Fraternising with the Enemy

‘They’re letting Snape speak at Dumbledore’s funeral?’ said Ron incredulously. ‘No way! Why is he even still here? Why hasn’t he been carted off to Azkaban?’

It had been five days since Professor Dumbledore’s murder, and the school was in shock. The Gryffindor common room was packed, but Harry had never known it so quiet. People were talking in hushed, respectful voices, or staring out of the rain-lashed windows, unable to concentrate on anything.

‘The Ministry’s in chaos,’ said Hermione tartly. She didn’t look up from her book. Harry knew she read when stressed or miserable and although she maintained she needed to keep up with her studies, he strongly suspected she was simply trying to find a shred of comfort in any way she could. He envied her having some way of at least searching for comfort. Since Dumbledore’s death he had been unable to think of anything but Snape and Malfoy and how to bring them to justice.

‘So what?’ Ron roared, his voice echoing in the silence and making many people look up in alarm. ‘They’ve got Aurors, haven’t they? What the hell are they playing at?’

‘I agree it’s unforgivable,’ Hermione continued wearily, ‘but they haven’t been able to get back on their feet since being infiltrated by the Death Eaters. They were counting on Dumbledore for Minister and now he’s… ’ she swallowed, ‘… gone, they’ve no idea what to do.’

‘Yeah,’ Ron said, more quietly, abashed by his previous outburst. ‘Dad said in the summer that Pius Thicknesse has had some sort of nervous breakdown. Never really got over the Imperius Curse they put on him. Gone totally doo-lally, apparently.’

‘Ron!’ Hermione said reproachfully, looking up. ‘Harry, where are you going?’

Harry had started from his chair and strode over to the portrait hole. ‘To see Snape. If the Ministry won’t do something about him, I will.’

********

Harry made his way down to Snape’s dungeon feeling sick. He was repulsed at what he was about to do, but he had no choice. He had at last thought of a plan and this, although it went against all Harry’s instincts, was the first tactical step. Snape was going to use the funeral to try and justify himself, and if Harry could just get Snape to let him speak too, he was sure he could destroy Snape’s defence.

“I must just lie, like I did to Quirrel with the mirror,” he told himself, and knocked at Snape’s office door.

‘Come,’ came Snape’s cold voice.

Harry opened the door and walked towards the Potions Master, trying to keep his legs from shaking. He had always hated Snape’s dark, cold classroom with its nauseating décor of pickled animals in glass cases, their torsos ripped open to expose their entrails. It all seemed horribly appropriate for the abode of a murderer.

‘Ah, Potter. And what can I do for you? Come to ask me to nominate you for the Ministry? I dare say they’d be delighted to have The Boy Who Defeated the Dark Lord working for them.’

Fighting the urge to punch the smirk right off Snape’s smug face, Harry held out his hand. ‘No, Professor. I’ve come to say I understand why you did what you did. I know you must have had good reason, and I’d like you to shake hands with me.’

Snape looked astounded. The self-satisfied smirk had completely gone, Harry was pleased to note, but after a moment Snape took Harry’s hand.

‘Very well, Potter. I am glad to see you are being sensible about this. This is a time for Hogwarts to stand united.’

‘Yes, sir. I just need to ask, sir; I need to know… Why was Professor Dumbledore dangerous? What had he done to you?’

Snape’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have no intention of justifying myself to you, Potter. I have already made it clear that I will speak to the school at the Headmaster’s funeral.’

‘In that case, sir, I’ve just got one favour to ask you. I’d like to speak at the funeral too.’

Snape seemed to consider the request. ‘I see no harm in that, Potter. Not now you have decided to abandon your usual heroics. But you will speak after me. I will allow you to speak only after I have put my case, and you will make it clear to the school that you speak only with my permission.’

‘Thank you, Professor.’ Intensely glad Snape was not trying to perform Legilimency on him Harry shook Snape’s hand again and left the office. It was all he could do not to run until he got around the corner out of Snape’s earshot.

Harry didn’t slow down until he got to the spiral staircase at the bottom of Dumbledore’s office. He didn’t need a password. The protective enchantments had broken at the moment of Dumbledore’s death.

The Headmaster’s office was quite empty: Professor McGonagall had not been able to bring herself to move up here and had insisted on keeping her own office in the Transfiguration Department. In fact, Professor McGonagall didn’t seem able to do anything at the moment. She had spent more time up in the hospital wing dosed up on Dreamless Sleep than in her office, although as all lessons had been suspended this hardly mattered. The entire castle seemed to be existing in a sort of bubble, all feeling numbed, suffocated by the terrible weight of grief and shock.

The only person who seemed able to cope, reflected Harry, was Snape. He had taken over as a sort of unofficial Headmaster, and it had been he who had organised Professor Dumbledore’s funeral. The thought of that made Harry’s blood boil.

As Harry looked around the office, he spotted what he had been both dreading seeing and hoping to see. There was a new portrait on the wall. Professor Dumbledore was asleep in a high-backed armchair, but he did not look at peace like the rest of the Headmasters’ portraits. He tossed and turned in his sleep and his face was contorted, as if he were in pain.

As he looked at the portrait, Harry felt a savage rush of hatred for Snape and Malfoy. Dumbledore, the greatest wizard Harry had ever known, the greatest wizard in the world, was dead. Everyone Harry had ever loved: his mother and father, Sirius (the closest thing to a father Harry had ever known), and now Dumbledore, whom Harry had always regarded more as a surrogate grandfather than a teacher; they were all gone, and every one of their deaths was the fault of Severus Snape.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he whispered, gazing up at the gold-framed portrait, his heart beating painfully against his chest. ‘I didn’t mean what I said in Snape’s office. I’d never join with him against you. Trust me, sir; I won’t let him get away with this. He won’t be able to stay here forever, and then I’m going to hunt him down and kill him, and Malfoy. I’m going to get revenge for you, and my mum and dad and Sirius; I swear it, sir.’

And he left, feeling better about what he had to do.