Disclaimer: All the characters are J.K. Rowling's. ((but now that she's done with them, maybe I can-- OW! BAD TOUCH BAD TOUCH!!!!!!!!)) The idea for this fanfic was mine though. miiiine.

Warning: Shounen Ai/Yaoi (but not yet >) between Harry and Severus, the kings of angst OO. You don't like, you don't read. It's that simple.

Harry lay in his four-poster bed, listening to the deep breathing of the others who shared the boys' dormitory in Griffindor Tower. The quiet lull of sleepers was broken occasionally by the whimpers of those who suffered nightmares. Harry briefly envied even those fighting night-ghasts—at least they were asleep and not kept awake by adrenaline and exhilaration and lingering terror, nor jumping at every suspicious noise like a paranoid cat.

Although his body seemed perfectly happy—he had finally taken a good, hot bath in the Prefect's tub, courtesy of all the Griffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff Prefects who had simply insisted, and he felt clean and comfortable. His stomach was full, thanks to Kreacher who had brought him not one, but three excellent sandwiches. He had sustained no lasting injuries, the scar didn't hurt any more, and for the first time in weeks he had a chance to just lie down, rest up, and do nothing in the comforts of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the first real home he had known. He had even turned down Mrs. Weasley's offer—more like demand, really—that he go back to the Burrow to recuperate. Harry argued that after laying down his life to protect Hogwarts and its inhabitants, the least he could ask for was a night in the place he had almost died to save. Molly Weasley had, predictably, burst into tears and hugged Harry and called him all sorts of good things.

Yes, Harry's body was more than ready for its overdue rest. But his mind was a mess. He couldn't sort things out. Suddenly, there was no more connection with Voldemort's mind, if only because there was no more Voldemort's mind to be connected to. Harry's thoughts were his alone, and there were no twisted plots, no inhuman fury or pain intruding on his train of thought, which at the moment was a string of scrambled multicolored lights. He wasn't sure what he felt anymore. Before he had won—that gave him a jolt of pleasure; he had really done it, defeated Voldemort!—it had been only natural to feel lost, angry, desperate, persistent… Hero-like thoughts were easy to come by when one found oneself in a position that demanded heroics. But now—was Harry still a hero? He had done what was asked of him, vanquished evil and restored peace. Was he just another wizard now?

And what did it matter? Harry was perfectly happy to trade his fame for the safety of those dear to him. Misery knotted at his throat as he thought again of Fred, Tonks, and Lupin. Hedwig, and Dobby, and Dumbledore, and Sirius and… even his parents' death gave him a pang of remorse, never mind that he had grown up knowing they were gone forever, never mind that he knew that he could only see them through enchanted photographs and mirrors, through others' memories, and through ghostly representations.

He wished for one desperately bitter moment that he had not dropped the ring with that precious Resurrection Stone set into the metal circle. He wanted to see them all again, all those who had given their lives fighting for a better world, fighting for his world, his generation. With a start, he realized that the Marauders were all gone now. Padfoot, Prongs, Moony, and Wormtail… all dead. Despite the fact that so many friends still survived—lived, breathed, and celebrated victory all around him—Harry could not help but feel he had failed. Again came the longing to hold the Resurrection Stone, to turn it over thrice in his hands, so he could look upon the visages of those who were so dear to him. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what they looked like the last time he saw them alive—not shades of what they used to be, but as living, breathing people. His parents could not be helped, he could only see them as he had ever seen them in the photographs he had seen of them. Sirius, he saw the jubilant look, heard the exhilarated laugh before sudden death. Lupin, he remembered most as the joyous man who had burst into Bill's house to announce the birth of his son. Fred, Harry saw setting off fireworks and riding his contraband broomstick over Umbridge's head. Tonks, he remembered with a sudden smile her impression of a pig's snout. Face by face, frame by frame, he reviewed them all with relish and sadness, until an image sprang unbidden to his mind.

"Look…at…me…" the image of a dying Snape consumed his mind, and a final clarification struck Harry. He wanted to see my mother's eyes, Harry realized with a start. He wanted to believe… that she was there with him. Although he knew that he could stop the flow of memories from hitting him—they were Snape's memories after all, and after gaining the control it took to block Voldemort from his thoughts, how hard could it be to staunch the memories of his former Occlumency tutor?—Harry had not the will to. He wanted to see again, to review Snape's most vulnerable moments, those instants when it was revealed that the dark, greasy-haired man did actually possess a heart, and a loyal, loving one at that.

Harry thought of the silver doe, and what it meant. For one startlingly bleak moment, he felt envy towards Lily, his own mother. She had taken all of Snape's tender moments, all of Snape's desperation and love, and left Harry with the embittered man who had given Harry more detentions than were due, and more embarrassments than were called for. Harry had never seen Snape happy, not for himself. Snape had been happy around Lily. "Best friends," Snape had called them. Harry owed, in no small part, his survival to Severus Snape, and all he had to show for it was his own collection of bitter experiences with the man. The more Harry knew about Severus's past, the more he wished he could have helped him somehow.

