The pub wasn't quiet, but it wasn't loud either it had the particular hum of a place that had heard more secrets than songs, and knew better than to ask for either. A low fire flickered in the hearth, casting soft orange shadows against the smoke-stained walls. A row of warped wooden stools lined the bar like loyal soldiers long past their glory, and a cluster of cloaked figures hunched around a game of Exploding Snap near the back, too focused - or too drunk - to look up.
It wasn't the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't even The Hanged Goat down in Lower Dorch. It was the Hog's Head - a pub with more dust than regulars and more goats than health inspections would've allowed, if any inspector had been brave (or foolish) enough to walk through its door. It smelled of spilt mead, hay, and the vague, lingering regret of half-finished confessions.
The door creaked open with the weary sigh of warped hinges, and a few heads turned out of habit. But there was no fanfare. No sparkle of magic, no flamboyant robes to catch the light. No booming laugh or cryptic riddle to mark the arrival of a legend.
Just a man.
He didn't lower his hood. He didn't sweep the room with a knowing smile. He didn't pause to greet the patrons with his usual mischief or charm.
Albus Dumbledore walked straight to the darkest corner of the Hog's Head and sat down at the very last table near the back, where the shadows made it easy to forget who you were, or what you'd done. He raised one hand for service - brief, silent, as if it pained him to move.
He hadn't meant to come here. He hadn't meant to go anywhere. But in the haze of grief and guilt that had wrapped around him like a suffocating cloak, the word pub had floated into his mind like a lifeline - or an escape route. Apparition had done the rest.
And now he was here.
He didn't know how long he sat in silence, but he didn't mind the wait. It was better than the noise in his head.
From behind the bar, one pair of eyes did not turn away. They narrowed.
A tall figure, mostly obscured by a stack of crates and an enchanted goat that had taken up residence on the bar, paused in the act of polishing a glass. He leaned forward, squinting at the hooded stranger. The movement was subtle - but the tension in his shoulders betrayed recognition.
No one else had noticed.
But Aberforth Dumbledore had.
He'd know that walk anywhere. Even cloaked in shadow, even sagging under the weight of whatever burden he was dragging in tonight - he'd seen his brother carry grief before.
The difference was, he used to carry it with pride. Now it looked like it was carrying him.
He didn't order with words.
Just a single, tired lift of his hand.
From behind the counter, Aberforth didn't move at first. He simply narrowed his eyes and gave a small, sharp nod to a younger barkeep - one of the two staff members who had survived long enough not to flinch at goat fur on the counter.
The girl raised her eyebrows when she returned. "He wants Dragon Barrel Brandy," she whispered to Aberforth. "Three bottles."
Aberforth snorted.
Of course he did.
He didn't move. Just leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching from under heavy brows as the hooded figure in the corner - once a man of speeches and chessboards and lemon drops - uncorked the first bottle and poured glass after glass like it was water.
No toast.
No preamble.
Just a long, silent pull from the first glass. Then another. Then a third.
The bottle was nearly gone by the time Aberforth sighed, pushed off the wall, and walked over.
"Fancy seeing a dead man drowning himself in my pub," he said dryly.
Albus looked up sharply.
His hood had fallen back now, revealing his face - pale, worn, and grim in the flickering shadows. His eyes, normally so bright, were dull as slate.
"Aberforth," he said, voice rasped from the alcohol or the guilt - likely both. "I'm not in the mood."
Aberforth raised an eyebrow, pulled out a chair, and sat across from him anyway.
"Oh, well," he said. "In that case, I'll just leave you to it. After all, nothing screams 'stable coping mechanism' like slamming three bottles of dragon-spit brandy in a back alley pub you didn't want to come to."
He leaned forward slightly. "Out of all the bars in the world, you stumbled into mine. Coincidence? Or some kind of divine punishment?"
Albus pressed his lips into a thin line, then downed another glass in silence.
Aberforth had been watching in silence for some time now, seated with his arms crossed, a single brow arched in vague disapproval. He alternated between glancing at his quiet, slouched brother and out the rain-slick window, where the flickering lanterns outside blurred like smudged ink. There was a weariness in Aberforth's gaze - not just the kind born of long shifts and spilled Firewhisky, but the kind that came from watching a man you used to know unravel one drink at a time.
Deciding he'd wasted quite enough of his evening on a ghost in a phoenix's cloak, Aberforth pushed back his chair. It scraped loudly against the floor. He stood, gave Albus one last glance - and turned away.
