Severus first woke to the unmistakable sound of an argument. Worse yet, an argument featuring none other than the Golden Boy himself.
Oh, for Merlin's sake. He was in hell. That was the only explanation.
How else could he wake up to the self-important prattling of Harry Potter, who, judging by the volume and sheer sanctimoniousness of his voice, was once again having a personal crisis?
"I have to do this. I have to win. I have to save Ginny. I have to find the Philosopher's Stone. I have to be different."
Severus nearly gagged. Merlin, the boy never shut up, did he?
But then he realized - he couldn't see him. In fact, Minerva, Poppy, and Dumbledore himself were standing in front of him, their backs blocking his view.
Wait.
Dumbledore?
That meant - Voldemort was dead.
Wait. Minerva. Was she alright? From the back, she looked intact. So how was Potter still alive?
Had he gone back in time? Was this some dreaded parallel universe where the Dark Lord had somehow failed again, and Potter was still his insufferable self?
Merlin's beard, if he could just get that boy to shut up -
At that moment, Minerva's posture shifted - she had gone completely rigid. And then, suddenly, she turned.
Severus blinked.
Her already feline-like features had sharpened even more, her green eyes wider than usual.
Oh, wonderful. She was getting even more cat-like by the second. Perhaps in another minute, she'd start hissing at him.
Severus gave her a blank stare, fighting the urge to raise a brow and say, "What? You enjoy the view, witch?"
But then he caught Dumbledore's expression.
Something was wrong.
Severus felt a prickle of unease. The old man's blue eyes had lost their infuriating twinkle and were instead wide with shock.
Severus felt his stomach drop.
Oh, don't tell me.
Dumbledore. The Great Albus Dumbledore. Was he about to have a heart attack over his Potions Master simply waking up? Honestly.
It wasn't his fault that his mere existence was too much for mortal minds to handle. But seriously, why were they looking at him like that?
And now Poppy Pomfrey had joined the staring contest, her normally unshakeable face pale and bordering on petrified.
And still - Potter was rambling on.
Enough.
Severus inhaled sharply, preparing to unleash his most withering, soul-crushing tone, the one that could strike fear into the bravest Gryffindor.
"Po? er? shu? up."
The moment the garbled, rasping mess left his throat, the entire room froze.
Severus felt his own skin crawl at the sound.
What in Salazar's name was wrong with his voice?
Pain shot through his throat, and before he could react, he instinctively tried to raise a hand to grasp at his neck.
Only -
He couldn't.
Not an inch.
Panic flooded his veins.
He tried again - nothing.
Something was wrong.
No - something was very wrong.
Severus could feel the weight of his own body pressing against the mattress, but he couldn't feel his limbs. Not truly. They were there - he was certain of that much - but when he tried to move, when he tried to lift even a single finger, his body did not obey.
His breath hitched.
No.
No.
His mind screamed at his arms, his legs - anything - to move, but it was like trying to wade through thick, invisible chains wrapped around his bones. There was no resistance, no struggle - just nothing.
He wasn't paralyzed - was he?
A shuddering, painful gasp wrenched from his throat as he tried again, desperation taking hold. But still - nothing.
His fingers didn't twitch. His legs didn't shift. His lungs burned as his breathing became shallow, frantic, his ribs rising and falling far too quickly.
He was trapped.
He couldn't move.
Severus Snape, who had spent his entire life keeping himself in absolute control, who had stood before the Dark Lord himself and never faltered, was helpless.
The horror of it sank into his bones like a slow, creeping poison.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, his panic skyrocketing, his mind spiraling -
I can't move.
I can't move.
I can't move.
He barely registered the hands pressing lightly against his chest.
And then -
Pain.
A sharp, white-hot dagger of agony shot through his ribs, slicing through his already labored breathing. He choked on a breath, his body **jerking - **or at least, it should have.
He wanted to curl into himself, to flinch away from the pressure on his chest - but his body refused to respond.
The sheer wrongness of it sent a wave of sickness roiling in his gut.
Poppy's voice was saying something - low, urgent - but he couldn't process the words.
He couldn't focus.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
This was worse than the Cruciatus Curse.
With that curse, there was movement - there was something. A reaction, a scream, a convulsion.
But this - this was nothingness.
He was a prisoner inside his own skin.
Severus Snape, who had survived the Dark Lord himself, could not move so much as a finger.
Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
He didn't even register how Dumbledore suddenly sprang into action, his long robes billowing as he swiftly ushered everyone else out of the room.
He didn't notice the panic flickering behind Minerva's sharp features or the way Poppy took a bracing breath, steeling herself.
He barely heard the door snap shut, cutting off Potter's persistent whining.
All he could focus on was the fact that he was not himself. He was not strong. He was not in control.
And that was very, very bad.
Poppy, sensing his rising distress, moved forward swiftly, her usual unshakable professionalism settling over her like armor.
"Severus, I need you to breathe," she instructed gently.
Her hands pressed lightly against his chest, and -
Pain.
Severus choked on a breath as a sharp, searing agony shot through him.
His already labored breathing hitched, and a fresh wave of dread coiled in his stomach.
Dumbledore's face, usually infuriatingly unreadable, flashed with something dark and knowing.
Minerva's lips thinned into a line, and she looked away, jaw clenched.
Because this - this was exactly what Albus had feared.
An angry Severus Snape was manageable. A furious, snapping, sarcastic Severus - even a vengeful Severus - those were familiar battles.
But a scared Severus Snape?
That was something else entirely.
Severus stared at Poppy Pomfrey with wide, horrified eyes, the deep black of his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the whites.
She was trying to kill him.
That was the only possible explanation.
He knew it now.
Dumbledore hadn't read the letter.
They all hated him.
They'd always hated him.
They had let him suffer - enjoyed watching him suffer. And now they were only waiting for him to wake up so they could hand him over to the Dementors.
Harry Potter. That brat had probably volunteered to do it himself.
A rush of memories hit him all at once.
Poppy had said it herself, hadn't she?
I have nothing to do with those who threaten the lives of students, Headmaster Snape.
The words echoed through his mind, louder than Potter's endless whining had been just moments ago.
She had refused him. Refused him.
He had asked for a simple potion - a remedy for the poison Slughorn had laced into his food - and she had denied him.
Minerva's cold, unforgiving stare, the way she had looked through him - not at him, as though he weren't even worth her time. She had called him a coward. Had dueled him, had looked at him as if he were something lower than filth - something so wretched that she would gladly see him dead.
Merlin, how could he have been so blind?
He remembered the way rooms emptied the moment he entered. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence. The way they turned their faces away, as if the mere sight of him was disgusting.
His chest heaved, his mind spiraling -
He couldn't breathe.
It hurt.
Merlin, it hurt.
He couldn't do this. Not again.
Poppy, sensing that nothing was calming Severus's agitated breathing or the way his eyes darted wildly, made a snap decision.
She summoned a vial of Calming Draught with a flick of her wand, her usual no-nonsense efficiency overtaking the rare tremor in her fingers.