I could've taken away that pain, he thought sullenly. I could've… I could've made him happy, too. Mum just made him sad. Did she know how much he loved her? It must have hurt, Harry realized, to be made to stay so close to the man who had murdered the one you loved. Severus must have been a great actor, to win the trust of the man who had killed Lily. In the end, he died for her, Harry thought. Not even so much for me, or for the wizarding world or whatever. Severus Snape died for Lily Evans.

It didn't sit well in his mind. Much as he loved his mother, a jealous, pouting voice rose within him. Why not me? He could not stop his disappointed fuming. Am I not good enough to die for? Almost immediately he regretted the thought, ashamed as though he had spoken the words aloud. Jealous of his own poor mother, whose love had protected him from death itself! But he could not quell the thoughts. He was exhausted and he wanted for once to think things through, to see where his thoughts would take him. He probed that sore spot again. Why did he hate me so much? Were my eyes the only reason he protected me for Mum? What if I had had my dad's eyes? Was it all for her? Severus never really cared for Harry Potter, just his mother? All that stuff he did, all of the lying, the following, the pretending, the killing… all of it was for Mum? If I had been someone else's son, he wouldn't have protected me and helped me to his last? The thoughts stung like wasps and he couldn't stop them from swarming his mind.

It was unfathomable, yet so close to what Harry suspected was the truth that it hurt. He had only felt pride before when people had told him that he was the spitting image of James. Some shame, perhaps, invaded that pride when he discovered that James was as cruel as he was popular. But he had never been compared much to Lily. He had her eyes; that was all was ever said of the resemblance between mother and son. But that seemed to him now a dreadful handicap and a terrible gift. He had never expected this bubbling jealousy and… and disappointment to swamp him as it did now. Harry supposed that it was because, even after all of Snape's misdeeds against him and the terrible things that the professor had done, under his own volition or not, Harry had believed, deep down inside, that some part of Severus cared about his least favorite pupil. After all, was Harry not the Boy Who Lived? Surely, Snape would at least preserve him for that!

Or had Snape done it all for Lily? Lily, who was dead, who had been dead for nearly eighteen years? The silver doe itself was proof enough that she was never far from Severus's mind. Harry did not find it hard to believe that Lily was the only thing that could make Severus happy.

But there were still so many questions. Questions that needed answers straight from the source. Of course, Snape himself had said "For him?" in that disbelieving voice that had sent daggers through Harry's heart, only temporarily overshadowed by the cold knowledge that Harry would have to die in order to kill Voldemort. But now Voldemort was dead, and Harry alive, and Severus… Harry suddenly knew that, despite wanting badly to see his departed loved ones, it was for the purpose of seeing Snape again that he wanted the Resurrection Stone again. He wanted to look into the visage of the man who had spent his entire life protecting the only one who had ever made him happy. He wanted to ask Snape the burning question. There was no other way. He needed to know.

Harry gripped the Invisibility Cloak stowed under his pillow, pushed aside the hangings of his four-poster bed, and navigated through the demolished halls of Hogwarts School, passing by the part of the Commons Room being used as an impromptu infirmary while St. Mungo's was full of patients. The Weasleys were still wide awake, helping out where they could. It made Harry warm again to see his friends who had survived the war—they were veterans now, he thought with a small smile underneath his Cloak, they would for certain be in the latest editions of history texts. He wanted to grasp everyone by the hand, make sure that they were all right. Hermione, Ron, Ginny—the thought of Ginny, though bright, still passed like a cloud through his mind. He felt guilty for being so lucky. It had been terrible those years when no one believed him, or thought he was a freak. Like when he first learned about Parseltongue, for instance, or when everyone was told that he and Dumbledore were liars. But he had always had Ron and Hermione and so many other friends in unexpected places who had supported him. Snape had only ever had Lily.

Harry felt guilty about his motives. So what if his suspicions were true? Could he hold a grudge against Snape, the bravest Slytherin—no, man—he had ever known, simply for defending his love's son?

No, thought Harry fiercely. I can't begrudge Snape that. His hand tightened on his wand. But I need to know. I just do. With that thought, he slipped through a door and out of the castle. He headed towards the Forbidden Forest. His common sense screamed at him that he was being stupid—how could he ever find it again in there? Besides, hadn't he promised Dumbledore that he wouldn't go looking for it? He wavered for hardly a moment, and then strengthened his resolve. It didn't matter; it was the only way. He had to find the Resurrection Stone again, and he would.

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AN: Well. I'm not giving away anything, but cool things are about to happen! As stated in the summary, this is most definitely a follow-up of the last chapter of Deathly Hallows (before the epilogue) and MOST DEFINITELY Harry/Severus. I just finished the book yesterday and fweeeee! I am excited! Because I woke up at some unholy hour last night/this morning and was struck by the idea for this fanfic. Please leave some feedback! Reviews keep the gerbils going! I'm off to vacation for a bit, but I'll update when I get back.

Now! Zap that review button!