In spring 1998, the magical world finally got rid of the most powerful and the most evil wizard of all times. There was an excess of witnesses when Harry Potter, in the early dawn after the siege of Hogwarts, overpowered Lord Voldemort, indirectly causing his final and definite demise. Yet, except for the stunned silence right after the dark Lord’s fall, followed by jubilant roars of triumph and sobbing relief - impressions upon which most seemed to agree - the opinions upon what happened the following hours when morning matured into day, diverged substantially. This was especially true where people’s opinions of Harry Potter were concerned. How did he behave, what did he do, and say, and how did he interact with people? Those were all questions that were answered differently depending on the person’s perceptions and preconceptions about the boy-who-lived. 

”I approached him to pay my respects. It meant the world to me when he shook my hand.”

”People crowded around him, pressed upon him and would just not leave him alone. There was no consideration shown what-so-ever for what he had just been through.”

”I couldn’t help but notice that he hesitated to approach the Weasley family. I wonder if he felt guilty about their loss?”

”He behaved like a true hero, with so much grace and dignity. There was no forewarning at all that he would…”

”No one had seen him for the most part of a year, except his close friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, but to me he looked altered. Taller… grown up, I guess, but there was also something changed in his eyes. The smile on his lips did not reach them, and I’m not sure at all that he took in what we were saying. Especially not the amazing news about…”

”I tried to tell him about Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape, but he showed no reaction what-so-ever. No surprise, no joy, nor bewilderment.”

***

To Harry, the hours that followed Voldemort’s demise were but a blur of images and sounds, the passing by of truly or vaguely familiar faces and the pressing of warm, eager, or cold, weak hands. His feet moved by themselves, his lips smiled automatically. Harry felt his friends’ need for celebration, understood the grief manifested around him and wondered at how strangely the two emotions coexisted, but he could not identify one single feeling belonging to himself beyond exhaustion. 

Harry was the impartial observer and the director of himself playing the principal part of War Hero. He realised idly that he would soon have to end the staging if he was to get the rest he needed so much. That was when people around him suddenly started to go on about Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. First, he picked up bribes of conversation, then someone directed a blunt question at his own person.

”I saw him, I tell you!” 

”Do you mean to say that…?”

”Did you hear that Dumbledore…?”

”Amazing, isn’t it?”

”Snape, too - yes, I assure you, of all people, him!”

”Harry, did someone tell you what happened to Dumbledore and Snape…?”

He frowned at first, thinking for himself that of course he knew what happened to Dumbledore and Snape. When people persisted on the topic with distasteful glints of sensationalism in their eyes, Harry bit back with sternness to set people right again. One should let the dead rest in peace was his strong sentiment.

Indeed, he supplied sharply, he had been there when Snape died. When Dumbledore died as well, but that was eleven months ago. No, Snape was definitely dead. Dumbledore was dead and buried - surely they knew that! People gave him strange, mystifying glances.

He did not really catch what they were trying to tell him, but started to feel vaguely disconcerted and strangely agitated. He thought that he glimpsed a figure with white hair and a long silvery beard, far away where people crowded in excitement. He turned his head and was caught by another vision: that profile with the hooked nose, surely… ? But how could that be!? His sight was obscured by passing wizards and witches. He twisted his neck the other way and - there - he met a flash of familiar blue eyes. Gone again, too soon. He squinted in the morning light and rose on the tip of his toes to endeavour to figure out what the tumult was all about. Surely, it could not be…?

Harry had spoken to Dumbledore only a few hours earlier in the dreamland of King’s Cross. Dumbledore was on the other side, damn it! The wise wizard had not with one word hinted at the possibility that he might follow Harry back to the present time. Harry shook his head, blaming the strange hallucinations on the lack of sleep.

Then, all of a sudden, the wizard who had fooled Voldemort and all others along, Severus Snape, manifested right in front of him and all he could do was to blink owlishly at the man. There was no trace of the blood that had covered Snape’s neck a few hours earlier. On the contrary, Snape looked healthy, a slight flush on his cheeks and, if possible, younger than Harry ever remembered him. 

Snape advanced decisively towards Harry, a hand stretched out. Automatically, Harry took a step forward and accepted it. Snape looked pleased and relieved at the same time, and started to speak to Harry in earnest. To Harry’s surprise and befuddlement, however, he could not make out a word of what the Professor was saying, because since he set eyes on Severus Snape, reality seemed to have been robbed of every sound.

Harry watched the Potions Master’s lips moving and leant forward politely in order to at least make a show of attempting to catch the man’s words, because it seemed disrespectful not to pay attention. The Professor appeared surprisingly eager to speak to Harry and there was no trace of the dislike that always used to curl Snape’s mouth, nor the contempt that used to lodge in Snape’s black eyes whenever he faced Harry. On the contrary, there was a tentative smile on the teacher’s thin lips. But Harry was in further trouble now, because he could no longer feel his hand that was still clutching that of Snape’s. The numbness was spreading fast past his shoulder and into his chest. At the same time, the field of vision was narrowing and dizziness flooded his brain, but not a word of complaint passed his lips as he valiantly kept his eyes fixed upon Severus Snape’s black ones, just like when the man had died across from him earlier the same night. The last thing Harry remembered was the flicker of concern then the alarm in the face opposite him, before everything went black.

The Hospital wing at Hogwarts two weeks post-war, in May 1998, was dark and shadowy despite the season. Heavy clouds hovered over the castle since the morning, minimising the scarce amount of light filtering through the deeply set windows in the thick walls. The glass was further blurred from raindrops silently running down the uneven, slightly embossed square surfaces, making the room even gloomier. 

Harry Potter, who was alone in the ward and who had been so the greatest part of the day, had not yet bothered to light the torches. He sat, fully clothed, on the edge of his made up bed, and studied his hands. After a fortnight in the hospital wing, even the callosities of his palms, built up during months of physical hardships when living as an outlaw in the forest, had begun to wane. Harry shook his head slightly. He was fine, really. What was he doing here, still?

The absolute silence of the room was awkward and unaccustomed - and a blessing at the same time. During nearly two weeks after the battle, the hospital wing had been crammed with people. Some only roughed up, others maimed and crippled, but all of them survivors. They had recovered in this room, until they were dispatched, one by one, either to St Mungo’s for further treatment, or were fetched home to their relatives’ care. The last patient had left with his family the same morning, and afterwards the blessed silence had reclaimed the ward.

All this time Harry felt out of place in the middle of the everyday hustle of caring and soothing, caught up in other people’s disconcerting compound of blatant grief over lost friends, and expressed joy over the end of the war. He felt guilty for occupying a bed when his injuries were limited to superficial scratches that had healed within days, not sure that his other condition warranted the amount of medical supervision that Mme Pomfrey and the all-too-respectful healers claimed that it did. Truth be told, he was embarrassed by the strange symptoms that no one seemed to understand and that had him confined to the hospital wing since the day Voldemort died. 

Sometimes, in a harsh twinge of self-scrutiny, Harry wondered whether he did not provoke those symptoms on a subconscious level. It was so convenient after all that he should be able to hide within the thick walls of Hogwarts when the public wanted their hero available in the real world, and wanted him to appear in the press. Convenient to be coddled by Mme Pomfrey, convenient to be able to avoid meeting with certain people who would upset him too much. 

Harry scowled sarcastically at himself. The suspicion added to a vague feeling of self-scorn that had settled in Harry’s mind since the end of the battle. He couldn’t say why he felt so impatient and disgusted with himself, but maybe it was in defence to the overwhelming and undeserving praise that he was drowned in for conquering Voldemort, who in Harry’s opinion, had only been hoist with his own petard.

Harry rose suddenly, stood for a short while, then glanced around uncertainly as if he had forgotten what made him move in the first place. He seemed to hesitate and to consider sitting down on the bed again, but decided to advance towards one of the windows. 

The young wizard put both hands on the broad stone of the window sill and leant forward. Rain was streaming down steadily outside, but made no noise against the windows. It must be calm outside - a gentle torrential. 

He could not say for how long he had been standing there, staring vacantly with unnervingly dry eyes at the blurred green scenery of the forest, idly tracing the path of a drop of water with a fingertip, as it ran across the window glass, when he noticed that he had lost feeling in both his hands. He should be able to perceive the cold of the glass, or at least feel the rough stone under his palm, but the skin was strangely numb. Carefully he took his weight from his flexed wrist and moved it slightly back and forth, but there was no tingling of the sort that one expects when pinching a nerve. Instead the numbness spread further up his arms and reached the elbows, causing his limbs to feel like strange, blunt clubs that did not belong to his body. 

