Outside Severus Snape's sanctuary, just beyond the closed doors of the hospital wing, tension buzzed like static in the air. Everyone waited, hoping for any word from Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, or even Harry, who had followed the adults inside moments ago.

Sirius sat restlessly in a chair, tapping his fingers against his knee. He couldn't shake the awful feeling curdling in his gut. Harry hadn't even hesitated - just bolted after Pomfrey and McGonagall like Snape was family. Sirius bit the inside of his cheek. Would Harry have done that for him? He'd been in Azkaban for twelve years, for Merlin's sake, and no one had formed a vigil for his release. He knew it was petty, stupid even - but the thought stung.

Across the room, Ron was holding Hermione's hand. Both sat on the edge of their seats, pale and tight-lipped. They'd seen this coming - Harry's attachment to Snape. At first, they'd figured it was guilt. But lately, it had grown into something else. Worry. Determination. The kind of loyalty Harry usually reserved for them.

Harry had never explained what exactly he'd seen in Snape's memories - not in full. But they knew Harry. And Harry didn't give his trust lightly. He didn't cry over villains. He didn't sit outside hospital doors for enemies. His quiet desperation, his refusal to leave... it felt like he was trying to make something right. Like he was trying to win back someone he'd wronged.

The hospital wing doors creaked open. Every head snapped up.

Albus Dumbledore stepped out. He looked like a ghost - tired, hollow, and oddly distant. His eyes didn't meet anyone's. He cast a final glance toward Snape's room, lips pressed together in a pained line, then began walking past them without a word.

"Professor Dumbledore - how is Severus?" Remus rose quickly, concern etched across his face.

Albus didn't stop. Didn't even blink. He moved toward the exit, footsteps echoing like drumbeats in the suddenly silent room.

Hermione sprang to her feet. "Professor Dumbledore, please - how is Professor Snape?"

But he was gone. As if he'd never been there at all.

Hermione stood frozen, fists clenched at her sides. Then, with a furious huff, she marched toward Snape's door.

"Hermione!" Ron started after her.

Remus rose too, instinctively moving to stop her, but Hermione was quicker. She knocked once - firm and polite.

"Professor McGonagall? May I come in?"

The door opened.

Gasps echoed behind her.

The sight inside stole the breath from her lungs. Snape lay in the bed, looking more dead than alive - his skin nearly translucent, black hair damp with sweat. Madam Pomfrey hovered beside him, wand dancing over his chest, murmuring diagnostic spells with growing urgency. She was pouring a vial of potion between his lips, hands shaking.

Before Hermione could step forward, Professor McGonagall blocked her path.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her expression was carved from stone. She all but ushered Harry out of the room, whispering something too low to hear. Then, like Dumbledore, she cast a long, unreadable glance toward Snape before gently closing the door behind her.

McGonagall turned to the gathered crowd with the sort of sharp precision that could silence a Quidditch pitch.

"Haven't I and Madam Pomfrey asked you all to leave?" she snapped, voice tight with exhaustion.

Hermione stood tall. "With all respect, Professor - we won't leave until you tell us how he is."

McGonagall sighed. A long, weary exhale that deflated the steel in her posture.

"Miss Granger? your concern does you credit. But Professor Snape has been gravely ill - unconscious for days. The magical backlash from the war, the protections he placed? Hogwarts was feeding on his magic, and he gave it willingly."

She paused.

"He's still here. Still fighting. But recovery will not be quick."

Ron shifted uneasily. Hermione glanced at Harry, who hadn't moved.

"As soon as he is well enough," McGonagall added more gently, "we will allow visits. I promise you."

She turned then - eyes flicking toward Sirius, narrowing. But instead of speaking to him, she looked to Remus.

"Mr. Lupin, would you be kind enough to see that the students return home?"

Harry jerked upright. "I'm not leaving."

McGonagall blinked. "Mr. Potter - "

"I'm not leaving," Harry repeated. His voice shook. "He didn't leave me. Not even when I called him a coward. Not even when I hated him. He protected me. He? he watched me, all year. And I didn't see it."

