Chapter Text
Hogwarts never reopened after the events that took place in 1998.
Four years later, her walls still held the scars of that night, carved into the crumbling stones and leaning towers. Neglected plants, once lush and lively when encased in the greenhouses, had stretched beyond the broken glass. They climbed the dilapidated structure in twisting vines and brambles, giving the castle an aura of ominous dread.
The grounds themselves had suffered further duress. The once manicured grass now grew wild, forming a wall of unkempt vegetation. Various creatures had wandered from the forest, thrashing through the undergrowth, and now took refuge in the foliage and rubble. There had been no casualties since the night of the great battle, as many had visited the ancient relic since, but that was the only mercy found thus far.
After the defeat of Voldemort's army of Death-Eaters, including The Dark Lord himself, many had tried to restore the castle to its former glory.
Minerva McGonagall, along with the others who had offered tutelage during the formative years, set to work immediately following the departure of the students. Spells and charms were cast upon the gouged walls and flattened archways with careful precision, but none could so much as seal a single crack. The school simply refused to be healed.
Experts in Transfiguration and Charms were brought in next. They had woven enchantments that would put any self- respecting sorcerer to shame, only to be met with the same end. Hogwarts was impervious to all efforts of restoration, stubbornly remaining as it had fallen. In the end, a new school was built, and Hogwarts became a forgotten legend.
Almost.
The structures still remaining intact stood sentry over the rubble, rising like tombstones among the decay and desolation. One of these was the Astronomy Tower, its single stained glass window somehow resisting the test of time. The other, the Clock Tower that stood above the shattered greenhouses, once used to signal the change of classes among the students. From these two columns, the rumors surfaced.
Every night, just hours before the moment Harry Potter had triumphed over The Dark Lord, the bells would ring. Cracked and pitted, as they certainly were, the sweet sound of their melody would still carry far over the nearby village of Hogsmeade. Each peal would sail loud and clear, landing on the ear of every witch or wizard within range to hear their echoes.
Some said it was the spirit of Albus Dumbledore, signaling his intent to protect his final resting place. Others believed the soul of Voldemort inhabited the crumbled ruins, still waiting to return once more, and giving ample warning. There was even talk that Fred Weasley's spirit rang the bells for a laugh, still pulling pranks even in death.
Legends of every ghost that had ever been, or could ever be, were passed from parent to child. Some believed that the stories were purely imaginings of the students still traumatized by the events that took place in their youth. Some believed that the tales held some form of fact, as is customary with fiction. Still, others believed that they simply served as a warning to never disturb the dead.
The youngest generation of wizards and witches merely thought of the whole affair as a game. In the dark of night, they would occasionally dare one another to approach the dilapidated structure. Against the warnings of their elders, they would scale the overgrown grounds, shoving the more timid children toward the doors.
"Just one knock," they would urge. "Just touch the door. Call out to the ghost."
None were ever brave enough to pass the threshold of the collapsed stairway, for there was one legend that stemmed from the mouths of babes alone.
This tale they would carry home, sharing its details with those not brave enough to make the journey. It was said that a lone figure still dwelt in the topmost room of the Astronomy Tower. Some would say that it had been a ghost, lingering by the window, simply watching them from above. Others would counter that it was a man of flesh and blood, still alive after all this time. In one thing only, they were all in agreement: man or spirit, the figure was the reason that the bells still rang.
When their bravery would fade, and the fear of what lay ahead struck them to their senses, they would dash away as fast as their feet would allow. As they fled, the bells would ring, full of melancholy and despair. The steady toll of brass seemed like a heartbeat within the castle, still ticking in the night, and pumped with the blood of a soul the world had forgotten.
Once or twice, it had been said, a particularly sharp-eyed child had gazed upon whatever still haunted the tomb- like obelisk.
"A golem," they would say. "with a back as twisted as an old witch's staff. He scurries between the towers like an oversized Clabbert, but he is black as night, and twice as nimble. He rings the bells for the lost souls of Hogwarts, and his own trapped soul, as well. He is the keeper of the bells- the ghost of death himself."
The bells cared not for such legends. They rang on as always, crying out for what, no one knew.
The ministry had grown desperate, dispatching their best Aurors to investigate the strange apparition. Each returned with the shame of failure heavy in their eyes. Hogwarts, though broken, could not be penetrated. The Curse-Breakers summoned from Gringotts could provide no answer to what magic rendered her inaccessible.
Through it all, the presence still reamining kept watch.
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Far away from it all, Harry Potter found himself battling ghosts of his own.
The divorce had been a long process, finally reaching a solid climax after months of trepidation, and Ginny was still moving pieces of her life- their life- from the house in Godric's Hollow. She had told him, in passing from such a trip, that she would be moving back to The Burrow. It carried a pang of regret for Harry, knowing that she would be amongst the only family he had ever known. And he dreaded the emptiness their own home would carry hereafter.
It wasn't her fault, really. She had done no more to dissolve the marriage than Harry had. The pressure had simply become too much; the price of fame, too high.
Being married to the most famous wizard in Britain, following Dumbledore's death, would drive anyone to the brink. Someone was always waiting, constantly gravitating to Harry, any time they happened to be in the public eye. Someone was always incessantly bombarding him with questions, suffocating him with awe, and shoving Ginny into the background. Harry had grown sick of it rather quickly, but not in time to realize that he and Ginny were already over.
He had still kept to his chosen career, entering Auror training months after the battle, and pushed long hours to stay out of the limelight. In the cover of darkness, when Kingsley would all but throw him out on his ear, he would scurry home in anonymity to avoid any worshipers. This was another piece to the separation of his marriage. Ginny was sick of never laying eyes on him for more than an hour.
