Dean stared at the wall before him in frustration. He hated blank. In fact he detested emptiness; the only thing he loathed more was blood. And there it was, splayed on the wall, cackling at him in triumph.
He wanted to paint the feeling of defeat.
Yes, Voldemort was dead now, and the good side had triumphed in battle. But that was just it. Battle. Blood. War. Blood. It was everywhere and so the world tasted like defeat.
How could it not, he thought, with so many gaps where smiling faces should be? His breath came in short gasps as he remembered Ted Tonks and Colin Creevy and Remus Lupin and Fred Weasley. He dropped to his knees before the wall, refusing to look at the grounds behind him.
Dean Thomas wanted to paint the venom-stained, blood-stained sword of Gryffindor, shining in Neville’s hand, in a hero’s hand. He wanted to paint the fresh, free air of the woods and the small campfires and the smiling blue eyes that could never really be somber. Maybe if he painted all these things that would make it more real.
“Thomas!” someone called from behind him, “Dean!”
He wondered what would happen if he refused to turn around and stayed there, staring at the wall, staring at the challenge that had finally broken him. “Mr. Thomas, I need your help!” he realized it was McGonagall and he moved to help automatically, because her voice echoed authority and it was nice, in a twisted sort of way, to hold onto one normal thing. He would listen to his Head of House.
His face fell open in shock as he stared at the corpse before him. It was Severus Snape. Severus Snape, Murderer. Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts. Severus Snape, Death Eater. Severus Snape: dead.
He lunged forward. Why the hell was McGonagall being so gentle with the corpse?
He remembered himself before he got there. Remembered that the man was dead now and it didn’t matter what he’d done, because he wasn’t really in there. It was just a body, now, an empty case. There was no more hate and venom in there, nothing. They had to take care of it now because it couldn’t take care of itself. It was abandoned. He calmed his breathing, but didn’t step any closer, just in case.
“I just need you to help me find a good spot.” McGonagall wasn’t herself either, she seemed to be fighting tears, but at the same horrified at herself for it. Confusion. He wanted to draw confusion.
He spoke mostly to distract himself: “A good place for a Coward?”
“No,” she seemed to be whispering, but he could still hear her over the loud noises of the world groping to find balance again, “A good place for a lover, I suppose.”
Dean tilted his head a little. “A lover?”
“Lily Evans,” McGonagall said cutting through his half-formed thought and wiping the incongruous tear from her face, “Harry’s mother, actually.”
Dean thought that was much stranger than the thought of McGonagall and Snape together. Harry’s mother, as he had always imagined her, was a fiercely brave woman who’d stepped in front of her child to save him because she was madly in love with her family. It didn’t make sense for her to be Snape’s lover, that was wrong, it turned the world upside down and they didn’t need that one more thing.
“Unrequited love?” he asked, wondering why he sounded so desperately hopeful. Maybe he still hated the man too much.
“There will be enough time to tell you the story, what I know of it, while we dig the grave.”
Dean nodded and led the way, but he couldn’t help mentioning that it would be easier for him to choose “a good place” after he knew the story. His former Professor pursed her lips so he resumed walking.
He needed something to think of so he wouldn’t look around so he tried to think about love. Deserted hallways and Quidditch practice and sunny afternoons by the lake all came to mind, but then so did Ginny and that wasn’t love, not anymore. Besides, all those things were too cheerful to be Snape.
He had no idea where he was going, but he kept walking. Sobbing. Screaming. Blood.
“Here lies mater Regul- no, no!” the voice was strange and he turned to the source. An elf, much uglier than Dobby, was muttering under his breath as he dug a hole in the ground. “Beloved Master Regulus Black, savior of…no, no…”
“What are you doing?” he asked stopping. There was no body around.
“Kreacher is digging a grave for his master,” the elf replied, “Saviour of the Wizarding World. That’s it, that’s what Kreacher is going to write.”
“Where is he?” Dean asked. McGonagall stopped beside them and laid Snape’s body down on the ground. She raised her wand and began digging an identical grave beside the Elf’s.
“Master Regulus?” the elf turned on him angrily and Dean wondered if he was mad, “He is in the Cursed Black Lake full of Inferi. He went in there in Kreacher’s place. He drank the potion in Kreacher’s place and he stole the Dark Lord’s locket to save the Wizardig World. He died many years ago. Kreacher is digging him a grave.”
The final assertion was so strong that Dean did not dare protest. He watched McGinagall and the Elf work for a while and then ventured the question. “What are you going to put in the Grave, Kreacher?”
