Chapter 11: The Smile That Wasn’t His

Harry jolted awake, heart hammering, breath fogging in the chill. For a few disoriented seconds he had no idea where he was. Shadows clung to the corners of the compartment, and the cold pressed in from every side, creeping icy fingers up his spine.

He couldn't remember the dream - or nightmare - that had dragged him back to consciousness, only that it had left behind a heavy, gnawing weight in his chest.

His glasses had slipped sideways on his nose. He shoved them straight with a trembling hand and blinked. Sweat clung clammy to his forehead; his mouth was as dry as parchment. Something warm tickled at his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand - and found blood smeared scarlet across his skin.

He let out a long breath. Where was he?

Ah. The Hogwarts Express.

The compartment was dim, the windows edged with frost. Beyond them, fields and forests swept past in blurred ribbons of white and black, scattered with the ghostly flicker of distant villages. But the cold wasn't normal. This wasn't a draught or a faulty heating charm. This was a different kind of cold, sharp and wrong, the sort that made his magic prickle and his scar ache faintly, as though death itself had leaned in close enough to breathe down his neck.

Harry glanced across the compartment. Ron and Hermione were slumped together on the opposite bench, heads tipped, asleep. Ron's mouth lolled open, letting out faint snores, while Hermione's brow furrowed even in sleep, as if she were wrestling with some problem in her dreams.

Harry's chest tightened. They should have been home - warm, safe, wrapped up in their families - not here. Not dragged through yet another winter shadowed by war, keeping watch over him like sentries.

But they had chosen this. Chosen him. Like they always did.

He whispered a cleaning charm under his breath, wincing faintly as the blood vanished from his skin. Slowly, quietly, he stood. His fingers curled around his wand, the familiar holly grip steadying him. Just a little.

Something wasn't right. And whatever it was, it was close.

It had been hours since they'd boarded - hours of grinding progress. The Hogwarts Express had once lived up to its name, but since the war, nothing was simple. At every crossing Aurors clambered aboard, faces pale and set, Dementors gliding in their wake. Compartments were inspected with grim efficiency.

The delays were long. The silences longer.

Harry eased open the door and slipped into the corridor. He cast a glance back at Ron and Hermione, feeling a stubborn ache twist behind his ribs.

They deserved better. He thought of the Burrow: Molly's fierce hugs, Arthur's fascination with plugs, Ginny's hair plaited neat under her mother's fussing hands, Fred and George getting threats of grounding for their pranks. The warm kitchen, loud voices, safe arguments, too much food on the table.

All the things Harry had never truly had.

His eyes fell on Ron's tired, slack face. But instead of the Burrow, here they were, on this cold, rattling train, heading back to the one place Harry felt… not safe, exactly, but himself. The closest thing to home.

The lamps flickered as he moved down the corridor. The air smelled of soot, damp wood, and old magic. With each step it grew colder, until his breath misted before him and his skin prickled with a familiar dread.

Dementors.

Harry tightened his grip on his wand and quickened his pace.

He pushed open the next compartment door - and stopped.

An Auror stood rigid in the narrow aisle, wand raised, facing down a blond boy in a dark, perfectly pressed suit. Further down the carriage, a Dementor loomed, its skeletal presence filling the air with a cold so sharp Harry felt it slice through his robes.

And then he caught the voice.

Crisp. Haughty. Every syllable dripping disdain.

Malfoy.

Without thinking, Harry hurried forward, slipping between them.

"Is there a problem, sir?" he asked, polite but firm, planting himself squarely between Draco and the Auror.

The Auror - a pale, rabbit-toothed young man with hair sticking up as though he'd been dragged from bed - blinked in surprise. He puffed up at once, chest swelling, chin rising as if he were delivering his report directly to the Minister.

"Mr Potter, sir! We've identified a suspect attempting to enter Hogwarts grounds - a Death Eater, sir. Potential intent to sabotage."

Harry's eyes flicked past him, puzzled. "Where?"

The Auror's brows knotted together. Very deliberately, he lifted a finger and pointed.

"Sir. Directly behind you, sir."

Harry turned.

Of course.

Draco Malfoy stood stiff-backed, arms folded, face arranged in its usual mask of aristocratic disdain. His pale hair gleamed under the carriage lamps, his grey eyes glacial and sharp. Immaculate as always.

For a fleeting moment Harry wondered why Malfoy hadn't travelled under a glamour, or at least a Disillusionment Charm. Then he remembered. That wasn't the Malfoy way.

Stand tall. Show your name. Endure the stares.

Harry winced. Brilliant.

The great Harry Potter, missing the obvious suspect right under his nose.

"Mr Malfoy," Harry said carefully, "is under my protection. He's not a Death Eater. He's not here to sabotage anything."

The Auror's face fell into lines of disappointment. "But… sir… he refuses to show me his hands!"

Harry glanced at Draco. His pale hands were gloved, one resting atop the other, posture rigid, chin tilted at the precise angle of Malfoy disdain.

Typical.

"Mr Malfoy," Harry repeated firmly, "is travelling under my express authority."

The Auror bristled. "Mr Potter, the rules apply even to your… friend from the Malfoy family," he added, sarcasm clinging thickly to the words.

Harry's jaw tightened. He didn't miss the tone - nor the tiny flinch Malfoy gave at the name.

"I know who he is," Harry said evenly. "I know what he's done. And I know what he's not doing now. Mr Malfoy is under my watch, and I'll take full responsibility for his presence at Hogwarts."

A long pause. The Auror's eyes flicked from Harry - scar, fame, war hero - to Malfoy, cool and composed and sneering.

Slowly, stiffly, the wand lowered.

"Very well, Mr Potter," the Auror said, voice tight. "But you understand, sir, Ministry protocol requires - "

Harry smiled thinly. "Thank you, officer. I'll be sure to pass on your vigilance to Kingsley next time I see him."

The Auror paled. "Of course, sir. Very good, sir."

He bobbed a jerky bow, hurried off down the corridor, and vanished round the bend, still casting wary glances back over his shoulder.

The cold ebbed.

Harry turned.

Malfoy raised a single, perfect eyebrow.

"Express authority, Potter?" he drawled. "Do I look like your luggage?"

Harry smirked faintly. "You're welcome, Malfoy."

Draco gave a sharp huff and dropped into the nearest seat, turning his face to the window.

Harry scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, glanced round the compartment, then slid into the bench opposite.

Draco raised one pale eyebrow, eyes fixed on him. Harry, miserably pretending he hadn't noticed, stared hard at the floor.

"Well?" Draco said at last, voice edged with impatience. "What is it, Potter? Spit it out."

Harry looked up, blinking. "Nothing," he said quickly - far too quickly. "Just… sitting."

Draco's glare darkened, sharp as a drawn blade. "Oh, I see," he drawled smoothly. "The great Harry Potter enjoys the little attention he gets from strangers, does he? Realised clinging to those Weasleys wasn't going to earn you more headlines, so now you're - "

Harry's head snapped up so fast his glasses nearly flew off. He shoved them back into place with an irritated hand.

"Hold it right there," he cut across, voice tight. "Don't even start, Malfoy. I'm not flattered by people recognising me. And I'm definitely not here for that."

For a moment they simply stared at each other, tense and brittle.

Then Harry's gaze slid to the window, his voice quieter. "They'll be back. The Aurors. When we reach the next town, they'll check again. And if I'm not here…" He exhaled slowly, fists clenching on his knees. "…you'll go through the same thing all over again."

When he looked back, his eyes carried a weary honesty that made Draco's smirk falter for a fraction of a second.

Draco's grey eyes, usually so cold, seemed cloudy, hunted. For an instant he looked older than his years, worn thin, the cocky schoolboy stripped away.

"Believe me, Potter," he said at last, voice low, "I'm not afraid of it. I've been through worse."

Harry knew what he meant. He knew what it was to be marked by a name, to be punished for a family. After Voldemort's death, life hadn't been easy for the Malfoys. He swallowed, forcing a casual note into his voice.

"If you'd rather," he said, "you could come sit in our compartment."

Draco's eyes flashed. The mask slammed back into place; the old sneer curled his lip. "I don't need your pity, Potter," he spat. "You can crawl back to your pack of pathetic Gryffindors and keep playing the hero, but I'm perfectly fine here without you. Leave me in peace."

Harry dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. "First of all, you don't get to insult my friends. And second… are you competing for most words starting with 'P' in one breath, Malfoy?"

A twitch of annoyance pulled at Draco's mouth.

Harry sighed, his voice softening as his gaze flicked out to the dark glass. "…And third… you're reminding me of someone right now. Someone I'd rather not be thinking about. Because I have no idea what I'm supposed to do when I go back."

Draco stiffened.

Harry's tone dropped lower, not sharp now, but tired. "So if you're going back to Hogwarts for the same reason I am - and don't bother pretending you're not - maybe we could call a truce. Just for once. Raise a white flag."

He looked up again, voice tightening. "Because let's face it… the reason we're both going back is probably the most stubborn, sarcastic, bad-tempered Slytherin nightmare out of all of us."

For a split second Draco's mask cracked. His eyes flared - not icy, but raw, as though Harry had brushed a nerve he hadn't meant to touch.

Draco shot to his feet so suddenly Harry jerked back. Two fists seized his collar, dragging him upright until their faces were an inch apart.

"Don't you dare," Draco hissed, his pale cheeks blotching red, "talk about Professor Snape like that."

For a long, frozen heartbeat neither of them moved.

Harry swallowed, something sharp and aching tightening behind his ribs. Then he shoved his hands against Draco's wrists, forcing him back an inch.

"I wasn't insulting him," he snapped. "But you can't stand there pretending your family didn't betray him in the end. You all ran, like true Malfoys."

Draco's face twisted, something ugly flashing in his eyes. "And you think you didn't?" he spat. "You might fool the others, the ones who'll swallow your story blind, but not me."

His voice had risen to a near-shriek. His pale face was scarlet now, eyes blazing with a fire that looked too raw, too desperate, to be simple rage.

"Why didn't you tell anyone how you found him?" Draco demanded, voice cracking. "Why were you even looking for him, Potter? To finish him off, was that it? To get rid of him yourself?"

Harry froze, stung. For a moment neither of them moved, breath coming quick and ragged in the narrow compartment.

Then the train lurched, brakes screeching as they slowed into the next village. Both boys turned at once, the air between them still crackling with anger, and outside, the clatter of boots on the corridor warned of something far worse about to arrive.

