In the tranquil village of Godric's Hollow, nestled between rolling hills and whispering woods, a sombre mood hung over the air. Here, hidden from the prying eyes of Muggles, stood a house quite unlike any other. The house seemed to brood, draped in an oppressive silence that was punctuated only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustling of leaves in the biting wind.

This was the home of the celebrated wizard, Harry Potter, the boy who lived and later vanquished the Dark Lord, Voldemort. However, the one who once symbolised hope and defiance now lived in self-imposed isolation, weighed down by an unbearable guilt.

The war had left its scars on Harry. Every face he saw, every laughter he heard, every flick of a wand reminded him of the sacrifices that were made for his survival. He found no solace in his victory, for it was overshadowed by the multitude of losses that had been suffered. From Sirius and Dobby to Fred and Tonks, every face flickered through his mind each night like a never-ending nightmare. Their smiles, forever frozen in time, their voices, echoing in his subconscious, stirred in him a profound sense of guilt. The guilt of surviving while others had not. The guilt of living while others had died fighting for him.

His two closest companions, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, were equally concerned. Harry had stopped responding to their owls, and even the most urgent messages were met with silence. He refused to open the door, even when they arrived at his doorstep. They saw their friend wasting away, his once bright green eyes now dull with sadness, his usual determined countenance replaced with a forlorn expression. But Harry's self-imposed seclusion made it difficult for them to help him.

One particularly chilly evening, a soft knock echoed through Harry's empty house. Harry, who was curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, didn't move. He had long stopped hoping for visitors or expecting letters. Another knock. And another. Each one louder, more insistent. Harry sighed and pulled his cloak tighter around him, attempting to block out the sounds of the outside world.

But the knocking didn't stop. It seemed to grow louder with each passing moment, resonating through the silent house until it was all Harry could hear. The rhythmic sound began to morph into something familiar, a ghostly echo of the past. He closed his eyes, and it transformed into the banging on his cupboard under the stairs, the blow of the wind on his small window in Privet Drive, the thud of Hedwig's wings against the windowpane. The memories were a poignant reminder of a past he had thought he had left behind.

Harry rose slowly, his knees creaking in protest. His hand shook slightly as he reached out and turned the doorknob. The world outside was shrouded in a deep blue twilight. The street was deserted except for a figure standing in the frosty wind, his breath forming misty clouds in the cold air.

The figure stepped forward and into the halo of light spilling from the entrance. The sight was almost surreal. It was Severus Snape - the man Harry had seen die in the heart of the battle. Yet, here he stood, as real as the chill biting through the air.

Harry stumbled backwards, his eyes wide, hand instinctively moving towards his wand. "Snape?" he croaked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the shock overwhelming his senses.

"In the flesh," Snape drawled, shutting the door behind him, cutting off the icy draft that had swept into the room. He looked pointedly at Harry's wand, an eyebrow arched. "I hardly think that's necessary, Potter."

"But... you... you died," Harry stammered. The confusion was evident in his voice and his gaze.

"Apparently not," Snape said, his tone laced with his familiar sarcasm. He moved to stand before the fireplace, warming his hands at the meagre flames. "A good actor and a timely potion can be quite convincing," he added, a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

Harry watched as Snape casually paced around the room. "Why?" he finally asked, his voice strained. "Why fake your death and why are you here now?"

Snape stopped and turned towards Harry, his expression as unreadable as ever. "The first was a necessity at the time, the latter...," he paused, "well, let's say your persistent friends found me and thought I could be of assistance."

"Assistance with what?"

"With you, Potter," Snape said. He looked at Harry, his black eyes unblinking. "You're wallowing in guilt and it's concerning to those who care about you. You survived a war that claimed many, and now you've chosen to lock yourself away. A wasteful way to honour their sacrifices, don't you think?"

Snape's words cut through Harry's stupor, a sharp reminder of the reality he had been ignoring. The guilt, the grief, the isolation - it all came crashing down.

