Summary: The war's over and Harry's more than ready for a break. Unfortunately, his friends don't seem to agree with that plan. Ginny and Ron want him to be an Auror and Hermione just wishes he had the motivation to pursue any career at all. Everyone gets thrown for a loop, however, when Snape is suddenly found months after the final battle, decidedly not dead at all and now only eight years old. Has Harry found his purpose after all? Will the quiet, untrusting Severus finally learn that some adults can be trusted before it's too late?

Warning for definite spoilers. Also, I'm going with a mixture of movie and book versions of events, since I loved them both.

Disclaimer for the entirety of the story: I own nothing except for a healthy dose of wishful thinking that Snape had gotten a better ending.

Healing Hands

1: Late Night Strolls down Memory Lane

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The typical seventeen year old didn't spend his free time hiding out in tents on the run for a year, hunting down pieces of evil soul embedded in ancient trinkets. Most seventeen year olds enjoyed Hogwarts for their final year, went out on Hogsmeade dates, worried about passing their Newts, and in general did not fear for the lives of friends every day. Most teenagers didn't cringe every time a newspaper landed in front of them or feel too squeamish to read the headlines right away. How many more had died today? How many more deaths to weigh on his conscience? No, most seventeen years olds didn't ask themselves those sorts of questions. Harry Potter knew early into his life that he wasn't typical, the Harry Hunting and countless insults hissed under his relatives' breaths made sure of that, but come on. Enough was enough already. Voldemort was dead and gone, no more than a dreaded ghost story to haunt the lucky ones who survived. He'd battled it for how many years straight? Evil teachers, trolls, dragons, you-name-it-he's-probably-been-threatened-by-it?

Honestly, he's just flat out tired of near death experiences.

He's tired of the whispered stares, and the gossip, and the countless people clamoring for his attention or autograph or both. He's tired of everyone telling him to move on, to stop moping around like Moaning Myrtle and start celebrating with the rest of the wizarding world. Can't anyone see that he's not as untouchable as the public thinks? He's not some infallible super human. He's... just Harry, damn it. And even though he's still only seventeen, he feels more ancient than Professor Dumbledore must have felt in his final days. The trauma of the war is starting to set in, and he can't shake all these memories, all these faces of casualties, of every friend and every stranger lost. Heck, at night he still hears Voldemort's scratchy low voice hissing to kill the spare, still sees that unconcerned little rat flicking his wand so casually in Cedric's direction. The familiar flash of green light jerks him awake more often than he can admit. He still sees his godfather's fall, can still see the man's eyes as they lock onto his own once more and then disappear into the mist of the Veil. He still feels Dobby shaking in his arms, choked high voice admiring Harry even while the faithful elf's life slips away, wide eyes going from so, so happy to vacant as he releases his last breath. But even more persistent are the ones where that giant snake strikes with deadly force, fangs piercing Snape's neck. And the blood on Harry's hands as he tries to save him, the despair etched into the very foundation of the man as he allowed those precious tears to escape. Merlin, Snape didn't deserve that death. Worse still, though, is how people still spit at the mention of his name. Fred, Cedric, Sirius, Remus, Tonks... everyone who'd given their lives to protect the world from Voldemort was honored for their sacrifice. Everyone except Snape, who no one believed was on their side even after all the fuss Harry's tried to kick up at the Ministry. He'd testified on the surly potions master's behalf at the trials, fought harder at it than he did at every other hearing combined, and it hurt like a physical blow that he'd failed to clear the man's name. Snape gave up his reputation, his friendships, his very freedom, for decades to atone for his mistakes. He'd paid already. He'd died already.

It was perhaps the only cause for which Harry would keep fighting.

If it were the last thing he ever did, Harry vowed to clear the man's name.

