Harry was dreaming. And he knew it.

He was waking gradually, but the dream seemed unwilling to fully release its hold, leaving him in a state of half-awareness even while playing out the scene. He was standing in front of the Dark Lord, deep in the Forbidden Forest, waiting . . . well, waiting to die. The firelight flickered eerily on that pale, snakelike face, the lambent red eyes devoid of even a spark of sanity. Voldemort raised his wand . . . Harry knew that he wouldn't be killed, because it was a dream, but what if it was a mistake and he really died this time? Yes, here came the flash of green light, and then he was falling . . . falling . . .

He was sprawled facedown, and his cheek was pressing something soft. Moss? Oh, right, he'd landed on his face on the forest floor. Apparently he wouldn't be seeing Dumbledore this time. Harry's glasses were digging into his temple, and he longed to adjust them, but he had to make them believe he was dead. Soon Narcissa would be standing over him, her hair tickling his face . . .

Time went by, and Harry frowned inwardly. Wait a minute . . . I can't hear them talking. What the hell?

Cautiously, he opened one eye a slit, and was stunned to see, not firelight and trees, but sunlight shining on dark mahogany furniture. The "moss" was crimson velvet under his head. He opened both eyes and looked around. Was he still dreaming, or was this Gryffindor Tower?

Harry sat up abruptly, but immediately wished he hadn't. The room spun dangerously, and he had to grab the bedpost to keep from falling back down on the duvet. His temple throbbed where the glasses had pushed against the skin; that would probably leave a bruise. Actually, his whole head throbbed, and his mouth tasted like an old sock.

Looking down, Harry saw that he was wearing the same clothes as the night before. The same clothes he'd been wearing for months, really, now that he had time to notice. He ached for a shower and new clothes, but that would have to wait. Leaning his forehead against the cool wood, Harry struggled to get his bearings.

One by one, memories from the night before swam in front of his bleary eyes. The search for the diadem. Snape's death, and watching his memories in the Pensieve. The Forbidden Forest. Being carried back by Hagrid. The Final Battle, always henceforth to be capitalized in his mind.

Voldemort was . . . dead.

Harry waited for the feeling of elation that should follow that statement, but it was weak at best. He supposed that years of constant dread and false alarms had inured him to any feeling of safety. He slid down the bedpost until he was half lying down again, trying to think. What had happened after the battle? How had he gotten here?

Let's see . . . Ron and Hermione and I went to the headmaster's office . . . we talked to Dumbledore's portrait . . . I used the Elder Wand to fix mine . . . then I was hoping for a sandwich from

"Kreacher?" he croaked weakly. Harry's voice echoed in his ears too loudly, and he winced.

There was a loud pop that made him jump (another throb for his head), and the small elf appeared before him. In his position, his eyes were about on level with Kreacher's ears. The sunlight caught the gold locket he'd given Kreacher, the one with the Black family crest, and the refractory glare blinded him momentarily.

"Master should be resting. Master had a terrible night."

"What happened, Kreacher? I mean, after the battle?"

"Kreacher is bringing Master a sandwich and firewhisky in his room, and Master is falling asleep on his stomach. Kreacher is not budging Master. Master's friends would be sleeping in the common room so as not to disturb him."

Firewhisky. Right. No wonder everything's spinning, Harry thought, grimacing. So this is a hangover. Well, if ever an occasion warranted a drink, I guess saving the world would be it. He stretched cautiously and tried to yawn, but it hurt his head too much.

"Where's Ron?" he asked Kreacher. "And Hermione?"

"Master Weasley and the Mud— . . . and Miss Granger are waiting downstairs for Master to wake," Kreacher said.

Harry sighed, but he wasn't about to get into semantics with Kreacher. Not at this hour, with a hangover to boot. What hour is it, anyway? "Can you send them up, please?" he asked tiredly.

"Of course, Master. Kreacher is fetching food for everyone first." With that, the aged creature Disapparated with another pop.

Harry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He gingerly touched his temple, and winced as he felt a deep indentation that was tender to the touch. Even though it hurt to wear them, he slid the glasses back on. He couldn't see otherwise.

Harry sat slumped against the headboard, watching the sunlight play on the floor. Toying with a strand of hair — he'd need to get that cut soon — he tried to sort through his thoughts. So much had happened that it would have made his head spin regardless of what beverage he'd consumed.

Though he couldn't bring himself up to what he felt was an appropriate level of excitement at the realisation that Voldemort was gone, vanquished, dead-for-ever, Harry was alert enough to see the possibilities. Everyone could come out of hiding, all those whose blood status had gotten them in trouble. Hermione's parents! They would be so happy to reunite with their daughter . . . oh, he'd forgotten; Hermione had erased their memories. They wouldn't even realise what had happened.

