AN: When I heard last week that Alan Rickman had passed, I was shocked. I am very saddened by the loss and will remember him fondly for his unmistakable voice and superb acting. All of the characters he's played over his career are strong, interesting, and complex, made so by his talent as an actor. I never met him, but I would have liked to. I wrote this oneshot to at least remember his most famous (and my favorite) character, Severus Snape.

Rest in peace, and my deepest condolences to Rima and the family.

Harry and the Willow had had a long, violent relationship. He and Ron were nearly killed by it in their second year. Ron was then dragged within the year after by 'the Grim.' More recently, Harry had faced the tree more scared than he'd been in his entire life. Not for the Whomping Willow herself, but for the pale-faced demon he knew to be beyond the passage, poised to end his life like so many others before. He looked up into the branches of the Whomping Willow once again, and for the first time did not feel fear. He just felt empty.

The Battle had seeped into him, the violence and carnage, the strain and death, had furrowed deep within. He felt drained, tired. Everything that Hogwarts had ever been to him now held a nasty tarnish. There was a haze over the grounds, a fog of misery clinging to the grass, creeping up past the astronomy tower. He turned his head back and surveyed the school, his home, as it stood in ruins. Fire and hexes had blasted gaping wounds in the stone, spilling smoke into the morning air. All was quiet.

The silence seemed to have saturated the willow as well. She stood as tall and strong as ever, but it was strained sort of stance. Her branches sagged just a bit, and even as Harry approached the tree, she merely shuddered in half-hearted annoyance.

"Good morning," he said. He didn't know why he did.

Of course the tree didn't respond, and so he cautiously approached the large, gnarled roots, and climbed beneath. He stood in the dark for a moment, trying futilely to see through the gloom. Sod this, he thought, and pulled his newly-repaired phoenix wand from his pocket.

"Lumos." White light shone at once from the tip of his wand, as if it had been waiting for the word.

Harry stared at the dim passageway before him, the creak of the willow above muffled by compacted dirt. He stood still for a moment, fully aware to what the passage led. But for all the bravery Harry possessed, he still was somewhat intimidated by the sallow-faced man in a sweeping back cloak. How familiar a feeling.

Like always, he faced his professor with defiance, and strode down the tunnel. The shadows were resolved, the roots and earthen walls thrown into relief by the light beaming from his wand. The sound of his footsteps were dampened by the dirt, his breathing slightly stymied by the humid summer air. When he surfaced for the second time that day in the Shrieking Shack, Harry no longer worried about what mystery lay before him, no longer feared for his life. No, he'd come to mourn another's.

Severus Snape lay dead right where he was left, skin pale with death. It made the blood coloring his neck sharper, harsher. His black eyes stared at nothing, face frozen in the desperate expression Snape had held when regarding Harry hours ago, pleading for him to take the memories. Harry was held so thoroughly by the sight that he wondered how he'd ever escaped to Dumbledore's office some hours ago. He just could not turn away from the man he'd hated all his life. Even in death, Snape commanded attention.

"But this is touching, Severus."

Harry stood paralyzed as something sort of snapped inside. Seven years, he had hated Snape. Seven hours, he had followed Snape's last direction. Seven seconds, he found he didn't know what to think. He was so conflicted by the thoughts tearing him apart. Snape despised Harry, he had for years. Snape was always the slippery villain that eluded capture. Harry was thoroughly convinced that the git was dark, a belief that had been strengthened by the murder of Dumbledore. Even that had turned out…different, false. Seven years of hating a man, being despised by him, and in the past seven hours it had all been turned around.

"I, er-," Harry started, feeling that maybe he should say something. But what?

"Eloquent as always, Mr. Potter," his phantom voice said snidely in Harry's head.

"Well, I hope you're happy," Harry started, bristled and spurred along by the words. "I got the message. I died, I think."

"Couldn't even do that right, Potter."

Harry took a deep breath, banished the voice from his head, and bent down to Snape's prone form. He gently cleaned the blood away, murmuring spells to put his professor in proper order. Harry worked quietly, slowly, blanketed in the heavy air that only death could hold. Snape's torn cloak was made smooth, unmarred. His blood was washed away, the bites at his throat spelled invisible. By the time Harry had finished, Snape appeared merely asleep. His hands were folded over his chest, holding his wand that Harry had returned to him. His black eyes were closed, his chest hauntingly still.

Harry stood above his potions master for a moment, just staring at the face he'd spent his life at Hogwarts loathing. He didn't hate him now. No, Harry couldn't imagine ever thinking an ill thought of him again. In all his life battling dragons and Death Eaters and monsters and Voldemort himself, Harry didn't think he'd ever been, nor could ever be, as brave as the man before him.

