Current mood:	lonely
Entry tags:	fic : hp : gen

FIC: As Before, almost-Snape/Harry, PG
Title: As Before
Pairing: Snape/Harry if you squint. Gen if you don't.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for HBP, character death
Summary: "That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear." -Stephen King
Notes: Futurefic. This is pretty rough, and I'm not sure it makes sense, but I was attacked by fire ants partway through writing it. (Really.) Quote and inspiration swiped from houserareathon with tangleofthorns' blessing.

*
"I want to do it."

Ron closed his eyes and sighed. He'd known this was coming. Harry kept talking.

"The dementors are still not fully under our control. My proposal, though unconventional, is the only reliable method--"

Ron sighed again but didn't need to hear anymore. Harry was right. Ron raised his voice.

"Permission granted."

*
Snape met death with a sneer on his face, wrapped in the tattered remnants of his robes and his dignity. He looked tired, certainly, a ghost of the man who'd haunted Ron's school years, but the look on his face as he listened to his sentence was as inscrutable as ever.

When it was announced that Harry Potter was to be his executioner, his only reaction was the slight arching of one eyebrow and a quirk of his lips, neither of which Ron knew how to interpret.

When Harry cast the curse, his voice was as steady as his wand.

*
"What is it?"

"I don't know," Ron said. "Minerva said she found it in his old quarters. She thinks it might be his will."

Harry's lip curled as he glared at the scroll on the desk. "Why--"

"It's covered with curses," Hermione said quickly. "None of us can get near it."

Harry snorted. "Big surprise," he muttered. "But you haven't told me why I should care what his will says."

Ron glanced quickly at Hermione and shrugged. "Aren't you curious?"

"No," Harry said shortly, standing to leave.

Hermione's voice stopped him. "Well," she said, "I am. Besides, we need to know what it says. Ministry guidelines."

Harry rolled his eyes but drew his wand. "Oh, Ministry guidelines," he said with exaggerated deference. "You should have just said so."

*
Ron watched carefully as Harry skimmed the parchment. Whatever Snape's will said, Harry didn't like it. His lips were thinning, his face was hardening; finally he tossed it aside in disgust.

"His Pensieve," he spat. "The bastard left me his fucking Pensieve."

*
It was several weeks before Ron saw Harry again, and he suspected even that was only because he'd shown up at the door to Harry's flat at half-three in the morning and refused to take no for an answer.

When Harry finally answered the door, it was obvious he hadn't been asleep, and equally obvious it wasn't his first sleepless night. He looked pale and drawn, and there were deep lines etched into his face, but his eyes were strangely hard.

He let Ron in silently and sank into the armchair by the fire as Ron took in the empty Firewhisky bottles littering the room. When he finally looked back at Harry, there was a note of warning in his eyes, and Ron knew better than to say anything. He sat on the couch instead, and waited.

*
"It's Snape."

Ron sighed. He'd seen this coming, but he still didn't like it.

"Look, mate," he said. "The bastard deserved what he got. We tried him--"

"In absentia," Harry interrupted.

Ron frowned. "We couldn't find him. And when we did find him, he didn't have anything to say in his defence, did he? He was guilty. He was guilty, and he deserved to die. He'd have been executed anyway, and it's just as well you did it." Harry snorted, but Ron kept talking. "I know you, Harry. You're a good person. This wasn't-- I wish you wouldn't worry about it. It's not like you're a murderer."

Harry's head jerked up and his eyes met Ron's; for a second, he looked almost startled. Then he started to laugh, a low, bitter sound that made Ron's skin crawl. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, and the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started.

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice distant. "It's not like I'm a murderer."

END.