Poppy Pomfrey apparated just beyond the gates of Hogwarts.
Since the end of the Second Wizarding War, the demand for medical witches had surged dangerously high - St. Mungo's was overflowing, and the weight of suffering hung thick in the air.
Was she tired?
Of course, she was. Beyond tired. But exhaustion was nothing compared to the guilt gnawing at her heart - the raw ache of helplessly watching young lives fall like shattered glass beneath Voldemort's cruelty. No… Tom's cruelty. As Albus insisted on calling him.
She quickened her pace, pushing through the entrance of Hogwarts. Normally, she could have taken a shorter path to the hospital wing, but remnants of dark spells still lingered within the castle's walls - tainted shadows left behind by Death Eaters. The corridors were treacherous, cursed, and she was forced to take the longer route.
This path, at least, had been cleared - Dumbledore, Filius Flitwick, and a few Aurors from the Ministry had worked tirelessly to make it safe.
Her heart clenched. She needed to see him first - Severus.
But as she reached the corridor outside the infirmary, her feet stopped of their own accord.
Was this why she kept herself busy?
Perhaps - just perhaps - she could run from the guilt for a little while longer. Guilt for him. For Severus. Guilt for every moment she had doubted him, for every cruel glance she hadn't stopped, for every unspoken word of kindness she had withheld.
The weight was unbearable.
Poppy leaned against the cold stone wall and slowly slid to the ground. She drew her knees to her chest, buried her face in them, and let the tears fall in quiet surrender.
She had known him since he was only ten years old.
A tiny boy who looked far too small - too fragile - to be ten. His clothes had hung from him like a secondhand shroud, ill-fitting and threadbare. Long, greasy black hair hung in curtains around his pale, sharp face. And his eyes… dark and angry, heavy with a bitterness no child should ever carry.
Severus had always run from her care. Only when Minerva or another teacher brought him in - often after another cruel trick from those mischievous Gryffindor boys - would he allow himself to be treated.
Those boys.
She used to think they were just children being children. But now, looking back, she realized how wrong they had been. How they had mistaken cruelty for bravery - believing they could fight the monsters of the world by tormenting a single lonely Slytherin.
But Severus was never a monster.
And they had never saved the world by breaking him.
No. No, Poppy couldn't go down that path now - she knew where it would lead.
Brushing her tears away with shaking hands, she forced herself up and hurried through the corridors, climbing staircase after staircase until she finally reached the hospital wing. She passed by rows of empty beds, and those few still occupied by the wounded, until she reached the far door - the quiet sanctuary where Severus rested. Where Albus sat vigil.
She smoothed her apron and pushed open the door gently.
And there they were.
Albus was seated beside Severus's bed, his head resting on Severus's stomach, staring blankly at the folds of the bedsheets. His posture sagged with exhaustion, his expression hollow - haunted.
Poppy pursed her lips and approached carefully.
"He's not your pillow, Headmaster," she said, her voice soft but firm.
But before she could reach him, her foot struck something soft.
"MEEEOOOW!"
"Oh! Minerva, I didn't see you!" Poppy gasped, stumbling back as her foot recoiled from the grey tabby curled on the floor. "Oh, my goodness, why were you just sitting there? Are you alright, darling?"
The cat blinked up at her, eyes wide - those unmistakable bright green eyes.
No answer was needed.
It was obvious from Albus's reddened eyes and the shimmering gloss in Minerva's that they had both been crying for a long time.
Minerva shook her head - a quiet, dignified I'm fine - before she padded toward Severus's bed, leaping onto the blankets. She settled on the spot where Albus's head had rested only moments before, curling against Severus's frail body protectively. Then she closed her eyes.
Poppy swallowed hard, drawing in a deep breath.
"You both need to rest," she said firmly. "The Aurors will be here soon to begin today's investigation on the dark magic still lingering in the castle. You need sleep - both of you."
Albus rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion lining every inch of his face. His gaze flicked toward Minerva - still curled up protectively over Severus, eyes tightly shut, yet clearly awake.
He knew better than to argue.
"Poppy is right, Minerva," Albus said quietly. "Go to your quarters. Rest while you can."
Minerva didn't move.
But she didn't need to.
Her loyalty, her pain - everything she felt was carved into every line of her body, every glance toward the broken man on the bed.
And Albus knew.
He understood all too well.
Poppy took a deep breath and muttered, "Stubborn..." She abruptly clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening as fresh tears welled in them. She turned quickly toward Minerva and Albus, finding them both staring at her - one with shock, the other with a sorrow so deep it felt endless.
"Gryffindors," Albus finished for her with a small, forced smile. "Aren't we, dear Minerva? Stubborn, idiotic Gryffindors."
It was what Severus had always called them. Well, among other things. But over the years, they had learned to find amusement in it, to prod at him just enough to elicit one of his infamous exasperated sighs and a barrage of irritable huffing.
Minerva transformed back into her human form and tugged gently at Poppy's sleeve. "Let's order something to eat."
As they moved toward the door, Albus called after them, "Am I included, or shall I sulk in solitude?"
Minerva huffed, rolling her eyes before leaving the door open behind her - a silent invitation.
They gathered in Poppy's office. None of them wanted to venture all the way to the Great Hall, nor did they wish to leave Severus alone just yet. Breakfast was a quiet affair, though Albus made several failed attempts to steer the conversation toward lighter topics, hoping in vain to win back the favor of his two most trusted witches.
He was halfway through his meal when a sudden crack from the fireplace startled them. The flames roared to life, and within seconds, the disheveled but familiar face of Remus Lupin emerged from the emerald glow.
"Albus, are you there?"
Remus, like many others, had kept his distance from Severus's bedside. Some - particularly a few within the Ministry - still refused to trust him, convinced this was all part of some elaborate scheme. Not that they would dare voice such suspicions aloud, not when both the great Albus Dumbledore and the Boy Who Lived himself had already shredded every argument against Severus Snape with unwavering loyalty.
Some avoided him out of fear, as if they expected him to suddenly wake, dark-eyed and furious, ready to curse them where they stood. Others stayed away because they were too ashamed, too guilt-ridden to face the reality of what they had done - or worse, what they had failed to do.
Remus was one of those in the latter group.
He knew the truth.
Knew the horrors Severus had endured.
Knew how often he had been underestimated.
Knew, with agonizing certainty, just how much of a debt they all owed him.
Albus quickly rose from his chair, approaching the fireplace. "Yes, Remus, I'm here."
"Ah, good," Remus said, a note of relief in his voice. "I was wondering if you could join us for today's search through the castle. That is - unless the Ministry needs you elsewhere?"