Harry awkwardly managed to manoeuvre himself without making use of his hands into a sitting position in the window sill, back to the stone, legs flexed and feet against the opposite wall. His numb hands lay limp in his lap. He closed his eyes and leant his head back, deliberately breathing in a calming way.

This was only a trifle compared to the full-blown attacks that he had experienced a couple of times over the past weeks. He was confident that it would pass, and although he found it vaguely uncomfortable not to be in contact with parts of his body, it did not make him anxious. He observed the symptoms with detached curiosity and waited patiently for them to fade away. 

His mind drifted off to that first time it had hit him full force, when he had collapsed at Professor Snape’s feet. No one had been particularly surprised by then, because there were several circumstances to blame: the lack of sleep, the extreme mental and physical stress that he had been under for a long time, culminating at the point when he deliberately surrendered to Voldemort and resulting in the blowing off of a horcrux from his soul. Not to say the overwhelming surprise at finding out when everything was over that not only had he returned from the brink of the grave himself, but that Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape had actually resuscitated and come back from the dead! 

What had been more surprising and alarming was that Harry’s collapse had not been an ordinary fainting spell, but that he had slid into an immediate and deep, life-threatening shock that had been extremely difficult for the healers to reverse, and that had kept him unconscious for two days. 

Harry sighed and opened his eyes as he tentatively flexed his fingers. They felt a tiny bit less numb now, but on the other hand he seemed to have developed an insensitive spot on his chin, right under his lower lip. He pouted slightly, trying to stretch the area as if to awaken it, to no end. Resigned, Harry closed his eyes again. Rest and sleep were the only things that seemed to have a beneficial effect on the strange symptoms when they occurred on a low grade scale like this.

The fulminant shock reaction had reoccurred twice, and Harry knew that in the particular circumstances of those events lay the explanation. Those exact situations, or rather, the special pair of wizards who triggered it, one or both present on each time. Everything was connected with them. His former headmaster and his former teacher. Those two. 

And yet, the second time, he had been prepared, he had been consenting and even eager, if a little nervous, to meet both of them. He really thought it would be okay. Even Mme Pomfrey had declared him recovered.

Ron and Hermione had explained everything about the Professors’ resurrections so that Harry would be privy to the circumstances and feel ready to accept the facts. Yet the moment Dumbledore and Snape stepped inside the hospital ward and advanced towards Harry’s bed, it was as if all the air was sucked out of Harry’s lungs and as if his whole being was suddenly wrapped up in silencing and suffocating charms. With a vague notion of how the other patients and their visitors acclaimed and applauded the distinguished war heroes, Harry’s sight dimmed fast and he honestly did not remember much of the encounter from there. 

According to Ron and Hermione who witnessed the event and who told him later what happened, he had never let his extreme discomfort show, but stayed upright without swaying, eyes fixed upon the two wizards until they were close by his bed, at which point Harry, seemingly without warning, had silently passed out, shocking his visitors and his friends once again by the amount of resuscitative aid needed to stabilise him.

Professor Dumbledore had made one last attempt to approach Harry, unannounced and without Snape at his side this time, but with the same almost fatal result. Harry literally did not seem to support the presence of either of his former protectors. It was confusing and embarrassing at the same time. It was also highly impractical as it warranted that Harry be under constant medical surveillance, close to resuscitation facilities at all times until they knew what was wrong with him.

Between being unconscious and spending time recovering in the crowded ward, with a constant stream of visitors, Harry had not given the future much thought. Frankly, during the two weeks since Voldemort’s demise, reality had seemed dim and floating to Harry. It occurred to him that all his energy, when he was not unconscious, was spent trying to simply hang on with the state of things. Not infrequently,  he found it hard to follow his friends’ conversations. More than once, when he asked questions to keep up, did they show their vexation by accusing him of being unreasonably absentminded - Why did he ask, when they had just told him that - did he not listen to them?  

That was how he realised that several of his senses, taking turns, seemed to switch on and off. It was not that he did not pay attention to his friends, but his hearing actually did go dumb at times. In the same way, his skin, like now, would turn numb, and his muscles would become weak, before everything regressed to normal after a while. Harry could not bring himself to be upset or worried about these symptoms, not like Mme Pomfrey who hit the ceiling when he told her about them and fussed back and forth, consulting every possible healer at St Mungo’s she could get hold of. 

Harry had more than once found himself surrounded by consulting health care professionals in Mme Pomfrey’s office, listening to them arguing above his head. They advanced a long row of hypothesis regarding Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra, regarding the horcrux, the survival and the post-traumatic repercussions on body and soul. Their voices would fade in and out. At the same time Harry’s sense of smell would be heightened to nauseating levels, as swirls of smoke, perfume or crude bodily odours from the visitors would reach and overwhelm him, only for the olfactory sense to mercifully shut off completely in the end. 

Distracted, Harry would let them have their way, all while thinking with slight irritation that their efforts were ridiculous and in vain. They couldn’t possibly know! Of course they didn’t know! No one in the history of the Wizarding world had survived a killing curse, except Harry Potter. No one else had had a horcrux attached to their soul and then had it blown off. How could they express themselves with such confidence on diagnosis and prognosis?

This morning, when his last fellow patient left the ward, Harry finally put his foot down, cancelled the consultation planned for the day and explained firmly yet politely to Mme Pomfrey that he did not want to meet any other healers. Mme Pomfrey respected his decision, although slightly huffing and possibly resenting him for turning down her well-meant aid, because she promptly disappeared from the ward and only monitored her patient from a distance. That was how Harry had suddenly found himself alone for the first time since the end of the war, with abundance of time to think about his future. 

Somehow the hours passed, however, Harry knew not how. His thoughts wandered aimlessly and he listened to the silence of the stone walls of the ward with almost rapt concentration. So quiet! Such blessed stillness! Reflecting on the matter for the first time, he realised that there was no threat left. The world was safe from Voldemort, and his own mind was free from another presence, finally tranquil. It was a thought that should thrill and delight him, but it only made him wondrous and strangely empty.

Similarly, he experienced the fine spring rain as if for the first time in life. It left him elated and saddened at the same time, making him feel like crying. So many tears had fallen around him the past few weeks, but Harry had not shed a single one himself. He sat by the window, he did not know for how long, until his stream of consciousness was interrupted.

”Mr Potter,” said a brisk voice. He opened his eyes and sat himself more upright as he observed Mme Pomfrey advance from the door to her office. 

”Mrs Petunia Dursley is here to see you, Harry,” she proceeded more gently. Harry’s eyes widened as he raised his eyebrows at the unexpected statement. What on earth was his aunt doing at Hogwarts?

”My aunt is here? Why?” Harry asked as he stood up clumsily, stiff and a bit hoarse from not speaking since the morning.

”I told you I was going to write to her, don’t you remember?” said Mme Pomfrey. ”I asked her to come, and offered arrangements to make it possible. I got the impression that you approved,” she added.

Harry only looked at her and shrugged slightly, inwardly damning his unreliable senses. He had no recollection what-so-ever that Mme Pomfrey had talked to him about Petunia Dursley. But now, apparently, she was here. Harry felt unsure what to think about that. Most and for all, he was surprised that his aunt had agreed to come at all because she couldn’t be bothered with him already as a child. Now he was grown up and she had no obligation to visit him even if he were sick to death, which he was not, he was quite sure about that at least.

”She’s your family, Harry. The only one you have. I know that you did not part with warm feelings when you left for the war, and that you thought you were never going to see her again. Bill Weasley told me how cold the Dursleys behaved when you said good-bye to them last July.”

Harry looked down. Indeed, he never thought that he would see them again.

”You know what happened to your uncle and cousin, don’t you? Harry…?” insisted Mme Pomfrey hesitantly.

Harry clenched his teeth so hard that it was difficult to pronounce the small word.

”Yes.” 

What had happened to his uncle and cousin was not only a horrible mess in itself, but at the time, it had set a chain of events in motion that had cost Harry personally dearly in the end. He preferred not to talk about it. Aunt Petunia, however, as far as he knew, had not been directly involved in the tragic events.