He had seen many strange things behind that bar - drunken confessions, illicit duels, even the occasional werewolf argument over firewhisky - but nothing quite like the figure slumped in the farthest corner of his pub tonight.
Albus hadn't moved in nearly twenty minutes. He hadn't removed his hood, hadn't glanced around, hadn't so much as lifted his gaze to acknowledge the regulars who had filtered out one by one - sensing, perhaps, that something sacred or cursed was unfurling in their presence.
Aberforth watched him from his spot behind the counter, arms folded across his chest, a glass half-dried in his hand, and a familiar tightness coiling in his gut. It was the kind of tightness that came with family. With history. With things unspoken.
Rain lashed the windows now, blurring the edges of the world beyond. The storm was growing stronger.
He took a deep breath, his patience fraying. Enough of this ghostly theatre. He wasn't going to waste another night staring at the back of a broken legend. He pushed off from the bar and made to leave - to get back to work, back to his life, what little of it was left to tend.
And then - just as he turned - he heard it.
"I think I broke him," came a voice, so hoarse and low it barely made it across the room. But it stopped Aberforth in his tracks.
He didn't turn. Not yet.
"I didn't mean to," Albus said, barely louder than the wind outside. "I was trying to help. I thought - I thought I was helping."
Aberforth's jaw clenched. He looked sideways, just enough to catch the hollow silhouette at the far table. His voice, when it came, was bitterly dry. "You always think that."
Still, he turned fully now, the weight of old years dragging behind every step. His eyes narrowed, tone barbed with sarcasm sharp enough to cut glass.
"Let me guess," he drawled. "This about the boy you're guarding in your hospital wing? The one you faked your death with and left to rot as the villain of the story?"
Albus didn't answer. He just gave a soft, broken sound and nodded - once, twice - like a man drowning in a truth too vast to voice.
And then the storm inside the pub began to rise.
Aberforth's eyes darkened. "It's always the same with you. Noble plans. Secret missions. Sacrifice dressed up as strategy."
"I did what I had to," Albus said hoarsely.
"No," Aberforth said. "You did what you decided had to be done. You handed a child a knife and asked him to walk through fire. And you call that duty?"
Albus's voice rose. "I couldn't defeat Grindelwald alone. I couldn't stop Tom without help. Do you have any idea what would've happened if I'd failed? The world would've fallen - millions of lives - !"
"And how many have you buried to get there?" Aberforth snapped. "You think I don't count them? I do. Every Order member who never came home. Every kid you drafted straight from graduation into a war they didn't survive. And then Severus. You bled him dry and called it protection."
"I didn't ask him to join the Death Eaters," Albus shouted. "I didn't ask him to tell Voldemort about the prophecy!"
"No," Aberforth roared, "but are you sure you didn't give him enough reasons?"
The words hit like a blow.
"You let him rot in that school," Aberforth was saying, voice rising. "Let them torment him, shame him, isolate him - while you sat in your tower spinning webs. And when he begged for her life, you took that pain and twisted it into loyalty."
Albus stood abruptly, knocking the glass from the table. It shattered at his feet.
"What do you know," he snapped, "of what it means to bear the responsibility of thousands? What do you know of choices that decide nations? You've spent your life pouring drinks and judging the ones who tried to change the world."
Aberforth stepped forward, eyes blazing. "And I've never sent children to die doing it!"
"You think I wanted this?" Albus shouted. "You think I enjoyed sending them to war? I did what had to be done - because no one else could."
Aberforth laughed bitterly. "Could've fooled me."
Albus's hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving.
"I know what this is really about," he hissed. "You're not angry about the war. Or about Severus. You're angry because he reminds you of him."
Aberforth stiffened.
Albus didn't stop. "You see Aurelius when you look at him, don't you? Same hair. Same eyes. Same bloody silence. But they are not the same. Severus is not your son, Aberforth. He never was. So stop pretending."
He didn't see it coming.
Aberforth's face twisted in a soundless snarl, and before Albus could blink, he was shoved hard - so hard he crashed backward through the pub doors, out into the rain.
He hit the ground with a splash and a grunt, soaked instantly. The sky split with a crack of thunder.
Aberforth stood in the doorway like a shadow.
"You don't get to say his name," he growled. "You don't get to use him. He's dead, Albus. My boy is dead. And I will never - never - forgive myself for what I did. But you…"
He stepped into the rain, voice rising like a curse. "You bury your guilt in graves you never visit. You manipulate, you charm, you push - until they break. And when they do, you call it sacrifice."
Albus looked up at him, face pale and soaked, lips parted but unable to speak.
Aberforth shook his head slowly, like he couldn't believe the man before him was real.
