Morning light spilled through the high windows of the hospital wing, pale and hesitant, as though uncertain it was welcome. Minerva McGonagall stirred first. Still curled in her Animagus form, the small tabby cat blinked wearily, her green eyes immediately shifting to the bed beside her.
Severus lay still. Too still. His skin remained unnaturally pale, stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, lips drawn tight even in sleep. Yet his chest rose and fell in that steady rhythm she had counted all night. For now, that was enough.
She allowed herself a breath of relief - until something on his face caught her eye.
Minerva stiffened.
In a blink, the cat was gone, replaced by the tall, stern witch, her tartan dressing gown wrapped tightly around her frame. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer. There - along his hollow cheek - a faint, dried track of something unmistakable.
Tears.
Minerva's mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. Slowly, she turned - only then noticing the figure standing by the far window, half-hidden in shadow.
Albus Dumbledore.
He was staring out across the Forbidden Forest, his hands clasped behind his back, his usually bright eyes distant, unreadable. The golden light danced along his silver beard, but he did not move. Did not speak.
Minerva glanced at the light creeping along the floorboards - it was no later than eight o'clock, surely. She had overslept. But that wasn't what concerned her.
"Albus," she called, her voice hoarse from sleep but no less sharp. "Did you… did you do this to him? Or was it an accident?"
Albus startled - actually startled - as if pulled from a memory too dark to share. He turned, blinking at her in confusion.
"I beg your pardon, my dear?" he asked, his tone mild but carrying that trace of weariness.
Minerva's lips thinned. She pointed - wordless - toward Severus.
"Why," she demanded, "are there tear tracks on his face?"
For a heartbeat - just one - Albus faltered. His gaze dropped to Severus. And then - oh, then came that familiar mask - the small, regretful smile, the eyes soft with sorrow.
"I… may have spoken too much," Albus admitted quietly. "Or… not enough."
Minerva's jaw tightened, her lips thinning to a sharp line. "Haven't we talked about this, Albus?" she snapped, her Scottish brogue thick with restrained anger. "Merlin's sake, he's barely hanging on - and you push?"
Dumbledore winced, lowering his gaze like a schoolboy caught in mischief. He let out a sigh, long and weary. "I know, Minerva. I know."
His voice dropped lower, softer - almost as if speaking more to himself than to her.
"But… what choice do I have?" Albus murmured. "If he keeps fighting like this, lashing out… I'll have no choice but to rein him in. For his sake. For all our sakes."
Minerva's eyes softened, but she said nothing.
Neither noticed the faintest twitch of pale fingers against the blanket. The bare furrow knitting Severus Snape's brow.
Perhaps it wasn't the best way to wake - lying half-broken in a hospital bed, only to hear the great Albus Dumbledore debating whether to rein him in.
Rein him in.
Like some unruly Hippogriff. Or a particularly vicious dog no one could quite bring themselves to put down.
How fitting.
Severus stared at the dark behind his eyelids, breath shallow.
Of course that's what they see - a creature. Dangerous. Barely tame. Merlin forbid anyone remembers the leash was already there all along.
And just like that - the damage was done.
_______________
Harry woke with a dull ache pressing behind his eyes. Blinking against the pale morning light, he fumbled for his glasses, fingers clumsy with sleep until they finally found the familiar frames.
The world sharpened into focus.
It was colder than he remembered. The hospital wing, still draped in soft morning shadows, was unusually quiet. Most of the beds were occupied - Ron snoring lightly two beds over, Hermione curled into herself, Fred and George sprawled across a mattress in identical states of exhaustion. Even Sirius was still fast asleep, his dark hair a tangled mess against the pillow.
But the teachers and the Weasleys - Mr. and Mrs. Weasley - were gone. Their beds made, belongings packed neatly. Off, no doubt, to tend to whatever duties couldn't wait.
Harry sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His sleep had been restless - as it always was now. Since the final battle, sleep came in short, uneasy bursts, broken by the kind of nightmares that left him gasping awake. Two hours of sleep, maybe three. Never more. And always the same faces waiting in the dark.