Life threw another bludger into the mix one autumn evening. It came while Harry sat at his desk with a stack of forms, each bearing the names of the Death-Eaters who had fled four years prior. Thanks to his help, and the efforts of his team, most had been caught already, but the stragglers were quicker and far more cunning. As he reached for the topmost parchment, a knock sounded from the other side of the door.
"Yeah? Oh- hang on-"
Harry started at the sound, his elbow catching the edge of the parchment stack. The heap toppled with a soft whuff of dry sheets, several curling as they slid from the desk and thudded dully onto the floor.
He muttered a curse under his breath, cautious of the presence outside. Scooping the nearest parchments into his lap, he shoved the rest beneath the desk with the side of his boot, the brittle edges rasping together as they disappeared from sight.
"Come in," he called breathlessly.
Kingsley strode into the office, the expression on his face one of concern and formality. "Everything alright in here, Harry?"
Harry nodded quickly and stacked the forms back on the desk, ignoring the crackle of those crushed underfoot. "Fine. Fine. Never better," he answered too brightly. He lowered his tone to a grave seriousness and continued, "what can I do for you, Minister?"
Kingsley didn't take a seat. He never did. He only reached across the desk to shake with the younger wizard, and then stood with his hands folded in front of him. "I know you have told me- repeatedly, I might add- that you don't want this task, but-"
Harry groaned softly and ran a hand through his hair. "Kingsley… I can't. You know how I feel about it. I can't face that place anymore. Besides, shouldn't you be sending Curse-Breakers out on that assignment by now? You've exhausted every Auror on the force."
Kingsley nodded, "We have sent them," he said simply. "the Curse-Breakers came back just as defeated as every Auror assigned. You are all we have left."
His expression flickered deeper into concern, and Harry thought he could also deduce a bit of fear. "There is something still within Hogwarts. Every witch and wizard dispatched has come back unsuccessful. We need you to attempt it, at the very least. Then, possibly, we may be able to close the case."
A file seemed to appear out of thin air, which Kingsley slid across the desk silently. "Give it some thought, will you? A change of scenery might be far more beneficial than you think."
He left without another word.
Harry stared at the file as if it were some sort of venomous snake. He knew what it contained, and he knew exactly what Kingsley was implying.
Hadn't Harry been the only person to die on those forsaken grounds and return unscathed? Hadn't the rumors circulating around the office painted him with a deep connection to the ruins? Perhaps, however incorrectly or not, they speculated that Harry might be the only person who had a prayer of entering the castle itself. He might be the only one to find reason behind why it had shut out the world beyond.
He sighed and flipped open the envelope, staring down at a picture of Hogwarts as it stood now. Or rather, did not. The trees blew in a wind he could not feel, but the castle did not move at all. Silent as a tomb, the Astronomy Tower stood out among the shattered structures. Time seemed to have caused the school to crumble further, much as it had done to Harry's own marriage.
Every few seconds, it looked as though a shadow passed by the single window, and then was gone just as quickly. It almost seemed to appear just as suddenly behind the cracked face of the clock that had been charmed to ring bells for class changes.
He closed the file with a firm shake of his head, drew the messy pile of parchment toward himself, and selected a page at random. Time stopped in an instant as he studied the photograph, attached to a list of transgressions committed by the man it contained. He knew those eyes.
Harry read the words above the photo, written in red ink and glaring from the page like blood.
Severus Snape
Born: 9 January 1960
Presumed Deceased: 2 May 1998
Age At Time of Death: 38 yrs
Whereabouts of Remains: Unknown
It was the last line that made Harry pause.
Whereabouts of Remains: Unknown.
Harry thought back to the last night he had lain eyes on the castle.
He had returned to the Shrieking Shack when the chaos had settled, intent on doing anything he could to repay the man to whom he owed his life. Any attempt would have been futile, of course, because Harry had known already that there would be no bringing him back. There was no spell- no cure- for death, but a proper burial wouldn't have been so far-fetched in his opinion.
There had been nothing to find. Harry had entered the shack to discover only a smear of blood on the floor where the man had lain. In a dark and dusty corner, a wand lay in pieces, shattered beyond repair. Severus Snape had disappeared.
Harry decided then to honor the man in death. He had given the ministry every shred of evidence he had to clear Snape's name. An Order of Merlin was nothing compared to one's own life, but it would be better than nothing, and Harry was adamant that Snape would have it.
He had extracted Snape's memories from the penseive, but the ministry had refused to accept them. Though no one had asked, he had dosed himself with Veritaserum, giving a spoken testimony of Snape's double agent status. Again, nothing came of it. He had even gone so far as to present his own memories as proof, but it made no difference. The world had washed its hands of Severus Snape.
He leaned back in his chair, watching the printed Snape glare at him. The onyx eyes seemed even darker stained with ink, and the sharp looks still cut like daggers. Harry noted that the figure remained still. It could almost be mistaken for a muggle photograph- if not for the muscle in the jaw. The familiar tick, continuously twitching in irritation, was just as trademark as Snape's cold sneer . The thought made him smile just a bit.
Snape had been another wedge driven between him and Ginny. She couldn't understand why he was so obsessed with clearing the man's name. They had argued over it quite often, escalating to harsh words, and usually ending with Harry surfing the midnight sofa. Ginny wanted nothing more than to let the dead lie, but Harry could not help but feel that there was more to the story.
He set the photo aside, standing with an exaggerated stretch, and turned to the window behind the desk. He stared out at the world below, his world, and whispered into the cold glass.
"Where are you, Snape? What secrets do you still have to tell?"
Though he could not hear it, an answer came. Only the village of Hogsmeade heard the bells again. Tolling hours before the usual schedule. Calling to a man who could not save everyone.