”I’ll let her in then, shall I?” asked Mme Pomfrey carefully. 

Harry took a deep breath and nodded, frowning at his own mounting agitation. This was just Aunt Petunia. Sure, he had not seen her in almost a year, but that counted during his school years as well. Since his eleventh summer, they had never met more than once a year. Why should he be nervous - he still knew what to expect, didn’t he? There was not a chance in the world that he would get his hopes raised, he told himself sternly as he advanced towards the small group of furniture set up in a corner of the ward, for the purpose of receiving visitors. 

Well, thought Harry, maybe they could have tea together like civilised people, his aunt and he. That would be a start… A start of what!? He echoed his own thoughts with horror. What was he imagining? Harry suddenly noticed that he was gripping the back of the chair with his still half-anaesthetised fingers far too forcefully and tried to relax. 

When he looked up, his aunt was standing in the doorway. She was, if possible, even thinner than Harry remembered her. Maybe it was the majestic room of the ward that made her look so small. But then again she had always stood out in stark contrast to his cousin and uncle who had been unhealthily big. Harry was at a loss to identify his own feelings as he took her appearance in. Pity? An ounce of tenderness? Inexplicable fear? He clenched his teeth again. He was grown up, for heavens sake! Get a grip!

”Welcome to Hogwarts, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said formally, with a streak of uncertainty and gestured for his aunt to have a seat. Neither of them made an attempt to shake hands, or approach to hug each other. Harry thought that his aunt gave him a funny sort of look. She said nothing, but conceded to advance and sit down in an armchair. Harry hesitated before sitting down, too. He didn’t choose the sofa where he would be placed closer to his aunt, but ended up in the armchair at the opposite short side end of the table. 

”Um… Would you like some tea?” Harry stumbled slightly over the words. Mme Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen. She must have thought it wise to leave them alone. Harry, on the contrary, thought that his aunt and he could have used the diverting and conciliating presence of a third person.

As his aunt silently nodded her assent to tea, Harry nervously snapped his fingers. 

”Kreacher!” he said and the old house elf from Grimmauld place who had been transferred to Hogwarts materialised in front of him. Petunia flinched at the sudden appearance of the appalling creature, but straightened herself up immediately with tightened lips. 

Kreacher efficiently brought them a selection of Hogwart’s supply of pastries and crackers, as well as a kettle of well-brewed tea. Harry needed to concentrate in order to pour the steaming liquid in the cups as he served his aunt, because his hands still felt clumsy and he was afraid to spill. Lessons from his childhood were too deeply impressed on his memory to risk Petunia’s scorn. 

It was not until he sat back in his chair that he decided to make an effort to start a conversation.

”So, how did you arrive at Hogwarts, Aunt? Did you come by train?” he asked politely.

The exchange of words that followed was so slow and difficult that it occurred to Harry that it was like patiently untangling hair, only to realise that it had been caught in chewing gum and was hopelessly beyond salvation. His aunt barely answered his questions, or if she did, it was with snorts and humming, or monosyllables at most. All the while, she kept her eyes riveted at him, however, in a stare that Harry could not decipher. 

Was she so impressed by Hogwarts that she could not speak? wondered Harry. She never used to mince her words. A fragment of someone’s childhood memories surfaced in Harry’s brain. Once upon a time, he realised, Aunt Petunia had written to the headmaster of Hogwarts, begging him to take her in at the school. Once upon a time she had longed to belong here.

Harry felt a surge of pity for his aunt and he made a conscious effort to lower his shoulders that were so taut they were almost pulled up to his ears from tension. 

Maybe without Uncle Vernon and Dudley, Aunt Petunia felt free to investigate her former desire? He could show her around a bit, perhaps. Muggle relatives were allowed to visit, both at Hogwarts and at Diagon Alley. It could be a new start.

There was a sudden burn behind Harry’s eyelids. He bowed his head, but could not help letting out a small gasp which he immediately tried to hide by coughing. 

What kind of new start did he have in mind, exactly? Why did it suddenly seem so important to get along with Aunt Petunia? Had he not vowed never to return to Privet Drive when he left just before his seventeenth birthday? 

But the war was over now, he countered in his head. Everything was different. There was no threat. They could get on with their lives, and he in particular needed to decide about his future. 

Harry could not help grimacing. He was a hero, worshipped in the Wizarding world - all kind of possibilities lay open before him, and yet… Harry loathed to admit it to himself, but he was alone in the world. Despite his friends, he felt terribly lost and lonely.

Harry gulped. He realised already at an early stage after the victory that Fred’s death had caused a deep wound in the Weasley family and that it would probably take a long time for them to recover. Even if various members of the family had visited at the ward over the past fortnight, they seemed more distant, as if shutting themselves up in their grief. 

Ron and Hermione were completely engrossed in each others, making grand plans, talking about spending a year abroad, visiting Hermione’s parents, whose Obliviate spell had vanished the instant Voldemort died and who had thus been puzzled to find themselves settled in Australia. Meanwhile, even if Ginny showed signs that she was still interested in Harry, she made it very clear that her mother needed her at the moment and that he could expect nothing of her until Mrs Weasley was recovered.

Harry’s wandering thoughts did not facilitate the interaction with Aunt Petunia, nor did his ambiguity about his feelings for her. The conversation grew increasingly difficult while Harry grew increasingly exhausted until, finally, he abandoned his efforts and they fell completely silent. 

After a long while, Petunia put her empty cup down. When she finally pronounced her first full couple of sentences since her arrival, she did it with emphasis and with blatant resentment.

”You don’t look particularly unwell, do you? I was told that you had suffered serious damage from the war. I cannot see a trace of it,” she accused.

Harry found himself at a loss of speech at his aunt’s crude words.

”The symptoms are intermittent,” he finally choked out with a sinking heart. 

You knew it from start. She never wished you well. What did you expect? 

Harry rose from his seat. His instincts told him that he must end this at an early stage, because he had a feeling that Aunt Petunia had just got started.

”You’d better go now, Aunt,” he said tonelessly. ”I’ll show you the way back to the Entrance Hall.” Under the circumstances, Harry didn’t care one wit about Mme Pomfrey’s restrictions to keep him inside the ward. He only wanted to end this awkward meeting that just now threatened to become downright foul.

”I’ll tell you what, Harry Potter,” his aunt hissed. ”I came here… I consented to visit this place… only to see with my own eyes, finally, what it was all about. This… this… absurd… fuss! ” 

Although not unfamiliar, Harry was puzzled by the vehemence in Aunt Petunia’s voice. 

”It has gone on for years… It has been like a thorn in my flesh ever since my little sister found out that she was - magical.”  Aunt Petunia spat out the word with scorn. ”It all revolved around this, didn’t it? The famous school of magic. The fabulous magical castle. Hogwarts - that repelling, yet fascinating name. Lily and that vermin of a friend of hers, who lived at Spinners End, could not stop talking about it. I wanted… I acknowledge that it arose my curiosity. ” Aunt Petunia’s confession came out stiffly. ”And now, after twenty-five years, I decided to grab the bull by its horns and get that… that unhealthy obsession out of my system.” 

Again, Harry felt that regretful stab of pity for his aunt, along with a disheartening conviction that he would get nothing in return for his compassion. Aunt Petunia scrutinised Harry coldly from head to feet.

”I wanted closure,” she said haughtily. ”Nothing else. Don’t for a moment imagine that I came for you.”

Obviously she hadn’t! Harry clenched his teeth. It was just that, just that… Harry turned his head away. A triumphant expression crossed his aunt’s face. 

”I came to see Hogwarts for real, and when that is done I will stay away from the magical world for the rest of my life. I don’t intend - ever - to visit you again, Potter, get that into your head.”

”Good, let’s leave it at that and get you down to the Hall, then…” Harry cut quickly with a tight voice and revolved in direction of the door.

”Tell you what… Wait! Let me tell you, I say.” Petunia stopped Harry by a rough pull on the sleeve, forcing him to look down at her, because he was almost a head taller than his aunt now.  She narrowed her eyes maliciously. ”Hogwarts is nothing but an old hideous ruin. I haven’t even seen anything remotely magical since I arrived - except that ugly creature that served the tea,” she amended reluctantly. ”A freak. You’re obviously good at collecting them.”

