"I'll see you guys back at the common room," Harry tells Ron and Hermione at dinner, abandoning his plate.

"Where are you going?" asks Hermione, staring at his half-finished treacle tart with amazement.

"I gotta give something back to the girl who slugged Malfoy the other day," Harry says, waving the handkerchief, now clean.

"Ooh, does ickle Harry fancy someone?" Fred says to George as he passes him the dish of apple crisp.

Harry makes a face at them and leaves, knowing he hasn't time to waste if he's going to catch Miss Crandall as she leaves the hall, alone thankfully.

"Hi!" Harry says, jogging slightly to catch up with her.

The girl turns in surprise before smiling slightly, and they fall into step beside each other.

"Hi," she says.

"Er, I just wanted to give this back to you," Harry says, feeling awkward as he hands back the handkerchief she lent him. "Thanks for letting me borrow it. It's been washed, don't worry."

"You're welcome," she says, taking back the neatly folded piece of fabric.

"Wow, your accent is so different," Harry says before he can stop himself.

"I just moved from Canada," she says shyly, "but my family lives here, in Britain. My parents moved there to get away from You Know Who, but we just moved back this year because Mom wanted me to go to Hogwarts. ‘Course I've been to Britain before, but only ever a few times, to visit family here."

"Cool," Harry says. "I've never really met anyone from Canada. Is it nice?"

"I miss it," she says a little sadly. "But at least my whole family is back here now ... well, ‘cept my dad."

"Why?"

"My parents split when I was little. I was around seven, maybe. He isn't really around much."

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly.

"Yeah, it's kinda sucked."

"I think I know what you mean, in some ways. See, it's just me and my dad. My mum died when I was a baby."

"Your dad's Professor Snape, right?" she asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Thanks by the way, for being on my side the other day."

"You're welcome," she says a little sadly. "I'm Eleanor, by the way. I don't think we really got a chance to swap names."

"Harry," he says, offering his hand. "I was going to go to the library to look for a good book, if you want to come?"

"I would love to," said Eleanor with a smile. She hesitated slightly before adding, "It's been kind of lonely, moving. All my friends are back home, and all that."

"That would be hard," mutters Harry thoughtfully. "I know just about everyone at Hogwarts, it seems. I sort of grew up here."

"Cool," Eleanor says.

Together they walk to the library, chatting amicably. Among the fiction shelves they pull books off, comparing titles. Harry's quite pleased to find that Eleanor has similar taste in books to him, pulling on the spines with adventurous titles and vivid colours.

After some time, through a gap in the shelves Harry catches a glimpse of Draco Malfoy making faces with his friends at a group of Gryffindors. He scowls.

"He' so rude," says Eleanor quietly. "I ... I don't regret it for a minute, hitting him."

"Me neither ... except that it disappointed my dad," Harry mutters. "Malfoy just winds me up."

Eleanor looks around for a moment, then she sighs.

"What he said about your dad was awful," mutters Eleanor, looking guilty, "but I hope you'll forgive me when I say that isn't why I hit him, exactly. That was part of it, but not the whole reason."

"Why did you, then?" Harry asks, his words level and kind. Harry watches as relief breaks over her face, like she was expecting him to be angry at her. This seems to be something that was weighing on her heavily.

"Well," she mutters, "he said that thing ... that thing about how your dad should just off himself. It just ... I guess it got to me because my Uncle tried to kill himself when I was five. He moved over to live with us not long after You Know Who fell."

She says it quickly and then looks away, like she's afraid Harry is going to judge her.

"That's awful," Harry whispers, shocked.

"Yeah," she says, blinking away tears. "My mom went to pay him a visit one evening, and she found him with a gun to his head. She didn't even know he had one. I wasn't supposed to know, but I heard my parents talking about it."

"Was he okay?"

She sighs, "Yeah. They got him some help, and he stayed in the hospital a while. I remember going to visit him. It took a while, but now he's better and happy again. My Uncle's more a dad to me now than my actual dad is sometimes. I wish he was my dad instead, some days."

"Did your Uncle stay in Canada?"

"Naw, Uncle Ben came with us," she says brightly. "I'm glad he did. He tells all sorts of stories. Some are scary though, but he doesn't tell those much."

