Severus stirred, a dull ache blooming at the base of his skull - steady, deliberate, like a drumbeat sounding deep within bone. Another pain, sharper and crueler, coiled beneath his skin. It curled along his neck, shoulder, and chest, biting with every breath like some half-sentient serpent trying to claw its way out.
Nagini's parting gift, he thought bitterly. A souvenir of loyalty, betrayal, and venom.
If he ever laid eyes on that blasted snake again, he would dice her into pieces so fine they'd slip through a sieve, brew her into a soup, and pour it straight down the Dark Lord's throat. A petty fantasy, perhaps. But satisfying all the same.
What a charming reward: death by venom.
After everything he'd done - everything he'd sacrificed - he had hoped for something a little more… elegant. A swift, clean Avada Kedavra, perhaps. Not this. Not a slow, burning death on the cold stone floor like a stray animal too pitiful to be granted mercy.
He supposed he should have known better.
Voldemort was never one for simplicity. His kingdom thrived on cruelty, spectacle, and mockery. And Severus? He was to be a final joke - the traitor devoured by the very creature he'd once fed.
He had spent years playing the double game - brewing poisons with steady hands, watching horrors unfold with a blank face, kneeling at the feet of a madman and telling himself it was for the greater good. He had witnessed torture. Heard screams that clung to the walls. He had obeyed orders that made his stomach turn - and done so silently, because silence was survival.
And in the end, none of it mattered.
To the Dark Lord, Severus had never been more than a tool. A pawn with a half-useful mind and a face that inspired hatred no matter which side of the battlefield it stood on. Some despised him for being too precise, too cold. Others for not being cold enough. And some like James Potter who had hated him simply for existing.
And now, Voldemort had proven it - in the simplest, most insulting way possible. No dramatic duel. No last words. No mercy.
Just a snake.
Severus let out a quiet, bitter breath through clenched teeth.
His lips curled in silent disgust, the motion weak and bitter. He was drowning in his own thoughts heavy, black coils that dragged him deeper with every turn when a voice sliced cleanly through the mire.
"Who are you hexing in that head of yours, Severus?" came Madam Pomfrey's unmistakable voice, dry as bone and twice as sharp.
"Those eyebrows look ready to stage a duel of their own."
He flinched. The tension that snapped down his spine was reflex worn into him by years of hiding and watching. He cracked one eye open.
Her face swam into view - blue eyes narrowing, arms folded, wand tucked into the crook of her elbow like a dagger. Stubborn, immovable, utterly unimpressed.
He'd forgotten how tall she seemed when she stood at the foot of his bed.
Yes, his magic was drained. Yes, the pain was crawling like acid beneath his skin. Yes, he was perhaps one shallow breath from vanishing entirely.
But rules were rules.
He was the only one allowed to be sarcastic in this room.
"Would you like to join the list," he rasped hoarsely, his voice like scorched parchment, "or would you prefer to stay out of it?"
He tried to pour venom into the words - tried to summon the old weight, the steel, the menace.
It came out barely a murmur.
Thin. Worn. Hollow.
A ghost of sarcasm past.
Pomfrey huffed - not offended, not surprised. She peered at the pale, battered form half-lost beneath layers of charmed linen. Her gaze swept over his bruised throat, the thin line of sweat beading his brow, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks.
And then she smiled - not unkindly.
In truth, she was rather pleased.
It was a good sign. A very good sign.
Yesterday, he'd barely known where he was. His eyes had been glassy and wide, darting to shadows. He'd flinched at the sound of her footsteps. He'd called Minerva Mama in a voice too small to belong to any man.
He had been lost - adrift in a nightmare even she couldn't reach.
But today...
Today, he was scowling at her like a particularly ruffled bat, glaring up from behind his curtain of lank hair with all the weary petulance of a man deeply inconvenienced by survival.
Merlin help her… she had missed him.
"Language, young man," she said briskly, adjusting his pillows with a sharp pat.
"You nearly bled out on my floor and haven't had a full breath in three days, I'll hex your mouth shut before I let you waste energy on sarcasm."
Severus grunted, trying - and failing - to squirm away from her fussing hands.
"So your Hufflepuff soul's only just begun kicking in, then," he muttered, "and it's chosen me as its redemption project. How inspiring."
The words came out sharper than intended - not venomous, but not kind either. He knew it was cruel, especially after everything she must have done to save him. But he couldn't - wouldn't - pretend as if nothing had happened.
Not after that night.
Not after she'd refused him when he'd begged for help - for anything - in that voice he hated. The voice of a man unraveling.
She had turned away then. Told him she had nothing to do with men who harmed students.
He wasn't angry. Not truly.
But he didn't forget.
And forgiveness… well. That was more complicated.
She had helped him now, yes. Perhaps even saved his life.
And yet the fact that he was still alive - still here - was something he couldn't forgive her for.
How dare she save him when he hadn't asked to be saved?
How dare she help him now, when she had denied him in the moment he'd needed her most?
He looked up at her.
Her blue eyes were shining, bright and tight with unshed tears. Her brows were drawn so tightly together, it looked like they were holding back more than emotion.
He'd gone too far.
Even he knew it.
Honestly - she was acting like a first-year Hufflepuff getting sentimental over the end-of-term feast. And this whole school had gone soft. Minerva had cried so many times in the past week he'd lost count. Albus had descended into full grandfatherly guilt mode - sickening. And now Pomfrey wasn't even snapping at him.
He exhaled slowly, the breath catching halfway in his chest.
"I'm not a first-year who sprained his wrist over a parchment cut..." he muttered, and then, with effort, "...Poppy."
The name hung there - uncertain, unfamiliar. Everyone knew Severus Snape did not call people by their given names. Not easily. Not often.
Albus had always been "Headmaster" or - internally - that meddling old coat.
Minerva was Professor McGonagall, or in private moments of particular ire, Tartan Tyrant, or Gryffindor-obsessed four-leg.
And Poppy?
She had always been Madam Pomfrey, or the mad witch, depending on how ill he was.
But now… he'd said it.
And he meant it.
She blinked, startled - not by the tone, but by the name. She recovered quickly, tugging the blankets higher with a sniff.
"Honestly," she muttered, "I think you're worse than a first-year. And knitting your eyebrows into knots won't heal you any faster. Nor will plotting murder in your head, tempting as it might be."
Severus closed his eyes again, as if sheer stubbornness might make her vanish.
"I wasn't plotting murder," he mumbled.
"Oh? My mistake," said Poppy dryly.
"Judging by that scowl, I assumed you were drafting an entire battle plan."
He gave a soft snort - the closest thing to a laugh he could manage - and murmured,
"Just brewing soup."
Poppy's hands froze.
The joke - if it could be called that - hung in the air, strange and fragile, like a bird that had flown into the wrong room.
She looked down.
At the hands - bruised, bandaged, trembling.
At the man beneath the blankets, so pale he seemed carved from ash.
They still didn't know how much damage the venom had done.
They knew it had torn through his nervous system. That much was obvious. But what worried Poppy most - what woke her in the middle of the night and followed her like a shadow down the hospital wing - was what it had done to his mind.