Last night had been no different. He'd woken more than once, heart hammering, thoughts drifting - against his better judgement - to Snape.
He'd wondered if the man was all right. Wondered if he should check.
But pride - and something else he couldn't quite name - had kept him rooted to his bed. The last thing he wanted was to stumble into Snape's room, uninvited, and be forced into some awkward conversation. Worse - face Dumbledore.
Still, he'd seen it then.
Remus. Awake while the rest of them slept.
Harry had watched from his bed as Lupin spoke quietly with Madam Pomfrey, nodding in that polite, thoughtful way of his. There'd been something steady about him - even at this hour. Pomfrey had thrown on her outer robe, exchanged a few more words, and disappeared into the Floo with a flash of green flame.
Harry hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But he'd kept watching as Remus gathered a tray - bandages, potions, the usual tools of a Healer - and paused to glance at the clock. A small frown creased his brow before he drifted toward the window, staring out into the waking world beyond the glass.
It was a long time - an hour, maybe more - before Remus moved again.
Quiet as ever, he picked up the tray and made his way across the infirmary. A single, gentle knock on the door at the far end.
The door opened almost immediately. Dumbledore - his expression unreadable, but kind - stepped aside, and Remus disappeared inside.
Harry had felt… ashamed, watching that.
Ashamed of the things he'd said to Remus. Ashamed that he hadn't apologized. Not really. Not properly.
And now -
Harry glanced up, blinking in surprise as he caught sight of Lupin again.
There he was, sitting behind Madam Pomfrey's desk, quill scratching softly across parchment. The sunlight from the high windows caught in his brown hair, turning it almost gold at the edges. A few strands had fallen across his face, half-hiding the scar that ran down his cheek.
But there was no harshness in his features. Just quiet focus. Gentle.
Typical Remus, really.
Harry swallowed thickly, staring a moment longer.
For all the horrors they'd faced, Remus was still here. Still trying. Still… kind.
And somehow - that made Harry's throat ache worse than anything else.
Harry ran a hand through his hopelessly messy hair, trying - pointlessly - to flatten it. After a moment, he sighed and gave up, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he padded quietly across the cold stone floor.
Remus, ever perceptive, glanced up before Harry had even reached him. His tired features softened instantly, a warm smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Good morning, Harry," Lupin greeted softly, his voice low so as not to wake the others.
Harry flushed, caught off guard. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck, his cheeks burning. "Morning… Uncle Moony," he mumbled.
The old nickname - spoken so hesitantly - seemed to catch Remus off guard. For a moment, his smile faltered - then returned, warmer, gentler than before.
But even as he smiled, Remus caught the tension in Harry's shoulders. The uneasiness in his voice.
Before Harry could stumble through another word, Lupin rose from his chair.
Harry panicked. "I - I was hoping - um, if I could talk to you… for a second. I mean, only if you've got time - "
Remus's brows lifted, but his smile never wavered. Wordlessly, he crossed the room and pushed open the door, the early morning air drifting in.
"I was hoping," he said, his voice light but filled with meaning, "to talk to you for more than a second, actually." He cast Harry a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth quirking up. "And maybe stretch my legs a little while we're at it."
Harry blinked. And then - despite himself - he smiled.
Remus gestured toward the door. "Well? Shall we?"
The morning air was crisp as they stepped out of the hospital wing, the castle still quiet in those early hours when even the portraits seemed too tired to stir. Harry shoved his hands deep into his pockets, head ducked, as Remus fell into step beside him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
It was Remus who broke the silence first - softly, kindly - as if he'd been waiting for Harry to gather the nerve.
"I thought you might need a walk," he said simply. "I know… sometimes it's easier to think when you're moving."
Harry gave a jerky nod. "Yeah. I… couldn't sleep."
Remus hummed in understanding. "Me neither."
They walked on, their footsteps the only sound echoing down the corridor.
"I saw you," Harry blurted suddenly. "Last night. With Madam Pomfrey. Then… going into Snape's room."