"Like what?"

"Well, sometimes he tells me about when he used to be a soldier, but only ever general things. He won't tell me details."

Harry freezes. "A soldier?" Harry says, a strange feeling coming over him as he starts to consider all the things she has told him.

"Yeah, he fought in the -"

"Falklands?"

"Yeah," says Eleanor, surprised.

"What's his last name?"

"Reeves."

"You'll never believe this," Harry says breathlessly, "But I think my dad knows him."

***

When I next see Harry he seems to be in a very good mood. It is not as though we ended the story on a light note last time, and I didn't promise the next part to be a whole lot of fun to hear, so it must not be that. I suspect that something good has happened, and when I ask him, he only says that it is a nice day. I think he has something up his sleeve, but I can get no further in my questioning, for he is eager for me to continue where I left off in the story. After a few minutes of idle chit-chat, with me asking him how his day was, we get to what he has been waiting for.

"So what happened next?" Harry says to me. "After you were rescued, I mean?"

"They took me to the hospital ship," I say quietly. "I'm not completely sure how long I stayed. It all just blurred together. I got a letter from home. There was one from Mum, and Dad too."

"Did they finally send a picture of me?" Harry asks curiously.

"No, at that point Dumbledore thought it unwise," I say. "You had your scar, remember? He did not want the mail tampered with somehow, and he did not want anyone to know where you were."

"Right," Harry mutters.

"After that, the news reached the ship that the war was over," I say hollowly. "Argentina had surrendered at Port Stanley, going out without any further fighting. A few days after that, I was on a boat back home with what was left of the men. It was very surreal, but a little less so for me. At least I had a little bit of time to gather my thoughts, being in the hospital. But the others were almost straight out of the field. It was hard on all of us though. We had trudged across the Falklands, slept what little we could, seen our friends die ... how could they possibly understand that back at home? All of us could barely think about what had happened, let alone talk about it. I did not know what I would say to my mother, or to my father even, and he had gone through a war himself."

***

"Severus, get your nose out of that book," says one of the men from my regiment. "We're a half hour from home."

"Seriously?" I ask, groaning slightly as I sit up in the tiny bunk, eagerly dropping a ratty old copy of Frankenstein someone had found earlier. I was really just flipping pages for lack of something to do.

"Seriously," is his grave reply before he goes out onto the deck with the others.

I swing my legs off the bunk, my knee paining me. It is in a brace to keep it immobile, but that does not stop it from throbbing. I reach under my bunk for my crutches. The wood clacks together as I pull them out and hoist myself to my feet.

Home, I think to myself. Home. What is home now, anyway? My eyes prickle with tears as an image of Lily, pregnant and glowing as she tries to paint her toenails around her bulging belly comes to my mind. That was home. She was home, and now that she is gone, where will I go? I have to sit back down again, for I feel weak right down to my toes.

But is she gone? I wonder to myself if it really is true. It feels to me as though she will be waiting for me on the pier, just like she said goodbye to me. This whole experience has felt completely unreal to me. I half expect to see Joey come into the room and weakly flop down on a bunk, green and seasick.

God, did that really happen? Did I really see Joey die in front of me? Or perhaps, I think, had he just fainted before me? Just fallen over from fatigue? That was it. He merely fainted in front of me on the battlefield. He had to have. He is on a different ship; that is all. Just like Ben. Just like Ben, who I have not seen since he half-carried me to the medical station. I do not realize I am shaking until my crutches, still standing upright as I grip them from where I sit on the bed, start to rattle. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to believe these lies, because the alternative frightens me too badly to express with words.

"I can see it!" someone shouts up above, the voice carrying. "I see home!"

A thrill of excitement, fear, and sudden sickness wash over me, and I know I have to get up. I try to move, but I can't. I can't, and I'm shaking as I try not to cry, even though there is nobody here to see my tears. I take a deep breath, and I try to push it all away, just like I used to when I was a student at Hogwarts, and James Potter and his friends were giving me hell. But even James Potter reminds me of what happened now, and I don't even know the full story yet, just that he was there.