Harry stumbled backwards until his back hit the wall. He slid down, his legs unable to bear the weight of his thoughts any longer. He fell into a heap on the floor, his chest tight and his vision blurred.

Across from him, Snape watched the boy – no, the young man – crumble before his eyes. Harry had faced down the most dangerous wizard of their time and come out on top. He was a hero in the eyes of the wizarding world. Yet here, in the privacy of his own home, Harry was just a man burdened with guilt and mourning.

With a sigh, Snape moved across the room. His joints protested at the sudden action, but he ignored them, sinking down on the floor next to Harry. He allowed a silence to fill the room, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl.

After a moment, Snape did something very uncharacteristic of him. He slowly placed an arm around Harry's shoulders, a small gesture of comfort that felt as foreign as it was necessary. Harry stiffened, but did not pull away. His breathing was shaky, each breath ragged and filled with sorrow.

The silence stretched on, neither of them speaking, neither of them moving. The minutes ticked by, each second heavy with unspoken thoughts and hidden emotions.

It was the absurdity of the situation that finally broke the dam in Harry. He had lived through an unfathomable amount of tragedy, overcome insurmountable obstacles, and here he was, sitting on his living room floor, being comforted by Severus Snape, a man he had once considered an enemy, a man he had watched die.

A strangled laugh escaped from Harry's lips, tears welling up in his eyes. The laugh quickly morphed into a sob, the weight of everything he had been holding in finally spilling over. Tears streamed down his face, unchecked and uncontrolled. He bent over, his face buried in his hands as the tears fell, sobs shaking his entire body.

And in that moment, Snape simply sat there, an arm around Harry's shoulders, offering him a support that was as unlikely as it was essential. Snape didn't utter any empty platitudes or make any attempts to placate him. He just let Harry grieve, his presence a silent reassurance that he was not alone in his pain.

The absurdity of it all was indeed overwhelming. But then again, life itself had never followed a predictable pattern for either of them. And maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what Harry needed – someone who could understand the burden of carrying guilt and living with regrets.

Finally, Severus moved, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small vial filled with a liquid that shimmered under the dim light of the fireplace. A calming potion. The sight of it, something so innately Snape – Potions and answers hidden in vials, was another absurdity that forced a hiccupping laugh out of Harry.

"Here," Severus said, his voice softer than Harry ever remembered hearing it. He held out the vial towards Harry. "This will help calm your nerves. Help you think more clearly."

Harry's hands shook as he took the vial. He looked at the calming potion and then back at Snape, his green eyes, usually so vibrant, now dull and glassy from crying.

"I don't want to forget," Harry confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Snape's grip tightened on his shoulder momentarily, a ghost of a squeeze. "This won't make you forget, Potter. But it will alleviate the immediate distress. Allow you some peace."

Harry nodded slowly, then popped the cork off the vial and brought it to his lips, downing the potion in one swift gulp. The effects were immediate. His heart stopped racing, his thoughts, while still there, stopped swirling in a destructive tornado.

Snape watched as Harry's breathing evened out, his rigid posture easing slightly. Despite the immediate effects of the calming potion, Harry's eyes still held a profound sadness, reflecting the ghosts that haunted him.

Harry leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes slipping closed. Snape did not move from his spot next to him, his arm still resting on Harry's shoulders. The two of them sat there, a moment of reprieve in the storm that was Harry's life. The silence was not comfortable, but it wasn't suffocating either.

"It's called Survivor's Guilt, Potter," Snape said after a long pause, his voice just above a whisper. Harry opened his eyes, turning to look at him. Snape's gaze was fixed on the dying embers in the fireplace, his expression thoughtful. "The sense of guilt for having survived when others did not."

Harry's throat felt tight as he nodded, the words hitting far too close to home. "I know what it's called," he said, his voice barely audible.

Snape looked at him, a knowing look in his dark eyes. "And I'm familiar with it too, Potter. The war... it took a lot from us. Good people... people who deserved to live."

Harry looked down at his hands, his fingers interlacing and unclasping in his lap. "Why did we survive, then?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly. "Why us, when so many better people didn't?"

