A/N: This was written for the Dawn to Dusk Harry/Snape Fuh-Q-Fest (http://kardasi.com/HPSS/index.htm). Response to challenge scenario 105: Harry and Snape are slowly easing into a relationship. They are incredibly attracted to one another, but they don't have that much in common - at first glance - and they disagree on a lot of things, but ... slowly they come to realize what they *do* have in common, which is more than what you might think... (Kira)
For information regarding the mythology of the constellations mentioned in this story, see http://www.emufarm.org/~cmbell/myth/myth.html. And many, many thanks to Dorie for the beta read.
I'm so bloody cold. It was madness to climb to the top of the Astronomy Tower on such a frigid night as this, but I couldn't help myself. Clear nights always draw me here, and tonight the only clouds marring the sky are the ones I create myself with my billowing exhalations.
The stars are so bright they almost hurt my eyes. Countless pinpricks of light stinging my retinas, tiny brilliant punctures in the dark void separating this world from the next. They seem so close, I feel as though I could reach out my hand and pluck one from the sky.
Their patterns are familiar to me. Over my right shoulder Cassiopeia winks at me, still arrogant in her opinion of herself even after all these millennia. To my left I catch a glimpse of Gemini, the heroic twins. Touching story, that. I have grown to appreciate it even more since I fought my own war and saw many fall who would never be granted immortality in the heavens.
Ursa Major. Taurus. Pegasus. Cygnus. The sky is painted with legends.
And one more. As always, I have avoided seeking out the most personally meaningful of the constellations until last. I turn so it is directly overhead, tilting my head back to view it in all its glory. I still remember the names of the stars. I learned them on this very tower, almost 40 years ago now. Betelguese, his right shoulder. Rigel, his left foot. And Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka, the three stars that comprise his belt.
Orion. The Hunter.
I've been looking at this grouping of stars all my life. I remember lying in bed as a child, looking at it through my bedroom window before I even knew its name. In my late teens here at Hogwarts, when I first began dreaming my ambitious little dreams about my place in Voldemort's circle, I spent many insomnia-plagued nights hidden away in the window seat near the Great Hall, watching Orion rise, trace its path across the sky and finally set as morning dawned. But other than being a signpost of the passage of autumn into winter, the Hunter never meant anything personally significant to me until the night of the final battle.
The night Potter finally fulfilled his destiny and rid us all of Voldemort forever.
*~*~*~*~*
It was cold that night as well, the air so crisp and raw it hurt to take a deep breath. There was snow on the ground, and the moon was full. It was a tactical error on the Dark Lord's part to plan his attack on Hogwarts during the full moon, but then he always thought he was invincible. He didn't count on the werewolves getting involved, not after the way the wizarding world had reviled them for so long. With Remus Lupin as their alpha, the huge pack of slavering beasts drove back the lines of Death Eaters, killing and devouring the lot of them. They never stood a chance. Lucius Malfoy alone escaped their grisly fate, only to be felled by a flash of green light thrown from the tip of his own son's wand. Draco had finally redeemed himself. And then he, too, was set upon by one of the werewolves whose bloodlust had not yet been sated.
I would find them both the next morning as I stumbled my way across the gore-splashed plain of white. And I would mourn the younger Malfoy's death with bitter tears. Draco may have performed his penance, but he would not be absolved. His sins were too great to be forgiven by anyone else.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I was not there to see the Malfoys fall. I was running across the grounds toward the Quidditch pitch at the time. I knew Voldemort was there, the Dark Mark told me so. It drove me in that direction, a desperate call from the Master to gather his servants around him, unaware that they all lay dead on the other side of the castle. It was the only time I have ever been glad to bear that detestable brand on my arm.
Potter was there with him, and he was alone, cut off from the rest of the Order by the line of werewolves. The two adversaries exchanged a few hostile words - I never understood Voldemort's need to speak at length before he struck, but on that night I was grateful for the extra time it gave Potter to formulate his attack - and then the curses began to fly.
By the time I got there, the blindingly bright light of the Priori Incantatem had already engulfed them both. I was too late. I skidded to a halt at the edge of the pitch, struggling to regain my breath. And I waited with my heart in my mouth, fist tightly curled around the hilt of my wand as I held it out in front of me. If Potter failed and Voldemort emerged victorious from that magical golden bubble, I was a dead man. The best I could hope for was to take the miserable murdering bastard down with me.
