The Funeral
I
On the day after he died, Harry Potter awoke with a start from a dreamless sleep. It was the hour before dawn when all was hushed and quiet, soothed by the velvet repose of deep slumber, birds and animals not yet ready to leave the comfort of the sheltering wing or den. The snug dormitory bedroom was filled with the even, deep breathing of the sleeping young men, a pale arm thrust out here, a leg flexing there, as their dreams retold their stories. In the four-poster next to Harry, Ron Weasley tossed and turned, murmuring plaintively, his face tense in rest.
Harry sat up abruptly, pushing the heavy maroon bedclothes aside and brushing sleep from his eyes as the thought that had bubbled up and teased him awake came to the fore, demanding his attention.
“He’s still
there.”
As the horror of his thought gripped him, Harry’s voice rose to a near shout.
“He’s still
out there.”
Ron, who had been sleeping fitfully in the bed next to Harry’s, mumbled from behind his bed curtains.
“You killed him, mate, remember? He’s dead, gone. Go back to sleep.”
Harry, now fully awake, answered abruptly.
“I don’t mean Voldemort, Ron, I mean Professor Snape. He’s still in the Shrieking Shack. No one knows he’s there but me. We…I have to bring him back here and give him a proper burial.”
There was a silence from the other bed and then Ron’s voice answered him slowly, with a husky note Harry had never heard in his friend before.
“There’s …there’s a lot of things we still have to do. We have to…That is, Mum and Dad and the rest of us have to…”
Ron’s voice cracked, and Harry knew as certainly as he knew his own boyhood ended forever in the astronomy tower, that his carefree friend had disappeared overnight and in his place would be a man who would never again laugh quite as easily as the boy had done.
For a few moments he mourned this little death and all the other little deaths and losses of innocence sure to come in the aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat. Then, mindful of the example set in steel before him every day of his life at Hogwarts, he composed his thoughts and resolved that he would right one outstanding wrong before he allowed himself the luxury of mourning.
His voice gentle, Harry addressed his friend again.
“Go back to sleep Ron. This is something I have to do, and you have to look after Ginny and your mum. Tell Hermione I’ll see you both at breakfast.”
II
Professor McGonagall was awakened from a fitful sleep by an insistent knocking on her heavy oak door. She threw on her ancient tartan dressing gown and tying the belt, answered the door, her long gray braid hanging loose over her shoulder. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise at seeing Harry Potter on her doorstep, before dawn, and still in his nightclothes.
“Mr. Potter, whatever is the matter?” she demanded, anxiety furrowing her brow. “Is there something wrong? Why aren’t you asleep with the rest of the students?”
“I have to speak with you, Professor. Is Shacklebolt still here? We need to get him, too.”
“Why yes he is, but before I get anyone, I want you to tell me what this is all about.”
“There’s no time for that now, Professor. Get Shacklebolt and meet me in front of Dumbledore’s office. I’ll explain everything when we’re there.” He lowered his voice, urgency replaced by something gentler. “Please.”
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to protest Harry’s preemptory speech, but one look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know and she softened. She regarded the young man standing in front of her thoughtfully, and made up her mind.
“Very well then, Potter. Give me twenty minutes and we’ll meet you there.”
Harry was pacing in front of the shattered gargoyles when McGonagall and Shacklebolt arrived, both still in nightdress and slightly out of breath from their hasty ascent to the office. Neither felt particularly young this morning.
“Do you mind telling me what this is about, Harry?” asked Shackelbolt, looking about bemusedly at the wreckage from the evening before.
“You’ll know in a few minutes.” Harry turned to the door. “Dumbledore!” he said loudly and clearly. The door swung open.
“How did you come to know that?” gasped Professor McGonagall. “How did you know Snape’s password?” Her face grew wary, tired after too many sleepless nights. “How could you know his password, Potter, I’m speaking to you!” Her voice was anguished, grief and anger vying with each other in every word.
Wordlessly, Harry held out his hand and ushered Shacklebolt and McGonagall over the office threshold. The ancient stone Pensieve, still containing Severus Snape’s memories, stood in the alcove, the luminous swirls gleaming in the semi darkness. The desk, deserted now by old and new headmaster, stood forlorn, bathed in the rosy glow of the pre dawn light, quills and inkpots gleaming richly for no one.
Outside the window a bird sang, tentatively, as if unsure of the new day unfolding before it. Harry was reminded of the song of another bird, one that had healed his heart a lifetime ago. He wondered if his heart would ever stop breaking, or if he would go on feeling the pain of what might have been and what had been lost for the rest of his days. Then, glimpsing a familiar black traveling cloak neatly hung on a peg behind the desk, his sorrow eased and he felt his resolve returning. He knew he had to see this through.
The portraits of the former headmasters kept their eyes on the trio, no one pretending to be asleep now, all intent on what was to come. Professor McGonagall looked up over the abandoned desk and met the warm blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore while Kingsley Shackelbolt exchanged greetings with Phineas Nigellus.
