The room was too warm. Sweat ran under the boy's dark hair, down his temples and behind his neck, and the sheets clung to his bare chest. Lately, Harry had grown accustomed to sleeping shirtless; Grimmauld Place had no Muggle wonders like air conditioning or fans, and maintaining a cooling spell all night long was exhausting, as he'd found out a few days ago, waking up refreshed but twice as tired as when he'd gone to sleep.

There was probably another spell or magical contraption that could be used to reduce that infernal heat, but Harry didn't know about it, having spent every summer with his Muggle aunt and uncle, or at the Burrow, where Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took care of such things. He would have liked to ask Hermione about it, his friend was something of a walking encyclopedia and would surely find a solution to the problem, but the girl, like Ron, was half a world away at the time. The two of them had left almost two weeks ago for Australia, to find Hermione's parents and restore their memories. They had asked him if he wanted to go, but Harry knew that, as a newly formed couple, they needed privacy, and a trip like that was the perfect excuse.

Besides, the boy had his own responsibilities to attend to; the trials of Death Eaters (or those accused of being one) were due to begin shortly. Not to mention the fact that, just the thought of catching a plane and going all the way to the other side of the planet, was enough to fill Harry with exhaustion. It was the only option his friends had had: international relations were still being repaired after Voldemort's rise to power and eventual defeat, and the Portkeys, floo networks and other means of transportation were still not working. So, Ron and Hermione had bought two plane tickets instead and, after a couple of days of travelling, they had arrived safely at their destination. Harry had taken a deep breath when he had received the message on his D. A. coin saying that everything had gone well, but he had no regrets about his decision.

It had been a month since the Battle; funerals had come and gone, and the magical world had returned to some semblance of normalcy, but the boy felt as exhausted as he had that first day, when Ron and Hermione had found Snape in the Shrieking Shack. And the nightmares that haunted him at least a couple of times a week didn't help. The scenarios changed, but what happened in them was always similar: the people he had lost were there, alive, but barely. They were sick or injured, and Harry had to find a way to save them, before time ran out. Fred, Remus and Tonks, even Sirius or his parents, would talk to him, tell him it wasn't his fault, that there was nothing he could do. Still, the boy tried, again and again, all night long, but when he woke up, he knew it hadn't been enough, and that he had lost them again. That left him in a bad mood all morning, feeling moody and sullen. But it was still better than the other kind of nightmares, in which his loved ones were alive, recovering from what had happened. Maybe they were missing a limb, or had dried blood on their faces, or were smiling at him from a gurney in the infirmary, but they were there. Harry talked to them, and although they were very weak, the boy's heart pounded, full of joy, because they were alive, and the horrible reality that had haunted him for the last month was not true. The weight in his belly that he had carried with him since the Battle would disappear and Harry would smile and cry at the same time, soaking his pillow with false dreams, which would never come true. The nightmare itself wasn't so bad; the worst thing was waking up. One moment he was there talking to them, feeling complete, and suddenly the tentacles of reality started dragging him up, separating him from his loved ones. Harry would fight with all his might to stay there with them, but he always ended up opening his eyes, sweating, in the middle of the room. And those he had lost would slip through his fingers once again, leaving him alone.

Harry knew that it was his nightmares which were causing that horrible warmth in the room, but the month of June and the thick walls of Grimmauld Place didn't help either. Part of him wondered if he could modernize the house; combine Muggle inventions like electricity with the magical medieval tradition. That was yet another question he would have to wait to know the answer to, the boy resigned himself, making a mental note to ask Hermione when he had the chance. Though, come to think of it, he still didn't feel comfortable enough to make drastic changes at Grimmauld Place. Sirius had left it to him in his will, but Harry still sometimes felt like an intruder, as if he had no right to replace that old furniture, or to remove the ancient, dusty wallpaper from the walls. The cleaning that the Order had conducted in the house, plus the one that he and his friends had done last year, had transformed it into a more welcoming and inhabitable place, but it would still take time before Harry could call it home. He hoped that little by little, it would get easier for him. Especially considering that, in the whole world, Grimmauld Place was the only place that was his. Going back to Privet Drive was not an option; his relatives had returned after the war, after Harry had informed them that it was safe to do so, but he had no intention of moving back in with them. He would rather sleep on the street. As for the Burrow, it was a nice, homey place, and it was full of his loved ones, but it was a temporary solution. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had assured him that he could live there as long as he wanted, and in fact Harry had stayed there for a few days, alternating between Hogwarts, Grimmauld Place, and the Burrow itself. But after a while, and especially after Ron and Hermione left for Australia, it had become clearer than ever that Harry needed his own space. He loved the Weasleys dearly, but they required time and quiet to mourn Fred and to heal the wounds of the War, and Mrs. Weasley worried too much about what to cook and how to keep them occupied when Harry and Hermione were there. The boy appreciated the effort and the affection, but he didn't like being in the way all the time, or feeling more than a guest, but less than one of the Weasleys, who had lived there all their lives and didn't have to ask where the glasses or towels were, as he did.

