Harry sat cross-legged in the middle of a small square room. He was silent and contemplative.

The room was empty, the walls were bare. It was the kitchen of a small cottage-like house Harry had bought in Hogsmeade, because he still made frequent trips to the school and wanted to be nearby. He munched on a few fizzing whizbees and was reminded again of why exactly the village held such appeal for him; it was magical in every essence of the word.

Having lived as a child in the muggle world, Harry could not resist moving to an all-wizard town now that he was able. Simple day-to-day wizard life still amazed and astounded him, for despite all that Harry had been through, he was still very innocent in some senses. It was part of the reason he had won the final battle with Voldemort. And of course, the close proximity to Honeydukes didn't hurt either.

The movements of his eyes were evidence of his seeker reflexes; they darted from the currently white walls of the room down to the array of paint chips spread before him, faster than anyone who had not been following any sort of sports ball for years could comprehend.

He forgot whose idea it had been to paint the place before buying furniture. It might have been Ginny's, when he was over at the Burrow one night with Luna and Neville. They had been hanging out.

The very concept of 'hanging out' still felt very foreign to Harry.

It felt like such a teenage thing to do, sitting around and chatting without purpose about anything that came to mind. The lack of a time constraint had also felt very strange to Harry for the first little while, who was so used to having to explain his point of view quickly so people would back him up in whatever rushed adventure he was about to partake in.

It was often Ron who reminded him that he still was a teenager. All of his encounters with Voldemort and the chilling knowledge he had been the one destined to fight Voldemort, hell, destined to die to kill Voldemort because the Dark Lord had made a mistake and accidentally split his soul Hallowe'en night, so long ago, had squashed Harry's hopes of having a future and made him grow up quickly.

Ron had suggested Harry simply use a spell to paint, but a glare from Hermione dashed that option. She was trying to teach Ron muggle methods, so when they took a trip down to Australia the following week to find Hermiones parents and restore their memories, it had a better chance of going smoothly. The two had managed to get together after the final battle, and it was remarkable how much their relationship...really hadn't changed. If Harry hadn't known better, he'd of said they were together all along.

Ron still said pig-headed things once in awhile, Hermione still campaigned for various magical creatures' rights, and they still fought like cats and dogs. The only difference now was that when they made up, they did it with passionate kissing.

Hermione suggested he paint the muggle way, and although Harry didn't know why, the idea appealed to him. Having grown up with the Dursleys who were reluctant to begrudge Harry extra helpings of food, there was no chance he would've been able to paint his room.

He'd never thought it was that important, really.

But it felt important now.

It was something he was doing on his own, finally, that he didn't have to. It was an action that nobody had asked him to take. It was a choice nobody needed him to make.

For Harry, it was the final cut he needed rid his life of Voldemort, evil, and the dark past Harry shouldn't of had, at only 17. For Harry, it was symbolic of cutting away all the things he'd been forced into with his role as 'The Boy Who Lived', and 'The Chosen One'.

The act of painting was making Harry, for once (hopefully, he thought, one of the first in a long line of things) just Harry.

So, he was naturally excited to do it. He'd gone with Hermione to a muggle store (they hadn't brought Ron because they figured he would be too confused and they didn't want to draw suspicion) and purchased rollers, a tray, and drop cloths. Harry hadn't gotten the paint yet, but Hermione had picked up paint chips for him, which were now spread across his floor.

He was excited, but also frustrated.

Did there have to be so many colours? And not only colours, but shades and tints of colours. It wasn't just blue, it was 'sky blue' and 'peacock blue' (he'd discarded that immediately, it reminded him too much of Lucius' peacock which was mocked incessantly by the trio in the long conversations after the final battle), and 'navy denim'.

He figured they were actually (in comparison), more reasonable names for colours, after seeing such shades as 'robin's egg' and 'snow fox'. He came across one called 'remembrance' and cast it aside; the brilliant blue not only bore a striking resemblance to Albus Dumbledore's eyes colour, but the name itself turned him off. He didn't need any prompting to remember things, many of which he didn't want to.

Harry had made his peace with the careful manipulating Dumbledore had done of his life. He had gotten past the hurt that came in waves with the knowledge that every one of their conversations had been the result of careful planning. He had even understood why Dumbledore had kept so much from him, although he still disagreed with his reasoning. He still cared for the man despite all this, but did not need to have these feelings brought up every time he walked into his kitchen.

He cast the colour blue aside in fear that every shade would remind him of Dumbledore.

Grey and black were put out of the running for reasons along the same line; he had dealt with enough black and dark colours in his dealings with the Dark Lord and Death Eaters that he did not need his new house to look like them, or remind him of them

The other colours before him now were yellow, red, orange, purple, and green. He quickly weeded out yellow and orange, which felt obscenely bright. Harry figured they would blind him when he stumbled out of bed in the morning, something he now planned on doing only after long, consecutive hours of sleep.

He finally had the time and the lack of obligations, and was going to learn the joys of this 'sleeping in' thing his friends had all rambled about. It seemed like such a nice concept, but one that Harry had never been able to indulge in. He got up early when he was living at the Dursleys, having to cook breakfast for Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley. Now that he was not living under their roof and was reasonably sure he would never see them again, he had dropped the formal titles. They had never been like an Aunt and Uncle to him anyways.

Then he had gone to Hogwarts, and had to get up early to snag a quick breakfast and head for class. There had even been a few early-morning study sessions organized by Hermione...which promptly ended when Ron had fallen asleep in his bowl of oatmeal, not even caring when he woke up and discovered his face covered with his breakfast.

