Softly, Sweetly

By Torina Archelda

Thanks to atypicalsnowman and WhiteCotton for the amazing beta!

Softly, Sweetly

"Ah, music, a magic beyond all we do here." -- Albus Dumbledore

"…There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name-o. There was a farmer had a dog and…" Harry Potter sings softly to himself as he swings, holding the sound of the music as close to himself as he can before it's carried away on the wind. Dudley hates the song, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon like him to keep as quiet as possible, so Harry cherishes these moments at recess when he can simply be himself, and sing. If he swings high enough, Harry wonders, will he fly off into the sky? Will the angels fly him on their wings, far away from here, to a place where he is loved, and music fills the halls and lifts the spirits of those around him?

He's learned other songs in school, but Bingo is his favorite. Something about the tune, he isn't sure what; maybe that the music stays the same even though the words change with every verse. He hates it when they clap the missing letters, clapping isn't music; instead Harry hums. He kicks off the ground to take himself higher, closing his eyes and letting himself feel free. "Hm-mm-N-G-O, hm-mm-N-G-O, hm-mm-N-G-O and Bingo was his-"

Suddenly he's flying, but not the way he wants to- he feels like his heart will fly out of his chest, and he opens his eyes in time to see the pebbles on the ground before he crashes into them. He hears clapping and laughter, and clapping isn't music and laughter should be but this isn't, and Harry wants to cry. Instead he picks up two pebbles off the ground, straightens his glasses, and squares his shoulders as he walks away from his cousin and his friends. He sits down on the edge of the playground, pebbles in hand, and deliberately doesn't look over to where he knows Dudley is swinging on his vacated seat. He rubs the pebbles together in his hands and dreams of a time when things will be different. "There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o…"

* * * * *

When the big man comes to take him away, Harry Potter is frightened. He is unhappy with his family, but he is safe, and he finds time to sing when he needs to. He is unhappy, but at least this life is familiar; he knows what is expected of him, what to do and what not to. What will they expect of him at Hogwarts? What if they don't let him sing? Will he fit in? What if this is just yet another place he doesn't belong? He is filled with so many questions, so many doubts. He sings again and again in his head, the tune staying the same, the same, the same, even as the words change. Harry stays the same, the same, the same, even as his whole world changes around him. He fears, but he keeps it inside, singing, singing, singing as the man speaks words he does not hear.

Then suddenly the man is holding out his umbrella, and it's tapping out a pattern on the brick wall, and the air is filled with music and magic and joy and laughter and Harry is so overcome he's frozen to the spot. Harry lets the music fill him, breathes in the magical scent of it on the air, and his eyes close involuntarily he feels the magic warm his heart. If he can learn to do that, wield that; that beautiful, powerful, impossible musical magic, Harry thinks he might not be afraid anymore.

* * * * *

Hogwarts is more beautiful than Harry could ever have imagined. He is nervous, no, he is afraid, but he clings to the memory of that musical magic and the way it filled his soul. A boy Harry has never seen before is talking about a troll and a bushy-haired girl he might have seen on the train is saying something about the ceiling, and Harry wishes he had paid more attention to her as they are led through a door and into the most magnificent room Harry has ever seen. The ceiling is more stunning than any night sky, and the room itself is huge and beautiful and the hall is humming with music and magic and it's all beyond any of Harry's wildest dreams. The sorting speeds by in a blur, and when it's Harry's turn and the hat touches his head, Harry hears all-encompassing silence. Even the smattering of whispering students are inaudible, and Harry knows that just moments before the anxious students in line behind him had been nervously swishing their robes. He can't hear the faint music that had surrounded him just moments earlier, and for several terrible minutes Harry is once again afraid. There is another moment of silence, and then another, and then Harry almost jumps out of his skin when he hears a loud voice proclaim "Gryffindor!" His walk to the Gryffindor table is accompanied by clapping and cheers, and Harry forces himself not to flinch away from all the attention or to shake at the joy of hearing again. Someone asks him what the hat said to him as he sits down, and Harry pretends not to hear. He isn't sure his voice would hold out through his nerves even if he knew what to say. Instead he studies the ceiling as the sorting continues, letting peace flood back through him as the enchanted sky twinkles with stars. If Harry listens hard enough, he imagines he can hear the stars singing.