His eyes welled with tears. "So no. I'm not leaving. I'll stay in the Gryffindor dormitory - or in the kitchens. Anywhere. But I won't leave him."

Ron stepped beside him. "Yeah, neither will I."

Hermione raised her chin. "We're staying. As long as it takes."

McGonagall looked at them - and something in her expression cracked. A softness emerged beneath the sharp angles.

Her voice, when she spoke, was hoarse. "Very well. But only if you promise me you'll rest when asked. I won't have another patient on my hands."

Harry gave a trembling nod. "Promise."

In Minerva's eyes, there was a glimmer of pride.

Three Gryffindor cubs, standing their ground - for the man no one else had stood for.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

___________________

Albus Dumbledore did not speak.

He did not look back at the hospital wing.

The door had shut behind him with a soft click, and he had walked the corridors of Hogwarts as though he had been cast adrift from the world. His feet moved with a will of their own - slow, shuffling - like even gravity had grown weary of bearing his weight.

He drifted through the castle like mist, passing beneath floating torches and ancient portraits that did not call his name - perhaps too startled by the look on his face.

He couldn't stop seeing it.

Severus - silent and frail, skin like parchment, flinching not from pain, but from him. The twitch of fingers, the half-turn of his head, eyes wide with terror, tears slipping free. So little movement? so much meaning. Like a boy drowning in a memory Albus himself had helped resurface.

That fragile, broken shell of a man who had once stood tall with the strength of secrets - now unraveling, because the one person he had saved at a cost beyond comprehension had hurt him without meaning to. Had tried to help - and failed him again.

And then Minerva - her voice slicing the air like lightning, her wand knocking Albus backwards into the wall. He had not resisted. Had not even raised a hand.

Severus had seized then.

Not at a curse. Not at a hex.

At him.

At Albus's presence. His voice. His hands, however gentle they'd tried to be. However helpful they'd tried to be.

But how many times had he said that over the years? I only meant to help.

How many justifications could one man make before even he stopped believing in the purity of his intent?

What had he done?

What had he become?

The war was over. The Dark Lord defeated. Hogwarts healing.

And yet here he was - still breaking the one soul who had never stopped fighting, even when he no longer had reason to.

He turned a corner. Passed a tall window.

He did not see the sunrise painting the lake in gold.

His legs kept moving.

Somewhere in the distance, a portrait asked gently after his health. He did not answer. He was walking through smoke. Through silence. Through a memory that hadn't decided whether it belonged to the past or the present.

And then -

He was there.

The stone gargoyle stood still and unyielding before him.

Of course. His office.

He blinked at it, as if surprised to find himself standing there. But the body remembers what the mind cannot face. The turnings, the stone, the instinct. He'd come here without thinking.

He took a single step forward.

"Severus," he whispered.

The gargoyle twitched.

Then, with a low groan of shifting stone, it rotated aside, revealing the spiral staircase. Albus watched it for a moment, almost startled.

Severus had kept the password.

He climbed slowly, each step an effort. The stone was cold beneath his fingers where he touched the wall for balance.

At the top, the door opened with a gentle creak - and he froze.

It was as though time had reversed.

The office shimmered in his mind - not empty, not silent - but alive with memory. And there he was - Severus, younger and less worn, storming from one end of the room to the other with the controlled fury of a man who'd rather be hexed than admit he cared.

"He's insufferable," Severus snapped, his robes billowing dramatically with each turn. "Utterly reckless. He charges into danger with all the forethought of a kneazle in a firestorm. And don't get me started on that inflated sense of Gryffindor superiority - "

He whirled back the other way, muttering under his breath, "Head full of wind and Weasley."

Albus, seated calmly behind the desk, rested his chin in one hand, blue eyes positively alight with mischief.

"My boy," he said serenely, "are we still talking about Harry? or just how thoroughly you've studied the Gryffindor psyche?"

Severus froze mid-step.

The look he gave Albus could have curdled cream. "Forgive me, Headmaster, I was unaware that a keen grasp of idiocy now counted as academic merit."

