Author's Note:

This little story is the product of my recent re-read of the Harry Potter book series, and of the deep love that I have for it and its greatest hero. I couldn't just leave him lying there.

HP fanfiction-wise, I've been living under a rock for the past 10 years, so this may have been done a thousand times before, I wouldn't know.

In terms of canon compliance, I go with the books.

To my friends and followers from the BBC "Sherlock" fandom who were expecting more fic in that category from me, I apologise.

"That wand's more trouble than it's worth," said Harry. "And quite honestly," he turned away from the painted portraits, thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, "I've had enough trouble for a lifetime."

They made their way back down the ruined marble staircase together, Ron and Hermione to rejoin the Weasley family and Harry to find a Gryffindor student who could tell him their current password.

At the bottom of the stairs, in the rubble-strewn entrance hall, they met Seamus Finnigan. Seamus had his arm in a sling, but grinned from ear to ear when he saw them approach. It made for a very strange contrast with the many bruises on his face, both old and fresh.

"Seamus," Harry said quickly, cutting short yet another well-meant torrent of congratulations, or another blow-by-blow replay of the final moments of the battle. "What's the password to the Gryffindor common room?"

"No idea," Seamus replied cheerfully. "Try 'victory' though. The Fat Lady's been loyal to a tee. It was 'never give in' at the time when I went to ground in the Room of Requirement." He surveyed Harry's face attentively. Harry suspected that his complete and utter exhaustion must be edged into every line of it, impossible to miss or ignore in the bright morning light.

"You do look like you could do with a nap, mate," Seamus said sympathetically. "Go on up. I'll send someone with the password after you." His grin returned. "Don't worry, your bed's still there. Snape ordered it removed months ago, to erase all memory of you or something, but it wouldn't budge. Rumour has it that some house-elf must've fixed it there with a Permanent Stick- what?" He broke off in bewilderment. Harry had turned sharply to Ron and Hermione.

The realisation had hit Harry as soon as Seamus had said the name, and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by a pang of guilt so strong that it nearly took his breath away. How could he have forgotten? How could he not have remembered?

"There's something I still need to do," he told his friends tersely, all thought of rest and sleep wiped from his mind.

Ron instantly caught on. "Snape," he said soberly.

"Professor Snape, Ron." The words came out without conscious thought on Harry's part, but he could tell from the almost shocked look on Ron and Hermione's faces that even though he had just spent twenty minutes telling them every last detail that his sluggish brain could remember seeing in the Pensieve, the stupendous truth of it all had not yet sunk in even with them. Well, that just made this one final task even more important.

Ignoring Seamus and his completely befuddled expression, Harry walked straight past the open doorway of the Great Hall and out through the shattered oak front doors that now hung drunkenly from their hinges. The bright sunlight almost blinded him for a moment as he stood on top of the steps that led down onto the battlefield.

In the distance, on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his eyes found what they sought, and it wasn't good news.

The giants Voldemort had brought to the battle had reduced the mighty branches of the Whomping Willow to kindling. They lay in heaps all around the massive stump, which had split asunder as if it had been struck by lightning. An impenetrable tangle of huge jagged splinters of wood, some of them still twitching feebly, now hid what had been the entrance to the secret passageway at the tree's foot.

"Blimey," said Ron at Harry's shoulder, following his friend's gaze. "That'll take hours to untangle, if we ever want to get through there again."

"If the tree'll even let us," Hermione, on Harry's other side, added quietly. "Poor Willow."

"Well, let's find out," Harry said grimly, and set out towards the ruin of the old tree.

He had taken exactly one step when he was pulled sharply back by a hand on either shoulder.

"No, we won't," Hermione said firmly. "At least you won't, Harry." She turned him around to face her. "You don't have to do everything alone, remember?"

Harry looked across at Ron, but he should have known better than to expect support from that quarter.

"She's right, mate," Ron said with a shrug. "She always is, you know. Might as well stop fighting it."

"We need - " Harry made one last futile attempt, his eyes back on the Whomping Willow.

"You", said Hermione very clearly, as if talking to an exceptionally slow person, "need a nice jug of iced pumpkin juice, a chicken and ham sandwich, and somewhere to sit down."

"And who will - "

But the answer to that question presented itself just at this moment in the form of Aberforth Dumbledore. The old man had just come striding purposefully out of the castle doors, his robes still dusty and dishevelled from the battle. He was followed by the equally bedraggled-looking Madam Rosmerta of the Three Broomsticks, and another wizard. Harry thought he recognised the shining bald head of Mr Honeyduke, the Hogsmeade sweet shop owner.

"... will be arriving in droves soon," they could hear Aberforth say to the others. "Better see that - "

Hermione gave Ron a meaningful look, as if to say that she'd hold him personally accountable for Harry's good behaviour in her absence, and hurried over to accost the three Hogsmeade residents.