Remus's expression didn't change. "I wondered if you'd noticed."
Harry's jaw worked. "How is he?"
For a moment, Remus said nothing. Then, with a soft sigh, he murmured, "Alive. But… not well, Harry. Not really."
Harry swallowed hard. "Right."
They turned a corner, light from the high windows pooling at their feet.
"I've been… thinking," Harry said after a long pause. "About… him. About everything. I mean - he saved me. And I… I hated him for years. Still don't understand him. But now…"
His voice trailed off, frustration bleeding into every word.
Remus glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Guilt is a heavy thing, Harry. I've carried enough of it to know."
Remus glanced at Harry, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. "Guilt's a heavy thing, Harry. I've carried enough of it to know."
Harry slowed his steps. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly, voice catching. "For what I said to you - back in the hospital wing. I didn't mean it. I was angry, and - I was horrible. I'm really sorry."
Remus stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "Harry, look at me."
Harry did. There was shame in his eyes, and something fragile beneath it - something aching.
Remus's voice was gentle. "You said what needed to be said. Sometimes the truth sounds harsh, but that doesn't make it wrong. Saying it out loud… that doesn't make you cruel. It makes you honest."
Harry swallowed hard. "But I - I accused you of standing by. Of doing nothing."
Remus nodded slowly. "And I did stand by. Not always. Not at first. But long enough. Long enough to know you were right." His voice dropped. "James, Sirius, Peter - we all had our reasons to hate Severus Snape. Or so we told ourselves. We built stories around those reasons, made them sound noble, brave, necessary. But me?" He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "I was just a coward. I didn't want to lose my friends. So I kept quiet."
Harry stared at him, wide-eyed.
"I should have said something. Should have done something. I didn't. So no more apologies," Remus said again, more firmly this time. "Not to me. But thank you - for saying what none of us were brave enough to admit."
Harry looked down, scuffing his shoe against the dirt. "Everyone always says I'm like my dad. But maybe if I were more like Mum… maybe then I'd know how to talk to Snape. Maybe I'd know what to say."
Remus smiled, soft and almost sad. "Your mum stood up for him once, you know. Against the other Gryffindors. Even James." He paused, eyes distant. "But why she didn't forgive him… well. That's not my story to tell."
Harry's breath caught. "I wish I could ask her."
"You can't," Remus said gently. "But you can ask him. And I think… one day, he might even answer."
Harry looked up, surprised.
"Professor Snape doesn't help people because of sentiment, Harry," Remus said, his voice steady now. "He helps those who deserve it. Who need it. You didn't earn his protection because you're Lily's son. You earned it because you stood up, again and again, and fought for others. You earned it because you're you."
There was a beat of silence.
And then -
"Well, isn't this touching."
Harry startled.
Remus didn't even flinch.
They both turned.
Sirius stood behind a nearby tree, arms crossed and a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Should I come back when we're done with the heartfelt confessions or…?"
Harry groaned. "Were you following us?"
Sirius shrugged. "Technically, I was supervising. Big difference."
Remus rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.
Harry laughed, for the first time in days - but the sound felt strange in his throat. Like it hadn't been used in too long.
____________________
"Severus… please… please - "
"Oh yes, Severus, please… please… let me go, Severus…"
His breath caught. His heart was thudding so hard it hurt. And then -
"Avada Kedavra."
The scream never came. Instead, a high, piercing ring tore through his head. He gasped awake.
Light. Too bright. Too sharp.
Minerva was leaning over him, gently dabbing a cool cloth across his fevered face. Her voice was soft, lilting.
"Hello, sleepyhead…"
But Severus barely saw her.
His eyes darted around the room in panic. No Dumbledore. Just Pomfrey at the window, drawing back the curtains with a flick of her wand. Morning sunlight spilled in, unwanted and far too cheerful.
Minerva was still speaking - he could see the gentle movement of her lips - but the ringing drowned everything out. It surged louder, like an alarm inside his skull.
Pomfrey turned.
She noticed immediately.