"You want the truth? You've always needed someone to carry the blame. Grindelwald. Tom. Me. Aurelius. Now Severus."
His voice cracked. "But the only person you ever really abandoned was yourself."
He stepped back toward the pub.
"Don't come back here, Albus Dumbledore," he said, quieter now. "There's nothing left here for you."
The door slammed shut.
Albus didn't stand.
The door had slammed behind him, echoing like a final verdict, but Albus made no move to rise. Instead, he leaned back against the cold, slick stone, tilted his head to the sky, and let the rain fall freely across his face.
It was easier this way.
The rain, at least, didn't ask questions. It didn't accuse or forgive. It simply fell - steady, silent, and relentless - washing over him like penance.
And with it came the tears.
He couldn't tell where the water ended and the grief began, only that his chest ached with the weight of it. He had thought, once, that age might dull such things. That guilt, like wounds, would scab over with time. But here he was - an old man, soaked and small beneath a thunderous sky - mourning things he'd never dared name.
Was this what Severus had felt?
That kind of hollow loneliness - the kind no one saw, because they were too busy fearing you?
Did he ever sit like this, somewhere far from the world, wondering if anyone would ever believe he was sorry? If anyone would ever stop measuring him by his worst mistake?
Albus exhaled, breath catching on a sob that didn't quite make it to the surface. His voice came out soft, barely louder than the rain.
"Oh, my boy... if you only knew how precious you are to me."
He smiled bitterly, the curve of his lips hollow and fleeting.
Then, suddenly, he paused.
His hand stilled on his knee, breath hitching as an inexplicable feeling prickled at the back of his neck - the undeniable sense of being seen. Not by the world, not by ghosts of guilt or memory, but something quieter. Closer.
He turned his head just slightly, scanning the shadows beyond the rain. But the alley was empty. The road was deserted. Only the soft glow of a far-off lantern flickered in reply.
No one was there.
And yet... he was certain someone had been.
But he didn't chase the thought. Didn't rise. Didn't run. Instead, he closed his eyes and let it pass, the way one might allow a stray breeze to slip through an open window.
If someone had been watching - well, they hadn't stopped him. And they hadn't turned away, either.
He sank deeper against the stone.
And that was when the memory came - sharp and oddly sweet.
He could almost hear it. That disgruntled sigh. The scraping of a chair. The unmistakable glare of a younger Severus Snape with his cheeks stuffed full like an irate squirrel.
He had been halfway through a generous serving of treacle pudding - treacle pudding, which Severus had no idea Albus had spent half an hour carefully placing in front of him with increasingly absurd compliments about "Slytherin intellect requiring double dessert portions." He'd finally relented, digging in with suspicious reluctance.
Which is precisely when Albus had struck.
"I was thinking," he'd said, casually buttering a roll, "that perhaps you might assist Professor Lockhart with tomorrow's Dueling Club demonstration."
The chewing had stopped.
Severus had stared at him, mid-bite, cheeks puffed so dramatically they looked like they were trying to escape his face.
Albus had smiled with the innocence of a man who had just bribed a snake with sugar. "Just a small favour. Nothing terribly theatrical."
Severus had narrowed his eyes with the slow, simmering rage of someone who knew exactly what he'd been tricked into - and who would remember this betrayal until the end of time.
He had chewed. Slowly. Deliberately. And then - swallowed with a vengeance.
"Absolutely not," he'd said, voice sharp even through pudding residue.
"Even if I added lemon sauce?" Albus had asked, entirely unfazed.
Severus had glared for a full ten seconds. Then snatched the pudding bowl closer and muttered, "He'd better lose an eyebrow."
And he had.
Albus let out a soft, hoarse chuckle in the present, the sound barely more than a breath. The memory wrapped around him like a threadbare blanket - frayed, familiar, and fiercely treasured.
He didn't move from the rain. Didn't care who saw. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled again. But in his mind, he wasn't a war-weary old wizard. He was simply a man, remembering the only child he'd ever called his own - with pudding on his mouth and vengeance in his eyes.
_________________
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was uncharacteristically quiet.
No creaking floorboards. No distant muttering from unseen corners. Even the portrait of Walburga Black had remained blessedly silent, her curtains sealed tightly shut as if in exhausted truce. Somewhere deep within the house, the only sounds to break the stillness came from the kitchen: the clatter of pans, the gentle hum of a simmering pot, and the firm, focused rhythm of Molly Weasley at work.