His friends! It seemed like years since his birthday party at the Weasleys', and now they could all be together . . . at that, Harry felt his heart wrench. Fred . . . He'd blocked out the incident at the time; other things had been more important. But Fred would never play another prank. He was gone.

Dead-for-ever.

It hurt to remember something like that all at once. With a sickening certainty, Harry knew that there would be many such pangs, sudden flashes of bleak reality that left his throat dry and his solar plexus wrung out like a sponge. He tried to find something good to think about instead . . . so many good things were possible now that the war was over. He would see Hagrid again, for real this time, not lying in his arms playing dead. And Ginny, and Neville, and

"Dobby?" he said excitedly.

Nothing.

He frowned. Strange . . . Dobby wasn't his, exactly, but he always came when Harry wanted him. Even at . . .

"Oh, no," Harry said softly. "Dobby." His eyes prickled with tears as more memories clicked in. Dobby was . . . dead. He'd buried him at Shell Cottage. Merlin, not again . . . will it ever end?

Eager to focus his attention on something else, Harry wondered why Ron and Hermione were taking so long. Hadn't Kreacher said they were just downstairs? Well, maybe he meant down in the Hall, not the common room, he thought. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement. He raised up his head and glanced over at the door.

And began screaming.

"Would you stop that infernal noise?" the man in the doorway hissed at him. "You sound like a mandrake being tortured."

Harry stopped screaming as abruptly as if someone had flipped a switch in him to the "off" position. His throat felt raw, like something had torn loose in it, but luckily his heart seemed to be stuck there, too, holding the pieces in place. He swallowed hard past the lump.

"But . . . you're dead," Harry gasped out. "I saw you die . . . I watched her kill you!"

The man's mouth twitched. "And?"

"And you're here," Harry said lamely. His eyes widened, and he scooted further across the bed as the dark figure moved toward him.

"You were here at Hogwarts for six years, weren't you? You've seen ghosts before."

"You've come back as a ghost? But why?"

"Because I love you so much that I couldn't be without you."

"Oh, blech," Harry retorted. "I'm already sick as a dog, don't even start." He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, rubbed it and rubbed it. "I'm still sleeping, aren't I?" he said, hoping it was true. "I was dreaming about Voldemort at first, but now I'm actually having a nightmare."

"Funny, that was my original diagnosis when I found myself here." Snape's voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Stuff it, no one invited you." Harry couldn't stop rubbing his head, as if he could pound some answers into it manually. "Why are you here, anyway? Was there a line at the gates of Hell? There must have been, with all the Death Eaters that bought it last night."

"Oh, lustig. Very witty. I'm here because, as you would realise if you had half a brain in your head, all headmasters remain as portraits to help whoever takes over."

"Then why aren't you in a portrait? Why here? Why me?"

"I tried." Snape's voice was flinty. "There isn't a portrait hole for me. I checked; all the frames are occupied."

"Why didn't you ask one of them?" Harry asked irritably. "Dumbledore? Phineas? Anyone? Bueller?"

Snape's smile was more of a smirk. "I didn't wish to . . . disturb them at such an early hour," he explained. "They were up late."

Harry was outraged. "What about me?" he yelled. "They're portraits, for the love of Merlin! You know all that noise last night? The screaming? The battle? That was me!"

"Well, there's no need to apologise," Snape replied calmly. "I had a feeling. You never cared much about annoying others."

"You're impossible," Harry said, throwing up his hands as he slid off the bed. "I'm going down there right now. I don't know what is taking Ron and Hermione so long, but we're going to your office so I can wake Dumbledore," he finished sarcastically.

"I do hope we don't run into anyone else. It might frighten them to see me in this form," Snape said meditatively.

"You didn't mind scaring the bejesus out of me at the crack of dawn," Harry grumbled, gently stretching his arms over his head. Oh, that hurt.

Snape smirked. "Not in the slightest," he assured the yawning boy.

Harry threw open the door to the stairwell and started down, somehow sensing that Snape was following. It was rather eerie to know someone was behind him, but without hearing footsteps or clothes rustling. Harry stopped short. "Here, you go first," he said, flattening himself against the wall.

"Why?" demanded Snape's ghost.

"Because I don't like knowing you're up back of me. It's creepy."

Snape sighed. "Whatever." He floated ahead. After a few minutes, though, Harry was frustrated when he had to keep shortening his steps to avoid touching the spectral image.

"Could you float along a little faster there, please?" he asked irritably.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Potter. At my age, the muscles don't work as well," Snape answered.

"That was so stupid."

Finally, they reached the head's office. The gargoyle lay crooked, just as it had the night before. Harry went past it without saying a word and climbed up the broken staircase. He heard voices as he pushed open the door, but they stopped when he stepped into the room.