Her eyes narrowed, not with suspicion - but clinical concern. She approached, casting a quick diagnostic charm. Minerva said something to her, but it was lost in the noise.
Then - cool fingers. A vial.
Severus flinched.
His body reacted before his mind could stop it, jerking back just slightly - just enough to make Pomfrey pause.
But then… he remembered.
The conversation. Dumbledore's words. His own decision - if one could call it that. The role he had chosen. Or accepted.
He let his lips part. Just enough.
Pomfrey tilted the potion in.
The liquid was bitter, metallic. It scraped its way down his throat like old blood.
But slowly - mercifully - the sound faded.
First to a whisper.
Then to nothing.
Pomfrey set the empty vial aside and gave a small nod.
"Better?" she asked gently.
Severus didn't trust his voice. He blinked once - slow and deliberate.
Pomfrey understood. She smiled. "Good."
As much as Severus hated to admit it - even internally - he wished the old, infuriating coot were here.
Not that he felt safe around Dumbledore. Merlin, no.
But…
But he thought he might feel safer.
And wasn't that a joke.
He shifted slightly beneath the blankets, gaze flicking sideways - not at Minerva directly, but just enough to catch the outline of her. She was fussing with the edge of the sheet now, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist.
He observed, because it was what he did best. What he had always done to survive. Watch. Learn. Adapt.
Minerva McGonagall: stern, precise, immaculate. A woman who wore her tartan like armour and her reputation like a blade. The very portrait of a proper Scottish lady - head high, posture straight, voice like ice when she wanted, fire when she needed.
She never hunched.
She never trembled.
Her robes were always pressed, her hair in a bun so tight it likely doubled as a defensive weapon, and her spectacles - oh, the spectacles - perched at just the right angle to look over them at you like you were a dust smear she'd yet to vanish.
She did not waver.
Like she had all seven years he was a student here.
Or when he was Headmaster. That had been particularly nostalgic.
Oh, how she had orchestrated the staff like a bloody symphony.
Encouraged Slughorn to poison him - cleverly, of course, in a way that wouldn't stick in court.
Coached Pomfrey to deny him treatment on the most noble grounds, naturally - Hippocratic oaths be damned if the patient's name was Snape.
And then there were the duels.
Minerva sending flaming serpents after him. Flaming serpents, as if they were in some cursed Shakespearean tragedy and he the brooding villain everyone would rather write off than speak to.
And Poppy…
Ah yes. Madam Pomfrey.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch sight of her as she bustled about, all purpose and polish and starched sleeves.
Saint Pomfrey, the ever-dedicated Matron of Hogwarts.
Solemn bearer of healing. Vow-bound to help all in need.
All, of course - except the greasy dungeon bat who apparently voided her moral compass the moment he stepped into her infirmary.
What was it she'd said, back then? "I have nothing to do with those who threaten the lives of students, Headmaster Snape."
Yes. A healer sworn to protect… unless, of course, you were undesirable.
A convenient exception.
What a Hufflepuff.
Of course.
He could almost laugh - if the very act didn't make his ribs feel like splintered glass.
Hufflepuff, the House of loyalty, of healing, of warmth. The kind and patient. The fair and just.
He'd heard it so often he could recite it like a school anthem.
"Ah yes, Pomona," he imagined Dumbledore cooing once, "our dear Poppy - heart of gold, that one. A Hufflepuff through and through."
Heart of gold.
Right.
Provided your name wasn't Severus Snape.
The Hufflepuff kindness, apparently, had its limits - and he had exceeded them by simply existing.
Severus's lip curled faintly.
He might be too weak to move, too drained to lift a hand - but sarcasm required no physical exertion. Just bitterness and a memory sharp enough to draw blood.
Which, as it happened, he had in abundance.
But as he looked at them - really looked - something was different.
Minerva McGonagall was not so sharp today.
Severus had seen it. That first night, through blurred vision and pounding pain, when she curled against him as a cat. Hunched, trembling, clinging to him like warmth itself might vanish.
He hadn't known what to do with that. Still didn't.