Albus shook his head. "No, no, of course not. Gather your team, and I'll meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes."
"That's wonderful. We'll see you then."
With a flicker of green light, Remus disappeared.
Minerva cleared her throat as she set down her tea. Then, with the same firm voice she used to address her students, she said, "For weeks now, Filius, Pomona, Remus, Tonks, myself, and two Aurors from the Ministry - Timy and Jonathan - have been working to clear the castle of lingering dark magic. We've made significant progress. Filius, with his extraordinary skill, has dismantled dozens of enchantments and curses. But there's something…" She hesitated. "Something we can't find."
Albus lowered himself into the seat beside her, his expression serious. "What do you mean?"
Minerva met his gaze, her eyes weary but steady. "Filius says there's a presence - something woven into the very walls of Hogwarts. A dark magic unlike anything else we've encountered. But he can't pinpoint its origin, nor how to remove it. We were hoping you could help."
Albus fell silent, deep in thought. If Filius Flitwick - one of the most accomplished Charms Masters alive - could not decipher it, then whatever this was, it was powerful.
Too powerful.
His mind flickered to Severus.
His brilliant, irreplaceable Severus.
He wished the boy were awake. He would have seen the patterns, dissected the magic, unraveled the mystery with that sharp, relentless mind of his.
But for what?
To heap yet another problem onto his shoulders?
No.
This time, it was Albus's burden to bear.
Severus had asked him to protect Hogwarts, to stand by its people, to continue fighting. And that was precisely what he intended to do.
"I'll change and meet you in the Great Hall," he said at last. Then, turning to Poppy, he asked, "Will you - ?"
Poppy straightened, her tone crisp and professional. "Yes, Headmaster. I'll look after him."
Albus nodded his gratitude before rising from his seat and crossing the room. He paused at Severus's bedside, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"See you soon, my boy," he murmured.
Then, bending down, he pressed a soft kiss to Severus's cold forehead and left the room.
He walked slowly toward his quarters, carefully navigating the cleared corridors and avoiding those still tainted with lingering dark spells. Though Filius, Tonks, and the Ministry Aurors had worked tirelessly, the castle was still bleeding from the war. Hogwarts itself was wounded.
As he stepped into his office, the faintest glimmer of dawn had begun creeping through the enchanted windows. The portraits of former headmasters remained asleep - except for one.
Phineas Nigellus Black was wide awake.
At the sight of Dumbledore, he turned his chair sharply, his thin lips pressed into a disapproving line. He made a grand show of facing the opposite wall, ensuring he would not have to acknowledge the man who had, in his eyes, failed Slytherin's last hope.
Albus sighed, rubbing his temple tiredly.
"Are you going to ignore me forever, Phineas?"
Silence.
Not even a mutter, nor the rustle of his painted robes.
Albus shook his head. He had expected no less. Phineas had always been a proud man - but Severus had been his heir in all but name. And for all his detached cynicism, Phineas had cared.
Turning away from the stubborn portrait, Albus crossed the room and found Fawkes sitting on his perch, his fiery plumage dimmed with age. The phoenix looked up at him with glassy, tired eyes.
Albus reached out, running his fingers lightly over the bird's crest.
"Oh, my dear friend," he murmured. "It seems we are both weary warriors in a battle that will never truly end."
Fawkes let out a weak, melancholic trill - not the bright, defiant song of a phoenix in its prime, but a fading note of sorrow.
Albus sighed, gently stroking Fawkes' soft feathers.
"I know, my friend. I feel it too."
For a long moment, they stayed like that - two creatures on the brink of renewal, both exhausted by the cycles of war, loss, and rebirth.
Albus forced himself to step away. He had little time to spare. He pressed one final touch to Fawkes' head before retreating to his private quarters.
The warmth of the shower loosened the stiffness in Albus's bones, but it did little to ease the deeper ache in his soul. He stared down at his hand - once blackened, cursed beyond saving - now smooth, unmarked. Whole.
And he wept.
When the water finally ran cold, he stepped out and faced himself in the fogged mirror. He wiped a hand across the glass, revealing a man he scarcely recognized.
The deep hollows under his eyes.
The heavy, unrelenting grief in them.
The weight of a thousand regrets.
He had aged - not in years, but in burdens.
And then - his mind slipped back.
---
Flashback Begins - The Prince's Sanctuary
The letter had left him breathless, his hands shaking as he reached beneath the pillow.
Severus had been right.
There lay an ebony wand, sleek and finely carved, adorned with delicate engravings at the handle.
Phoenix feather core.
A wizard's wand was more than a tool - it was a part of their soul, their essence. To give it away willingly was to relinquish one's magic.
Severus had left himself defenseless.
Albus swallowed thickly. He knew what that meant.
Either Severus was absolutely certain he was safe...
Or...
Albus shook his head violently. He would not allow himself to think that.
Pushing back the thick covers, he moved to stand. His muscles, though weak from months of stillness, held firm thanks to the potions Severus had prepared. He wavered only slightly before pushing forward.
The room was lavish but cold, grand yet utterly desolate. And as he moved into the long corridor, he found himself surrounded by absent ghosts.
The hallway stretched before him, lined with dark wooden panels and elegant silver chandeliers. The floor beneath his bare feet was black marble, polished to an unnatural shine, reflecting the dim flickers of enchanted sconces.
But it was the walls that caught his attention.
Faint outlines remained where portraits had once hung - marks of frames long removed.
Severus had taken them all down.
No gossiping portraits. No prying eyes.
Just silence.
Albus exhaled slowly.
"Always so careful, my clever boy."
He moved forward, the grand hallway echoing with every step. There was no dust - Severus was nothing if not precise - but there was a stillness that felt too empty, too lifeless.
Then, a door at the far end caught his attention.
He reached for it, pushing it open to find -
A massive cage - almost the size of the entire room. And within it -
Fawkes.
Albus let out a breathless chuckle.
"So, you made him a grand enclosure, did you?" He stepped closer, observing the lavish space, lined with soft perches and endless bowls of fresh food. "Better accommodations than the perch in my office, I must say. I should be ashamed."
Fawkes let out a loud, excited trill, his wings flaring as he recognized his human.
A genuine, warm smile crept onto Albus's lips.
He opened the cage, letting Fawkes fly straight to his shoulder, pressing his head into Albus's snow-white hair.
Albus let out a soft chuckle, gently running a hand down his phoenix's back.
"I missed you too, old friend," he murmured. Then, his expression turned solemn.
"But now, are you ready to go back?"