“Kreacher does not know yet, he doesn’t want to give up Master Regulus’s locket, but that is all he has of him.”
The elf did not look at him but Dean was studying the small Kreacher carefully. He was powerful, digging even faster than McGonagall. “I don’t think he’d like that,” he offered, “I’m sure he would want you to have something to remember him by.”
The Elf turned on him, his huge eyes opened wide, and Dean was taken aback at the emotion within. Kreacher bowed. “Master is very kind,” he said, “But what else can Kreacher put?”
Dean looked at the elf for a while. “Bury something you don’t like. Bury something bad, that’s what Regulus did isn’t it?”
The elf went back to the digging, but he was clearly perplexed. Dean moved over to McGonagall and helped her dig Snape’s grave, wondering if she had been listening to the entire conversation. When they were finished, with Snape inside the hole, his strange story playing over and over in Dean’s mind, and Kreacher scratching his head in a perplexed manner she turned to the small creature.
“Bury that rag, Kreacher,” she said, “Blacks, especially Regulus always liked to be well-dressed.”
She waved her wand and tiny robes appeared out of thin air; Slytherin green. The elf looked slightly hesitant, but then suddenly he snapped his fingers and he was dressed in the material, the filthy rag he had been wearing lying inside the hole.
Dean noticed an extra fierceness in the dirt as it hit Regulus’s grave whereas McGonagall took a lot of care with Snape’s. Soon all three of them were looking at the smooth stones wondering what to write. Dean needed to paint confusion and bitter understanding and freedom, especially freedom on those two blank pieces.
Two was too many, he thought. He waved his wand and they grew upward, curving into an arch and meeting in the middle.
Hogwarts stands in silence for Regulus Arcturus Black and Severus Snape
Kreacher smiled at Dean’s inscription, but maybe the elf didn’t like emptiness either, because he added his own words under Dean’s.
The world lives in peace because of the great deeds of Regulus Arcturus Black and Severus Snape.
Two twisting snakes appeared, one on each archway. McGonagall found herself first and returned to the remains of the battle to do what she could. Dean left Kreacher there, eventually, and dragged himself around, helping wherever he could, because they had to take it away or else the blood would be there forever. They had to erase it, even though the ghostly outlines would always remain in their memories. Haunting.
He was not aware that tears were falling on his face until a small hand settled into his; surprisingly warm in this cold, cold world. Lupin and Tonks had a baby. He felt the warm person tugging him away and looked to find Luna. She wasn’t bounding or skipping this time, but she wasn’t crying either.
He would have to pull his hand out of hers to wipe the offending tears because the other hand was clutching his wand.
He decided it was best to just ignore them. The wing would dry them, that was much more poetic anyway.
He let her lead him and he fixed his eyes to the radish earrings that were swinging this way and that as she walked so as not see any more dead faces, empty shells. He did not protest when they entered the forbidden forest, he barely noticed anyway, everywhere was just as horrible now.
Finally they came to a stop in a sunnier forest clearing and Luna released his hand and plopped herself down on the ground. “Much better!” she announced cheerily, “There aren’t as much blood-faeries around.”
Dean could not help raising an eyebrow as he waited for her explanation. “You should draw something.” she said matter-of factly.
A blank notebook was suddenly sitting before him, staring at him tauntingly. “I can’t.”
Luna summoned a book and opened it, brining it closer to her eyes. “Of course you can,” she said turning a page already, “Here’s a quill.”
He stared at the first page for a long time. Dean wanted to draw sorrow and paint glory and pen darkness. He wanted to draw love and black lakes and blood and ravens and bitter defeat all at the same time.
He growled and brought the quill down angrily, making nonsensical slashes all over the page. It felt so good. He wondered if he was losing his mind.
“It’s very good.” Luna said from over his shoulder, he looked towards the spot where she’d been sitting a moment before. The book was lying face down on the ground.
“It doesn’t mean anything!” he protested hotly, angry at himself for such an inadequate pointless, mass of scribbles and at Luna for saying stupid things.
She pulled the notebook from his hands and pointed at one of the larger lines that cut across half the page. “Of course it does, this one here means frustration and that,” she continued pointing at another senseless scribble, “That means confusion and this one here means anger and that one in the corner means hope.”
He looked into the wide blue eyes that still looked so innocent, “This one in the middle,” she said as though he wasn’t staring at her, “This one is the most important. It means that it’s all over now, which is good, because it would have been a bit of a depressing drawing otherwise, to tell you the truth.”
Dean laughed.