"Mr Dumbledore - "

Aberforth stopped short. "What is it, young lady?"

"Could you do us a great favour? You and the good people of Hogsmeade?" She encompassed Aberforth's companions with a gesture of her hand. "We really don't want to keep you, but there's - there's one more of us who needs to be, well - " She hesitated, and Harry was infinitely grateful to Aberforth when he took the words straight out of Hermione's mouth.

" - brought home?" the old man said briskly. "Very well. Where will we find them?"

"In the Shrieking Shack."

Aberforth's shrewd blue eyes narrowed as his gaze swept from Hermione across to Harry. Harry was once again struck by the realisation that there must be very, very little, if anything at all, about the village of Hogsmeade and its neighbouring school that Aberforth didn't know about.

"Expect us back in half an hour," Aberforth said simply, and without another word set off down the steps and towards the gates, his companions at his heels.

"Come on, Harry," Ron urged him, taking his friend by the sleeve and trying to steer him back inside. "They'll know what to do."

They compromised by sitting down where they stood, on the castle steps. Harry put his head in his hands, suddenly too weary to hold it up any more, but he couldn't take his eyes off the wounded tree in the distance, nor his mind off the secret it hid below and beyond its roots.

After a moment, he felt someone settle down next to him, lithe and silent, and the smell of pumpkin juice tickled his nose. He looked up, and there was Ginny, a napkin full of sandwiches in her lap and a jug in her hand.

She gave him a very small smile. "At the danger of sounding like my mother - you'll feel better after this."

"Your mother is a wise woman," Harry said, took the jug from her and downed the juice in one go. It tasted heavenly.

"I know what you're thinking," Ginny continued, now pressing a sandwich into his hand. He took a bite without really noticing it. "But it was Kingsley Shacklebolt and Professor Flitwick who pulled Fred out of the rubble of the seventh floor corridor and brought him down, too, you know. Mum and dad didn't have to do that themselves, and neither did I, or George, or Percy."

This was why he loved her so much, Harry thought as he turned his head to meet Ginny's eyes. Because she was not afraid of the truth, even if it hurt. He would have liked to kiss her then and there, but his mouth was full of sandwich.

"This isn't my brother though," he objected once he'd managed to swallow his bite. "I don't have that excuse, I - "

"He was our brother in arms," Ginny said quietly. "We just didn't know it."

"I - " Harry's mouth suddenly felt dry again, too dry to speak. A fresh wave of sorrow washed over him and pulled at every fibre of his aching heart. He suddenly regretted nothing more than that he'd never acknowledged that brotherhood in any way. Ginny said that they hadn't known, but hadn't there been ample proof, over and over again, that he had simply chosen to ignore? If only he'd managed to look beneath the surface, beyond that petty mutual dislike that had always stood between them like a brick wall... The sheer number of missed opportunities was overwhelming. Seven years, seven long years, in which he had never once volunteered even a single thank you.

"Here." He heard Ginny's voice as if through a haze. The napkin was in his hand, neatly folded into a small square, and he realised that she meant for him to dry his tears on it.

With his glasses off and his eyes raw and red, he missed the moment when the party from Hogsmeade reappeared at the school gates, their promise honoured in even less time than Aberforth had estimated. It was Hermione, who had been sitting in quiet conversation with Ron a step or two below Harry and Ginny, who gently nudged them to turn and look.

Harry had also not realised just how many people were out and about, now that the sun was higher in the sky, and the air outside was growing warmer and kinder by the minute. With the wounded tended to, the families reunited, the most urgent questions answered and the empty stomachs filled, students and adults alike had started streaming out of the broken doors of the castle to breathe some fresh air and relish just being alive, and they were joined there by still more new arrivals. Word of the outcome of the battle was travelling incredibly fast.

So Harry was among the last to become aware of the arrival of a single of the school carriages down by the gates that had once been guarded by the pair of winged boars. Aberforth, walking, led the Thestral that pulled it, while Mr Honeyduke sat in the back, cradling what looked from afar like a large black bundle.

Hundreds of curious eyes followed their slow progress up to the castle, and Harry wondered with a fresh pang of sadness how many more people were present there now who had no more reason to believe that the carriage was being propelled along by magic alone.

Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione all got to their feet as the carriage approached, and Harry led the way down the steps to meet it.

The Thestral snorted softly and came to a halt, while the onlookers formed a wide circle around the carriage and its ominous cargo.

The Hogwarts teachers had congregated at the top of the castle steps, but it was Harry that Aberforth addressed himself to.

"How d'you want this done then, Potter?" he asked, his voice carrying loudly in the sudden hush.

"Properly," Harry replied, as he had once before, and he fervently hoped that Aberforth would know what he meant by that.