"Severus, you need to drink this," she said quickly, uncorking the bottle and tilting it toward his lips.
That was a mistake.
The second the unknown liquid neared his mouth, Severus completely lost control.
A terrified, raw sound tore from his throat as he flinched violently, tears spilling down his face in full, unrestrained
Poppy's hands moved toward him - toward his throat, his mouth -
His body reacted on instinct.
He wrenched his head away, a hoarse, garbled cry spilling from his lips as he tried to move - tried to fight - tried to escape -
But he couldn't.
He couldn't move.
Not an inch.
Not a finger.
Merlin, why couldn't he move?
The sheer terror of it was worse than the Cruciatus Curse.
Poppy's face blurred in and out of focus. She was speaking - but he couldn't hear her. Couldn't hear anything past the roar of blood rushing in his ears.
His vision tunneled.
He was going to die here.
Or worse - worse, they were going to send him to Azkaban, leave him to rot in a cell, leave him at their mercy until the Dementors finally came to -
Something cold pressed against his lips.
A bottle.
A potion.
His body seized.
No.
No - NO!
He thrashed as much as he was able, tears spilling down his face, sheer terror overriding everything else.
Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth, her fingers trembling as if she could physically force herself not to cry.
Watching Severus Snape reduced to this, broken, afraid, so impossibly small - it was more painful than any torture she had ever witnessed.
He had seen Minerva furious, had seen her hateful, had felt the sharp sting of her spells hurled against him in battle. But he had never seen her like this.
She was crying.
For him.
Severus barely registered it.
Poppy was pinching his nose shut, trying to force his mouth open - trying to pour the potion down his throat -
Albus's expression darkened.
This wasn't just distress.
Severus was scared of them.
His people.
His colleagues.
His friends.
Dumbledore gently but firmly moved Poppy aside. She had resorted to pinching Severus's nose, trying to force his mouth open to get him to drink, but to no avail. Now, she stood helplessly, trying to soothe him with frantic, useless reassurances.
Albus took her place on the bed.
Severus flinched.
The Headmaster ignored it.
Instead, he placed one gentle, weathered hand over Severus's frantic, pounding heart.
He glanced at Minerva and Poppy, his voice low and steady.
"Take his hands."
They didn't hesitate.
Minerva grasped Severus's left hand, her own shockingly cold despite her outward composure.
Poppy took his right, her grip firm, but infinitely careful.
Albus closed his eyes.
Then, slowly, he began to channel his own energy, his presence steadying, his warmth spreading -
The effect was instantaneous.
The tremors wracking Severus's body lessened. His frantic, shallow gasps began to even out. His fingers twitched, then relaxed, no longer clenched into white-knuckled fists.
He felt it - that warmth. That steady, comforting warmth that had surrounded him when he was unconscious.
Familiar.
Safe.
Was this really - ?
His eyelids grew heavier, the sheer exhaustion pulling him under despite the anxiety still thrumming in his veins.
Albus watched carefully as the last of the tension eased from Severus's body, waiting - watching - until the younger wizard's breath evened out completely.
Only then did he exhale himself.
Minerva and Poppy exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them.
Poppy swallowed, looking at the man she had known for decades, now reduced to a wreck in her hospital bed.
"He thought?" she said, her voice breaking slightly, "?he thought we were going to hand him to the Dementors."
Minerva closed her eyes.
Dumbledore pressed his lips into a thin line. "I know."
And that, perhaps, was the most tragic part of all.
Albus exhaled slowly, his steadying hand slipping from Severus's chest as he made to stand.
He didn't get far.
The moment he shifted, a sharp wave of dizziness washed over him. He swayed - just slightly - but it did not go unnoticed.
"Albus?" Poppy's voice was sharp, concerned.
Dumbledore forced a tired smile. "I am - " He cut himself off, a tremor rippling through his fingers as he pressed his palm against the mattress to steady himself.
Not good.
A second later, Minerva's gaze snapped to him, her own distress momentarily forgotten.
"Albus." This time, it was a demand.
"I'm quite alright, my dear - "
His vision blurred. The candlelight flickered, twisting in and out of focus. His limbs suddenly felt too heavy, his very bones aching with exhaustion.
Too much.
Too much energy given.
Too much strain.
His knees buckled.
The great Albus Dumbledore, who had stood against Grindelwald, who had faced Voldemort himself without so much as a flinch - collapsed.
Poppy lunged forward just in time, catching his head before it struck the floor, her wand flashing as she conjured a cushioning charm beneath him.
"Albus!" she gasped, one hand already feeling for a pulse.
Minerva did not move.
She was still clutching Severus's left hand, frozen, her entire frame trembling as if she had been plunged into a snowfall.
"Minerva," Poppy called, more forceful this time. "Minerva, are you alright?"
No response.
Poppy swore under her breath and flicked her wand, lifting Dumbledore's unconscious form into the air. She could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her - Severus's condition, Dumbledore's reckless self-sacrifice, and now Minerva standing there like she'd seen a ghost.
"I'll be back," she muttered to herself, as much a reassurance as it was a promise. Then she turned sharply on her heel and left.
----------------------------
The hospital wing was silent, thick with the weight of too many unsaid things.
Some paced. Others sat stiff-backed, staring into nothing. A few exchanged hushed murmurs - but no one had answers.
And then the door slammed open.
Madam Pomfrey swept in like a storm, her wand raised, levitating none other than Albus Dumbledore to the nearest empty bed.
The collective gasp was immediate.
But she didn't see the way every head turned at once. Didn't notice their wide eyes or how jaws dropped in stunned disbelief.
She was too focused. Too angry. Too exhausted.
She had barely settled Dumbledore onto the mattress before Minerva McGonagall shoved past her.
One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other curled into a white-knuckled fist.
Her **composure - normally so unshakable - **was crumbling like parchment in a fire.
Without a word, without even glancing at anyone, she bolted.
A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed down the corridor.
The stunned silence didn't last.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Sirius Black's voice ripped through the room.
He had been waiting. Waiting for answers, for news, for anything.
But this - this was not what he'd expected.
Dumbledore, unconscious? McGonagall running?
Then - the room exploded into movement.
Molly Weasley bolted after Minerva, her voice rising in frantic concern.
Remus Lupin, who had been sitting quietly, frozen in deep thought, shot up from his chair and strode toward Poppy, urgency tightening his features.
"Tell me what I can do," he said, already rolling up his sleeves. His sharp gaze flicked between Poppy and the unconscious Headmaster. "A diagnostic spell? A stabilizing potion?"
Poppy barely acknowledged him.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed a hand to her forehead. "He's - he's exhausted, that's all. I need - " She cut off, inhaling sharply. "I need time."
Sirius, still rooted by the door, exhaled loudly.
"Right. That's it. Someone tell me what in Merlin's name is going on."
No one answered.
His frustration ignited.