Dumbledore spoke first.
“Please sit down, Minerva, Kingsley. Harry pull up a chair for yourself. “
Harry Potter settled back into his chair, waiting for Dumbledore to begin, his own face composed, ready for this moment. He knew he was right in rousting McGonagall and Shacklebolt from their warm beds before the day’s sadness swept them up. He owed nothing less to Severus Snape than this one last act.
Dumbledore looked at McGonagall and Shacklebolt and gave each a gentle smile.
“Let’s talk.”
III
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Madame Pomfrey and Harry bent down and hurried through the Shrieking Shack tunnel. Over his arm, Harry carried a suit of black clothing: frock coat and trousers, immaculate white shirt, undergarments and boots, one hand absentmindedly smoothing away imaginary wrinkles and brushing aside invisible hairs.
Madame Pomfrey carried a bag of unguents, the same ones she had used before with Dumbledore. They entered the Shrieking Shack and, undisturbed in the morning’s dim solitude, found Severus Snape’s body lying as it did the night before in a pool of his blood, his deep eyes fixed on eternity.
Minerva McGonagall gasped and held her handkerchief to her mouth, her lips trembling and her pale blue eyes bright. Professor Flitwick stroked her hand and said nothing, his face somber, eyes filling with tears. Harry gazed for some minutes at the now silent figure of his former Potions Master, strong and enigmatic even in death, his own memories overtaken by those of Snape's in the Pensieve. There was so much he hadn't known...
After a few moments, Madame Pomfrey cleared her throat bringing everyone back to the present and kneeling beside Snape, she closed his eyes. She turned to Harry and said, “There are things we must do for Professor Snape now, Harry, things that are… of a personal nature. I think you should wait in the tunnel until we are finished. “ Harry’s green eyes flashed behind his glasses, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Professor McGonagall reached out and held his forearm, speaking quietly but firmly.
“Poppy, if anyone should be here, it’s Harry. It’s only fitting that he stay and help us see to Severus, and I think Severus would have wanted that as well.’
“As you wish, Minerva.” Madame Pomfrey began busying herself with the body.
Some time later as Harry was smoothing the pristine white sleeve over Snape’s arm, he allowed his fingers to trace the Dark Mark, faded now against the teacher's cool pale skin. He looked at the Mark and saw not the visible reminder of a life gone wrong, but the symbol of a life redeemed by remorse and the purifying flame of unwavering courage. He came to realize that on this man, the Dark Mark was not a dishonorable stain, but a symbol of honor.
Only one thing remained. Harry reached his hand into the inner breast pocket of the suit Severus was wearing when he died. He knew what he would find before his fingers touched the two papers. He placed the scrap of paper with the familiar ‘g’s and the torn picture of the lovely young woman in Snape’s left hand, and placed his right over it. A simple transfiguration charm, and a pure white lily lay over Severus Snape’s heart. The last things anyone could do for Severus Snape on earth were now completed, and Harry conjured a pallet. All was ready.
The little group of mourners stood silent for a moment and remembered their fallen colleague and teacher. Then, positioning themselves beside the pallet, they formed a simple honor guard until they found themselves outside in the morning sunshine where Hagrid and the assembled school awaited them. Upon seeing them emerge from the tunnel with the body of Professor Snape, now wrapped in a simple black cloth, Hagrid removed an enormous handkerchief from the pocket of his best suit,and blew his nose loudly, wiping his red and swollen eyes. He, too, had one last task to perform before this day was over.
The students of Hogwarts were lined up in two columns leading up to the hallowed place on the school grounds where a simple white tomb stood. Hagrid leaned forward and picking up the body, held it as tenderly as if it were a child. Then, walking slowly up the hill, followed by the little group of mourners, he made his way to the white tomb and placed Severus Snape’s mortal remains on a pallet on the white tomb’s right side.
A man in black robes spoke about loyalty and honor, ending his eulogy with these words: “
A faithful friend is a strong defense, and he who has found such a one has found a treasure.”
Harry thought back to a distant conversation:
“…it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.”
“No__ that’s your job, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Potter. That is my job.”
There was so much they had missed, so many things left unsaid between them, but Harry at last found a measure of comfort in the knowledge of what they had shared: Lily, Dumbledore, lonely and neglected childhoods and, in the end, a common enemy. In another life under a different set of circumstances, it might all have been very different. Still, he was grateful for having come to understand this very complex man at last.
A flick of McGonagall’s wand and flames seemed to envelope Snape’s body before turning into a gleaming new tomb of ebony marble. The story of Professor Snape’s secret bravery had spread through the school like wildfire, energizing the students who were still reeling from their losses. From somewhere in the back of the crowd, there came the sound of one person clapping, soon followed by another and another until there was a roaring affirmation for the unsung heroism of their former Potions Master.
Harry took it all in, a small smile playing around his lips at this unusual display and the sardonic remark he was sure it would have earned. He looked at the white and ebony tombs, so right together in the clear, pure sunshine and whispered: “Thank you, Sir.”
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