So instead I think only of Sirius Black's taunts, and I take all my emotions, and I bury them, and soon I feel that numbness settle over me. It is calm, familiar, cold and yet strangely right. I close my eyes and I think of my Dad for a second, looking at me, telling me that even if I fall, and they push me to the ground it cannot change the fact that I have the blood of a survivor. In that one second I feel a sudden surge of strength, so I get to my feet and shove the crutches under my arms, and begin forward. After that, I do not know what keeps me going. I think I am afraid to stop, knowing I will not find strength enough to take another step if I lose momentum. My chest is numb as I emerge from the long corridor, and come out onto the deck, packed with soldiers, all craning their necks to get a glimpse of the coasts of Britain again. Some are grinning, and some are crying. Some look ready to throw up, or faint. Others, like me, have that look of apathy on their faces, because there is nothing else to do but push it all away. Couldn't they have at least given us a week together, to talk, to think, to exist? Instead here we are, just days ago having finished with a war, faced with the impossible thought of moving on. Moving on. Is that even possible?

It is not too much longer that we pull into the dock, boats and helicopters of all kinds coming in with us in a convoy. It is really a sight to see. Overhead planes soar and banners fly. I look up for a moment before I am shepherded along to the railing. A few of the other soldiers have piled up crates and dragged out chairs for those of us who can't stand long, and someone nudges me toward a stack of crates by the railing. This is where I sit as we coast into the port. After a time I cannot stand to sit, so however shakily, I lean on my crutches and stand, skimming the crowd. The docks are packed with people, waving flags and cheering. They look so small from up here.

I see families, and lovers, children and parents. My eyes catch a flash of red near the end of a dock, and my heart leaps into my throat. It turns out to be another flag, and numbly, I sit down again. I cannot see my parents. I cannot see Lily. She should have been here. She should have been waving down there too, and it is at that moment that I really start to realize she is gone, and I have to bite my tongue hard to keep from breaking down. Someone shouts to start leaving the boat, and an older soldier behind me taps me on the shoulder and helps me put my rucksack back on my back. I try to thank him, but I can't get a word out; my throat has closed up because in the moment when I first saw him I thought he was Ben, but he isn't. The soldier just nods that he understands that I am grateful, because everyone's started singing the national anthem and I won't be able to hear what he has to say anyway.

The long line of men going down from the ship starts to stretch out, and they try to get the men suffering from injuries off sooner. I find myself herded toward the gangplank. Then I'm going down, the soldier at my side, an arm guiding my shoulders. There are a number of others with crutches, or their arms in slings. These are the men who are well enough to move on their own, but not well enough to be standing around for a long time. There are a fair few uninjured soldiers coming down with us, to make sure nobody falls. I finally get down to the dock, and the wood clunks under my crutches. I skim the faces of the crowd. They are jubilant, and smiling. They cheer, like we've done something noble and courageous. Why do they not understand? Do they not realize that we have seen our friends die before us, and that it is sheer chance we are here instead of them? Do they not realize the cost that was paid in this war, not just by us, but by the other side too?

My thoughts feel so muddled inside. Before I left, I thought that Britain was the good side. And here, for these people cheering, it would have remained easy to pick out the good side and the bad side, especially with the press. But as for me, I am not so sure which side is which now. I saw men just like me in the Argentinian forces, some still boys. Yet, in the end, weren't we all just boys, if not in body, but in heart? I know I will never be a boy again, not even close. I wonder if you can see the change in me, the way I saw it first hand in others. I remember how back on the field, after a while everyone had looked the same. No matter how hard I try, I know I will never forget the look in the eyes of the Argentinian soldiers that I got close enough to see their faces, and nor will I forget how at that moment I realized with startling clarity that the look was the same as it was in the eyes of my friends. Fear does not choose sides.

In a daze I go through the crowd, which moves aside for the soldiers coming down. I look for someone I know, anyone, and I feel my breathing coming faster and harder, and I look, and look, but all I see are faces blurring together, and the sound seems to crash over me like a wave, swallowing me whole. I shut my eyes tightly as I see a flash, and I freeze, waiting for the shot to land. When it doesn't I open my eyes, and realize it was just a camera. I take a shaky breath and keep going forward, afraid to stay still.

"SEVERUS!" I hear a voice calling through the crowd.