The last student is sorted, and a wizened old man in bright blue robes is standing. He says a few things Harry doesn't understand, and then leads them all in a rendition of the school song. Harry doesn't know the words, but he knows as well as anyone that doesn't matter. Tears spring to his eyes as he hums along with everyone else, exalting in the feeling of the sounds washing over his skin. Few of the students have a talent for singing, and the staff less so- but that doesn't matter either. It's the feeling, the raw passion in the music, and Harry's heart soars. Their voices echo throughout the room, and in an instant Harry knows he'll have to come back here and try the acoustics out by himself some time. Perhaps after all the students are asleep. The sheer magic of this place astounds him, and at the same time he realizes it shouldn't. He takes another look around the room and can't help the grin that overtakes his face. Their mingled voices ring in the air, lifting high above them and echoing through the vast room. To Harry, it feels like coming home. Perhaps he will be happy here after all.

* * * * *

Severus Snape sighs as he does his rounds, dark eyes scanning the hallways for any miscreants out after curfew. He doesn't know exactly how or when he'd been delegated the duty of patrolling the halls September first, but he has been doing it for ten years now and it doesn't seem likely to change soon. He shuts the door of the last classroom on the first floor and walks resignedly toward the Great Hall. He fails to understand why the staff has to check there when on patrol; who would be stupid enough to be in such plain sight well after midnight, and what possible reason would they have to be there? He pushes open the double doors and takes a cursory glance around the room, then stops and does a double take as he sees a dark-haired figure lying atop the Hufflepuff table. Astonished, he comes closer, not sure if he is more startled or less to see that it is Harry Potter lying there asleep, arms crossed behind his head and an almost angelically peaceful smile on his face. He simply stands there a moment in shock, not sure how to respond, before he reaches out and shakes the boy's shoulder more gently than he intended, not yet trusting his voice. The beautiful look on the boy's face is marred with a confused, half-asleep frown, and Severus refuses to analyze the slight pang in his heart as it disappears. A long moment later the boy's eyes blink open, and try as he might Severus can see nothing of Lily in those brilliantly green eyes. He sees a child. And every sharp word he had been steeling himself to say flies out the window.

"Bed," he says, hoping that the boy will not take note of the painfully raspy quality of his voice. He feels like he hasn't used it in years. "Now. And don't let me catch you out after curfew again."

The boy looks startled; perhaps he has heard stories about the evil Potions Master of the dungeons and, now more awake, expected a more harsh response? Well, nothing for it. The boy is nodding, wide green not-Lily's eyes staring at him with complete, almost shocked innocence, and he is scurrying away, out the double doors, presumably back to Gryffindor tower. Snape doesn't have the heart or the inclination to check. He feels as if his whole world has been flipped upside down in a moment, and is suddenly exhausted. He heads back to his quarters, in the dungeons where things make sense and children of long-dead rivals don't pop out of nowhere and make a mess of things, and tries to hate Harry Potter.

He fails.

* * * * *

It is Snape's turn to patrol tonight. As he glances about the Great Hall, it occurs to him that it has been just over two years since he found Harry Potter lying asleep on the Hufflepuff table. He pulls the double doors shut and reflects upon the enigma that is Harry Potter as he continues his rounds.

The boy is bright, but not overly so. He pays attention to his lessons and does his schoolwork and makes average grades. He has no special affinity for potions, but neither does Snape have difficulty in getting the material across to him. He will never be praised for his stellar academic performance. But every effort he gives is his best, and Snape cannot fault him for that.

The boy has few friends, and Snape is aware enough of him to admit this is surprising. The boy is certainly full of zest for life, and it is rare for one with his exuberance to not surround himself with others. Perhaps, Snape thinks, it is not that the boy wishes to live life alone, but that he has yet to find someone he wishes to share it with.

Snape is so caught up in his thoughts that he hardly notices as he completes the tail end of his patrol, and now finds himself at the base of the stairs to the Owlery. He walks up the steps slowly, then freezes halfway to the top as his ears pick up a soft melody floating on the wind. He increases his pace and fights the desire to take the stairs two at a time, unable to explain why the music is having such a powerful effect on him. He can feel the singer's passion, their love for the music they are singing. The enthusiasm in each and every note almost reminds him of-

Harry.