Fawkes lifted his wings, golden-red feathers shimmering under the dim light. Albus reached upward, clapping his hands together -
And the world blurred.
Colors broke apart and reassembled.
A cold rush of air pressed against his face -
And then -
Albus landed in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds - right into chaos.
Screams tore through the night.
Spells flashed like lightning, illuminating the battlefield in bursts of green, red, and blue. The acrid scent of burning wood and sulfur thickened the air, mingling with the metallic tang of spilled blood.
The war had not ended with Voldemort's fall. It had only changed hands.
The castle trembled, its ancient stones groaning beneath the weight of so much unleashed magic. Hogwarts itself felt wounded, its protective enchantments struggling to hold against the dark forces still pressing in from every side.
Albus tightened his grip on Severus's wand.
Ahead of him, Neville Longbottom stood his ground, bravely dueling two Death Eaters at once. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, his robes torn at the sleeve, but his stance was firm.
Then -
A streak of red light shot towards him.
Not today.
With a mere flick of his wand, Albus sent a stunning spell surging forward, striking both Death Eaters square in the chest. They crumpled instantly, their wands snapping free from their grasp and flying into his waiting palm.
Neville spun, panting, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief.
Then, his eyes landed on him.
He froze.
His breath hitched.
His wand wavered in his grip.
"…Headmaster?" he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Albus gave a small nod, but there was no time for explanations.
His senses sharpened - instinct screaming danger.
Across the battlefield, Minerva McGonagall fought furiously, her wand a blur as she fended off her attackers. A jet of green light shot past her, narrowly missing her shoulder. She retaliated immediately, sending a volley of spells so precise that her opponent barely had time to raise his shield before being blasted back several feet.
But she did not see the second attacker behind her.
Albus did.
The Death Eater, a towering figure cloaked in black, raised his wand - aiming straight for Minerva's unprotected back.
Albus's blood ran cold.
Not her.
He didn't think - he only acted.
He raised his wand -
A shimmering barrier of silver-blue fire erupted around the castle.
The air trembled.
The ground pulsed, glowing beneath their feet as an icy force spread outward, coiling through the battlefield like a living entity.
And then -
The Death Eater halted mid-stride.
His wand arm trembled violently, his breath visible in the sudden drop in temperature - and then he froze, his body encased in a crystalline layer of shimmering ice.
Minerva whirled around, wand raised, ready to defend herself -
Only to find her enemy motionless.
She gasped, stumbling backward, her chest rising and falling heavily. She barely had time to process the sight before she felt it -
The air around her shifted, charged with power so ancient and formidable that it sent a tremor through her very core.
Slowly - **as if compelled by something unseen - **she turned.
And she saw him.
Standing tall in the center of the battlefield, his robes billowing in the enchanted wind, his silver beard glinting in the eerie glow of the frozen battlefield -
Albus Dumbledore.
A wand not his own gripped in his hand.
Eyes not twinkling, but burning with a power so vast it seemed to bend the very air around him.
Minerva felt her knees weaken.
For a single, unbroken moment, the battlefield went still.
Everywhere, Death Eaters found themselves trapped, their limbs locked in place, unable to move, unable to so much as breathe without the frost tightening its hold on them.
The Order - those still standing - looked around, dazed, disbelieving.
The man they had mourned.
The man they had buried.
The man who was supposed to be dead.
He had returned.
Minerva clutched at her chest, her heartbeat wild.
"Merlin's beard," she whispered, her voice unsteady. "He's alive."
And in that moment -
For the first time in decades -
Hogwarts had its true protector once more.
..............
Inside the castle, Molly Weasley panted heavily, her grip on her wand tight as she shielded Ginny behind her. Bellatrix Lestrange had been laughing mere moments ago - wild, deranged, untouchable.
And then - she froze.
Her manic grin twisted into confusion, then horror. Her limbs locked, her wand slipping from her grasp as if unseen chains had shackled her body in place.
Molly wasted no time. With a swift flick of her wand, she sent a powerful blasting curse straight at her enemy.
Bellatrix shattered into a thousand frozen shards.
Ginny let out a sharp gasp, stepping back as the remnants of the dark witch crumbled to the ground like broken glass.
But there was no time to process the victory.
Above them, the castle groaned, the walls trembling with the weight of ancient magic.
Across the corridors, a voice rang out -
"HARRY - "
Harry Potter sprinted down the stairs, leaping over the last few steps two at a time. Behind him, the unmistakable voices of Fred and George Weasley echoed through the corridors.
"HARRY - "
"WAS THAT YOU - "
"WHO MADE - "
"THAT MAGIC?!"
Hermione, breathless from running, caught up to them, Ron at her side.
"Don't be ridiculous, boys," she snapped between gulps of air. "Harry can't possibly create an ancient spell of that magnitude."
Harry threw her an incredulous look. "Wow, Hermione, thanks for the vote of confidence."
Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring his sarcasm, and pressed forward.
Ron, still catching his breath, frowned. "Where are we going?"
Harry paused at the castle doors, looking at his two best friends - Fred and George watching him expectantly.
"I need to check on Professor Snape."
Silence.
They all stared at him as if he'd just declared his allegiance to Voldemort.
Hermione's brows furrowed in confusion. Ron's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Even Fred and George seemed momentarily lost for words.
"Snape?" Ron echoed, blinking.
Harry didn't have time for explanations.
Harry's feet pounded against the stone floor, his breath coming in sharp gasps.
He needed to reach Snape.
He had no idea why - only that he had to.
His gut told him time was running out.
Behind him, Ron, Hermione, and the twins hurried to keep up, their confusion turning to frustration.
"HARRY!"
Fred's voice echoed through the ruined corridor.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" George finished.
Harry ignored them, pushing forward - until Hermione grabbed his arm and yanked him back.
"Harry, stop!" she snapped, breathless. "What's gotten into you?! Why are you running off to find him?"
Harry clenched his jaw, wrenching his arm free. "Because I have to."
Hermione shook her head, eyes flashing. "Harry, Snape is Voldemort's! He's the reason Dumbledore is - "
Harry whirled on her.
"He was never Voldemort's," he snapped.
Hermione froze.
Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Right, yeah. Snape was a saint. Just like how You-Know-Who's actually a lovely bloke once you get to know him?"
Harry's fists tightened.
They didn't know.
They hadn't seen.
He thought of the Pensieve - the way Snape had begged, had pleaded, had sacrificed everything for Lily, for him, for all of them - only to be hated until his last breath.
The memory of Snape's ragged voice burned in his mind - "Look at me."
