AN: Deathly Hollow did happen. Spoilers (sort of). Please respect the snarry or leave!

The halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were filled with a brimming sadness. It threatened to consume Harry as he walked along the corridors, scuffing his feet on the hard, cold stone floor. He froze as a flake of blood caught on his shoe. Instantly, the agonizing retching feeling forced its' way out of his stomach again. Harry coughed and shuddered, one hand on the freezing wall of the castle.

"Harry?" a voice whispered behind him.

He spun away from the way, clutching his wand in a crouching defensive position.

But there was no one. The whisper came again, from above and from behind him and then below, so it seemed like the whisper was coming from everywhere and yet he could not pin down one location. It seemed to come from nowhere.

Frantic, he called out, "Who's there?"

Only the darkness answered. He ran down the hall towards the Gryffindor common room, up one flight of stairs, and two portraits down. The whisper followed him, seeming to echo in his very head.

"Harry. Harry! Harry? Harry…"

The Fat Lady was not in her portrait frame. A dismayed Harry looked around, flitting from one floor to another, as far as his eyes could see. She was in none of the ones he could distinguish.

The voice, the whisper, was getting louder now and it throbbed against Harry's head, making the place where his lightening bolt scar had once resided throb with energy. He placed his hand on it, afraid it might burst, sending his brains spilling across the corridor. The thought made his stomach lurch more.

The pain ended abruptly, sending Harry sprawling across the cold stone, sweating and panting like he'd just run a marathon. The trickle of sweat coming from his brow felt like blood and he put his hand to his forehead to make sure his scar really was gone.

He sighed and pulled himself off the ground, then tripped over something as he rose.

A notebook lay on the floor, covered in dust and Merlin only knew what else. Harry picked it up and got the strange sensation he first got after touching Riddle's diary his second year at Hogwarts. He shuddered. But the book itself seemed harmless enough after a second inspection.

It bore the signature of someone he remembered very well.

H.P.B.

Though Harry had ended up with a bad impression of the Half-Blood Prince, he could not deny Snape's loyalty during the war and how he had fought to protect his mother without fear of the cost. Snape had saved Harry in every way he could. For that, Harry had pledged to repay him someday, somehow.

He played with the journal in his hands. It was in considerably better shape than the old Potions book he'd found his sixth year, but it was still old in the same sense that all things which were around Snape were old; the kind where new things were still old. The spine was cracked and there were a few pieces flecking from the covering. It smelled like leather but was sharp like fangs: Dragonhide. He remembered reading about it in Care of Magical Creatures.

"What secrets do you hide, Severus Snape?"

He opened the book. It was blank.

"What the hell?" he whispered to himself. Why would Snape leave an empty journal lying around?

Then it dawned on Harry that the feeling he'd connected to Riddle's diary may mean the same thing about Snape's journal. And while Harry didn't want it to be a horcrux for Snape, he did want desperately talk to him. To explain. To apologize. To understand. And most of all, to learn more about the man who had been taken for granted his whole life.

Harry slid to the floor and pulled out a quill from his satchel. He rested it in the ink for a moment before pausing thoughtfully over the first blank page.

With his best handwriting, he scribbled, 'It's Harry.'

Like Riddle's diary, the words disappeared. Instead of an answer appearing as he expected, almost immediately, the journal seemed to pause for a moment.

It wrote back in a familiar scrawl, 'It is Severus.'

Harry almost dropped his quill. He gulped, unsure of how to continue. His past experience with replying books of any kind had proved to be disastrous. But still, his curiosity drove him to continue.

His scribble-like writing came back full blow as he scratched, 'You're dead, sir.'

It felt right to be respectful to the dead and at least tell them they're dead.

The journal seemed to chuckle, which Harry felt oddly disconcerting. He'd never heard Snape chuckle before. 'It shows an obvious lack of forethought that you would write in this journal, Potter. It's obviously full of Dark Arts. What if your adoring public found out?'

Obviously, he was baiting Harry but the young man wouldn't be so easily dissuaded now he knew for certainty where Snape's loyalties had lied.

Shivering lightly on the floor, his hand shaking, he replied, 'Well, I'm not too fanatical about my fans, sir. You are dead….yes? I saw Nagini…she bit you. There was a memory you gave me. Or are you different from that Snape?'

He felt rather proud with his deduction. But Snape wrote back quickly to rattle his faith once again. 'Nagini did bite me. I did give you a memory, showing my part in the war. The Dark Lord killed me to gain power over the Elder Wand. Does that prove I'm the real Severus Snape?'

The reply confused Harry. He decided to be straightforward. 'Are you dead, sir?'

After a few moments, the journal-Snape replied. 'I'm not sure. I'm not even sure how you were able to create this journal, Potter.'

Again, the answer only served to confuse poor Harry even more. But it also made him angry. Surely Snape was leading him on. It was his journal. It had the initials of his school nickname on it. He told Snape as much.

'I never had a journal, Potter. I only kept my Potions textbook, which you were so relieved to have during your sixth year Potion's class. Please, tell me what is going on you insolent twit.'

The spine of the journal gave an angry crackle.

Harry wrote back, 'I wouldn't get angry, sir. The journal might fall apart if you're not careful. Did you feel it crackle? Honestly, I have no idea how you are able to communicate with me. But, I will try and help you. If there's a possibility of saving you, I'll do all I can to repay your kindness.'

He felt rather relieved and at the same time embarrassed to have given such a touching remark to Snape, but he stood by what he had promised.

'Those are touching words, Potter, but I do not need your sympathy. If you saw me die, obviously I am dead.'

But the words were unsure.

Harry gave a cough from the freezing ground. His arms and legs shook uncontrollably. The corridor was frigid and he swore he could see his breath. The journal shuddered in his lap, sucking the rest of the warmth out of him.

'You're going to make yourself sick, Potter. I can feel you shivering from wherever I am. Go back into your dormitories.'

His vision swam as he jerkily wrote some words before passing out, shivering still on the cold corridor floor.

'There's no one to let me in the dormitories'