________________________

Professor McGonagall was not happy.

"Are you sure this is wise, Albus?" she demanded, her voice tight. "Can you trust him? Can you trust a Malfoy with Severus in his state? What if - "

"My dear Minerva," said Dumbledore gently, cutting her off with a small lift of his hand, "at this moment, I believe this is the best course for both Severus and young Mr Malfoy."

He rose from behind his desk and crossed to the tall window. Outside, a grey sky hung heavy over the castle; lightning flickered faintly on the horizon, as if to remind him that peace was still far away.

Dumbledore's eyes followed the storm, thoughtful and grave. Malfoy knew things they needed, where his father was hiding, which Death Eaters had survived, which had simply melted back into the shadows. And yet the boy had remained stubbornly silent.

Cowardice, perhaps. Not everyone could be like Harry, brave enough to walk willingly into death at the hands of one of the most dangerous wizards ever born.

Dumbledore breathed in deeply. A flash of lightning lit his face, glinting in his blue eyes.

Harry had defended Draco Malfoy in the Ministry court, ensuring he was not arrested or interrogated. Dumbledore himself had denied the Ministry details of that terrible night, the attack upon a Headmaster by a student, ended only by Severus. He had not kept the secret for Draco's sake. The boy did not deserve such protection. But Severus had sacrificed his soul to shield him, and to let Draco be destroyed now would be to let that sacrifice rot.

Even so, Dumbledore would not sit aside and allow himself to be misled yet again by "well-meaning fools," as Aberforth might have put it. If it took Draco's letters, desperate, pleading, begging for permission to visit his old professor, then so be it.

This time, Dumbledore thought grimly, he would make certain. He would draw the boy out, prise loose whatever truths he held. He would manipulate, if manipulation was what it took. Because no Death Eater, not one, would ever be allowed within reach of Severus again.

His boy would be kept safe.

Out there, countless eyes still turned hungrily toward Severus: eyes full of malice, eager to sneer his name. The so-called light still whispered that he had deceived them all, that he had even duped Harry Potter, their shining hero. The dark, meanwhile, burned for revenge, waiting for a moment to strike at the traitor who had brought their master low.

A small hand on his shoulder jolted Dumbledore from his thoughts. He turned. Lightning flashed across the windows, throwing Minerva's face into stark relief, drawn, fierce, her lips pressed tight.

"You've another plan, haven't you, Albus?" she said. Her brogue sharpened as her chin lifted and her shoulders squared.

"I don't care what mad scheme you've conjured," Minerva went on, her voice ringing through the office. "But hear me, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, I will not sit idly by and follow you blindly. If I see the slightest threat to Severus, I'll drag you down myself, and to Azkaban with me if I must."

Dumbledore smiled faintly, though his eyes were sad. Stormlight caught the glint of blue behind his half-moon spectacles.

"That," he said softly, "is exactly what I am doing, dear Minerva. Ensuring that no threat follows Severus."

He moved back to his desk, drew a piece of parchment towards him, and began to write in a swift, looping hand:

Dear Augustus,

I hope this finds you well.

It has come to my attention that a threat may be lurking upon the Hogwarts Express. I would be most grateful if you would take this matter in hand personally and ensure the train and the grounds remain safe.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

He signed it with a firm flourish, sealed it, and held it out to Fawkes.

"My friend," he murmured, stroking the bird's scarlet plumage, "this letter must reach its recipient without delay. Any hesitation may render it useless and there is no one I trust more than you."

Fawkes gave a piercing cry and vanished in a fountain of fire, the flames fading to smoke in the still air.

The echo of the door closing told Dumbledore that Minerva had left, briskly, perhaps furiously, but he did not rise to stop her. He would not waver, not now.

From his chair he looked back at the window. The storm had broken in earnest; great sheets of rain were lashing the glass, blurring the night beyond.

______________________

Severus jolted awake to the crash of thunder, his heart hammering as though it meant to break his ribs. Rain rattled against the windows, cruel and relentless. He hated storms.

Thunder was his father roaring, fists slamming into walls. Rain was his mother's tears, endless, useless, powerless.

But worse still, thunder was the Dark Lord's wand, flashing again and again, tearing lives apart. Rain was the cold bodies left behind, faces frozen in terror.

And then came the sound that gutted him.

Children. Screaming.

Their cries ripped down the corridors, cutting through the storm. Louder, sharper, more piercing than any thunder. No downpour could drown it.

Severus clutched at his head, fingernails digging into his scalp. Their voices lashed at his skin like whips, every shriek a blow. His ears rang; he wanted to claw them off, rip them from his skull, anything to stop the sound.

No. The children, they were in danger. The Dark Lord had sent his message. His followers were playing their games again, laughing while the castle bled.

He had to move. He had to stop it. He was Headmaster. He had already made them suffer, he had already scarred them with lessons they did not deserve. He would not let them be slaughtered too.

He staggered upright. Agony shot from his throat through every nerve, as if lightning had set fire to his veins. His chest seized, air tearing out of him. He collapsed, face-first onto the cold flagstones. The stone was merciless against his cheek, and his vision clouded black, then white, then nothing.

Still the screams went on.

He pressed his hands to the floor, dragging himself forward. His body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle seizing and convulsing. It was the Cruciatus again, thousands of them at once, searing through his nerves. His teeth rattled; his breaths came in shallow gasps that scraped his throat raw.

"Please," he whispered into the dark, his voice breaking. "Merlin, God, anyone, spare them. Spare the children. Take me. Take whatever you will. Curse me, torture me, tear me apart, but leave them."

His fingers clawed for the wall. His nails split, blood smearing the stone as he pulled himself upright, shaking so violently he could hardly keep hold.

The cries did not stop. They rang in his ears like Voldemort's laughter, unending, merciless.

He flung the doors wide with the last of his strength. The hospital wing swam before his eyes, then the floor rushed up to meet him. He collapsed once more, the storm outside howling as though it meant to shake the castle to its foundations.

Still he crawled, dragging himself like some broken creature across the stone, ignoring the thousand needle-pricks of pain stabbing through his neck, through every vein in his body. Forward. Always forward.

The world blurred. Shapes melted and ran together. It did not matter. If saving even one child - if delaying even one death - cost him his life, he would give it freely. What else was his life worth, weighed against the pain he had already heaped upon them?

His fingertips, bloodied and shaking, scrabbled for the next door. He clung to the wood as though it were the only solid thing left in existence.

"Mama," he rasped, lips split and trembling. "Please… help me. Help me save them."

Rain lashed through an open window, plastering his thin hospital gown to his back. His teeth clenched. Another scream tore down the corridor, cutting him like a blade. Every second of weakness was a death sentence for those children.

With a hoarse cry, he braced himself, gritted his teeth, and hurled all his failing strength into one last push against the door....

____________________________

Far away, Harry and Draco both turned to the window of their compartment.

A figure was moving along the platform, dark cloak snapping in the storm wind.

Harry felt his stomach drop. His grip tightened on the windowsill until his knuckles whitened.

Beside him, Draco went rigid, his face draining of colour. His breath hitched, a faint sound of panic escaping before he smothered it.

Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to.

Their worst enemy was walking towards the train.

Harry's hand shot out, clamping around Draco's wrist.

"Come on," he hissed.

Before Malfoy could protest, Harry dragged him down the corridor at a run. They barrelled into his own compartment, the slam of the door jolting Ron and Hermione awake.

Both sat up at once, hair mussed, eyes wide.

Ron gaped. "What the bloody actual hell - Malfoy?"

But Harry cut him off, already wrenching open his trunk and rifling through the mess inside. "Rookwood's out there - he's checking compartments - he'll come to ours next - "

Hermione's eyes widened. "You mean Augustus Rookwood?"

Harry nodded grimly.

"But what's he doing here?" she pressed.

Harry shrugged, still digging through clothes and books. "Don't know. Probably sniffing after Death Eaters. The bastard's wearing Auror's robes - damn it, where's my Invisibility Cloak?"

Hermione, already on her feet, flicked her wand. "Accio Invisibility Cloak!"

The silvery fabric burst from the jumble in Harry's trunk straight into her hands.

Harry gave her a sheepish look. "Right. Forgot that."

He tossed the cloak at Malfoy. "Here. Put it on. He won't see you."

Malfoy stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head. He glanced at the shimmering cloth in his hands, his mouth half open with disbelief.

Then the heavy tread of boots echoed outside the door.

Without another word, Malfoy yanked the cloak over his head and stumbled to the far corner of the compartment.

The door crashed open.

The door banged open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

Augustus Rookwood filled the doorway. His face was long and narrow, his grey hair tied back in a knot, though damp curls had slipped loose and clung to his hollow cheeks. His jaw bristled with black and white stubble, jagged like thorns.

But it was his eyes that made Harry's stomach twist. The whites were jaundiced yellow, the irises a pale, washed-out blue so faded they looked nearly colourless. They darted constantly - from Ron to Hermione, to Harry - restless, never still.

He smiled, and it was worse than the eyes. Thin, twitching, meant to look polite, but crooked at the edges in something more like a sneer.

"Well, well," he said softly, his voice oozing false pleasantness. "The famous Harry Potter. Still travelling in good company, I see." His gaze lingered on Ron's tangled hair and Hermione's pale, wary face, flicking back to Harry with a glint of satisfaction.

Ron bristled. "What d'you want?"

Rookwood ignored him. His watery eyes slid over the compartment, scanning every corner. Harry's hand tightened on his wand. He could feel Malfoy's tense presence in the corner, invisible but not undetectable - the faint shuffle of breath under the Cloak, but then Rookwood paused, his head tilting slightly, nostrils flaring.

A faint crease appeared between his brows. "Curious," he murmured. "That smell… rare. Wild asphodel, isn't it? Not something you find in most student trunks. A little rich for school travel."

Harry's stomach clenched. He could feel Draco stiffen invisibly beside him, every muscle taut.

Rookwood's pale eyes flicked across the compartment one more time, lingering for an instant too long on the empty corner.

"You'll forgive the intrusion," Rookwood went on, his smile twitching wider. "Protocol, you understand. Unrest in the countryside. Nasty people on the move. The Ministry takes no chances - not even with Hogwarts."

Harry kept his voice level. "We've nothing to hide."

Rookwood's eyes darted once more around the compartment, and Harry thought - for one awful moment - that they lingered on the patch of air where Draco stood frozen.

Then Rookwood's lips curled. "No… no, of course not."