And that was why she had gone to Minerva and the Headmaster - not politely, not professionally, but with fury in her voice - and said:
"He cannot be left alone. Not even for a minute."
Because it had already started.
Since Severus had woken - even in fragments - his thoughts had begun to slip.
There were moments he was lucid. Sarcastic. Himself.
And then there were others.
Moments when his voice would soften to a child's whisper. When he'd stare at a wall and call Minerva Mama, or ask where his wand was because "Papa's coming and he'll be angry."
Moments when his eyes would glaze and he'd speak to no one - or worse, to someone who wasn't there.
It wasn't confusion.
It wasn't fatigue.
It was fracture.
He wasn't ignoring her.
He wasn't defiant.
He was gone.
Adrift in a memory so complete, so engulfing, he couldn't see past it. Couldn't tell that the war was over. That the snake was dead. That he'd survived.
And if that kept happening - if his mind kept slipping further into the past - she knew where it would end.
In St. Mungo's.
Not in a ward for the wounded.
In a locked room for the lost.
That was why she spoke to him constantly. Why she refused to let the silence settle too long. Why Minerva stayed until her back ached from the hard chair beside his bed.
Because if they lost him again, they might not get another chance to bring him back.
But even that wasn't the worst of it.
Since waking, Severus had turned his head. Moved his left fingertips. Blinked when spoken to.
But not the right.
And never his legs. It was untouched by the mind that once controlled them with precision.
The others clung to hope and called it recovery.
They said he was saving strength.
But Poppy Pomfrey had treated Severus Snape since he was eleven years old. She'd seen him limp into the Hospital Wing half-dead, bleeding, hexed to pieces - and still clutching a textbook in one hand, refusing painkillers because "I have exams."
This wasn't strength.
This wasn't stubbornness.
This was resignation.
She knew what it looked like when the body forgot itself.
She knew what it meant when a man like Severus Snape stopped trying to reach for anything.
And that hand - that bloody brilliant hand - the one that brewed miracles, signed death warrants, healed children, and built the walls of his survival one potion at a time…
That hand had not moved.
And now he was talking about soup.
In one, shattering moment, she understood:
He wasn't joking.
That right hand wasn't forgotten. It wasn't waiting. It was being grieved.
He was saying goodbye.
To potions.
To purpose.
To the thing that had made him feel useful when he hadn't felt anything else in decades.
And that terrified her more than anything Nagini could have done.
Because if Severus Snape - bitter, brilliant, relentless Severus - had decided that part of him was already dead…
Then she feared the rest of him might not be far behind.
She felt the burn at the corners of her eyes and blinked it back viciously.
She would not cry.
Not while he still lay there, brittle and watching.
So she did the only thing she could.
She laughed.
Softly. Richly. The kind of laugh that warmed cold stone, that lit corners even Lumos couldn't reach.
"Soup, is it?" she said, voice steady.
"Well, mind you don't let it boil over. I've no interest in scrubbing venom out of my bedsheets."
To her surprise, he shifted.
Awkward. Small. Like a boy caught lying, not a man caught dying.
And then - as if the words cost him something vital:
"I'll... I'll return them back .... all the potions you wasted on me," he said.
"Make sure the infirmary has enough backup… if - if you want, of course."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Not audibly. Not for anyone else.
But she heard it.
His left hand - the one that still worked - gripped the blanket with white-knuckled ferocity.
Not holding on.
Letting go.
She saw it.
That quiet flicker in his eyes. That almost imperceptible tremor in his lip.
The way he wouldn't look at her.
He was preparing.
Not to heal.
But to leave.
And suddenly, she couldn't breathe.
Poppy Pomfrey - veteran of two wars, healer of hundreds, denier of death itself - nearly fell apart.
But she didn't.
She simply adjusted his blanket with hands steadier than they had any right to be.
"Well," she said softly, brushing his shoulder with a gentleness he would never ask for, "that's very noble of you, Severus."
She bent forward. Her voice dropped to the hush reserved for lost causes and brave boys too broken to know they were brave.
"But the world isn't done with you yet."
She leaned closer still - close enough for him to hear the tremble in her breath.
"And neither am I."
Severus opened his mouth - whether to argue or to thank her, he wasn't sure - but Madam Pomfrey, ever the strategist, was already bustling toward the door.
"I'll fetch your breakfast," she called briskly over her shoulder, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.
Left alone, Severus huffed miserably, sinking deeper into the bed.
The infirmary was painted in gentle morning light, warm and golden. It spilled across the stone floor and brushed the foot of his bed, but none of it reached him.
Through the high windows, he could see the jagged edge of the Forbidden Forest - dark, wild, and tangled as ever.
No matter how brightly the sun shone, the Forest kept its shadows.
No light could burn them away.
Severus closed his eyes.
He had made a promise - a foolish, stubborn promise - to lift the burdens of those around him before he allowed himself to leave.
Fix what he could.
Set things in order.
And then, quietly, go.
He thought back to last night - the hush of Minerva and Albus whispering beyond his bed curtains.
Good, he thought bitterly. Let them plan. Let them prepare.
But shame burned in his chest.
How had he mistaken Minerva for Eileen?
How had he fallen so far from himself?
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
He could feel it gnawing at the edges of his mind, fraying the solid lines between memory and dream. The flashes came - unwelcome, vivid. That night.
Lucius had found him. Pale and shaking, his aristocratic calm stripped bare. He leaned close, voice barely a whisper.
"He's looking for you."
His eyes were glassy. Resigned. As if he knew exactly what was coming.
Severus had turned to leave - the weight of inevitability already coiling in his chest - when Lucius's hand gripped his forearm.
Too tightly.
His voice, when it came again, cracked like splintering porcelain.
"In the shrinking shadows, my brother."
Anyone who knew the Malfoys would understand the gravity of that word. A Malfoy did not extend the word friend, let alone brother. But Lucius had. And for one fragile second, it was enough.
A farewell.
An apology.
A reckoning of debts never truly paid.
Perhaps it was his way of saying I'm sorry. Sorry for taking the hand of a clever, angry first-year in a Slytherin dormitory decades ago. Sorry for promising power, respect, a name - only to deliver silence, secrecy, and the long, dark descent into servitude.
Severus had managed a smile. Rare. Lopsided. But real.
He returned the grip, firm and fleeting. A thank-you. A goodbye. Then, gently, he urged him to let go.
He had known what waited beyond the door.
And yet… he was grateful.
Mad, wasn't it?
Lucius Malfoy had done more harm than good in his life. Had believed in false gods and darker dreams. But he had never betrayed Severus. Not once. Not even now.
Not even when it would've been easier to.
Not even when everyone else - Dumbledore, Minerva, the Order, the world - had looked at him and seen only the mask. The spy. The Death Eater.
Lucius had seen something else.
Family.
No one else had offered him that. Not even Albus, for all his grandeur and graveyard secrets. Not Minerva, for all her steel and silent loyalty.
Lucius had offered him something simpler. Steadier.
A place.
And more than that - he had shared with Severus the most precious thing in his life.