"I don't like being left in the dark, Pomfrey," he snapped. His voice was sharp, demanding. "McGonagall just ran off looking like she's seen a bloody Dementor, you're patching up Dumbledore - what the hell happened?"
Nothing.
Not a word.
He took a step forward, his jaw clenched. "It's Snape, isn't it?"
Poppy inhaled sharply through her nose.
That name. Spoken so casually.
As if it didn't belong to the man barely alive in the next room.
Her fingers curled into fists. She turned daggers on Sirius, her voice low, trembling with anger.
"You - "
"STOP IT!"
Harry's voice cut through the air like a knife.
The entire room whipped around.
Harry stood in the center, his chest rising and falling in sharp, angry breaths.
His green eyes - Lily's eyes - were blazing.
"Madam Pomfrey," he said, his voice shaking but firm, "please. Tell us."
A beat of silence.
Poppy's shoulders sagged.
And then - in a voice so hoarse it barely reached above a whisper - she answered.
"He thought we were going to kill him."
The words dropped like a curse.
Harry's mouth fell open.
Sirius stilled.
Remus inhaled sharply, his face ghostly pale in the candlelight.
Even Arthur - who had been silent - went rigid.
"What?" Harry's voice cracked.
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut. Bracing herself.
"Severus?" She exhaled. And when she spoke again, her voice nearly broke.
"Severus truly believed we were going to hand him over to the Dementors. That we would - would let him suffer. Again."
The room froze.
The word 'again' sent ice through Harry's veins.
Something in his chest cracked open.
Sirius opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Remus pressed his lips into a thin line, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
And then -
A choked, panicked cry echoed from the hall.
Molly.
She stumbled back into the room, her face pale, her apron splattered with vomit.
"Poppy - she's not stopping," she gasped. "I need a potion - something to calm her - she's in a state."
Poppy snapped into action.
She grabbed the nearest medical kit, her hands shaking as she rifled through vials before pulling out two.
Calming Draught. And Stoppered-Stomach Elixir.
"Take this to her," she ordered, shoving them into Molly's hands. "Now."
Molly nodded once and rushed out.
The room was silent again.
Too silent.
Until -
Sirius let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Hell," he whispered.
No one disagreed.
Madam Pomfrey took a long, steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the nearest bedpost.
"Go home," she said at last. Her voice was flat, exhausted - but beneath it was something harder, something that left no room for argument.
No one moved.
Her nostrils flared, patience cracking.
"Did you hear me? Go home."
She didn't wait to see if they listened.
With a flick of her wand, she cast a warded alarm over Dumbledore's bed - if he stirred, she would know immediately.
Then, with another sharp movement, she locked Severus's room.
That was enough for now.
Everything else could wait.
Right now - right now, she had to find Minerva.
------------------------
Minerva barely made it around the corner before her stomach twisted violently.
She staggered, bracing herself against the cold stone wall.
Her vision swam.
Then, with a sharp, choked sound - she retched.
Her knees buckled.
A trembling hand slammed against the wall, the only thing keeping her from collapsing entirely.
Her stomach heaved again.
Nothing.
There was nothing left inside her.
Nothing but the searing, gnawing weight of guilt - grief - disgust.
Oh, Severus.
A warm hand touched her back, rubbing slow, steady circles.
Molly.
"Minerva, you need to stop this," she urged gently, pressing a cool cloth against her forehead. "You're shaking, dear."
Minerva didn't respond.
She couldn't.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, trying to breathe, trying to think - trying to do anything but collapse.
Molly bit her lip. Then, with a sudden, firm resolution, she stood.
"I'll be right back," she said briskly. "You need something before you make yourself worse."
Minerva barely registered the words.
Her entire world had narrowed to the crushing weight inside her chest.
Few minutes later Molly reached Minerva within seconds.
The older witch was still slumped against the wall, her entire frame trembling as she gagged and retched - but there was nothing left.
Nothing but gasping, empty heaves.
Molly knelt beside her immediately.
"Here, dear," she murmured, uncorking the Stoppered-Stomach Elixir and pressing it to Minerva's lips. "Drink."
Minerva lifted her head slightly, her vision blurred.
And then - her breath caught.
The potion.
It was such a simple thing - something Poppy gave out regularly, something the students took without thought.
But it wasn't just a potion.
It was a reminder.
Of him.
Of Severus.
Of every potion he had ever brewed for them.
Without complaint.
Without hesitation.
Without fail.
He had spent years creating cures, remedies, healing draughts - for them.
Even when they never thanked him.
Even when they barely acknowledged him.
And yet - when he had asked for one in return, thet had turned thire back.
"Tekl him you have nothing to do with those who threaten the lives of students, Headmaster Snape."
Her own words to Poppy echoed back at her like a curse.
Her throat tightened.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her.
Molly frowned. "Minerva?"
Minerva shook violently, staring at the vial.
Then, with a shuddering breath, she took it.
The potion soothed her throat, her stomach, the violent spasms easing.
But the shaking didn't stop.
Molly reached for the second vial - the Calming Draught.
"Just a sip," she urged gently.
Minerva took it without protest.
Her breath slowed.
Her muscles loosened.
But the moment the immediate nausea was gone -
The sobbing started.
A sound broke from Minerva's lips - a sharp, shattered thing.
A sob.
And then another.
The first real sobs she had allowed herself in decades.
She gripped her own robes, as if clutching them tightly would somehow keep herself from unraveling completely.
She should have seen it.
Should have known.
Should have done something.
But she hadn't.
She had stood there. Silent. Cold. Complicit.
And Severus had suffered alone.
A choked, broken moan of grief tore from her throat.
"Oh, my boy," she gasped.
Her voice fractured. Splintered apart like shattered glass.
"My Severus."
She rocked forward, shoulders trembling, hands curled into fists against her chest.
And for the first time in her life - she wept.
Not just for him.
For all of it.
For every moment she had misjudged him.
For every cold glance.
For every word she had thrown like a dagger.
For every year he had spent suffering in silence.
And then -
A shadow fell over her.
A warm presence knelt beside her.
A hand - gentle, steady, grounding - rested lightly on her shoulder.
Minerva lifted her head, her vision blurred with tears.
Poppy.
The mediwitch looked at her - really looked at her.
Minerva did not recognize the expression on her friend's face.
Not pity.
Not sorrow.
Something deeper.
Something that understood.
Then, without a word, Poppy wrapped an arm around her.
A moment later, Molly did the same.
They held her together.
Because if they didn't, she would fall apart completely.
--------------------
Albus Dumbledore woke with a pounding headache.
He blinked against the dim lighting, his mind sluggishly catching up to the events that had led him here. With a tired sigh, he reached for his glasses -
Only for a young hand to slip them gently into his palm.
"Here, sir," came a voice - unusually subdued.
Albus blinked, sliding the half-moon spectacles onto his nose, and found himself looking into the solemn face of George Weasley.
The utter lack of mischief in the boy's expression was the first thing that startled him.
"Ah," Dumbledore murmured, taking a moment to adjust them. "Thank you, George."