”The castle is damaged from the battle,” Harry retorted with a frown. ”We were under siege and then attacked. The reparations only start next week.” 

”It’s a wreck,” said Petunia disdainfully. ”My guess is that the greatness was all in your people’s imaginations and that the magical world is just some kind of insanity. That boy, long ago, lured Lily into believing his fantasies and it led to her destruction, just as… just as…” Aunt Petunias’s voice crackled the least little bit. 

Harry felt his jaws tighten again to the point where a  peculiar sensation spread over his scalp, as if someone was pushing a cold helmet of steel heavily over his head. He moved on quickly, with a hammering heart, out of the ward and along the corridor leading to the stairs. I know where you’re heading, Aunt Petunia, and don’t go there. Just don’t. Don’t speak about it. Merlin, this has to come to an end. She needs to leave. Now!

”Or, perhaps it’s just you!” his aunt cried out as she ran after him.

Harry cast her a quick glance over the shoulder without slowing down.

”The nurse who brought me here said that you had vanquished that dark wizard at long last.  At what cost, I’m starting to wonder?” The shrill voice echoed among the cracked stonewalls.

Harry, who had not been outside the ward since the day of victory, was shocked by the state of the castle’s interior. Obviously, the hospital wing was the only exception to the general devastation. 

”You ruin everything, don’t you, Harry Potter?” Aunt Petunia nagged on unrelentingly.  ”If it weren’t for you, Vernon and I could have had a quiet family life at Little Winging. Dudley could have enjoyed a normal childhood, without an unwelcome, usurping changeling disrupting his family environment and upsetting his development. You did so much harm to him. And to myself. If I had not had you to concern myself with, I would no doubt have been able to support Dudley, and give him a totally different kind of attention…”

Harry clenched his teeth and glared at his aunt as he started to descend the stairs. She more or less constantly tugged at his arm by now, wanting him to stop and listen to her vicious words . That he refused to slow down did not stop her from pouring her venom out - tendrils of poison finding its way into Harry’s ears, whips of accusations hitting sore spots of his conscience.

”…considering that we never wanted you in our family in the first place…”

”…always a reminder…”

”…freaky things… could never relax…”

”…always worried about what the neighbours would think…”

”…needed to protect Dudley…”

”And the worst part was that you had the nerve to almost make us feel guilty about it.”

The last words reached Harry like a bucket of cold water in the face and he swirled around to stare at his aunt at last. They had arrived at the bottom of the stairs in the Entrance Hall that was more devastated than any other part of the building.

Aunt Petunia’s torrent of accusations had triggered a fine tremor in Harry’s entire body - something between shivers and thrills. By now, he had developed multiple numb spots on his skin - he was not even able to count them, and at the same time sharp sparkles of pain were running from his neck under the scalp. Moreover, the peripheral parts of his extremities were not entirely under his control, because it strangely felt like he was walking on cushions and not on a hard floor made of scratched stone, and it all made him incredibly wobbly. 

He had a moment of overwhelming dizziness and wondered vaguely if, perhaps, he was slowly turning into a ghost, because that numbness must be what it felt like to have no body. I must remember to ask Mme Pomfrey about that hypothesis, Harry thought with detachment, before his emotions returned to him and he opened his mouth to answer his aunt, who, however, advanced him.

”You had nothing for those manipulating, pitiful looks, though” Aunt Petunia went on. ”I have never been duped by your sort, not since that Snape boy hoodwinked my sister with embellished tales of the magical world and its implicit superiority to ours.” 

Harry sighed and shuddered at his aunt’s hateful words. Was there no way of making her see his side? he wondered. Of pleading only the tiniest bit of understanding?

”I was only a small child when I came to you,” he said and forced himself to sound reasonable. ”I understand that it meant a lot of extra work for you, but to say that I ruined…”

”But you did!” his aunt shrieked. ”I only wanted to spend time with Dudley, with my son, and you disrupted that harmony. You were a hindrance!”

”Well, you only put me in the cupboard under the stairs, anyway, and locked the door, whenever you wanted me out of the way, didn’t you?” Harry snapped. 

Aunt Petunia looked mutinous and not the least regretful, so Harry relented with a dejected sigh. 

”Look, why did you not just return me to D… to D… to the Wizarding world, once you found out how you felt about me being there?” he said. 

”Do you think we had any connections with your kind? Or wanted to?” snubbed Aunt Petunia.

”I know for a fact that you wrote to Hogwarts once - and that you got an answer, and a kind answer at that,” replied Harry. ”Of course you could have written again if you wanted to.” His aunt blanched and narrowed her eyes. 

”How did you know about my letter? Did the headmaster tell you? Or have you met that boy? Have you come across that freak wizard named Severus Snape who lived in the neighbourhood of my parents’ house? Has he been blithering to you about our childhood? What has he said? Is he still alive? In that case, I have a thing or two that I want to tell him. If it weren’t for him, you see…”

Harry started to feel light-headed at his aunt’s repeated references to Snape. He didn’t want to… He needed to steer the topic away from his late teacher - from his former… his former Professor, that was. Late. Dead. Resurrected. Harry swayed and put his hand guardedly on a pillar that was askew, but that still seemed to hold up. 

”Was it… was it the money?” he asked bravely, although a little breathless. ”Was that why you kept me? To have the allowances?” Aunt Petunia stiffened. 

”How dare you?” she thundered, and Harry closed his eyes briefly. ”How dare you suggest that we acted like some common… some common usurpers? Do you have any idea of how penniless we were at the time, with Vernon only at the beginning of his career, with mortgages on the house and me confined to being a house-wife to look after you children? Don’t you think that I’d wanted a job of my own? Do you have an inkling about to what extent you ruined not only my family, but also my professional life?”

Harry let out a small puff of air that he had held. He was wavering. He had never given a thought about his aunt’s and uncle’s economical situation at the time they took him in. He struggled to get his bearings back and said:

”All the more reason to return me to…”

”Don’t you think we had any pride?” bellowed Petunia. ”Do you think that we wanted to give in to our difficulties? No, we fought and worked hard to manage everything. It was a matter of principle to succeed, a matter of pride to show those around us that we managed, even with the extra burden of a child like you. But now… now, in retrospect, I realise that we were too stubborn, too brave. I should have put my own family first, because it would have prevented what happened later. But how was I to know? Not a day goes by without me wondering what would have happened had I rejected you from the beginning. It would have saved…”

Harry inhaled sharply. No, damn it, there was no need to launch into such speculations as where Aunt Petunia was heading. The what-ifs in the course of war were something that could drive you crazy. There were events he’d rather not be reminded of. The past was the past. It wasn’t exactly Aunt Petunia’s fault. But it wasn’t only about her husband and son either. Not exclusively. If she’d only leave it alone. Harry’s gaze pleaded mutely with his aunt not to go any further in her line of thoughts.

His aunt was silent for a few seconds before she continued, in a slow voice of steel this time.

”I hold you responsible for their deaths, Potter. That’s the second reason I came here. I wanted to tell you to your face. You are responsible for the deaths of my son and husband, as you are probably responsible for the destruction of this place, and maybe for many more lives.”

An overwhelming nausea of guilt gushed through Harry who breathed hard. It wasn’t fair. What she said was not true. Not in the sense she meant, anyway. She had no idea… 

”They knew…” he said in a low voice. ”You all knew that Voldemort was out to kill me. That he had already killed my parents. He killed your own sister, for God’s sake! You knew that. Yet, Uncle Vernon chose to do business with Voldemort’s men. It was bound to end in a catastrophe. But it was his own mistake, not mine.”

”If we had not associated with your world in the first place…If you had not put us in danger by your mere presence in our family…”

”Vernon and Dudley did it for the money,” Harry said in a hard tone.

”We were innocent parties, caught up in the middle of a war between criminal gangs. In our mind your side was as bad the as the other! We were dragged into the conflict by the mere fact of housing you!”

”Vernon and Dudley made contact with the Death Eaters after I had turned of age and left Privet Drive for good. There was no longer any reason for Voldemort to attack you. You were out of it. Uncle Vernon had no business to…”

”Don’t  you dare try to throw this back at me,” hissed Aunt Petunia. ”Vernon did what he thought was necessary to protect us. If he tried to make a little money along the way, you cannot blame him.”

Something suddenly broke within Harry.