I thought I was drawing my last few breaths. It's untrue, what they say happens when you believe you're about to die - my life did not flash before my eyes. All I could think about was Potter and pray that he would be strong enough.
I didn't have to wait long to find out. A shriek of agony suddenly rent the air, a horrifying, reverberating scream that made my entire body crawl with gooseflesh. "Potter," I whispered, stumbling a few steps forward like a newborn colt. Then I found my feet and began to run again, yelling the boy's name at the top of my voice as I advanced.
Before I had taken a dozen steps, the Priori Incantatem shattered into a thousand shards of shimmering light. Bursts of magic surged over me, through me, picked me up off the ground like a leaf on a breeze and slammed me down again on my back.
I thought I was dead. I had to be. Dead and in hell. The Earth had never seen such light of such intensity, had never echoed with the tormented cries of a dying soul like the ones now filling my ears. I closed my eyes and consigned myself to eternity.
I don't know how long I lay there, waiting for the kiss of the flames, but it was long enough for my robes to become soaked through with the snow which was melting beneath me. A pair of strong hands gripped my shoulders and shook me roughly. "Professor," a hoarse voice rasped. "Wake up. Please! Professor, are you all right?" Another rough jostle and my eyes flickered open.
It was Potter, kneeling in the snow beside me. His eyes were wide and wild, his cheeks streaked with dirt and blood. And his scar… his scar glowed so brilliantly that it illuminated his entire face, a true lightning bolt at last.
I drew in a long, shuddering breath. Miraculously, he appeared uninjured. Other than the blood on his face, the only sign of the violence he had experienced was a long, thin crack in one lens of his glasses.
"Voldemort?" I asked quietly, reaching up to gently trace that mesmerizing mark with the tip of one bony finger.
"He's gone," the boy replied, grasping my wrist tightly. "He's gone. He's dead. I…"
I pulled him down on top of me in a rough embrace, and he continued to babble into my robes as I wrapped my arms around him. He was trembling from the cold and from the residual effects of the magic that still pulsed weakly around us, and I stroked his hair and held him against me tightly, murmuring his name again and again with my lips moving against his temple.
Far above us, I could see the stars of Orion bearing mute witness to our simple joining, and in that moment, Potter and Orion became as one in my mind. They were both Mighty Hunters. The only difference between them was Potter had actually succeeded in killing his prey, while Orion was doomed to spend eternity with his sword poised above his head, preparing to strike.
When the boy finally quieted, he raised his head from its place against my shoulder and looked down at me. The moonlight shining on one side of his face and the glow from his scar on the other bathed his features with a luminescence that seemed to come from another world.
Gods, he was beautiful. The first beautiful thing I had ever known in my life.
For an instant, I was sorry that he had no one better than I with which to share his triumph. Albus had been worthy of it, even Black, perhaps. But neither the Headmaster nor Potter's godfather had lived long enough to see it, and I had.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world when he brought his open lips down on mine in a slow, deep kiss. I could taste the remnants of his fear and his horror at having killed, all wrapped up in an overwhelming sense of relief that his job was finally finished. There was nothing of passion in that kiss, it was a simple act of celebration between two people who were profoundly grateful to have survived a common ordeal, yet I have never felt more inextricably linked to another person as I did just then. Our tongues played together like two small children released from school for the summer holidays, first in my mouth, then in his. His lips were cracked and dry from the cold, but I didn't care. Their very roughness assured me that what was happening was real.
The rest of the world could claim him later. For that fleeting eternity, Harry Potter was mine, and mine alone.
Two days later he left Hogwarts, whisked away by a triumphant Ministry determined to make as big a fuss over him as possible. He didn't return. There was no reason for him to do so. He was the most powerful wizard in the world, and we all knew it. He didn't need a handful of NEWTs to prove it.
He ended up in America, from what I understand. Minerva kept in touch with the Granger girl over the years, and from time to time, the Headmistress would relay bits of information about his activities gleaned from that source. Not to me directly, of course, but it was a simple enough matter to stay abreast of the news by keeping my ears open in the staff room. I thought about him more often than I wanted to, cursing the weakness that impelled me to the top of the Astronomy Tower even as my bootheels clacked on the stone steps. Gazing up at Orion was a bittersweet thing in those days. I thought I would never see Potter again aside from viewing his image in the stars.