She sat now with her shoulders hunched in a way he'd never seen before. The ever-immaculate bun at the back of her head was drooping slightly, a few rebellious strands of grey curling around her temples. Her robes - those usually pristine, tartan affairs that carried the kind of dignity most witches would sell a kidney for - were wrinkled. Wrinkled. She hadn't even noticed.
There were dark circles beneath her eyes, bruised and hollow. Her lips were drawn tight, her posture stiff - but it was the kind of stiffness that came not from pride, but from being one breath away from collapsing.
And Poppy - Merlin help them all - looked worse.
She was standing near the window, glassy-eyed, pretending to organize something on the table that had already been organized thrice. Her usually clipped movements were slow, almost hesitant, and when she finally turned, her face…
It wasn't pity. He could handle pity.
No, what reflected back at him from her expression was something far worse.
Guilt.
Which was rich, truly.
The golden Hufflepuff, sworn to heal and help without judgment, without bias - unless, of course, the patient had a Dark Mark and a sarcastic mouth. Funny how loyalty and kindness had such clear boundaries.
He had once read somewhere - probably in one of the more insufferable Ministry pamphlets - that Hufflepuffs made the best Healers. Compassionate, diligent, non-discriminatory.
He wondered if the author had ever been slowly dying in a bed while a Hufflepuff locked the cabinet.
Still, as he watched Poppy's hand tremble while she poured a potion into a measuring vial - and Minerva sit silent, still, fingers wrapped too tightly around her own wrist - it struck him:
They looked… ruined.
Not the righteous Gryffindor and dutiful Hufflepuff of the war.
Just two women - older than they were the day before, sleep-deprived, dragging their guilt behind them like chains.
It didn't make anything right.
But for the first time in a very long time, Severus Snape did not feel like the only ghost in the room.
He gathered every scrap of willpower he had left - gritting his teeth, forcing his body to obey. His limbs were stone, each nerve screaming in protest. Merlin, it was pathetic.
But Severus Snape did not resign to weakness.
Not again.
They were alive, weren't they?
He had failed many. Charity. Lily, Amelia Bones and Emmeline Vance.They had begged him for help - begged with their eyes, their voices, their silence. And he hadn't been enough. Hadn't done enough.
And yet - these two women had survived. Broken, but breathing.
Severus felt the weight of Dumbledore's words from the night before, still heavy in his chest.
Maybe they weren't responsible for his pain. For his ugly, half-life. For the fact that, somehow, he still wasn't dead.
Maybe.
He tried again. A flicker. A twitch. The pounding in his head worsened - but he pushed.
Minerva, ever alert despite the exhaustion carved into every line of her face, looked up sharply. Severus's breathing had shifted - uneven, shallow, laboured.
She leaned in.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, voice barely more than a whisper. "Are you in pain?"
Poppy was already on the other side of the bed, wand half-raised.
That shouldn't have been possible. Not this soon. He'd just had Calming Draught. A strong one. He shouldn't be struggling again - shouldn't be in distress.
But Severus didn't cry out. Didn't recoil.
He moved.
Just barely.
His fingers trembled, then brushed Minerva's hand.
A pause.
And then - so faintly it could've been imagined - he squeezed.
Minerva froze.
Her eyes dropped to the pale, bruised fingers pressed against her own. The pressure was light. Feather-soft. But real.
And then -
A tear.
Just one.
It escaped down her cheek, uninvited and unrestrained.
She caught his hand with both of hers, wrapping them gently around his. Her voice was thick when she spoke.
"I'm so happy you're back, Severus."
The moment hung in the air - fragile, still, impossibly human.
And then -
The door creaked open.
Poppy turned away swiftly, wiping at her eyes with the hem of her apron - too practiced to be anything but real. She busied herself with straightening the potions on the far table, though her hands were shaking slightly.
Albus Dumbledore stepped into view, his robes trailing behind him like morning fog, his gaze sweeping the room with quiet precision.
He took it all in:
Minerva McGonagall - stoic, unflinching - clutching Severus Snape's hand like she'd never let go.