Draco.
Draco, who had no idea how fiercely he was loved.
Draco, who had coiled himself into Severus's laboratory as a toddler, trailing potion fumes and sticky fingerprints.
Draco, who had stared at his hands with open awe, as though stirring a cauldron were some ancient, lost magic.
Severus had grumbled about it, of course. He'd called the boy insufferable, arrogant, spoilt. But he'd watched him all the same. And he had protected him. Always.
Draco was… his. In a way he had never said aloud.
His godson.
His legacy.
A boy worth dying for.
And Merlin, he missed him.
He wanted to see him once more. Just once.
To grip his shoulder and say, You are good enough. You don't have to prove it. You never did.
But there was no time.
There was never time.
He had other children to protect now. Children who would never thank him. Who would never know.
But he would do it anyway.
He would die for them.
So that Minerva could sit in the staffroom again and debate Quidditch with Flitwick like it was the most important matter in the world. So that Hagrid could serve rock-like biscuits to terrified first-years with a beaming smile. So that Trelawney could spill sherry on the carpet and claim doom in the tealeaves, and Pomona could grumble about mandrakes, and Pomfrey could scold students with scraped knees and far too much pride.
He would die so Hogwarts could live.
So they could be safe. So they could forget him. Hate him, if they liked. It didn't matter.
They were the closest thing to family he had left.
After Lucius.
After Draco.
After her.
And beyond that door - beyond the pain and the venom and the silence - she was waiting.
Eileen Prince.
His mother.
Her arms outstretched in the dark. Warm. Still. Still there.
He would go to her.
He would show her the potions he'd brewed. The spells he'd written. The life he had clawed from ashes and ruin. He would bury his face in her coat and whisper "I love you, Ma" one more time.
And maybe - just maybe - she would be proud.
Maybe - just maybe - she would speak to Lily for him. Tell her the truth. Tell her he was coming.
And most of all… he could be free.
Free of sides and war and masks. Free of duty and guilt and borrowed names.
Free to go home.
To the only person who had ever truly loved him.
Yes… he had been ashamed. Not of her - not ever - but of what she'd endured for him. What she'd sacrificed. She could have left. Could have taken her wand, her name, her pride, and walked away from that house. From him. From Papa.
But she hadn't.
He remembered it as though it had been etched, bone-deep and permanent. The kind of memory that never faded, not with time, not with magic.
He had been four. Small. Quiet. The television remote had floated into the air - another flicker of accidental magic. His father had turned red. Not with surprise. Not with wonder.
With fury.
The slap came so hard it made his ear ring. Bleed. He hadn't cried. Hadn't screamed. Just stood there, frozen. Waiting.
But then -
Mama.
She had flown out of the kitchen like a storm breaking through still air. She threw herself over him, wrapped his tiny body in hers, shielding him. The belt came down again and again - not on him, but on her.
He could still feel the strange, muffled pressure in his ear - like being trapped underwater - but it didn't compare. It didn't come close to the sight of her face: twisted in pain, silent in defiance. She never screamed. She just bit her lip and shut her eyes.
He couldn't take it.
His little hands had risen on instinct, cradling her cheeks - just as she'd always done for him when he was sick, or frightened. He kissed her face over and over, tears falling onto her skin.
She opened her eyes, swollen and red, and smiled through her tears. "It's all right," she whispered.
It wasn't.
Later, when the front door had slammed shut behind Tobias Snape and the silence returned, she could barely stand. But still - still - she wrapped her arms around him, bundled him close, and carried him through the falling snow.
He remembered it with aching precision.
It had been bitter cold. He had hidden his head against the curve of her neck, trying to absorb any scrap of warmth.
When they arrived, the clinic was packed. The air smelled of disinfectant and iron. Old men clutching canes. Miners with bandaged heads and soot-streaked faces. Women sitting on the floor, crying without sound. All hunched beneath flickering yellow lights.
As they entered, the room fell quiet. Heads turned.
They looked at him like pigeons eyeing a breadcrumb. Like wolves circling something small.
Severus remembered the way their gazes stuck to him - thin, bruised, silent - and the way he clutched tighter to his mother's coat, as if he could vanish inside the folds of it. The room had quieted all at once, the air curdling into something thick and cruel. The kind of hush that didn't mean kindness.
Even at four, he knew that kind of silence.
The woman at the desk finally looked up. Middle-aged. Sallow. Her hair was scraped into a bun so tight it looked angry. She wore purple half-moon spectacles that clashed with the glare in her eyes.
"What is it?" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut bread. No greeting. No glance at the boy with the bleeding ear.
Eileen stepped forward, placing Severus down gently. Her fingers, cold as frost, laced tightly with his.
"Vivian," she said softly, "his ear is injured."
There was a snort from the chairs. A snicker. One of the men in the waiting room chuckled darkly into his coat.
Severus ducked behind her skirt.
"Do you have money?" Vivian asked, her tone suddenly louder - performative, almost triumphant.
The waiting room seemed to lean in.
Eileen reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled collection of coins. The sound of them jingling in her palm felt louder than the laughter.
Vivian took one look - just one - and curled her lip.
"Not enough," she said. "Get out. Don't waste my time."
Eileen flinched. Just barely. Her lips moved, voice thinner now. "Please… I'll bring the rest tomorrow. He's just a boy."
Vivian sneered. "No money, no visit. Do you understand? Or is your hearing as useless as your parenting?"
This time, they laughed. Laughed.
Severus's stomach twisted. His hand curled tighter into his mother's skirt, his heart thudding against his ribs like a frightened bird.
And that was when his mother turned.
Her spine straightened. Her eyes - bruised with exhaustion - hardened into steel.
"If you'd spent half as much time studying medicine as you have staring at yourself in shop windows," Eileen said quietly, "you might have remembered your oath. You're not here to humiliate the poor. You're here to help. But I imagine that sort of nobility died the moment you signed your name beside a paycheque."
Her voice did not rise.
It didn't need to.
The room fell silent. The kind of silence that cracked under its own weight. No more laughter. No more snickers. Even Vivian faltered, blinking as if slapped.
Severus looked up at her, eyes wide. His mother - small, cold, shivering - stood like a giant. And in that moment, battered and breathless, she was the most powerful witch in the world.
Vivian, unfortunately, recovered quickly.
She rose from her chair like a judge rising from a throne, not with grace, but with arrogance. Her eyes locked on Eileen's face - evaluating, dissecting, condemning. The kind of stare a teacher might give a hopeless student on their very last chance.
"A disgrace," she said, voice cool and cutting. "That's what you are. A bad mother. A failure of a wife. And clearly, unfit for anything better than dragging your poor son from one humiliation to the next."
Eileen stood still. Silent. But her knuckles had gone bone white where she gripped Severus's shoulder.
Vivian reached for the coins on her desk with the edge of two folded forms - like handling dung with tongs - and flicked them back toward Eileen with deliberate distaste. The clink of metal against wood was sharp, final.
"You think standing here, shouting about oaths and decency makes you righteous?" Vivian sneered. "It just makes you louder than the rest of the rats."
