If anyone had wandered into the hospital wing that night - past the rows of occupied beds, where an odd assortment of students, professors, and Order members lay sprawled in exhausted slumber - past the soft flicker of candlelight casting long, wavering shadows against the cold stone walls - if they had walked all the way to the very end, where a single door sat barely ajar, half-hidden by the gloom?

They might have assumed that Albus Dumbledore had finally lost his mind.

After all, he was speaking. Aloud.

To no one.

Or so it appeared.

"Even with my unwavering faith in your acting abilities, my dear boy," Dumbledore murmured, his tone almost conversational, "I must say - this performance is beginning to lose its charm."

Silence.

Dumbledore sighed, settling deeper into the rickety chair beside the bed. It creaked beneath his weight, but he paid it no mind.

"An hour now, Severus," he continued mildly. "Tell me - are you at least the slightest bit hungry? Thirsty? Surely even you cannot out-stubborn starvation itself."

Still, no answer.

The figure in the bed lay perfectly still, his thin frame unmoving, face turned stubbornly toward the wall. The only sign of life was the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Minerva - transfigured and silent - remained curled against the crook of Severus's neck, her soft fur rising and falling with his breath. Only her tail flicked, once, betraying the tension she carried even in sleep.

Dumbledore watched them for a long moment. Then, unable to help himself, he chuckled - a low, tired sound.

"Perhaps you are asleep," he mused. "Or perhaps you are simply hoping I'll grow weary of talking to myself and leave."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, peering over the spectacles perched precariously on his nose.

"Which, I regret to inform you? is highly unlikely."

For a long moment, there was nothing but the faint crackle of candlelight.

And then - barely there - a twitch. A flicker.

The smallest shift in Severus's brow.

Dumbledore smiled faintly, his gaze sharp despite the weariness in his bones. "Ah. So you are listening."

Encouraged, he continued, his voice light, almost teasing - though the affection beneath it was unmistakable.

"If you truly wanted me gone, Severus, I rather imagine you'd have thrown something at me by now. A pillow, at the very least. Though knowing you, you'd choose the bedside lamp. Something breakable. Something dramatic."

Still nothing.

But Dumbledore was nothing if not persistent. He simply waited - an old man with more patience than any mortal ought to possess.

Minutes ticked by.

And then -

A breath.

The softest huff of air. A sound halfway between irritation and defeat.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"There it is," he whispered, his voice barely more than air. "Progress."

He sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching the still figure before him.

They had a long road yet.

Severus did not turn his head. He didn't need to.

But the slackness in his jaw had vanished, replaced by the faint tightening of muscle. His fingers - pale, limp things half-buried in the blanket - twitched once.

Dumbledore folded his hands neatly in his lap, watching. He did not speak. He did not smile. He simply waited.

And after what felt like an eternity, Severus finally broke.

His voice, when it came, was a rasping, broken thing - hoarse from disuse, the syllables dragged over glass.

"Wa?t? you? nt?"

Dumbledore exhaled softly, as if he'd been waiting for precisely that question.

"What do I want, my dear boy?" he echoed pleasantly, though his tone carried a careful weight - too patient, too measured to be entirely innocent.

"I simply wish to know why you are still pretending to be asleep."

A twitch.

Severus's lips curled - just slightly. A ghost of a sneer. A shadow of the old, familiar mask. Reflex more than intention. But he did not speak.

Dumbledore's smile was faint, tinged with something that might have been sadness.

"It doesn't suit you," he mused quietly, tilting his head. "Silence."

A sharp exhale hissed through Severus's nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a scoff. Not quite anything.

The chair creaked beneath Dumbledore as he shifted, his eyes never leaving the broken man before him.

And then, softer - quieter - but no less steady, he added, "You do realize, Severus? that you're allowed to live, don't you?"

Silence.

But not the same silence as before.

This one was heavier. Thicker. A suffocating thing that filled the space between them like smoke.

Severus's fingers twitched again.

His throat worked, bobbing once as he forced down whatever answer clawed its way up.

He did not speak.

Dumbledore did not push.

He simply? waited.

After a beat, he reached for the goblet of water resting on the bedside table. Carefully - almost tenderly - he held it out, hovering just beside Severus's lips.

Severus did not drink.