He let the silence stretch a beat too long before turning on his heel. The boots thudded away down the corridor, leaving the compartment colder than before.

The door slammed shut. The echo of Rookwood's boots faded down the corridor.

For a few seconds, no one moved. The compartment seemed to hold its breath.

Then Ron exploded.

"What the bloody HELL was that? Rookwood? In Auror robes? Since when do they let Death Eaters swan about the train like they own it?"

"Shh!" Hermione hissed, shooting him a glare. "Do you want him to hear you?"

But Ron was red-faced and furious. "Hear me? He saw us! Harry, he - he was right there - why didn't you hex him?!"

"Because," Harry said flatly, "he's still got a badge on his chest that says Auror. You hex an Auror on the train and it's us who'll be dragged before the Wizengamot, not him."

Ron stared at him, appalled. "So we're just meant to sit here and let him check compartments like he's - like he's bloody Mad-Eye Moody?"

"Ron, be quiet," Hermione snapped. She had gone very pale, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "He's dangerous. Far more dangerous than if it had been someone obvious. He's exactly the kind of man the Ministry would want to flaunt - look, a 'reformed' Death Eater, what an example of rehabilitation. But Harry's right - there's no proof, nothing that would stick in court, so they'll use him until he betrays them again."

Ron muttered something venomous under his breath but subsided.

A rustle from the corner made them all jump. Draco tugged the Cloak off his head and staggered into view, his hair plastered damply to his forehead. His face was bloodless, grey as the storm outside.

He sank onto the bench, breathing hard, and looked at none of them.

Harry watched him for a moment, his chest tight.

Draco's hands were clenched white in his lap. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, but each word was precise, bitter. "If he'd seen me - "

He broke off, lips pressed tight.

Hermione's eyes softened despite herself. Ron looked from one to the other, baffled and bristling.

Harry swallowed. "That's why you stay here," he said quietly. "Under the Cloak. He doesn't get another chance."

Draco gave a sharp, bitter laugh, though it broke in the middle. He turned away to the window, but his reflection in the glass looked sick with fear.

The storm rumbled on outside, and no one spoke again.

Hours later, the castle rose in the distance.

Hogwarts.

It was the same silhouette Harry remembered from his first year - the towers and turrets etched black against the stormy sky - yet it felt different now. Hollow. Haunted.

A strange unease twisted in his chest, a restless excitement and dread tangled together, as if something inside him longed for the sight of the castle even while recoiling from it. He shook his head sharply. Perhaps it was only the weight of the past months pressing down on him: Dumbledore's fall, Snape's betrayal, Death Eaters in the corridors, the horcruxes, the war. Voldemort. Snape's innocence. His parents. Too many ghosts.

He felt as grey and heavy as the sky crouching low over the battlements - empty, exhausted, afraid. Afraid of the days gone by, the friends lost, the choices made. Afraid of what those choices had cost.

The train screeched to a halt. They clambered down onto the platform, rain pelting down in sheets.

Ron kept throwing suspicious glances at Draco, his ears glowing pink. Hermione, pale and preoccupied, strode ahead with her eyes fixed firmly on the looming gates. Draco lagged behind, his gaze darting to every shadow, flinching at each movement. Fear clung to him like a cloak.

At the gates a massive silhouette waited. Hagrid. But he did not look his usual, cheery self. His great shoulders sagged; even his beard seemed dampened by gloom.

"Kids," he rumbled, "password, please."

Hermione stepped forward without hesitation. "Where the frog sings, the waterfall runs upside down."

Hagrid gave a small nod. "That's right, Hermione. In yeh go."

She slipped through quickly, then stopped to wait for the others.

Harry stepped up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I promise not to sneak into the hospital wing with Ron again."

From behind him came a sharp snort. Draco. Ron groaned loudly.

Hagrid's mouth twitched into a warmer smile. "Oh, Harry. I reckon yeh mean it. In yeh go."

Harry joined Hermione, both turning to watch the next in line.

Ron stomped forward, muttering under his breath.

"Can't hear yeh, Ron!" Hagrid called. "Speak up, lad."

Ron groaned and bellowed, "I promise not to sneak into the hospital wing with Harry again!"

Harry burst out laughing. So did Hagrid.

"Shut it, Harry," Ron muttered darkly, face red. "We're in this together, remember?"

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Honestly. Brainless, the both of you."

Still grumbling, Ron passed through the gate. "Who on earth comes up with these passwords anyway?"

"Professor McGonagall an' the Headmaster," said Hagrid cheerfully, patting him on the shoulder.

"Yeah. Figures," Ron muttered.

Finally, all eyes turned to Draco.

He lifted his chin, his posture impeccable, and said crisply, "The untaken path."

Hagrid stepped aside. He did not nod, or smile, or say a word. As though Draco weren't there at all.

They crossed the grounds slowly. The grass was sodden, squelching beneath their shoes. Rain clung to their cloaks, dripping into their collars.

Harry glanced at Hagrid. That same grief was etched deep into his face. Harry couldn't help but remember the day Hagrid had carried him - limp, lifeless - from the forest, sobbing as though he were burying a son. A sad smile tugged at Harry's mouth. He was grateful, more than he could ever say, that he'd known this man. He thought of his first birthday cake, of Dudley's pig's tail. They felt a lifetime away.

Hermione's voice broke through his thoughts. "Hagrid - how is everything going?"

Hagrid shifted uneasily, his great shoulders hunching. He tried for a casual tone, but his voice carried the weight of too many ghosts - the war, the children's bodies on the grounds, Severus clinging to life by a thread.

"Ah, not much different, Hermione," he muttered. "Still patchin' things up here an' there. Tryin' to get it all ready for the new year."

They had barely reached the steps when the doors banged open.

Albus Dumbledore stood framed in the light, his expression uncharacteristically strained.

"Hagrid," he said sharply, "lock every door and gate. No one enters, no one leaves. Is that clear?"

The echo of Dumbledore's words seemed to hang in the rain.

Hermione's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Professor - what's happened?"

Ron blurted, "What d'you mean, no one leaves? Has someone - has someone got in?" His ears had gone red again, though whether from cold or nerves, Harry couldn't tell.

Harry said nothing. He was watching Dumbledore closely. The old wizard's face was taut, his mouth a grim line beneath his beard. Whatever it was, it wasn't something he wanted to share on the steps.

"Inside, all of you," Dumbledore said firmly. "At once."

Hagrid gave a curt nod and lumbered away toward the gates, his crossbow already in hand.

Hermione glanced at Harry, worry etched across her face. Ron muttered under his breath, still throwing uneasy looks at Draco, who stood stiff and pale as stone, his eyes flickering between the castle doors and the dark grounds behind them.

The great doors swung wider as Dumbledore ushered them in. The rain fell harder, battering the walls, as though the storm itself were trying to breach the castle.

With a loud thud the doors closed and sealed.

Dumbledore set off at a pace astonishing for his age, his robes billowing. The others had to jog to keep up.

"Professor Dumbledore - what's going on? Is Sna - Professor Snape all right?" Harry panted, struggling to match the old man's stride.

Dumbledore did not answer. After one more turn of the corridor he stopped abruptly and faced them.

"Miss Granger," he said, his voice firm, "take everyone to Professor McGonagall's office. Stay there until she comes."

Then his gaze locked on Harry. His tone sharpened, every syllable carrying weight. "And no one - under any circumstance - is to leave that office until she arrives. Do you understand?"

It was so rare to hear such a tone from Dumbledore that Harry's heart lurched. Something was wrong. Something to do with Snape. His pulse hammered so hard he thought he might faint.

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said quickly. Her voice was steady, though her eyes flicked toward Harry and Ron with fierce insistence. "I'll see it done."

Harry swallowed. There was no trace of humour in her face - no room for argument. And Dumbledore knew it. Out of all of them, Hermione was the one he could trust to follow orders.

Most of the time, anyway.

Dumbledore swept away without a backward glance, his figure swallowed quickly by the darkness of the corridor.

For a few seconds they only stood there, watching the shadows close behind him.

Hermione drew in a steadying breath. "Come on, you two." She strode ahead.

Ron fell into step beside her, but Harry lingered. His eyes flicked to Draco, who was still rooted to the spot. The boy's posture was rigid, fists clenched at his sides, his face white as porcelain. Raindrops streaked the nearby window, their shadows rippling across his pale skin. His brows were knit tight, fear stark in his grey eyes - eyes that looked suddenly hollow, almost soulless.

"Boys, hurry up!" Hermione called, impatient now.

Draco turned his head slowly. His voice was flat, low. "I won't."

And before Harry could react, he darted into the darkness - the same way Dumbledore had gone.

"Malfoy!" Harry shouted, tearing after him.

Hermione let out an exasperated huff and seized Ron by the arm. "Oh, honestly, come on!"

Together they plunged after Harry and Draco, their footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

Draco tore down the stairs, taking them two at a time, pausing at every turn to peer warily into the shadows before darting on. At last he halted, pressed flat against the wall. Low voices carried faintly from the end of the passage.

His heart hammered. What if it was his godfather? What if something had happened? Had a Death Eater broken into the castle? Was Rookwood behind it all?

Draco shut his eyes. Memories surged up like poison.

He was nine when his father had declared - too late, disgracefully late - that a Malfoy must learn to duel. The lesson had been nothing but torment. Spell after spell slammed into him, until he reeled and cracked his skull against the marble floor.

"Useless," Lucius spat, pressing the serpent head of his cane into Draco's shoulder, the metal fangs biting his skin. "Half your age I was already a better duellist. You shame this family."

And then he turned and walked away. Just walked away. Left him on the floor, dizzy, stinging, staring at the cold gleam of his father's back as it receded.

Everyone thought he was pampered, arrogant, untouchable. But at home, he never belonged. Not really. His mother loved him - she always put him first - but even she had stayed silent when the Dark Lord demanded Draco's service. Silent, with wet eyes, but silent all the same.

There had been only one who stood for him.

Severus.

That night, when Draco's father had abandoned him on the stone, Severus had appeared from the shadows. He had not scolded, had not embraced. He had simply rested a hand on Draco's shaking shoulder and said, in that low, even tone of his:

"You will not master everything, Draco. No one does. Respect is earned in what you can do, not in chasing perfection for another man's pride. And strength - " his mouth had curled faintly, almost bitterly, " - is not the absence of fear. It is what you do in spite of it."

Draco had looked up, hot tears spilling despite himself. Severus hadn't judged. He hadn't mocked. He had only let his hand linger, steady and sure.