She leaned forward now, voice low but designed to carry.
"I hear what they say about you. That your husband takes what he wants from other women while you drink yourself into silence. That he calls the boy names I won't repeat. And you - you just let it happen. Walk in here like some half-dead beggar, bruises on your face and dirt on his hands."
Severus clung to his mother's skirt, shaking.
"I don't need to ask where you come from, Eileen," Vivian finished, flicking her eyes over the tattered coat and muddy boots. "I already know where you'll end up."
She pointed suddenly - not at Eileen, but at a notice board behind her, where a faded poster hung beside flu charts and pricing tables.
The paper was yellowed, edges curling.
It showed a cartoon drawing - childishly sweet. A poor-looking couple standing in shadow, waving goodbye with sad smiles. In front of them, a cheerful child was holding hands with a wealthy-looking couple dressed in clean, rich robes. The child was beaming.
Above the picture, printed in blocky, official lettering, were the words:
IF YOU CANNOT RAISE YOUR CHILD, SOMEONE ELSE WILL.
Severus stared at it.
He couldn't read the words. But he understood the picture.
His heart started pounding.
"They say mice can birth, but they don't stay," Vivian said coldly. "They scamper off once they realise their young deserve more. And sometimes…" She smiled, slow and satisfied. "Sometimes that's the kindest thing they can do."
Severus looked up.
His mother was still silent.
But something in her eyes - something that had burned so fiercely only moments before - was beginning to dim.
And it terrified him.
The door burst open with a gust of wind and snow, and in walked a man - bundled in a well-fitted wool coat, scarf still dusted white, cheeks pink from the cold. Behind him, a woman stepped carefully inside, cradling a girl - perhaps five or six - in her arms. Her nose was red from crying.
The man hurried forward, scooping the child up as though she were made of porcelain. He turned to his wife and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I've got her, love. You sit."
Then, politely, he approached the front desk. "Excuse me, ma'am - our daughter's come down with what we believe is chickenpox. The clinic in our town was packed. She's running a high fever, and we were told to come here immediately."
Vivian, still seated behind her desk, perked up like a cat offered cream. Her tone softened. "Of course, sir. That'll be thirty-five pounds."
He handed her a crisp fifty. "Keep the change. Just… how long might it take?"
Vivian's eyes flicked to the clock - then to the glint of money in her hand. "Not long at all, sir. In fact, I'll make sure she's seen next."
The man gave a grateful nod, then turned back to his family. "Sweetheart, there's a seat just there. Sit, I'll bring you some water."
His wife nodded, settling onto the one available chair and gently holding the child in her lap. She brushed back the girl's pale hair, whispering soft comforts. "There now, darling. Just a little longer. Mummy's got you."
"Should I ring Mum and check on Lily?" the man asked as he headed for the phone.
"She's all right," his wife said with a faint, tired smile. "But yes, do call her. I just like to know they're safe."
"I know." The man gave her a wink. "And when we get home, I'll make hot chocolate for everyone. The proper kind - with whipped cream and cinnamon. Won't that be nice, Petunia?"
Petunia blinked up at him, pale and drowsy, and managed a weak smile.
Her mother squeezed her even closer, as if love alone could make fever vanish.
Severus watched.
Watched as warmth danced between them - like something alive, something separate from the snow and the pain and the cold.
His hands clenched at his sides, small fists inside worn sleeves.
He didn't hate them. Not really.
He just… wanted to be them.
Just for a moment.
Just for once.
She pointed suddenly - not at Eileen, but at a notice board behind her, where a faded poster hung beside flu charts and pricing tables.
The paper was yellowed, edges curling.
It showed a cartoon drawing - childishly sweet. A poor-looking couple standing in shadow, waving goodbye with sad smiles. In front of them, a cheerful child was holding hands with a wealthy-looking couple dressed in clean, rich robes. The child was beaming.
Above the picture, printed in blocky, official lettering, were the words:
IF YOU CANNOT RAISE YOUR CHILD, SOMEONE ELSE WILL.
Severus stared at it.
He couldn't read the words. But he understood the picture.
His heart started pounding.
"They say mice can birth, but they don't stay," Vivian said coldly. "They scamper off once they realise their young deserve more. And sometimes…" She smiled, slow and satisfied. "Sometimes that's the kindest thing they can do."
Severus looked up.
His mother was still silent.
But something in her eyes - something that had burned so fiercely only moments before - was beginning to dim.
And it terrified him.
The door burst open with a gust of wind and snow, and in walked a man - bundled in a well-fitted wool coat, scarf still dusted white, cheeks pink from the cold. Behind him, a woman stepped carefully inside, cradling a girl - perhaps five or six - in her arms. Her nose was red from crying.
The man hurried forward, scooping the child up as though she were made of porcelain. He turned to his wife and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I've got her, love. You sit."
Then, politely, he approached the front desk. "Excuse me, ma'am - our daughter's come down with what we believe is chickenpox. The clinic in our town was packed. She's running a high fever, and we were told to come here immediately."
Vivian, still seated behind her desk, perked up like a cat offered cream. Her tone softened. "Of course, sir. That'll be thirty-five pounds."
He handed her a crisp fifty. "Keep the change. Just… how long might it take?"
Vivian's eyes flicked to the clock - then to the glint of money in her hand. "Not long at all, sir. In fact, I'll make sure she's seen next."
The man gave a grateful nod, then turned back to his family. "Sweetheart, there's a seat just there. Sit, I'll bring you some water."
His wife nodded, settling onto the one available chair and gently holding the child in her lap. She brushed back the girl's pale hair, whispering soft comforts. "There now, darling. Just a little longer. Mummy's got you."
"Should I ring Mum and check on Lily?" the man asked as he headed for the phone.
"She's all right," his wife said with a faint, tired smile. "But yes, do call her. I just like to know they're safe."
"I know." The man gave her a wink. "And when we get home, I'll make hot chocolate for everyone. The proper kind - with whipped cream and cinnamon. Won't that be nice, Petunia?"
Petunia blinked up at him, pale and drowsy, and managed a weak smile.
Her mother squeezed her even closer, as if love alone could make fever vanish.
Watched as warmth danced between them - like something alive, something separate from the snow and the pain and the cold.
His hands clenched at his sides, small fists inside worn sleeves.
He didn't hate them. Not really.
He just… wanted to be them.
Just for a moment.
Just for once.
Severus looked up.
His mother was still staring at the poster on the notice board.
She hadn't moved.
The cartoon image of a cheerful child walking hand-in-hand with a wealthy couple hung in her line of sight like a curse. Severus couldn't read the words, but he didn't need to. He understood the picture. And more than that - he understood the silence in her eyes.
"Mama?" he whispered, tugging gently at her coat.
She didn't answer.
A single tear traced down her cheek.
His heart clenched.
He tugged again, more insistent now. "Mama, I'm happy," he whispered, his voice small. "I have you."
That did it.
Eileen blinked - startled - as if waking from a dream. She looked down, and there he was.
Her little boy.
Too pale. Too thin. His cheeks like porcelain, soft and hollow, his dark eyes wide as the night sky and just as full of unspeakable things. He smiled at her - shy, uncertain.