George managed a small, sad smile.
Fred appeared from behind the curtain, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual lopsided grin noticeably absent.
"Sir," Fred began hesitantly, "we're having dinner. Would you like to join us?"
Dumbledore inhaled, steadying himself.
In two sentences, he understood everything.
One - he had been unconscious for quite some time if dinner was already being served.
Two - Fred and George Weasley were here, which meant everyone else was, too.
Three - if the Weasley twins were completely without humor, then the situation was worse than he feared.
The weight of responsibility settled over him.
He had little time to be weak.
Severus had asked him - in his final letter, written with shaking hands and too much pain - to protect Hogwarts, to care for its students, and to ensure his most trusted people were safe.
His duty was not to rest. His duty was to be strong.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly and rose to his feet.
"Well," he said lightly, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the exhaustion, "if you two haven't found a way to sneak in some treacle tart while no one was looking, I must say I am severely disappointed."
Fred blinked.
George's mouth twitched.
And there it was - the tiniest flicker of normality.
Dumbledore allowed himself a small, knowing smile.
Then, he openedthe curtains.
And when he stepped through -
He was met with the most shocking sight of his life.
A long wooden table had been set up in the middle of the hospital wing, surrounded by almost everyone he knew.
The entire Weasley family was present - Arthur, Molly, Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins, Ron, and Ginny - along with Poppy Pomfrey, Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger.
The wing was dimly lit, but a few enchanted candles floated above the table, casting a warm, flickering glow over the gathering.
The food - **homemade, steaming, and comforting - **was clearly not from the Hogwarts house-elves.
Scattered around the floor were battered old pots and pans, a few flour-covered spoons, and what looked suspiciously like a wooden rolling pin with a bite mark in it.
Ah.
Molly Weasley had cooked for everyone herself.
Albus **felt something tighten in his chest - **not from pain, but from the unmistakable warmth of being cared for.
He glanced around the table, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his closest allies.
And yet - something was missing.
"Minerva?" he asked, turning to Poppy.
The mediwitch sighed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"She was in no state to stay up," Poppy said quietly. "I gave her a few different doses of Calming Draught and a Sleeping Potion. She's in Severus's room, resting."
Silence.
A deep, heavy, aching kind of silence.
Some looked down at their hands.
Others shifted uncomfortably.
Harry was staring at the tablecloth as if he could burn a hole through it by sheer force of will.
Sirius was scowling at his plate.
Molly was fiddling with the hem of her apron.
The weight in the room was almost unbearable.
Which meant, of course, that it was Dumbledore's cue to say something absolutely ridiculous.
He clasped his hands behind his back, tilted his head in thought, and then - in the most solemn, serious voice he could muster -
"Well, my dear friends," he announced gravely, "I hate to be the bearer of yet another tragedy, but I have just realized a truly dire and deeply alarming fact."
Everyone froze.
Sirius's scowl deepened. Harry looked up sharply.
Poppy straightened.
"What is it?" Remus asked, his tone immediately tense.
Dumbledore inhaled deeply.
"I," he said, shaking his head sadly, "was not invited to the cooking process."
Silence.
A beat.
Then - a few snorts.
Fred's mouth twitched.
George let out a half-chuckle.
Ron, despite himself, gave a small, exasperated groan.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Molly huffed, rolling her eyes. "You'd have just gotten flour all over your beard."
"Ah, but flour adds character, Molly," Dumbledore countered wisely. "And I have it on good authority that I make an excellent bread kneader."
"You're full of it," Sirius grumbled, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words.
Dumbledore smiled knowingly.
There.
That was better.
The tension wasn't gone - not entirely.
But it had lightened.
And right now, lightness was desperately needed.
As the meal wound down, small conversations bubbled across the hospital wing - quiet, unhurried. There was talk of Quidditch, of the upcoming Hogwarts curriculum, of nothing in particular and everything at once. No one mentioned Severus. They didn't need to. The weight of his absence sat with them, unspoken but deeply felt.
Albus listened, his gaze sweeping the room. He had expected the gathering to disperse after dinner, for people to return to their common rooms, their quarters, their homes. But as Filius gave a small flick of his wand, vanishing the table and clearing the dishes, something unexpected happened.
No one moved to leave.
Instead, one by one, they drifted to the infirmary beds. Sirius stretched, muttering something about never getting a proper nap before clambering into one near the back. Remus rolled his eyes but followed suit, shaking his head as he pulled the hospital sheets over himself. Harry, Hermione, and Ron gathered into a single bed, whispering in hushed tones as they pulled the curtain around them. Molly and Arthur sat on the edge of a bed, quietly holding hands, watching over their children as though they were back at The Burrow. Even the Weasley twins, usually full of restless energy, simply settled into beds near the foot of Harry's, their usual mischief replaced by something softer - something determined.
No one left.
Not one person abandoned the hospital wing that night. Not one person abandoned him.
Severus Snape, a man once loathed, once dismissed, once thought undeserving of kindness, would not wake up alone.
They had hated him before, resented him, feared him. But tonight - tonight, they would stay. Tonight, they would fight for him.
Albus's eyes twinkled, his heart aching with a quiet sort of pride. They had come together not out of obligation, nor guilt, but because they chose to.
With a small, knowing smile, he turned away from the sight and walked toward the sanctuary of Severus's room. The heavy door was slightly ajar, cracked open just enough for candlelight to spill through, flickering softly in the dimness.
Stepping inside, Albus's breath caught.
Severus was fast asleep, his thin frame still and barely rising with each breath. His face, which so often carried tension, was peaceful now, caught in the rare mercy of true rest. But it was not the stillness of the Potions Master that caused Albus's lips to curl into a bittersweet smile.
It was the small tabby cat curled into the crook of his neck.
Minerva.
She had taken her feline form, nestling herself into the small gap between Severus's shoulder and his jaw, her fur barely shifting with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Her tiny body was a shield, a silent promise: I am here. I will not leave you.
Albus let out a quiet breath, warmth flooding through him.
Gently, he pulled a chair beside the bed, sinking into it with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into the bones. Reaching out, he clasped Severus's cold hand in his own, rubbing slow circles with his thumb, as though his touch alone could tether the younger man to the world a little longer.
Then, with the other hand, he retrieved his book from the small table beside the bed - the one he had started that morning before everything had collapsed.
Turning the page, he settled in, his voice barely above a whisper as he resumed where he had left off.
He would keep watch.
He would read.
And tonight, in this quiet sanctuary, Severus would not be alone.
Not anymore.
_________________________________
Author's Note:
This chapter was one of the most emotional to write, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! What moment stood out to you the most? Was there a line or reaction that hit you particularly hard? Let me know in the comments - I truly appreciate every bit of feedback!
If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to leave a like! Your support keeps me motivated and helps this story grow.
Thank you for reading - your thoughts and encouragement mean the world!
Oh, for Merlin's sake. He was in hell. That was the only explanation.
