Happy Birthday

A/N: Disclaimers apply. Please tell me your criticisms or praise! Might make it into a full-fledged story, might not… Jesus, I'd almost forgotten how to make it dramatic… I'm sorry if this is quite OOC, and my emotions were kind of running on "empty" and "so-so," so I couldn't write it all nice and angsty. Oh well. One shot. Came into my head while eating dinner…


I can't bear to hear his sobs any longer. But I cannot peel him away from your headstone either; I cannot face the crumpled form of my godson on your dreary grave. I cannot bear to realize you are under that fresh earth.

The night's events have astounded me. I cannot believe that the Last Battle has been fought.

I cannot believe that you are dead.

Harry Potter. Dead.

I look up to the sky, wiping the last remnants of crimson off my hands and face. It is daybreak; the sun is gleaming and promising. I stare at it coldly and take a deep breath. The air of the battlefield is filled with the coppery smell of blood, and the knowledge of grief and weariness hangs low and heavy on the atmosphere. I am used to this. This does not affect me.

I look around; Dumbledore had not yet returned. Perhaps he is still busy with all the other injured and nearly dying. I wonder myself why I am not aiding the others, who may still breathe, who may still survive, who may still live.

Yet here I am, lingering above the dead.

I try to glance back at you but I find it too difficult. Instead I look back emotionlessly to the horizon.

Dumbledore had found you, Potter, not I. He had buried you quickly, for the sight of your mangled and almost unrecognizable body broke the old man's heart. I had happened to find him, with Draco trailing behind me… Oh Potter, to see the headmaster's tears running so freely… I knew the worst had hit home.

Draco had collapsed.

My feet, at present, are steadfast on the ground. My heart aches terribly as each moment passes. It is like a blue flame burning profusely, eating me from the inside. Would it have been easier if I had ripped my heart out? The grief and the sadness are almost too much to bear. Why had I not felt anything akin to pity, like what I have always felt for all the rest? Why do I want to wince and shudder and bawl?

I glance at my godson momentarily, feeling a fraught urge to weep.

No, Draco Malfoy is grieving enough; let him tend to his own, new scars. I shall stay impassive for his sake.

"Draco," I said softly.

He does not stop crying.

I do not move.

I can feel his eyes on me, but I make sure I focus on the clouds. I tried my best to empty my mind; maybe it can cease the pain… but it is futile; I am still clenching and unclenching my fists, still harboring this utter pain, still wondering, why of all people, it had to be you, Harry…

"Professor," Draco utters, almost whispering, evidently pleading, " Professor, I had only been with him three weeks…"

The pain in his voice is almost too much to take. I still do not turn to him. His sobbing continues.

It's true, what he says.

Harry, did you know that as you continued with your studies and progressed, Draco Malfoy had secretly allied himself with you? If I recall, he was furtively and desperately infatuated, and came bravely into the Order filled with heart and moral fiber that completely disarmed me. Draco took the Dark Mark only so he can spy as another death eater. Draco took so many sacrifices without you knowing.

It had been a secret, a very deep secret, between Dumbledore, Draco and I. No one else knew of Draco's involvement in the Order, and Dumbledore had expected it be kept that way. Draco did his finest to retain his Slytherin demeanor; constantly sniding you, constantly hurting you, and you were a fool not to realize it had all been a ruse.

He had all the new information. He saved a hundred lives. I was in the inner circle, and only got to scheme and tackle the Dark Lord's most hideous plots of killing you. Malfoy had been a rookie, which meant he knew every small-scale torture, every recruitment operation, and many of the other conspiracies the Death eaters were planning to do.

But a few weeks before the Final Battle, Malfoy had had to save you, Potter, to escape the Dark Lord once again. You were shocked, as I remember, and extremely wary; but as days progressed you trusted him more and more. You never met too often, yet when you did I noticed the progress you two were making. Didn't you notice my gaze when you would accidentally glance at Draco? Did you think I wouldn't realize Draco's hands brushing against yours, as you smile nervously and beat red? You had warmed up to the little blonde.

As I said before, I knew you both did not see each other too often, even after your mutual feelings were realized. I felt a bit of pity for Draco when you two were always working apart. He would sulk and brood and sacrifice some more for your sake. I could not believe he had changed so much.

He loves you, Harry. Draco loves you.

A pang of guilt and shame pierces through my soul, but it does not crack my cool stare. I hurt madly and I cannot understand, why tiny tears are building up at the edge of my cold, calculating eyes.

Have I not mastered the sentiment of sadness? Then why am I like a wounded vulture, feeling pain and not knowing why?

I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand.

Deep inside, locked up within, I knew the answer.

I am in love with you too.

And it hurts to see your lover clinging on to your grave. I'm jealous. I always have been. And, strangely, I am jealous now, too. Nothing can unfurl it. I look at Draco and the great big part of me wants to hit him. Why are you looking so sad? He chose you, Draco!

But I do not. I see the remorse in his face, and I know I'd have probably looked the same if I had not known better. I observe Draco and I know you've chosen right, Potter. He had sacrificed everything for you. He had shown you everything.

I always held back.

He deserves you, Potter… But certainly not this.

"Come along, Draco. We must go."

"—I –I love him, Severus! I can't…!"

I know, Draco. I love him too… I can't leave him either…

"We must go."

Isn't it ironic, that Draco is here, spilling truth so honestly, while I seem so cruel as to not have any emotions for you? How can I say, 'we must go' while deep inside I am screaming, I am hurting, I am hoping for someone to save me? Deep inside I don't want to go. More than half of me wants to beg and grovel at your grave, hoping you'd come back…

Slowly I hauled Draco to his feet, tears stinging my own eyes, but he does not notice. He is almost bawling now, and presses his face against my chest, screaming Harry's name again and again, as if challenging him back.

My heart does the same. Challenging you back.

Come back, Harry Potter. Come back.

I glance at Malfoy; Oh how I want to tell him. I love Harry too, and you should be glad he loved you! He never once looked at me, Draco. He never once noticed me. Why do you think I've kept it all locked up inside? I want him back too, Draco. I want him back.

No. I am more rational than that. I will not submit to my emotions.

The tears on my cheeks have vanished for I have smeared them on my sleeves. The blonde lad is soaking the front of my robes with tears and crimson. We must get inside to tend to his wounds. We must get inside before we both drown in Harry's blood. I am the grown up, and he must be anchored. Draco needs my comfort more than I need his.

What a lie.

I stand up, with Draco in my arms, a deep secret boiling within my veins, locked inside me. I, who stares passively at the grave, as if it were nothing to me but mere a casualty of death.

I know that if I walk away, a part of me too, will be left behind.

I do not cry, as I begin to stride.

Draco cries. And I want to, also.

But I am Severus Snape, and I forbid myself to.

Draco Malfoy shall never know how I feel.

I look back, a few feet away, staring emptily at the grave that sits upon the hill. It was like a trophy of a stale victory. I smile an ironic smile, though inside I am bleeding.

Happy Birthday, Harry Potter.

How ironic.