Dumbledore sighed quietly through his nose, withdrawing the cup with deliberate slowness. He stared at it for a long moment, as though half-expecting it to offer him the answers Severus would not.

He hated this game. Hated the walls Severus built around himself, brick by bitter brick. But forcing them down? No. That would only send him running - further into that cold, silent place where no one could follow.

And so, instead, Dumbledore changed course.

"Tell me, Severus," he asked at last, his tone deceptively light, "have you sensed anyone beside you in the past hour?"

He smiled faintly, his gaze flickering - just once - toward the small, sleeping tabby still nestled against Severus's throat.

Minerva.

Still there.

Still holding him together in the only way she knew how.

Dumbledore's lips twitched - just the barest hint of a smile. "Ah," he murmured. "You have."

It wasn't a question.

Severus's pale cheeks darkened - faint, but enough. Enough for Dumbledore to see. Enough to know.

Severus knew exactly who was curled against him, tucked so naturally into the crook of his neck as if she'd always belonged there. A quiet, warm weight. Soft fur brushing against his skin with every slow, steady breath.

At first, the contact had sent a surge of panic through him. His battered instincts - always wound too tightly - had screamed at the foreign touch, at the vulnerability of it.

But then?

He had felt it.

The steady rise and fall of her breathing. The slow, rhythmic beat of a creature in deep, untroubled sleep.

She wasn't performing.

She wasn't acting out of duty, nor guilt, nor some desperate attempt to fix what could not be fixed.

She was simply? there.

Minerva had chosen, of her own will, to rest by him. Not as a colleague. Not as a deputy. But as a cat - curled close for comfort.

And he had let her.

For the first time in - Merlin, he couldn't remember how long - he had allowed himself to feel it. The warmth. The weight. The simple, stupid human need for something - someone - to be near.

It was pathetic.

It was everything.

The last time he'd felt that kind of warmth, he'd been a child - filthy, starving, hidden away in some forgotten Muggle alley. He remembered the moment with perfect clarity.

A half-eaten sausage, tossed to the pavement like rubbish. He had snatched it up with trembling hands, stomach gnawing at itself.

And just as he'd taken a bite -

They had seen him.

The neighborhood boys. Laughing. Pointing. Sneering.

And Severus - young, furious, ashamed - had straightened his back and sneered right back.

"It's? an experiment," he'd lied smoothly, mimicking the haughty tone of the teachers he loathed. "Food changes taste once it touches the ground. Science."

Then, staring them down, he'd thrown the sausage away.

Even as his stomach howled for more.

He'd learned something that day.

If you want something warm, something good - something human - you don't get to keep it. You throw it away. Before someone makes you.

And now? Minerva was the sausage.

Something he wanted.

Something he could never, ever keep.

Severus clenched his jaw, fighting the tremble in his throat.

When he finally forced the words out, they came jagged - painful, broken things.

"D'n? wan? 'er."

Dumbledore studied him for a long moment, the weight of the words lingering in the air. Then, softly - too softly - he repeated, "You don't want her?"

Severus didn't answer. He couldn't.

Dumbledore sighed, tilting his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. "Well? that is rather unfortunate, my boy. Because she - and everyone out there - wants you."

Before Severus could react, Albus gave a lazy flick of his wand. No incantation. No dramatic flourish.

The walls around them shimmered - warped like a mirage - and then slowly turned translucent.

Severus frowned, confusion flashing across his face. He turned his head - just slightly - just enough to see.

And what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

Rows of hospital beds. Not empty. Not silent. Filled. Every last one.

The Weasleys - Molly sitting upright, her head drooped forward in exhausted sleep, Arthur leaning back in the chair beside her. Fred and George tangled together like restless children.

Poppy Pomfrey slumped against the edge of a cot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Filius Flitwick curled small as a bird atop two pillows. Pomona Sprout snored gently, a blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.

Remus. Sirius. Even Sirius Black.

And there - at the far end - Harry. Hermione. Ron.

They were asleep, every one of them. Some awkwardly sprawled, some curled up tight.

No one had left.

Not a single one.

They had stayed.

Severus stared, his heart pounding loud in his ears. For a moment, he thought - perhaps - he should feel something. Relief. Gratitude. Something warm.

But what settled deep in his chest wasn't that.

It was disgust.

A cold, biting thing that clawed at his throat.

Why?