She was elbow-deep in supper preparations, muttering to herself about underfed boys and the audacity of skipping proper meals, when a low growl of breath near her ankles made her jolt backwards with a gasp. A large, shaggy black dog sat squarely in front of her, tail thumping lazily against the stone floor.
Molly placed both hands firmly on her hips, staring down with narrowed eyes.
"You know," she said tartly, "you do have legs. And opposable thumbs. You could try using the door like a civilised man."
With a loud crack, the dog vanished - replaced in an instant by a tall man with long dark hair and a mischievous grin.
"Now where's the fun in that?" said Sirius Black, folding his arms.
"Perhaps," Molly said, turning back to her bubbling stew with a pointed stir, "you could try doing something useful for once, instead of testing the limits of your nonsense."
Sirius's eyes gleamed with wicked delight, the same glint that made people uneasy even when he was supposedly behaving. "Are you suggesting," he said, with the slow, velvet tone of a predator circling its prey, "that keeping my dearest Molly company isn't the most noble of uses for a man's time?"
Molly huffed. Honestly, it was like reasoning with a talking broomstick - one that set itself on fire for a laugh. She muttered something about poor Remus under her breath - how he managed to remain Sirius's friend all these years was nothing short of saintly.
"Well," she said aloud, not bothering to mask the sarcasm, "if you're so eager to be helpful, you might go check on your godson - before he leaves."
Sirius blinked. "Leaves?"
"All packed up and nearly ready," said Molly, not missing a beat. "Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny are heading to Hogwarts. They'll take the train, just like usual."
The mischief vanished from Sirius's face at once. "He's what?" His voice cracked louder than he intended. "He's going? To stay? There? With - don't tell me - with him?"
Molly turned around sharply, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon. "That him happens to be Severus Snape," she said, eyes narrowed. "And yes, Harry is going to stay at Hogwarts. Minerva says the castle's sealed and secure for his protection, and Dumbledore has ordered the rest of the term's fellows to remain on school grounds."
Sirius's face contorted with visible frustration. "I thought it was just a phase - he's emotional, of course he's emotional - but staying there? With Snape? That greasy bat - what good does he think will come of that?"
He turned on his heel with a growl of exasperation and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Molly staring after him with a mixture of puzzlement and irritation.
"Honestly," she muttered, returning to her stew, "for someone who lived through a war, he still acts like a child who's dropped his favourite toy."
She turned back toward the counter - only to jump out of her skin as two identical grins popped into her peripheral vision.
"Merlin's beard!" she cried, hand clapping over her heart. "Fred! George!"
"Present and dazzling, as always," said Fred, offering a mock bow.
George held up a spoon like a microphone. "We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news: Molly Weasley, fearsome matriarch and soup-stirring champion, has just been startled by two extraordinarily handsome sons."
"Oh stop it," Molly snapped, though her lips twitched. "If you spent half as much time being useful as you do being ridiculous - "
" - we'd still be ridiculously useful," Fred offered.
George leaned in toward the stew. "Smells like victory."
"It smells like dinner," Molly said firmly, snatching the ladle away just before he could dunk a finger into the pot.
"You wound me," Fred said, dramatically clutching his chest. "We only came to say farewell before young Master Potter departs on his noble quest to cohabitate with the Dungeon Bat of Doom."
"Severus Snape," Molly corrected, glaring.
"Right, right - our favourite cauldron enthusiast."
Before Molly could retort, they vanished again, a loud pop echoing as they Disapparated mid-cackle - though it sounded suspiciously like one of them shouted "Pudding's cursed!" on the way out.
The house fell back into quiet, save for the faintest rustle upstairs.
The only sound on the upper floor was the soft thud of a trunk being closed.
Harry stood at the foot of his bed, stuffing the last of his belongings into a worn Hogwarts satchel. His movements were automatic - fold, tuck, zip - like he was trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. Or why.
He wasn't going back for classes.
He was going back for him.
There was a quiet shuffle in the doorway.
"You're leaving?" Sirius asked, his voice too casual to be genuine.
Harry didn't look up. "Yeah. McGonagall said I could stay in Gryffindor Tower."
There was a pause. Then the creak of a floorboard as Sirius stepped further inside.
"No one's forcing you to go, you know."
"I know."
"You've got a bed here. Clothes. People who actually - " he stopped himself. " - people who care you're safe."
"I know," Harry repeated, quieter now.
He zipped the satchel shut.
Sirius's hands curled into fists at his sides. "You're twisting things, Harry. You weren't there. You don't know what it was like between us. He was cruel, bitter, always skulking around, trying to get us expelled. We were kids - "
"You were bullies," Harry snapped. "You and my father. You had everything - friends, talent, charm - and you used it to humiliate someone who had nothing."