"Oh, good, you're all up," Harry said sarcastically, his voice echoing in the empty, silent room. "I'd have hated to wake you."

"Shut up, Potter," Snape snarled, coming into the room behind him. At the sight of the dead headmaster, all the portraits began to chatter excitedly with each other.

"Severus?" Dumbledore asked disbelievingly. "My boy, what's happened? We were all crowded in the downstairs portraits last night, and heard Harry explaining about your . . ." He paused.

"Demise." Snape finished smoothly. "Good morning to you, too, Albus. Yes, I did in fact pass away last night, crushed by that bloody snake, no less. To the end, I kept the secret of my duplicity from the Dark Lord. Ironically, he killed me anyway, to get at the Elder Wand."

"Gee, you can't trust anyone anymore," Harry said mockingly, flopping into an armchair. Just walking downstairs had made him tired.

Snape glared at him before resuming his speech. "I fully expected to wake up in this room. But imagine my surprise," he continued, "when I found that there was no portrait waiting for me."

Harry and Snape both jumped when they heard a snort from the doorway. Harry leaned forward so as to see around the upholstered edge of his chair. He smiled when he saw Professor McGonagall leaning against the doorjamb.

The aged witch straightened and walked into the room. "As if we'd want your hideous visage decorating the wall," she said sternly. "Portraits are for important personages, Severus, not murdering traitors."

Harry stared at her, startled. "Now, wait a minute," he began, but Snape and Dumbledore both spoke at the same time, so Harry's voice was drowned out.

"Listen, you old bat —" Snape shouted.

"Minerva, allow me to explain," Dumbledore began.

"Who are you to call me an old bat?" she yelled back at Snape.

The adults began arguing loudly. One by one, the portraits chimed in until the cacophony was such that Harry couldn't make out what any of the three were saying. He took a deep breath. "OI!" he yelled as loudly as he could.

Silence. Snape and McGonagall turned to face him, and Dumbledore's head swiveled in his frame.

Harry rubbed his throat, which again felt as if he'd torn something. He decided he'd better use as few words as possible. He appealed to McGonagall first. "Professor Dumbledore's hand was injured when he touched a cursed Horcrux," he began, "and he would have died soon anyway. He asked Snape to kill him so Voldemort wouldn't question his loyalty, and so he wouldn't have to suffer."

McGonagall looked sceptical. "How do you know this, Potter?" she asked.

"I saw it in the Pensieve," Harry answered. He didn't start in on where he'd gotten the memories or how; his throat was aching.

She rounded on Dumbledore. "Why didn't you say something, Albus?" she cried angrily. "And you!" Snape looked amused. "Letting the Carrows have free reign here! And the Slytherin students practicing Crucio on those poor children in detention! Now you tell me it was all part of the plan?"

From the start, Harry had known McGonagall was a formidable woman, but he'd never seen her quite so riled. Her eyes were shooting sparks; if she had a tail, she'd be lashing it. No wonder she was a cat in Animagus form; Harry could see she was aching to claw something, preferably Snape's face.

For the first time, Snape looked less than amused. He looked like a tired old man. "Minerva, I did what I could. But I had to maintain my standing with the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord; if I'd been found out as a spy, I assure you the alternative would have made what happened look like mere child's play."

"Right, well . . ." Harry felt they were getting off the point. "If we could get back to why Snape is, you know, a ghost. A vampire, now, I could see that, but this . . ."

"Professor Snape, Harry," Dumbledore remonstrated him gently.

Harry looked at him, almost speechless. "Are you kidding me?"

"Oh, knock it off," Snape cut in irritably. "Albus, what's happened?"

Dumbledore gave Harry a warning look over his half-moon spectacles, then turned back to Snape. "Well, Severus, every headmaster or headmistress is bound to serve his or her successors, as you know, which is why we inhabit these portraits."

"I know all that, Albus," Snape said impatiently. "What about me?"

"You never did have a portrait done," the erstwhile headmaster said simply.

"What do you mean?" Harry said. "Isn't it automatic?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "This is the saviour of the Wizarding world," he spoke to the ceiling.

"Oh, sod off, you didn't know either, apparently," Harry snapped back at him.

"You watch your tone, young man, or I'll —"

"You'll what?" Harry challenged.

"CHILDREN!"

Startled, all three men's heads swiveled toward McGonagall. "Children?" Severus arched an eyebrow.

"That's how you're acting, all of you," she retorted. "Now, Severus, why didn't you have your portrait done?"

"I hadn't time to sit pretty for a portrait," spat Snape. "I had a school to run."

"Well, now you have plenty of time," Harry said sarcastically. "All eternity, actually. So let's get to it, shall we? Let's get you nailed."

Snape swung around.

"On the wall, that is," Harry finished with a smirk.