"When I first met you, it was made clear right away that you despised me," Harry began, clenching his hand around the wand he grasped, as if to loosen the grip would be to lose the words he fought to find. "And I was really…confused. How could someone hate me when they didn't know me? But after a while, I stopped questioning it and just hated you back. I wish I hadn't. Or maybe I don't. I guess I wish you would have just told me…"

He trailed off. Did he really want Snape to have confessed his love for Lily to Harry? He couldn't even imagine having that conversation.

"I don't know what I'm saying-"

"A frequent occurrence…" his ghostly voice said.

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "Would you please let me finish? I was trying to say something nice."

Silence.

"Thank you."

I am going mad, he thought to himself. I'll be carted off to St Mungo's by the end of the week. Harry sighed and fingered his jacket zipper for a moment before he spoke again.

"I'm not going to pretend like we ever got on well. And even if I had known all the sacrifices and risks you took to secure a position with Voldemort, I suspect we would have ever just only tolerated each other."

"Don't tell me you've grown to care for the boy?"

"But when I say thank you, I mean it in every sense. For protecting me, for your loyalty, for...for your life. It was devoted to bringing Riddle down. And whatever reasons you had, just...just thank you."

When he stopped speaking, he realized he no longer needed his wand to see. The morning light had broken through the boards of the walls and windows to shine on the landing, dust motes dancing languidly through the air and lit up like embers. There was no whistling of wind through the cracks of the building, just utter silence.

Harry stared at his professor for a while longer until he could no longer stand the twisting pain of his stomach, the loss he felt sorely in his chest, the fatigue blurring his thoughts together.

"Wingardium leviosa," he whispered, and Snape's body left the dusty floor in soft flight.

Harry had a very strong sense of déjà vu as he guided Snape through the bowels of the Whomping Willow. This time, however, he was careful not to let Snape's head hit the earthen ceiling or walls. Harry thought with a morbid humor that no matter how great of a wizard, Snape never had any luck where the Shrieking Shack was concerned. Then again neither did Harry, it seemed.

When they emerged from the tree roots, morning had dawned brilliantly. The sky was cloudless and blue. If he were still at school, he'd be staring out the window wistfully, stuck in exams. Harry was struck so strongly by the thought, by how different everything was now. He could smell smoke from the castle, feel the ache of battle in his body, but when he blocked it all out and just looked at the sky, he could imagine a different seventh year. He would be sore from Quidditch, not fighting, and the smoke would be from some mishap Finnigan had found himself in again. The grounds would be silenced not by mourning, but end of the year exams. And then very soon, hundreds of voices would fill the air as students prepared to go back home for the summer.

Harry stood in silence and imagined all of this, thought of all the Hogsmeade trips he'd have went on, the games he would have played, the homework he would have ignored, the year he would have had had Voldemort not returned. When he glanced back at Snape's hovering form, he imagined the professor sweeping about the castle in a sour mood like always, spouting insults and stalking about the castle, his long black cloak billowing behind. A cape.

As Harry crossed the grounds, Snape's body hovering at his side, the sounds of people within the castle grew. When he stepped through the massive doors into the Entrance Hall, their entangling voices reached higher volumes. Harry heard loud wails of misery and murmured, consoling voices. He could smell food, no doubt from the elves, as well as smoke. Dust clouded the air and rock was strewn about the chamber. He faced the doors to the Great Hall and decided it best not to deliver Snape there. His name was yet to be officially cleared, and Harry seriously doubted that grieving students, parents, and teachers particularly wanted to see another Death Eater. No one saw them escape up the stairs.

Dumbledore's office was empty. The pictures were even void of their subjects except for dozing Albus himself. Harry stared around at the glistening trinkets, Fawkes's empty stand, the ornate chair, the bowl of candies, everything that stood nearly just as it had a year ago. Harry didn't wonder why Snape had not moved Albus's things. He couldn't picture the office any differently, and if he focused just on it, he could almost imagine that Dumbledore still lived, a source of advice, of help.

"Expecto patronum."

Snape had probably felt the same. His lemon drops were waiting, surely Dumbledore wouldn't abandon them? He was just out in the hall, leaving his charges to wait. He'd be in soon, regarding them with piercing eyes and a knowing expression. But he was gone. Just like Sirius, Lupin and Tonks, Fred, Dobby, Mad-Eye, his parents.

Just like Severus.

The funeral was short and less extravagant than Dumbledore's had been, but with all the same praise and recognition. It was held near the lake. The mourners sat in chairs in rows, all wearing grim expressions and black cloaks. The summer air and cheery whistle of birds in the forest betrayed the solemn event. Harry's professors each said a few words as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt who bestowed Severus with the First Order of Merlin. He looked down at his hands and said, "It is not enough, and it will never be enough, but the Ministry gives it anyway, if only to attempt to acknowledge the service of Severus Snape."