Sirius's face twisted. "Snape was dabbling in the Dark Arts before we even knew what they were. He called your mother a - "
"Don't," Harry growled. "Don't you dare bring my mum into this to justify what you did to him."
Sirius took a step forward, eyes stormy. "I'm trying to protect you! From falling under his spell like Dumbledore did - like she did."
Harry recoiled, his voice suddenly shaking with fury. "Is that why you tried to get him killed by sending him to the Shrieking Shack? Because Lily liked him once? Is that why you laughed while he dangled upside-down in front of a crowd - his robes flying, his dignity shredded - because he dared to exist near your precious pride?"
Sirius's mouth opened, but Harry wasn't done.
"Is that why you forced him to drink toilet water in front of everyone, just to hear them laugh?" Harry's voice was shaking now. "Is that why you spread that disgusting rumour about his mother - said she wandered around Muggle bars looking for men, said Severus was what she got for it?"
Sirius's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Is that why," Harry pressed on, barely breathing, "you stole his wand and hexed every book in his bag to scream 'half-blood filth' every time he opened one? Why you poured ink into his robes and told the others he pissed himself like a coward?"
Sirius turned his face away.
Harry took a step forward, his fists clenched. "Was it funny, then? Making sure the whole castle called him Snivellus. Tripping him in the corridors. Whispering Mudblood's bastard whenever he passed."
Harry's voice was raw now, ripped from someplace deep and furious. "Did that make you feel like a hero?" he demanded. "Did that make you different from your precious Black family? From Bellatrix?"
Sirius flinched.
"Did that make my father a noble hero?" Harry spat the word like poison. "Humiliating someone until they wanted to vanish into the floor - was that what Gryffindor courage looked like to you?"
There was a silence between them so heavy it seemed to warp the air.
"But he stayed," Sirius said at last, reaching for what felt like his final thread. "He helped, yes - but he was the reason your parents died. He was the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy."
Harry turned slowly. His green eyes were burning - not with confusion or grief this time, but something brighter. Sharper.
"He didn't know it was my mum's son," Harry said. "And when he found out, he did everything he could to fix it."
Sirius pressed on, desperate now. "But it was too late, Harry. He couldn't undo it. He couldn't fix what he destroyed - "
"No," Harry interrupted, a bitter smile tugging at his lips, "because he wasn't the one who refused to fix it."
Sirius frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I saw it," Harry said, voice shaking. "I saw it in his memory. Dumbledore called my father into his office. Told him what Snape had done - what he was trying to do. Dumbledore begged him to listen. Told him they needed a new Secret Keeper - Snape or Dumbledore himself."
Sirius's eyes widened.
"Snape offered to protect them," Harry went on, his voice rising. "Because Voldemort would never suspect him. Dumbledore offered, too. But my father said no. He couldn't stand the idea that Snape had anything to do with protecting us. He didn't trust Dumbledore anymore, because he was on Snape's side."
Harry's voice cracked.
"He let his pride kill them."
Sirius looked stricken. Pale. Silent.
Harry's fists trembled. "Let me guess - my mum didn't know that part, did she? She didn't know her best friend was begging to protect her?"
He drew in a shaky breath. "That was why she could cast the charm. Why it worked. Because her heart was still full of love. But my father… his was full of hate. Hate for Snape. And betrayal from Pettigrew. That was the difference between them."
He looked straight at Sirius.
"My mum's heart saved me. My father's cost her everything."
Sirius didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Because deep down, he remembered James's words - spoken in anger, in pride, in fear - that Dumbledore had taken Snape's side. That he couldn't be trusted.
And Harry… Harry had just put the last broken piece together.
Sirius staggered back a step, as if Harry's words had landed like a curse. "You don't understand," he said again, but this time it was barely a whisper.
"No," Harry replied, breathing hard. "You don't."
His chest rose and fell in ragged waves. He bent, grabbed his satchel, and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all - and everything.
"I'm not abandoning you," he said, not unkindly. "But I won't become you, either."
He turned toward the door.
"You want to know why I'm going?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now. "Because for once - just once - someone has to choose him."
He rested a hand on the doorknob.
"And I do. That's what Mum would've done."
Then he opened the door -
And chaos tumbled in.
Ron crashed to the floor with a yelp, followed immediately by Ginny, who landed squarely on his back and let out a muffled "Oof!" Hermione, trying to preserve her dignity, managed to remain upright - only to stumble as she was yanked down by Ginny's flailing arm.
