Lord, who asked me to take on an assignment."

His eyebrows raised slightly. "An assignment?"

"To infiltrate your Order of the Phoenix and spy upon you and your fellows," she explained. "I accepted and took the Dark Mark tonight."

For a long moment, the Headmaster had nothing to say, staring at the young woman before him, calculating and trying to create a plan. "You wish instead to spy for the Order."

"On one condition," the Ravenclaw prefect replied, cool as a glacier. "No one in the Order must know. None save you, Professor. Tell anyone and I will never again help you."

"And in return for your privacy, you believe you can be of use against Lord Voldemort?"

Civia met his eyes flatly. "You recall the anonymous notes you have been receiving for the past two years, yes?"

Ah yes. The unsigned notes owled to him at odd hours, noting students who were interested in joining or who had already joined the ranks of Voldemort's followers.

So it was Civia Potter who sent them.

Interesting. Most interesting…

June 1998

When Civia woke, it was to a pounding head and dry mouth. Her neck and the junction of her right shoulder were strangely numb, but everything else ached slightly, and she let out a groan.

"Civia!" a voice cried from beside her, concerned.

She struggled against her dry eyelids to open them. Not that she needed to see to recognize the voice.

"Sev-rus," she croaked, eyes finally open.

The Potions Master was at her side, pouring a glass of water before she could even ask. "Lie still," he chided her as she tried, and failed, to sit up. She settled for gratefully gulping down the cool water before coughing slightly as it went down wrong.

"Slowly," he again chided.

She rolled her dry eyes that are slowly becoming more tolerable. She made eye contact, and held his gaze as she wondered, What happened?

Her throat ached now, the numbness now fading and pain taking its place.

In lieu of a verbal response, he pushed forward a series of images to her mind.

—battle, savage outright war—in the once comforting halls of her beloved Hogwarts—blood and bodies and body parts littering the stone floors, as spells fly and cries are heard amidst the shouts—

—searching, searching the battlefield, cutting down Death Eaters and defending students whenever possible—

—finally spotting Civia, amidst the chaos, facing down the Dark Lord himself—the Longbottom boy behind her, burnt Sorting Hat in one hand, the Sword of Gryffindor in the other—her wand drawn and trained upon her former master, as she shouts her loyalties for all to hear, vowing to kill him for murdering her nephew—

—the duel began then, with spell after spell, curse after curse flying between the two, as bystanders fight their own battles and try not to get hit by stray spells—Death Eaters falling all around, students and Order members victorious, slowly overwhelming the Dark Lord's forces—

—suddenly, from nowhere, the snake, that damned creature—Nagini throwing herself at Civia, fangs bared before they sank into her neck and shoulder, sending the witch to the ground—

—Severus shouting, shoving people aside in his haste to reach her—

—seeing the snake wrapping around the witch, squeezing and choking her even as it dug its fangs in deeper into her flesh as she screamed and writhed—

—before he could reach her, the Longbottom boy jumps in, hacking at the snake with the Sword of Gryffindor, until its blasted head was separated from its damned neck—

She jerked away physically with the effort to stop the barrage of images, suddenly nauseated.

"I think it's better that I don't remember," she croaked, or tries to.

She had never been particularly fond of her voice. A little too low to be attractive, too high to be properly sensuous. But it was her voice, hers, her own.

What was left of it is in ruins.

One hand flew to cover her mouth, only to slide lower to her throat, where she felt the new knotted ridges of scar tissue.

There were some scars even magic and potions couldn't fix. These were some of them, apparently.

Severus grabbed her hand, shaking his head. "You'll recover. You need time."

How long has it been? She thought to him with a mastered combination of legilimency and occlumency.

"About a month since the battle," the Potions Master replied slowly. "We had trouble healing you. I had to create an antivenin and then we had to repair the physical damage to your neck and throat, as well as your leg…" he paused here, strangely hesitant, which does not suit him at all.

What about my leg? She asked slowly.

He sighed, sitting down carefully. "Nagini was constricting you, as well as trying to kill you with her bite. She broke a couple of your ribs and your left femur. We couldn't heal the latter correctly—Poppy said something about you breaking it too many times for it to fully heal. I believe you will need a cane," he added, tone uncharacteristically gentle.

She snorted. "If I can defy the Dark L—Voldemort and nearly get killed by Nagini, and only walk away with a limp, I think I'm okay with that," she forced herself to croak out in her ruined voice. "I'll survive…yes?"