”Uncle Vernon’s greediness cost the life of two of my friends!” he shouted and his voice crackled. ”Dudley and he lured Lupin and Tonks into a trap by pretending that I had returned home to Little Whining. The Death Eaters caught them, kept them prisoners, torturing them in the hope that the rumour of their imprisonment would reach me and that I would attempt to save them. But it didn’t. I was completely cut off from society at that time. If I wasn’t, I would have… I would have tried to… But I was too late… I only learnt in retrospect what happened to them.” Time after time while speaking, Harry caught his breath from the lump in his throat that was threatening to strangle him.

”The murderers delivered the corpses of my son and husband on my doorstep,” Aunt Petunia whispered, resentful, caught up in her own memory of horror. ”I knew that they were executed by magic, because there was no trace of violence on their bodies and the forensics found no trace of poison in their blood. The police questioned me, and questioned me. What could I say?”

”Tonks was pregnant.” Harry stared unseeingly in front of himself, unable to sympathise with his aunt because of the ugly and wasted deaths of Vernon and Dudley. ”Lupin and her had just got married. I wasn’t even there for the wedding, but Bill told me that they wanted me to become the godfather of their child. They were tortured for weeks, the one having to watch the other suffer during all that time. I cannot imagine the horror of their last moments of life…”  

”You care more about some magical people, who obviously had a professional part in the war, than you do for your own uncle who raised you, and your own cousin who grew up at your side, letting you play with his toys, sharing his house and parents with you? You ungrateful, cold, miserable…” 

”I didn’t wish them dead!” Harry enforced hoarsely. ”But don’t… Don’t pretend that they ever cared for me. That’s just not true!”

Harry suddenly glimpsed Mme Pomfrey on the stairs, with a shocked expression on her face as her eyes went from his aunt back to him. The raised voices must have called her attention. She would be appalled to realise that for all her good intentions, bringing Harry Potter’s aunt to Hogwarts would only result in quarrels and shattered hopes. 

For a brief moment Harry was distracted by the overpowering shame of publicly displaying this pitiful relationship with the woman who should have been instead of his mother. There was no shaking off the guilty thought that somehow it was all his fault.

Harry also seemed to perceive a presence obliquely behind him, close to the stairs leading down to the dungeons, but did not bother to verify who it might be, because he suddenly felt so very exhausted, and it suddenly felt so important, so extremely important to obtain, if not his aunt’s absolution, nor even her acceptance of his side of things, at least some understanding. 

”Listen,” he said softly. ”We both suffered losses from the war. And we’re not the only ones. There are so many families who grieve.” He closed his eyes, picturing Mr and Mrs Weasley. ”We shouldn’t fight,” he went on with a silent plea in the eyes as he opened them again. ”We might learn to get along a bit better if we give it a try. We’re still family.” His aunt was silent for a while.

”No, we’re not. I wouldn’t dream of associating, in any possible way, with the person I consider the murderer of my family,” she finally said, staring coldly at Harry, who flinched.

”You can’t be serious,” he whispered disbelievingly, shaking his head. ”It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want any of this.”

”If you hadn’t been left with us…”

”I was a child who had lost my parents, only one year old. How can you possibly hold me responsible…” Harry no longer shouted his protests, he gasped the words in a barely audible voice. His aunt refused to be moved, however, and advanced towards him with narrowed eyes and a cruel quirk on her lips.

”How do you explain later on, then? After you entered Hogwarts? Why did you not stay away from us then? We made perfectly clear to you our view of magic. Every summer, I expected you to have made arrangements to spend it elsewhere, but every summer you kept coming back. Why?”

”I had to. And you accepted that I stayed the summers…”

His aunt gave up a hollow laugh. Mme Pomfrey seemed to be frozen on her position on the stairs, a look of horror on her face.

”We made you work for your summers, didn’t we, now, Potter? Tell me, why did you stay? Why didn’t you run away, like a normal teenager would have done? I hated you for putting up with everything,” hissed Aunt Petunia. Harry blinked a few times.

”I did run away second summer,” he whispered uncertainly.

”Hmph!” Petunia sneered. ”What about later? All those summers. I know that Vernon did his best to make you miserable. And I won’t pretend I didn’t do my share. But you always prevailed. Stupidly, doggedly, you prevailed. What on earth did you get out of it, huh? A normal teenager would have run away, or killed himself. But you didn’t.” Harry flinched.

”I thought about it, but didn’t think I had the right to do that because of my mother’s sacrifice,” he answered blandly. There was a muffled exclamation behind him, but again he ignored the source of it, too caught up in the altercation with his aunt. ”Maybe it was sheer cowardice…” he whispered. ”But… but… Every time I returned to Privet Drive, it renewed the magical protection. D… D…” Harry stumbled over the name. ”The old headmaster told me to stay because of the protective wards, so I did. But please, Aunt…”

”You admit that you used us, then. You callously used us for some magical ends that we never even understood. How can you even justify that to yourself? It led to the destruction of your uncle and cousin. It’s inexcusable.”

Thoughts swirled in Harry’s head.

”You’re speaking with such spite,” he murmured weakly. ”You’re still loyal to him, somehow, aren’t you? Uncle Vernon always hated me and never wanted me in the family - it was understandable in a way. I was an intruder. But I always told myself that you played along to appease him. Secretly, though, you did accept me, didn’t you? I was your nephew, you let me live with you. You didn’t really hate me when I grew up? That’s what I told myself, anyway. But now, you still sound so… Why don’t you relent at this point? We could find some kind of truce at last. I’m your nephew… Please, Aunt…”

A triumphant air lit the face of Harry’s aunt.

”Potter,” she said drawlingly, ”whatever I made a show of saying before, the truth is that I only took you in for the mo…”

”That’s enough said on your part, Petunia Evans Dursley!” a voice behind Harry thundered and something black whirled past his side. 

A tall figure loomed over Aunt Petunia who cowered with a little shriek. To Harry’s fogged mind, Professor Snape, whom he recognised perfectly after all, took the form of an avenging angel. Harry choked out something between a nervous laughter and a sob of relief as he watched the angry wizard grab Aunt Petunia by the elbow and roughly push her towards the exit door. Harry was vacillating and a ringing sound started to sing in his ears, but bribes of words still reached him.

”… outstayed…”

”… leave Mr Potter alone…”

”…not come back…” 

The door clacked. Aunt Petunia was finally gone and Harry’s legs buckled. On his fours, he looked up and stared at the black backside of the wizard’s robe that slowly turned around. Harry fought the by now familiar feeling of his body shutting down and struggled to keep conscious. He didn’t want to pass out. He was suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude. He wanted to thank the man for intervening, for putting his aunt in her place, for taking his side when he himself had wavered. Guilt was such a treachery feeling. Longing for love made you so pathetic, so vulnerable. The Snape he used to know would have laughed in his face, but instead… 

Severus Snape’s face was still taut with anger as he turned around, but the flare in his eyes subsided to concern as they met Harry’s. Harry opened his mouth in order to speak, but no sound would come out. He heard, as if from vey far away, the sound of feet running down the stairs. 

”Harry!” cried Mme Pomfrey, as Harry felt himself drift into unconsciousness, eyes riveted on the black ones of Severus Snape - with a fleeting uncertainty over who was really dying this time - until the world, predictably, went completely black.

The explanation that Dumbledore had given the world - because it was he who was responsible for the resurrections - Snape, apparently, had known nothing about the protective magic that Dumbledore had used for his benefice - was that Dumbledore had attached a spell of sacrificial Ancient magic to the resuscitating properties of Voldemort’s horcruxes, so that the destruction of one horcrux, as it annihilated a part of Voldemort’s soul, would at the same time resuscitate a wizard who had altruistically sacrificed himself.

The indirect use of Dark Arts, by linking additional magic to already created, extremely dark horcruxes, were now the focus of a lively debate in the Wizarding world. There were actually voices who declared that Dumbledore should go to Azkaban for his deeds. But most people only saw it as a clever way to have turned the tables on Voldemort and that there was nothing immoral in sacrificial magic. 

Apparently Dumbledore had found the diadem of Ravenclaw in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts already at an early stage of the war, but calculated that rather than destroying it right away, it would be to his advantage to use it to save at least one innocent life. At the point when he created the resuscitating spell, Dumbledore had Snape in mind, most and for all. His spy had for a considerable period of time deliberately put his life in danger and Dumbledore confided in retrospect that he suffered greatly and guiltily from seeing his Potions Master throw his life away, being tortured for the sake of the cause, amending for sins committed more than a decade ago. 