From then on, whenever Severus came to the Manor, he found ways to slip Draco scraps of dignity. A lesson out of Lucius's sight. A word of praise, however small. Reminders, again and again, that he was worth more than his father believed.

Draco remembered bitterly the evenings he'd stood on a stool looking at Severus working on potions, cutting roots or slicing ingredients, his long fingers moved with such speed, such precision, that it was like watching a performance. Clean, swift, delicate strokes, every motion exact - as though his hands were dancing across the table, never faltering. Draco would stand transfixed, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to blink and miss it.

No matter how dark the world outside, in those moments he felt safe. There was order in every cut, calm in every movement. He had thought, secretly, that no one alive could make magic look so effortless.

He had tried once, desperate to copy it. He had snatched up a small silver knife and attempted to slice his daisy roots as quickly, as gracefully. His fingers stumbled, the knife slipping, chunks of root flying in all directions. His pale cheeks had flushed hot with frustration.

Severus had looked up, expression unreadable, and with a single flick of his wand halted Draco's hacking. He had taken the knife from him, twirled it lightly between his fingers, and resumed the task with that same dazzling speed - slices neat as parchment edges, steady as clockwork.

Finally, he had set the blade down, fixing Draco with that dark, heavy stare.

"If you insist on imitating me," he had said dryly, "at least do it without risking the loss of your fingers. The hospital wing has better things to do."

Draco had flushed scarlet, biting back tears. But then, almost imperceptibly, Severus had added:

"Precision first. Speed comes later. You will learn."

It was the closest thing to praise Draco had ever received in his life.

Severus had not sent him away. Instead, he came to stand behind him.

Draco had felt the shadow fall across his shoulders, the faint scent of potion smoke clinging to Severus's robes. Long fingers closed firmly around his smaller ones, straightening his grip on the handle of the knife.

"Like this," Severus murmured, barely louder than a whisper. His breath stirred Draco's hair as he lowered their joined hands to the board. The blade slid down in a single, fluid stroke, clean and perfect.

He guided him again, and again, until the roots lay in neat, identical slices. Draco's heart had hammered in his chest, not with fear this time, but something else - a desperate hope that he could hold onto this moment forever.

When at last Severus let go, Draco stared at the orderly pile, hardly believing it was his work.

"Better," Severus said, his tone clipped, indifferent. But Draco heard the difference. Beneath the dryness there was weight, a quiet assurance.

For a boy who had grown up beneath Lucius's cold contempt, it was everything.

He was not only Draco's protector, but the guardian of them all - demanding respect, fighting tooth and nail for his House, always watchful. The rest of the school thought him cruel, terrifying. Draco knew better. He knew who had fought for them.

Until the night he saw him stand in the Dark Lord's circle.

Draco had hated him then. Hated him when Voldemort praised his lethal potions. Hated him when he commended his cunning in fooling Dumbledore, in betraying Potter, in punishing traitors without mercy.

Draco had watched his godfather's blank mask and thought he was staring at the greatest monster of all - a man with a thousand faces, wearing whichever mask would deceive best.

And the night he killed Dumbledore… Draco should have been relieved. Relieved the burden wasn't his. But he couldn't banish the image of Dumbledore pleading, and Severus cutting him down with cold eyes. In that moment, Severus was worse than his father. Worse than Voldemort himself.

Until the truth cracked open. Potter's story in the newspapers. Dumbledore alive. The whispers of Severus's broken body, barely clinging to life back at Hogwarts.

And then Draco understood.

Severus had borne it all. The loathing of both sides. The contempt of his godson. The weight of secrets no one else could carry. He had fought in silence, in darkness, until there was nothing left of him.

And Draco swore he would face anything now - anything - for the man who had faced everything for them.

Strength is not the absence of fear… it is what you do in spite of it.

Severus's words rang through him, sharper than his father's curses, stronger than the Dark Lord's threats. His fear was choking him, but he could still move. He could still act.

Draco straightened, determination hardening in his chest, and stepped out of the shadows into the flickering candlelight.

And then....

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and yanked him back into the dark.

Draco whirled round, grey eyes wide with terror. "Potter, what the - "

Harry silenced him with a palm across his mouth. "Shh!" he hissed. He lifted his sleeve just enough to show the shimmer of the Invisibility Cloak beneath.

Draco stared at it, then at Harry's urgent eyes. His pride howled against it, but he swallowed it down. If he wanted to find Severus, he needed Potter's help. He gave a single, stiff nod.

Shoulder to shoulder, Harry drew the Cloak over them both. Together they edged forward, slow, careful, each step quieter than the last. The nearer they came to the golden spill of candlelight, the clearer the voices grew.

They were close to the hospital wing.

"And may I ask where you have been, Madam," came Dumbledore's voice - quiet, but stern enough to make Harry's stomach lurch - "when you yourself have told us, in no uncertain terms, that he must not be left alone?"

From under the Cloak, Harry glanced at Draco. Draco's lips were pressed tight, his face pale, his eyes flicking wildly between Harry and the light ahead.

"First of all, do not presume to question my authority, Albus Dumbledore," Madam Pomfrey snapped. Her voice shook, ragged at the edges. "I had only just put him under a Sleeping Draught and placed a monitoring charm by his bed. I went to fetch more pain-relieving potions from my stores, and Minerva was due to relieve me. So do not dare to blame me - I already have more than enough on my plate!"

Her voice cracked. Harry's throat tightened. He had never heard Pomfrey like this, stripped of her brisk certainty.

"Do you think it is easy to stand there and watch him break apart? To see his body torn to pieces and have no spell, no potion strong enough to help? I am trying, Albus. I am trying to hold him together when you - " her breath hitched, " - when you, the one responsible for all this, sit in your office…"

She faltered into silence, trembling, tears glistening on her cheeks.

Harry's heart clenched. Beside him, Draco had gone so rigid he might have been carved from stone.

Dumbledore raised a hand gently, laying it on her shoulder. His eyes, behind the half-moon glasses, were softer now. "Hush, Poppy. I am not placing blame on you. No one could do more than you have. I know you would give anything for Severus."

She sagged, her shoulders sinking as though the fight had drained out of her.

"I will write to St Mungo's," Dumbledore said quietly, "and see if they can provide the potions you need. For now, you must rest. Minerva will sit with him."

Pomfrey nodded once, shakily, and turned away, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

"Albus," she whispered hoarsely at the door, "are you certain he is ready?"

Dumbledore had crossed to the window. Rain battered the panes, running in silver streams over the glass. He looked out into the storm and spoke in a voice barely louder than the thunder outside.

"Minerva told me… he was looking for students."

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin as quick footsteps clattered up behind them. Professor McGonagall strode into view, Ron and Hermione at her heels, both looking guilty as thieves.

"Headmaster," she said crisply, her Scottish burr thickening, "Potter and Malfoy..."

"I know, Minerva," Dumbledore said mildly, still turned to the rain. "They are behind the statue, eavesdropping."

Harry felt Draco stiffen. At the same moment, both of them stumbled a step backwards, and trod hard on the hem of the Cloak. It slipped from Harry's shoulder, sliding in a heap onto the flagstones.

They were exposed.

For a heartbeat no one moved.

Harry, his ears burning, bent quickly to snatch up the Cloak, but McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip.

"Potter!" she barked. "And you, Mr Malfoy! What in Merlin's name do you think you are doing skulking about under Invisibility Cloaks?"

Ron winced. "Told you it was a bad idea," he muttered.

"Quiet, Weasley!" McGonagall snapped. Her eyes were blazing, her lips so thin they were almost invisible. "Of all the reckless - spying on staff in the middle of - honestly, do you have no sense at all?"

Harry swallowed hard. "Professor, we only - "

But Draco stepped forward, cutting him off. His face was pale, but his chin was lifted, defiant.

"I want to see him," Draco said, his voice low but steady. "I don't care what rules you've made, or what excuses you've got. I must see him."

The silence that followed rang louder than thunder. Hermione's mouth fell open. Ron gave a low, incredulous whistle. McGonagall looked as though she'd been turned to stone.

Only Dumbledore moved. Slowly, he turned from the rain-streaked window, his eyes ancient and unreadable.

"Minerva," he said softly, "perhaps you would take Mr Weasley and Miss Granger back to your office."

"But - Headmaster - " McGonagall began, her eyes flashing.

"Please."

The single word carried such weight that even McGonagall did not argue. She drew herself up, gave Draco and Harry a glare sharp enough to slice steel, and swept round on Ron and Hermione to guide them away.

But Ron stopped dead. He took one step towards Dumbledore, chest puffed out as though bracing for a duel.

"We - we want to see Snape too," he blurted, voice cracking on the name. "I mean - Professor Snape. He was our teacher, wasn't he? Strict and all that, but - well - we've got the right to - er - to…"

He trailed off helplessly, turning to Hermione.

She looked half-appalled, half-impressed, but she caught his meaning at once. Lifting her chin, she spoke quickly, firmly.

"Yes, Headmaster. With all due respect, we came here knowing Professor Snape was in need of care. We feel it's our duty to show him respect, and to encourage his recovery. He is an extraordinary teacher, and - though he can be demanding - Potions is essential. We would be more than grateful if he were able to return and guide us again."

Ron muttered under his breath, "Is it?"

Hermione jabbed her elbow sharply into his ribs. He winced and added hastily, "Er - yeah. Exactly what she said."

For the first time that evening, Dumbledore's eyes gleamed. The stormlight caught in them, and a faint sparkle returned to their depths.

"Well," he said softly, "perhaps there is more loyalty in this room than Severus himself would ever imagine."

He drew in a long, weary breath and glanced at McGonagall's anxious face. "Professor Snape did not have a good night. You may see him, but only briefly. Do not tire him. And then you will return straight to your rooms. The castle is not safe for wandering."

He nodded to McGonagall. She looked as though she wanted to argue, but instead she pressed her lips thin and ushered them forward.

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor as they followed her. Beside him, Draco's face was a mask, cold, unreadable, but inside his chest his heart thrashed so hard he thought it might burst.

What would Severus think of him?

Would he see him as a Death Eater still?

Did he hate him?

He was nothing. Not a Malfoy worthy of his name. Not a fighter for either side. Just… nothing.

The doors opened. The ward lay quiet, the beds empty. McGonagall led them to the far end, towards a smaller door.

Draco felt a hand, light but firm, on his shoulder. He spun round. Dumbledore stood close, too close, his piercing blue eyes locking onto his.

