Bright sunlight dazzled through the ethereal windows as Harry and Hermione walked through the halls toward Gryffindor tower, the natural beauty sharply contrasting with the wreckage and death that permeated the castle.

The two walked close together, their light but slow footsteps a representation of their mixed feelings of elation and grief. Ron had returned to the Great Hall to grieve with his family.

As they rounded a corner they saw a ripped book bag lying solitary next to a smashed window, the broken glass littering the books, papers, and quills that lay scattered. It appeared to have been tossed aside haphazardly. A first year potions book sat in a shaft of direct sunlight, the glass fragments causing it to sparkle oddly.

Harry stopped walking.

"I have to go to the Shrieking Shack." he said suddenly.

"The Shr – what?" asked Hermione, bewildered, but after a second her face relaxed into an expression of solemn understanding.

"Of course." She said quietly. "Do you want me to come?"

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it. While he felt like recovering Snape's body was a job he ought to do alone, he also felt an inexplicable need for comfort and companionship from his best friend. As with the past seven years, especially the past year, she would take on this final task with him. "Yes."

The pair shifted directions, moving through the castle at a much quicker and more purposeful pace. As they moved toward the Great Hall and more people stopped them, verbally expressing gratitude or embracing both in tight hugs, Harry, though appreciative, became exponentially more exhausted. He motioned for Hermione to follow him into a small nook and threw the Invisibility Cloak over them. "Just like old times," Hermione whispered wistfully, taking care to bend down.

As they passed the Great Hall, Harry saw a sea of red hair huddled together. One redhead broke away from the group, walking to a nearby stretcher on which Tonks rested, and Harry's heart clenched painfully as he watched Mrs. Weasley embrace Andromeda Tonks, both mothers sobbing uncontrollably in each other's arms.

"Come on, Harry," Hermione whispered gently, her own eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Harry tore his gaze away and followed her outside to the lawn.

More bodies lay sprawled out on the Hogwarts grounds, Healers and Mediwitches expertly and swiftly moving between them and conjuring stretchers. As they seemed to be moving from the inside outwards, Harry doubted that they had reached Snape's body yet. Trees on the edge of the Forbidden Forest lay severed and destroyed, giving the appearance of the remnants of a hurricane. Centaurs moved quietly about them, picking up the wreckage and talking amongst themselves.

Harry and Hermione strode forward, the cloak flapping at their ankles in a light breeze. As the Shrieking Shack came into view, Harry was oddly reminded of the night in his third year when Sirius revealed the truth about Peter Pettigrew. He bit back a small smile as he pictured Sirius, shrunken from his Azkaban days but still adventurous and reckless, carelessly levitating an unconscious Snape while Lupin, Hermione, Ron, and recently transformed Peter had followed behind. What an odd sight they had all made. Harry felt a small blow to his stomach as he realized that four of the seven people there that night were now dead.

As he and Hermione moved further along the grounds in the bright heat, Harry finally allowed himself to ruminate on the memories he had seen in the Pensieve. Truthfully, he had been shocked. After Dumbledore's death there had been no question in Harry's mind about Snape's loyalties; he had not even thought to question the act, not even considered the possibility that it was anything but cold blooded murder. He had ignored Dumbledore's unwavering support of Snape, the numerous times the man had saved him from death, never questioned why the memory he had seen in his fifth year had engendered such vehemence from Snape…

Heavy guilt seeped into his senses as he remembered the last conversation he had had with Snape. It had been on these very grounds, the night of Dumbledore's death, when Harry had genuinely hated the man as much as he hated Voldemort himself. Coward, he had called him. He had never wondered why that label sparked such rage, remembering the anguished and terrorized face Snape had had at the word. And Snape had just been forced to kill the one of the few people that, assumedly, had ever believed in him. Harry closed his eyes. The last thing he had called the man who dedicated his life to protecting him, probably the bravest man he ever knew – a coward. Twice.

Harry saw how angry Snape became at Dumbledore's Machiavellian ways, on his behalf; how he declared regretfully that he had only watched those die whom he could not save; and how he risked blowing his cover to protect Lupin. Perhaps his path for Dumbledore had begun out of a desire to do what Lily would have wanted him to do, but Harry knew that Snape had been a good man. A good man with a biting and cold disposition, positively cruel at times, but still – a good man.

And Harry had watched this man, this man to whom he owed his life and success, die before his eyes without even trying to save him. He had just stared as the snake venom slowly killed the man who he so had so hated.

As Harry replayed Snape's final words in his mind, he gasped quietly. When Snape had said Look at me, at the time Harry had just assumed he meant to look at the memories, to see Snape for what he truly was. But now Harry understood, as he remembered his green eyes meeting the black.

Snape had wanted the last thing he saw before he died to be the eyes of the woman he loved.

Harry turned away from Hermione as a lump formed in his throat, his eyes burning and blurring. Ever intuitive, Hermione squeezed his hand.

As they crept up the tunnel to the shack, Harry's heart began to drum unbearably fast. He knew what he would see when he reached the decrepit room, knew what to expect; but knowing what he did now, he was unsure of his reaction. Although Hermione had seen him at far worse, he still felt that breaking down and sobbing over Snape's dead body would be deeply embarrassing. His lips curled into a small smile as he imagined Snape's own reaction to such emotional behavior; probably a thoroughly disgusted expression and sneer, Harry decided.

They climbed through the trapdoor and pattered into the room. Sure enough, the room was exactly as it had been when they left it; thickly coated in dust and squalid as ever. Harry took a calm, steadying breath as he saw a black-clad figure in the corner. Hermione whimpered beside him, and now it was he who squeezed her hand.

As they advanced on the dead man and kneeled before him, Harry's chest became constricted with grief. Snape's neck and shoulders were covered with blood, which had trickled down his characteristic thick black robes. Harry took in his shrunken, practically emaciated figure; surely he had not been that thin when he last saw him. His formerly jet-black, greasy hair now had several strands of gray, and his cheeks looked hollow and sunken. Large purple circles underlined his glassy, unseeing eyes.

Harry's tears were falling freely now. Hermione clasped his hand, squeezing it reassuringly as she had at his parents' graves, though her own sobs were audible as well.

After a few minutes Harry spoke quietly, his voice thick and hoarse. "We should bring him back now."

As with Dobby, Harry did not want to use magic. He wanted to use his own arms to carry Snape, a small act to pay back a minute fraction of the gratitude and debt he owed the man. Hermione, understanding his aim immediately, nodded and stood up as Harry scooted, extending his arms to Snape's shoulders and legs. But as he bent down, he noticed two empty phials next to Snape's shoulder. Had those been there before?

"Herm – "

"Harry." Hermione's eyes were wide with amazement, but her voice was no longer clogged with tears. Harry followed her gaze to Snape's thin wrist, where a slow but steady heartbeat thumped.

"He's alive."