It's my Dad, and my heart leaps. I look around for him, but he finds me before I can see him, and before I know it his hands are on my shoulders, and he's looking down on me like he's never seen me before.

"Dad," I choke, barely able to speak, and then he's thrown his arms around me, and he's holding me tighter than I can ever remember.

My crutches dig into my arms, but I don't care.

I feel him shaking, and I think he might be crying a little bit. He's wearing his old uniform again, the formal one. I see the buttons and medals glimmer in the sunlight when he lets go of me.

"How is your leg?" he asks me, concerned. "We got a letter, a few days ago ... it was awful. They just said you were injured, and coming home soon."

I shrug. "I'm okay, I guess," I tell him over the roar of the crowd, scarcely able to believe that I am really talking to him. Words come out of my mouth, but I do not feel like I am saying them. "They say I'll be walking in a few months. A couple breaks, but they'll heal."

"Good," Dad says gruffly, clearly relieved. "Give me your rucksack."

"Thanks," I mutter, and he helps me slide it off my back, and he throws it over his shoulder. Then he slowly leads me through the crowd, toward the street beyond the docks. "I brought the car. I managed to find a place to park a block from here. You mother wanted to be here, but she's at home with Harry."

I just nod.

"He's a beautiful little boy," Dad says, and his voice is shaking, and I know he wants to say something about Lily, but I think he understands I'm not ready to talk about what happened. I don't know the full story yet, but it doesn't seem to matter to me. She's dead, and knowing how won't undo it. Besides, there is only one monster that could have done it, and that is the Dark Lord. How Harry survived, I don't know, but I don't have the strength to ask why just yet. There are too many other whys in my head right now.

We walk in silence until the docks are behind us. My arms are aching, and I'm sweating.

"If you get too tired let me know," Dad says in my ear, and I nod, panting.

After a few more minutes I finally see Dad's rundown old car. I gratefully go around to the passenger side. I see a gaggle of young women nearby whispering to each other and sharing tiny grins as they take sidelong glances of me. I catch one staring, and she winks. I look away, my chest suddenly hurting. Dad opens the door for me, and I turn and sit down. He takes my crutches, and we share a look as the girls keep talking nearby, giggling and smiling. He doesn't have to say a word, because I know by his eyes he understands. I cautiously swing my legs into the car and he shuts the door. It is quiet in here. My eyes land on the scratch on the dashboard, and the worn leather seats. It is the same as when I left, and for a second I almost think I catch a whiff of Lily's perfume. I force myself not to look into the back seat. I know only my rucksack and crutches sit there. Dad gets in and puts the key in the ignition. The car coughs, splutters, and then I hear the engine turn over.

"Atta girl," my father mutters appreciatively as he pats the dashboard.

"Thanks for coming to get me," I tell him, because I do not know what else to say.

"I've been looking forward to it for weeks," is his reply. I hear the unspoken words, saying that he's been hoping he would get the chance.

I look out the window, and I know that it is going to be a long drive. We have to go through London, and then out into the country and then into Cokeworth, where home lies at last. Spinner's End. The name sounds foreign when I think of it. So does the word home.

For a little while Dad fills me in on what I've missed. He mentions tiny details of what happened with Lily - that James Potter died protecting her. I feel a surge of guilt, and I have to look out the window, although I think of all the awful things James Potter did to me to try and make it hurt less. It doesn't help, but I listen as Dad keeps talking. He says Dumbledore is going to visit me and explain how it all happened, and explain how the Dark Lord was finished at last (Something I am only able to feel a slight bit of relief at, for I am still rather numb). Also, apparently Harry got some scar out of it too, but he's fine, thankfully. That is pretty much all Dad mentions. I'm glad he doesn't talk a lot about the whole ordeal, because I'm having trouble keeping it together, and he seems pretty choked up by it too. By the time he's finished we are out of the city, and rolling hills stretch out before us, green and lush. The sun is going down now. It is beautiful, and the silence is a relief.

"Sorry I haven't got much to say," I say after about ten minutes of this.

"I didn't expect you to be talkative, Severus," my father says quietly, sparing a sideways glance at me. "I couldn't think of a thing to say when I came home after Korea, myself. You don't have to tell me about what happened over there until you are good and ready, that is, if you ever do want to talk about it."

