Disclaimer: This is all JK's. I just tweaked it a bit.

"Dreaming With a Broken Heart"

Harry sat upright with a gasp, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest. He spared a glance in Ginny's direction to make sure he hadn't woken her. Sure enough, his wife of nineteen years was still asleep. She always slept through his dreams. He stripped himself of the covers and slid out of bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. He pushed his feet in his slippers and pulled on his dressing gown before exiting the room, not wasting another look on Ginny's snoring, uncaring, and unresponsive form.

Harry padded down the stairs to the kitchen almost silently. He brewed a pot of coffee, Muggle- fashion, all the while trying not to remember why he was out of bed at this rather ungodly hour of the morning. It was three o'clock, and he sank on to one of his couches, and giving up, finally contemplated the dream that had woken him.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
the waking up is the hardest part

Tears slid down his cheeks, but he barely noticed them. His dream played over and over in his mind.

He was in the Forbidden Forest, in the middle of the night, running, frantic with panic and fear and worry, trying to find someone, anyone, to save his lover. Harry knew he was in the shack with the Dark Lord, trying to buy him some time, but it was too late. Harry burst through the door frantically searching for the man he loved. He wasn't about to see him reduced to a petty casualty of this damned battle of predestination and gutless power. But there he was, limbs twisted in an uncomfortable position on the stone floor; normally pale skin almost translucent; deep eyes glazed in a blank, frozen melancholy; and two freshly-punctured pink holes adorning his

exposed wrist. Harry scanned the room murderously for his enemy's loathsome pet before taking him into his lap, shaking him by the shoulders and begging him to open his eyes. But it was useless.

Hewas gone.

You roll outta bed and down on your knees
and for the moment you can hardly breathe

The tears were flowing freely down his face, unchecked by Harry. He didn't care

about them. They should be allowed to fall on this day of all days. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his robe and got up, putting the now-cool cup of coffee on the counter to deal with later. It was almost time to go.

Wondering was he really here?
Is he standing in my room?

Harry dressed for the weather, overcast and cold with a hint of rain. It suited his mood. He looked around his house before he left to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Leaving Ginny a post-it on the fridge, Harry left. He did this every year around this time, so Harry didn't worry about Ginny's reaction to his note. Then again, he didn't really care, either way. He walked out to the end of the lane, and plucked a blood-red, newly bloomed rose from his garden, before glancing around his shoulder in a paranoid way as he Apparated. Harry appeared in front of a run-down pub somewhere outside of London before Apparrating again to another random place in the city. He knew it was unnecessary, but whenever he did this, he couldn't help but feel that he was being followed. Just to be safe, Harry did this another five times before landing in an area in the countryside of Scotland. Still trying to lose any followers, Harry took an indirect, winding path that eventually led to a dark forest.

He walked inside, heading for the hidden glade. It was like midnight under the heavy canopy, but Harry could walk this path backwards. As he made his way, Harry saw the face he only allowed himself to gaze upon late at night when Ginny had fallen asleep. Every tree, rock, and brook had baggage for Harry, and every memory hit him with almost physical blows.

Harry's breath shuddered into his body as he remembered. Harry was, coincidentally, serving detention with him for some stupid thing he'd done to get his attention. It had worked.

They'd been walking in silence, Harry silently dreading this night because he didn't know what to feel anymore. Was it wrong, what he was feeling? Did it matter at all?

And Harry was stuck in Hogwarts rather than with his friends in Hogsmeadebecause he'd blown up his cauldron in Potions. So now he was wandering through the forest with him looking for some stupid flower that apparently spat fire at people.

They'd walked in silence for about a ½ and hour before he had struck up a conversation. Granted, it was still an overly sarcastic and scathing conversation directed at the shortcomings of Harry's intelligence, but at least it was something. It was better than nothing.

They'd ended up having an almost civil conversation afterwards. On their walk back to the castle, Harry had tripped and fallen into his arms.

They'd frozen, both scared to move, scared of what they felt. Harry adjusted himself in his arms, and, ready for rejection, reached up to cup his chin. His face was soft, so much softer the Harry had thought possible. He'd run his thumb lightly over his lips, delighting in the satiny softness, caressing his cheekbone in the same motion. He dropped the sack of flowers to wrap his long fingered, aristocratic hand around Harry's neck, fingering his hair with his other.

They'd stayed that way for an indeterminate amount of time, reveling in each other, not speaking, but the world came crashing back to them. He made as if to pull away, but Harry just pulled him closer, and wrapped his hand firmly around his neck.

He pulled Harry closer to him, and lowered his face, but slowly, giving Harry time to pull away, but Harry just lifted his face to him, reaching for what he knew was coming.

When their lips met, Harry melted. He knew it was wrong to follow his instincts, but he needed this. It felt so right, like this was the only place in the world where they both belonged. It lasted for too long, yet not long enough.

He pulled away, and unwrapped himself from Harry, and stooped to pick up the bag of spit- fire flowers. On the walk back to the Castle, they didn't speak, still not wanting to break the spell surrounding them. When they reached the front entrance, he stopped and looked at Harry, and, for the first time since the kiss, spoke.

"Goodnight…Harry."

It was their first kiss, but not their last. Harry, standing in the forest, thought that he could still feel his lips against his own, like he was right in front of him, looking at him with that peculiar half- smile, half- smirk that Harry loved so much.

No he's not, 'cause he's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone...

Harry scrubbed the tears off of his face, and lurched off of the tree on which he had been leaning on, checking to make sure he still had the rose. He forced his feet to continue.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
the giving up is the hardest part

He knew that he wasn't here anymore. He hadn't been here for a very long time, but he could feel him everywhere. Harry passed the hidden lake in the center of the forest, remembering midnight swims, stolen moments together, the times when they didn't have to pretend their relationship was just professional.