Why were they here?

Didn't they understand? Didn't they see?

This bed wasn't holding Harry Potter. There was no James Potter here. No golden girl Lily Evans. No brave Sirius Black lying wounded.

It was him.

Severus Snape.

Severus disgusting Snape.

Why waste their time? Why pretend now?

His breath hitched.

And still - Dumbledore watched him. Silent. Waiting.

Like somehow, this was proof. Like it meant something.

Severus swallowed hard, the taste bitter.

It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

Dumbledore's usual twinkle in those blue eyes had dimmed - softened - replaced by something far heavier. Something that knew far too much.

Severus swallowed. Hard.

And then, without thinking, he turned his face away.

Because he couldn't look at them anymore.

Because if he did - if he allowed himself even a second longer - he might break.

And Severus Snape did not break.

Not for them. Not for anyone.

And certainly never for himself.

Dumbledore, sensing the shift, did not push. He simply leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful hum, fingers steepled under his chin, as if pondering something terribly important.

Then - quite suddenly - he tilted his head and mused aloud, "Did you know, Severus? Molly Weasley very nearly challenged the Hogwarts house-elves to a duel over dinner?"

Severus blinked.

That - was not where he had expected this conversation to go.

Dumbledore carried on, voice light, almost absent-minded - as though discussing the latest Quidditch scores. "She seemed thoroughly convinced that no meal prepared by magic alone could possibly outmatch 'a mother's touch.'" He gave a small chuckle. "Insisted the entire feast be home-cooked."

A pause. "Naturally, this offended the house-elves terribly."

Severus's brow furrowed - despite himself.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly. "I do believe one of them tried to hex her apron. It? sang, Severus." He gestured vaguely. "Quite spectacularly. Some tragic ballad about underappreciated kitchen labor, if I'm not mistaken."

For one breath - just one - Severus forgot.

His fingers, which had been trembling minutely against the sheets, stilled.

And then - an exhale. Sharp. Short. Through his nose.

It wasn't a laugh. Not really. But it was? something.

Dumbledore caught it instantly. "Ah," he murmured, pleased. "There it is."

He smiled - not triumphant, but warm. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to make that sound."

Severus scowled. Immediately. Fiercely. A flash of the old Snape, sharp as a blade.

Dumbledore, looking entirely too pleased with himself, took a leisurely sip from his goblet - pretending not to notice.

And just like that? the air shifted. The suffocating weight eased. Only slightly. But enough.

It was then Dumbledore struck - carefully. Calmly. "I spoke with Molly earlier," he said, his tone still light? but there was meaning threaded through it now. Layers, waiting to be peeled back.

And Severus stilled.

Waiting.

Dumbledore continued as though he hadn't noticed. "She was? quite worried about Minerva's state," he murmured.

For a moment, his voice trailed off - lost, as if his mind had wandered somewhere far darker. "I daresay? I have never seen her the way she is now."

He gave a low, thoughtful hum, his gaze drifting to the small tabby still curled in the hollow of Severus's neck - her fur rising and falling gently with his breathing.

"Minerva has been here the entire time," he said quietly. "She hasn't left your side. Not once. Not since the war ended."

Silence.

Severus's throat bobbed - barely noticeable - but Dumbledore saw.

"Not once," the old man repeated, softer now.

Still, Severus said nothing.

Dumbledore's gaze softened, the edges of his sharp blue eyes blurring with something dangerously close to sorrow. "She was the one who insisted you were never left alone. Not for a moment."

For the briefest second - a flicker, a shadow of emotion - passed across Severus's face. Too quick to name. Too fragile to grasp.

Dumbledore exhaled slowly, then - almost absently - ran a trembling hand down his face and through his beard. A rare, raw crack in his usually unshakable composure.

"You know," he began, voice frayed, "if I'd arrived? only minutes later? Minerva would have died."

The words hung there - heavy, suffocating.

"They came at her from behind," Dumbledore continued, his voice roughening with barely-contained disgust. "A Killing Curse. No honor. No duel. Just - " his lips curled, "cowards."

He swallowed hard, trying - and failing - to steady his voice.

"I won't lie to you, Severus," he pressed on, tone darkening like a storm gathering on the horizon. "When I returned? I did not recognize Hogwarts. The halls? they were soaked in blood. The portraits torn. The children - " his voice cracked, "children? fighting Death Eaters twice their age. Trained killers."