Poppy Pomfrey - practical to a fault - disguising her tears with a drawer full of vials.
And Severus.
Awake.
Dumbledore's blue eyes lit with unmistakable warmth, the corners crinkling in that maddening, mysterious way of his.
So… it had worked.
His voice was light, teasing, with just a touch of mock offense.
"Well," he said, stepping fully into the room, "this is quite the gathering, isn't it?"
He folded his hands behind his back, eyebrows rising.
"I must say, I'm rather put out no one invited me to the 'Welcome Back, Severus' party."
Minerva huffed at Dumbledore's comment, the sound somewhere between exasperation and fondness.
"Oh, honestly, Albus," she muttered, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her sleeve before smoothing her tartan dressing gown with brisk, precise hands. "Must everything be a performance with you?"
Dumbledore offered her a look of complete innocence, which - coming from him - meant he was already halfway through planning his next bit of mischief.
"Not everything," he said airily, moving to the small table beside Severus's bed. "But one must admit, the drama has been rather well-scripted so far."
Minerva rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't dislodge.
Severus, still too weak to do much else, let out a low exhale that might've been annoyance. Might've been despair. Hard to say.
Dumbledore didn't miss it. His eyes twinkled - just a little.
He reached for the steaming bowl Poppy had left moments before, adjusting the spoon with the kind of care usually reserved for ticking time bombs.
"Minerva," he said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder, "would you be so kind as to pop out and ask Severus's adoring fans to clear the premises? Tell them we'll make a proper announcement when he's available for autographs, thank-you letters, and perhaps a staged recovery photo."
Minerva stared at him.
Then, very slowly, she turned to Severus and said dryly, "And people wonder why you try to die on him."
That earned a short huff of air from Severus's nose. Dumbledore beamed.
Poppy, however, was less amused.
"Wait - what?" she said sharply, turning from her shelf of potions, hands on her hips. "You mean to tell me they're still out there?"
Dumbledore blinked. "Where else would they be?"
"This is a hospital wing, Albus," Poppy snapped, storming toward the door. "Not the Leaky Cauldron!"
She pointed accusingly toward the corridor. "I have half the staff sleeping on guest cots and two children curled up under a table. Under a table. If even one of them tries to tip me for turn-down service, I swear - !"
"Poppy - " Dumbledore began, attempting his most placating tone.
"No," she said, already bustling toward the door. "You warm the soup. He hasn't had anything for ages if he spits this back up because you've been talking nonsense, I'll hex your beard off."
With that, she opened the door with a sharp flick of her wand. Minerva followed, grumbling something under her breath about "honourable intentions" and "utter nonsense."
The door clicked softly shut behind them.
Dumbledore turned back to Severus, who was watching him with narrowed eyes and thinly veiled suspicion.
"Well then," Albus said cheerfully, settling into the chair once more, spoon in hand. "Shall we pretend I know how to feed someone without turning it into a disaster?"
Severus blinked once. Slowly.
Dumbledore smiled like a man with a secret.
"Excellent. Open wide, dear boy."
Severus didn't. Of course he didn't.
But the corner of his mouth twitched - barely.
And Albus considered that a resounding success.
However, he was completely and utterly wrong.
Severus Snape - weak, nauseous, and trembling as he was - was still Severus Snape. And the moment Dumbledore lifted that blasted spoon like he was feeding a toddler, something cold and furious lit behind Severus's eyes.
He would not be spoon-fed. He would not be coddled. He would not let Albus bloody Dumbledore treat him like a helpless thing incapable of lifting a hand.
He eyed the bowl of soup with all the loathing he normally reserved for the Dark Lord's tea parties and students who dared submit essays in glittering ink. The spoon hovered again - closer this time.
His lips remained sealed. Jaw locked.
No. If Dumbledore wanted a lesson, then Severus was inclined to give him one. He might have been near death, he might have been half-skeletal and barely conscious, but he was still a wizard.