His mother's eyes.
His mother's eyes.
Harry swallowed hard and turned away.
"Snape was on our side," he muttered. "He was Dumbledore's."
He exhaled sharply and met Hermione's stunned gaze.
"Go find Dumbledore."
Silence.
Then -
Ron gawked at him.
Hermione blinked.
Fred and George stared.
"Mate…" Ron said slowly, like he was speaking to a madman. "Dumbledore is dead."
Harry shook his head. "No. He's not."
Hermione's face contorted into something between shock and worry.
"Harry, you need to rest," she said cautiously. "The battle's gotten to you, you're not thinking clearly - "
Harry didn't have time for this.
"Just go."
"Harry - "
"GO!"
Hermione jumped at the raw emotion in his voice.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then, finally, Hermione and Ron exchanged a wary glance.
Fred and George - shockingly - said nothing.
Ron exhaled heavily. "Fine," he muttered. "We'll go look for your bloody ghost."
Harry didn't waste another second.
He turned on his heel and ran as he shouted back to Fred and George. "You two - help anyone injured. Bring them to Madam Pomfrey."
The twins shared a glance.
"You're bossy when you're traumatized, mate," George muttered, but without protest, they both turned and jogged off.
Harry ignored Ginny's shouted protests from behind him. He ran.
Past fallen bodies. Past frozen Death Eaters. Past the remnants of a battle still lingering in the air.
The cold wind stung his face as he burst through the entrance doors -
And then he stopped.
His breath caught in his throat.
There, standing tall and untouchable, robes billowing in the magical wind, was Albus Dumbledore.
Alive.
Whole.
Real.
"Professor…" Harry whispered, barely able to breathe.
A thousand emotions surged through him at once. He had known. He had seen it in the Pensieve - Snape had shown him.
But seeing it was different.
A weight lifted from Harry's chest so suddenly that his knees nearly buckled.
They were safe. They had a protector again.
Dumbledore turned to him, and his piercing blue eyes burned with urgency.
"Severus. Where is Severus?"
Harry snapped out of his daze.
"He's - he's in the Shrieking Shack! He needs help, sir, now."
Dumbledore didn't wait for further explanation.
The **old man who had once seemed so slow, so measured, so graceful - **was suddenly running.
Not walking.
Not gliding.
Running.
And fast.
Even Harry - **seventeen, athletic, a Seeker - **struggled to keep up.
They raced across the battlefield, dodging frozen enemies and debris. Dumbledore's pace was impossible, fueled by something far deeper than adrenaline.
Terror.
Severus.
What have you done, my boy?
They reached the shack in minutes.
Dumbledore slammed open the door. His steps were silent as he moved through the ruined shack, but his mind -
His mind was screaming.
The metallic scent of iron and blood filled the air, heavy and suffocating.
No.
His heart clenched as he turned to Harry, voice sharp - desperate.
"Where?"
Harry, looking pale and shaken, pointed - toward the far end of the room.
There - a dark pool of blood seeped beneath a half-collapsed wooden door.
Dumbledore's breath hitched.
He moved forward - slowly, unwillingly, terrified of what he would find.
The door creaked as he pushed it open -
And there he was.
Severus.
Half-seated, half-laying in a pool of his own blood.
He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the small, lifeless form crumpled against the wooden floor.
My Severus.
The black teaching robes clung to his thin frame, drenched in his own blood.
Dumbledore staggered back, breath catching in his throat.
For one aching, shattering moment -
Severus wasn't a man.
He was a boy.
A quiet, sharp-tongued, brilliant boy.
Sitting at the edge of the Great Hall, arms crossed, his cold exterior hiding the fact that he was always listening.
The same boy who brewed potions that rivaled masters.
Who found comfort in logic, in facts, in books - because people had always been cruel to him.
A boy who had once - **once - **trusted the wrong people, and spent the rest of his life trying to atone for it.
A boy who had always been so alone.
Dumbledore sank to his knees.
And that's when he understood.
Severus had chosen to die in his school robes.
The same robes he had worn in the years when Dumbledore had been alive.
When Minerva had been his friend.
When the other professors had at least tolerated him.
Before everyone had hated him.
Before he had been left completely, utterly alone.
Dumbledore's chest caved with grief.
"Oh, my boy," he whispered, voice breaking. "You were scared."
He had put on the only thing that had ever given him comfort.
Because there had been no one left to hold his hand.
No one to say, "You are not alone."
He had dressed himself for death.
Because no one else would do it for him.
A sharp breath left Dumbledore's lungs as rage flooded his veins.
And then - he saw it.
The black veins creeping up Severus's pale neck.
Nagini.
Voldemort had used Nagini.
A potion master. A man who had spent his entire life crafting antidotes, brewing healing draughts, saving others.
And he had been killed by poison.
Voldemort had mocked him in his final moments.
Dumbledore's blood boiled.
This wasn't just murder.
It was cruelty.
It was an insult.
Dumbledore felt something dark and ancient rise inside him - an anger he had not felt in decades.
Tom, you wretched, soulless creature.
Dumbledore's silver robes darkening as they absorbed Severus's blood.
But he didn't care.
His hands shook as he reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed against Severus's face.
His skin was deathly pale, but still warm.
Still warm.
Dumbledore exhaled shakily, his vision blurred by tears.
"Oh, my boy," he whispered, voice raw. "My boy, what have they done to you?"
Severus's face was streaked with dried tears.
His long, black lashes - once sharp and unyielding - were damp.
His expression was empty.
His body - destroyed.
His veins - blackened, creeping up the side of his face, neck and shoulder like a slow, inevitable poison.
The mark of Nagini.
Dumbledore's breath hitched. He curled himself around the broken body in his arms, as if shielding him from the very world that had abandoned him.
Severus had spent his entire life alone.
Dumbledore would not let him die that way.
He held him as if he were a child, cradling him close, pressing his forehead to his blood-matted hair.
You are not alone, my boy.
Not anymore.
Pleasr forgive this old man.
His voice broke.
Forgive me, Severus.
Harry - silent all this time - lowered himself beside them.
His throat burned, his own guilt pressing down on him like a weight too heavy to bear.
He had hated this man. Despised him.
Mocked him.
Blamed him.
Only to find that Snape had been protecting him all along.
A sudden flicker of movement.
Harry's eyes widened.
"He moved!" he gasped, voice shaking. "Sir, he moved!"
Dumbledore's heart stopped.
Flashback Ends
Albus opened his eyes, breath coming in shallow gasps, his mind still tangled in the memory of that night. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the weight of the wand hidden beneath the folds of his robe.