Snape glared at him for a moment, but obviously couldn't think of a retort. "Who," he finally said, "can we get to paint it? And quickly?"

"Unfortunately," Dumbledore began, "the only artist that I've ever known to be engaged for the Hogwarts portraits was Titus Briggs Pennock. I seem to remember that he died in Azkaban after being imprisoned for speaking out against the Dark Lord."

"Well, if that isn't irony for you," Harry said bitterly.

Snape looked angry. "Well, surely there's someone else? Anyone?"

Dumbledore was pensive. "Magical portraits require special skills," he said. "Not just anyone can do them. You'd have to ask at the Ministry; perhaps the artist who paints each Minister could be engaged."

"I can't be making inquiries into portrait painters," McGonagall said in exasperation. "Kingsley, that is, the Minister, will be here in an hour to discuss the interim plans for Hogwarts, and naturally Order members will be expected to do all they can for the Ministry itself. Free time will be in short supply for a good while yet."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Severus was outraged.

"You? You think you have problems? You're dead!" Harry shouted at him, getting up from his chair. "What's the big flippin' hurry? I don't know if you noticed, but the Wizarding world is in pieces. Do you think getting your ugly face up on the wall is a high priority?"

"I'm warning you —" Snape began, his dark eyes flashing dangerously.

"We have people to bury who died fighting for freedom, Death Eaters to arrest, Voldemort's body to, I don't know, burn at the stake, students to send home, a castle to practically rebuild from scratch, but let's put all that on hold so that everyone can pay homage to your ravishing likeness in a room practically no one ever visits and would be even less likely to if you were —"

Snape lunged at him, and Harry was startled enough to jump backwards, though he blushed with embarrassment to think of it after. Naturally, Snape couldn't touch him; Harry only felt a very uncomfortable coldness as the man's discorporated hands passed partway through his chest. It was like swallowing icy water and feeling it burn his throat on the way down. Snape swiped at the air, bellowing in frustration as he failed to make contact. The sight was so funny that Harry had to choke back a snigger.

"Stop it." At Dumbledore's order, Snape reluctantly floated backward, though he still looked menacingly at Harry. McGonagall helped Harry up from the floor, and he stood shaking with laughter even under her disapproving glare.

"Severus," Dumbledore continued, "Harry is right, you know. There is so much to do, and it's not really an emergency. You'll simply stay in this form until we get a portrait done. I'm sure we can find someone just as soon as the most pressing tasks are completed."

Snape looked murderous, but what could he say?

"I have a question," Harry spoke up. "If there was no portrait, why didn't he just . . . you know . . . cross over?"

"Because when the new headmaster or headmistress takes office," Dumbledore answered, "part of their contract is to bind to a portrait. Magical contracts are unbreakable, even if unforeseen circumstances prevent the actual carrying out. What we have here is a case of intercorporeal maltransference."

"Holly-hooby-whatty?" Harry asked in exasperation. Was he supposed to be following this?

"Think of it as my file being misplaced," Snape told him.

"Oh, that makes much more sense. What a relief."

McGonagall sighed. "As fascinating as this conversation is, I really must ask you two to leave. The Minister will be here soon, and I have to get ready to meet with him. Harry, Kingsley may wish to speak to you and your friends later, so keep where we can find you easily."

Harry nodded and turned to leave the room. Out in the hallway, after descending the stagnant staircase, he was aggravated by the fact that Snape seemed to be following him.

"Don't you have something better to do than shadow me everywhere?" he asked grumpily.

"I don't know about 'better,' but anything that annoys you amuses me," the man mocked him.

"Well, you've succeeded. Now get bent." Still the shade kept pace with him as Harry made for the Great Hall. His stomach was churning, but over the past months, he'd learned not to take any meal for granted. He gritted his teeth, wanting to hit Snape, but knowing it was no use. Suddenly, Harry stopped short and turned to face his tormentor.

"What's your problem now?" Snape snapped.

Harry's face slowly broke into a grin which just seemed to keep growing.

"Careful your face doesn't crack," the ghost warned him snidely. Harry just kept smiling, and Severus began to feel uncomfortable.

"What is the matter with you?"

"I know why you're he-ere," the boy said in a maddening singsong voice.

"Here?"

"Why you didn't move on."

"Oh? Why? Because I have an interest in your welfare? Because we have unfinished business?" the hook-nosed onetime Potions master, Defence teacher, and headmaster sneered. "Don't get sentimental, Potter, I'd go straight to Hell on a season pass before I'd volun —"

"It's not that."

Snape made an impatient gesture. "Pray tell, then, what do you think is keeping me a ghost?"

Harry's eyes twinkled. "There's no one on the other side that likes you," he answered gleefully. "No one wanted you around, so you came back here."