A wandless spell would suffice. Just one. No need to move. No dramatic flair. He would launch that soup straight into Dumbledore's smug, twinkling -
But the magic didn't come.
Severus blinked.
He tried again - subtly, silently.
Nothing.
No resistance. No build-up of pressure in his chest. No familiar pulse under his skin. Just… silence. A terrifying, gaping silence where his magic should have lived.
His breath stuttered.
He knew this feeling.
Azkaban.
A single trial. One night. That's all it had taken to burn the sensation into his memory forever - the way the magic had been held, pressed down from the inside, caged in a place even his wand couldn't reach. It had been like bleeding without blood, like being hollowed from the core. Useless. Worthless. Powerless.
And it was back.
Now.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs.
That phrase. The one from Dumbledore's mouth - spoken in low tones when he thought Severus wasn't listening.
"I'll have no choice but to rein him in."
He hadn't imagined it.
The leash had been placed.
Everything clicked into place like icy tumblers in a lock.
The gentle voices. The distant smiles. The ridiculous notion of fans waiting outside.
Not allies.
Not friends.
Guards.
Dementors, perhaps. Waiting. Poppy and Minerva had looked guilty because they were about to hand him over, weren't they? Keeping him calm until it was time to cart him off. Until the press could write it up - war hero turned criminal. Slytherin always gets what he deserves.
They were disgusted by him.
And this - this coddling from Dumbledore - it wasn't care. It was control.
He was being prepped. Silenced. Restrained. A prisoner again.
"No - " Severus rasped, his voice jagged, breath catching painfully in his throat. "Yo…li…er… yo - "
Albus froze, spoon paused mid-air. "What is it, my boy? What lie?"
But Severus's eyes had gone wild. His breathing turned sharp and erratic. His hand jerked - barely a twitch, but enough to betray the panic flaring beneath his skin. His chest heaved like a man drowning.
"Yo... ied," Severus rasped. The words were broken, furious - cracked with betrayal. "...said...I...was...safe...said...you…weren't...weren't send...ing me - "
Albus's expression crumpled into one of confusion and growing alarm. "I said you were safe, Severus. Of course I did. And you are. What are you talking about?"
"YOU... LIED!" The words tore from Severus in a hoarse cry, guttural and raw. "You...leashed...me...like a d - dog - "
He was gasping now, each breath a battle. "...not...vis...itors...you're...hand...ing...me...over - "
Albus stepped back, stunned. "No, Severus! No one is handing you over to anyone - "
"Yo...re...ju...just...like...Da...Dark...Lord..."
Albus stood abruptly, the bowl nearly tipping from his hand. "Severus, stop. Listen to me - "
"Why...not...enj - enjoy...a little...Cruciatus while...you're at it?" Severus choked out, trembling. "I...I can...beg...you want that, don't you?"
That did it.
Albus's patience - frayed thin by grief, sleepless nights, and a mounting sense of helplessness - snapped.
He slammed the spoon into the soup with a loud clatter and crossed the room in three strides, his voice rising - not with anger, but with desperation.
"The restriction is temporary!" he shouted. "It's to protect you - because your magic is unstable! You've had seizures, your nerves are on fire, and one accidental flick of power could kill you - do you understand that?"
But Severus wasn't hearing him.
He was thrashing now - weakly, pathetically - clawing at the sheets like they were binding chains. His eyes were wild, unfocused. His breath rasped through clenched teeth.
"You don't trust me?" Albus snapped, trying to regain control, his own voice trembling now. "Then don't. But you will eat. You will survive. Even if I have to hex this soup into your bloodstream."
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Harry, Remus, and Sirius stepped back into the hospital wing, greeted not by peace, but by Madam Pomfrey's raised voice and Minerva McGonagall's sharp glare.
"I don't care if they're students, teachers, or bloody centaurs," Poppy was saying, wand in hand, "the Hospital Wing is not a Blibbering Humdinger Inn!"
Minerva's mouth twitched - half amusement, half exasperation.
Harry looked sheepishly at Ron, who just groaned and muttered, "We're in for it."