Harry remembered his goal, and continued on.

Finally, the gateway came into view. It was hidden by trees, rocks, and ivy. Harry had cast a series of complicated charms upon the entrance twenty years ago out of anger and a need of privacy. The sudden sunlight blinded him. Harry blinked to clear his eyes were drawn to the center of the space. The clearing itself was small, only about fourteen feet in diameter. Even though it was in the middle of a dark forest, and the sky was overcast and stormy, there was sunlight streaming down, warming the glade, casting out any shadow that had the temerity to enter.

He takes you in with your crying eyes
then all at once you have to say goodbye

Harry hadn't moved from the entrance. He checked the spells, especially the spell that made it so that only sunlight could enter the clearing, because Harry had promised him that he would never have to hide in the shadows ever again.

Wondering could you stay my love?
Will you wake up by my side?

There was no debris on the ground, so Harry didn't make any noise as he walked forward. He felt the sun on his skin, stroking him as he once had. There was no sound in the clearing, a fluke of the protective spells, so Harry could hear his erratic breathing and thumping heart very clearly as if he was here at this very moment, making Harry's heart race in his chest and his breathing as wild and uncontrolled as a deer's bounding dance. His knees buckled suddenly, and Harry thunked down in a bed of earth, probably staining his trousers in the process. But he didn't care about that. He didn't care about anything but the feeling of the phantom arms encasing him as he cried his long over-due, silent, wrenching tears. Harry tried to shove his fists into his mouth to muffle the sound of his heart shattering into a million tiny pieces again.

Harry yearned for his arms to be around him, for his caustic voice to tell him to stop his childish wailing and be a man. He wanted to be able to wrap his arms around his neck and never let go, to feel his hands stroking his back and holding him while he let go of all control and sobbed till there was nothing left inside of him. He would hold him until Harry could face another year of living without him by his side; another year of neglect from the woman he'd married thanks to the stupid expectations of others. Another year of watching his children grow up with parents who didn't love one another. Another year of pretending he wasn't dying inside.

If only he had lived. If only Harry could be with the one he was meant to be with. If only he didn't have to live this damn lie of a life. Harry needed his arms to be wrapped around him, expecting a response, instead of that woman's. And Harry would give him the response Ginny wanted every night that she was slowly learning to live without. Or find from other sources. His friends had stopped asking him why he didn't sleep with his wife, or why he let her cheat on him.

They had figured that he just didn't care anymore, but had he just fallen out of love with her? No, Harry had never really been in love with Ginny. She was just a cover-up. She could never fill the long nights dreaming that, somehow, he lived and come to him.

No he can't, 'cause he's gone, gone, gone, gone, gone...

Harry spotted the one patch of color he had allowed to flourish here. It covered a small stone in a blooming blanket of vibrant dark red, his favorite flower, the Black Baccara Rose. Harry had had a hell of a time finding it, but when he had, he'd made sure to plant enough of them to ensure the flower's survival.

Now do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand
do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

He finally felt the pain in his hand. Looking down, he unclenched the fist he didn't even know he'd made and saw that the rose he'd brought with him had bit into his hand and drawn blood. He smiled, in a sad sort of way. 'It's fitting that the rose should be marked with my blood when you died because you wanted to save it.'

Harry wiped his hand off on the lush grass, leaving a red smear, and held the rose between his knees, clasped gently in his hands. He fell into a trance, thinking about his time with him, regretting certain things, smiling broadly at others, but always with that heart- deep ache in his throat.

Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?
Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hand?

He remembered the time that he had found out his favorite flower. They were having a liaison in his bed, for a change, and Harry had noticed a portrait above his door. It was of a bouquet of roses, so dark a red they appeared to be black, and (since it was a magical portrait) they were waving in a breeze. Harry had laughed at him, chiding him for placing a picture of that in a pride- of- place setting, when he noticed that he looked offended, and disappointed in Harry. Harry had asked him why the picture was there, and he had responded "They're my favorite flowers. Black Baccara Roses.

They are extremely fragile, and I haven't been able to keep one alive. So I keep a portrait of them."

The next morning at breakfast, he had found a single bloom of a Baccara Rose on his chair. Harry knew it was an incredibly corny thing to do, but the look of gratitude he had sent his way was worth every galleon to get the rose over night. Two weeks later, Harry had his bed covered in them, from headboard to foot board, not a single space was left open. That night, he wept, because no one had ever cared enough for him to find out what he liked, let alone buy him a single bloom of it, much less an entire forest of it.

Baby won't you get them if I did?
No you won't, 'cause you're gone, gone, gone, gone, gone...

Harry stood up to walk over to the Baccara rose covered stone. He knelt purposefully on front of the little slab of marble and brushed a stray rose out of the way, muttering a spell to keep any more roses from obscuring the writing.

Severus Sebastian Snape
Born: 1960
Died: 1998
The Best Potions Master Hogwarts Has Ever Had
Silent Defender Of The Light
We Will Always Remember

Harry placed a kiss on the rose before putting it at the base of the stone. He sighed and readied himself to leave.

"Goodbye, Severus."

At his words, a small wind kicked up, bringing the scent of roses to Harry's nostrils. He breathed in deeply, savoring the smell, knowing that he had to leave, but not wanting to. He turned to go and took a step forward. But before he left, he glanced over his shoulder and looked one last time at the marker. Harry closed his eyes left his lover behind, betraying his supposed calm with the last tear that fled down his cheek.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart
the waking up is the hardest part