Aberforth did, and so did the unknown helpful hand that must have instantly dashed back inside to retrieve one of the stretchers they had used earlier to carry the dead and wounded in from the grounds. It was handed down to where the carriage stood, and Aberforth and Mr Honeyduke gingerly lifted up their charge and lowered the body onto it. An uneasy murmur rippled around the assembled crowd when it became evident whose it was.

They had not covered his face yet, and Harry was glad that they hadn't. He was equally glad, however, that someone - he suspected Madam Rosmerta's kind hand - had closed his eyes and cleaned away the blood that had stained the pale face when Harry had last looked into it. The horrific wound from the snake's fangs lay hidden under the high collar of his black robe. They had folded his hands across his chest, and they had also retrieved his wand, which they had placed, as tradition required, between his fingers.

Ginny had been right. It was an enormous relief to Harry that nobody had asked of him to do any of these things, and he no longer felt guilty, just grateful to those who had risen to the occasion in his stead. He slipped his hand into Ginny's and squeezed it, and he knew from the responding pressure that she had understood.

She was reluctant to let go again, and only did so when Harry stepped forward from the ranks of the onlookers. Mr Honeyduke had started turning the carriage around, ready to return to the village, leaving Aberforth and Harry to face each other across the dead man on his bier.

Aberforth raised one of his bushy eyebrows in question. There was an uncomfortable silence. Harry had to painfully admit to himself that even with Aberforth's help, there was no way he'd be able to carry that weight for any length of time. But it seemed impossible to just ask any of the onlookers to come to his aid, not without first launching into long explanations that his tired brain was incapable of giving.

There was movement in the crowd, and the tall figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt emerged from a large group of witches and wizards in Ministry robes. For a moment Harry, mortified, was convinced that the new Minister for Magic was about to put an end to this pathetic scene, and would send him off to let the grown-ups sort out the situation. But he was mistaken. Kingsley simply walked past Harry and wordlessly took up his station across from Aberforth at the head of the bier, his hands linked behind his back, waiting for others to follow his example.

It was indeed only a moment before the next person came forward. Horace Slughorn came hurrying down the steps from among the teachers to stand next to Kingsley, puffing and panting and hastily tying the belt of the velvet nightgown that he had flung over his pyjamas, his tousled moustache aquiver with emotion.

And then something happened that made Harry's hammering heart almost leap into his throat with surprise. Neville Longbottom, who had stood there at the front of the crowd next to his grandmother, visibly braced himself and then walked to Aberforth's side. Aberforth gave him a nod, and although it was hard to tell with his grey beard obscuring his weathered features, Harry could have sworn there was a smile of almost paternal pride there, too.

Harry felt his own heart swell with relief and gratitude. Now if only one more person would understand why this mattered so much, and had the generosity to volunteer -

People were shifting uneasily, and heads were starting to turn. Harry realised that there was an argument going on somewhere at the very back of the crowd, imperfectly suppressed, sharp whispers carrying in the silence, even if the words themselves were indistinguishable. Two or possibly even three people were fiercely disagreeing about something. Harry wondered vaguely why when it suddenly stopped, and Harry's jaw dropped. Edging through the throng, the last person Harry would ever have expected to was making his way to the front, his robes spattered with dust and worse things, his white-blond hair singed and dishevelled, but his pale pointed face grim and determined.

Draco Malfoy avoided everyone's eyes as he took his place as the sixth and the last of the pallbearers. It put him across from Harry, by the dead man's feet.

"Here we go then," Aberforth said gruffly. Taking their lead from him, the five others took a good grip on the edge of the stretcher and lifted it up to waist-high. The crowd parted to make a lane for them. They carefully negotiated the steps. At the top they halted briefly and then, at another word from Aberforth, they hoisted their burden onto their shoulders for the rest of the way.

It was awkward and uncomfortable, and Harry was well aware that his left shoulder and arm would start aching terribly long before they even reached the Great Hall, but he didn't care. He knew now that he could do it because he wasn't doing it alone. He could feel Neville's solid presence right behind him, and fell almost naturally into step with Draco beside him, trying not to think too much about how strange that was.

They truly were a motley crew, the six of them, but somehow they were also an oddly fitting selection of people to honour the man they were carrying to his rest. Dumbledore's man, the Order of the Phoenix's man, the Slytherin, the Death Eater, the teacher and the lover, he too had fit no mould, not even the ones he had tried to make for himself.

Harry should not have let his mind wander. They had made their way slowly into the castle, and even though Mr Filch had done his best to hastily clear a path for them across the littered floor of the entrance hall, there were still bits and pieces of rubble lying around. They were halfway across when Harry caught one of his weary feet against an emerald stone that had spilled from the giant Slytherin hourglass early on in the battle, and stumbled. Panicking, he overbalanced, and he would have gone down there and then, if it hadn't been for the arm that came out of nowhere at the last moment to link with his own, steadying both him and their burden until Harry had regained his footing and his breath. Then it was gone again as quickly as it had appeared, and throughout the rest of their silent progress into the Great Hall, Draco Malfoy was again looking fixedly ahead just like before.

