Lost in somber thought, Harry Potter stared despondently at the dismal exterior of the Shrieking Shack.

He'd never really known the man who'd died inside … not really. The first time he'd seen Severus Snape had been in the Great Hall of Hogwarts castle during the Sorting ceremony at the start of Harry's First Year. Initially intrigued by the dark man draped so dramatically in black robes, Harry had quickly found himself repelled by the Potions Master's sharp treatment of him during his very first lesson. Their student/teacher relationship plummeted downhill from there.

An owl flapped past overhead, the soft wingbeats causing Harry to tilt his head back to watch the bird's progress across the expanse of brilliant blue sky.

Blue. And sunny.

Harry sighed heavily.

So hard to believe the sun could still shine upon the world as it always had. Voldemort was dead – sure – but his demise now felt obscured by the loss of so many warriors on the Side of Light. Harry felt their absences so acutely that the pain cutting through his midsection stabbed him like multiple blades.

Above all others lost in the Final Battle, he missed Fred and Remus and Tonks the most. The joint public memorial service for all of the fallen warriors had been held earlier today, although their individual private funerals had taken place over the course of the week following Voldemort's defeat.

By the shore of the Black Lake, which actually looked cheerfully blue beneath the clear skies, people wept as names were read aloud in solemn cadence, and a golden bell chimed for each of the departed. Those who had gathered to bid farewell offered personal tributes – flowers, doves, butterflies, and glittering strands of tinsel rose aloft. Hermione had conjured three yellow balloons, one apiece to honor the memories of a practical jokester, a courageous werewolf, and a klutzy Metamorphmagus.

The yellow balloons floated upwards in unison, their shimmering streamers trailing gently beneath them, fluttering as if waving farewell to the small crowd below. Long after the other airborne offerings had dwindled into the distance, the balloons remained visible as they caught the breeze which whisked them out over the scintillating waters of the lake. Farther and farther they sailed, farther and higher, always together, as if they bore the spirits of those three on their final journey beyond the living world.

Around him, Harry heard the sobbings and snifflings of the survivors of the War as they hugged and clung to each other, trying to offer an impossible comfort which would only develop over time – a long time – when they'd finally begun to heal from the immediate, rending grief.

Aware that his own cheeks were wet, he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with anyone in case he really and truly broke down. He'd been too young to cry for his parents' deaths, but he could shed tears for his friends. It was just that he still needed to do something else first, and he couldn't accomplish it if he lost all control right now.

"Could you conjure another balloon?" he asked Hermione.

"Why?"

"Just do it! Please," he added, trying to smooth the roughness which rasped his voice in his throat.

"Yellow?"

Harry gave a sharp nod, and his companion swished her wand, producing a bright yellow balloon which bobbed at the top of its streamer. Wordlessly, she handed the lower end of the streamer to Harry, who tugged gently against the balloon's buoyancy.

"Thanks."

"Harry?"

He ignored her question and walked away without meeting her eyes. "I just need time to myself," he called back to her. He could feel her brown gaze upon his back as he and the yellow balloon distanced themselves.

He'd wandered, not aimlessly, but taking a roundabout path to give himself extra time. The balloon kept him company, always tugging gently at the streamer entwined in his fingers. He'd never actually had a balloon as a child, although Dudley had been spoiled with dozens. Harry focused on the sensation of the balloon as it tugged against its tether. The balloon felt oddly alive, and he knew already that he would miss it when he eventually turned it loose.

After climbing high above the Black Lake, he settled on the grass a safe distance from the Whomping Willow and gazed off at the Shrieking Shack, which stood alone, about halfway between the castle and Hogsmeade village.

Memories flooded back as he thought of the bravest man he'd ever known, who had died so horribly inside that ramshackle structure, hot blood gushing from his snake-ripped throat.

"Our. New. Celebrity."

"What is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfsbane?"

"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses…"

"Fame isn't everything."

A Cursed, bucking broom.

Sneering. Smirking. Sharp-tongued, snide comments.

Veritaserum.

A pale arm bearing the Dark Mark.

"Concentrate!"

A teenage boy dangling upside down in mid-air.

"Get out!"

Sectumsempra.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A gleaming sword in a frozen pond.

"So, the boy must die?"

Nagini.

"Look … at … me…"

Harry did not react until those last three words were unexpectedly repeated.