"Not you," the Headmaster murmured. His hand shifted, resting briefly on Harry's arm as well. "Nor you."

Draco's mouth opened, ready to protest - but one look into those eyes killed the words in his throat. There was no twinkle now, only iron.

Harry looked just as startled, but he didn't argue either. They both stepped back as Dumbledore moved aside, gesturing for them to follow him instead.

McGonagall's sharp heels clicked away with Ron and Hermione in tow, her clipped voice echoing down the corridor as she scolded them about rules and sense.

Dumbledore turned the opposite direction, his robes whispering against the stone, and Harry and Draco had little choice but to follow.

The further they went, the darker the passages grew. The torchlight thinned, shadows swallowing the arches overhead, until only the pale gleam of Dumbledore's hair was visible before them.

Harry's mind churned. Why had Dumbledore stopped them? Why now, when Snape was only a few steps away?

Beside him, Draco walked stiffly, his arms tight at his sides. The silence pressed on him until he thought he'd suffocate. At last he blurted, his voice harsher than he meant:

"Why not us? You said I can see him and that's only why I am here, you can not just twist your words"

Dumbledore's pace did not slow. "Precisely, Mr Malfoy."

The words were soft, but they cut like a blade.

Harry frowned. "What does that mean?"

Dumbledore stopped at last. They had reached a narrow stair spiralling downwards, lit only by a single, wavering candle at the top. He turned, his face a map of lines and shadows.

"It means," he said quietly, "that there are truths Severus may not yet bear to face from those he loves. And truths he must not face while clinging to life by a thread."

Draco's breath caught, his throat closing. For a moment he looked about to argue, to demand, but the weight of Dumbledore's gaze held him silent.

Harry's fists clenched. He hated the way Dumbledore spoke in riddles, hated being left in the dark. But even he couldn't miss the strain etched deep in the old man's features.

Dumbledore inclined his head towards the stair. "Come. There is something you both must know before you meet with Professor Snape."

It struck him, even as he spoke, how strange the title sounded on his tongue. Professor Snape. He had not called him that in years. To the world he was Headmaster Snape. To Albus, more often simply Severus, bound to him by chains of duty, by promises, by guilt. But now those chains were gone. He was, at last, a free man.

Ah, poor boy, Dumbledore thought, grief pressing hard in his chest. How much you have endured.

His mind dragged him back to the afternoon, when Minerva had stormed from his office in a fury. Not long after, a silver Patronus had burst through the door, her tabby cat, bristling, its voice sharp with panic.

"Albus, you must come to the hospital wing at once. It's Severus!"

He had never moved so fast in his life. His heart had battered against his ribs the whole way, fear thundering through him with every step.

And then -

Severus lay sprawled on the flagstones of the hospital wing, twisting in pain. He had dragged himself from his bed, his chamber, all the way out into the open ward. He clawed feebly at the floor, as though trying to crawl forward, yet every movement seized him with fresh torment.

"Severus!" Minerva was kneeling beside him, her composure shattered. Tears streaked her face as she tried in vain to restrain him. "It's over! The children are safe, you don't have to, please, Severus, stop!"

Albus dropped to his knees on the other side. He scarcely recognised the man before him. Severus's eyes were bulging, red veins lacing them until the whites seemed aflame. His pupils had blown wide, yet there was no focus in them, only blind terror. His skin was chalk-white, his lips cracked, colourless. Sweat streamed from his brow.

And worst of all, the blue veins.

They crept up his throat, over his chest, across his face, spreading like some poisonous web. They glistened sickly beneath the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

His mouth worked, lips trembling. "Kids - help - need help - it's danger - "

Albus cupped his face in both hands, forcing his gaze close. "Severus. Listen to me, my boy. You can only protect them if you master yourself. Your magic will guard them, but only if you are calm. Do you remember your Occlumency? Empty your mind. Now. Empty it."

Severus arched against him, gasping, clawing at his own throat as if to wrench air into his lungs.

Footsteps pounded across the tiles. Poppy Pomfrey came hurtling into view, a phial in hand. She fell to her knees, shoving Albus aside without ceremony.

"Hold him still!" Poppy barked, elbowing Albus back as she fumbled with the cork of the phial.

She tipped the potion to his lips, but Severus's jaw snapped shut like a trap. The liquid splashed down his cheek, soaking his collar. His eyes screwed shut, lips pressed so tightly together they went white.

"Merlin's beard, Severus!" Poppy cried, her hand trembling. "You'll kill yourself at this rate - "

But Albus did not move away. Kneeling just behind Pomfrey, his voice carried calm authority, low and steady over the chaos.

"Severus. Empty your mind. Remember your Occlumency. Close the door. Nothing else matters. Only the door."

For a moment Severus thrashed against the floor, his body rigid with pain. Then, with a shuddering groan, he obeyed. He forced his eyes shut tighter, forcing the terror inward. In his mind he built the image: a tall, heavy door, light spilling round its edges. One by one he shoved his fears behind it, the children's cries, the Dark Lord's wand, his father's voice, and slammed it shut.

On the flagstones, the change was visible. His muscles loosened, his fists slackened. The violent trembling eased into small, shallow tremors. His breathing slowed, uneven but no longer panicked.

Poppy froze, phial still hovering. "Albus…?" she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

But Dumbledore only leaned closer, his gaze locked on Severus's paling face. "That's it, my boy. Just the door. Keep it closed."

Severus's eyes flickered open, still glassy, but focused enough to dart toward the phial hovering at his lips. His voice rasped out, hoarse but edged with bite:

"Trying to drown me, Pomfrey? I thought healers preferred slower methods."

Poppy gave a startled laugh, half relief, half irritation, and snapped, "Oh, shut up, Severus."

For the first time, the air in the ward loosened. Minerva let out a ragged breath, Albus's shoulders eased a fraction, and even Poppy's hands steadied.

She flicked her wand with brisk precision. "Up with you, gently now." Severus's body lifted from the floor, still limp, drifting slowly under her guidance towards the nearest bed.

But Albus, watching closely, saw what the others missed. Severus's eyes, though half-lidded, darted wildly over the corridor beyond, searching the shadows with frantic urgency, as though still expecting danger, still fearing the unseen. The terror in them had not left; it only hid behind exhaustion.

When at last the doors swung shut behind Pomfrey and her patient, Albus turned to Minerva. She was standing stiffly, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"Minerva?" he asked quietly.

She didn't answer. Her lips pressed thin, her eyes glistening, she only pointed.

Following her gaze, Albus's stomach dropped. Across the flagstones, a smear of crimson tracked where fingers had clawed against stone, marks of blood, dragged all the way from the hospital chamber to the ward.

Albus's voice was barely a whisper. "How did Severus come here?"

He looked slowly around the room, his expression grim, as though the stones themselves might answer.

"What if someone has broken into the castle?" Minerva whispered hoarsely. Her hands clutched Albus's upper arms, her fingers digging in with uncharacteristic desperation. "What if one of those Death Eaters dragged him out?"

Albus looked down at her, saw the fear in her sharp green eyes, but before he could form a reply there was a sudden pop.

Winky appeared, bowing low, her bat-like ears flopping forward. Unlike most elves, she moved with a kind of careful grace. Her enormous eyes glowed like wet emeralds in the lamplight.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, sir," she squeaked, "your guests have arrived on Hogwarts grounds."

Albus inclined his head, though the line of his mouth was grim. When he turned back, the corridor was empty. Minerva had already gone, perhaps hurrying to confirm her suspicions herself.

For a moment, Albus stood alone, lost in thought, the storm outside lashing at the windows, the bloody smears still etched in his mind's eye. Only when he reached the gargoyle that guarded his office did the sound of ragged breathing break through his reverie.

He turned, blinking, and remembered.

Two shadows struggled to keep pace a few steps behind him, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, both pale, both breathless. Poor lads. He had forgotten, in his wandering thoughts, that they were there at all.

Once Harry and Draco caught up, breathless and pale, Albus clasped his hands behind his back and regarded them with maddening calm. The blue of his eyes twinkled, mischievous, almost infuriating after what they had just seen.

"Now," he said lightly, "if my memory serves me correctly, the two finest Seekers of their Houses are standing before me. Tell me, has Quidditch practice grown so lax since the war that you are winded by a simple walk through the corridors?"

Harry felt his jaw tighten. It wasn't a question. It was a jab, a rhetorical jest meant to cover the silence. Typical Dumbledore, half mockery, half reassurance, all impossible to answer without sounding foolish.

Well, apparently Draco Malfoy had no such concern.

Still breathing hard, Draco lifted his chin, smoothed his hair back, and said coolly,

"Forgive me, Headmaster, but has your memory grown so lax you've forgotten you banned us from seeing Professor Snape? Because unless my count of staircases is off, we've just climbed five floors after you without so much as an explanation. And now you're asking about Quidditch, as if we're sitting down for afternoon tea?"

Harry's head snapped up, eyes wide. Dumbledore regarded Draco for a long, unreadable moment, then a soft chuckle escaped him, warm and maddening all at once.

"Oh, my dear Draco," he said lightly, "you're quite right. You both must be exhausted. All that running, after so many hours on the Hogwarts Express… perhaps an afternoon tea would revive us all."

Harry turned on Malfoy with a glare hot enough to scorch the floor. Draco, still breathless, blinked as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. Harry gave him a sharp tap on the chest with the back of his hand.

"Next time," Harry hissed, "try shutting your mouth."

Draco's eyes widened in disbelief. He glanced down at the spot where Harry's fingers had dared touch the fine fabric of his dark blazer, then back at him with a look of pure offence. With meticulous precision, he brushed the place clean, straightened his lapels, and said coldly, "Don't. Ever. Do that again."

Dumbledore, entirely ignoring the exchange, turned to the stone gargoyle guarding his office and murmured, "My Bitter Chocolate."

The statue leapt aside at once. Everyone who knew Albus Dumbledore knew his passwords were always sweets, a quirk that once seemed harmlessly eccentric. But Harry frowned as the staircase began to spiral upward. Bitter chocolate. Of all the confections in the world, it was the only one that didn't sound sweet at all.

Perhaps, Harry thought uneasily, Dumbledore hadn't been thinking of sugar at all, but of the person it reminded him of, someone who had been as precious and comforting as sweetness itself, yet sharp, dark, and almost impossible to bear.

A true chocolate lover, after all, always preferred it bitter.

The spiral staircase carried them upward, grinding softly as it turned.