But for right now? It's late at night in the quiet of Grimmauld Place, and after waking up from a nightmare so vivid he can still smell the stale stench of death and still hear Voldemort's maniacal hissing, Harry's almost ready to return to sleep. Trying to get his mind off of all this rubbish, he'd decided to go through the stacks of mail gathering dust in the living room and had lit a fire to burn the junk. But really, none of this shite could keep his focus away from all the bad that lurked in the dark places in his mind. How does everyone expect him to move forward so soon, so easily? Toward what, exactly? He'd been groomed to kill Voldemort from the very beginning, and that's done. So what's left? He's already fulfilled his purpose. Out of everyone to die that miserable night, Harry can't shake feeling like he should have been among them. Fred should have survived for George and to help bring laughter back to the war torn wizarding world. It wasn't easy finding reasons to laugh nowadays, and George wasn't the same prankster without his other half around. And oh, Remus and Tonks... they should have survived to raise their son, poor, poor Teddy, who'd never know his parents. Teddy lives with Andromeda nowadays. It hadn't been an easy decision. He'd have fought tooth and nail to keep his godson with him permanently were it not for the fact that Andromeda had lost her entire family to the war. She needed Teddy almost as much as Teddy needed her, and Harry got to see him all the time. He wouldn't ever suffer through the same lonely childhood that Harry had.

I promise, Remus.

Snape should have gotten the chance to enjoy the peace that his entire life effort brought into being. He shouldn't have suffered the indignity of such a brutal death, so close to the end of the war with no reassurances that they'd even win after he died. Harry hoped that the man found peace, hoped he knew that he'd played a major role in Voldemort's defeat. Maybe that's why Harry kept fighting to clear his name. He wanted, somewhere deep down, for Snape to know peace. Nobody deserved to live a lonely, abusive childhood, get bullied growing up, and then fight as a spy for twenty odd years knowing only enemies from all sides. It wasn't right.

Harry takes a deep breath then, his magic surging to the surface.

It's dangerous to think so much.

Instead, he wills himself to calm down and returns to the pile of mail stacked on his lap. Staring at the parchment clenched in a loose fist, at words meant to comfort but only tie the noose even tighter around his neck, Harry can't bring himself to celebrate the latest attempt to convince him to join the Aurors. The offer of a 'highly valued and respected position in the Ministry' doesn't appeal to him the way that it probably would to most, and despite his past interest in joining the cause that fights dark wizards every day, Harry finds himself with a newfound longing toward a quieter, less eventful future. Something seriously evil must have possessed him back in the day, for him to think for even one minute that he wanted to live fighting dark wizards for the rest of his life.

He hadn't even wanted to do it when he was doing it.

With a final shake of the head, Harry throws the parchment into the fireplace and feels only satisfied at the flame's sudden crackles as it engulfs and eradicates a future he can't bring any part of himself to want any longer. There's bound to be backlash. Ginny's been trying to get Harry to join the Aurors pretty much since the morning after the final battle, and her reaction when she realizes that it's never going to happen ranks just below the angry disappointment Ron's surely going to express. Hermione probably won't care as much, but he's still not looking forward to her enthusiastic and exhausting sales pitch for all the other career paths he can pursue. She won't understand the fact that he's too tired to pursue a career so soon after everything that happened. With the money Sirius and his parents left behind and his dreary house at Grimmauld Place, Harry can afford to take a year off. Maybe even a few years. Maybe he can get to know himself, take a breath for once and just focus on being Harry. Voldemort consumed his entire childhood from start to finish, but he's not around anymore to consume anything else. Time is officially Harry's now, despite what the public might think and despite what his friends might think, and damned if he's not ready to enjoy it while it's here. Let the adults clean up in the aftermath of the war. Harry played his part, fulfilled his role. He's still just a teenager.

He's earned a break.

He's earned ten breaks. And an extended vacation.

So then why does it feel like he's trying to convince himself?

As the last of the letter burns to ashes in the fireplace, Harry sighs, feeling ten times his age and way too tired to avoid the nightmares anymore. But when he returns to bed and slides under the thick blankets, his mind still feels too busy, and he lies there staring up at the ceiling for a long time after. Dreamless sleep can only be taken so many nights straight before his body needs the break. The thought of the potion reminds him, again, of the potions master the world refuses to exonerate, and it's a physical ache in his chest to think of what everyone lost. Sleep won't come easily tonight.

Grunting, he rolls onto his side. Then again, when does it ever?