Snape stands at the top of the stairs, shocked and knowing he shouldn't be, unable to stop staring at the most beautiful sight he has ever seen. The boy's eyes are closed, his face wrought with passion, hands stroking his owl gently as he sings a song Severus has never heard and never wants to stop hearing. Innocence radiates off of him in waves, and Snape is struck speechless by the simple beauty of the child before him. Harry stops singing and rests his forehead against his owl's, and Snape pulls himself from his daze. He takes a few steps forward and then claps three times, loudly. Harry starts, shocked green eyes coming up to meet Snape's, and the owl flutters her wings in surprise at the sharp movement before settling down on a nearby perch. The boy opens his mouth and then closes it again a few times, trying and failing to speak, and Snape sympathizes with him. He doesn't know what to say either. After a few difficult moments he manages, "You have a lovely voice." Severus can't help but think the understatement in that sentence is the worst lie he's ever told. The boy still looks unsure so he adds, "Please, continue." Harry seems even more confused now, so Severus throws caution to the winds and, for once in his life, asks for what he wants. "I would like to hear it again, if you don't mind." The boy still looks uncertain, but from the passion in his voice earlier and the look in his eyes now, Severus is fairly confident he will do as he requested. He is proved right as the boy turns to look out the window and the familiar melody fills both their ears. Any awkwardness or confusion is lost in him now; he is entirely enthralled by the experience of singing. Severus is captivated by his immersion, by the sheer force of emotion that shines through. It is not so much his voice itself that is beautiful, Severus thinks, though certainly the boy can carry a tune. His love for the music he sings is contagious, and Severus is too caught up in sharing it with him to be frightened by the sudden swelling of his heart as the melody washes over him. An indeterminable time later- impossibly long, and not long enough- Harry stops. They both stand there a long while, awkwardness gone, knowing words are not needed, basking in the feeling of the cool crisp night air coming through the window as the last notes are swept away by the wind, and Severus knows that he will treasure the memory of this night for as long as he lives.

* * * * *

He is surrounded by jubilation and cheers, but Severus just feels exhausted. The battle has taken a lot out of him physically, and he refuses to even consider his mental state. After dedicating over half your life to fighting to achieve a goal, what is left for you once you've completed it? He casts a binding spell at an unaware Death Eater who has been shocked into inaction upon seeing Voldemort's wards fall with his death, and spares a thought for Harry Potter. How is he feeling, right now? Is he shocked as well, staring at the corpse of the man who has interfered with his life again and again? Is he upset to have taken a life, even knowing how evil the man whose life he has taken was? Is he unable to think, too caught up in defending himself against other Death Eaters who have perhaps recovered more quickly from the shock of their lord's defeat? Or is he, like Severus, lost, and numb, and fighting to find the strength to just keep going on?

The battle seems to be dying down around him; the Order members and Aurors have clearly been revitalized by the unmistakable proof of the Dark Lord's death, and are now taking down the last of his servants with a second wind. Severus takes this opportunity to look around for the specific few whose fates concern him. He doesn't see Potter yet, but that's unsurprising; whatever state he was in at the moment of the Dark Lord's defeat, Severus is sure that by now someone has found him and taken him inside. Lucius Malfoy he'd like dead; looking around he sees Shacklebolt has him immobilized. Pity. He turns slightly to the left and sees Rudolphus Lestrange dead on the floor; limp and bloodied by a cutting curse from the look of him. He feels a moment of satisfaction for the Longbottom boy and then his heart turns to lead as he looks around and realizes Bellatrix is nowhere to be seen. As he hurries over to the cluster or Order members closest to the castle, he tells himself this is a battlefield, that she could be anywhere, have fallen under anything- perhaps she's already been taken into custody- "Lupin!" he calls out over the ongoing celebration, not believing his own words for a minute. "Lupin!" he yells louder when he gets no response. He's within ten feet of him now, and the werewolf's gaze snaps to his. "Where's Potter?" he demands, and his heart clenches in his chest at the look of shock and fear that overtakes Lupin's face.

Severus whirls around and heads quickly toward his quarters, forcing himself keep his mind clear and calm. He pulls out a solid, metal bowl, fills it with purified rain water, and begins to scry for Harry Potter.