"It's strange," I mutter to him. "Being back here."

"I know," he says quietly.

Dad starts to hum after a little while. I recognize the melody. He has hummed that tune as long as I can remember, but I cannot name it as any particular song. I think he probably made it up. As the first few notes reach my ears, for the first time in months, I feel safe. For a moment I watch him out of the corner of my eye, studying the thoughtful look he has as he drives, the lines on his face, the grey hairs in his once black moustache. I glance back at the sunset as Dad hums, and I lean against the glass, my cheek resting on my fist.

Suddenly, I am exhausted, and I feel myself sinking into sleep as I watch the first of the stars come out. I am trying so hard not to drift off, but after a while, I give up. I'm too comfortable, and the sound of the old car mixes with that nameless tune. The last thing I remember before falling asleep is Dad glancing over at me, checking up on me like he's done a hundred times, back when I was a little kid in the backseat. Maybe it's that look that finally sends me off to sleep.

***

"Was I awake when you got home?" Harry asks eagerly. "Were you excited to finally see me?"

"Of course I was excited to see you," I say. "I was pretty shocked from the transition. As to whether or not you were awake when I got home ... I do not know."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I was not awake to find out."

"Huh, how?" Harry asked. "Wouldn't you have known when you came into the house?"

"I stayed asleep for almost twenty hours, according to my parents," I say slowly, clearing my throat slightly. "My father couldn't wake me when we got home. I awoke in my bed much later to find that he carried me up to my old bedroom. He denied it, but my mother confirmed it later."

"Granddad carried you?" Harry whispers, surprised.

"Yes," I mutter softly, not embarrassed to admit it, like I was long ago. "I think he was so glad to have me home he did not mind. In fact, I have the strangest feeling he did not try overly hard to wake me."

I shake my head fondly as I think of him. I miss him terribly, and somehow it seems like yesterday when I woke up at home, him just down the hall from me.

***

The utter bliss of a warm bed is all I know for some time. It takes me what feels like a very long time to realize that I am in fact in a bed. It is so comfortable, for a moment, I wonder if I am dead. Then, the throb of my knee brings me to reality. It is but a mere ripple in the stillness of waking, however, and I realize that wherever I am, there is orange light shining through my eyelids, although only a small amount.

I wiggle my toes slightly. Someone has removed my boots and socks. My army shirt is gone too, and I'm wearing one of my white vests. The dog tags clink against my chest as I stir slightly, hating to move, but trying to remember where I am. For a second, darkened roads under the glow of headlights are brought to my mind. Then, I panic. I was just in the car with my father, and now, I am in a place I have no memory of getting to. What if I am still on the hospital ship and they have not declared peace? I sit up sharply, opening my eyes. My breathing increases, and then I take in my surroundings. It looks vaguely familiar, but panic clouds my memory. Where am I? Where is the car? Where is my father?

I hear the door creak open, and then I fall back onto the bed with relief.

"You alright, Sev?" my Dad says softly, and I don't quite catch that he used my old nickname.

I nod.

"Can I come in?" he asks, and I say yes, taking a deep breath.

"You painted," I say, looking around my childhood bedroom. "I didn't recognize it at first."

"It had to be done," Dad tells me with a bit of a smirk, but he seems a little apologetic. "A certain someone had a nasty habit of brewing potions in the middle of the night as a youngster, in the cupboard. I daresay some of the mishaps left marks."

I smile weakly, and Dad suddenly looks older. He opens the blinds, and the room fills with light. He sinks down in the creaky old chair close to my bed, which has been turned toward it for some time, it appears.

"How long have I been asleep?" I ask.

"Nineteen hours, about," he tells me after a moment of consideration. "It's four-o-clock now. I cannot say I am surprised."

"Weird," I mutter to myself, sitting up again and stretching. "I don't remember coming up here."

"You were pretty tired," is all Dad says quickly, and I look at him curiously.

I open my mouth to ask him a question, but he cuts me off.

"It is good to have you back."

I try to say something back, but it catches in my throat, because all I can think of is Lily. I should have been waking up next to her. And then for a moment, before my eyes I see a ship wheel and a flash of light, the sound of tearing metal in my ears. But I am still in my bed, although I am clutching the sheets in my fists. I just lie still, trying to breathe steadily.