Albus folded his hands with a sigh that was just a little too dreamy. "It's the hair, isn't it? Reminds you of James. The hair and the tragic lack of subtlety."

Severus glared. "His entire house believes subtlety is what you use when seasoning stew."

"I do recall one Gryffindor who once used a full Body-Bind Curse to silence a snoring portrait," Albus offered, eyes twinkling. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"That portrait was singing, Albus."

"Ah yes. Singing."

Severus resumed pacing, faster now, shoulders tight. "He doesn't listen. He doesn't think. He nearly got himself killed last week and had the audacity to look proud about it!"

"Well, Gryffindors do have a certain flair for death-defying idiocy. Comes with the badge."

"And the badge," Severus growled, "should come with a lifetime supply of common sense potions and a guide to basic logic."

Albus hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, I did suggest that once at a staff meeting. Minerva threatened to hex me into next week."

"That woman enables them."

"She teaches them."

Severus stopped again. His voice lowered - dangerously calm. "I'm going to end up dragging his unconscious body out of some fiery wreckage one day, mark my words."

Albus gave a small, fond smile. "You already have."

For a long moment, Severus didn't speak.

Then, quietly, he turned to face the fire, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

Albus watched him - this bitter, brilliant man who had spent his life walking a tightrope between darkness and duty, between secrecy and sacrifice - and said nothing more.

Because he knew.

Severus Snape would never say the words aloud.

But his pacing, his fury, his obsession with Potter's well-being? it all spoke loud enough.

And then - just as suddenly as the memories had come - they vanished. Faded into the walls, into the dust, into silence.

Albus blinked.

His eyes had fallen on the old chessboard resting near the fire, pieces frozen mid-battle - kings half-guarded, pawns strewn like fallen soldiers, and a single black knight placed in an outrageously illegal position.

"Don't tell me what to do, woman, I know how to play a good match," Severus had snarled, hands gripping either side of the table as if preparing to flip it.

Minerva had huffed, her tartan robes swishing behind her as she rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, that's why your horse appears to be charging into my back row like a deranged dream soldier. You're playing Wizard Chess, not dramatizing your teenage journal."

Severus narrowed his eyes, looking downright wicked. "Well, at least I don't cheat while playing."

He sat down with a satisfied smirk.

From his place on the settee near the hearth, Albus had continued knitting, needles clicking lazily as he watched two of his most formidable professors exchange verbal spells across the chessboard.

They had been sparring like that since Severus's very first year teaching. What had started as reluctant professional civility had, over time, morphed into something Albus had rarely seen Severus offer to anyone else: trust.

Not openly, of course. Never aloud.

But Minerva - sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued - had found a way to speak Severus's language. Sarcasm. Dry wit. Quick logic and the refusal to coddle. And somehow, between the competition and caustic commentary, something soft had emerged. Something safe.

Severus didn't hide from Minerva.

He didn't need to.

He could be his moody, venomously intelligent, dark-humoured self - and she would match him beat for beat. Guide him, when needed. Call him out, when necessary.

She leaned over the table now in Albus's memory, face inches from Severus's.

"Did you dare to call me a cheater?"

Severus leaned back theatrically, one eyebrow arching toward his hairline, lips curling. "If the shoe fits?"

Minerva's eyes glittered dangerously. "Alright then, young man. Perhaps if you'd slept sometime this week instead of brooding in your dungeon like a rejected opera villain, you might've noticed - "

"Don't."

" - that I've already cornered your bishop and - "

"Don't you dare - "

" - your queen has nowhere to go."

Severus stared at the board.

Minerva sat back, smug.

Albus gave a soft chuckle behind his knitting.

And with a single, fluid movement, Severus shoved the board off the table.

Pieces clattered across the floor. Knights skidded under the armchair. One pawn hit the fire grate with a dramatic plink.

"Ooopsi," he said, with the air of a man who had committed arson and expected praise.

Minerva gaped. "Severus Snape!"

"Oh no," he said dryly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, "it seems the board has? betrayed us both."

"Betrayed - ! You overgrown bat!"

