Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong their respective owner; I own only plot. And oh yes, the song is Carry You Home, by James Blunt.

Warnings: Oh, what the heck… character death, faintly morbid themes. People, there is talk about death, and even if it sounds so pretty, I DO NOT condone suicide or something similar! Hope you understand. This is FIC, not real life.

As strong as you were

Tender you go

I'm watching you breathing

For the last time

A song for your heart

And when is it quiet

I know what it means, and

I'll carry you home

I'll carry you home.

How long was since he had seen the boy enter the hall, small, scrawny and scared? Big green eyes stared at the ceiling in awe, at all the newbies were won't to do, when they got the first taste of magic.

Too long, in his opinion. And too short.

The wing was blowing around, silent as if anticipating something. The dawn was bloody, red with the blood of those who fought through the night. It was strangely monochromatic, white, red and black, as if no other colours existed on that godforsaken earth. Only those colours of violence, death, and stillness.

And he was swept back into memories. Red… like Gryffindor scarf, red like Lily's hair, red like the blood, that had been spilt on the snowy ground. How he loathed and adored it, in equal measure. How he had always seen red, when the brat provoked him, with his grubby paws, and high – pitched voice, and dunderhead ness without compare. Red as those accursed eyes of his Master, who commanded over his life over the quarter of century.

The wind was blowing, softly, and oh so cold, even the warming charms didn't help. Not a bit. He shuddered weakly at the insistent bite of frost, nostalgically wishing for a cup of tea, or, better yet, black coffee.

He was kneeling on the harsh, cold ground, with the head of the impertinent brat in his lap. The said brat was strangely quiet. Didn't matter; both of them were exhausted, anyway. He hoped the blasted bird would be useful just once, and led the help their way sooner than latter. It wouldn't do for the Brat – Who – Won to die now, would it?

Nevertheless, it was the real possibility. The cold, the wounds and the stress – all of them together and worst of all, time – chipped away at Potter's life bit by bit, slowly but insistently.

The brat seemed strangely serene, even covered with blood of his numerous wounds. The battle had been vicious; neither he, nor Voldemort give over a quarter, or an inch. He covered him as best as he could, but the accidents happen, and he was preoccupied with his fair share of opponents.

The black hair under his hand was strangely soft. Soft and a little bit warm. Like fur. "Keep up, Potter. Help will come soon. "His voice was unusually gruff, and somewhat thin in the clear air. He sounded so tired, and with belated, and somewhat detached surprise, he found out, he indeed, was tired.

The brat had galls to smile at him. He would shout an enraged yell at the whelp's impertinence, but what would it matter? Therefore, he satisfied himself with arching an eyebrow at the dunderhead. His breath was caught in his throat; Harry seemed so serene, so at peace with himself.

"Don't lie to me, Professor. " The young voice was strangely – or maybe not – hushed, and those green eyes looked up at him, a relief from those dastardly red, black and white. "We both know I won't live to see the day." He shivered, a small, persistent shiver playing through the abused body. "Oh, NOW you call me Professor?" The dark, mellow voice asked sardonically.

A weak chuckle. "Better later than never, Professor."

"Shh. Conserve your strength. I refuse to listen to the whining of your little brat pack of a family, if you die. " He paused. "And you've got so much life ahead of you – "

A small shake of head. "No. I did what I had been needed to do. There is nothing more for me here. I – I have… no regrets. "

A harsh cough. Blood spilled pas those pale lips that, for once, didn't pout or frown. Black eyes widened. "Harry!" The man scrambled, to wipe the blood off the young face.

Old, tired eyes stared into his. A small, almost invisible smile tugged at the reddened lips. "Now you call me Harry?" The teen questioned his voice even quieter. A lump made itself known in the throat of kneeling man. Surprisingly, he could still feel. Who knew?

"Better later than never, Potter?" His voice was throaty with pain. "Don't you dare to die, Potter! Or else I will dock thousand points from Gryffindor!"

Green eyes were being glassed over with something unknown and it scared him. He was losing him. He was losing his brat. In that minute, he would give anything, do anything, if that would mean to see Harry alive, and laughing with his bratty friends, and oh, he would even condone to be called Snivellus, just – "Take care of them for me, will you? Tell them I love them. And – "he hacked up one more mouthful of blood, this one darker than before. "I was…. Supposed to be… in Slytherin." The last word was being breathed out, so quiet he almost didn't hear it.

He unbent from his half – curled pose over the now strangely silent teen. The heart was still, and he knew.

Harry Potter, a boy of tender sixteen years old… Was dead.

He was finally here where he could not follow. Not for a long time. He looked at the teen's face once more, those half – lidded green eyes vacant, no spark of rebelliousness in them anymore. He was strangely beautiful, with that half smile on his pale face, lips and chin faintly pink with dried blood. Still….

It did not pass a minute yet, and yet, he already missed him. He looked up at the sunrise. Red and white, and black…. And something shattered in his chest, something that was equally as painful and free, a beautiful, yet hideous agony.


"Severus! Severus!" The frantic cries of the old headmaster echoed through the silent plane. He blinked, slowly turning around. The old headmaster was heading towards them – no him, with all the speed his old bones allowed.

"Are you – Oh, Merlin…" The shout was strangled into whisper at the half way. Blank dark eyes stared at suddenly old – looking man. He was so cold…. So numb….

"Severus… tell me… tell me… it isn't true… that he – he – "The old wizard choked up. Woodenly, he nodded.

"Too late."

Two words, but they seemed to suck out all the life from the kindly old man. Usually twinkly blue eyes were shimmering with tears. "Oh, Harry… No…"

"He... He told me to tell you he loved you all…And that he should've been in a Slytherin." Even his voice sounded strange to him, so detached, as if he didn't feel anything, while the opposite was true. His chest felt as if on fire, and something was squeezing his heart so strongly….

The old wizard choked a small, strangled chuckle. "Yes… He should have been in Slytherin… that was the Hat's first choice, anyway… Don't know how the dear boy managed to get it to sort him into Slytherin."

He blinked. "Oh." Slowly, he stood up, carefully hauling the thin and cold body into his arms.

"Severus?" The headmaster asked him quietly, and somewhat wary. "Wouldn't you rather let me…?"

He shook his head. That terrible, free feeling still rampaging through his chest the feeling of losing something precious, something that would never come back. "No. I'll… I'll carry him home…"

The red sun shone, colouring the white snow into pastels of pink, red, and gold, as if celebrating the return of the one of God's favourite angels home.