Severus's wand.
Against his heart.
A silent vow. A promise.
He would return it to its rightful owner.
Even if it was the last thing he ever did.
He walked toward his wardrobe, fingers ghosting over the fabric before selecting a royal blue robe, embroidered with delicate, shimmering red roses.
A silent nod to the boy who had saved him - the boy who had never saved himself.
Dumbledore took one last breath.
Then, with quiet resolve, he stepped into the dark, empty corridors of Hogwarts.
And walked toward the Great Hall.
Upon arriving at the Great Hall, Albus took in the scene before him.
Remus sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, unusually quiet. A large black dog - Sirius, no doubt - rested beside him, head bowed, ears flat. Minerva leaned over the Slytherin table, pointing at a parchment map as she discussed something with Arthur Weasley. Filius and Jonathan were engaged in a heated debate, their voices a murmur of half-finished theories. Pomona cradled a teacup in her hands, speaking quietly to Timothy, who stood by the window, lost in thought.
At the sound of footsteps, every head turned toward him.
Minerva sighed and sat down stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Filius and Pomona nodded politely. Timothy and Jonathan shook Albus's hand with guarded professionalism.
Then there was Sirius.
The dog did not move. He simply lowered his head further, ears flicking back, as if ashamed.
Albus understood why.
A month ago, when Albus had brought Severus's bloodied, barely breathing body into the Great Hall, Sirius had tried to interfere. Tried to insist Snape should be left to die, or turned over to the Ministry.
Albus had been gentle as he laid Severus on the cold stone floor, instructing Harry to fetch Minerva and Poppy while others cleared space in the infirmary. But when he turned back, Sirius had drawn his wand - pointed it at Severus's chest.
"Dumbledore, you can't be serious - this is Snivellus! The same man who - "
Albus head snapped.
The next thing Sirius knew, he was slammed against the stone wall, gasping, feet dangling off the floor as Albus held him by the throat.
"His name is Severus. Severus Snape, you filthy dog. And if you so much as step near him again with ill intent, I will make certain you never see the light of day again. Am I clear?"
Sirius had nodded - painfully, fearfully - and only then had Albus released him.
The look of horror on the faces of Minerva, Poppy, and the others had been something he would not soon forget.
And ever since that day - Sirius had kept his distance.
Now, Albus turned to Filius.
"Shall we begin, my friend? Lead the way."
Filius led them through Hogwarts' darkened corridors, explaining what they had uncovered so far. The magical disturbance was strongest near the dungeons, but they still had no idea what caused it or why it resisted every attempt to dispel it.
As they neared the entrance to the lower levels, Minerva transformed into her Animagus form, a sleek tabby cat, and darted ahead with Sirius. The rest of the group followed more cautiously.
Remus fell into step beside Albus, his body tense. Something was weighing on him.
Albus waited. He had known Remus long enough to recognize when he needed time to gather the courage to speak.
Finally, after several minutes of silence, Remus cleared his throat.
"Albus... how is he?"
Albus did not answer immediately. He had been expecting this question.
"Who, my boy?" he asked lightly.
Remus rubbed the back of his neck, frustration flickering across his face.
"Severus." His voice cracked slightly. "How is Severus doing? I... I wanted to visit him. But I thought - no, I knew - that I was never anything more than a monster in his eyes. A useless coward who stood by while others mocked him. And worse..." He swallowed. "Worse, I haunted his nightmares at night."
Albus inhaled deeply. He turned his sharp, piercing gaze upon the man who had once been a boy standing beside a lake, watching as his friends tormented an isolated Slytherin.
"Perhaps we all failed Severus," Albus murmured. "But past wrongs do not excuse future neglect. He needs us now, more than ever. And as for your question..." He hesitated. "There is no change."
A pained expression flickered across Remus's face.
"But that also means he is still fighting," Albus added, placing a firm hand on Remus's shoulder. "So we must fight for him, too."
After a few more turns, Albus felt it.
A wave of pure, raw magic surged through the stone walls - ancient, alive. It pulsed, not like a lingering spell but something woven into the very foundation of Hogwarts itself.
Something was breathing within these walls.
Albus's expression darkened. "Who remained here while I was gone?"
Pomona answered first. "Horace. He stayed on as Potions Master. Severus appointed him Head of Slytherin."
Of course, he did.
Albus exhaled through his nose. Even though Severus had never liked Horace - had always despised the way he favored wealthy, well-connected students - he must have seen Slughorn as the lesser evil.
Better him than those deranged Death Eater twins.
Minerva suddenly transformed back into her human form, landing gracefully on her feet. She dusted herself off before turning to the group.
"I don't think we should go any further."
Sirius, also back in his human form, shook his head. "No. The pull of magic is stronger here. We're close."
They were now mere steps from the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories.
Albus closed his eyes, reaching out with his magic.
Yes.
It was here.
It was strong.
"All right," Albus said, stepping forward. "We will cast a standard counter-curse together and observe how it reacts. We do not aim to break it - only to understand its nature."
The group raised their wands.
"On the count of three."
"One... two... three - Finite Incantatem!"
The reaction was instantaneous.
A force like a shockwave exploded outward.
Albus was hurled backwards, crashing hard against the wall before collapsing onto the stone floor. Minerva was flung down the hall, landing hard on her side her body skidding across the ground. Sirius nearly tumbled down an entire flight of stairs.
The rest of the group was scattered in different directions, thrown back as though Hogwarts itself had rejected them.
For a moment, no one moved.
Albus's head was pounding, and something warm and wet trickled down his temple. His vision blurred, but through the haze, he felt two strong hands lifting him.
Arthur's voice came first, breathless with concern. "Dumbledore, are you all right?"
On his other side, Jonathan's face was pale. "Sir, your head - it's bleeding."
Albus waved them off. "I'm quite fine," he murmured, though his balance betrayed him as he steadied himself.
The others were pulling themselves up as well, groaning as they dusted off their robes.
Albus exhaled sharply. "Did anyone detect anything before it struck back?"
Filius, still holding his side from where he had hit the ground, grimaced. "As much as I dislike the idea... I think we need to go further. Closer to the core."
Pomona, still winded from her fall, spun around with difficulty.
"No." Her voice was worried. "The last time we tried to break through, we were several floors above, and it barely pushed us back. Today? It threw us across the hall. If we get closer - " she turned her glance on Albus, " - we might not be so lucky next time."
Sirius wiped dust from his robes and scowled. "I still say it has something to do with the Slytherin dormitory," Sirius said darkly. "Wouldn't put it past those snakes to set up some insane dark magic just to make life miserable for the rest of us. If we go in, we might find the origin of the magic. Those snakes have a knack for setting up dark spells."