Inconspicuously, Dumbledore had done the same kind of magic on the horcrux attached to Harry’s soul. This was even more of advanced experimental magic, but it was prompted by a desperate attempt to save Harry’s life. Dumbledore knew that Harry would have to give himself up to Voldemort in order to blow the horcrux away, but could not live with the idea that Harry would succumb to his sacrifice. Dumbledore was far from sure that the shared blood between Voldemort and Harry would in itself suffice to protect Harry, thence the additional protection. 

Naturally, many of those who lost their sons and daughters during the final battle lamented bitterly that not more lives could be saved. Several people found it suspicious that the old wizard had spared himself and his closest man only. But at the time Dumbledore performed the magic, there were only those two horcruxes available, and when Dumbledore found the third one - the Gaunt’s ring - he missed the opportunity to take advantage of it before he was hit with the curse that Voldemort had placed upon it. And from there on things did not go exactly as Dumbledore had planned. 

Professor Dumbledore’s intentions set aside, the sacrificial magic did not work with the kind of impulsive bravery that occurs during wars, but was only triggered by the very deliberate, heart-felt and complete defiance of death that very few people can induce themselves to act out on. Neither did the sacrificial magic discriminate by age, utility, nor fitness of the person who was resuscitated, and that was why, to Dumbledore’s miscalculation, he himself was the first wizard to be chosen by the magic when the diadem of Ravenclaw was destroyed. The spell took effect when Voldemort was finally killed in the duel with Harry, and so Dumbledore resuscitated. He was still very old and he still had a curse contained in his hand that would inevitably lead to his death - again - but it was estimated that his resurrection would buy him at least a couple of years, because the curse was better contained than the healers first believed. 

Severus Snape was a case as clear as a bell for the sacrificial magic that was liberated when Harry’s horcrux was blown off him by Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra in the forest, but only because Snape had died by Voldemort’s hand before Harry offered his own immolation. Fortunately, Lily’s sacrifice still lived in Harry’s (and Voldemort’s) blood and made him immune once again against the killing curse. 

The fact that Severus Snape was singled out by the sacrificial magic for resuscitation was sufficient for him to be cleared of all suspicions of triple spying for Voldemort. No one could question his loyalty to Dumbledore.

Thus, all three war heroes had come back alive and relatively unscathed. Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape died, but resurrected. Harry Potter died and resurrected in one swift unnoticed moment which never even became public, yet the parallel was there. 

Intellectually, Harry understood and accepted the course of events. This was the magical world after all. Emotionally, however, the state of facts played havoc with his nerves. The memories etched in his mind of Dumbledore tumbling backwards, falling through the window in the headmaster’s office and of him lying sprawled out on the ground at the foot of the tower played themselves in his head and overruled the incontestable fact that the man was alive once again. As for the other wizard, images of Nagini attacking Snape, of a blooded neck and a white face, of obsidian eyes slowly extinguishing, were so freshly impressed upon him, that Harry literally could not stand the paradox of seeing the man in full vigour again.

***

When Harry woke up after his forth collapse, he came to overhear a conversation at his bedside as he gradually returned to consciousness. He was first reached by the scraping sound of a chair when someone rose and called softly for Mme Pomfrey, whose quick steps Harry perceived with distinct clarity.

”Yes?” her professional voice inquired.

”I believe that he’s beginning to wake up,” a familiar dark voice replied.

”Already? That’s an improvement. Only fourteen hours this time.”

”I’d better leave before he sees me and have a relapse,” the dark voice stated soberly.

A sigh and a brief pause followed.

”I guess you’d better. I’m sorry, Severus, I know how much you’d like to speak to the boy. Don’t give up on him, though, he’ll come around, I’m sure. He cannot help his reaction. It stems from the depth of death.”  

”I know,” the voice said quietly. ”And I won’t… give up.”

In his semiconscious state of mind, Harry experienced a stunning astonishment at the knowledge that someone had stayed by his side and that someone was not giving up on him, which was more than he himself felt sure of doing. It’s strange, he thought, the dead have always cared about me. Why only the dead?

***

The week that followed Aunt Petunia’s visit brought a change to Harry’s frame of mind. He recovered physically from his collapse more readily than before, but he remained in a dazed, vulnerable state that he did not recognise, nor particularly enjoy. He still had difficulties focusing, and reading books was out of the question. What was different from before was that he would now frequently surprise himself with wet cheeks, without being really aware of crying, or having a sense of being sad at all. Where his eyes had been unnervingly dry before the breakdown in front of his aunt, they would now pour out tears automatically and abundantly. It was disconcerting and exasperating to Harry who was being far from indulgent with himself. Mme Pomfrey’s assurances that the tears were probably a good thing, and part of a healing process of some kind, only marginally appeased his frustration and embarrassment. 

To Harry’s relief, visits from friends had declined to a minimum, as if everyone else, too, were finally caught up with exhaustion and wanted nothing but to stay at home, in peace, and confined to their closest families.  

At Hogwarts, however, the restorations of the half demolished castle started. The Hospital wing had an increasingly oppressing effect on Harry and he finally obtained permission from Mme Pomfrey to leave the ward. He carried a safety Portkey in his pocket that would take him back to the hospital wing in case of an impending attack of illness. He wandered restlessly around the castle, distractedly watching the professional wizard and witch workers performing their tasks.

One day, he found himself caught with genuine interest as he watched the work of an old master of painting restoration and his apprentice, a young witch. Harry remembered from his sixth year at school that Professor Flitwick in Charms had introduced them to the art of magical painting, which had nothing to do with Muggle painting. Already at the time, he remembered enjoying the delicate layering of colours which would later - and not by the work of hand and brushes, but by that of wand and magic - spring to life into shapes, forms and movement. Truth be told, he had found himself an aptitude for the subject and had got and Outstanding on Professor Flitwick’s assignment, but then of course there was Quidditch, lessons with D… D… with the headmaster, and spying on Malfoy - and so the talent that Harry more or less considered a fluke had come to nothing at the time.

The painting restoration apprentice was a few years older than Harry, her name was Helena and she was an artist. She explained to Harry that she learnt to perform painting restoration only to be able to support herself financially while she was realising her own art. When Harry expressed a floating wish to have a go at magical painting again, she generously bestowed him both with some material and with a demonstration of different techniques. 

Helena’s way of teaching was as conscientious and as heart-felt as if Harry had been a fellow artist of hers and not an amateur painter, and certainly not the saviour of the Wizarding world - a fact that she seemed to solemnly ignore to Harry’s relief. She spoke passionately about the visual aspects of Magical Arts which was what she lived for, and her personality was such that one instinctively figured that she plunged into everything in life with equal ambition and passion. Had Harry been introduced to the subject by anyone less arduous and earnest, it was far from sure that he could have been brought out of his shell, but as it were, despite himself, Harry was hooked by both the proceeding and the person providing the task.

Mme Pomfrey had asked of Harry to be cautious with his magic while recovering from whatever strange post-traumatic condition he was suffering from. There was actually no reason to believe that Harry’s magic was involved in his current disability. On the contrary, Harry found that the small everyday spells that he was allowed to use seemed to come more naturally and with less effort now than before the horcrux was detached from him. He had always needed to put a fair amount of power behind even a simple spell, but now he performed them as easily and as gracefully as if he had been born with a wand in his hand and grown up using it as a sixth sense. This, at least, comforted him somewhat.

Painting charms required a bit more power than the average spell and above all it required a substantial amount of concentration, complex modulation of magic, as well as mental visualisation. Seeing Harry raised above the near apathy he had sunk into since his aunt’s visit, and for once eager to try something, Mme Pomfrey could not deny him the activity of magical painting. 

Even after Helena and her master finished their work and left the castle, Harry persevered, having ordered painting material of his own and looking up techniques in borrowed books from Professor Flitwick. 

From there on, painting became the crutch in Harry’s everyday existence. It was the reason he forced himself to get up every morning. He could spend hours figuring out how to blend two colours to a perfect balance in order to obtain a certain effect on a canvas. His deep involvement prevented effectively, although only temporarily, the rumbling, unproductive and guilty thoughts that had invaded his mind since the end of the war. Painting also produced a respite and a distraction from the symptoms that still had an undiminished life of their own in his body, however.