How else could he wake up to the self-important prattling of Harry Potter, who, judging by the volume and sheer sanctimoniousness of his voice, was once again having a personal crisis?
"I have to do this. I have to win. I have to save Ginny. I have to find the Philosopher's Stone. I have to be different."
Severus nearly gagged. Merlin, the boy never shut up, did he?
But then he realized - he couldn't see him. In fact, Minerva, Poppy, and Dumbledore himself were standing in front of him, their backs blocking his view.
Wait.
Dumbledore?
That meant - Voldemort was dead.
Wait. Minerva. Was she alright? From the back, she looked intact. So how was Potter still alive?
Had he gone back in time? Was this some dreaded parallel universe where the Dark Lord had somehow failed again, and Potter was still his insufferable self?
Merlin's beard, if he could just get that boy to shut up -
At that moment, Minerva's posture shifted - she had gone completely rigid. And then, suddenly, she turned.
Severus blinked.
Her already feline-like features had sharpened even more, her green eyes wider than usual.
Oh, wonderful. She was getting even more cat-like by the second. Perhaps in another minute, she'd start hissing at him.
Severus gave her a blank stare, fighting the urge to raise a brow and say, "What? You enjoy the view, witch?"
But then he caught Dumbledore's expression.
Something was wrong.
Severus felt a prickle of unease. The old man's blue eyes had lost their infuriating twinkle and were instead wide with shock.
Severus felt his stomach drop.
Oh, don't tell me.
Dumbledore. The Great Albus Dumbledore. Was he about to have a heart attack over his Potions Master simply waking up? Honestly.
It wasn't his fault that his mere existence was too much for mortal minds to handle. But seriously, why were they looking at him like that?
And now Poppy Pomfrey had joined the staring contest, her normally unshakeable face pale and bordering on petrified.
And still - Potter was rambling on.
Enough.
Severus inhaled sharply, preparing to unleash his most withering, soul-crushing tone, the one that could strike fear into the bravest Gryffindor.
"Po? er? shu? up."
The moment the garbled, rasping mess left his throat, the entire room froze.
Severus felt his own skin crawl at the sound.
What in Salazar's name was wrong with his voice?
Pain shot through his throat, and before he could react, he instinctively tried to raise a hand to grasp at his neck.
Only -
He couldn't.
Not an inch.
Panic flooded his veins.
He tried again - nothing.
Something was wrong.
No - something was very wrong.
Severus could feel the weight of his own body pressing against the mattress, but he couldn't feel his limbs. Not truly. They were there - he was certain of that much - but when he tried to move, when he tried to lift even a single finger, his body did not obey.
His breath hitched.
No.
No.
His mind screamed at his arms, his legs - anything - to move, but it was like trying to wade through thick, invisible chains wrapped around his bones. There was no resistance, no struggle - just nothing.
He wasn't paralyzed - was he?
A shuddering, painful gasp wrenched from his throat as he tried again, desperation taking hold. But still - nothing.
His fingers didn't twitch. His legs didn't shift. His lungs burned as his breathing became shallow, frantic, his ribs rising and falling far too quickly.
He was trapped.
He couldn't move.
Severus Snape, who had spent his entire life keeping himself in absolute control, who had stood before the Dark Lord himself and never faltered, was helpless.
The horror of it sank into his bones like a slow, creeping poison.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts, his panic skyrocketing, his mind spiraling -
I can't move.
I can't move.
I can't move.
He barely registered the hands pressing lightly against his chest.
And then -
Pain.
A sharp, white-hot dagger of agony shot through his ribs, slicing through his already labored breathing. He choked on a breath, his body **jerking - **or at least, it should have.
He wanted to curl into himself, to flinch away from the pressure on his chest - but his body refused to respond.
The sheer wrongness of it sent a wave of sickness roiling in his gut.
Poppy's voice was saying something - low, urgent - but he couldn't process the words.
He couldn't focus.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't breathe.
This was worse than the Cruciatus Curse.
With that curse, there was movement - there was something. A reaction, a scream, a convulsion.
But this - this was nothingness.
He was a prisoner inside his own skin.
Severus Snape, who had survived the Dark Lord himself, could not move so much as a finger.
Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
He didn't even register how Dumbledore suddenly sprang into action, his long robes billowing as he swiftly ushered everyone else out of the room.
He didn't notice the panic flickering behind Minerva's sharp features or the way Poppy took a bracing breath, steeling herself.
He barely heard the door snap shut, cutting off Potter's persistent whining.
All he could focus on was the fact that he was not himself. He was not strong. He was not in control.
And that was very, very bad.
Poppy, sensing his rising distress, moved forward swiftly, her usual unshakable professionalism settling over her like armor.
"Severus, I need you to breathe," she instructed gently.
Her hands pressed lightly against his chest, and -
Pain.
Severus choked on a breath as a sharp, searing agony shot through him.
His already labored breathing hitched, and a fresh wave of dread coiled in his stomach.
Dumbledore's face, usually infuriatingly unreadable, flashed with something dark and knowing.
Minerva's lips thinned into a line, and she looked away, jaw clenched.
Because this - this was exactly what Albus had feared.
An angry Severus Snape was manageable. A furious, snapping, sarcastic Severus - even a vengeful Severus - those were familiar battles.
But a scared Severus Snape?
That was something else entirely.
Severus stared at Poppy Pomfrey with wide, horrified eyes, the deep black of his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the whites.
She was trying to kill him.
That was the only possible explanation.
He knew it now.
Dumbledore hadn't read the letter.
They all hated him.
They'd always hated him.
They had let him suffer - enjoyed watching him suffer. And now they were only waiting for him to wake up so they could hand him over to the Dementors.
Harry Potter. That brat had probably volunteered to do it himself.
A rush of memories hit him all at once.
Poppy had said it herself, hadn't she?
I have nothing to do with those who threaten the lives of students, Headmaster Snape.
The words echoed through his mind, louder than Potter's endless whining had been just moments ago.
She had refused him. Refused him.
He had asked for a simple potion - a remedy for the poison Slughorn had laced into his food - and she had denied him.
Minerva's cold, unforgiving stare, the way she had looked through him - not at him, as though he weren't even worth her time. She had called him a coward. Had dueled him, had looked at him as if he were something lower than filth - something so wretched that she would gladly see him dead.
Merlin, how could he have been so blind?
He remembered the way rooms emptied the moment he entered. The way conversations cut off mid-sentence. The way they turned their faces away, as if the mere sight of him was disgusting.
His chest heaved, his mind spiraling -
He couldn't breathe.
It hurt.
Merlin, it hurt.
He couldn't do this. Not again.
Poppy, sensing that nothing was calming Severus's agitated breathing or the way his eyes darted wildly, made a snap decision.
She summoned a vial of Calming Draught with a flick of her wand, her usual no-nonsense efficiency overtaking the rare tremor in her fingers.
"Severus, you need to drink this," she said quickly, uncorking the bottle and tilting it toward his lips.
