His Masterpiece

Epilogue

"What do you mean you failed?" Malfoy demanded.

Snape could only lift his hands helplessly. "I was thrown out of the inn before my interview. Dumbledore is refusing to reschedule. Lucius... what do I tell him?"

Malfoy had his hands on his hips and he started to pace. He looked worried. "We must give him something, Severus. If you don't..."

"What? What will happen if I don't?"

"Nevermind. We'll think of something. Give me a moment."

Snape hesitated, and then said, "There is something... Something I overheard."

Harry hadn't touched the pensieve since Snape's posthumous trial. It was almost sacrilegious, rifling through the memories of a man long dead. But this was important. He had to know... He lingered on the memories that he had let pass too quickly that first time, during the battle, examining each one for some sort of clue about his father.

He hadn't wanted to admit it at first. He wanted it to be some sick joke, an artistic flight of fancy, but he couldn't shake off that gut instinct. He'd done a little digging in old Auror records during the time of the first war, and was immediately struck by a series of murders that had been labeled Death Eater attacks despite their peculiarity and the lack of the Dark Mark. There had been at least six victims, all young men. Most had dark hair, were tall and thin, and lived in and around Knockturn Alley where they had been killed and their bodies dumped. The last victim alone had been something of an anomaly: lighter in colour than the others, middle class, from Edinborough. He had been killed at the Hog's Head Inn and Harry might have discarded him if not for the fact that he had been sexually assaulted and his throat cut. It fit the killer's modus operandi.

Your parents would have gone into hiding not long after this last victim was killed. It would have been difficult for your father to sneak away long enough to- some dark, errant thought whispered through Harry's brain that he ruthlessly crushed before it could be completed.

"Such sloppy detective work," Harry murmured as he had flipped through the files. Anyone with eyes could see this wasn't the work of the Death Eaters. There was nothing to be gained politically from these deaths, some of the victims were even labeled Dark themselves. Whoever did this wanted to satisfy some sick, sado-sexual urge.

Harry tried to tell himself that there was a war on, the Aurors were stretched thin, many had lost their lives... and then Harry saw the name of the lead Auror on almost every case: James Potter, James Potter, James Potter.

The memories Snape had left behind were numerous, but brief. Almost as if he wasn't sure what Harry would find most useful and wanted to include as much information as he could. His father didn't appear in as many memories as Harry thought he might have, considering the lasting damage he had left on Snape. Maybe Snape figured Harry didn't need to know all of that, his first priority stopping Voldemort after all, maybe it was too painful to dwell on, or maybe... maybe his father had done things that not even Snape had wanted to burden the son with.

The memories floated by, and Harry found himself in Dumbledore's office.

Snape looked tired and worn, and he slumped a little in the chair across from Dumbledore, not long after Voldemort's return.

"He asked me to come upstairs. Alone," Snape said.

"What did he want?"

Snape shot Dumbledore a sharp look. "You know what he wanted."

Some time passed, maybe a year later (Fifth year? Harry thought), still in Dumbledore's office, the Headmaster behind his desk, but this time Snape was standing some feet away.