They had almost reached the end of May, and spring was blossoming outside Hogwarts. Mme Pomfrey demanded that Harry spend some time in the fresh air, which was why Harry reluctantly took to painting outdoors. 

Obeying the matron of the Hospital ward, Harry, in the afternoons, would seek out a suitably shadowy place in a clearing of the forest where to put up his easel with a canvas. 

This particular day, the temperature reached an all time high for the season and nature was exploding in greenery, in sprouting, in budding and flowering. Birds were chirping madly. 

Harry had only been working on his painting for a short while, but he was already getting distracted. He had always harboured ambiguous feelings about the spring season, but this year it was worse than before. All was well as long as he had his painting to focus on, but inevitably there would be moments where his hands went numb, or his arms weak and he would have to put his wand down to wait the symptoms out. 

Even when sitting in the shadow, Harry felt hot and sticky. He closed his eyes to the overwhelming burst of life that surrounded him. Even the sunlight filtered through the young, tender green leaves blazed his eyes, and the incessant chirping jarred on his ears. He made a grimace and almost wished that his senses would shut down and spare him the overload of impressions. He felt a sudden impulse to run inside, seek out the dungeons, their darkness and cool freshness and to go to sleep for an indefinite amount of time, preferably until nature stopped it’s racking exaggerations. 

Instead of taking action to escape the torture, however, Harry remained passively seated and, as on command, tears began flowing down his cheeks. He knew he could do nothing to stop them, so he stayed as he was, chin on his chest, eyes closed, hands helplessly limp in his lap, overwhelmed by a strangling sense of hopelessness that was only heightened by the contrast between what was going on inside him and the gushing optimism of nature. 

As much as he despised himself for the involuntarily leaking tears, he loathed himself for not being able to appreciate springtime to its value. What was wrong with him? Everyone but he felt rejuvenated and empowered by the season. His friends, after only a short time of mourning and rest, were on their feet, making plans for the summer, organising parties that Harry declined to attend to, over and over again, to the general disappointment of his peers. Harry was so angry at himself for not being able to snap out of his oppressive mood and get rid of his strange symptoms. Well, he thought bitterly, at least he could blame his passiveness and unsocial behaviour on the blasted illness. But deep inside he was not sure that his conscience would let him get away even with that cast-iron alibi.

Harry opened his eyes and blinked some tears away impatiently while flexing his fingers tentatively. He might be able to do a bit of paint layering again. He was doing a landscape with a lake as the central part of the motive and he wanted to get the mysterious reflections from the still surface to be just right.

He had only just squeezed out a blob of paint and lifted his wand, when someone strode into the clearing from behind a set of bushes and stopped neat only twenty feet away. Harry felt a thrill of dread run through his body at the sight of the black wizard robes which he instantly recognised who they belonged to. As he had just got started on the smoothing spell, however, and did not want to ruin the layer of paint, he somehow managed to complete the task before him. And by the time he was finished, the worst part of the initial faintness of knowing himself in the presence of Professor Snape had passed. Not taking any risks, he kept his gaze steadily fastened on the canvas in front of him, however. 

In the corner of the eyes, Harry noticed the wizard make a gesture of surprise at stumbling upon Harry Potter in the middle of the forest, tramp around as if he hesitated to move on, then probably thinking better of it, turn and advance a few steps towards Harry instead. Although he was seated, Harry felt the ground totter under him at the proximity to the resurrected Professor. To counteract the all too familiar feeling of drifting away, he picked up his paint tube with trembling fingers and started applying another layer.

”Good afternoon, Mr Potter,” said the Professor. 

Harry shuddered.That voice, that silky voice… In the dungeons, always in the dungeons, during all those years at school. And at the Shrieking Shack… That voice… ”Look at me…” 

”Harry,” the Professor stated calmly. ”May I call you Harry, Mr Potter?” 

Harry blinked. That was new. His former professor would never have asked such a question. It was spoken with respect and caution. He had a feeling that the wizard observed him closely for adverse reactions. Harry swallowed and kept his eyes on the pool of silvery paint that he made spread by magic over the already applied black and dark green layers.

”Of course, Professor. You’re welcome to call me Harry,” he answered, his voice only wavering the least little bit. Snape, if that was really him - Harry had a hard time getting realities together since the man behaved so uncharacteristically and since he was supposed to be dead anyway. Dead and resurrected, what did that really make you? wondered Harry - the very same Severus Snape, anyhow, seemed encouraged by Harry’s answer, and approached a little further.

”Mme Pomfrey told me about your progress in the Magical Arts,” he said. ”Please tell me about it. I’ve always enjoyed art, but know nothing about the technique of making it.” 

The question was sincere and yet commonplace enough for Harry to relax a little. He suddenly found himself explaining to Professor Snape about colour layering, about magical shaping and ways to have a painting spring to life. 

”But, I’m not very good at the last part yet,” conceded Harry. ”Until now, I’ve only made landscapes and interiors where very little transpires. Helena says that I have no contact with my inner motives.” 

Snape listened and hummed in answer for a considerable stretch of time while Harry continued to prepare his painting and was careful never to let his head turn toward the Professor. 

”There,” said Harry. ”It’s ready for magical transformation.” For some reason he hesitated to lift his wand.

”Go ahead,” his former teacher encouraged him. 

Without really considering what he was visualising, but with a sudden gush of emotion, Harry threw the complicated spell at the painting. At first he thought he had only succeeded, yet another time, in making a stagnant picture of a lake with a black and silvery surface, but as they stared at the scene, small ripples of waves started to run across it, that grew to wild heaves, and suddenly Harry recognised the scene perfectly, and a surge of nausea almost overpowered him as he knew what was about to happen next. And sure enough, from the depths of the underground lake that Harry had drawn, slightly fluorescent, pale figures started to rise and climb the shore in the foreground. They were soulless Inferi - dead, yet in flesh and moving, terrifying dead bodies. 

A small gasp was let out near Harry’s left ear where Professor Snape was positioned, observing the painting over Harry’s shoulder. Harry could not determine if it was a sound of horror, dismay or disgust. On his own part, Harry stared transfixed at the scene. He could not decide whether he was proud of having succeeded - and probably surpassed - his goal of Magical animation, or if he was appalled by what had sprung from his unconscious mind. 

Nothing more happened in the painting. The Inferi disappeared and the surface stilled, until the scene started to play again. Thrice did Harry watch the Inferi rise from the lake, before he was overcome with exhaustion and shut his eyes.

”A… memory of yours, I take it?” asked Snape.

”The first horcrux hunt,” Harry said hoarsely. ”Together with D… with D…”

”I’m sorry. You would have a bunch of that sort of memories, wouldn’t you?” Snape said in a low voice full of regret, but suddenly his tone sharpened. ”What on earth do you think you are doing, Mr Potter! Harry?”

”I… I’m a bit tired,” Harry murmured. He found that he had just let himself slip to the ground on all fours. ”Just have to rest for a while.” 

”You’re not seriously considering lying down in the moss, are you?” Snape replied and Harry felt a faint flush of embarrassment on his cheeks, because he actually had considered just that. 

”I’m sorry to say,” continued Snape in a stern, but not unkind tone of voice, ”that you need to start taking responsibility for your condition, Harry. You know how dangerous it would be for you to slip into a state of unconsciousness that you’re not sure to be able to reverse on your own, here in the forest, far from all means of resuscitating you. You were doing fine until now. You need to continue fighting. Now, stand up, please.”

Harry’s head was swimming with weariness, but he raised himself obediently on his knees and fumbled in his pocket.

”You’re right, Professor, I need to get back to the ward,” he murmured. ”I have the Portkey that Mme Pomfrey gave to me. It’s right here.”

”You shouldn’t rely on Mme Pomfrey’s artificial support,” snapped Snape. ”You can do better than that, Mr Potter. Come on, stand up! You’re able to make it back to the castle with my assistance. Fight for it, like you’ve been doing so many times. You can make it, Harry.”

