Letters from a Dead Man

Lots of people have asked me to rewrite The Deathly Hallows from Severus' point of view - which I really wanted to do justice, yet in an original style, too. This idea has actually been bothering me in another form since watching the film; I still believe that Albus had a terrible fight on his hands, and had to make some heart-breaking decisions by himself.

For the first time, Albus' story of the war before his death combines with Severus' story of the war after Albus' death - and Severus learns some things about his mentor he could never have imagined.

Enjoy!

~ SS19

Prologue:

He shut the door and leant back against the wood, eyes closed, wishing he could scream a terrible primal wail but unable to make a sound. And when he was finally ready and able to contemplate opening his eyes, he took a deep breath in until it filled his lungs and almost started to hurt. He forced his eyelids apart and raised his head.

The bedroom had not changed. In all the years he had stayed here as a patient or as a friend or as a healer himself, it had never changed. It was constant, a source of comfort and protection and warmth. The wooden dresser and enchanted ornate mirror, terribly ostentatious wardrobe, rich red carpet, haphazard bookshelves and four poster bed. The quilt changed often - but he knew the red and gold bedspread well. It was, after all, his favourite.

This was harder than he had imagined. Walking back through the front door had been almost acceptable because safety was synonymous with the marble walls, despite the evil that was beginning to infiltrate. Sweeping along the corridors with his long strides had been bearable, perhaps because he was able to pretend he did not know the reasons for the glares cast at him from all directions. Entering the empty office had been difficult but he could simply convince himself that the owner was away, on a meeting or an outing or a visit.

But the bedroom. No. He couldn't - he couldn't sleep here - he had never been alone here - it was too private, too intimate - his chest tightened, constricted, suffocated. Tears, white hot, threatened and his stomach churned. He tried to swallow but the lump was back, blocking his throat.

How could he sleep in a dead man's bed?

How could he sleep in his victim's bed?

But he wanted to sleep, so very badly, as he had not done for many, many nights because of the mobilisation of an army unimaginable in nature, the constant fighting to keep his position secure, to protect the fates of those who would kill him in a moment should they have the chance.

And he had always been able to sleep here.

He moved slightly closer to the bed, so he could see the tiny gold dragons among the river of red. At least, on that night, there had been no blood. The Killing Curse stopped the heart. By the time the body had hit the ground, no blood would drip. It had been easy. Painless.

Murder.

He undid his shoelaces with a negligent wave of his hand and kicked his boots off. Tonight - the first night - he would sleep as he was. On top of the covers. There, present, as duty detailled, but not interfering. Tainting. Corrupting.

An envelope lay on the pillow, with the golden tassels. A small, white envelope. Narrow, neat handwriting spelling out a single word.

Severus.

He picked it up, hands shaking. He slit the seal with one thumb and pulled out the contents. Parchment. A letter. He started to read, despite himself, knowing the author, knowing who the letter was from - making him all the more desperate to devour the words.

Dear Severus,

It is 1 September, 1991. Today, Harry Potter starts his education at Hogwarts School. I am waiting for the Hogwarts Express to arrive, so that the Welcome Feast can begin, and thus the new school year. I am not sure what it is about this year, but something seems amiss. Fawkes, especially, seems anxious. How can a phoenix be anxious? Well, he acts a little like you when unsettled - he will not sit still. This is his third attempt to circle the room, which is not easy for a bird of his wing span. I thought, perhaps, he was approaching his burning day for this life, but it seems particularly short. So I must deduce that he is uneasy.

It is a big day, after all. Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived, the hero of the Wizarding World, the boy who defeated Lord Voldemort when he was just a baby. I am, I confess, nervous. He has been gone from the world for so long, and it is clear that he has no awareness of who he is.

Hagrid will not look at me. When he does, something quite involuntary seems to burn in his eyes - it is almost disappointment. I think he believes I made a mistake, ten years ago next month, by sending Harry to stay with his relatives. How would I have done things differently? He had no other family - his godfather is, by all accounts, a murderer, and Remus is not a suitable guardian. Who was I, after all, to take a boy from his only remaining blood relatives without even a word?

I may well be powerful, but I am not all-seeing, and I have never pretended to be. I truly believed the Dursleys would treat Harry well, their own nephew - Petunia, once upon a time, thought the world of her sister as you well know. Yet. Perhaps there is no such thing as family, in these times.

I wonder which House he will be Sorted into. I am hoping for Gryffindor, of course, but Ravenclaw would also be a fine choice. People will be expecting so much from him - people will treat him differently - even me, because I look at him and I see James and Lily and a boy who has lost so much before he was even able to comprehend what loss meant.

An orphan.

I feel paternal toward him, Severus, the same way I do to you. I cannot explain why. He has lost so much.

I remember you telling me, once upon a time, that I should not feel guilty for what happened on Halloween, 1981. It was not my fault - if it was anyone's fault, it was yours. That is what you told me, in that expressionless and almost dead tone you use when you are emotionally unstable. But it was my fault. I put my trust in the wrong person, as did James and Lily, as did you. I could have done so much more. I should have done so much more. I should feel guilty.

I need to protect this child, Severus. I feel the darkness returning - anyone perceptive can - the Centaurs have warned me, Seers, Prophets - Fawkes - even you. You too are unsettled, bothered by images in your dreams that you have not seen for years. You do not see fit, yet, to confide in me - but I know it. I have felt it.

Lord Voldemort is not yet dead, Severus, and the thought that he could return chills me as much as it stops the heart beating inside your very chest. Last time, the destruction was so very great. But if he ever returns to a corporeal body -

I look at the horizon, and I see that we will all have to make terrible decisions before the end.

It is eleven o clock. The Hogwarts Express is leaving Kings Cross and is heading toward us. Harry Potter sits upon that train, perhaps starting to learn of his fame, the fame of a lightning bolt scar upon a smooth forehead. He will meet friends and enemies upon that very train, and will make decisions of who he wants to be, who he wants to become, from those initial meetings.

I can look out at Hogwarts and know that my teachers are preparing, bustling around the castle - Minerva is checking her syllabus for the second time this morning, Sybil is predicting which students will face misfortune in their first week, Pomona is still looking for that enchanted trowel she lost before the holidays, Filius is choosing music for the school choir.

You are somewhere in your dungeons, preparing for the arrival of your precious Slytherins, the only students, the only people indeed, who see a different side to you. The paternal side, your own fatherly instinct. Do you know, do you see, how protective you are of them? You guard them jealously. It warms my heart to know that, this time, should Lord Voldemort return...every single Slytherin will have a guardian.

A protector of their own, to stop them making the same decisions others did. The decision that you made.

And Harry Potter arrives today.

The world is changing, Severus, and I wonder where these paths will lead us, this time. I may even send up a prayer for protection and guidance - because I am afraid of the darkness that may threaten us once again.

As for the reason for this letter - it will become clear in time - when this letter is delivered to you.

When they all are.

I will need someone to understand, and someone to listen. If this becomes war, once more, I will be forced to play the game that Lord Voldemort challenges me to.

There will always be sacrifices in war.

One day, I hope, perhaps, you will understand this.

Harry Potter arrives at Hogwarts today, and something about this year seems amiss. I am nervous, anxious, unsettled - imitating the emotions of Fawkes. He is the symbol of hope, reborn, Harry Potter.

I am intrigued as to what to expect.

Yours, absolutely sincerely,

Albus.