The air went cold.
Albus turned, his expression sharp as ice.
"Oh, yes. That is quite fascinating, Mr. Black," he said coldly. "Because I distinctly remember four Gryffindors making life a living hell for one particular Slytherin - so much so that one of them nearly got him killed."
Silence.
Then -
Minerva whirled to face him, eyes flashing. "And I remember a BRAVE Gryffindor who turned a blind eye to it! Who let that boy suffer, as long as it suited his plans!"
A sharp, painful silence fell.
Then, Minerva turned on her heel and marched down the corridor, fury radiating from her as she stormed ahead down the corridor.
Albus stood there, frozen.
Arthur hesitated before stepping beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Are you all right, Dumbledore?"
Albus did not answer.
Instead, his hand found the inside of his robes, pressing over his heart.
There, just beneath the fabric, Severus's wand rested.
He closed his eyes.
"I still have time."
As they neared the bare stretch of wall, Albus stopped abruptly.
Slowly, he reached out and pressed his palm against the cold stone.
"Open up to me," he whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then -
A flash of emerald fire ignited, words burning into the stone, curling into existence with a slow, deliberate hiss:
"Serpens Loquitur, Ianua Aperitur."
The serpentine letters writhed like living things, flickering in eerie green flame before settling into place.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Sirius frowned, his wand clenched at his side. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"
Minerva took a slow step forward, tilting her head. "It's Latin," she murmured. "The serpent speaks, the door opens."
Pomona inhaled sharply. "A riddle?"
Filius let out a small huff. "And people complain about my Ravenclaw passwords," he muttered dryly.
Jonathan studied the words, intrigued. "Do we have to speak in Parseltongue to open it?"
Remus rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "Not all Slytherins are Parselmouths. That wouldn't be practical."
Jonathan nodded. "Well, we do know Slughorn was Head of House. Why don't we just ask him?"
Minerva let out an indignant huff, crossing her arms. "Because that useless walrus - " she caught herself, took a sharp breath, then continued in a clipped tone, " - was so devoted to his students that he never once bothered to ask Severus what the password was. Nor, apparently, did he feel the need to visit them once the entire year."
Her lips pressed into a tight line.
Pomona turned to Filius, sighing. "Do you have any idea?"
Filius adjusted his glasses, thinking. "Well… the riddle states that when the serpent speaks, the door will open. That likely means it's tied to Slytherin ideology rather than a language."
The group listened carefully as he continued.
"We all know Slytherins value ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness. But they are also intensely protective of their own. If this was set by Severus, it must reflect something personal to him."
Sirius snorted. "So what? Is the answer 'Eternal Grease'?"
Minerva shot him a glare.
Filius ignored him, continuing, "I believe the answer is one of three things:
Friend of the Serpent (Amicus Draco). A phrase that plays on both Slytherin's symbol and their secretive nature.
Pureblood (Sanguis Purus), reflecting Salazar's original vision - though I doubt Severus would use that.
Or something far more personal."
The group fell silent.
Albus kept his palm pressed against the stone, murmuring the first option.
"Amicus Draco."
Nothing.
He tried the second.
"Sanguis Purus."
Silence.
Arthur stepped closer, studying the shimmering letters. "Albus, do you have any idea?"
But Albus did not answer.
He simply stared at the inscription, his mind turning, unraveling, reaching.
Filius's words echoed in his head.
"Something far more personal…"
Jonathan and Timothy sat down, waiting.
Pomona whispered something to Filius about how at least Slytherins didn't have a three-guess limit, unlike Ravenclaws.
Sirius scowled, pacing. "Look, this is getting ridiculous. Let's just find a former Slytherin and make them talk."
Pomona snorted. "You think a Slytherin would betray another Slytherin? You might as well ask a Dementor for a hug."
Remus sighed. "Shouldn't Dumbledore be able to override this as Headmaster?"
Filius shook his head. "Normally, yes. But whatever this magic is… it's unlike anything we've seen. It's interfering with the castle's entire enchantment system. Even Dumbledore is being locked out."
Albus's fingers twitched.
And suddenly -
It clicked.
He drew in a sharp breath.
Of course.
A whisper - soft, hoarse - escaped his lips.
"It shines in darkness."
Minerva blinked. "What?"
Albus turned, his blue eyes glistening.
He swallowed thickly. "We were discussing Umbridge once, and Severus scoffed that she was unmistakably cunning - but, he said, she lacked something that true Slytherins valued most."
Minerva's breath hitched.
"'A light in the shadows,' he called it. Cunning in Slytherin is not mere deception - it is guidance. It is finding a way when none exists. It is knowledge and mastery over the unknown."
His voice wavered.
"Severus set this test. And if he set it - "
His lips parted.
And then, with utter certainty, he said:
"In Tenebris Lucet."
It shines in darkness.
The flames roared.
The stone shuddered.
And then -
The walls split apart, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room.
As the walls rumbled apart, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room, the group instinctively stepped forward, their wands raised cautiously.
But the moment they crossed the threshold, their breath caught.
The chamber was magnificent.
A vast, grand hall stretched before them, its arched ceiling enchanted to resemble the depths of a dark, emerald-green ocean. Light rippled like water across the high stone walls, casting shifting shadows that moved like serpents slithering through an ancient, submerged world.
The walls themselves were adorned with intricate silver filigree, ancient runes curling and twisting like vines of ivy - enchanted, whispering faintly in an unintelligible language. Emerald and onyx banners bearing the crest of Slytherin House hung from great pillars, shimmering as if woven with threads of moonlight.
A grand fireplace, larger than any in the castle, sat at the far end of the room, its flames an eerie shade of blue-green, casting flickering light over the polished obsidian floors. The chairs and sofas were made of the finest dark green velvet, their frames carved from rich mahogany, each one bearing delicate silver snake motifs.
A massive, circular glass window overlooked the depths of the Black Lake, where shadows of creatures moved beyond the enchanted glass - long, twisting forms that flickered past like ghosts of the abyss.
The room was hauntingly beautiful - powerful, regal, untouched by time.
No one spoke.
Even Sirius, who had been ready to throw out another sarcastic remark, was silent.
Minerva took a slow step forward, her fingers grazing the cool leather of an armchair, its deep green cushions plush under her touch.
She had never set foot here before.
For years, she had imagined what it must look like - had conjured up images of dark, cold stone, an unwelcoming, hostile place where children were taught to be ruthless from the moment they arrived.