Then she saw it.
The dried trail of blood that ran from his ear, crusted now against his neck and staining the collar of his oversized shirt. It had once belonged to Tobias. Years ago. Now it dwarfed her son's fragile frame like a hand-me-down curse.
Eileen dropped to her knees, cupping his face with trembling hands. He leaned into her without hesitation, and she pulled him to her chest, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled like earth and cold, like crushed dandelions and mint - the little patch of herbs he'd planted behind the shed. He always reeked of whatever he'd been crushing or mixing or steeping in the kettle without permission.
Ever since she'd told him about potions, he'd been obsessed. He would crawl into bed with his mother's old book, pointing at the illustrations, asking her to read about tinctures and infusions instead of fairy tales.
He'd always been clever.
Always hers.
She sniffed against him, trying to memorise that scent. It was all so innocent - so Severus. She'd always wondered if he would like mint humbugs from Honeydukes when he was older. She never dared ask.
She inhaled again, deeply, fiercely.
And then she pulled back, slowly.
His cheeks were flushed from the cold and the warmth of her embrace. She pinched his nose gently between her fingers, smiling through the tears.
"Sevy," she whispered, "you know Mama loves you more than anything in the world, don't you?"
He nodded immediately, his smile small but real.
Eileen leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Her lips lingered there, trembling.
Then she stood.
"Sit here, sweetheart," she said softly. "Be a good boy."
Severus's smile vanished. His brows furrowed. "Where are you going?"
She turned halfway, trying to make her voice light. "Just to the loo, love."
But Severus wasn't stupid.
He wasn't like the neighbour's boy, the one who cried over broken toys. He knew better.
His small frame slipped from the chair. "I want to come too."
Eileen let out a breath - a shaky, fraying sound - and turned fully to face him.
"Severus," she said, crouching once more. "Mama has to go alone. Just for a moment. Can you be brave for me and save our seat?"
He didn't look convinced.
He glanced past her, at the door.
She reached out, pried his fingers gently from the hem of her jacket. "I'll come back, Sevy. I promise."
His lip trembled.
"You promise?" he whispered, and Merlin, the way he said it - like it was everything. Like the whole of his world was teetering on that single word.
Then, almost too softly to hear, he added, "I don't have any pain in my ear… we can go back home."
It was a lie.
A child's lie, the kind that comes from love and desperation. He said it not to escape, not to win - but to ease her burden. To make her stay. To make her feel like she hadn't failed him.
Eileen's breath caught in her throat. He was trying to protect her. At four years old.
She gave the smallest, most brittle smile.
Her throat burned.
"Promise," she said, and kissed the top of his head.
She turned quickly then, before he could see the tremble in her lip or the single tear slipping down her cheek.
As she reached the door, she paused only briefly - her hand hovering on the handle, her thoughts spiralling through the cruel laughter, the blood, the poster on the wall. And the scent still clinging to Severus's tiny body.
She pressed her hand harder to the door.
And left.
When it clicked shut behind her, Severus curled his small fingers around the fabric of the chair, knuckles white.
And waited.
Severus watched the nice family disappear into the doctor's room. A few patients still lingered, hunched on benches or shifting impatiently in creaky chairs. The secretary - Vivian - was staring at him again, like he'd sprouted extra heads. Her gaze was sharp and unblinking, like a barn owl sizing up something small and twitching.
It had only been minutes since his mother left, but already his stomach was twisting with dread. He didn't like being watched. He didn't like being alone. And no matter how bravely he told himself to sit still - to be strong for Mama - he could feel the tears starting to gather, hot and traitorous. His ear throbbed in time with his heartbeat. His head felt dizzy and floaty. He was so hungry.
Trying to distract himself, he clambered awkwardly onto the edge of the hard chair and leaned forward to peer through the window. The glass was icy, fogged over with condensation. He wiped a small circle clear with the sleeve of his shirt.
And then he saw her.
His heart stopped cold.
She wasn't heading for the loo.
She was running. Running through the slush, toward the train station, arms wrapped tightly around herself. And then - she fell. Right there in the snow. She didn't get up. Just curled in on herself, one fist striking the ground as if she could beat it into submission. Her shoulders shook. She was crying.
Severus's eyes burned. His hand flattened against the glass, fingers spread as if he could reach her through it. "It's okay, Mama," he whispered to the glass, fogging it up again. He drew a heart with his fingertip in the little circle he'd cleared. "I love you. I'll be strong. For both of us."
He slid back down onto the chair, curling into himself like a fern retreating from frost. His clothes were too big - his father's old shirt hung off his shoulders like a sheet - and his skin was far too pale. His ear still dripped, warm blood soaking into the collar.
The door to the doctor's office opened with a creak.
The kind man emerged first, carrying his daughter in his arms, her head tucked into his shoulder. The woman followed close behind, clutching a scarf around her throat.
Vivian's voice shifted into something syrupy and bright. "Thank you again, Mr. Evans. You've been most generous."
The man smiled, nodding politely - then paused.
His eyes fell on Severus.
On the red, wet cheeks. On the slumped shoulders. On the blood-stained collar.
Severus ducked his head immediately, shrinking into the shadows of his coat.
But it was too late.
The man crossed the room, crouching carefully in front of the chair. "Hey there, buddy. You alright?"
Severus said nothing. Just clutched the hem of his shirt and kept his eyes down.
The man hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sweet - wrapped in shiny green foil.
"Would you like a sweet?" he asked kindly. "Mint. My daughter loves them."
Severus looked at the sweet. Then at the man. He was clean. Neatly dressed. Gentle. The kind of man who didn't yell. Who didn't hit. Who didn't smell like firewhisky.
Severus tilted his head slightly, then narrowed his eyes with caution sharpened by a thousand hard moments. "Bit risky, isn't it?" he said softly. "Offering candy to a child in a public place. Someone might think you're trying to steal me."
The man blinked - then laughed, startled and warm.
"Well then," he said, smiling, "you're clever too, aren't you? My name's Howard. Howard Evans. I have a daughter about your age at home, and no - I don't want to steal you. I want to give you two sweets. One for you, and one for your mum. For raising such a clever boy."
Severus hesitated. Then reached out with trembling fingers and accepted the sweets. "Thank you, sir."
He knew his mother wasn't coming back.
But still - he'd save hers. Just in case. For the day he found her again.
Howard Evans gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder and stood. "Take care, little man."
And then they were gone.
The clinic emptied slowly. The hours crawled. The lights dimmed.
Severus sat. And sat.
The doctor never called for him.
Once, Vivian pointed at him. Whispered to one of the nurses. Then picked up the phone and spoke in a low voice about "a boy in need of family placement." He didn't know what the words meant. But the look on her face made his stomach twist.
They thought they could send him away.
They were wrong.
Without a sound, he slipped off the chair. Slipped through the doors. Out into the night.
The snow had deepened. It reached his waist now, clinging to his legs and soaking into his shoes. He walked anyway. One foot after another. No coat. No scarf. Just the oversized shirt and the sweets in his fist.
