Ever since the Second Great War of the magical world, there has been an entirely new attitude within the Potions classroom of Hogwarts. Gone are the days when the ‘ickle firsties’ would wander nervously through the dungeons, quaking with fear as the infamous Bat of the Dungeons would sneer at their so called ‘pathetic excuse of a potion’, his robes billowing around him in the dank gloom. 

Ever since the War, potions have been held on the first floor instead. 

Now, we find the first year students in their moderately-lit classroom, chatting away to one another, speculating. It was with great awe and eagerness that they awaited their Professor, not with the fear and trepidation of previous generations. Their teacher was not the ‘Greasy Git’ or the ‘Bat of the Dungeons’, but rather a Hero of the War.  

Silence erupted as the classroom door swung open without a creak. Students craned their necks to catch a better glimpse of the Professor. He did not storm in, cloak flapping. Rather, the first thing the students noticed was not the teacher, but rather the chair he was seated in. 

A wheelchair. 

The next thing people noticed, again, wasn’t the Professor, but rather the person who was pushing the chair. Excited whispers spread like wildfire throughout the class. I can’t believe it! He’s here? The young man pushing the chair was a handsome lad with a messy mop of jet black hair, circular glasses, and an lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. It’s Harry Potter! 

With the exception of a small aggravated twitch of his hands, the man in the chair appeared not to have noticed the murmurs. Instead, he wordlessly summoned a cauldron onto the low table that sat atop a raised dais. Once next to the table, he finally had the attention of the class as The-Boy-Who-Lived respectfully took a seat in the corner. 

Despite his condition, the man sat in his chair with a quiet dignity, long fingers steepled as he scanned the room with a piercing gaze. Their teacher wore black robes in a no-nonsense fashion, collar carefully buttoned all the way up his neck. The students didn’t have to wonder why. Everyone knew what he had endured in the last year of the War. Everyone knew what was under the collar, why he was in a chair. 

“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class...” Mr. Potter couldn’t help but notice the small upturn of Professor Snape’s lips.

Somewhere in the foggy chasms of his mind, Severus Snape realized that he was not dead. The thought swirled and clanked around in his head until the fog was cleared, and his mind was able to grasp this ridiculous concept. Alive? How is that possible? 

Sure enough, he could feel a warm cot under his back, freshly starched sheets covering him, and a fairly painful throbbing in his neck. Despite his attempts to fully return to the land of consciousness, he felt bogged down. Everything he heard sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel, or like he was underwater. 

Well, it goes without saying that this was unacceptable! A good spy needed to be aware of his surroundings at all times. Severus Tobias Snape did not go through all that trouble of staying alive only to be possibly murdered unawares in his bed! As Mad-Eye Moody would have said, CONSTANT VIGILANCE!! 

As his thoughts cleared further, the pain in his neck went from throbbing to a bloody well terrible pounding. His sharp intake of breath only increased the pain twofold.  

“He’s coming to!” Pain had a strange way of clearing the senses. His eyes snapped open, and he saw blinding white. It was everywhere. Despite the agony, Snape couldn’t help but wonder if he actually was dead. People always said there was a white light. That’s only for Heaven, Snape, and we all know you’re not going there! 

He reeked of Wound-Cleaning and Blood-Replenishing potions as well of Essence of Dittany. Even though he was in clean clothes and his wounds constantly attended to, he could still taste the vile tang of blood in his mouth, smell it in his hair, his very skin.Without his consent, his body stiffened and his mind reeled, causing a new blossom of crimson to appear through his bandages. 

“Professor! Just relax! You’re in St. Mungo’s. You’re safe now.” He could hear the hasty footsteps of the Medi-Witches, the soft clink of potion bottles, the soft incantations of a spell. He could feel a warm sensation creeping from his stomach as he was given a Calming Drought. It seeped through his abdominal cavity, through his arms, up his neck, seeping into his muscles and relaxing them. 

As his panic subdued, he couldn’t help but feel that something was very wrong. He blinked his eyes. Yes, he could still see, and The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Give-Him-An-Eternal-Migraine was still hovering anxiously. He took an even breath, proving that despite the pain, he was still able to do so. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Again, no problems arose. He wiggled his toes.... 

..... 

“Potter....” His voice was reduced to a faint, scratchy whisper, but the youth had none the less heard him. Snape made a slight gesture towards his lower extremities. “Why... can’t....” The boy’s face fell, unsure how to begin.

"I'm sorry, sir. We all tried the best we could..." Harry stopped as a Medi-Witch came to inspect the Professor.

“I....see....” Before anything further could be said, the tired-looking woman shooed Potter from his bedside and cast a Dreamless Sleep Potion into his stomach, whisking Snape to a merciful abyss.

The next time he opened his eyes, Snape was pleased to note that he felt much better, though his throat still hurt and he was still stuck in a hospital wing at St. Mungo’s. He was not awake for long before a Medi-Witch bustled in, looking slightly harassed. 

“Let me tell you, Mister Snape, it’s not an easy task keeping all of your visitors in line.” He merely raised an eyebrow at the comment. He had visitors? The last time he had bothered to check, he was considered a bloody bastard by all of the staff of Hogwarts, a murderer by all of the wizarding world, and a lousy git by the students. Those who are still alive, anyway... 

“You’re throat is on the mend, I’m pleased to say. We had lots of trouble sealing the wound due to the nature of the bite, but one of your former students, Miss Granger I think, proposed we use Muggle clamps on your arteries until we could control the bleeding.” While she had been talking, the witch had been casting diagnostic spells and pulling out what Snape new to be vile-tasting potions. Oh, the irony. 