At the top, Dumbledore lifted a hand for silence. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and that was when Draco saw it: a flash of black, polished wood, the handle carved with intricate lines he knew too well. His breath hitched.

He'd seen that wand a thousand times, slicing ingredients, stirring potions, sparking spells that danced through the air. Severus's wand.

But why was it with Dumbledore?

For a terrible moment, the corridor swayed. Had Dumbledore taken it? Was Severus imprisoned?

His mind snapped back to a memory, Severus's voice, low and deliberate, years ago in the flicker of the Manor's firelight:

"Never show your emotions, Draco. Not before someone who can use them against you. You may cry later. Rage later. But in that moment, you must be still. You must be a corpse Do you hear me boy?"

Draco closed his eyes, whispered a faint "yes" under his breath, and when he opened them, his expression was empty once more.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, had taken two lemon drops from his pocket and offered them with an amiable smile.

"Refreshments, perhaps?"

Both boys stared at him.

Harry shook his head. Draco gave him a long, disdainful look.

"Ah well," said Dumbledore cheerfully, "your loss." He popped one into his mouth and rolled the other between his fingers. A soft flick of his wand, and the sweet lengthened, gleaming white as it curled into the shape of a beard. Then, with another wave, the handkerchief shimmered and expanded into a perfect copy of his orange-and-gold robes.

"Always good to have a decoy," he murmured.

The replica floated upright, robe gleaming, beard glinting, before he guided it through the half-open door.

For a moment, silence. Then -

CRASH!

An inkpot came soaring through the doorway, bursting into black splatter as it hit the false Dumbledore squarely in the chest. The decoy disintegrated in a shower of golden dust.

"Missed me again, Peeves," Dumbledore called pleasantly.

A gleeful, jeering voice echoed from inside: "Orders from the portrait, old man! Said you deserved a proper welcome! Phineas sends his love, and his ink!"

The sound of manic giggling followed by another crash filled the corridor.

"Peeves!" came an outraged shout from within a portrait. "You imbecile, I said startle him, not redecorate the door!"

Harry recognised the drawling, imperious tone of Phineas Nigellus.

Dumbledore sighed, brushing flecks of ink from his sleeve. "You see," he said mildly, "the castle's loyalties remain… divided. Do come in before Peeves decides to aim for our heads instead."

Draco lingered for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking once more to the glint of Severus's wand hidden in Dumbledore's robes, before stepping warily inside beside Harry.

The noise of Peeves's laughter faded as the heavy door swung shut behind them, sealing the corridor away.

Inside, Dumbledore's office was just as Harry remembered, and yet, somehow, not at all.

The shelves were lined with curious silver contraptions that whirred softly to themselves, spinning tiny galaxies of light into the air. The portraits of former Headmasters hung motionless in their frames, watching in uneasy silence; even Phineas Nigellus had retreated to the far edge of his canvas, his painted mouth pressed into a thin, guilty line.

The fire in the grate crackled low, throwing long, uneven shadows across the stone floor. And beneath the mingled scents of wax and woodsmoke was something else, faint but distinct, the sharp, clean tang of potion ingredients. Dittany, perhaps, or asphodel.

"Sit, please," Dumbledore said quietly.

His voice had changed. Gone was the teasing, the twinkle. It was soft now, almost heavy. A perfect contrast to the room's stillness; if Harry closed his eyes, he could almost smell the faint trace of toffee in the air, its sweetness a ghost of the warmth the office once held.

Harry obeyed at once, perching on the same chair he had occupied countless times before. Draco hesitated for half a second, then, with a silent breath, sat as well, every line of him stiff with restraint.

Dumbledore moved behind his desk, his long fingers brushing over scattered letters and rolled parchments as though trying to put them in order but forgetting how.

The silence stretched. The fire hissed faintly, and somewhere high above them, a quill scratched on parchment of its own accord.

Dumbledore blinked, as though suddenly remembering his manners. "Forgive me," he said softly. "Hospital wings and ghosts do not make for proper hosts. Winky!"

With a sharp pop, his personal elf appeared, a small creature with enormous green eyes and perfectly pressed linen. She bowed so low her nose nearly brushed the carpet.

"Headmaster, sir!"

"Tea, Winky, if you please. And perhaps some sandwiches, chicken, cucumber, and whatever else the kitchen recommends for weary travellers."

"Yes, Headmaster!"

Another pop, and an instant later, a silver tray materialised on the low table between them. Steam curled gently from a teapot etched with phoenix feathers. Plates of neatly cut sandwiches appeared, each one arranged in perfect symmetry.

"Do help yourselves," Dumbledore said pleasantly, looking between them.

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance. Neither moved.

"I'm fine, thank you, sir," Harry muttered.

Draco shook his head silently, posture rigid, pale hands folded neatly in his lap.

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed. "Two young men of admirable discipline and no appetite whatsoever. Very well, but at least the tea," he added, looking pleadingly at Harry, perhaps hoping to buy a moment to gather his thoughts.

Reluctantly, Harry nodded. The cup floated toward him, settling neatly in his hands. The warmth bit pleasantly into his palms. Draco's remained untouched.

Dumbledore poured one for himself and stirred it absently, eyes fixed on the fire. The soft clink of the spoon was the only sound.

When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"I asked you both here," he began, "because you deserve the truth, or at least, the part of it I can safely give."

Harry's chest tightened. "It's Professor Snape, isn't it?"

Dumbledore looked up. For a moment the blue in his eyes was clouded, dim, like the fading of a star.

"Yes," he said quietly. "It is Severus."

At the name, Harry heard a sharp intake of breath beside him. Draco's shoulders stiffened, his skin so pale it looked almost translucent.

Dumbledore sank slowly into his chair, the old wood creaking beneath him.

"You must understand," he continued, "that his condition is... precarious. His body survived the venom and the damage done by Nagini, but the mind - " He paused, his gaze drifting into the fire. " - the mind has endured more than any man should."

Harry noticed Draco's fingers curling tightly around the edge of his seat, knuckles white. The tremor in his hand betrayed what the rest of his face worked so hard to conceal.

"Well," Dumbledore began quietly, setting his teacup down without ever having taken a sip, "you've already heard part of Madam Pomfrey's conversation with me."

He folded his hands, the lines in his face deepening. "Someone must be with Severus at all times. Speak to him if he wakes, keep him anchored to the present, anything to stop his mind from slipping back into the memories that haunt him."

His gaze moved between them. One pair of eyes, grey, wide, glistening with tears that refused to fall; the other, green, steady, and far too old for their years.

Albus's heart clenched. Poor Harry. The boy had been hearing bad news since the day he set foot in Hogwarts, losing far too many he loved, until even his once-bright eyes carried the dull weight of endurance.

Dumbledore drew a long, quiet breath. "Harry," he said, meeting that weary gaze, "when he sees you, he may ask questions, about what happened, about how Tom was stopped. He knows I would keep some truths from him, and you are more likely to tell him what he wants to hear."

He paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But I must ask something of you, my boy. Do not tell him everything, not yet. Avoid the details of how Voldemort fell, of who survived and who did not. It is vital we wait until he is strong enough, until his mind is steady. Can I trust you to do that?"

Harry's throat felt tight. Dumbledore's voice, calm as ever, carried that terrible gravity it always did when the subject was Snape, or death. He stared into his cup for a long moment, watching the thin curls of steam twist and fade like ghosts.

"I understand, sir," he said at last. His voice came out quieter than he meant. "I won't, I won't tell him anything that'll make it worse."

Dumbledore's expression softened. "Thank you, Harry."

For a heartbeat, the old man's blue eyes shone with something like pride, or relief, and then dimmed again, as if even gratitude had become too heavy to hold.

Harry looked away, uncomfortable under the weight of that gaze. The tea had gone cold in his hands.

Across from him, Draco shifted slightly. His jaw was set, his face pale, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible flicker in his eyes, resentment, perhaps, or longing. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled.

"So, what about me?" he asked. "Do you trust me, Headmaster? Or am I just here to be reminded that I don't belong on either side?"

Harry turned sharply towards him, ready to tell him to shut it, but Dumbledore lifted a hand before he could speak.

"Mr Malfoy," Dumbledore said gently, "trust is not a gift, nor a punishment. It is something one earns, and something one offers. Severus believed that, even when he had no reason left to."

Draco blinked, his composure faltering for the first time.

"I didn't bring you here to remind you anything Mr Malfoy, indeed I may have a request that I know only you can do it for me, or Severus. Severus will need the help of all familiar people in his life. Even yours."

Draco's mouth opened as if to reply, but no sound came. His hands tightened in his lap.

The fire gave a sharp crack, and all three of them flinched. For a long moment, no one spoke. The air in the office felt heavy, thick with the weight of the past, and with shadows of whatever waited ahead.

Dumbledore's eyes found Harry's, the familiar blue glint softening. "Dear boy," he said quietly, "if you wish, you may go and get some rest. The Gryffindor Tower is quite safe; Professor McGonagall will give you the password."

Harry frowned. Was Dumbledore dismissing him, to speak to Malfoy alone? Why? Because Snape had been Slytherin's Head of House? Was there something more Dumbledore wanted to tell him, something about Snape?

Questions crowded his mind, rising like sparks from the fire. What did Dumbledore mean by Severus's mind? Did he mean Snape was… broken? Did Snape even remember him? He had, that morning, told him to shut up, though, come to think of it, that might've been pure habit. Still… what was Dumbledore hiding?

An ugly, familiar frustration welled up in Harry's chest, fierce and burning. He was so tired of it, of being kept in the dark, of Dumbledore's gentle evasions and riddles. He wanted to shout, to demand the truth. Wasn't it enough? Hadn't Dumbledore already hidden enough from him, enough to nearly cost him everything? He wanted to tell him he was done being led like some obedient student; that he was not a pawn, not another secret to be handled.

But when he looked up, Dumbledore and Malfoy were both watching him. The old man's eyes were calm, kind, and impossibly weary. The fight drained out of Harry as fast as it had come.

"I just… wanted to see Professor Snape," he said. His voice came out lower and rougher than he intended, almost defiant, but not quite.

Perhaps Dumbledore mistook it for determination. He smiled faintly, drawing his wand with a graceful flick. A clock on the far wall chimed softly. "Eight forty-six," he murmured. "I'm afraid Severus may be asleep by now. He hasn't had a pleasant day, nor an easy one." His eyes twinkled briefly. "But if you wish, you may go to the infirmary and ask Professor McGonagall, she's with him still, whether he's awake and willing to receive yet another visitor from Gryffindor."