That was a mistake.
The second the unknown liquid neared his mouth, Severus completely lost control.
A terrified, raw sound tore from his throat as he flinched violently, tears spilling down his face in full, unrestrained
Poppy's hands moved toward him - toward his throat, his mouth -
His body reacted on instinct.
He wrenched his head away, a hoarse, garbled cry spilling from his lips as he tried to move - tried to fight - tried to escape -
But he couldn't.
He couldn't move.
Not an inch.
Not a finger.
Merlin, why couldn't he move?
The sheer terror of it was worse than the Cruciatus Curse.
Poppy's face blurred in and out of focus. She was speaking - but he couldn't hear her. Couldn't hear anything past the roar of blood rushing in his ears.
His vision tunneled.
He was going to die here.
Or worse - worse, they were going to send him to Azkaban, leave him to rot in a cell, leave him at their mercy until the Dementors finally came to -
Something cold pressed against his lips.
A bottle.
A potion.
His body seized.
No.
No - NO!
He thrashed as much as he was able, tears spilling down his face, sheer terror overriding everything else.
Minerva clapped a hand over her mouth, her fingers trembling as if she could physically force herself not to cry.
Watching Severus Snape reduced to this, broken, afraid, so impossibly small - it was more painful than any torture she had ever witnessed.
He had seen Minerva furious, had seen her hateful, had felt the sharp sting of her spells hurled against him in battle. But he had never seen her like this.
She was crying.
For him.
Severus barely registered it.
Poppy was pinching his nose shut, trying to force his mouth open - trying to pour the potion down his throat -
Albus's expression darkened.
This wasn't just distress.
Severus was scared of them.
His people.
His colleagues.
His friends.
Dumbledore gently but firmly moved Poppy aside. She had resorted to pinching Severus's nose, trying to force his mouth open to get him to drink, but to no avail. Now, she stood helplessly, trying to soothe him with frantic, useless reassurances.
Albus took her place on the bed.
Severus flinched.
The Headmaster ignored it.
Instead, he placed one gentle, weathered hand over Severus's frantic, pounding heart.
He glanced at Minerva and Poppy, his voice low and steady.
"Take his hands."
They didn't hesitate.
Minerva grasped Severus's left hand, her own shockingly cold despite her outward composure.
Poppy took his right, her grip firm, but infinitely careful.
Albus closed his eyes.
Then, slowly, he began to channel his own energy, his presence steadying, his warmth spreading -
The effect was instantaneous.
The tremors wracking Severus's body lessened. His frantic, shallow gasps began to even out. His fingers twitched, then relaxed, no longer clenched into white-knuckled fists.
He felt it - that warmth. That steady, comforting warmth that had surrounded him when he was unconscious.
Familiar.
Safe.
Was this really - ?
His eyelids grew heavier, the sheer exhaustion pulling him under despite the anxiety still thrumming in his veins.
Albus watched carefully as the last of the tension eased from Severus's body, waiting - watching - until the younger wizard's breath evened out completely.
Only then did he exhale himself.
Minerva and Poppy exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them.
Poppy swallowed, looking at the man she had known for decades, now reduced to a wreck in her hospital bed.
"He thought?" she said, her voice breaking slightly, "?he thought we were going to hand him to the Dementors."
Minerva closed her eyes.
Dumbledore pressed his lips into a thin line. "I know."
And that, perhaps, was the most tragic part of all.
Albus exhaled slowly, his steadying hand slipping from Severus's chest as he made to stand.
He didn't get far.
The moment he shifted, a sharp wave of dizziness washed over him. He swayed - just slightly - but it did not go unnoticed.
"Albus?" Poppy's voice was sharp, concerned.
Dumbledore forced a tired smile. "I am - " He cut himself off, a tremor rippling through his fingers as he pressed his palm against the mattress to steady himself.
Not good.
A second later, Minerva's gaze snapped to him, her own distress momentarily forgotten.
"Albus." This time, it was a demand.
"I'm quite alright, my dear - "
His vision blurred. The candlelight flickered, twisting in and out of focus. His limbs suddenly felt too heavy, his very bones aching with exhaustion.
Too much.
Too much energy given.
Too much strain.
His knees buckled.
The great Albus Dumbledore, who had stood against Grindelwald, who had faced Voldemort himself without so much as a flinch - collapsed.
Poppy lunged forward just in time, catching his head before it struck the floor, her wand flashing as she conjured a cushioning charm beneath him.
"Albus!" she gasped, one hand already feeling for a pulse.
Minerva did not move.
She was still clutching Severus's left hand, frozen, her entire frame trembling as if she had been plunged into a snowfall.
"Minerva," Poppy called, more forceful this time. "Minerva, are you alright?"
No response.
Poppy swore under her breath and flicked her wand, lifting Dumbledore's unconscious form into the air. She could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on her - Severus's condition, Dumbledore's reckless self-sacrifice, and now Minerva standing there like she'd seen a ghost.
"I'll be back," she muttered to herself, as much a reassurance as it was a promise. Then she turned sharply on her heel and left.
----------------------------
The hospital wing was silent, thick with the weight of too many unsaid things.
Some paced. Others sat stiff-backed, staring into nothing. A few exchanged hushed murmurs - but no one had answers.
And then the door slammed open.
Madam Pomfrey swept in like a storm, her wand raised, levitating none other than Albus Dumbledore to the nearest empty bed.
The collective gasp was immediate.
But she didn't see the way every head turned at once. Didn't notice their wide eyes or how jaws dropped in stunned disbelief.
She was too focused. Too angry. Too exhausted.
She had barely settled Dumbledore onto the mattress before Minerva McGonagall shoved past her.
One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other curled into a white-knuckled fist.
Her **composure - normally so unshakable - **was crumbling like parchment in a fire.
Without a word, without even glancing at anyone, she bolted.
A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed down the corridor.
The stunned silence didn't last.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" Sirius Black's voice ripped through the room.
He had been waiting. Waiting for answers, for news, for anything.
But this - this was not what he'd expected.
Dumbledore, unconscious? McGonagall running?
Then - the room exploded into movement.
Molly Weasley bolted after Minerva, her voice rising in frantic concern.
Remus Lupin, who had been sitting quietly, frozen in deep thought, shot up from his chair and strode toward Poppy, urgency tightening his features.
"Tell me what I can do," he said, already rolling up his sleeves. His sharp gaze flicked between Poppy and the unconscious Headmaster. "A diagnostic spell? A stabilizing potion?"
Poppy barely acknowledged him.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed a hand to her forehead. "He's - he's exhausted, that's all. I need - " She cut off, inhaling sharply. "I need time."
Sirius, still rooted by the door, exhaled loudly.
"Right. That's it. Someone tell me what in Merlin's name is going on."
No one answered.
His frustration ignited.
"I don't like being left in the dark, Pomfrey," he snapped. His voice was sharp, demanding. "McGonagall just ran off looking like she's seen a bloody Dementor, you're patching up Dumbledore - what the hell happened?"