The wind howled.
His ear screamed with pain.
And still - he walked.
He didn't know where he was going. Only that home wasn't behind him anymore.
And that the only thing keeping him upright…
…was the memory of her arms.
Until -
A coat. Heavy, warm, and familiar. It fell across his shoulders like a lifeline.
And then arms - real arms - lifting him, clutching him against a chest that smelled of rain and soap and safety.
"Mama," he choked, though the sound was barely a breath.
Tear-streaked, furious, breathless - Eileen Prince swept him into her hold as though she might never let go.
"I told you to stay inside," she whispered sharply, voice cracking like glass. "Didn't I say I'd come back?"
He didn't answer - just buried his frozen face deeper into her coat, trembling from more than cold.
She hadn't known he'd seen her. Hadn't known he'd watched her run. That he had already said goodbye, quietly, without blame. That in his heart, bruised and too old for his age, he'd already forgiven her. Because she came back.
Because she chose him, even when she had every reason not to.
And in that moment, he pressed his lips to the scratchy wool of her coat and whispered, "I love you, Ma."
He never stopped.
Not even years later, when her absence was permanent.
Not even when every inch of him became hard, cold, unreadable.
Not even when he was certain - absolutely certain - that if she had seen him now, seen what he had become, seen what he had done -
She would have hated him.
Just as Lily had.
_________________________
Severus Snape - Death Eater, Potions Master, double agent, traitor, protector - wished, just for a moment, that Eileen might step from the shadows behind him. Wrap him in her coat once more. Bury him in that scent of home - crushed herbs and woodsmoke - and whisper that she had come back. That he was safe. That he was hers.
But there was no one behind him.
And he was not safe.
He forced the thought away with a shudder and summoned his Occlumency, dragging it over his mind like an iron grate slamming shut. The Dark Lord could not see this. Would not. He would not ruin Dumbledore's plan - the one chance at salvation for the boy, for the school, for the world - for the selfishness of longing.
His boots pressed into the wet grass as he walked, the weight of the night folding around him like a shroud. Cold. Familiar.
In his mind, he ran through the checklist again. The rituals of finality.
Albus Dumbledore - secured. Hidden. Protected. Check.
His wand - cloaked in Disillusionment, buried with a spell only Albus could lift. The letter - enchanted to appear only after he was gone. Check.
Hogwarts - warded. His spell sealing the dormitories, safeguarding the youngest. The frightened. The ones who never asked for war. Check.
Infirmary stock replenished. Check.
His private notes - the ones worth something - donated to the library under McGonagall's name to avoid suspicion. Check.
And money. Every Knut of it - to Longbottom.
Yes, Longbottom. Of all people.
The boy who once melted cauldrons by proximity. Who confused a Shrinking Solution with a Skiving Snackbox. Who managed to mistake a salamander for a teapot in third year. The boy who had once wept over a single point deducted and then nearly burned his eyebrows off trying to earn it back.
That boy.
Because, of course, it had to be him.
Because beneath the clumsiness and the stammering and the ceaseless idiocy, there was something stubborn. Something good. Something... Gryffindor.
Snape sneered at the word even as his chest tightened with something dangerously close to reluctant hope.
Perhaps - with a little gold, a lot of guidance, and a miracle or two - the boy might amount to something. Might even become the kind of wizard who didn't need saving from his own cauldron twice a week.
Merlin help them all.
Then came the unspoken part.
The boy.
Potter.
"Tell the boy he must let himself be murdered," Albus had said. As if it were nothing. As if it were another line in a letter. Another pawn moved across the board.
That... was not on the list.
Merlin help him - how in the nine, forsaken circles of hell was he supposed to say that?
Was he meant to look into Lily's eyes - Lily's eyes - and say:
"Right then, Potter. Once you've destroyed the Horcruxes, kindly throw yourself at Voldemort's feet. Surprise - you're the last one. Bravo. Curtain call. Do send my regards to your mother, assuming she still speaks to me in the afterlife. Oh, and while we're here - I helped orchestrate your suffering since birth. Your parents died because of a prophecy I delivered. Your childhood was a monument to misery. And now I'm here to ask you to die with dignity. For the greater good, of course."
He stopped walking.
What kind of man did Dumbledore think he was?
Severus shoved his hands behind his back and began to pace in an agitated circle, boots crunching on the damp grass. "No. Absolutely not. No, no, no, you bloody old goat, I will not."
He stopped, flung his hair back behind one ear, and glared at the sky as if expecting divine instruction - or at least a thunderbolt to put him out of his misery.
Nothing.
He let out a sharp breath, whirled on his heel, and stalked toward the Shrieking Shack - only to stop halfway and storm back to his previous spot like a man possessed.
"Right, Potter," he muttered, gesticulating madly. "Go and die. No explanation necessary. Just a quick Avada and it's all over. Lovely. Grand."
He dragged both hands through his hair, nearly yanking out strands in frustration. "Potter - listen - have you heard of religious martyrdom? Glorious, ancient tradition. You die, the world gets saved. Simple."
He paused. Stared at the trees as if they'd insulted his mother.
"No. No, no, no," he growled, turning again, pacing faster. "What next? I tell him he's been chosen by fate and should feel honoured? That it's all terribly noble? That he'll live forever in song and statue?" His voice rose to a deranged pitch. "NO."
He pivoted and stomped to the edge of the lake, breathing hard, staring down at the water's dark surface.
And then - laughter.
Mocking. Teenage. Echoes from a memory that had never truly left him.
He saw himself hanging upside-down in the air, robes over his head, underpants bared, as James Potter preened like a peacock. The jeers. The shame. The humiliation.
And then - Lily.
Striding toward them. That fire in her eyes. Telling James to stop. Her voice, fierce and clear.
Severus shut his eyes.
"Lily," he whispered, hoarse. "Help me."
He opened his eyes just to find himself staring at the cold still lake, this time nomore shouting or laughter but just the stillness and quiet before tornado. He stared at the water as he felt someone pass him, it was Potter taking his shirt off and jumping to water, then Weasley came just in time to pull Potter out. Potter was holding a long soard.
That's it. He had treacked the boy once with the elution of his father showing him the soard place he can do the same thing now too. He closed his eyes and opened there was no more Potter, or James or Lily there was just him determined and ready for his next move.
He covered his ears with shaking hands, forced himself to remember her smile - the real one, before everything turned - and murmured, "Expecto Patronum."
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
Just cold wind and the rustle of leaves.
"NO!" he shouted, trembling. "No, no, you pathetic creature - COME OUT!"
His voice cracked. He turned in a slow, broken circle, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat.
"Just once," he whispered. "Just once, Lily, help me tell your son he has to die."
But the night gave no answer.
Only silence.
He tried again, voice cracking at the edges. "Expecto Patronum."
Nothing.
The shadows stretched, still and unkind.
He clenched his fists, grit grinding between his teeth, and hissed again through clenched teeth, "Expecto Patronum."
Still nothing.
The frustration twisted inside him like a vice. He kicked at the frozen earth with a snarl, dragging both hands through his hair. "Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! EXPECTO - bloody - fucking - PATRONUM!"
