He looked up at the castle in the morning light. The sun hit the cold, wet stones and sent steam rising off, giving the castle an ethereal appearance. It looked a bit like he felt – unreal. He wasn't supposed to be alive. He had made what little peace he could and had prepared so well for death. The stones of the castle mirrored his contrasting emotions. Some stood firm and untouched, as if nothing could breach the walls, while other stones were blackened and crumbling, a symbol of the intensity of the fight.

Construction had been underway for weeks, with professors, students, and the wizarding public working together to rebuild. Most of the damage had been reversed, or stopped, and slowly, Hogwarts was returning to its former glory.

He hated how quickly the world was returning to order. He didn't know order and peace, he knew danger and worry and fear. He knew anger and sorrow and hatred. He did not know how to handle the smiles, and laughter, and joy.

He left the castle often. He walked, staying in shadows when they were available, relishing the cold bite of the air against his hands and face. He enjoyed the uncomfortable feeling of his trousers and socks becoming wet in the dewy grass and rubbing, sometimes painfully, against his skin.

He was a murderer. He was a bastard. He was not the hero so many now tried to make him be. He did not suffer for them. It was never about the war. But no one understood, and he did not want them to. Had he known he was to live, he would never have shared any of his past with anyone.

"Professor Snape," a voice called.

He frowned, closing his eyes for a moment to relish his last bit of loneliness, and turned to the voice.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" He carefully avoided making real eye-contact, instead looking just beside the speaker.

"The Great Hall was just finished," the young man before him smiled slightly. "Would you like to come in a see? We're celebrating. Wine, butterbeer, the elves are making enough treats to fill the place."

"I will see it when I come inside, Mr. Potter. For now, I am,"

"Professor," The former student cut him off, and he frowned. "We are… I am… worried," the young man paused, clearly trying, and obviously failing, to be tactful, "about you. You spend so much time alone, walking out here, or locked in your rooms brewing."

"I am a man of solitude, Potter,"

"But you don't need to be. Not anymore."

He disliked being interrupted, and disliked being counseled even more.

"Albus Dumbledore is dead, Mr. Potter, I do not need anyone else trying to make me sociable and polite."

The comment about the former Headmaster clearly caught the young man off-guard, because he frowned and fell silent.

"I know you don't hate all of us, professor. And we don't hate you either. You were doing what you had to, and we were young. The war has changed all of us, whether or not you like those changes. There's no reason to live alone anymore. You don't have to worry, or fight, or keep everything to yourself."

He did not like the determined tone of Potter's voice.

"My mother wouldn't have wanted you to live like this."

He closed his eyes.

"I will come inside once I have finished my walk, Potter."

The young man's eyes widened and they made true eye-contact for the first time since the end of the war.

"Thank you, sir," Potter said softly. After a moment of silence he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, nodded, and turned to walk back to the castle.

He watched his former student until the young man was almost to the castle. For the first time in two months, he had seen those eyes again. Those eyes were his dream and his nightmare.

He began to walk, again, clenching his hands and relaxing them against the cold. The sun was rising quickly, and he would have to make an appearance sooner than later if he was to sate Potter's desire to see him… interact. Potter had been careful around him, as if he was fragile either in mind or body. It sickened him to think of all the memories and feelings his rival's son now knew. Even Dumbledore had not seen all of the memories Severus had given to Potter.

He didn't even know why he had given up those memories. Nothing came of it. They did not help Potter win the war; they did not show the Dark Lord's weakness. They were simply empty memories. He frowned, turning towards the castle. Though the memories of that day were clear, he could not remember his precise thoughts. Was he trying to explain to Potter? To explain how hard he had worked to save the young man? Was he trying to show Potter that he, Severus Snape, had never really disliked him, but his father? Or had he simply wanted to see Lily's eyes so desperately, that the memories burst forth?

He hadn't wanted this, he thought again sourly.

When had he ever gotten what he wanted?

As he neared the doors to the Great Hall he heard the merriment and laughter spilling out.

He wasn't a spy. He wasn't a Death Eater or part of the Order of the Phoenix. Both of his self-appointed masters were dead. He was a thirty-eight year old Potions Master.

He stood just outside the hall. No one had taken notice of him yet. He saw Potter at a table with the youngest Weasley boy and Granger. The young man spotted him moments later and smiled just slightly in question.

That's when he knew. He knew he had to keep going. He knew he had to forge ahead, learning and calculating and forcing himself to adapt as he always had. He would continue teaching and begin work in his own lab. He would follow a passion he had always possessed but had never been able to truly pursue.

He made his way toward Potter, almost painfully aware of the stares that followed him. As he neared the boy, familiar, welcoming green eyes matched a joyful smile.

It's what she would have wanted.

He would do anything for her.

Even force himself to live.