Disclaimer: The brilliant characters belong solely to J.K. Rowling. The plot and typos are my own. No profit is being made.

Written For: Snarry Holidays 2009.

A/N: Some small details from canon were changed to suit this story. If you don't notice them, pretend I didn't say anything. Cheers to my awesome beta, ChooseToLive, who helped me immeasurably (more than she knows, I'm sure) – especially when my little 5,000 word story decided to whizz past 20,000 (*ahem*). Also, a warm shout-out to my cheering squad (you all know who you are). Your support means a lot to me.

Artwork: There are two pieces of art that accompany this story. The first is a cover layout I designed and the second is a full-color fanart piece inspired by the story. Visit my website (lovetoseverus dot me) to view them!

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances:
if there is any reaction, both are transformed." – Carl Jung

~ From Where I Am ~

Chapter 1 : Nowhere Else

Harry Potter gracefully wove his way through the throng of people around him, many of whom stopped talking to gaze at him as he approached or turned to clap him gently on the shoulder by way of a greeting. As he walked, Harry acknowledged them all with a friendly smile and a nod of his head, but clearly had a destination of his own in mind and kept to it resolutely. Only two in the crowd were bold enough to extend their hands, and smiled in relief and thinly-veiled awe when Harry proffered his own in return.

In the nineteen years since the demise of Voldemort, rare was the occasion that Harry could go somewhere in public without being recognized. He was well used to it by now, however. And King's Cross was hardly the place to go if one wished to maintain a low profile, yet that is exactly where Harry found himself on a chilly December afternoon.

As he cleared the waiting crowd, a richly-timbred voice spoke somewhere off to his right.

"Potter."

The voice was reminiscent of another and it stilled Harry's body for the briefest of moments, as though his heart dared to hope. But as he turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes quickly mapped out the long-familiar – but gently aged – face of Draco Malfoy, and he scoffed internally at his willful sentimentality.

"Draco…" Harry nodded minutely. Not really wanting to indulge in further conversation, he kept walking, but stopped abruptly when he felt a hand on his forearm. It was Draco's.

"Erm, sorry to hear about you and Ginny. The divorce, I mean."

Harry blanched slightly at the knowledge that his personal life had reached Malfoy's ears, but then remembered with a pang of resentment that he'd be hard-pressed to find someone in wizarding England (or beyond) who hadn't yet heard.

He regarded Draco for a moment, almost like he was seeing him for the first time, and realized there was sincerity in those gray eyes. "Thanks," Harry sighed, a little puzzled. Why did Draco care about a Weasley? Or him, for that matter?

Seeming to sense the awkwardness, Draco switched gears. "I hear one of your sons was sorted into Slytherin. Scorpius mentioned it. That must have come as a shock," he added, his voice softer.

Harry would have barked out a derisive laugh if it hadn't been for the almost cautious, conversational tone to Draco's voice. Was it possible he was trying to bury the hatchet after all these years? Harry narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, that's correct. Albus, my middle child." Harry paused for a second, adjusting to the odd truce that seemed to be forming. He continued more casually. "As for him being sorted into Slytherin, I was thrilled. Seeing as how he was named after Severus – Professor Snape – I felt it only fitting that Al would have the chance to honor that legacy by being in the same House."

At this, Draco's eyes went wide and he spluttered out something that sounded a bit like an apology, pathetic though it was with its large amount of back-pedaling. Harry smirked slightly at the notion of Draco floundering – oh, how things had changed indeed – yet felt a strange sense of esteem wash over him at the realization that perhaps Draco was no longer the manipulative, amoral prat he remembered from school. Harry supposed that being a father might have had something to do with that – children had a way of shifting your priorities, and bringing what is truly important to light.

After a few more polite but stilted exchanges, Harry decided he might be able to get used to this new civility between them. Finally, bidding Draco farewell with a small wave, he wandered over to an empty spot on the platform. Leaning his back against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, his wool coat pressing against the cold stones. Relishing his moment of solitude, he took a deep breath and reflected on the thoughts of Snape that had begun to swirl in his mind.

A long-familiar rush of emotions swept over him and his heart felt heavy with guilt. Severus. Harry closed his eyes and remembered – Severus' memories in the Pensieve, the Shrieking Shack, Nagini, Voldemort, his blind hatred – all of it.

Absentmindedly, he lifted one of his hands and rubbed at his scar. It had faded slightly over the years but would never disappear, he knew. It served as a continual reminder of his past, his turmoil, his sacrifices – especially those who had sacrificed for him – and ultimately of his triumph. But was it a triumph when you lost so many people in the process? He wasn't always so sure. Friends, teachers, other students, those he considered family, those he never got the chance to know but would have liked to if circumstances had been different… and those he had sorely misjudged.

Harry frowned, sighing heavily. The weight of his… his life… was too much to reconcile at times. What he regretted most was the missed chances; all the things he would never get to say. And somehow talking to a portrait just wasn't the same. It wasn't… real. Ironically, despite all his work helping to exonerate Severus (and successfully clearing his name), Harry had not once been to the Headmaster's office to visit Severus' portrait. His stomach had churned ruefully whenever the opportunity had arisen – and there had been plenty of opportunities over the years – but somehow he always convinced himself that being the one responsible for ensuring there was a portrait there in the first place was enough.

Or he hoped it was, at least.

But one question still nagged at him more than any of the others. Why had he not gone back to try and save Severus that day at the Shack? He was not actually certain Severus had died. He had thought so, but…

And Severus' memories had changed, well, everything. Hadn't they? Harry was not a Healer, true, and probably would not have known what to do for Severus, but perhaps he could have signaled for someone to help him. There had just been so much blood, though…

Harry opened his eyes then, staring ahead but unfocused, watching as his vision swam with a large expanse of scarlet red. Yes, so much blood…

Harry pinched his eyes closed again to rid himself of the thought, but when he reopened them, it was with a small degree of shock. The scarlet red was slowly shaping itself into a boxcar. Harry blinked and his eyes focused more. From a train. The train! The train was here?

How had he missed that? Harry shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts.

The Hogwarts Express had indeed entered the station, crawling along its tracks slowly, its engine churring and whistling as the great train lurched to a halt. Steam billowed merrily from its stack and rose high, swirling in the wintry air as hands and arms and heads started to appear in open windows, waving excitedly at the families gathered – who were, in turn, waving back.

Moments later, it seemed, the exuberant, youthful voice of Albus Severus Potter rang out above the commotion of the other students spilling out onto Platform 9¾.

"Dad!"

As he ran towards Harry, his blue eyes sparkled with glee and he reached his arms out. Harry's mouth spread into an easy, broad smile and he knelt down on one knee to accept his 11-year-old son into a warm embrace.

Harry pressed his nose to his son's messy mop of black hair (only slightly less messy than his own) and inhaled softly. Closing his eyes briefly, the familiar comfort of that scent registered and suddenly he was home again. He had no idea how his children could do this to him, but as he felt those small arms gripping his shoulders with youthful intensity, a wave of contentment settled over him.

And he knew, in that moment, there was nowhere else he'd rather be.