The sound ripped through the cold air, startling a bird from a nearby tree.
Nothing.
He dropped to his knees.
A man brought low by war, by grief, by the impossible cruelty of it all. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound save for a rasp of breath. He'd failed. He was already too late. The boy wouldn't know. Wouldn't understand.
A single tear carved its way down his cheek, bitter as any poison. He closed his eyes. One last time.
"Expecto Patronum," he whispered, like a prayer he no longer believed in.
This time, he didn't dare open his eyes. He simply held out his hand - trembling, bloodstained.
And something soft touched his palm.
Breath hitched in his throat. His eyes fluttered open.
There she was.
His doe. Lily's doe. Their doe.
Silver light pulsed gently from her slender form, glowing softly in the night. Her nose pressed to his hand with something like understanding.
Severus swallowed, the lump in his throat nearly strangling him.
"Go," he whispered, voice barely audible. "Go to Harry Potter. Lead him. Make sure he follows. To the Shrieking Shack. He must see. He must hear me die."
The doe raised her head. Met his eyes.
"I will speak in riddles," he murmured. "Double meanings. It's all I'll have left. He must know the truth."
The Patronus dipped her head in the barest nod.
And then - she turned.
She leapt into the dark and vanished.
Gone like hope in a battlefield.
Severus stood slowly, his breath fogging in the cold. His limbs ached, his bones protested, but he straightened anyway. Dignity, even now. Always now.
He adjusted his collar with a flick of his hand and turned toward the Shrieking Shack.
His last battlefield.
His final lesson.
The only one that mattered.
Severus stepped into the Shrieking Shack with a breath held in iron.
The Dark Lord stood by the window, pale fingers folded neatly behind his back, the glass beyond him glinting with moonlight. At his feet, Nagini coiled - massive, sleek, venomous. Her eyes gleamed with something between hunger and anticipation.
Severus swallowed and lowered himself to the floor, bowing low - too low - until his forehead brushed the dust-streaked boards. The final curtain had risen. His death would not be swift, and that was fine. He needed time. Potter would be near. He had to be.
Behind his closed eyes, he whispered a single word to himself: Wait.
The voice that answered was silk stretched over ice.
"Why did it take you so long, Severus?"
He raised his head slowly, spine straight. "My Lord… I - "
"Spare me your excuses," Voldemort cut in, voice now laced with disdain. "Do you know, Severus, why I require my servants to kneel? Why I insist they press their faces to the ground like vermin?"
There was danger in the air now, like static before a lightning strike.
Severus knew this tone. Knew it far too well.
He bought a second with silence, then murmured, "Because obedience is the shield of power. And humility, its disguise."
A lie. A clever one. But Voldemort didn't believe in cleverness unless it was his own.
He laughed - cold and bright as broken glass. "No, Severus. No, no, no. They kneel so they remember where they belong. Beneath me. Beneath her."
He motioned to Nagini, who raised her head slightly, tongue flicking.
"So do tell me," Voldemort purred, stepping forward now, his red eyes glittering, "where do you belong, Severus?"
Severus's lips were dry. He bowed lower.
"Beneath your feet, my Lord."
Voldemort's smile vanished.
"Then why does the worm beneath my feet lie to me?" he hissed. "Why does it hide Dumbledore, and feed me Potter - only to keep him alive?"
Severus's heart stilled.
No - no, no, not yet -
"Look," the Dark Lord said softly, almost kindly.
Severus raised his head - and saw him.
Dumbledore.
Leaning upright against the far wall, his eyes glassy, lifeless, neck gaping open in a ghastly wound that still trickled blood into the folds of his robes.
On the other side, Bellatrix stood cackling beside a chain.
Harry.
Harry was slumped against the stone, arms bound in cursed iron, his glasses broken, his chest still.
Severus gasped. "No - "
"Oh, yes," Voldemort said, voice rich with triumph. "We found them. All of them. The boy. The old man. The betrayers."
Severus lurched forward. "My Lord, please - "
"Enough," Voldemort snapped. "Enough lies. Enough you."
He raised his wand.
"Avada Kedavra."
The green light flared.
Severus flinched, bracing -
But it didn't hit him.
It struck the boy.
Harry's body collapsed, lifeless, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief. Just like Dumbledore's.
The silence that followed was cavernous.
Severus fell to his knees.
"No," he whispered. "No… no, no, no…"
He hadn't even delivered the message. The Horcrux. The choice. The hope.
He'd failed.
He'd failed them all.
Voldemort turned to him, eyes glinting with glee. "Ah, but I have one last surprise for you, Severus. A final… gift."
The doors groaned open behind them.
And there - framed in moonlight, filthy and shaking, his eyes glowing feral gold - stood Remus Lupin.
Barefoot. Bleeding. Mad with hunger.
His robes were shredded, his face streaked with ash and blood. His breath came in ragged snarls.
A werewolf.
A friend.
A weapon.
Voldemort smiled. "Now, let us see which side your mongrel heart beats for."
The werewolf lunged.
Severus barely had time to recoil before teeth and shadow swallowed his vision. But just as the beast's face came into view - he saw it.
The eyes.
They weren't gold.
Not feral, not burning like Lupin's under a full moon.
They were wrong.
Wrong colour. Wrong weight. Wrong memory.
It hit him then - harder than the imagined blow.
This wasn't real.
Voldemort hadn't found Dumbledore's hiding place. Hadn't uncovered the truth. Severus had died - died for the Elder Wand - but not like this. And Dumbledore - Dumbledore had saved him. Somehow. Somewhere along the thread of time fraying at the edges of his mind.
This was a lie.
A dream twisted by poison and guilt.
He forced his eyes open with effort like lifting lead weights. Light exploded behind his lids. His body ached. His ribs howled.
But the nightmare receded.
He was in the hospital wing.
His room.
The familiar hush of the infirmary wrapped around him like wool, too thick to breathe through.
But what startled him wasn't the ache or the quiet - it was the window.
No sun.
Not the golden morning light he remembered. No.
Outside, the sky had turned that soft bruised blue of early evening.
He hadn't slept.
He'd only been thinking.
Just a moment - only a moment after Pomfrey had left.
Hadn't he?
His gaze swept the room with sharpness born of panic.
Minerva.
She was there, seated in the armchair by the window, an old hardcover book resting forgotten in her lap. Her tartan dressing gown was creased. Her spectacles had slipped low on her nose. And she was staring - not reading - eyes locked on some far-off point in the plaster, lost.
"...What?"
The word scraped its way out of him, hoarse and brittle. It felt like dragging a blade over gravel.
Minerva jumped as if she'd been hexed.
"Oh!" She was at his side in an instant, her hand reaching instinctively for his brow. "Severus! Thank Merlin. How are you feeling?"
"Confused," he rasped. "Also - undecided when you became this touchy."
His voice was low, dry as ash. But the sarcasm was intact. Just barely.
Minerva narrowed her eyes and thwacked him lightly on the arm. "Honestly. You're half-dead and still you mouth off."
Severus allowed his lips the ghost of a smirk. "It's how you know I'm alive."