Harry stared.
At the bottom of the heap, Ron groaned and twisted his neck to look up at him.
"So," he said, voice slightly squashed, "you ready, mate? We've been waiting ages."
Hermione shoved Ginny off her lap. "I told you the Extendable Ear was a terrible idea."
"You were the one holding it!" Ginny hissed back.
"It was going too far! I couldn't reel it in!"
Molly stood behind them, holding a tray of biscuits and looking like she was deciding between offering refreshments or grounding everyone until Christmas.
"Oh for heaven's sake," she muttered. "If you're all done collapsing dramatically, would someone kindly get off Ron's leg?"
"I think something cracked," Ron added helpfully.
"Only your pride," said Ginny, smirking.
Harry blinked at the scene, utterly thrown.
Molly stepped forward and shoved a biscuit into his hand with great finality. "Here. You've earned at least one snack for surviving that conversation."
He looked down at the biscuit. Then up at the group - still sprawled, bickering, recovering.
And, in spite of everything, Harry smiled.
_______________________________
It began, as it often did, with a door.
Old wood. Rusted hinges. A faint crack of light leaking through the keyhole like a secret trying to escape.
Severus stood in front of it, barefoot on a cold, damp floor. The corridor stretched endlessly behind him, lined with wallpaper that peeled like forgotten skin. Somewhere beyond the door, a voice was screaming.
He didn't want to open it. But he always did.
The hinges groaned.
Inside was a kitchen - or what had once been one. The walls were stained with time, and the ceiling sagged like it had given up pretending to hold anything. A small boy was crouched beneath the table, hands over his ears. His hair hung in greasy curtains, and his knees were scraped raw.
"Don't look," the boy whispered. "Don't move. Don't breathe."
Severus sat down in front of him, slowly, knees folding against the damp floor. His voice was low, gentle, fragile.
"I'm here," he whispered. "I won't let him hurt you. I promise - I'm here."
The boy was shaking in his arms, trembling like a bird with clipped wings. After a long pause, he looked up into Severus's adult eyes.
"It's not your fault," the boy said softly.
Severus blinked, confused. "What?"
But the boy's face had changed. His voice had turned cold, razor-sharp.
"It's not your fault you're a freak," he said, with a cruel little smile. "It's not your fault you were a terrible friend to Lily. That you got her killed. That you killed so many people. That you can't even kill yourself."
Severus recoiled, letting go of the boy as if burned.
And that was when the crash came. The belt. The voice, screaming like it was stitched into the walls. His mother - crumpled on the floor, red running from her nose to her lips, her eyes wide, unfocused.
Her hand reached out - not for him.
He looked up.
It wasn't his father holding the belt this time.
It was himself.
Severus stood frozen as the other version of him - the crueler, twisted mirror - struck her again and again, face blank, arms mechanical. The sound was sickening. Each blow thundered in his ears. His lungs seized.
"No - stop - STOP!"
His breath hitched.
He doubled over and began retching, dry and painful. The dream twisted around him like smoke. His stomach clenched. The bile never came - but the shame did. Heavy. Suffocating.
Laughter began to rise - high, cruel, endless.
He looked up, gasping.
He was in a corridor now.
The boy - himself - stood again, older now. Sallow skin. Overgrown hair. Black school robes hanging from narrow shoulders like hand-me-down shadows. Books clutched to his chest.
A circle of students surrounded him. Wands pointed. Eyes gleaming.
"Snivellus," they sang.
He walked faster. They followed.
He didn't run - he never ran. Not even when his legs begged him to.
Then, from the crowd, came James Potter.
Not alone. Never alone. The rest of them flanking him - Sirius, Remus, Peter. Wands drawn, faces alight with cruel glee.
Severus opened his mouth to scream.
To warn his younger self, to shout for James to stop, for anyone to stop - but no sound came. His voice stuck in his throat like glass.
The corridor shimmered, darkened.
His younger self had stopped walking. He turned slowly - face calm, eyes hollow, mouth curling into something too steady to be sane.
He raised his wand.
"Avada Kedavra."
The green light erupted, blinding. James fell like a marionette whose strings had snapped.
"No," Severus whispered, frozen in horror. "No, no - what - "
The boy turned. Lily stood a few feet away, eyes wide.
And still, he did not hesitate.
"Crucio."
She screamed.
Severus collapsed to his knees as the sound ripped through the corridor - her scream, drawn from every inch of her body. He tried to move, to run to her - but his limbs felt soaked in ice.
The boy watched her writhe. Cold. Detached.