"Look at me."

Startled by the quiet words, Harry nearly lost his grip on the balloon's streamer.

"Snape!"

The misty image of the stern Potions Master-cum-Headmaster wavered amidst the dangling fronds of the Whomping Willow.

Harry scrambled to his feet. "You – You're still here!"

The mist hesitated momentarily, then replied, "For a brief time only. I've … been waiting. For you, Potter."

Harry gaped. "For me?"

The mist coalesced into an undeniable smirk, making Snape appear more solid. "I knew you would come."

"You did?"

The misty lips tightened fractionally. "You're so predictable. Usually."

"Oh." Harry honestly couldn't think of anything else to say as he stared at Snape beneath the Whomping Willow. If he blinked, surely the man – ghost? – spirit? – would disappear. "You were waiting? Why?"

This time, the mist hesitated even longer. "It is … difficult … to find the right words, Potter." Snape's image moved closer, but it still maintained a cautious distance. "I … wanted to … thank you, Potter. For being the person that Albus Dumbledore always believed you to be."

Harry frowned. "I don't really understand, Professor."

"I had my doubts. Serious doubts, Potter … and many of them." The mist seemed to shrug slightly. "Dumbledore absolutely believed that you would be willing to sacrifice yourself. That you only needed to be told to do so, and you would go rushing off to meet your doom."

Harry snorted. "I didn't exactly go RUSHING off, Professor. I think I must have been in a state of shock or something when I came out of the Pensieve. I couldn't believe what I'd seen. I couldn't believe it could be real."

Snape's robes gave a misty billow as he drifted even closer. "But you went, Potter. That's what's important. You pulled yourself together and went to face Voldemort, knowing that you needed to die instead of fighting to win."

The Gryffindor swallowed hard. He could still remember that dark trek from the castle, past the casualty-strewn battleground, speaking to Neville, entering the Forbidden Forest, and calling upon the spiritual comfort of his dearest companions garnered via the Resurrection Stone. He nodded at Snape's image. "You knew?"

"I accompanied you."

"What!"

The mist drifted to within arm's reach. "I followed you from the Shrieking Shack to the Pensieve, and from there to the Forest clearing."

"Why?" Harry could hardly breathe. Snape had been with him? All that time? And Harry had never known! Never once sensed the man's presence…

"I – " The mist seemed to gather itself for strength. "I owe you an apology, Potter. Despite knowing your oft-demonstrated penchant for utter recklessness, I did not believe you would possess either the resolve or the strength to see your heinous … task … through to the end. I went with you every step of the way to encourage you, should you falter … and to let you know that when you faced Voldemort, you would not stand completely alone." Snape's misty head shook slowly from side to side. "As it turned out, you did not require my … assistance. But I was there for you, Potter. And I must say … you impressed me. More than any words can adequately express."

Shocked, Harry could only stare at Snape's image for a long moment. Finally, he ventured, "But my parents – and Remus and Sirius – did they know you were there?"

"Yes. But as it proved unnecessary for me to reveal myself to you, I remained in the background. I did see Voldemort Curse you. I saw you fall. And to my shock, I saw that you had not been killed, though the others surrounding their warped leader believed you to be dead."

"Wow." After thinking things through, Harry asked, "Did you come back to the castle? For the Final Duel?"

The mist smiled. "Indeed. Most impressive."

Harry grinned. "Thanks! But it still doesn't explain why you're here. Now."

Snape folded his misty hands before him, so reminiscent of his habitual posture when he lectured upon some important point in the Potions dungeon.

"It has been a difficult week for everyone who has survived the War, Potter. People are focused on their personal grief, upon their loss, upon the emptiness they feel in the absence of their loved ones. You, perhaps, even more than the others."

Harry's eyebrows shot up, shoving his lightning-bolt scar beneath his fringe. "Why me, more than others?" he asked, his emerald eyes narrowed in confusion.

"For one simple reason," Snape said quietly. "Others have lost friends and/or family, but for you, your friends ARE your family." He waited for Harry to consider that, and when the younger man eventually nodded, Snape continued. "Right now, you – and the other survivors – perceive a gap in your lives. An emptiness. But I wanted to assure you that, one day, you will be able to see the fullness."

"Fullness?"