Dumbledore's jaw clenched, his hands tightening in his lap. "Those filthy people. Those disgusting, worthless - "

Severus flinched.

The words hit like a hex - clean, sharp, unavoidable.

Dumbledore didn't notice. He was lost - in grief, in fury, in memory.

But Severus? oh, Severus felt every syllable as if they had been carved into his skin.

His lips trembled. His breath hitched.

And then - slowly, silently - a single tear slipped free, carving a pale, gleaming trail down the gaunt line of his cheek.

He lay utterly still.

Because of course - of course Dumbledore meant him too, didn't he?

A Death Eater.

Filthy. Worthless. Disgusting.

Wasn't that what he had always been?

No matter what side he'd chosen in the end. No matter how many lines he'd crossed trying to crawl back.

In the end, he was still? them.

And Dumbledore - kind, brilliant Dumbledore - had finally said it aloud.

The words echoed in Severus's mind, wrapping around his throat like a noose.

And Dumbledore - oblivious - ran a trembling hand through his beard. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracked and hollow. But it wasn't aimed at Severus. Not truly. It was a whisper to the air. To the ghosts neither of them could see. "They should never have carried that burden. None of them. Not the students. Not Minerva. Not you."

Still, Severus did not move.

Dumbledore's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, blinking rapidly against the sting behind his eyes.

"But you stopped them."

His gaze softened as it fell upon Severus's unmoving form. "You? saved her, Severus. Minerva. Harry. The children. All of them."

No reaction. Not even a flicker.

But deep within the pale, gaunt face - Severus swallowed. Thick. Slow. The taste of it was ash.

"And you know?" Dumbledore added, voice gentling, "Minerva was there, you know."

He said it again, like a refrain he couldn't let go. "She never left your side. Not once. Not since the war ended."

Silence.

Severus's throat bobbed again - barely a movement - but Dumbledore caught it.

"Not once," the old man repeated, quieter now, as if that single truth might anchor them both.

Still - Severus said nothing.

But Dumbledore only leaned closer, his gaze impossibly soft. "She was the one who insisted you were never to be left alone," he continued, each word weighted, deliberate. "That you wouldn't wake in a cold room with no one beside you."

He gestured faintly toward the bed, his voice growing rough. "She sat right there - through every hour. Every night. Every tear."

For a fleeting second, something flickered - pain, disbelief, or maybe even guilt - crossing Severus's face. Too quick to name. Too stubborn to linger.

Dumbledore smiled faintly - but it did not reach his eyes.

The silence pressed in, thick as fog.

And then, Dumbledore's voice dropped - velvety soft, threading somewhere between pleading and command. "You know? I've seen many things in this life, Severus. Great triumphs. Unspeakable losses. But nothing - " he exhaled shakily, "nothing prepared me for the sound Minerva made when she thought we'd lost you."

He huffed out a humorless breath, lips curling into a sad, bitter smile. "It wasn't a scream. It wasn't even human." His voice broke. "It was? the sound a soul makes when it tears in two."

Severus's throat bobbed. Again.

But his face - Merlin help him - remained cold. Impassive.

Dumbledore pressed on, as if desperate to break through. "She fought every Healer. Refused to leave. Cursed me to hell and back. Told me?" he swallowed, "told me that if you died, she'd haunt me herself."

A laugh escaped him - sharp, bitter, humorless. "And you know, Severus? I believed her."

Still. Still, Severus did not move.

And yet - beneath the stillness, Dumbledore swore he saw it. The glisten of another tear, catching in the dim candlelight, sliding soundlessly down Severus's hollow cheek.

But he said nothing.

Because perhaps? Severus didn't need to know anyone had seen.

Not yet.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Dumbledore - sharp as a knife. "I believed her."

Still, Severus did not move.

"And the others?" Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, leaning forward as if dragging Severus back by sheer force of will. "They've suffered, Severus. Every one of them. Buried beneath the weight of what they didn't say? what they didn't do."

He paused - just long enough to twist the knife.

"They called me Headmaster. Not Albus. Not once. As if? as if we were strangers."

His voice broke slightly - anger and sorrow tangled. "Because guilt, Severus, guilt builds walls higher than hatred ever could."