"I prefer misunderstood genius."

Albus had laughed then - genuinely, warmly, the kind of laugh that filled the whole office like sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

And just as suddenly, he came back to himself.

He was standing in silence, alone in the dust-thick office. Yet a chuckle still escaped him - quiet, breathless - and to his surprise, tears were rolling down his cheeks.

With shaking hands, he tried to dry them, but the laugh wouldn't stop. It cracked. Shuddered. Broke in his throat - and turned to a sob.

A hysterical one.

He stumbled backward into the armchair, clutching the edges, his shoulders trembling as the wave of grief hit. It was too much. The silence. The memories. The absurdity of it all.

The guilt.

His eyes flicked to the bookshelf - dusty, familiar - and another memory unfurled before him, smooth and unbidden.

He had just left Severus's room that night - after Poppy whispered, with cautious hope, that the boy's condition was more stable. The halls had been quiet, blanketed with the kind of stillness that comes after a storm. All around the hospital wing, students had slept where they could - makeshift beds, conjured blankets, an arrow of pain and healing stretching across the floor. Tom Riddle was dead, but he had taken far too many with him.

Albus had walked slowly down the corridor, the night air of the castle crisp against his face, when his hand brushed something in his robe pocket. He withdrew it -

A vial. Tinted green. A label tied around its neck in Severus's familiar, cramped handwriting: For muscular pain and joint stiffness. Take with food.

The same potion he'd found at Prince Manor. On the nightstand, waiting for him, just after he'd woken from that terrible enchanted sleep. That night, Severus hadn't waited for thanks. He hadn't even stayed to see Albus open his eyes.

Albus had clutched the bottle now and smiled - sadly.

He wished he could've done the same. Left something behind to soothe Severus's pain. The deep gash on his neck. The bruises along his ribs. But there had been no potion in the world strong enough to cure what lingered in that boy.

He had walked on, feet growing heavy, until the stone gargoyle loomed before him.

The Headmaster's office.

Not his, technically. Not anymore. Severus had taken the title after his own disappearance, after the world presumed him dead. But standing there, potion in hand, robe heavy on his shoulders, it had felt - for a brief, foolish moment - like coming home.

He stepped forward.

"Sherbet lemon," he tried gently.

Nothing.

"Phoenix. Socks. Lemon drop. Fawkes?"

The gargoyle did not blink.

He tried again. "Order of the Phoenix. Chocolate frog. Basilisk."

Still nothing.

He folded his arms. "Severus," he muttered, "you dramatic little bat?"

He cleared his throat and tried reasoning. "I'm technically still alive, you know. You could show a bit of consideration."

Silence.

"I'll give you a tin of the good toffees."

The gargoyle remained immovable.

He poked it with his wand. "I will Transfigure you into a garden gnome."

Nothing.

He sighed. "Fine then."

A beat.

"Foolish old man."

Nothing.

"Self-righteous coward."

The gargoyle twitched.

Albus arched an eyebrow. "Manipulative, emotionally inept megalomaniac with a martyr complex and no boundaries whatsoever."

With a low, grinding groan, the gargoyle slid aside.

Albus blinked - and then burst out laughing.

"You wicked, wicked boy," he whispered, shaking his head. "What a password."

He climbed the stairs slowly, potion still clutched in one hand. And when he opened the door at the top -

He froze.

Nothing had changed.

Not a book moved. Not a letter re-filed. Half-written replies sat on the desk, right where he'd left them. The instruments were covered in dust. His favorite chair stood by the hearth. The curtains to the sleeping chamber hung undisturbed.

The only thing new was the thick film of time - and the faint scent of dried blood.

He stepped inside. Quietly. Reverently.

His eyes flicked to the bathroom door. A sliver of light peeking through.

He walked in.

There, in the waste bin - bandages. Bloodied and balled, tossed with an almost embarrassed hand. The sink still had a faint ring of dried potion residue. But nothing else.

Severus hadn't moved in.

Not really.

He had never claimed the space.

He had bled here. Cleaned up here. Left quietly. And never returned.