"Instead of grief, you will experience joy when you reflect upon your memories of those whom you've known. Instead of loss, you will understand how much you have gained through knowing and loving them while they were here. Instead of emptiness, you will feel the fullness of how much they added to your life."

Unbidden, tears sprang to Harry's eyes as he thought of the friends he'd lost. All he COULD feel was loss. Emptiness. Bone-deep grief. He struggled for control He did not want to cry, not in front of Snape.

"No disrespect, sir," he whispered hoarsely, "but I don't see how that could ever be possible." He stared at the pale buttons down the front of Snape's misty coat. When he finally looked up, Snape was smiling sadly at him, his misty features full of more understanding than Harry would ever have believed the man capable of.

"It is possible … Harry." Snape nodded gently. "I know … from firsthand experience."

It took Harry a moment to put two and two together. "Oh. I see. You're talking about my mum, aren't you?"

"Yes." The mist nodded emphatically. "It's not hard for people to leave us, but it's so much harder to be the ones left behind. When I lost Lily, I felt utterly devastated. I could only focus on my grief, my sense of loss, and the overwhelming emptiness her absence caused. It took a long time before I realized how much MORE empty my life would have been had I never known and loved her."

Harry considered that. In a very real sense, he'd never known his mother. If given the choice, he would far rather have had her in his life long enough to build solid memories of his own, instead of just seeing old photographs of the young, red-haired witch with dancing emerald eyes. Images in an enchanted mirror could not compete with real memories, and no stories about his mother could ever replace his lost opportunity to know her himself.

Snape was right, he realized. Harry couldn't imagine how barren his own life would have been if he'd never known Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Fred Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, the real Alastor Moody, Dobby, and all the others he'd lost in this War, including Severus Snape himself.

But through the past few years, their presence had filled his life, his mind, his heart, and his soul. They'd stood beside him, behind him, and fought back-to-back with him. They were part of him now, and always would be. Without them – and without all those still present in his life – he'd truly be "just Harry".

Alone.

"I understand," he murmured. He looked into Snape's eyes, the only part of the man that didn't look misty. His eyes remained as black and piercing as ever.

Snape quirked a misty eyebrow. "Trust me, Harry – one day, your understanding will exceed mere … intellectual … comprehension." Though the meaning of the words was beyond reproach, Snape's very voice still seemed to express his habitual doubt about the depth of Harry's intellect. "On that day, you will feel joy once again."

Harry gave a reluctant chuckle. Even in trying to "comfort" him – if that's what Snape had hoped to accomplish – the man still seemed determined to get a small dig in! But then, this was Snape, after all.

"A rather gaudy toy," commented the mist, nodding at the bright yellow balloon still bobbing jauntily at the end of its streamer.

"Hmm? Oh – yes! I'd forgotten about it."

The mist smirked. "I must say, I'd never thought to see you strolling about the castle grounds with a balloon, of all things."

Harry grinned. "Maybe I'm not as predictable as you'd like to think."

Snape snorted, and the mist hazed his features for a couple of seconds. "Seriously, why a balloon? Are you still celebrating your defeat of Voldemort?"

"I got it for you, actually. For your memory, that is. To release it in honor of your memory, like Hermione did hers for Remus, Tonks, and Fred."

"Hmm. Not exactly my color, though, is it?"

The Gryffindor had to laugh. "Maybe in the afterlife, you'll be more partial to brighter colors, Professor."

"Look me up when you get there, Potter."

"Hey, I thought you were going to start calling me 'Harry'!"

The mist gave a wicked grin. "When you get there, Potter!" Without further ado, a misty hand reached out and closed around the taut streamer. "You may let go now."

Comprehending, Harry nodded and smiled. "Farewell, Professor Snape!"

He let go, and the yellow balloon set sail, rising rapidly upon the breeze, with the spirit of Severus Snape, former Potions Master and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, clinging to the streamer. His misty robes billowed with elegant grace as he headed toward the highest branches of the Whomping Willow.

For one horrifying moment, Harry thought the irascible tree looked as if it might attack the unlikely windborne duo, but in the end, it merely extended a single tendril, which Snape touched with his free hand in passing.

Harry Potter's emerald eyes followed the progress of the balloon, the bright yellow color highly visible long after Snape's misty form had gone invisible from the distance. Higher and higher it climbed, disappearing at last into the blue heavens, whence its approach was eagerly watched by another pair of dancing emerald eyes.