Minerva McGonagall went ahead of them for the last part of the way, her wand out, Summoning to her some of the tattered remnants of the once magnificent wall hangings and drapes with the Hogwarts coat of arms and house colours as she went. By the time they arrived at the far end of the hall, before the raised platform where the long teachers' table used to be and where now the shrouded bodies of the fallen had been laid, Professor McGonagall had set up and covered a table, ready to receive their burden.

It was only when they set it down there at last that Harry realised with awe that he and his five companions had been the head of an immense cortege. All the teachers had walked right behind them, as well as all the rest of the school staff. Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Luna and Harry's other friends from the DA were at the head of every single Hogwarts student still present, while Arthur and Molly Weasley had led the way for the parents, the Ministry representatives and all the other adults. The Great Hall was so packed that there was barely room for everyone to stand.

Harry nodded a thank you to his fellow pallbearers, too exhausted now even for speech. The final part of the way had taken every last ounce of his strength, and he was shaking from cramped shoulders to weak knees.

But even now, it wasn't over yet. It couldn't be, because Harry had said "properly", and that meant -

"I think it would be nice if somebody said a few words now." It was Luna Lovegood's gentle voice that broke the expectant silence, and if Harry had had any energy left, he would have smiled at Luna's uncanny ability to put unspoken truths into words.

He didn't seriously expect anyone to rise to the challenge though. His own mind was completely blank, and it was only fair to assume that everyone else must feel the same way. It therefore came as a surprise when someone did speak up, and to Harry's infinite astonishment, once again, it was Neville Longbottom.

"Well, I - I'm not actually sure I'm the right person for this - " Neville looked around nervously, as if expecting everyone to tell him that he certainly wasn't. But none of the assembled witches and wizards did anything of the sort.

"But we all heard Harry," Neville continued, taking encouragement from their silence. "What Harry said, earlier this morning, I mean, here in the hall. To - to Voldemort. And if it's true - and of course it's true, because if it isn't, then nothing that's happened here today makes any sense - "

He cast around awkwardly for the thread he had lost, but then he turned abruptly away from his audience and instead directly addressed the dead man on the bier. "If Harry was right," he repeated, his eyes fixed bravely on the pale face of his erstwhile least favourite teacher, "then, if it hadn't been for you, we might as well all have put down our wands and surrendered straight away. And that -" His voice wavered, but he ploughed on valiantly. "- and that doesn't bear thinking about."

A murmur of assent went around the Hall. Neville cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't get it sooner. Though, coming from me, you probably aren't surprised now," he added with disarming honesty. "But I think I'm not the only one who never really got you. Or what drove you. Or who you really were. I mean, you must have lived five or six lives where the rest of us barely live one. I'm honestly in awe how you managed to keep track."

Harry heard Hermione near him stifle either a small sob or a shaky laugh, and then realised it was probably a combination of both.

"I'm sorry I'm rambling," Neville apologised. "I know you were not a patient man, and you're probably docking points from me right now already, for being - 'criminally verbose', or - or 'deplorably sentimental', or whatever you'd have called it."

This time, people all around allowed themselves to smile. Harry saw Professor McGonagall shaking her head helplessly, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"So I'll say just one more thing," Neville continued doggedly, and the hall went quiet again. "I know now that no one could have lived your life, and not felt friendless and lonely all the time. But that's over now. You have a place. You do belong. And here's why." Neville took another deep breath. His voice was gathering strength and confidence with every word now. "You didn't do things by halves. You were a master of every art you put your mind to. And you used all of that so cleverly to get us here, even against impossible odds. You stood by what you knew was right to the very end. And when the time came, you laid down your life to save us all." Neville looked around, and when he spoke again, his voice carried to the furthest corner of the Great Hall. "And that means there is no one here, no Gryffindor, no Ravenclaw, no Hufflepuff and no Slytherin, who wouldn't have been proud today to call you one of their own."

Harry had to blink to keep his eyes focused as Neville turned back to the bier, reached out and gently pulled a corner of the drapes the dead man was resting on over him. It covered the cold body like a warm, colourful blanket. "Rest in peace, Headmaster."

The silence that had been absolute while Neville had spoken broke. A murmur rose all around the Great Hall as hundreds of voices took up Neville's words. Within moments, a mighty hum was echoing right up to the rafters and the open sky beyond, and as Harry looked into the still, white face again, he felt sure that every last lingering trace of grief and pain and fear had finally departed from it.

THE END

ENDNOTE

All feedback is endlessly appreciated.

If you liked this, and if you generally enjoy stories that centre around Snape but prefer those in which he's actually still alive, feel free to check out "The Bird's Eye", too, now posting here on the site.