Albus stared at the bed. Still made. Still untouched. Still his.

And yet - it wasn't.

Severus had spent a year as Headmaster and had not allowed himself even the comfort of sleep in a real bed.

Because he hadn't believed he deserved it.

Because even after everything - even knowing he hadn't killed Albus - he had still denied himself peace.

He had been alone. Scared. Exhausted.

And Albus - Albus hadn't been there to guide him. Not Minerva. Not anyone.

He had left him.

The vial in his hand trembled. He sank down onto the bed, eyes wide and hollow.

And finally, finally, the tears came.

Albus came back to the present with no energy left to spare.

No tears left to shed.

The room was still. Dust hung in the air like fog. He sat for a moment longer, staring at the edge of the bed - his old bed - then stood abruptly, as though remaining seated another second might crush him entirely.

He reached for his outer robe, threw it around his shoulders, and strode to the door.

Down the spiral staircase.

Down past the gargoyle, still slightly ajar.

He couldn't. He couldn't do this. Not anymore.

Every corridor whispered his name. Every stone echoed Severus's shadow. Worse still, they echoed his own failure.

The boy - his boy - had bled for them. And in the end, had been left with nothing. No rest. No comfort. No one.

Albus rushed through the main entrance, his steps growing faster. He passed the front lawn, the path to the greenhouses, the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

He didn't stop.

Near the gates, Hagrid raised a hand from across the grounds, smiling as he caught sight of him.

"Professor! Didn' think yeh were - "

But Albus did not respond.

He only walked faster.

And before Hagrid could finish his sentence, Albus Dumbledore stepped through the gates of Hogwarts -

- and vanished into thin air.

_________________

Severus opened his eyes to the sound of shouting and crashing.

His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape. He pushed himself upright, breath coming in short gasps, head whipping to the side as another crash echoed - followed by a shout. Muffled. Distant. But unmistakable.

His bare feet hit the cold, hard floor.

He stood, trembling slightly, and moved toward the door. Another shout - lower this time. A man's voice. Ugly with rage. Words blurred together, sharp and slurred, until one word cut through clear and harsh.

"Useless."

The sound of something heavy striking something softer. Something human.

A belt.

The whip-crack noise sent a jolt through Severus's entire body. His knees buckled slightly, and for a moment, he didn't move.

Then - he opened the door.

The hallway was narrow. Peeling wallpaper. Dim light from the cracked bulb at the ceiling. At the far end, a door slammed with a force that shook the walls. And there - crumpled just beyond the threshold - was a woman.

Eileen Prince.

Blood streamed from her nose. Her lip was split. Her eyes were wide and wet, staring upward at the ceiling as her chest heaved in shallow, shaky gasps. She didn't speak. Didn't move.

Severus knelt beside her.

He didn't cry out. Didn't panic. He simply sat, knees grazing the dusty floor, and gently brushed her long black hair back from her face. His hands were shaking.

"I'll clean you up," he whispered, barely audible. "Just... just stay still, Mum. Please."

He fetched a towel. Wet it under the rusted tap in the corner sink. Brought it back and dabbed at her bruised temple, then the cut beneath her eye. She flinched once. Didn't look at him.

Finally, she stirred. Pushed his hand away with the faintest strength and stood - slowly, gingerly - pressing one hand to the wall for balance. She didn't speak. Only walked stiffly to the bathroom and shut the door behind her with a soft click.

The lock slid into place.

Severus stared at the peeling door for a long moment. Then turned, wet towel still in hand, and began to clean the floor where the blood had pooled.

He scrubbed until the pink stain faded.

Then he stepped outside.

The yard was nothing more than a patch of grey grass and broken brick, but it was air - cool and quiet. He sat on the steps with his arms around his knees and let the stillness fall over him like a blanket.

He didn't cry.

He hadn't cried in years.

But something inside him curled tighter.

Smaller.

He rested his head on his knees, eyes closed, letting the wind kiss the bruises on his arms. In his mind, he imagined something else.

A better life.

A Hogwarts where he wasn't alone. Where he had friends - real ones. Ones who laughed with him in the common room, who saved a seat for him in the library, who didn't flinch when he spoke.