It was only at the last encouragement that Harry was able to take in what Snape was saying and decided to comply to the exhortation. It contrasted with the careful, understanding and yielding behaviour that Harry had met during his convalescence. Everyone, including his friends, Mme Pomfrey and the consulted Health Care professionals, were all a little scared by the strange things that had happened to Harry with the horcrux, and with him killing Voldemort. They were overwhelmed with awe at what he had endured, and with pity because of his condition. As a consequence they treated him with kid gloves, a behaviour that did nothing but undermining Harry’s strangely sprained self-confidence.

So when Professor Snape demanded of him to mobilise his courage and fighting mood, believing that Harry could, Harry found a sparkle in him to do so. He stood up, Snape caught his elbow and said soberly:

”Don’t look at me, and you’ll be fine. You just released a powerful memory, which will probably prove beneficiary to you in the end, because it’s not healthy to bottle those kind of experiences up. You need to face them and accept them. I probably remind you of other terrible events, though, so right now you need a distraction. Therefore, while we’re walking, tell me all you know about spring flowers and their possible magical properties. Just to keep your mind on something else.”

”I hate spring,” declared Harry, as he clenched his teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other on the path back to the castle.

”How come?” Snape asked neutrally.

”I find I cannot keep up with it,” Harry muttered. Snape seemed to catch his meaning immediately.

”Well, that’s fine. Just let it run ahead, you’ll catch up with it later,” he said calmly.

”Really?” said Harry, almost glancing at his Professor, but turning his head away in time.

”Yes, really. Don’t worry. You don’t need to get on board. Springtime is overwhelming, hysterical, a hyperbole of life. It’s self-limiting, though, so let Spring have its own course. Go easy on yourself. Now, properties of the different Avens plants, please?”

By the time they reached the castle, Harry felt almost calm and lucid again. Snape accompanied him all the way upstairs to the ward where he released Harry’s elbow which he had held in a firm grip until then. That small physical contact during the length of the walk, however, had strengthened Harry’s internalisation of the fact that Snape was indeed a person in flesh and blood, as if the gesture had anchored Snape not only to him, but to the earth and to the world of the living again.

Harry advanced on his own towards his corner of the ward. On the wall, at the side of the head of the bed, hung the pictures he had produced since meeting with Helena. Bland landscapes, not bad when it came to colouring, but insipid and lifeless. 

With a sharp inhalation, Harry straightened his back and lifted his wand. In a quick succession of Animating spells, one painting after the other sprang to life. He was surprised by how vividly and in what great detail he seemed to be able to render the different scenes. One atrocity after the other formed and were enacted in the paintings in front of him. There was a burning body and a white marble coffin emerging from the flames. An old lady walking into a cemetery who suddenly transformed into a snake. There was an ice-clad lake that opened up and swallowed a young man. A golden locket that opened with a shocking flash of light. A sliver dagger that pierced a House Elf’s body. A clearing in a forest - two figures within a circle of dark hooded shadows and a flash of green light.

Harry stopped.

”Merlin!” Snape choked behind him. ”It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it? You don’t spare yourself.” 

But Harry stared at the last, not yet transformed, painting. It was an empty and dark interior, only shadows visible in the room. Harry closed his eyes briefly and opened them to cast the final vigorous spell. 

He gasped at the transformation. He knew already from the start that it would be the Shrieking Shack. Immobile, he watched as in minute detail the murder of the person standing beside him played out.

Taking a steadying breath, finding strength from the sheer knowledge that the scene in front of him was true, because he had lived it, witnessed it, Harry turned around and faced the man whose destiny was sealed in the picture. 

Finally able to look at his former Professor without collapsing, Harry took his time, without concealment nor shame, to scrutiny the stark-featured face. The bony, high-set cheekbones, the large, hooked nose, the thin lips, the high, intelligent forehead curtained by black hair and the obsidian, depthless black eyes - the face was so familiar, yet so different, because none of the usual scorn or bitter expressions impaired it. There was no hate, no dismay, no condemnation, no disgust, no signs of unhappiness or disharmony in those features. Harry inclined his head slightly to the side without detaching his eyes from his Professor’s face.

”Who are you?” he asked. ”You’re nothing like the Professor Snape I used to know.” There was a slight plea to his voice as if he wished desperately to be able to internalise what he intellectually knew to be true.

A flicker of understanding and of sadness passed the serene face in front of him.

”I am Severus Snape,” the man said solemnly. ”I am exactly the same wizard that you remember, but fate, and Albus Percival Dumbledore…” Snape enunciated the name with detached syllables and Harry shuddered, ”…Professor Dumbledore gave me a second chance. Which I’m embracing. There is no use in being given another life and to plough on in the old miserable way. I expect to change, I want to change and… Would you like to lie down, Harry?”

The extraneous spell-casting had finally taken its toll on Harry. He was barely holding up, and at the Professor’s gentle and concerned question, the exhaustion came over him with a pang and he staggered. 

”I think I had better,” he murmured. ”I’m sorry for this… melodramatic… outburst…” He gestured vaguely at the paintings.

”No, no, that’s fine,” reassured Snape. ”You’ve finally found a way of dealing with the unbearable memories from the war. You should continue painting - it’ll do you good. And you’ve got an exceptionally fine sense of colouring.”

Something indescribable, warm and painful at the same time, suddenly grasped Harry’s heart at the words which he realised formed the first compliment he had ever received from Professor Severus Snape.

The Professor led Harry to the bed where Harry sat down. Somehow he did not seem to be able to take his gaze off Snape, now that he finally was able to endure the sight of the wizard. 

Snape did look at least a couple of years younger than he should be, Harry thought, transfixed. Maybe Dumbled… D… Yes, him… had taken the worst years off the Professor’s… As compensation or something… Harry smiled shrewdly  He almost said the headmaster’s name, didn’t he? He was definitely making progress, but it made him so tired, so very tired… The thoughts were floating sluggishly in his mind. What was the Professor saying, again? Harry knitted his eyebrows together in an effort to focus.

”I was saying that you may call me Severus,” said Snape. ”It might help you overcome the paradox of seeing me alive. Look at me as a new acquaintance, if you wish. One who was once dear friends with your mother and who would like to get to know you. Would that be acceptable to you?”

”Severus,” said Harry, slurring slightly from exhaustion as he struggled to lift his legs up on the bed. He was desperate to put himself in a prone position quickly, because he was falling asleep any moment now, and his limbs moved so exasperatingly slow. He finally managed, sunk back on the bed and his eyes closed of their own volition.

”Here’s a blanket for you,” said Severus’ gentle dark voice. 

A pleasant voice, thought Harry, like velvet, very much like velvet. Weird. Is he taking care of me? Is he really doing that? He defended me to Aunt Petunia, too. And he wants to get to know me. Severus Snape. So unbelievably strange.

”I will sit with you for a short while, only to make sure that you fall into a normal sleep and not some perilous unconsciousness,” continued Severus. The man must have drawn up a chair beside the bed. Harry struggled to search his mind. There was something he was wondering just now. He didn’t want to turn in just yet. Ah, there it was - a very important question.

”What are your feelings about spring, Severus?” he managed to enunciate. A faint chuckle came in answer.

”My sentiments for the season throughout the years have to a large extent coincided with what you described to me, Harry,” Severus replied and Harry recognised some of Professor Snape’s habitual irony. ”And those feelings were rightfully combined with loathing and irritation,” Severus continued. ”When you can’t have happiness, you have a tendency to dismiss everything that reminds you of it. This year, however,” Severus’ voice was lowered to a whisper and Harry felt himself starting to drift off. ”This year, I was resuscitated. I was reborn and rejuvenated just as nature itself in springtime and I assure you that to fully take part of that process was… exhilarating… unreal…”

”Unreal,” echoed Harry in a faint voice.

”Very different, no doubt, from your own state of mind this past month, but nonetheless, not without complications… Who could possibly come out unaffected by such an experience? It was overwhelming, you have no idea… and with a feeling of not knowing what to do with my newborn self. I will tell you another time, perhaps. Moreover, such a gift obliges, you know, Harry, indeed it does.” Snape made a pause, but continued after a while. ”There are so many things I discovered that I wanted to do. I’ve only got started. Getting to know you is one of my principal and most ardent wishes in this new life. I’ll come back later and we’ll see if we can start working on that, now that you can endure my presence better. Please, rest well now.”

The words soothed Harry’s mind, and with some kind of hope floating through his veins for the first time since the war, Harry slumbered into a much-needed sleep.