Nothing.
Not a word.
He took a step forward, his jaw clenched. "It's Snape, isn't it?"
Poppy inhaled sharply through her nose.
That name. Spoken so casually.
As if it didn't belong to the man barely alive in the next room.
Her fingers curled into fists. She turned daggers on Sirius, her voice low, trembling with anger.
"You - "
"STOP IT!"
Harry's voice cut through the air like a knife.
The entire room whipped around.
Harry stood in the center, his chest rising and falling in sharp, angry breaths.
His green eyes - Lily's eyes - were blazing.
"Madam Pomfrey," he said, his voice shaking but firm, "please. Tell us."
A beat of silence.
Poppy's shoulders sagged.
And then - in a voice so hoarse it barely reached above a whisper - she answered.
"He thought we were going to kill him."
The words dropped like a curse.
Harry's mouth fell open.
Sirius stilled.
Remus inhaled sharply, his face ghostly pale in the candlelight.
Even Arthur - who had been silent - went rigid.
"What?" Harry's voice cracked.
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut. Bracing herself.
"Severus?" She exhaled. And when she spoke again, her voice nearly broke.
"Severus truly believed we were going to hand him over to the Dementors. That we would - would let him suffer. Again."
The room froze.
The word 'again' sent ice through Harry's veins.
Something in his chest cracked open.
Sirius opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Remus pressed his lips into a thin line, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white.
And then -
A choked, panicked cry echoed from the hall.
Molly.
She stumbled back into the room, her face pale, her apron splattered with vomit.
"Poppy - she's not stopping," she gasped. "I need a potion - something to calm her - she's in a state."
Poppy snapped into action.
She grabbed the nearest medical kit, her hands shaking as she rifled through vials before pulling out two.
Calming Draught. And Stoppered-Stomach Elixir.
"Take this to her," she ordered, shoving them into Molly's hands. "Now."
Molly nodded once and rushed out.
The room was silent again.
Too silent.
Until -
Sirius let out a low, bitter laugh.
"Hell," he whispered.
No one disagreed.
Madam Pomfrey took a long, steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the nearest bedpost.
"Go home," she said at last. Her voice was flat, exhausted - but beneath it was something harder, something that left no room for argument.
No one moved.
Her nostrils flared, patience cracking.
"Did you hear me? Go home."
She didn't wait to see if they listened.
With a flick of her wand, she cast a warded alarm over Dumbledore's bed - if he stirred, she would know immediately.
Then, with another sharp movement, she locked Severus's room.
That was enough for now.
Everything else could wait.
Right now - right now, she had to find Minerva.
------------------------
Minerva barely made it around the corner before her stomach twisted violently.
She staggered, bracing herself against the cold stone wall.
Her vision swam.
Then, with a sharp, choked sound - she retched.
Her knees buckled.
A trembling hand slammed against the wall, the only thing keeping her from collapsing entirely.
Her stomach heaved again.
Nothing.
There was nothing left inside her.
Nothing but the searing, gnawing weight of guilt - grief - disgust.
Oh, Severus.
A warm hand touched her back, rubbing slow, steady circles.
Molly.
"Minerva, you need to stop this," she urged gently, pressing a cool cloth against her forehead. "You're shaking, dear."
Minerva didn't respond.
She couldn't.
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, trying to breathe, trying to think - trying to do anything but collapse.
Molly bit her lip. Then, with a sudden, firm resolution, she stood.
"I'll be right back," she said briskly. "You need something before you make yourself worse."
Minerva barely registered the words.
Her entire world had narrowed to the crushing weight inside her chest.
Few minutes later Molly reached Minerva within seconds.
The older witch was still slumped against the wall, her entire frame trembling as she gagged and retched - but there was nothing left.
Nothing but gasping, empty heaves.
Molly knelt beside her immediately.
"Here, dear," she murmured, uncorking the Stoppered-Stomach Elixir and pressing it to Minerva's lips. "Drink."
Minerva lifted her head slightly, her vision blurred.
And then - her breath caught.
The potion.
It was such a simple thing - something Poppy gave out regularly, something the students took without thought.
But it wasn't just a potion.
It was a reminder.
Of him.
Of Severus.
Of every potion he had ever brewed for them.
Without complaint.
Without hesitation.
Without fail.
He had spent years creating cures, remedies, healing draughts - for them.
Even when they never thanked him.
Even when they barely acknowledged him.
And yet - when he had asked for one in return, thet had turned thire back.
"Tekl him you have nothing to do with those who threaten the lives of students, Headmaster Snape."
Her own words to Poppy echoed back at her like a curse.
Her throat tightened.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her.
Molly frowned. "Minerva?"
Minerva shook violently, staring at the vial.
Then, with a shuddering breath, she took it.
The potion soothed her throat, her stomach, the violent spasms easing.
But the shaking didn't stop.
Molly reached for the second vial - the Calming Draught.
"Just a sip," she urged gently.
Minerva took it without protest.
Her breath slowed.
Her muscles loosened.
But the moment the immediate nausea was gone -
The sobbing started.
A sound broke from Minerva's lips - a sharp, shattered thing.
A sob.
And then another.
The first real sobs she had allowed herself in decades.
She gripped her own robes, as if clutching them tightly would somehow keep herself from unraveling completely.
She should have seen it.
Should have known.
Should have done something.
But she hadn't.
She had stood there. Silent. Cold. Complicit.
And Severus had suffered alone.
A choked, broken moan of grief tore from her throat.
"Oh, my boy," she gasped.
Her voice fractured. Splintered apart like shattered glass.
"My Severus."
She rocked forward, shoulders trembling, hands curled into fists against her chest.
And for the first time in her life - she wept.
Not just for him.
For all of it.
For every moment she had misjudged him.
For every cold glance.
For every word she had thrown like a dagger.
For every year he had spent suffering in silence.
And then -
A shadow fell over her.
A warm presence knelt beside her.
A hand - gentle, steady, grounding - rested lightly on her shoulder.
Minerva lifted her head, her vision blurred with tears.
Poppy.
The mediwitch looked at her - really looked at her.
Minerva did not recognize the expression on her friend's face.
Not pity.
Not sorrow.
Something deeper.
Something that understood.
Then, without a word, Poppy wrapped an arm around her.
A moment later, Molly did the same.
They held her together.
Because if they didn't, she would fall apart completely.
--------------------
Albus Dumbledore woke with a pounding headache.
He blinked against the dim lighting, his mind sluggishly catching up to the events that had led him here. With a tired sigh, he reached for his glasses -
Only for a young hand to slip them gently into his palm.
"Here, sir," came a voice - unusually subdued.
Albus blinked, sliding the half-moon spectacles onto his nose, and found himself looking into the solemn face of George Weasley.
The utter lack of mischief in the boy's expression was the first thing that startled him.
"Ah," Dumbledore murmured, taking a moment to adjust them. "Thank you, George."
George managed a small, sad smile.
