Albus Dumbledore walked briskly through the dimly lit corridor, his robes sweeping behind him like a phantom in the night. Hogwarts was eerily silent now - far too quiet for a place that had once been filled with youthful laughter and whispered mischief. Only a handful of survivors remained confined to their beds, lost in restless, haunted sleep.

Rounding a corner, he reached the private rooms of the hospital wing - sanctuaries reserved for those who sought solitude in their recovery, away from the prying eyes of students. He had expected emptiness as he passed through, the hush of the castle settling over him like dust upon forgotten tomes.

Yet here, at the farthest door, where shadows clung to the stone like lingering ghosts, he paused.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and drew a slow, steadying breath. The mask of calm - cheerful, wise, unshakable - settled over his face with practiced ease. But beneath the carefully crafted facade lay a man whose heart had long since splintered under the weight of grief too great to bear.

How he wished he could turn back the clock. But not even the greatest wizard could undo the past. Not even him.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door handle. He had stepped into this room countless times, and yet, each visit felt heavier, as though the very air conspired to crush him beneath its unspoken accusations.

This room had always been a place of silent suffering, of unspoken truths and unacknowledged pain. Over the years, Severus had ended up here far too often, his body battered, his spirit bruised. Always for the cause. Always for the war. Always because of him.

And yet, despite his injuries, Severus had never accepted weakness. Dumbledore could almost hear him now - scowling, sneering, complaining that he was fine, that he was more than capable of tending to himself. Poppy had never tolerated such nonsense, of course. She had fussed and scolded and healed him, and he had endured it all with a reluctant patience, never admitting how much he needed the care.

Oh, Severus. His Severus.

But was he even allowed to think of him that way? No, Severus was his own man, bound to no master - not anymore. Not to him, nor to Tom Riddle.

And yet, in Albus's heart, the younger man was something more - the son he had never been blessed to have.

A bitter thought curled in his mind like smoke: And if he was as dear as a son, then why had I demanded so much of him?

He had taken everything from Severus - his integrity, his peace, his very self - for the sake of a cause neither of them had ever truly believed in. The greater good. How hollow those words tasted now. How many young lives had been swallowed by their so-called noble war?

No. It had never been for the good. Not really.

It had been penance.

A desperate, failing attempt to right a mistake made long ago - a mistake forged in blind, arrogant trust. He had once believed in a boy who had already begun to rot from the inside out. And yet, when faced with another boy - one who was pure, intelligent, uncertain of where good ended and evil began - Albus had turned a blind eye. He had let him drift into darkness.

And Severus had fallen.

"Oh, my dear Severus..." he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of too many regrets.

A sudden crash shattered the silence.

Dumbledore turned sharply, his heart leaping to his throat, as the door to the ward burst open.

Minerva McGonagall stood in the entrance, her emerald eyes ablaze with fury. She looked utterly unlike herself - her usually immaculate bun had loosened, stray wisps of hair escaping like wild ivy. Dark circles marred her pale face, and her lips were pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

Any student who saw Professor McGonagall looking this way knew one thing: someone was about to die - and she would not regret it.

"Headmaster?" she snapped, her voice clipped, as sharp as the crack of a whip. Her piercing gaze locked onto him, unyielding, accusatory.

Behind her, Madam Pomfrey stood silent, her expression grim. The mirrored tightness of her lips told him all he needed to know.

They were furious.

And they had every right to be.

Once, they had been his closest confidantes. His friends. His family. But the war had taken its toll on more than just the battlefield. It had left scars in trust itself.

Neither of them had spoken of it outright, but he knew. He had seen it in the coldness of their gazes, in the way their shoulders stiffened when he entered a room.

They blamed him.

For the secrets he had kept. For the lies he had told.

For Severus.

Hagrid had all but confirmed it in his usual, gruff way:

"Oi, Headmaster? well, yeh know things were complicated back then. When yer people thought yeh were dead... they didn't take it well. Not well at all. Everyone thought Professor Snape had killed yeh. The whole school turned their backs on 'im. Took it hard on 'im, they did. Hated him, they did. Up until young Harry told 'em all... told 'em everythin' - that Snape never betrayed yeh, that all these years, he was fightin' fer the Light."

Albus swallowed hard.

It was his fault.

It had always been his fault.

And now, Severus lay broken and battered, caught between life and death.

And for the first time in his long, long life, Albus Dumbledore didn't know how to fix it.