But this?
This was grandeur.
This was history.
This was home.
Her eyes flickered to the great hearth, to the cluster of seats around it, where so many generations of students had gathered over the centuries - laughing, learning, arguing, plotting.
Her breath hitched.
Severus had once sat here.
A small, pale boy, barely ten years old, had walked into this very room - dressed in secondhand robes, with a face too thin, too serious for a child.
She could see it now.
The way he would have hesitated at the entrance, his sharp black eyes taking in every detail, searching for threats, for traps, for signs that he did not belong.
The way he would have drawn his shoulders up, steeling himself against whatever lay ahead.
The way he would have chosen a quiet corner, watching, observing, learning.
She let out a soft breath and traced her fingers along the edge of a small study desk, carved elegantly with silver ivy.
"Minerva?"
She turned.
Albus was watching her carefully, his expression unreadable.
She shook her head. "He was just a boy, Albus. A boy who walked into this room alone and left it a man."
Her voice wavered.
"How many brave Slytherins have we failed?"
Albus did not answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
And no answer would ever be enough.
Minerva wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her trembling hand, hastily pushing her glasses back into place. Her breath was ragged, her usual composure fractured beyond repair.
Albus, still kneeling, whispered gently, "We will get it right."
Then, he rose, stepping toward the very heart of the common room. The magic surged here - it was almost tangible, thick in the air, pressing against his skin like a living force.
The others instinctively followed, forming a loose circle around him, backs turned outward, wands raised.
Albus inhaled deeply. "On the count of three."
His voice was steady, but something in his chest twisted with unease.
"One... two... three - Finite Incantatem!"
The spell erupted outward, colliding with the unseen force.
And then -
A sound.
A sound so faint, so fleeting, that Albus almost thought he had imagined it.
A moan.
Barely a whisper. A ragged, pained breath - gone before his mind could register it.
And then the world exploded.
The force lashed out, sending Albus hurtling backward. His body collided with a heavy oak table, the impact sending a cascade of books crashing to the floor. Filius was thrown upward, striking the ceiling before crumpling onto a settee. Pomona was flung back against the entrance, her head knocking against the stone archway. Minerva was launched into the fireplace, her robes catching ash as she hit the stone with a painful gasp. Arthur and the others followed, some crashing into furniture, others slamming into the windows with bone-rattling force.
Albus's vision went black.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then -
A frantic, desperate voice.
"Albus! Wake up - please, Albus, he needs us! Come on, old man!"
A pair of hands shook him - hard.
Albus's eyes cracked open, his skull pulsing with pain. His breath was uneven, and he could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His surroundings swam in and out of focus.
Through the haze, Minerva's face came into view.
Her hair had come loose from its bun, strands clinging to her face. A deep, bleeding gash ran down her hand, smearing crimson against her grey-stained robes. But it was her eyes that struck him hardest - wide, red-rimmed, her usually sharp gaze clouded with panic. Tears streamed freely down her face.
Albus had never - never - seen Minerva like this.
Something was terribly wrong.
Ignoring the ache in his ribs, he forced himself up, gripping her arms for balance. "Minerva, what is it? Are you hurt?"
She didn't answer. She only pointed.
Albus followed her gaze - and his blood ran cold.
A patronus stood in the middle of the room.
A black bird.
Madam Pomfrey's patronus.
Albus's stomach clenched. His breath caught in his throat.
The bird opened its beak, and Poppy's voice, sharp with barely contained panic, echoed through the room:
"Albus, Minerva - you must come at once. Severus is not stable.
He might not hold on much longer."
Silence.
The bird dissolved into nothingness.
Minerva snapped.
"MOVE, YOU BLOODY OLD COOT! MOVE!"
She was already gone - bolting out the door, her tattered robes billowing behind her.
Albus stood frozen, staring at the place where the patronus had vanished.
The room was utterly silent.
Then -
"Severus," Albus whispered. His voice was barely a breath.
The magic.
The force resisting them.
It wasn't a threat.
It wasn't attacking Hogwarts.
It was protecting it.
Severus.
Severus.
"I heard him," Albus choked out, his hands clenching at his robes. "I heard him moan in pain when we cast the counter-curse. I didn't realize it was him." He exhaled shakily. "This magic - it's not meant to harm Hogwarts. It's meant to shield it. The reason even a Headmaster cannot enter the common rooms is because Severus was afraid. He feared that Voldemort would force him to deliver children to their deaths."
The words felt like lead in his mouth.
"So he did the only thing he could. He sealed Hogwarts away from himself."
His voice broke.
"And now - this magic is feeding from him."
The truth settled over them like a heavy weight.
No one spoke.
No one could.
The realization was suffocating.
Then -
Albus moved.
He needed to end this.
"Where's my wand?" he demanded, eyes scanning the wreckage.
But it was nowhere in sight.
His pulse pounded. He couldn't afford to waste time looking.
And then -
His fingers brushed against the inside of his robes.
Against a second wand.
Severus's wand.
The weight of it burned against his palm.
For a moment, Albus did not breathe.
Perhaps this was the way.
Perhaps Severus's magic would only answer to him.
He drew the wand from his robes, its smooth ebony surface catching the dim light of the Slytherin common room.
"Everyone," he said, his voice low but steady. "Form a circle. This time - pour everything into it."
They did not question him.
As one, they lifted their wands.
And Albus - **with Severus's wand in hand - **spoke.
"Finite Incantatem."
---------‐--------
Minerva bolted through the corridors, her feline form a blur of fur and desperation.
Paintings gasped, ghosts swirled in confusion, and paintings - those still awake - turned their heads in bewilderment. Minerva McGonagall - the unshakable, unflappable deputy headmistress - was running as hell itself chased her.
But she didn't care.
The oxygen burned in her lungs, her heartbeat pounded furiously in her ears, but still, she ran. She didn't even stop to wonder why Albus had stayed behind.
Right now, there was only one thing that mattered.
Severus.
The moment she reached the infirmary doors, she transformed back, not bothering to catch her breath. She slashed her wand through the air before her feet had even touched the ground, throwing the heavy doors open with a force that rattled the walls.
She sprinted past rows of empty beds, barely noticing them, barely registering anything at all - until she saw him.
And her world stopped.
Severus was convulsing violently, his body writhing against the restraints binding his wrists and ankles to the bed.
Poppy was struggling to hold him down, her face twisted with effort, her eyes wild with helplessness.
His mouth foamed white. His unseeing eyes were wide open - staring - but completely void of life, rolled back until only the whites were visible.