Besides, Harry felt that he, too, needed time alone, in his own space. He needed to process everything that had happened and filling his brain with constant distractions wasn't the best way to do that. Even if solitude didn't help him feel better, he knew he had to go through it: through the nightmares, through the memories that, without warning, popped into his mind, through the moments when a smell or a sound transported him back to the worst moments of his life, through the mental and physical exhaustion after curling up on the couch, crying, thinking about those he had lost...

Luckily for the boy, not everything was suffering. He spent his time reading books on different subjects, Defense especially, and tidying up the house, making it presentable, after a year with no one living in it. Besides that, Ginny had come to visit him a couple of times that last week, and even stayed over. Nothing had happened between them, just a few kisses and cuddling together in bed, pushing away with the warmth of their arms the nightmares they both feared to dream. But, still, Molly had worried.

"She gave me 'the talk' before I left." Ginny had said, emerging from the fireplace, as she shook the remnants of floo powder from her clothes, rolling her eyes but with a red blush on her cheeks. Harry had let out a laugh when he heard it, but his heart had pounded nervously and later, when they were both cuddled up on the couch, he hadn't been able to bite his tongue and had brought up the subject. They had talked about it for a long time and, afterwards, things had become more clear between the two of them, and they had both felt calmer for it. It was obvious that they had feelings for each other and desired to be together, but both Ginny and Harry knew it was too soon. Besides being very young, their hearts were broken, and the pain inside them was still very intense. Neither wanted to jump in and ruin what good they had, just to avoid thinking about what had happened. So, finally, they had decided to wait and take things slowly, with empathy and communication, and without getting carried away by external pressures or absurd expectations. And for both of them, in that moment, that was more than enough.

In addition to Ginny's visits, Harry had occupied his time going to see Snape on his Hogwarts quarters. Since that conversation at Remus and Tonks' funeral, they had not argued again, and instead an unusual calm had settled between the two of them. It was odd, after so many years of animosity, but the last month had changed a lot of things. And, though neither would say it out loud, both Harry and Snape appreciated the turn in their relationship. Despite that, it still felt strange for the boy to be sitting on the Potions Master's couch, sipping a hot cup of tea and chatting about unimportant things, or helping him brew new potions for the nearly empty inventory of the infirmary. Harry smiled as he remembered the expression on Snape's face that rainy morning when he had asked him if he could help him. After their usual chat on the couch, the Potions Master had gotten up and bid him farewell, telling him that he had several dozen potions to prepare and that they would see each other again in a couple of days. At that point, Harry had summoned up all his courage, and had asked Snape if he could assist him with anything, chopping ingredients, or even cleaning cauldrons if needed be.

"I was reading a Potions book yesterday," The boy had explained, "And I've realized that I'm way out of practice."

Snape had looked at him with a surprised expression on his face, almost comical.

"The Potions classroom is empty, Potter." He had replied, after a few seconds of silence. "You can use it if you want."

"I know." Harry had told him, before he could lose his courage. "But they say that to learn you have to watch the best at work. And you are one of them, sir."

Flattery didn't seem like the best strategy to convince Snape, but Harry didn't know how to tell him that he wanted to spend more time with him, and that he missed the Prince's teachings. Watching the man prepare his potions was as close as he was going to get to reading the sixteen-year-old's instructions and snide remarks again. But, to his surprise and delight, Snape had sighed and, after pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers, had nodded slowly.

"I suppose that if a first-year can cut wormwood roots without making a mess, then the famous Harry Potter should be able to do the same." He had finally said, causing a wide grin from the boy.

From that moment on, every morning that Harry went to Hogwarts, after the chat on the couch and drinking his hot tea, the boy accompanied Snape to his private laboratory, where he kept cauldrons, tools and potions materials and helped him in whatever the professor told him. As the days passed, seeing that Harry had not amputated a finger, or worse, ruined one of his precious ingredients, Snape had given him more responsibilities, letting him cut stems, fruits, seeds, and even horns, claws, hair, and other animal materials, which were harder to obtain. And, with each new potion he helped create, Harry realized how relaxing he found it all. The smell of the fumes rising from the cauldrons, the precision with which the materials were prepared, the sound of the knife against the wooden board, the bubbling of the potion when it was almost ready, its changing colors as Snape mixed it or added new ingredients, with delicate precision... All those things kept his senses busy, enough to stop him from thinking all the time about what had happened, so that he could process it little by little, in small doses.