Fred coughed dramatically, clutching George for support. "But Madam Pomfrey - how could you throw out your poor, fragile patients?"
George doubled over in exaggerated agony. "We could die from heartbreak!"
Poppy rounded on them, hand on her hip. "Out. Now."
Minerva, trying not to smile, stepped toward the door.
But then -
Poppy's wand buzzed. Loud. Sharp. Urgent.
The color drained from both her face and Minerva's.
Harry's grin vanished.
"What is it?" he asked quickly.
Neither woman answered. Minerva turned on her heel, robe flaring, and raced back toward Severus's room, Poppy close behind her.
The others exchanged glances, the lightness gone.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
When the door burst open, it was chaos they stepped into.
Madam Pomfrey, Minerva, and Harry halted as one - frozen in the frame of the doorway, their breath catching at the sight before them.
Albus Dumbledore - headmaster, war hero, beacon of calm and wisdom - was seated beside the bed, spoon in hand, trying to coax food between the lips of a man who had once been the most formidable spy in two wars. A man who had outwitted Voldemort. A man who had walked willingly into fire, time and time again.
And Severus Snape - cold, controlled, caustic Severus - was lying there, limp and shaking, silent tears cutting rivers down his face. His cheeks flushed with fever and humiliation, his hands trembling violently as his fingers curled uselessly in the sheets.
"Come now, just a bite more," Albus was saying, as he was pushingthe spoon down Severus's trout.
Severus looked up, dazed, eyes landing on Minerva - wide, desperate, pleading.
That was the only warning.
With a cry that shook the very stones beneath them, Minerva McGonagall raised her wand and, without a moment's hesitation, sent Albus Dumbledore flying across the room.
He hit the far wall with a resounding crash.
No one moved.
Because no one had ever seen her like this.
Minerva - unflinching, rule-bound, the very image of grace and control - stood with her wand still raised, magic crackling like lightning through her fingers. Her shoulders were trembling. Her eyes burned with fury. But it wasn't anger that powered her spell.
It was instinct.
It was protection.
It was love.
Behind her, Severus let out a sharp, choking sound - and that was when they saw it.
The tremor started in his arms first, then spread in violent waves down his torso, his legs jerking against the mattress. His back arched, unnatural and terrifying, eyes rolling white as his jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone.
"Seizure," Pomfrey gasped, and ran.
She was at his side in an instant, pulling him upright with practiced ease, cradling his head and keeping his airway clear. "No - no, not again - breathe, Severus, breathe - "
Harry rushed forward too, grabbing Severus's arm to still its thrashing, trying to soothe without knowing how. "It's okay," he whispered hoarsely. "You're okay - you're safe - Professor please - "
Severus didn't hear. Couldn't hear.
The small amount of soup he'd swallowed moments ago came back up, spilling onto the sheets as he convulsed. His body was fighting itself now, a war of nerves and trauma and agony all stitched into one.
Minerva dropped to her knees beside him, wand forgotten, voice breaking as she whispered his name over and over again.
"Severus - Severus, it's me - it's Minerva - I've got you - "
But Severus couldn't answer.
He was lost to it.
To fear. To memory. To the horror of believing, even for a moment, that he had been leashed again like some rabid creature, forced the way his father had forced him before. That Dumbledore - the only man left he might have trusted - had betrayed him after all.
Across the room, Albus staggered to his feet, eyes wide with stunned realization.
And guilt.
Because this - this was not healing.
This was not care.
This was cruelty.
And he had been blind to it.
Minerva turned to him, face streaked with tears, voice a low, trembling snarl. "Get. Out."
Dumbledore didn't moved, he looked shocked.
Minerva shouted " GET OUT, YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH."
He simply bowed his head - and left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And inside, the silence was filled only with the sounds of breaths.
Somewhere, in the quiet between convulsions and whispered comforts, Severus slipped beneath the weight of it all - into a darkness too deep for dreams, where even pain could no longer follow.
The room held no ropes, no shackles, no locks - but the chains of the guilt were there all the same.