"Dad?" I finally am able to say after a long silence, though not an uncomfortable one.

"Yes?"

"Will ... I," I begin, stumbling over words, trying to get them past my constricted throat, and I look at him, pleading for an answer. "Will I ever be able to forget what happened there?"

He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders droop a little. I can see Dad's wrinkles more clearly now. Have those always been there?

"No," he says quietly, his greying eyebrows furrowed with thought. "But in time ... you will learn to live with it. I wish I could offer you more comfort ... but, that is all I can say honestly."

I nod, leaning back against the headboard, feeling cold.

"If you ever need an ear to listen, or want to swap stories," he says slowly, "I am always willing to talk."

"Thanks," I say, barely able to make my voice heard, because I know he means it. You can see it in his eyes.

He pats grips my shoulder tightly for a moment, and then speaks again.

"Do you feel well enough to visit for a while?"

"Yes," I say, stretching a little.

"Good," says Dad, a warm smile suddenly washing away the worry lines, making him look like a young man again. He goes to the door, and then sticks his head out of the room and calls, "Eileen, bring him up."

Dad looks at me, and then suddenly I know who they're bringing, and I'm shaking.

Then there she is, Mum, standing in the doorway, holding a bundle of blankets. I see a tuft of black hair sticking up, and the little bundle squirms.

"I won't hurt him, will I?" I whisper, and Dad reassures me quietly.

Mum's crying already, and I can hardly breathe as she comes over to my bed. She looks down at me, and I nod that I'm ready. She kneels down slightly, settling the bundle in my waiting arms.

"Harry Severus Snape," my Mum says, "Meet your daddy."

I don't breathe as I look down at my son for the first time. His hair is jet black, just like mine. A tiny scar sits on his forehead, which for a moment I study curiously. He wiggles a bit, his little hand clutching the fabric of the blanket. And then he opens his eyes.

I breathe again, and this time I am amazed by the shuddering sob that comes from my throat. My parents are surely reacting to this, but I only have eyes for my son. Those bright green eyes blink up at me, and Harry puts his tiny fingers in his mouth, looking concerned as tears drip down my nose. I feel myself shuddering as I experience what I imagine to be every emotion possible.

I am somehow proud, grief-stricken, awestruck, humbled, terrified, utterly in love, worried, insecure, breathless, and so many other things I cannot put in words, all at once. How have I deserved this? How could someone so imperfect have helped bring forth such a miracle? This innocent child, big eyes so filled with wonder lies in my arms. And all I can think is that I have no right to hold such a perfect being. I, who have murdered and seen those fall before me. I, who threw myself into the jaws of death on a whim, on some notion that my life was not worth living. But here, right now, I see purpose again. The only thing that matters to me now is this little baby in my arms, who is reaching his tiny hand up to my face, trying to comfort me as I cry. And at this moment, I fear that my son will never understand just what he has done for me, without even uttering a word.

***

"You really cried, Dad?" whispers Harry, astounded.

"I did," I say unashamedly. "Much more than you, that is for sure."

"Why?"

"Harry, did you know that more veterans of the Falklands have committed suicide than died in the war?"

"No," he says to me. "Is ... is that really true?"

I nod, and then speak, trying to keep the trembling from my voice, trying to put into words everything I need him to know. "If it had not been for you, Harry, I may have gone the same route. I was reckless, bereaved. As I have said, I set out to meet my death once already before I came home, when I talked that crew out of leaving me to die on that ship. It was a death wish, not something done out of bravery. I might have tried again if you had not been around, so really, you saved me, Harry, without even trying to."

Harry does not seem to know what to say, and so we end our talk for the day, for it is growing later and curfew is soon. I give him a hug before I send him off to his common room because I know he needs to think. He does not protest, and whispers that he loves me in my ear before I let go of him. I whisper that I love him too.

Such a simple phrase. It just never seems like it is enough, and I wonder if Harry can even comprehend how much he means to me. I comfort myself with the thought that perhaps he too will have a child someday, and will at last see, for I never really understood how much my own father cared about me until I held Harry for the first time.