He winked lightly. Harry nodded, muttered a quick, "Thank you, sir," and turned for the door.

As it closed softly behind him, Dumbledore's office seemed to fall into an almost eerie stillness.

____________________________

Outside the Hospital Wing, Ron and Hermione were still waiting. They had seen Dumbledore pause, take both Harry and Draco aside, and disappear with them down the corridor.

Ron looked sideways at Hermione. "What d'you reckon that was about?"

Hermione frowned, deep in thought, her brow furrowed. "I don't know," she said slowly. "But it must be something to do with Professor Snape."

Ron's mouth twisted. "Brilliant. Just what we needed, another mystery."

He jumped nearly a foot when Professor McGonagall's crisp voice came from behind them.

"Then you'll have plenty to puzzle over later, Mr Weasley. For now, kindly hurry up, Professor Snape needs his rest."

She swept past them toward the door, tartan robes swishing, but when her hand reached the handle, she stopped.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. McGonagall was not the sort of witch who paused for anything, least of all a door. Yet there she was, one hand frozen on the knob, the other balled tightly at her side.

She turned back, her face unusually pale. "Miss Granger. Mr Weasley."

Hermione straightened at once; Ron blinked, startled.

"Before you go in," said McGonagall, her voice lower now, "mind your words. Think before you speak."

Her sharp gaze flicked to Ron. "Especially you, Mr Weasley. Or perhaps," she added, a touch more tartly, "you might simply let Miss Granger do the talking."

Hermione elbowed him gently; Ron muttered, "Yeah, right," under his breath.

McGonagall's eyes softened, only slightly, before she turned to Hermione again. "And you, Miss Granger, please… try not to ask too many questions."

Both of them nodded, wide-eyed. Still, McGonagall didn't move. The hesitation on her face was so uncharacteristic that even Ron's usual confidence faltered. His stomach gave a little twist.

But then Hermione's determined expression, that same unshakeable look she'd worn in every crisis they'd ever faced, steadied him. He drew himself up, puffing out his chest a little.

"Professor McGonagall," he said, trying for bravery and managing something close, "don't worry. We'll be careful."

McGonagall blinked at him, startled, perhaps, by the sincerity, then gave the faintest, tight-lipped smile.

"See that you are," she said quietly. And with a trembling hand she turned the knob, pushing the door open.

The door creaked open.

A faint draught carried the sharp tang of potion fumes into the corridor, bitter and metallic, with a faint floral undertone. The torches along the walls had been dimmed, and the usual bright sterility of the Hospital Wing had softened into something quieter, almost reverent.

They stepped inside.

The room was small. At the far end, behind a screen of pale curtains, a single lamp glowed faintly, casting the shadow of a bed, and the thin, unmoving figure upon it. Beside the bed loomed a tall window, revealing the dark edge of the Forbidden Forest. Rain still lashed against the glass, each drop beating hard and fast, the sound filling the room like an angry heartbeat. The flickering lamplight caught the rain's reflection, scattering ghostly ripples across the walls.

Hermione's steps faltered. Ron swallowed hard, unsure why his throat felt so dry.

McGonagall moved ahead of them, her usual sure stride quieter now, careful, almost hesitant, as though even the sound of her heels might disturb the stillness. She reached the curtain, drew it back an inch, and nodded for them to follow.

Behind it lay Severus Snape.

For a moment, the sight hardly seemed real. He was half-shrouded in the lamplight, his face a pale blur against the pillow. His skin was so thin it looked almost translucent, the veins beneath faintly blue. The black of his hair clung damply to his temples, and the hollows beneath his eyes were deep and dark, bruised shadows against white.

Hermione pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Ron froze, his usual nervous chatter gone.

Snape's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. A sheen of sweat gleamed faintly under the lamplight. On the bedside table stood a neat line of potion bottles, some empty, others half-filled with cloudy liquid. Their labels shimmered faintly: Skele-Gro, Blood-Replenishing Potion, Calming Draught.

For a moment, the only sound was the harsh patter of rain against the window and the soft tick of a clock somewhere in the ward.

Then McGonagall spoke, her voice quiet and brittle.

"He hasn't woken since this afternoon," she said. "Madam Pomfrey's resting for an hour. She's been here since dawn."

Hermione nodded mutely, eyes glistening. Ron shifted awkwardly, then cleared his throat.

"He looks… er…" He caught McGonagall's warning glare. " - better," he finished lamely.

To their surprise, her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close.

"Better," she repeated softly. "Yes. Let's hope so."

She stepped closer to the bed, watching Snape's still face as though searching for the faintest sign of movement. Then, without turning, she said quietly, "You may speak to him if you wish. But keep your voices low."

Hermione hesitated. Ron gave her a helpless look, then muttered, "Go on. You're better at this."

She glared at him, but stepped forward all the same.

"Professor?" she whispered. "It's Hermione Granger. Ron's here too." Her voice trembled. "We just wanted to say… we hope you'll get better soon. And - " she swallowed, "you should know that it isn't only us. The other students… they're hoping for good news as well."

Nothing.

Snape's breathing went on, shallow and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible under the blankets.

Ron glanced at Hermione, then at McGonagall. "Can he hear us?" he asked quietly.

McGonagall didn't answer straight away. Her eyes lingered on the still figure before her, on the faint blue lines under his skin, on the quiet, uneven breath.

When she finally spoke, her voice was rough.

"Sometimes," she said. "And sometimes I think he wishes he couldn't."

Ron swallowed hard, staring at Snape in horrified silence. The Dungeon Bat, he thought, the teacher who had terrorised half the school, the Death Eater who had once stood at Voldemort's right hand, and yet here he was, frail and motionless, a man beaten thin by life, hanging on by sheer stubborn will.

Sensing the tension rising, that instinct of hers as sharp as any feline's, McGonagall stepped forward, her tone brisk but not unkind. "That will do for now. You've both had a long day, and so has he. Go on, back to Gryffindor Tower. If you're hungry, ask one of the elves for something to eat, but do not leave the common room."

She hesitated, then added quietly, "The password is Colin Creevey."

Both Ron and Hermione froze. Hermione's eyes widened; Ron's face fell.

McGonagall's lips pressed together for a moment before she spoke again, her tone deliberately steady. "We must always honour those brave lions who… reminded us what courage looks like."

Her words were soft, almost fond, yet there was a carefulness to them, a precision that only someone who knew her well would notice. She didn't say why they were to be honoured. She didn't say how their courage had been proved. Some truths, she thought grimly, Severus need not hear. Not yet.

Her eyes shone, though she tried to blink the tears away. "Go on, now. Off with you."

She ushered them gently out and closed the door. For a long moment, she stood there, her back to the room, drawing one deep, steadying breath.

Then -

"Minerva," came a faint, rasping voice behind her.

She turned at once.

"Will you… close the window?"

She wasn't startled. Not really. She had known - she had felt - that he'd been awake. No one fisted their blanket like that in sleep, not even Severus Snape.

"It's closed, Severus," she said softly.

No answer. His eyes were still shut, but a thin line of tears glistened beneath them, catching the candlelight.

Then came his voice again, small, hoarse, barely a whisper. "Please… make it quiet."

She didn't need telling twice. With a swift turn and a flick of her wand, she cast a powerful Quietus. The roar of the storm dulled at once, the clock fell silent, even the flames in the candles seemed to hush.

McGonagall adjusted the blanket over his shoulders, then sank wearily into the chair beside his bed. For a moment she simply sat there, watching the rise and fall of his chest, slow, fragile, human.

______________________________

Once the door closed behind Harry, Draco lifted a brow, waiting, rather impatiently, for Dumbledore to begin whatever cryptic lecture he had planned, so that he could finally go and see Severus Snape.

But Dumbledore, apparently, was in no rush at all.

He lifted his long-forgotten teacup, regarding it with mild curiosity. "Ah," he said conversationally, as though they were two old friends sharing an afternoon in the garden, "the tea's gone cold. Would you care for me to warm it, Draco?"

He smiled that infuriating, knowing smile, the one that made Draco feel as though every half-formed thought in his head had already been read, weighed, and quietly filed away.

If Dumbledore could read minds, Draco thought savagely, then the old man would know just how much he wanted to grab that ridiculous beard and smash his head against the nearest wall.

Apparently not, because Dumbledore's expression remained pleasantly serene.

"Sir," Draco said stiffly, "I'm not hungry. Or thirsty. I'd prefer if you just told me what it is you want, and what it has to do with Sever..., Professor Snape."

"Ah." Dumbledore smiled faintly, already reheating both cups with a flick of his wand, ignoring Draco's refusal entirely. "Draco, you, and many others, know by now that Severus joined the Death Eaters not long after leaving Hogwarts."

Draco blinked, startled. Of all the things he'd expected, that wasn't one of them.

"There were… reasons," Dumbledore went on quietly. "Many reasons that led him down that path. And though it is true that Tom Riddle's defeat came largely through Severus's courage, I still wish, selfishly, perhaps, that I had helped him choose differently." He sighed, his eyes settling on Draco with quiet gravity. "The same wish I hold for you."

Draco's stomach clenched. He didn't want to talk about his decisions, or what Dumbledore thought he should have done differently. But if the Headmaster really wanted to go down that road, then fine.

He straightened, meeting Dumbledore's gaze with cold exhaustion. His voice trembled slightly, though whether from anger or weariness, he couldn't tell.

"Yes," he said. "Perhaps if you hadn't made saints out of every Gryffindor that walked these halls if you'd given even a fraction of that attention to Slytherins, maybe uncle Sevy wouldn't have had to carry the entire House on his own."

Draco's words came fast now, tumbling out before he could stop them. He didn't even realise he'd slipped, that he'd called him Uncle Sevy instead of Professor Snape.

"Every year," he said, "at the end-of-term feast, you'd find some clever excuse to give the House Cup to Gryffindor. It didn't matter how far ahead we were, there was always some miracle of bravery to 'adjust' the numbers." His voice cracked with anger. "Do you know what that did to us? To them? Slytherins worked harder than anyone, but all we ever learned was that nothing we did was ever good enough for you."

He swallowed hard, his breath shaking. "And do you know what happened after those dinners? He came to see us. Every single time. Professor Snape."

Draco's tone softened despite himself. "He'd walk in after the feast, robes billowing like always, pretending he was cross, but we knew. He'd find something, anything, to praise. He'd say it didn't matter who won, that we'd earned our pride through work, through discipline, through loyalty to one another. He'd say that real strength wasn't about trophies or banners, but about what you did when no one noticed."