Harry planned on sleeping in for the next year (and depending on whether or not he got a job; not that he needed to work with the gold Sirius and his parents had left him. He'd also received gold from the Ministry as a thank you for defeating Voldemort. All in all, Harry had no need to work for the rest of his life). He had no idea what joys he was about to experience, explained Ron, whose vocabulary was expanding (to Harry's amusement) as a result of all the time he was spending with Hermione.

He now had red, purple, and green.

The shade 'emerald green' he paused on. It was the colour so many people used when describing Lily's eyes, which Harry had inherited. It was the colour Severus Snape remembered so clearly, even when he had been dying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Harry's feeling and beliefs were most uprooted over Snape's death. The memories he showed Harry explained a lot of things. Harry only knew for certain now that he didn't hate the man, which was not much, but certainly an improvement over his previous feelings.

Harry had never apologized for the Penseive incident, but felt comforted now anyways in the knowledge that that aspect of the very strange relationship between Snape and Harry had come full circle.

Snape had never told Harry any more than he needed to know, and had been outraged when Harry saw Snape in his worst memory. But just before he had died, Snape had volunteered not only the memory Harry needed to see to defeat Voldemort, but memories of his mother that Snape had obviously kept so close to his heart.

Severus Snape had given him what so many had not; after all the tales of his father from the 2 remaining Marauders while they were alive (nobody ever counted Pettigrew anymore), Snape had given him Lily's character, her personality, her memories.

No matter what bad blood had emerged between Snape and Harry previously (although it felt so diluted now that Harry knew Dumbledore had been dying anyways and ordered Snape to kill him), Harry would forever be thankful to the man for giving him his mother.

He looked over the other two colours, but they didn't appeal to him. The bright red reminded him of blood, a sight that if he ever saw again would be too soon, and the darker maroon Gryffindor. He loved his House and was proud of it, but did not wish to paint his kitchen this colour. The purple seemed very feminine to him, although he knew in the back of his mind that from a different perspective, a darker purple could be very masculine.

He glanced back at the emerald green once more. He got up, walked over to the fireplace, took a glance at the floo powder, and shuddered. He fumbled in his jeans pocket (he still liked muggle clothing, and almost always wore jeans under his traditional wizard robes), for the DA galleon.

Everyone still carried them, not because they thought they would be needed to fight once more, but because they were so useful for sending messages. He sent Hermione a message and waited, sitting down on the floor once more.

A few minutes later, she flooed in. She stumbled only briefly before recovering gracefully and landing in a crouch, rising to her full height within seconds. Harry envied the way she flooed, for he was still hopeless at it himself.

She raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked around. The rest of his paint chips were no longer neat and orderly, but lying in an assorted, jumbled mess on the floor from when he had thrown them away. He smiled sheepishly. "I picked a paint colour," he offered helpfully.

She chuckled, and with a wave of her wand had them stacked into a pile. Harry picked up the one beside him and showed it to her.

She raised an eyebrow. "Emerald green?" She asked.

He nodded.

If it were Ron, Harry knew he could've expected many questions from his best friend. 'But doesn't it remind you too much of your own eyes?' 'Do you want it to remind you of your mother?' 'Seriously? Why not red...Gryffindor pride!'

But he got the feeling Hermione understood. That knowing tint in her eyes shone brightly, although Hermione herself said nothing. She nodded once, reached over and took the paint chip from Harry, and smiled. "Then let's go get it."

When her innocent smile became an evil smirk, Harry turned wary. Hermione's grin widened. "Floo?"

He scowled.

------------------

With two loud cracks, Hermione and Harry apparated onto the street in front of Harry's house. Hermione was laughing, at something Harry blatantly didn't find amusing. "Maybe you should stick to apparating for awhile."

Harry nodded vehemently. He'd tripped in his own fireplace and when reaching the one on the other end, smacked his head soundly on the mantel above. He'd seen stars, and when Hermione came in afterwards and bowled him over, the stars had turned to fireworks.

He'd insisted on apparating back.

The two got the paint inside and set it down. Harry opened the lid and stirred the paint slightly, the brilliant emerald green paint before him shimmering before his eyes. Hermione regaled tales of people who had managed to hurt themselves much worse when flooing, something that surprisingly comforted Harry.

Hermione spread out the drop cloth while Harry poured the paint into the tray. He picked up the roller and hesitated. "You know why I picked this colour? This shade?"

Hermione shook her head. Harry paused again. Although he had not been too sure of his reasoning a moment ago, it was clear now. "Professor Snape." It was in honour of him that Harry was painting his kitchen emerald green; in honour of him and the one person he had truly loved, Lily. Harry couldn't call him 'Severus', for it seemed too informal. Nor 'Headmaster', for Harry hadn't been a student when the man had been Headmaster. 'Snape' seemed rude, after all the man had done. So Harry used the title he'd left out so many times previously but which fitted now. 'Professor'.

Hermione nodded. "It's nice," she offered, for lack of a better term. Harry understood what she meant though; because he knew that she understood.

He was silent for a moment. "Does everything I do have to have some sort of underlying reason? Can't I just pick a paint colour based on it looking nice?"

Hermione smiled gently. "You never do anything without a reason, Harry."

Harry dipped the roller in the paint, then triumphantly raised it to his wall and rolled downwards.

The emerald green stripe on the otherwise white wall made him smile.