And then? he imagined her.

His mother, walking beside him through the castle doors. Her shoulders straighter, her face softer. She belonged there too. In this version of the world, they both did.

She would smile more.

She would be safe.

He would protect her.

He sighed into the quiet, lost in that imagined warmth - when something brushed his hair.

Fingers.

Gentle. Threading carefully through the strands like one might pet a frightened animal.

Severus lifted his head.

He was in bed.

That was strange. The mattress beneath him was far too soft, too plushy. There was a warm blanket tucked under his chin, the faint smell of potions in the air. He blinked, confused, as his mother dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth, her touch cool and familiar.

She smiled down at him.

"Hi, dear. You had a little fever."

He stared at her. Said nothing.

"Are you in pain?" she asked gently.

He thought about it. His body ached, yes - but not terribly. What troubled him more was the dampness clinging to his skin, uncomfortable and shameful. He hesitated.

But she never judged him.

In the smallest voice imaginable, he murmured, "Wet."

Eileen's eyes widened slightly. She looked at him for a few seconds, then seemed to understand. "Oh, sweetheart. I'll help you now."

She took her wand, murmured a quiet spell, and just like that - he was clean and dry. His eyes widened, astonished by how effortlessly she'd used magic for him. Just for him.

"Would you like some warm soup?" she asked, brushing his hair back again.

He hesitated. His lips parted, then closed. Then opened again.

"?Yes," he whispered, "if we? have en-enough for? you as well."

She tilted her head, eyes shining. "I've already eaten."

A bowl of steaming chicken soup appeared beside her. She blew gently on a spoonful, then brought it to his lips.

He opened his mouth.

The soup was warm and delicious and made something tight inside his chest loosen.

After the meal, he lay back, exhausted and full in a way that had nothing to do with food. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep.

His breathing began to slow.

Then, barely audible - so quiet it was almost swallowed by the silence - he whispered, "Sorry?"

Eileen paused, her hand still holding the spoon.

"?for being? a burden."

She didn't speak.

The words weren't directed at her - not really. They came from somewhere deeper, older. A place carved out by years of silence and shame. He wasn't even looking at her - just blinking at the ceiling, lips barely moving. Apologizing as if it were instinct. As if it were the only way he knew how to exist in the world.

She reached out and gently brushed back a damp strand of hair.

"You're not," she whispered. "Not now. Not ever."

But Severus didn't reply.

He was already slipping away again, his eyes heavy, breath evening.

"Thank you, Mama," he murmured, voice like the echo of a dream. "I love you?"

And he leaned trustingly into her palm.

Minerva McGonagall sat motionless.

Her hand trembled where he had nestled into it. Her heart beat wildly against her ribs.

She hadn't expected it. Not the words. Not the softness. Not the unbearable weight of being mistaken for someone he had loved - someone who had been taken from him too soon.

He had thought she was Eileen.

And still? he had said it.

Minerva blinked hard, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She brushed a thumb lightly over his temple, steadied her breath, and whispered back:

"You were never a burden, Severus. Not to her. Not to me. And you are so, so loved my little boy."

_____________________________________________

Author's Note (or as Dumbledore might say: A Few Earnest Words Before the Feast)

Writing this story has been like walking through the Forbidden Forest in fog - emotional, unpredictable, and occasionally full of gnomes throwing soup. But knowing you're reading, crying, theorizing, and spiraling with me makes it all worth it.

And those of you reading silently - I see you, too. Or rather, I don't see you, but I feel you in every number ticked, every quiet moment shared between reader and page. You matter here.

If this chapter broke you gently, or gave you even one breath of warmth - please share it. I'd love to know which line stayed with you, which moment made you whisper "ouch," or whether you too wanted to hug Severus and hex Albus in the same heartbeat.

Drop your thoughts, your questions, your theories - I want to know you.

Because stories are just words until someone listens. And you, dear reader, are listening beautifully.

With a phoenix feather tucked behind my ear,

- The_Nobel_House_of_Prince