* * * * *

When he finds the boy, his first thought is that he is too late. Harry is a tangled mess of blood and pain writing on the floor of the old Black summer home, and Severus doesn't even blink as he casts the killing curse at Lestrange before falling to his knees at Harry's side. At least the cruciatus has stopped. He casts a cleaning charm over his body and quickly clots the open wounds. He sees that, the constant stimulation to his nerves having ceased, the boy is quickly slipping into unconsciousness. Mindful of his injuries but knowing it is far more dangerous for the boy to fall asleep, he reaches out to shake his shoulder. Suddenly he's in the Great Hall, seven years ago, and Potter is lying on the Hufflepuff table, asleep, only asleep, the moonlight highlighting his features, and his hand is on his shoulder and his eyes are- but damn it his eyes aren't opening, and now's not the time for foolish fantasies because if he falls asleep- "Potter!" he snaps, desperate for some sign that he has a chance. "Potter, wake up! Stay with me! Harry!" And at last, at last, those green eyes open wide, but they are dead, there is no life in them, and Severus' heart breaks. But he is awake, and he is alive, and if he is alive there is hope- what good is alive without life?- but Severus will not think that, will not allow distraction, and he splints the boy's arm and sutures the impossibly large gash on his leg, and now the others are arriving and Severus thinks that the muscle is too damaged, that the boy will never walk again, and then releases a burst of hysterical laughter because walking is the least of Harry's worries. No, Harry has no worries- the least of his own, then. And they are lifting him up gently, so gently, and putting him on the stretcher and taking him away, and Lupin is crying but he doesn't know, he is crying for nothing, nothing, and they will keep the boy awake because they fear he has lost too much blood but they haven't seen his eyes, have never seen that look in anyone's eyes, don't know what it means and don't understand and aren't watching the boy who brought light and hope and feeling back into their lives disappear slowly before their eyes. And there is the telltale crack of apparition and the boy is gone, and Lupin's tear-streaked face is telling him they've taken Harry to St. Mungo's, that they need to apparate there, but Severus can't answer him- Potter is gone, long gone, apparated miles and miles away, but to Severus he is still falling away into the distance, away and away and away and slowly and forever gone. In Severus' heart there is no room for hope. There are only the shattered fragments of an angel's face, lit by moonlight with heaven's music pouring from his soul.

* * * * *

Severus has showered and rested, and refuses to acknowledge that the shock that has dissipated has been replaced by a tendril of hope. It hasn't. There is no hope. There is no life. Alive is not life. The others still hope, but the others do not know; the Mungo's staff has been too busy keeping him alive to tell them, and Severus knows that if he tries he will break. Severus can't help but wonder what there is left in him to break, but when the pale-faced healer immerges from Potter's room he realizes that there is plenty. Lupin's face is awash with fresh tears, and he gathers Tonks into his arms as she too begins to cry. Albus lowers his head, and Pomfrey's face is screwed up in guilt. They all think Harry is dead. Severus thinks he would wish to be, were he in any state to decide.

"Mr. Potter is not dead," the man begins, and as all four faces around him register shock Severus thinks this is a cruel statement to begin with. Perhaps the boy would be better off dead. Severus knows what he would choose. "I'm afraid I have bad news, however. Mr. Potter was held under the cruciatus curse for an indeterminate time no less than thirty and not exceeding forty-five minutes." There are gasps around him, and Severus grips the armrests so hard his knuckles turn white. Whatever hope he hadn't been holding on to, it was surely gone now. He thinks that whatever god there is out there is cruel, to give him so much heart to break. For the first time in his life, Severus fervently wishes a man other than Voldemort dead.

Tonks and Lupin are crying again, and Pomfrey's face is still warped with shock. Albus' eyes are on him, when he looks up, and there is knowledge in them along with tears. He knows that he knew, and why he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. He knows, even if Severus will not admit it to himself, that he had hoped. He knows that the life of Harry Potter has been the only thing keeping him going since Lily's death, and the only bright spark in his world since that first night at Hogwarts such an impossibly long and short time ago. He doesn't know the details, but he doesn't have to. He knows Severus. And before Harry Potter invaded his life and turned everything upside down, Severus thinks that might have been enough.

* * * * *

The next day, Severus comes back. Harry is asleep, and the healers inform him that he will do little else for a week at least. Left unsaid is that when Harry wakes, he will be less lucid than the Longbottoms by far. He stands by his bed a moment and resists the urge to touch the boy's face. Asleep like this he doesn't look a day older than that first night and Severus is almost able to imagine there is life inside that body. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Whatever doubts plague him, Severus knows this is true. The boy deserved far better. Weren't heroes supposed to get their happy endings? It wasn't supposed to have happened like this, and though in his heart he knows there is no hope, looking down on this beautiful, peaceful face, Severus just can't believe it.

So when Potter's first actions upon waking eight days later are to blink, blow a raspberry, and promptly fall back asleep, Severus is more shocked than he ought to be. His heart constricts, and he is suddenly unable to breathe. He gets up and leaves quickly, purposefully avoiding the teary eyes in the room.

Two days later, Severus comes back with a Wireless. Tonks and Lupin are standing by Harry's bed, teary-eyed, talking to him, even though he can't possibly understand. Severus says nothing. He sits in the uncomfortable chair by the bed, sets the wireless on the nightstand, and turns it on.