Fred appeared from behind the curtain, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual lopsided grin noticeably absent.
"Sir," Fred began hesitantly, "we're having dinner. Would you like to join us?"
Dumbledore inhaled, steadying himself.
In two sentences, he understood everything.
One - he had been unconscious for quite some time if dinner was already being served.
Two - Fred and George Weasley were here, which meant everyone else was, too.
Three - if the Weasley twins were completely without humor, then the situation was worse than he feared.
The weight of responsibility settled over him.
He had little time to be weak.
Severus had asked him - in his final letter, written with shaking hands and too much pain - to protect Hogwarts, to care for its students, and to ensure his most trusted people were safe.
His duty was not to rest. His duty was to be strong.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly and rose to his feet.
"Well," he said lightly, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the exhaustion, "if you two haven't found a way to sneak in some treacle tart while no one was looking, I must say I am severely disappointed."
Fred blinked.
George's mouth twitched.
And there it was - the tiniest flicker of normality.
Dumbledore allowed himself a small, knowing smile.
Then, he openedthe curtains.
And when he stepped through -
He was met with the most shocking sight of his life.
A long wooden table had been set up in the middle of the hospital wing, surrounded by almost everyone he knew.
The entire Weasley family was present - Arthur, Molly, Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins, Ron, and Ginny - along with Poppy Pomfrey, Filius Flitwick, Pomona Sprout, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger.
The wing was dimly lit, but a few enchanted candles floated above the table, casting a warm, flickering glow over the gathering.
The food - **homemade, steaming, and comforting - **was clearly not from the Hogwarts house-elves.
Scattered around the floor were battered old pots and pans, a few flour-covered spoons, and what looked suspiciously like a wooden rolling pin with a bite mark in it.
Ah.
Molly Weasley had cooked for everyone herself.
Albus **felt something tighten in his chest - **not from pain, but from the unmistakable warmth of being cared for.
He glanced around the table, his eyes sweeping over the faces of his closest allies.
And yet - something was missing.
"Minerva?" he asked, turning to Poppy.
The mediwitch sighed, tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
"She was in no state to stay up," Poppy said quietly. "I gave her a few different doses of Calming Draught and a Sleeping Potion. She's in Severus's room, resting."
Silence.
A deep, heavy, aching kind of silence.
Some looked down at their hands.
Others shifted uncomfortably.
Harry was staring at the tablecloth as if he could burn a hole through it by sheer force of will.
Sirius was scowling at his plate.
Molly was fiddling with the hem of her apron.
The weight in the room was almost unbearable.
Which meant, of course, that it was Dumbledore's cue to say something absolutely ridiculous.
He clasped his hands behind his back, tilted his head in thought, and then - in the most solemn, serious voice he could muster -
"Well, my dear friends," he announced gravely, "I hate to be the bearer of yet another tragedy, but I have just realized a truly dire and deeply alarming fact."
Everyone froze.
Sirius's scowl deepened. Harry looked up sharply.
Poppy straightened.
"What is it?" Remus asked, his tone immediately tense.
Dumbledore inhaled deeply.
"I," he said, shaking his head sadly, "was not invited to the cooking process."
Silence.
A beat.
Then - a few snorts.
Fred's mouth twitched.
George let out a half-chuckle.
Ron, despite himself, gave a small, exasperated groan.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Molly huffed, rolling her eyes. "You'd have just gotten flour all over your beard."
"Ah, but flour adds character, Molly," Dumbledore countered wisely. "And I have it on good authority that I make an excellent bread kneader."
"You're full of it," Sirius grumbled, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words.
Dumbledore smiled knowingly.
There.
That was better.
The tension wasn't gone - not entirely.
But it had lightened.
And right now, lightness was desperately needed.
As the meal wound down, small conversations bubbled across the hospital wing - quiet, unhurried. There was talk of Quidditch, of the upcoming Hogwarts curriculum, of nothing in particular and everything at once. No one mentioned Severus. They didn't need to. The weight of his absence sat with them, unspoken but deeply felt.
Albus listened, his gaze sweeping the room. He had expected the gathering to disperse after dinner, for people to return to their common rooms, their quarters, their homes. But as Filius gave a small flick of his wand, vanishing the table and clearing the dishes, something unexpected happened.
No one moved to leave.
Instead, one by one, they drifted to the infirmary beds. Sirius stretched, muttering something about never getting a proper nap before clambering into one near the back. Remus rolled his eyes but followed suit, shaking his head as he pulled the hospital sheets over himself. Harry, Hermione, and Ron gathered into a single bed, whispering in hushed tones as they pulled the curtain around them. Molly and Arthur sat on the edge of a bed, quietly holding hands, watching over their children as though they were back at The Burrow. Even the Weasley twins, usually full of restless energy, simply settled into beds near the foot of Harry's, their usual mischief replaced by something softer - something determined.
No one left.
Not one person abandoned the hospital wing that night. Not one person abandoned him.
Severus Snape, a man once loathed, once dismissed, once thought undeserving of kindness, would not wake up alone.
They had hated him before, resented him, feared him. But tonight - tonight, they would stay. Tonight, they would fight for him.
Albus's eyes twinkled, his heart aching with a quiet sort of pride. They had come together not out of obligation, nor guilt, but because they chose to.
With a small, knowing smile, he turned away from the sight and walked toward the sanctuary of Severus's room. The heavy door was slightly ajar, cracked open just enough for candlelight to spill through, flickering softly in the dimness.
Stepping inside, Albus's breath caught.
Severus was fast asleep, his thin frame still and barely rising with each breath. His face, which so often carried tension, was peaceful now, caught in the rare mercy of true rest. But it was not the stillness of the Potions Master that caused Albus's lips to curl into a bittersweet smile.
It was the small tabby cat curled into the crook of his neck.
Minerva.
She had taken her feline form, nestling herself into the small gap between Severus's shoulder and his jaw, her fur barely shifting with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Her tiny body was a shield, a silent promise: I am here. I will not leave you.
Albus let out a quiet breath, warmth flooding through him.
Gently, he pulled a chair beside the bed, sinking into it with the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into the bones. Reaching out, he clasped Severus's cold hand in his own, rubbing slow circles with his thumb, as though his touch alone could tether the younger man to the world a little longer.
Then, with the other hand, he retrieved his book from the small table beside the bed - the one he had started that morning before everything had collapsed.
Turning the page, he settled in, his voice barely above a whisper as he resumed where he had left off.
He would keep watch.
He would read.
And tonight, in this quiet sanctuary, Severus would not be alone.
Not anymore.
_________________________________
Author's Note:
This chapter was one of the most emotional to write, and I'd love to hear your thoughts! What moment stood out to you the most? Was there a line or reaction that hit you particularly hard? Let me know in the comments - I truly appreciate every bit of feedback!
If you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to leave a like! Your support keeps me motivated and helps this story grow.
Thank you for reading - your thoughts and encouragement mean the world!
Support The Noble House of Prince