Snape was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "Perhaps because we still have something left to do, Potter," he finally said, turning to look at Harry. "Perhaps because we're meant to live for those who couldn't."

"But how?" Harry asked, his voice strained. "How do you live when you feel guilty for just... surviving?"

Snape sighed, his gaze softening slightly. "By choosing to, Potter," he said. "By choosing to live, to find happiness where we can. By choosing to remember those who are gone, to honor their memory, but not letting it consume us."

"Is that what you do?" Harry asked, looking up at Snape. "You choose to live?"

"Yes," Snape said, his voice firm. "It's not easy, Potter. But the alternative... letting guilt consume us, choosing not to live... That would be a disservice to those who sacrificed themselves."

Harry fell silent, his mind spinning. He looked up at Snape, his green eyes meeting Snape's black ones. "Do you think they would want us to feel guilty?" Harry asked.

Snape shook his head. "No, Potter, I don't think they would," he said. "They sacrificed themselves for a reason. They believed in us, in our ability to end the war and live. And that's what we should do. For them."

Harry closed his eyes, taking in Snape's words. They stirred something within him, a spark of determination that he had forgotten he had. He took a deep breath, his mind swirling with thoughts, memories, and emotions.

"You're right," Harry said quietly, his eyes still closed. "It's just... it's so hard, Snape. So hard to live without them."

Snape's arm tightened around Harry's shoulders, pulling him a bit closer. "I know, Potter," he said, his voice soft. "But it's something we have to do. For them."

As Harry opened his eyes, looking at Snape, he found himself agreeing. It would be hard, he knew that. But he also knew that he owed it to those who had sacrificed themselves for him. To live, to find happiness, to honour their memory, to not let their sacrifices be in vain.

Snape remained silent for a few moments, studying the flickering embers in the fireplace. He then carefully detached his arm from Harry's shoulders and pushed himself upwards, groaning slightly as he did. Despite his stoic facade, age had started to take its toll on him. After all, even the former Potions Master was not immune to the relentless passage of time.

"Help me up, Potter," Severus grumbled, offering a hand to Harry who still sat on the floor, lost in his thoughts.

Harry blinked, startled out of his introspection. He stared at Snape's outstretched hand, surprised by the uncharacteristic vulnerability of the man. Slowly, he got off the floor and then reached out and grasped Snape's hand, pulling him up to his feet. Snape grunted at the effort, his face a mask of slight discomfort.

"Must be getting old," Snape muttered, a hint of sarcasm seeping through his words. "Sitting on these cold floors isn't what it used to be. Perhaps we should look into acquiring a pair of comfortable chairs, don't you think, Potter?"

Harry managed a weak chuckle. The absurdity of the situation was still difficult for him to fully comprehend. His life seemed to be a series of inexplicable events, each one more bizarre than the last.

As Snape regained his composure, he glanced down at Harry, his gaze lingering on his frail frame. Harry's eyes were still sunken, his face pale, and his body thinner than Snape remembered. It was evident that Harry had not been taking care of himself.

"Potter, you look like you've been subsisting on a diet of air and despair," Snape said, his voice cutting through the silence of the room. "The house-elves of Hogwarts would be horrified to see their hero in such a state."

Harry couldn't help but let out a small laugh at Snape's remark, the memories of the bustling kitchens and the enthusiastic house-elves bringing a pang of nostalgia. "I suppose I haven't been eating as much as I should," he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

Snape nodded, giving him a pointed look. "As much as I detest repeating myself, it appears to be a necessity in this situation. You survived a war, Potter. Starving yourself out of guilt does little to honour those who didn't."

His words, laced with his usual acerbic wit, hid a deeper meaning. Snape wasn't merely suggesting Harry eat more - he was imploring Harry to live more. To accept that he had survived and had a life to lead, a life that could still be filled with happiness and purpose.

Harry nodded, understanding the subtext. His eyes met Snape's, a newfound determination glimmering in their depths. "You're right, Snape," Harry said, walking to the kitchen. "Let's eat something."