Harry doesn't say anything, but the sound of music emanating from the box catches his attention, which is more than can be said for anything else that's been brought to him since he woke. His eyes stare half-focused in the direction of the wireless, and stay there for the duration of his visit. Perhaps he doesn't understand, but he has taken notice. Perhaps he is devoid of life, but maybe somehow there is good in being alive. So Severus comes back every day, sits in the same hard chair, and snaps on the wireless, sitting in silence for exactly an hour and a half before getting up and quietly leaving. Sometimes Tonks and Lupin are there, sometimes not. Albus and Pomfrey have been busy at Hogwarts. The others don't understand it, but Severus isn't hurting anything so they don't question his presence. They assume Severus is grieving the end of the war in his own way. Perhaps he is.

Three months later, in the middle of Pachelbel's Canon, Harry looks up from the Wireless and gives Severus a small but unmistakable smile. Severus's heart leaps in his chest and stops beating at the same time. Where nothing else could, the music is getting to him.

Six months after that, Severus nearly jumps out of the hard chair when Harry starts singing along to Ode to Joy. That strange half-smile is back again and the harsh German syllables are audible to Severus if not understandable, and for the first time in a long time, Severus allows himself to feel hope.

Two years, seven months, and twenty-two days into Harry Potter's recovery, he has a relapse. He wakes the whole wing with his screams, and by the time the hospital staff arrive he's tangled himself in his blankets and is thrashing wildly enough to hurt himself. Once they've managed to sedate him, the first person they call is Severus Snape. Severus keeps the Wireless on all night long, even though now more than ever itis sure Harry can't hear it. When Harry wakes up the next morning Severus is still there, watching with a breath held in and his heart hammering in his chest. Harry just stares blankly at the ceiling, uncomprehending, and Severus feels another piece of his world break apart.

Three years, two months, and eighteen days since his life was changed forever, Harry Potter starts singing before the Wireless is turned on for the first time. Severus freezes, one hand on the switch, as he hears the first words Harry has spoken in seven months, his hands shaking with a combination of so many emotions he can't name as he realizes that the beauty of Harry's voice is one thing that hasn't changed. "There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O, B-I-N-G-O and Bingo was his name-o." He sings the same words over and over again, just like that, and Severus doesn't turn the Wireless on or remove his hands from it.

The next day Harry hums the Bs, and Severus feels a dread in his heart that he can't explain. He sits quietly by Harry's bed and listens to him sing, the same words over and over again, until he falls back asleep.

The day after that both the Bs and the Is are gone, and if Severus looks closely he thinks Harry's eyes are a little brighter. He sings for longer today, and Severus continues to sit by his bedside for a long time after he falls into slumber.

Three days later Severus arrives as soon as visiting hours begin, and Harry has stopped singing all of the letters. He sings over and over, the same words, the same tune. "Hm-mm-mm-mm-mm, hm-mm-mm-mm-mm, hm-mm-mm-mm-mm and Bingo was his name-o. There was a farmer had a dog and…" Harry never stops singing, pausing only to breathe, and Severus never stops staring into those blank, brighter-than-before green eyes. No matter how hard he looks there is no life in them, and Severus feels as if the life has finally gone out of him as well. The dread that has kept him company the last five days is stronger than ever, and Severus sits by Harry all day long and through the night. When Severus finally succumbs to sleep, sitting there in that hard chair that has become more home to him than anywhere else these past few years, Harry is still singing.

Six days after he had started singing again, three years, two months, and twenty-four days since his torture, Harry Potter dies quietly in his sleep. It is an unusually serene passing, Severus thinks, and he can't help but be grateful for it. The life had been gone a long time already; all that had been left was that he was alive. Despite this, Severus has never been more thankful for anything than that he had woken in time to hold the boy's hand as he passed.

Two days later, Harry Potter is laid to rest. It is an unusually simple ceremony, Severus thinks, devoid of any of the sort of fanfare one would expect to be accorded to someone such as Harry Potter. Severus thinks Potter would have preferred it this way, but even that knowledge is no comfort to him as he stands vigil at Potter's newly dug grave, just as he has at his bedside for so many years. The icy cold wind bites at his face, and he thinks of his old hard chair with something akin to fondness and no small amount of regret. The rest of the mourners leave, and Severus reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Wireless. He switches it on and sets in on the ground by Harry's grave. One hour and thirty minutes later, Severus shuts it off and walks away. The wind warms for a moment, ruffling his clothes, and if Severus concentrates hard enough he can almost hear an angel singing in the breeze…

There was a farmer had a dog and Bingo was his name-o…

~fin~