McGonagall said a few words next, clutching a handkerchief until her knuckles were white. She did not cry, but she was as close to it as Harry had ever seen her. That is, until she finished speaking.

"Hogwarts has lost a great wizard. He was talented, intelligent, and one of the brightest ever produced by this school...I am sorry, Severus, that I abandoned you this year. I'm sorry that I ever thought ill of you, and I am b-, beyond myself with grief. I hope you know the regret I feel. I'm so sorry."

She wiped her eyes quickly and strode from the front back to her seat without another word. The congregation grew silent as Harry then stood from his chair, and walked to the front. He stood behind the podium, and looked down at the grave. He took a few steadying breaths and began.

"I think what I feel most is confusion," he said, glancing across the small crowd before him.

"I think most students under Professor Snape's teaching can vouch that he was a truly unpleasant man. He was impatient, sharp-tongued, and sometimes just…cruel."

No one spoke. The lake beside lapped the shore lightly, the only sound between Harry's words.

"We were…well, enemies. I despised him, he abhorred me. I used to look for ways to get him fired and he made Potions class truly miserable. For years, we hated each other."

Harry turned from the crowd which shifted awkwardly, wondering why Harry Potter, sworn enemy, was allowed to give Snape's eulogy. He could tell they all were uncomfortable, he knew they would never understand the thoughts in his head. He wasn't even sure he did. So instead, he stared at the white tomb before him, where he knew Snape to lie within.

"You're probably wondering why I'm speaking, then. I understand your confusion because I feel it too. Severus Snape was not the man I thought him to be. I was blind for years. And for that, I am deeply sorry," he said, taking a breath to steady himself.

"But I can say surely and without trepidation that Severus Snape was perhaps the greatest ally to myself, the Order, and Albus Dumbledore. He was clever where others were ignorant, strong where others were feeble, and most importantly, brave where all would falter."

He met Hermione and Ron's faces in the crowd. She was crying, and Ron looked lost, dazed. Harry imagined that's what he would look like too if he'd allowed his emotions to bleed through. As he glanced about the small gathering, he found similar expressions, mostly students who had at one point found themselves under the severity of Snape.

"I'm not going to repeat what's been in the Prophet for a week. You all know the part this man before us had to play in the war against Voldemort, the part he'd been living for years. I don't mean to make light of it, but Snape was a curt man so I'll keep this speech curt as well."

He adjusted his glasses then, and flattened out his notes. He wanted to get the words he'd been fighting to find all week delivered as he thought they should be. Harry stared at what he'd written, and when he thought he could speak without faltering, he said "I owe my life to this man and it is a debt I will never have the ability to repay. Tom Riddle's defeat is owed to this man as much as it is to anyone else. His sacrifices, more great than any I have ever known, are numerous and must be remembered. To forget them is to forgo the privilege of living on."

When he stopped speaking, he was shaking. There was a weight settled in his stomach and shadow over his heart that he knew in that moment would never truly leave. Harry didn't think he could even thank the man properly. All he'd ever said of Snape for years was criticisms and judgement. The apology and thanks sounded fake to himself even as he said them in the sincerest of manners. Instead, he stepped from the podium. A ministry member then set the tomb ablaze in white fire, just as was done last year for Dumbledore. A doe burst forth from the flames, bounding across the surface of the lake before dissolving into mere wisps.

"Lily. After all this time?"

The service came to a close, and Harry could still feel the apprehension of his fellow classmates. They could and would only remember Snape as he had been, a bat of the dungeon. But it didn't matter. Harry knew what Severus had done. They sat and paid their respects, but they didn't really understand. Just as he hadn't before the night of the Battle.

At dusk, the crowd had dispersed, and Harry was left alone by the tomb. He had sent Hermione, Ron, and Ginny back to the castle for dinner, promising that he would follow.

"You sure, mate?" Ron had asked.

Harry had nodded, and watched them walk hesitantly back up to the castle. He turned back to the grave. The white marble of the tomb shone even in the fading sunlight, his name etched into the stone. Harry didn't speak, didn't force more fumbled fragments of apologies and thanks. He just stood over their graves until after night had settled and his feet hurt. The lake reflected the dark sky, undisturbed and smooth.

Harry found that the peaceable silence was somehow loud, brimming with everything he wanted to say but had already been said, thanks already given. He could repeat the words until he himself died, but it would never be enough. Perhaps that's why death is so bitter-things become heavy when they can no longer be said. And Harry felt the weight all too well, but be would carry it. If only to remind himself that he was still alive to do so.

He pulled free his wand and murmured a spell, watching the simple little magic unfurl itself in the dark. Finally, he left the tombs behind, and returned to the castle, a single lily left in penance atop the stone.

"Always."