Desperate for a smoke and solitude, Harry stepped out onto the rooftop verandah of the Ministry of Magic. Earlier that evening, the Wizengamot had unanimously acquitted the man. They had even nominated him for the Order of Merlin in a rather antipodal denouement of the six, long, arduous months of extreme passions that the case hearings had incited. Tales long forgotten of people long buried had come tumbling out of the closets of witnesses, who formed the who-is-who list of the British Wizarding World. Tales of love and friendships, of treacheries and tragedies, of revenge and redemption - they had woven a tapestry of heartbreak, sacrifice, courage and cunning. His heart ached for all the unfulfilled potential of the aborted lives. His head hurt with all the secrets and intrigue.

Even the sun seemed done and ready to turn in for the night, barely managing to smudge the horizon with muted colours. And yet, he knew that the closed-door hearing had been just the first phase. The public trial, as conducted by the media, in the media and for the media would begin only the next day, when the details of the hearing would be released. By the day after, the entire Wizarding Britain would be drawn into a public debate and it would not limit itself to the man whose trial it had been. No. Every one of the heroes and villains of modern Britain would be exhumed to be scrutinized - their actions analysed and their motivations, real or attributed, dissected. Questions would be raised, accusations and recriminations made, conclusions drawn and finally, judgement on all of them would be pronounced.

He snorted. If nothing else, it would most definitely serve to single-handedly launch a hundred careers in writing and reporting. He could just see Rita Skeeter's next salacious slander in the offing. It would be in the speeches and campaigns of political leaders to come, in the musings of philosophers and poets as they debated on morality and ethics, edifying him and damning him in the same breath.

He himself found it difficult to forgive the man. How did one go about forgiving someone, of whom you had nothing but sour memories, steeped in pain, mistrust and hate? Yes, he had protected, assisted and guided him from behind the curtain but he had also bullied him, ridiculed him and disdained him. How did one stop resenting someone who had taunted and prodded to death the one man who had promised to give you, a neglected orphan, a proper family? How did you forgive a man who had forced your mentor and favourite teacher into resigning, effectively sentencing him to a life of unemployment; the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore; who had denigrated you and your father at every opportunity he got; who had deprived you of any memories of your mother?

He had such a long history of hatred, a lineage even, that it was impossible to forget and forgive it all. He wanted to rant and rail, to proclaim that the witnesses had been confounded and the evidence all lies. But who was there who would forge evidence for Snape?

Harry smiled grimly. The one person who would have given a damn was long dead – his mother. To the world it might all be another chapter in the history of magic but to him it had been a comprehensive lesson on his personal history. Worst of it all had been the memories shown by Narcissa Malfoy of his mother and the love that had shone in her eyes for him - how could he forgive him for betraying that love? How could he accept that love?

If only he could remember one look from Snape that had not been a scornful dismissal or unfettered anger; if only he could remember one word from him that had not been delicately and painstakingly formed to ridicule and burn him! He might have been a hero, but he had also been an unmitigated bastard. Looking objectively from the point of view of justice, he might not have deserved the lot that had fell him, but how did one remain objective when faced with something so personal? He would still remember Sirius and James and Remus and Dumbledore and his mum and would wish to blast his greasy head. How could he not?

He had waged a veritable war to clear Snape's name these last 6 months, fighting his family, friends, foes and strangers. Well, he had won and yet, standing there, that day, with the sun setting on the horizon and a cigarette stump burning in his fingers, instead of feeling victorious, free of all debts and obligations, all he felt was bone deep tiredness. He had never understood inner conflict before this day- not truly. He had never understood before today how the man could have hated James, who had saved his life. But as he stood there, gathering his courage to face the questions and scandals that would erupt the next day, he knew exactly how to hate the man who had saved his life umpteen times, the man for the honour of whose name he had fought against the entire Wizengamot and would continue to fight the entire world till everyone accepted him as a hero.

He had come a full circle. Innocence, redemption, logic, evidence - what did these have to do with forgiveness? It would have been a lot easier to give up his life for him than to forgive him. Bitterness had seeped into his very soul and try as he might, he could not free his heart of Snape's legacy.