And then -
"Avada Kedavra."
Lily fell.
"No - STOP!" Severus lunged.
The boy turned.
He smiled.
Severus struck him hard across the face. The boy flew backward, landing in a heap on the stone floor. Blood trickled from his mouth. He looked up and laughed.
And then the voice came.
Smooth. Icy. Close enough to freeze the air in his lungs.
"Well done, Severus," purred Voldemort's voice, from just beside his ear. "Kill that child. Kill that filthy blood child. Kill them all, and prove your loyalty at last."
"No," Severus gasped, stumbling back.
"You were born for this," the voice whispered. "You were made for this."
"No - no - no - "
A new voice cut through.
"Severus…"
He froze.
Charity.
"Severus, please…"
He spun. Her voice echoed, not from one place - but everywhere.
He dropped to the ground, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His lungs seized. His chest convulsed.
There was no air here.
His fingers clawed at the stone. His throat closed. His ribs arched painfully.
Tears blurred his vision as he looked up - and saw them.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Corpses, strewn across a battlefield without end. Faces pale and empty. Covered in blood. Twisted into shapes no human should wear.
Eyes open. All of them staring.
At him.
He let out a soundless scream.
And then he stopped struggling.
Closed his eyes.
Let the darkness take him.
But just as it began to pull -
Something bloomed.
Warmth.
A small flicker, low in his chest. Familiar. Soft. Steady.
It spread - slowly, carefully - like fire that had learned not to burn. It wrapped around his ribs, unfurling in his chest, brushing the hollow of his throat.
Not a voice. Not a hand. Just a feeling.
He didn't know where it came from.
But for the first time in the dream -
he didn't feel alone.
_______________________
The rain had not lessened.
It drummed steadily against the ancient stone of the castle, soaking the moss and echoing down the winding stairwells of Hogwarts like the beat of some enormous, tired heart.
Albus Dumbledore stepped through the front doors, robes clinging to him like heavy drapes, his hair dripping and silver-framed spectacles misted over. He did not dry himself. He did not light the hallway. He simply walked - slowly, each step deliberate - as though the very walls of the castle might protest his return.
He wasn't sure why he had come.
Or rather - he was. But he wasn't ready to admit it.
"I'll only peek in," he murmured to himself, his voice soft and hoarse. "Just… check. One look. No speeches. No presence. He doesn't want that."
His footsteps echoed softly in the quiet corridor as he approached the hospital wing. The torches flickered low, throwing long shadows across the floor.
"I'll look in," he repeated, "and then I'll go."
But something stopped him before he reached the door.
A chill.
The kind that didn't come from wet clothes or wind - but from something deeper.
He turned sharply and headed toward the private ward instead, the one Minerva had prepared days ago with protective charms. The one with the view of the Forbidden Forest.
The door was ajar.
His heart quickened.
He stepped inside.
The air was cold. Unnaturally so.
The window had blown open - the enchanted latch undone - and white lace curtains fluttered like ghosts in the wind. They billowed inward and out again, like they were breathing.
And there - on the bed - Severus Snape lay, drenched in sweat, his face contorted in pain.
His brow was deeply furrowed, his breathing shallow and sharp. One arm had twisted out from beneath the blanket. His hand clenched around nothing. His lips moved - but no sound came.
"Severus," Albus whispered, stepping forward. "No…"
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, robes damp and heavy, trembling hands moving with surprising steadiness. With one hand, he placed his palm gently over Severus's chest - just above the heart. A soft, golden glow bloomed beneath his fingers, faint but steady, like sunrise through fog.
His magic pulsed through the contact - quiet, coaxing, not forcing. He poured strength into the rhythm of Severus's failing body, matching breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat.
He looked down at him.
The blue veins across Severus's throat and face had risen sharply, like frostbitten roots beneath the skin. His forehead glistened with cold sweat. His mouth moved silently - pleading with horrors Albus couldn't see.
With his other hand, Albus reached up and brushed the damp hair from his brow.
"It's all right, my son," he murmured. "You are stronger than this… don't give in."
He curled his fingers in Severus's hair gently, not brushing, just anchoring. "You're not alone, my brave boy. Not anymore."
The golden light grew brighter as Albus leaned in closer, giving more of his energy - his magic - not as a spell, but as offering. His body trembled with the effort. He watched closely, breath caught, as the veins slowly, painstakingly, began to retreat beneath the skin. The tightness in Severus's jaw slackened. His hands relaxed.
The nightmare was passing.
And that's when Albus felt it.
A presence.