"Yes," her friend nodded. "And you'll be pleased to hear that your nephew survived as well."

"I had wondered," Civia murmured lowly. "I hoped…but I was afraid to ask. Who did we lose?"

Quietly, Severus began to list off names. Many of them were too young, too young to have even been there, too young to suffer such a fate… But that is the nature of war, she thought to herself, Taking the best of us too soon.

She yawned abruptly, and it caught her off-guard. Severus chuckled lowly at the expression upon her face.

Shut up, she thought to him pointedly. Shouldn't you be fetching Poppy to examine and annoy me with all her apologies?

"Of course, how could I forget?" he asked, and slipped away to do just that.

Civia was asleep again before they return.

Tom Riddle was dead. This time, there was no uncertainty, no doubt.

She read about it in The Daily Prophet, how Harry so bravely sacrificed himself, only to come out alive because of Lily's sacrifice and some apparent loophole.

Most of her days were long and lonely, though Severus tried to visit whenever he had a spare moment between helping Poppy heal those still recovering and helping the other Heads of House coordinate the repair of the castle.

Harry stopped by, a week after she woke. It was the first time she's seen him outside of battle in months. Since she killed Albus, in fact.

"Aunt Civia," he greeted quietly, when he realized she was awake.

"Hello, Harry," she returned quietly, voice no longer a croak but not yet what it once was.

Neither knew how to react, not quite yet. It had been a year, but the loss of Albus was still keenly felt, and she feared they would never repair that rift in their relationship.

"Sn—Professor Snape said you don't really remember the battle," he said.

She had come to recollect certain moments, mostly running and dueling and searching for Severus amidst all that madness. Nagini and the Dark Lord visit in her nightmares, if she's honest, but she doesn't remember that last bit very much at all.

"No, I don't," she replied, for simplicity's sake. "Severus tells me I gave you some of my memories during battle."

"Yes, I—I watched them, and I did what I had to do," the boy replied, and for a moment, she remembered how very young he is, or was supposed to be. He hardly seemed seventeen anymore, but he had time to heal and fix that, at least. Youths were resilient, after all. "I—I want to thank you."

"I—excuse me?" The croak returned momentarily, with a spike of pain, before she could control it. "I thought—well. I thought you'd hate me, even though you know the truth now."

"Civia, you're a hero!" he exclaimed. "You spied for all those years, doing what Dumbledore said, helping the Order even though they didn't like you—you saved so many people, and you helped us defeat Voldemort! How could I hate you?"

"I killed Albus," she snapped harshly. "Or have you forgotten?"

He flinched a bit, but sighed. "You only did that because he made you."

"I let the Carrows torture students," she snapped again.

"Again, because you had to," he shrugged. "You protected them when you could."

"I don't—Harry, you have to understand…" she fumbled for words, unsure of what she could possibly say.

To this point, she had thought he had been avoiding her, hating her, no matter how she had helped him.

"I sent you to your death."

The words fell from her lips before she can stop herself.

He grinned at that, however. "Not exactly. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"The Boy Who Lived, as ever," she muttered and snorted. Of course he had lived.

Not that she wasn't pleased that her nephew is alive. She was quite relieved, honestly. The thought of her only family dying…it was not pleasant. She could not protect James and Lily, so she had vowed to protect her nephew as best as she could. She had tried, too, but in the end, it came down to a choice between protecting him and ending this war.

Was she a bad person for seemingly sending a boy to his death, just to end the war? Was it justified?

Sighing, she tossed the ruminations aside. She wasn't a philosopher, she never had been. She'll leave that for others to decide. For now…

"I'm glad you lived," she said. "James and Lily would be proud of you, Harry. They really would."

He smiled. "Thanks Civia…I'll let you rest now—but I'll be back, I promise!" he grinned, and for a moment, it was a glimpse of the youthful cheer behind the grim man that circumstance had made of the boy.

Moments after he left, Severus returned, having apparently passed the boy in the aisle outside her little curtained "room" within the crowded hospital wing.

"What did the boy wonder want?"

"He…thanked me."

"Ah yes, he's been most vocal about our innocence," the Potions Master mused. "He also gave me these to return to you."

In his hand, he offered the vial of memories.

"He said that only Minerva and Kingsley saw them, though many others know of their existence. He thought you'd appreciate the privacy; I thanked him for it."

"Thank you," she murmured gratefully, accepting the vial in shaky hands.