A/N: This relentlessly depressing piece was inspired, for reasons I can't explain, by the movie The Last Samurai. On reflection, I believe it also owes something to the concepts proposed by flyingegg in the fic Arithmancy for Muggles. (R Rating)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Severus Snape, and all these other people are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.
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Chunk.
Chunk.
Chunk.
There were no tears. Those bearing witness as the latest grave was filled had long since learned the futility of weeping.
Now all that was left to them was the empty silence, broken only by the monotonous sound of the shovel as it methodically went about its work; the magic that animated the tool wasted on such a common task only because none of the slowly shrinking band were willing to undertake it themselves.
It was Ron Weasley who finally gave voice to the question, the one that had become an inevitable part of these rituals as their numbers had dwindled.
"Who d'you reckon will be next?"
And Snape answered, as he always did, no matter who had asked--
"I hope to hell it's me."
"Don't say that." Hermione Granger would once have been the one to voice that response. With her death a few years before, and that of her child, Ginny Weasley had taken up the refrain.
It was no more than a ritualized memorial to the deceased. At this point, no one here would be so cruel as to deny the former Potions Master his dearest wish...even if each of them was secretly hoping that he or she would, in fact, be the next one to go.
They had all made a pact, when it became clear that they were to be the last, that they would not take their own lives. All had agreed that the passing of Wizardkind from the Earth deserved at least this handful of witnesses.
Of course, never having seen the passing of Wizardkind, none of them could have imagined what an agonizing experience it would be. It went without saying that they would take back the promise, if they could. But such oaths were not lightly broken.
"How did it ever come to this?" Colin Creevey asked, his once bright, eagerly cheerful face now sunken and deeply lined with years of unrelieved sorrow.
Luna Lovegood shook her head. "How did it come to the Samurai? Or the American Indians? Or the Throgbreets?"
Ron sighed. "Luna..."
"Right. There never were any Throgbreets. Sorry." Luna sniffled, turning away.
The shovel finished its work, thrusting itself tidily into the ground. Ron walked over to pick it up. He paused to look at the neat rectangle of freshly-turned earth. "That's it for Hufflepuff, then," he said flatly.
No one answered; the fact was self-evident. Nor did anyone point out the likelihood that Ravenclaw or Slytherin was likely to be next, each now represented by just one survivor.
As usual, Gryffindor had beaten the lot. But this time there were no cheers. Lingering on when the rest had gone could scarcely be called a victory.
Ginny, child of a large family, who had wanted so desperately to have children of her own, reached out to touch the hand of Severus Snape--sole survivor not only of his own House, but of the entire Hogwarts faculty as well. Once she had feared and pitied the man; then she had looked to him for hope.
Now he was just another of the walking dead, no more nor less significant than any of the others. He just happened to be standing closest at the moment.
"Do you think anyone will remember?" she asked, pleadingly.
"The ghosts," he whispered, the once-silky voice now ragged and broken-down as the rest of him. Worn beyond his years in service to the Dark Lord and the Order of the Phoenix, he considered it the cruelest of ironies that he should have outlived so many others who were younger, stronger, more worthy. "And the paintings, for however long they last."
He essayed a bitter parody of a smile, unaware that he'd caught the attention of the others; not that he would have cared if he had realized.
"We did too good a job, you know; we hid too well. The few Muggles who know, like those wretched Dursleys, will do their best to forget...or else they'll pass the story down as fables and half-truths, until it bears no resemblance to reality at all."
Luna began to sob, seeking comfort in the arms of Ron, who held her without really noticing she was there. Oblivious, Snape went on with his monologue; the words cut mercilessly into each person present like an envenomed blade, stripping away the protective numbness, laying bare the underlying despair they'd tried so hard to deny.
In the end, not one of them was anything but grateful for it. It had been too long since they'd felt anything at all.
"Those who fancy themselves witches will play at magic on the High Feasts; the children will put on pointed hats and wave their little brooms at Halloween, and the frauds will go on pulling rodents out of top hats and hiding what is in plain sight, for the amazement and delight of the gullible.
"And none of them will ever know that we were here, right under their collective nose; that their mundane little world was in mortal peril, or that they owe their lives to long-lost cousins in whom they would not have believed.
"They'll never know it was real. And because they won't know...it may as well never have been."
Long afterward, when the others had returned to the comfortless shelter of the enormous empty shell that had been Hogwarts, seeking what solace they could find in food or sex or memory, Snape remained standing by the grave, wishing vainly for one of his own.
Only when the approaching dusk threatened to blot out the surrounding landscape did he stir, turning for a last look at the rows of marble monuments that filled what had once been the Quidditch Pitch from one end to the other. Names that had been called out for Sorting not so long ago, now bore mute testament to lives and deaths that would soon be devoid of all meaning.
Dumbledore. McGonagall. Sprout. Flitwick. Hagrid. Malfoy, Weasley, Finnigan, Longbottom...
He walked past the large and ornate headstone labeled Potter without a second glance, to stop next to a smaller memorial. Lovingly embellished with the Gryffindor insignia and the icon of an open book, it bore not one name, but two; the dates of birth and death for the second were one and the same.
"Fear not, little know-it-all," he murmured. "Class is nearly out. You shan't be waiting much longer."
He kissed his fingers and pressed them to the cold stone. "Finite Incantatum."
The unseen ghosts, who better understood such things, smiled gently as he turned and walked away, blending seamlessly into the impenetrable night.
They were patient.
They would wait.