The same one from the alley outside the Hog's Head - the subtle hum of magic brushing his thoughts. He looked toward the doorway -
- and there she stood.
Professor McGonagall. Her robes were drawn tightly around her, her expression unreadable.
She didn't speak. She didn't shout or scold or send him away.
She simply stood in the doorway and watched.
Albus held her gaze as he gently removed his hand from Severus's chest. The light faded. Severus's breathing steadied - slow, even, peaceful.
Albus stood quietly, careful not to disturb the blanket.
He turned again.
The doorway was empty.
Frowning slightly, he stepped into the corridor. A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Minerva was there, seated on one of the hospital beds just down the wing, her back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp.
He approached, slow and silent, and sat across from her.
Neither of them spoke.
The rain still whispered against the windows.
They sat in silence for a long while, the hush between them broken only by the soft creak of old hospital beds and the ticking of a distant clock.
Minerva's hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Her posture was rigid, but her face had softened just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath.
"You had a row with your brother," she said at last, eyes still fixed on the far wall.
Albus said nothing.
"I imagine there was shouting. Possibly something thrown."
He exhaled, a dry, humourless sound. 'Just me. Through the door.'
Minerva turned her head, one brow raised. 'Of course. What day isn't someone throwing a Dumbledore through something these days?'
Albus smiled faintly, but it didn't last.
She studied him. "When do you intend to grow up, Albus?"
He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted back toward Severus's room. "I didn't mean to hurt him."
"I know."
"I wanted to help. I really want to help."
Minerva sighed. "Then stop acting like the answer to everything is carrying it alone."
There was a pause. The rain had lessened outside, but the castle still felt cold.
"He's not well, Albus," she said quietly. "Not just injured. Not just recovering. He's… slipping."
Albus's brow furrowed. "Poppy said he was stable - "
"Physically," Minerva said. "Yes. He's breathing. Eating. The fevers have broken. But mentally…"
She trailed off, swallowing hard.
Albus leaned forward slightly. "Tell me."
Minerva's eyes glistened behind her spectacles. "This afternoon, he called me 'Mum.' He was half-asleep, confused. I thought a bit of soup and a rest would bring him back around. But when he woke… it was the same."
Albus's breath caught.
"He let me bathe him," she said, voice brittle with disbelief. "Didn't complain. Didn't sneer. Just watched me. Quietly. And when I asked him how he was feeling, he smiled at me, Albus. Like a child would. And he said…" Her voice faltered.
"He said," she continued softly, "'I love you, Mum. I'm going to grow up really soon, and then I'll take you to the wizarding world, and we'll be happy together. I'll protect you. I'll take care of you.'"
Albus closed his eyes.
"Poppy says it's a combination of Nagini's venom and the pressure his mind's been under. That he's regressing, hiding in the only safe place he has left."
A long silence stretched between them.
"I don't know how to reach him," Minerva whispered.
Albus's hands trembled slightly in his lap. "Neither do I."
But deep in his chest, something hurt.
Because the boy who had once begged for his enemies to be spared was now clinging to a mother who wasn't there.
And Albus had told himself, all his life, that knowing pain was different from causing it.
But he wasn't sure he believed that anymore.
________________________
They didn't know he was awake.
Behind the ward's half-drawn curtain, Severus lay motionless, his face turned toward the window, the rain tracing faint shadows on the sheets.
He hadn't meant to listen. He hadn't wanted to. But their voices had reached him anyway - soft, laced with pain, carried on the hush between thunder and breath.
He heard Minerva's words. The ones about bathing him. About him calling her "Mum." About the things he'd said.
He remembered none of it.
But the shame landed like a weight on his chest, heavier than any wound.
He heard Albus's silence. The kind that used to be full of authority - but now just sounded… helpless.
Tears slipped down his temple and pooled in the pillow beneath his cheek. He hated that. Hated that his body still wept without permission.
Pathetic.
That word echoed louder than any spoken one.
Was this all he had become?
A shadow with no memories?
A burden?
A snivelling child who whispered lies about growing up and living happily ever after - as if people like him were allowed that kind of ending?
His fingers curled into the sheets.
He hated this.
The weakness.
The fog in his mind.
The way the sound of kindness now carved deeper wounds than cruelty ever had.
But somewhere - deep beneath the shame, beneath the memories he didn't trust - something sparked.
It wasn't hope.
It was hunger.
Not for happiness. Not even for healing.
But for control.
Get up, he told himself. Get stronger. Don't let them pity you. Don't let them see you like this again.
He closed his eyes.
The tears didn't stop.
But the resolve began.