Opening the fridge, Harry was met with the cool gust of near-empty shelves. Severus looked over his shoulder and snorted. "A diet of air indeed," he quipped, raising an eyebrow at the lone bottle of milk and a nearly empty jar of pickles. "And a pickle."

"Chinese?" Harry suggested, holding up the take-out menu for Severus to see. The older man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but shrugged nonchalantly.

"Your taste in food is as disappointing as your taste in everything else, Potter," Snape retorted, making himself comfortable on a bar stool. "But as long as it isn't poisoned, I suppose anything would be an improvement on your current diet."

Harry dialed the number, placing an order for an assortment of dishes. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward at Snape's resigned sigh. "Cheer up, Snape. You might actually enjoy it," Harry teased. Snape merely rolled his eyes in response.

A comfortable silence fell upon them as they waited for the food. Snape went about perusing the few books scattered on the table, while Harry busied himself with cleaning the already spotless kitchen. The normalcy of the situation brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to Harry's face.

When the food arrived, Harry quickly paid and set the bags on the table. Snape, with all his customary flair, transfigured a few napkins into proper dining utensils. They began serving themselves, and the familiar, homely aroma of the food filled the room.

As Harry took his first bite, he found that he was, surprisingly, actually hungry. The food was a welcome reprieve from his thoughts, the rich, tangy flavor grounding him back to reality. Snape seemed to enjoy it as well, although he would never admit it, his face a perfectly controlled mask of indifference.

"Where have you been all this time, Snape?" Harry asked, his gaze fixated on the man sitting across from him. Severus paused mid-chew, looking up at Harry with a stern gaze. After swallowing his food, he answered, "I have been hiding... brewing potions."

Harry almost choked on his noodles. "Hiding and brewing potions?" He couldn't help but snort and say, "You're such a hypocrite, Snape."

"And why is that?" Snape replied, his eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Well, you spent most of our school years telling us that 'hiding won't help anyone' and 'brewing potions isn't a viable career option'. And here you are, doing both." Harry chuckled as he mimicked Snape's deep, slow drawl.

Snape let out a sigh, placing his chopsticks on the table. "In hindsight, Potter, brewing potions in solitude provided me with the peace and focus I needed after the war. It gave me time to reflect on things... on life, on death, on regret."

"And hiding?" Harry questioned, placing his food down as well.

"Sometimes, the war within ourselves is just as destructive as the one outside. The world believed me dead, and it was easier for me to let them. But," Snape met Harry's gaze, "I'm here now."

Harry could only nod in understanding. He realized that perhaps they both had been hiding in their own ways. Severus from the world, and he, from life itself.

"Harry," Snape began, his voice serious. Harry looked up at him, caught off guard at his use of his first name. "Call me Severus," he continued. "You're no longer my student, and I am no longer your professor. We're equals now."

Harry was silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. Severus was right. They were no longer teacher and student, but two individuals, who in their own ways, had endured and survived the atrocities of war.

He finally broke the silence, his voice soft yet firm, "Alright, Severus. If I have to call you by your first name then you have to do the same."

Severus smirked at the suggestion, musing over the name as if it was an exotic, foreign concept. "Harry," he echoed, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a sly grin. "I suppose it does have a certain... simplicity to it."

After dinner, Severus lingered in the dining area, nursing a cup of black coffee. Harry, on the other hand, busied himself with cleaning the table and washing the dishes. It was a strange, domestic scene, a far cry from the fraught interactions of their past.

"Potter," Severus called from his place at the table, his gaze scanning the cluttered living room, "or rather, Harry... it appears your housekeeping skills leave much to be desired."

Harry paused, looking over his shoulder. His gaze followed Severus', taking in the mountains of books, stacks of parchment, and layers of dust on forgotten surfaces. "I suppose I've been neglecting that as well," he admitted, drying his hands on a towel.

Severus' eyes remained on the living room, as if he was calculating exactly how much effort it would take to bring it back to order. "Perhaps," he began, a wry smile playing on his lips, "a little magic is in order."