But that oasis in Snape's rooms had not always been available. Or at least not as often as Harry would have liked. The Potions Master had had to attend to other responsibilities those last few weeks. In particular, from time to time, he had left Hogwarts to go check on his own house. Harry hadn't known Snape had one, or really, he'd never thought about it, but it made sense. Most professors didn't stay at school all the time, they had a house to go to during the holidays. Still, the revelation had surprised him, and the boy had wanted to know more about the place.

During the long hours of solitude in Grimmauld Place, his mind had wandered over the subject, trying to imagine if the house was big or small, where it was, if it was cozy like Snape's quarters in the Dungeons, if he would ever see it, if Professor had inherited it or bought it with his own money... Harry did not know how much the school paid, but the Potions Master dressed simply, always in the same style of dark robes, and did not wear jewelry or other expensive objects... It did not seem likely that he had bought a house with his salary. Judging by the furniture in his Hogwarts rooms, all the money, time, thoroughness, and attention to detail, had gone into that home in the depths of the castle. And Snape didn't seem like the kind of person who would put all that effort into his quarters and then buy a house to live alone, in the middle of a strange city, with no reason behind it. No, Harry decided, that place was probably a safe house for the Order, as Grimmauld Place had been. Or, if not, he deduced, remembering the glimpses of a gloomy room he had seen in the man's memories, it must have been his family home. Would it still look like that? Even after all these years? He had no way of knowing, and he doubted Snape would appreciate his questioning. The man was still a private person, and some subjects were more sensitive than others. But Harry wanted to know more about him. About his life, his past and, yes, even about that mysterious house he went to visit from time to time. Snape was such an enigma that he would cherish every bit of information he could get his hands on.

When the Potions Master had returned from that place, however, all he had told him about it was that it was still there, that the house had not collapsed during the last year. And, even more importantly, that he had not found any hex, spell or trap left by the Death Eaters to take revenge on him.

Those words had worried Harry because, if the Death Eaters knew of its existence, that could only mean two things. One, it was not an Order safe house, but Snape's own place, the location of which the man had shared with his former companions. And, two, if that was the case... If any Death Eater knew where it was and could show up on his doorstep to exact revenge for Voldemort's defeat... where was Snape supposed to go when he left Hogwarts? Harry didn't know if the man would want to stay at the school, teaching. But, if he was no longer going to be a professor... could he stay at the castle anyway? The boy wasn't sure, but the thought of Snape not having a place to go made him sad. At least Harry had Grimmauld Place, a house that was old and dark at times, but safe and his, after all.

Looking at the dusty furniture in his room, the boy wondered what Snape's reaction would be like if he offered him to come live in there with Harry. The house was large, and there was plenty of room for a dozen people. But he knew, without having to ask, that the Potions Master would hate that proposal. Grimmauld Place was Sirius's home. And, as much as their relationship had changed, and as much as Snape accepted Harry's presence in his Hogwarts rooms, spending every second of the day under the same roof was a different thing. Besides, there was also the matter of the boy's own feelings about it. He wasn't sure he wanted Snape to live with him. He knew that, in the future, he would like to share his home with someone else. His friends, especially Ron and Hermione. Or Ginny, most of all, if she wanted it too. But they were still very young, almost teenagers. And he was sure that, at the moment, Ginny and Ron wouldn't want to leave the safety and comfort of the Burrow, specially after the loss of Fred. And Hermione would need to spend time with her parents, feel part of a family again.

Harry sighed, sitting up from the bed. He knew the problem was that he didn't have parents, or siblings, and he couldn't ask his friends to give up part of their youth for him. But, then... If he wasn't going to live with them... The image of Snape in his pajamas, walking down the corridor in slippers, a steaming mug in his hands, popped into his mind and Harry shook his head, pushing it away. A part of him longed for that, but another felt a deep discomfort at the idea. Snape was not the sort of person one would call domestic or homely, and even if he was, he had been his teacher for years. Not his godfather, or a close family friend, like Sirius and Remus. There were certain distances, barriers, that were maintained with one's teachers, and sharing a home was one of them. Harry would never consider living with Professor McGonagall, no matter how much he liked her. But, if he thought about it, the feelings Snape had provoked in him had always been more intense than the warmth, appreciation or indifference one felt towards a teacher. Distrust, anger, animosity, even hatred, had been the predominant emotions for seven years. And there was also that history between them that went back a long time, to when Harry had not even been born. That web that bound them together in a strange way, formed by the past that Snape shared with James and Lily, and the role the former Death Eater had played in their murder, the debt he had felt towards Harry since then, the number of times he had saved and protected him... And, finally, joining all that, there was that new relationship they had built, those positive feelings that neither had expected, that understanding between them, that need to be part of each other's lives, the fruit of everything lived, of everything lost... No, Harry reflected, Snape could never be just his former teacher. Though, being honest with himself, living in a house with the man was perhaps a bit too much.