But behind the humour - behind the thrum of exhausted wit - he could feel it. The unease.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it in her voice. In the way her eyes flicked to his too often. The way her shoulders didn't settle, her hands trembled slightly after she touched his.
He was missing something.
And worse - he didn't remember falling asleep.
Had he eaten?
He didn't think so.
But he was hungry now. Starving, even. A hollow kind of ache that curled behind his ribs and told him far too much time had passed.
He shifted slightly beneath the covers, and the ache in his limbs confirmed it: this had not been a nap.
This had been lost time.
And Minerva… she knew.
She was still watching him. Still staring, as though bracing for him to disappear again.
He didn't speak. Not yet.
Because the worst part wasn't the blank space in his memory.
The worst part was the look in her eyes.
She looked… afraid.
Of what he might say.
Of what he might not.
And for once, Severus didn't have a clever answer.
Not yet.
But someone else did.
"I do believe," came the maddeningly mild voice from across the room, "that it is precisely these small moments which make friendship worth a lifetime. In fact, I rather think - "
Severus's eyes squeezed shut.
Of course.
Of course it was him.
That ridiculous cadence - half-philosophy, half sugar-glazed riddles - was as unmistakable as the faint scent of lemon drops and old parchment.
Albus bloody Dumbledore.
His hand twitched faintly against the blanket.
He could feel it rise inside him - like a slow boil, dark and blistering. Rage. Humiliation. And something sharper. Something far more dangerous: betrayal.
How dare he?
How dare that man walk in here, into his space, into his pain, and speak of friendship as though it were a ribbon you could tie over a wound? As if he hadn't tried to spoon-feed him like a dying pet. As if he hadn't shackled his magic like a prison warden. As if he hadn't sat quietly at his bedside, murmuring pretty reassurances while tightening the leash inch by inch.
How dare he?
How dare he stand there, rambling his half-cryptic proverbs, his delicate games, as though this were just another chessboard and Severus merely another knight to sacrifice for the sake of a brilliant endgame?
How dare he come here - smiling, coaxing, kind - and act as though he were not, at heart…
Tobias Snape.
Yes.
That was it.
The false cheer. The careful, soft voice.
The hands that only hurt when no one else was looking.
It wasn't the first time Severus had seen a man pretend he wasn't cruel.
His breath hitched - short, sharp, tight.
And then -
He opened his eyes.
Dark. Piercing. Glittering with fury.
Minerva shifted in the corner, her sharp eyes flicking to his, as if she could already sense the storm gathering. As if she wanted to tell him, Calm down, Severus. Please.
But Severus Snape did not give her the chance.
He drew a slow, careful breath, feeling the bitter taste coat his tongue.
And then - with every ounce of sarcasm, venom, and broken pride that had kept him alive all these years -
he spoke.
"How marvellous," Severus rasped, his voice curling like smoke. "The brilliant mind of the great Albus Dumbledore, descending once again from his lofty perch to grace us mere mortals. Tell me, Headmaster - are you here to play a new trick on your favourite puppet? To see how far I can fold and unfold under your charming manipulations? Or perhaps," his mouth twisted into a sneer, "you've grown tired of Potter and need a fresh target for your sickening games - "
He turned his head sharply, eyes narrowed, ready to spit the rest -
And then froze.
His gaze fell on Dumbledore.
Dumbledore, standing at the foot of the bed, composed as ever - robes draped just so, hands folded serenely - but…
A vivid purple bruise decorated one cheek, puffing up under his spectacles. His jaw bore the faintest swelling. And, most gloriously, the sleeve of his robe was crumpled and dusty as though he'd recently been smashed into a wall.
For one stunned, glorious heartbeat, Severus simply stared.
And then -
A hoarse, wheezing laugh ripped from his throat.
It startled Minerva so badly she nearly dropped the water jug.
Severus clutched weakly at his blanket, his shoulders shaking with suppressed glee. "Merlin's hairy socks," he choked. "Minerva - tell me that was you."
Minerva gave him the flattest look she could muster, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Unfortunately not," she said. "Though I'll admit… I was tempted."
Albus lifted his hands with a wounded air, his blue eyes twinkling cheerfully despite the spectacular bruise. "There was a… slight disagreement."
Severus's grin sharpened into something wicked. "Oh, I don't know. I'd call it an improvement. Adds a touch of menace to the grandfatherly twinkle. Makes you look almost… dangerous."
Minerva groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "And to think," she muttered, "I was starting to miss his sweet side."
Severus shot her a triumphant smirk. "Not to worry, Minerva. I'm sure it'll vanish the moment he opens his mouth again."
Albus gave a long, dramatic sigh. "This is the thanks I get for saving your life, Severus? Why, I was nearly knocked unconscious by one of your - " he paused delicately " - admirers."
Severus's dark eyes gleamed. "Oh, I must befriend whoever was responsible for that misunderstanding. They clearly have exquisite taste."
Albus sighed, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. "You wound me, Severus."
Minerva let out a long-suffering groan, rising to her feet like a weary general among hopeless soldiers. "I need a pension raise," she muttered, sweeping over to the cupboard and fussing with a tray. "I assume one of you miscreants will want food? Or shall I just sit here and watch you two compliment each other into the grave?"
Severus, with all the regal disdain of someone who had most definitely not been unconscious and near death for days, gave a casual nod. "Tea. Toast. Nothing too Gryffindor."
Then he turned, eyes narrowing thoughtfully at Albus. "Tell me the full story. Who gave you that shiner? I promise to be tolerable for a whole hour if you do."
Albus folded his hands, the corners of his bruised mouth twitching upward. "An entire hour? Be still, my heart."
He cast a wink toward Minerva - and to his quiet triumph, she smiled. A real, warm smile that softened the hard lines of her exhausted face.
She hadn't smiled like that in days. Not since the news that Severus Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore.
Not since the world broke itself apart.
Of course, Albus didn't go into detail - he never mentioned the full truth, never spoke of Aberforth, the brother responsible for his disheveled look and spectacular bruises. Instead, he spun an interesting enough story, just enough to busy Severus's sharp mind, enough to let Minerva slip bites of food past his sarcasm without him fully noticing.
But the truth was, Severus wasn't fooled.
Oh, the great double agent of two wars might cough at Dumbledore's rambling, might pretend to scoff at the nonsensical chatter - but inside, he clung to it. Because any nonsense was better than the horror waiting just behind his eyelids.
Better than the dark that waited, teeth bared, every time his mind drifted too far from the present.
And he knew.
He knew something was horribly wrong with him.
That was what truly gnawed at him now, beneath the brittle humor and scathing remarks.
What if he never fully came back?
What if the creeping fog in his mind swallowed him whole?
Would Minerva blame herself? The way she so clearly did - the way her eyes had been fixed on nothing, sad and tired, when he first stirred this afternoon?
Severus felt the weight of it, heavier than the blankets tucked around him, heavier than the bruises on Albus's face.
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering every last ounce of strength.
Because if he had to, he would fight this too.
For them.
For the ones who - against all reason, against all past betrayals - still stayed.