With a swift wave of his wand, Severus sent a flurry of spells into the room. Books flew back onto their shelves, parchment sorted itself into neat stacks, and dust vanished as if it had never been there. Within moments, the living room was transformed, looking far more inviting than before.

Harry watched in awe, chuckling softly. "You know," he said, turning back to the kitchen, "you'd make a great house-elf."

The sound of Severus' derisive snort echoed through the kitchen, and Harry could almost hear the roll of his eyes. "Let's not get carried away, Potter," he retorted, amusement bleeding into his tone. "I'm a potions master, not a domestic servant."

As Severus rose from his stool, he glanced over at Harry with an annoyed expression. "Now, I believe you owe Granger a phone call. She has an uncanny knack for pestering me, even when I'm miles away. A talent that borders on harassment, I dare say," he huffed.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at Snape's disgruntled remark. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Hermione's name.

"Hold on, she'd probably want to hear from you first," Harry said, holding out the phone towards Severus.

Snape recoiled slightly as if the phone was something dangerous. "I am not a big fan of Muggle contraptions, Potter," he drawled, sounding just a touch too defensive. He stared at the device warily, clearly out of his element.

Harry laughed, showing him how to hold the phone. Snape reluctantly took it, raising an eyebrow at Harry. "Is this really necessary?" he grumbled.

"Just tell her I'm fine and you're here," Harry instructed, amused by the whole situation.

Severus let out a resigned sigh, but he took the phone anyway. "Hello, Miss Granger," he began, his voice as dry as ever. "Yes, Potter is indeed alive and well, I assure you. I will also confirm that I am, indeed, present at his residence..." He paused, rolling his eyes at whatever Hermione was saying on the other end.

"Additionally, if you don't mind, Potter will be venturing outside tomorrow, so you can spare me your inquiries," Snape added, a trace of his usual acerbity returning to his voice. He held out the phone to Harry, eager to be done with the conversation.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Granger, I'll return you to Harry. No, there is no need for me to 'stay on the line.' Goodbye." He disconnected the call before she could protest, handing the phone back to Harry.

"You know, it wouldn't kill you to be a bit nicer to her, Severus," Harry teased, dialing Hermione back.

"I believe we have different interpretations of 'niceness', Potter," Severus replied dryly, "I was merely ensuring she got the information she required." He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching in what could almost be described as a smile. "You may continue your conversation with her. I'll take my leave."

And with a final nod, Severus turned and exited the kitchen, leaving Harry alone with his phone, a half-amused smile on his face. After all, he thought, some things never change.

"Hi Hermione," Harry began once she picked up, "Sorry for Severus. You know how he can be."

On the other end, Hermione let out a chuckle. "I've been working with him for years, Harry. I know what he's like."

"Good, then you also know not to take him too seriously," Harry said. "I just wanted to apologize for all the worry and thank you for sending Severus. It was a sharp shock, but one I probably needed."

Hermione's voice softened. "You don't need to apologize, Harry. We're just concerned about you."

"I know, and I appreciate it," Harry replied, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I'm doing alright. Promise."

There was a pause on the other line, then Hermione let out a soft sigh of relief. "That's good to hear, Harry."

After a few more minutes of reassurances and casual conversation, Hermione finally allowed Harry to end the call. Once the call was over, he couldn't help but feel a little lighter. He had his friends, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he wasn't alone in his struggles.

As he turned to clear the table, he noticed a piece of parchment Severus had left on the counter. His address was scribbled on it in the man's precise handwriting, followed by a brief note: "Should you wish to chat further." The thought of visiting Severus at his own home, perhaps sitting with him in a potion-scented kitchen, brought an unexpected smile to Harry's face.

For the rest of the night, Harry cleaned up the kitchen and put away the leftover food. His house, now mostly tidy thanks to Severus' spells, seemed more like a home than it had in months. Despite the still-looming shadow of his grief, Harry found himself looking forward to the coming days. There were still hard times ahead, no doubt, but for the first time in a long while, Harry felt ready to face them.