He blinked rapidly, as though realising how much he'd said, and turned his head away.

Dumbledore didn't speak. For a long moment, he only stared at the boy, his expression unreadable. Then, very slowly, he lowered his gaze to his folded hands.

He remembered. He remembered those feasts, the golden glow of the candles, the roaring applause from Gryffindor, and, at the far table, Severus's face. The way he would clap once, perhaps twice, then fall silent. How he would leave the hall before dessert, robes whispering behind him.

Albus had never given it much thought.

He had assumed Severus simply disliked noise that his pride was as brittle as his temper. Minerva had teased him about it once; he had only smiled. But now, hearing Draco's trembling words, the truth pressed down like a stone.

Severus hadn't been sulking. He had been hurt.

He had been tending to his students, mending their disappointment, patching their pride, teaching them, in his own quiet way, to stand tall again.

And every time Albus had seen that slight withdrawal, that cool indifference that lasted for days after the feast, he had mistaken it for arrogance. He hadn't understood that it was disappointment. Genuine, quiet, human disappointment.

He realised, with a slow, painful clarity, that for Severus, Slytherin House had not been a competition. It had been family. His students had been his children.

And Albus had taken that from him again and again, without ever meaning to.

The thought struck him like a physical blow. His heart twisted painfully, and for the first time that evening, his eyes lost their usual glint of calm.

Draco's voice broke. "He was there for all of us. For me. And now he's alone. Everyone hates him, because of you. And I don't even know what you've done to him, but I know you've taken his wand. You're carrying it, I saw it!"

His eyes were bright now, the grey clouded and wet. His voice cracked once more, and for a long moment, the room was silent but for the faint hiss of the fire.

___________________________

Harry moved slowly down the corridor, his footsteps echoing faintly off the stone. His mind kept circling back to Dumbledore's office - to the low murmur of voices, to Draco's tense posture, to that look on the Headmaster's face.

What could Dumbledore possibly want from Malfoy?

He turned a corner - and suddenly, a sharp pain split through his skull.

It came without warning, stabbing behind his eyes, spreading like fire through his head. He staggered, grabbing at the wall for balance. The corridor seemed to tilt violently; the floor rolled like the deck of a ship. For a dizzying moment, it felt as though the castle itself were spinning, the portraits smearing into streaks of colour, the torches bending, warping.

Harry dropped to his knees. His vision flared white.

The pain deepened - searing, alive - and for a terrible second he thought he could hear it, a whispering beneath the sound of his own pulse, too fast, too soft, almost familiar -

He gasped, clutching his head. The world contracted to a single, blinding heartbeat.

Then everything went still.

The corridor righted itself. The air cleared.

If anyone had passed by, they would have seen a strange sight: Harry Potter slumped against the wall one moment, blood trailing from his nose - and standing perfectly upright the next, expression cold, movements too smooth, too deliberate.

He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. The bleeding had stopped. His green eyes gleamed faintly in the torchlight.

He reached into his cloak, drew out the Invisibility Cloak, and swung it over his shoulders.

Then, without another glance back, he turned and walked toward the Hospital Wing.

The doors stood half open. The lamps had been dimmed to low flickers, and the air carried the faint, bitter scent of potion fumes - dittany, valerian, and something darker beneath.

Harry slipped inside soundlessly, the Invisibility Cloak whispering against the floor.

The room was still. Rows of empty beds gleamed faintly in the half-light, the sheets drawn tight and untouched. At the far end, a smaller door stood ajar - the same one he had once burst through with Ron, Hermione, and Sirius to see Snape lying half-dead.

Now it gaped open again.

A bed at the end of the chamber was half-shadowed by drawn curtains, a single lamp casting a small, trembling pool of light within.

He saw no one else.

Professor McGonagall's cloak hung neatly over a chair, her tartan scarf draped beside it. On the nearby desk sat a pile of half-sorted potion vials and an open book still fluttering from a recent page turn. She must have gone to wake Madam Pomfrey.

Harry moved closer.

Behind the curtain lay Severus Snape.

He looked even paler than before. His face, so sharp in life, was drawn and hollow now; the skin seemed almost translucent beneath the thin light. A faint line of sweat traced his temple. The steady rise and fall of his chest looked fragile - as though one misstep might stop it entirely.

For a long moment, Harry stood motionless, his heart hammering. Something inside him twisted - a strange, unsteady rhythm, not his own. He felt the weight of another thought pressing faintly at the edges of his mind, curling like smoke.

He reached out - carefully, almost involuntarily - and let his fingers hover just above Snape's cheek, as though testing whether he was truly alive.

Then his elbow brushed a glass vial.

It toppled.

The crash was sharp and startling in the silence.

Snape stirred. His fingers twitched faintly against the sheet, a soft moan escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered open - and for the briefest instant, dark eyes met green.

Harry froze.

"Potter…" Snape's voice was rough, little more than a whisper. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering there. "You shouldn't be here."

Harry took a step closer despite himself. His face was calm - too calm. "I wanted to see you, sir."

Snape blinked. "Yes, well, I'm not blind," he muttered hoarsely, the sarcasm so weak it barely survived the breath that carried it. He shifted against the pillows, grimacing. "Sit down, Potter - if you must."

Harry obeyed, dragging a chair closer and lowering himself onto it. He said nothing.

Snape's eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, the lids heavy but refusing to close. The silence stretched between them - thick, strange, full of things that neither could quite say.

"What happened…" Snape rasped at last, his voice little more than a breath. "How are you still alive?"

The words sounded like a confession he hadn't meant to make. They had lived in him since the moment he'd opened his eyes - through the pain, through the blank confusion. He turned his head a fraction, dark eyes searching Harry's face. For a heartbeat he looked almost sorry he'd spoken.

Harry took a slow breath. "Voldemort killed me," he said quietly. "In the Forest. I went to him."

Snape's brow furrowed.

"I thought it was the only way," Harry went on. "He hit me with the Killing Curse. But Dumbledore said later… it only killed the piece of him that was inside me. Because he'd used my blood to come back. My mother's protection was still in him, and it tied us together. So when he killed me, he killed himself. That part, anyway."

For a long time Snape said nothing. The firelight flickered across his face, catching the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the exhaustion in his eyes.

"And then?" he said at last, very quietly.

Harry's gaze didn't waver. "And then I went back. I fought him. His own curse rebounded. The Elder Wand wouldn't kill its real master."

Snape's fingers twitched against the blanket. "So," he said, and his tone was unreadable - halfway between disbelief and something like weary awe, "you killed the Dark Lord."

Harry gave a small, helpless shrug. "He did it to himself, really."

Snape's eyes closed, his mouth twisting as if he couldn't decide whether to scoff or sigh. "Typical." The word came out almost as a whisper - dry, bitter, and faintly amused all at once. "After all that… he kills himself."

He let out a breath that sounded halfway to a laugh, though there was no humour in it. His hand trembled slightly where it rested on the sheet.

Snape's eyes stayed closed for a long moment. Harry thought he might have drifted off, until a hoarse voice spoke again.

"You don't sound… surprised."

Harry blinked. "Sir?"

Snape opened his eyes. They were darker than the room - unfocused, but sharp enough to cut. "You told me you were killed, and yet you speak of it as though you merely tripped on the way to breakfast."

Harry's mouth twitched. "Guess I've got used to dying."

A faint, hollow laugh escaped Snape - a sound closer to pain than mirth. "Merlin help us. The Chosen One develops a taste for martyrdom."

But the remark lacked its usual venom. There was confusion there, and something colder beneath it - calculation, perhaps. He was studying Harry, and Harry could feel it: the old, familiar probing of a man who had lived too long in half-truths.

Snape frowned. "Your eyes…"

Harry shifted, suddenly restless. "What about them?"

"They don't look… green."

_____________________________

"That's exactly why you're here, my boy," said Dumbledore quietly.

Draco blinked, still confused, but Dumbledore went on, his tone light, almost conversational.

"One day, Severus sat in that very chair where you are now," he began. "He came to me - desperate to mend a wrong he had done to a friend. It was then he saw the truth about Tom Riddle, and realised how terribly he'd been deceived."

Dumbledore paused, the faintest sigh escaping him. That was not quite true. Severus had not sat in that chair; he had collapsed to his knees on the floor, voice breaking as he begged for Lily's life.

The old man turned towards the rain-lashed window, his reflection blurred in the glass. "He told me he would do anything to make amends," Dumbledore continued softly. "Anything to fight for what was right."

Another half-truth. Severus had not offered; Albus had asked. Demanded.

"And that," he said, turning back at last, "is how he became our double agent - the reason, perhaps, that this world survived at all."

Draco's throat had gone dry. The words were too heavy, too deliberate.

"Now, Draco," said Dumbledore gently, stepping closer, "are you willing to do the same? To give what you know - to protect Severus Snape from those who would see him harmed? Are you willing to follow in his footsteps?"

He stopped before Draco, blue eyes calm, unreadable. Then he placed a plain sheet of parchment and a quill on the desk between them.

"Are you willing," Dumbledore said softly, "to earn my trust as Severus once did? To do this for him - to ensure you will see him again?"

Draco's head snapped up. His face had gone white as parchment; his pupils were huge and frightened.

So this was it. The reason for the tea, the soft voice, the twinkle.

It had never been about his letters, or about Severus at all.

It was about Dumbledore - the great chess player, setting his next piece in motion.

________________________

"They don't look… green."

Harry blinked again. "It's just the light."

Snape didn't answer. His breathing hitched; his gaze flicked briefly to the lamplight, to Harry's shadow stretching long and thin across the floor. His fingers twitched, as though reaching for a wand that wasn't there.

For an instant - a flicker - the air seemed to tighten.

Harry felt it too. A pressure. A pulse that wasn't his own. Something behind his ribs that stirred, listening.

"Sir," he said quickly, his voice too steady, too careful. "You should rest. Dumbledore said - "

"Dumbledore says many things." Snape's voice was softer now, but there was an edge to it, the faintest tremor of suspicion. He turned his head on the pillow, his eyes still fixed on Harry. "Tell me, Potter…"

Harry's heart beat faster - not his heartbeat, exactly, but something beneath it, deeper.

Snape's lips parted. His next words came out barely audible.

"Are you certain… it was only him who died?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. The rain hammered against the window like distant applause.

Harry did not answer.

He only smiled.

And it wasn't his smile.