Severus flinched. Barely. So slight anyone else would've missed it.

But not Albus.

Dumbledore's blue eyes darkened, hardening to steel. "And now?" he murmured, "now you lie here. Still breathing. Because I was not too late."

Another pause. This one? deliberate. Cruel. Cold.

"Tell me, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice lowered to a whisper, "would you rather I had been?"

The words landed like a blow - sharp, unforgiving.

Severus's throat worked around a breath that wouldn't come. His lips parted - but no sound followed.

A raw, ragged sound tore from deep in his chest. Not a sob. Not quite. But close.

And then -

A single tear slipped from the corner of his tightly shut eye, trailing down his pale, hollow cheek.

He didn't wipe it away.

Didn't move.

Because there was no answer that wouldn't destroy what little remained of him.

The truth was too cruel.

Yes.

Yes, he wished Dumbledore had been too late.

Dumbledore didn't see the tear. Or perhaps he chose not to. Instead, he forced a brittle smile - one that did not reach his eyes. "Minerva?" he began, voice cracking, "she broke for you. She screamed your name when your heart?"

He stopped. Couldn't finish. Swallowed hard and carried on. "You don't know what it did to us, Severus. Seeing you like that."

Silence.

Severus said nothing.

But another tear slid down, silent, unacknowledged - noticed by no one. No one? except the universe itself.

Dumbledore exhaled sharply, gathering himself. "I know you don't want to hear this," he sighed, "but it's not just Minerva."

He hesitated. And then - softly - "Molly? even Sirius?"

Severus's fingers twitched. Barely. But this time - a real reaction.

Albus missed it.

"Even Sirius has been trying, Severus," Dumbledore added, as if it were some grand, redeeming revelation. "He? he's stayed. He's here. For you."

And that -

That broke something.

Inside Severus, something sharp and cold splintered.

Sirius.

The man who had tried to kill him at fourteen. Who had set him up like a lamb for slaughter - laughing as he sent him to a werewolf's jaws.

Severus swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

Because of course. Of course, in the Gryffindor world, forgiveness was cheap. Redemption easy. So long as you were brave, or loud, or loved by the right people.

Everyone got a second chance.

Everyone.

Except him.

Sirius Black could stay. Could sleep under Hogwarts' roof. Could "fight" for Severus now and be called good for it.

Severus's breath hitched, raw and painful. Another tear slipped free - slow, bitter, carving its way down his hollow cheek like frostbite.

But Dumbledore didn't see it. Of course he didn't.

Because to Dumbledore, it was all so simple. Forgive. Forget. Move on.

Gryffindor ideals - wrapped up in honeyed words and righteous smiles.

"And I?" Albus faltered, voice softening, "I need you to try, Severus. Try to meet them halfway. For Minerva, if not for yourself."

His eyes shone with something dangerously close to hope as he leaned in, dropping his voice lower - like a secret meant only for Severus.

"They carry their guilt now, Severus. That must mean something to you."

It didn't.

Not anymore.

Because Severus had carried his guilt, his sins - alone - for years.

No comfort. No forgiveness. No golden boy to fall back on.

And now, they expected him to just? what? Forgive them? Smile? Play along so they could sleep at night?

Severus wanted to laugh. Wanted to scream until his throat bled.

Instead - he lay still.

One more corpse-shaped shadow in the hospital wing.

"Be the good Slytherin, Severus," the voice in his head sneered. "The useful one. Do it for her. Do it for them. Always for someone else. Never for you."

Dumbledore, mistaking the suffocating silence for consideration - hope, even - nodded slowly.

"You're stronger than this, my boy," he whispered. "I know you are."

But Severus knew better.

The war was over.

And somehow? he was still losing.

The silence stretched - thick, unbearable. Dumbledore watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back with a sigh that sounded almost satisfied - as though he'd won something.

"Rest now, Severus," he murmured. "It will feel? better come morning."

Severus nearly snorted. Better.

As if such a thing existed for him anymore.

And somewhere, buried so deep he barely noticed, the old words returned. The ones he'd whispered to himself as a child - curled up in that freezing, filthy corner of Spinner's End.

"Your dreams, Severus? they're just dreams."

Empty. Pointless. Impossible.

And that was the last thing he thought as restless sleep finally dragged him under - haunted by a war no one else could see.