A/N: My version of Snape's death and Harry's reaction. It's...different. Could possibly be read as slashy, depending on what floats your boat. The "poem" Harry recites is part of the song 'Every Season' by Nichole Nordeman.

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing.

Fool, Harry. Fool.

I watched him die and I did nothing. I was cold, hard, shocked only by Voldemort's brutality to a faithful servant. I felt nothing for Snape, not pity, not sorrow, not even anger or hatred. I looked at the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore and I felt nothing.

But then I felt everything. It was Legilimency, I knew. He was flooding my mind with his own, desperate for understanding, desperate that I should know the truth. And I am not even a passable Occlumens, so I could do nothing to keep him out. Even as the silvery memories poured into the vial, I knew his soul was not as black as it had been – no, as I had painted it.

"Look...at...me."

I did. I stared down into the dark and endless pools and I know he didn't see me. He saw my mother. I have my mother's eyes.

And then nothing. There was no life. No mind to connect with my own. When the link disappeared, I felt that it took part of me as well.

"Harry," Hermione whispered with urgency. "We've got to go."

"We can't just leave him here," I said. My lips felt numb. "He liked poetry. Did you know that?"

"Harry." There were tears in her eyes.

"And everything in time and under heaven / Finally falls asleep / Wrapped in blankets white, all creation / Shivers underneath / And still I notice you / When branches crack / And in my breath on frosted glass... / Even now in death, you open doors for life to enter. / You are winter." I reached out, laid my fingertips on his face. His skin was cool. Gently I closed his eyes. "Professor."

"Harry."

"I will not forget," I vowed. "They will know. Everyone will know. You will hate me for it, but I do not hate you. You are the bravest man I ever knew." I leaned down, pressed my lips to his cold forehead, finally smooth in death. "If warmth could be given, if breath could be shared...if love could save..."

Hermione gripped my arm. "Harry, please."

"Yes." I straightened up, finally tore my eyes away from the spectre of death – anything but an easeful one – that lay on the ground before me. "Coming."

You know what happened. You know how I killed Voldemort and saved the world and did all the things I was fated to do. But the victory was bittersweet, always bittersweet when I looked into the Pensieve and saw all the images of Severus Snape I had pulled from my mind and stored in there. Stored them because it was too painful to keep them in my head.

I could have saved him. I had every chance. Instead I did nothing. I watched him die.

Fool, Harry. Fool.