Aware that there was no point in continuing to worry about that subject at the moment, Harry shook his head once more, pushing it to the back of his mind. That sudden movement caused drops of already cold sweat to run down his forehead. The room had also cooled down since he had awoken from his nightmare, minutes before, and Harry took a deep breath, grateful for the change in temperature. Deciding that he wasn't going to be able to sleep anymore, and feeling his skin clammy, the boy pushed himself out of bed. He put on the slippers he had left next to him the night before, and then walked across the green carpet along the hallway to the bathroom. Once there, he showered, making the remnants of sweat disappear and, with them, the last memories of his nightmare. After dressing in comfortable clothes, the boy went down to the kitchen to have breakfast.

Once he entered, he saw that Kreacher was there, sitting on the counter. After bidding him good morning, Harry prepared something light to eat and began to chew absently, while the elf prattled on about the new clothes he had sewn himself and others he had bought. Harry let him speak, only half listening, though he smiled at his enthusiasm. He had decided to free Kreacher after the Battle, but, unlike Dobby, the elf showed a great interest in the clothing that for years he had been unable to wear and, since then, almost every day he wore a new outfit.

The elves had rallied after the Battle, and perhaps it had been the part they had played in it, wounding and even killing some Death Eaters, or Hermione's work with S.P.E.W., or perhaps, all those years suffering the cruelty of wizards, had finally been too much, but more and more of them wanted to be free, and Harry was glad for that. Besides, after the whole locket situation, after his relationship with Kreacher had improved, the boy didn't think he was going to be a threat to him anymore. And, honestly, it disgusted him to own a slave. He didn't want or need one. So, without a second thought, he had freed him as soon as he had the chance. However, aware of the situation of elves in the magical world, he had offered Kreacher the possibility to stay at Grimmauld Place if he so wished. The house had always been his home, and he did not want to leave him on the street, in the middle of a world that still did not accept him. Besides, the elf had offered to help him keep the house tidy and clean, something Harry was grateful for and for which he would pay him fairly. He just needed to go get the money that was waiting for him in his Gringotts vault.

Since the Battle, the boy had survived on Hogwarts food and the generosity of the Weasleys, but he knew he couldn't feed himself for the rest of his days on Molly's prepared dishes, or the few provisions left in his fridge. Harry had used the last coins that remained in Hermione's beaded purse to refill it, but, sooner or later he would have to head to the wizarding bank and, to his anxiety, face the consequences of his actions. The boy had been putting off that trip to Diagon Alley for several days now. In addition to the stares and comments that the presence of the savior of the magical world would generate, Harry was worried about how he would be received at Gringotts. The last time he had been there, he and his friends had passed through security measures, infiltrated a chamber that was not theirs and stolen an object, as well as unleashing a dragon and causing real damage to the bank's cavernous structure. Kingsley had told him that his actions had been pardoned and the charges against him dropped. But that adventure had unleashed the fury of Voldemort, who ended up killing dozens of goblins for it and Harry didn't think they had forgotten. He knew he wasn't responsible for the Dark Lord's actions and that destroying the Horcrux had been necessary, but that didn't stop him from feeling guilty. Yet another thing to add to the list.

Trying not to think about it too much, but making a mental note to remind himself, or rather, force himself, to go there soon, Harry got up from the kitchen table. After saying goodbye to Kreacher, he brushed his teeth and then, ready to leave, headed for the living room. Once there, he looked at the fireplace, and the bowl filled with green powder next to it. He still felt that warmth in his chest at the thought of what it meant. The fact that Snape had decided to connect his rooms with Grimmauld Place, via the floo network.

"It's a waste of time that you have to Apparate out of Hogwarts and then walk here every time you come." The professor had told him, seeing Harry's surprised expression. "Don't make that face. I'm not giving you carte blanche to annoy me whenever you want, Potter. On the contrary. You won't be able to go through if I don't allow you to. I will receive a signal and then, only if I have agreed to it, the barrier will rise. But, if you're going to spend so much time here, then it's more efficient to use the floo network. Is that clear?"

Harry had nodded, trying to hide the stupid grin that threatened to escape his lips, and since then, going to Hogwarts had been easier than ever. The first few times it had felt a strange to travel through the flames. But, by now, he had gotten used to that mode of transportation and it had become part of his routine. Approaching the fireplace, Harry grabbed some floo powder in his hand and then said in a loud, clear voice:

"Severus Snape's chambers, Hogwarts dungeons."