The sheets beneath him were soaked, damp creeping up the fabric from where he had lost control of his body. His head jerked back painfully, his spine arching, every muscle seizing in a cruel, merciless grip.
It was torture.
It was death in slow motion.
Minerva lunged forward without thinking. She grabbed Severus, hauling him into her arms as tightly as her battered, burning limbs would allow.
She rocked him, her chin pressed against his sweat-drenched hair, her lips brushing against his temple. Her hands clutched at his back as if she could anchor him, as if sheer force of will could keep him from slipping away.
A choked sob tore from her throat.
"Hush, my darling... hush. Everything will be all right."
She didn't know if it was a lie.
But she whispered it anyway.
She held him, rocking back and forth, just as a mother would to a child caught in a nightmare.
Her mind spiraled, memories crashing into her all at once.
- A tiny first-year with too-big robes and suspicious black eyes, questioning her lesson on day one.
- A boy, barely ten, furious and trembling, insisting she was wrong because his book - twenty years outdated - said otherwise.
- A young man, quiet and awkward, lurking at the back of the staffroom, flinching at the idea of casual conversation.
- A bitter teacher, still pretending he hated Quidditch, and yet always - always - watching from the stands, pretending not to care.
- A smirking man-child, purposefully placing the House Cup in the staffroom for days after Slytherin's victory, just to annoy her.
- A stubborn fool who called her "Mother Hen" when she added extra food to his plate.
- A chess partner who stuck out his tongue when he concentrated too hard, his nose scrunching in determination.
She remembered everything.
And now, she was losing him.
Severus gave one final, weak shudder.
Then - he stilled.
Minerva froze.
No, no, no -
She pulled back, her hands trembling as she frantically searched his face.
His body was limp.
His skin ashen, cold as ice.
His lips slightly parted, breathless.
Minerva's chest seized. She turned to Poppy, her eyes pleading, desperate.
But Poppy was shaking her head.
Tears streamed down the matron's face as she reached out and pulled Minerva into a tight embrace.
---------------------------
Albus sprinted up the staircase, the others close behind him.
His legs burned, his chest heaved, but he didn't stop - he couldn't stop.
The counter-curse had worked. He had felt it take hold.
So surely… surely Severus must be feeling better now…
They burst into the hospital wing -
And then -
He heard it.
A sound that made his breath catch in his throat.
A sound that tore through his very soul.
A scream.
A scream so raw, so filled with grief and despair, that the very walls seemed to tremble beneath its weight.
Minerva.
Albus's blood ran cold.
No.
No. No. No -
He reached the door to Severus's private chamber just in time to hear Minerva's sobs, followed by the sound of her calling Severus's name over and over again, as if saying it enough times would wake him.
Albus felt his knees buckle.
No.
Not his boy.
Not Severus.
-----------------------
The moment Minerva saw Albus, something inside her snapped.
With a guttural cry, she lunged at him, grabbing his collar, shaking him violently.
Then - she struck him.
Again.
And again.
Fists colliding against his chest, her breath coming in sharp, broken sobs.
"It was all your fault!" she screamed, her voice shaking with fury, with grief, with unbearable pain.
"You did this to him!"
Albus did not stop her.
Did not raise a hand to shield himself.
Did not move to defend.
Because he deserved this.
"Why didn't you trust me?!" she cried, her voice breaking.
Her nails dug into his robes, her eyes red with rage, with loss.
"Why didn't you tell me?!" she sobbed. "Why did you put all your miserable burdens on his shoulders?! Why, Albus?! Why?!"
Her body trembled violently.
Her breath came too fast, too ragged - she was struggling to breathe.
And then -
Her legs gave out.
Albus caught her before she collapsed, his hands firm but infinitely gentle as he lowered her to the ground.
She shook uncontrollably, her sobs muffled against his robes.
Remus, Sirius, Pomona, Arthur, Filius, and the others silently slipped out of the room, one by one, leaving them behind.
Each of them broken in their own way.
Each carrying the unbearable weight of regret.
Sirius sat on the hospital bench, head in his hands, remembering every cruel joke, every hex, every insult - every chance to be better that he had thrown away.
Remus closed his eyes, his fingers gripping his own arms as if he wanted to claw himself open.
He had stood on the sidelines while James and Sirius had tormented him.
Had watched and done nothing.
And in the end -
He had left Severus to bleed.
Not from wounds of war.
But from the scars they had carved into him long before it began.
Arthur sat silent and still, his hands clasped together, grief etched deep into his face.
Poppy stood at the far end of the wing, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her entire body shaking.
And Filius, usually so composed, so steady, wiped at his tear-streaked face, his small frame curled in on itself.
They all sat in silence, their grief heavy, their guilt suffocating.
But inside that room -
Inside that room, two people grieved as parents who had just lost their son.
And it was unbearable.
Minerva clutched at Albus's robes, her body wracked with sobs, her voice hoarse, shattered.
"I called him a coward," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her nails digging into the fabric of his cloak.
Albus's arms tightened around her.
"I fought with him," she choked out, shaking against him, as if she could shake the pain out of herself.
Her breath hitched.
"I - I drew my wand on him. I sent him curse after curse. But he never - he never fought back."
Albus's fingers twitched.
"He could have easily - easily - defeated me," she whispered.
"But he didn't."
She let out a shuddering breath.
"Instead - he just… redirected my spells. Away from me. Away from the others. Into the Death Eaters instead."
Her voice broke.
"And then - " she swallowed hard. "Then he simply… flew away."
Albus closed his eyes.
Minerva pulled back slightly, her bloodshot, tear-rimmed gaze meeting his.
"And after that…" her breath hitched, "I - I told Poppy not to give him healing potions."
Albus stiffened.
"I told her to let him suffer," Minerva whispered, her hands shaking.
A fresh wave of agony overtook her.
"I - I saw Horace slip something into his food." Her breath hitched violently. "And I pretended not to see."
Albus froze.
"He got sick," Minerva whispered, "so sick."
Her hands curled into fists, pounding weakly against Albus's chest.
"But he never said a word. He knew who had poisoned him. But he just - he just took it."
Her voice cracked beyond repair.
"He never even came to the staffroom. He said he didn't want to make us uncomfortable with his presence."
Albus felt something inside himself break beyond repair.
Minerva collapsed into his chest, shaking violently.
"It's your fault," she sobbed, her fists pounding against him, weaker now, breaking apart. "All of it - all of it!"
Albus let her.
Let her hit him.
Let her blame him.
Because she was right.
Because he deserved it.
But then -
A sound ripped through the air.
A low, pained moan.