The witch did not cast the spell into Snape’s stomach like her colleagues, but rather tilted his bed to a slightly more upright position. Her patient dutifully took the nasty elixir, but not without a slight grimace. 

“Now, while you’re up we need to check your breathing.” The witch summoned a stethoscope and cast a warming charm on the end. Seeing this, Snape gave her a glare that clearly said something along the lines of ‘I’m not a bloody three year old, damn it!’ The woman carried on with her inspections, apparently oblivious to the death glares. She asked her patient to take a few slow, deep breaths. Her brow creased ever so slightly as she listened. 

“Hmm. We’ve only managed to fix your spine down to your eleventh thoracic vertebrae, which in turn impedes your breathing somewhat.” The Medi-Witch banished the stethoscope and summoned a chart of the spinal chord instead, pointing out the infernal bone stationed just before the end of the spine’s major curve. 

“Of course,” the witch continued, pulling out some fresh bandages and some salve, “the fact that you barely had a throat also impedes this, but I’m sure with the right amount of rest and potions, your pneumonary system should be right as rain.” Snape couldn’t help but notice that she said nothing about his legs being, as she had put it, ‘right as rain’. 

His train of though was cut short as the witch delicately peeled off several layers of the bandages surrounding his neck. As gently as she could, she rubbed onto the last layer what Snape recognized as a version of the Essence of Dittany and of the Wound Cleaning potions, as well as a few other concoctions he couldn’t name. She cast a small Numbing Charm as she began to wrap up his neck again. While Snape was grateful that the pain was gone, he knew that this meant there was no chance of him trying to talk for a while either. 

“There. How does that feel?” Snape nodded his head to tell her (as best he could) that he was fine. “Now, before we let any visitors in, we need to have a little chat.” The witch summoned a piece of parchment and an inked quill, should he have something to ask. 

“Usually we’d have no problems fixing a spinal chord injury, but I’m afraid that wasn’t the case. What with the snake bite causing profuse bleeding, we had applied the clamps, which severely reduced blood flow to your nervous system, both spinal and cranial.  

“Some venom was not removed from your spine until it had damaged a lot of cells. That, and coupled with reduced blood flow to your head for a bit, we were incapable of completely restoring the damage.” She gave a small, sad smile. “Even we cannot revive what is dead. 

“Never the less,” she continued, not leaving Snape any time to dwell in overly negative thoughts. “I am certain that with the right amount of patience and physiotherapy, you may be able to get some movement out of your feet yet!” 

Snape paused to consider this. Would St. Mungo’s offer this physiotherapy? The witch read his question, the sad smile returned to her face. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Snape. That would be more of a Muggle approach. Usually, we would find a Muggleborn expert to act as a caregiver for patients, but given the state of things,” she gestured towards the various curtained beds that surrounded him. “We’ve been really pressed for extra hands.” It was odd that he had failed to notice them before, seeing as the room was almost packed with other patients. However, he noticed that not a single one made a sound. Look at them, Snape, a cruel little voice in his head jeered. Look at all the poor sods stuck in here with the likes of you. I wonder if they’d be a bit livelier if they knew they shared a room with a Death Eater. 

“Mr. Snape? Did you hear what I said?” He shook his head, trying to rid himself of these bothersome thoughts, as he turned his attention back to the nurse. 

“What I was saying, Mr. Snape is that we can offer to progressively train a close friend or family member some of the basics of these physiotherapy sessions until things quiet down a little. It says here that you usually reside at Hogwarts, correct?” Snape gave a small nod. 

“Excellent. We’ve been receiving lots of owls asking for additional help, seeing as some of the...victims are in a rather precarious position and are in no state to travel. We can send one of our more qualified people to help Mrs. Pomfrey, and they can teach whoever you chose while you’re there.” Sensing the Potions Master was about to protest, she gestured for him to hear her out. 

“Now listen, no sense in making any decisions yet, Mr. Snape. You’ll still be stuck here until your throat heals up.” The witch smiles sweetly as she went for the door. “I’ll let your visitors come in now.” The poor man blanched at the multitude outside of the door. 

Her smile didn’t seem so sweet anymore.

This is absolute torture... Snape thought grimly. Makes me almost wish I had died. The people at the door consisted of no fewer than ten Hogwarts teachers, seventeen reporters, eight Ministry workers from various departments, all of the remaining Order members, as well as what must have been the entire Hogwarts student population, with a surprising number from Gryffindor. 

Of course, this might have been less torturous and even somewhat amusing if he had been able to make a few snide remarks or snarky comments. The Numbing Charm, however, was still perfectly active, allowing him only to generously doll out his infamous sneers and death glares. 

For the most part, his visitations were nothing more than people coming to see if he was truly alive, a few congratulatory pats on the shoulder, or even (much to his chagrin) several get-well cards. Naturally, the reporters wanted a story, but decided to come back to him once he could speak, and turned to question and badger ever other living person instead. 

It was the students that infuriated him.  

Snape was able to quell most of their questions with a simple glare, but some of them had the audacity to cry and...(he paused to shudder)...hug him! Regretfully, his condition was a double-edged blade. While he was still too weak to do much with his, admirers, e the Medi-Witch managed to promptly send them away, once she thought he had suffered enough. 

I’m not sure if I should hex the woman, of give her my unwavering gratitude. 

Just as he was sure that his not-entirely-unwarranted punishment was about to end, he had to step in. Potter. Heaven forbid if that boy thinks this will change anything. Much to his surprise, the Potter boy gave him a copy of The Quibbler before taking a seat. 

“I figured you’d be bored out of your mind and would need something to read, sir. I figured a potions book would be a bad idea.” Snape’s only reply was to give him a look that stated: If I were still teaching, that would be ten points for cheek, before turning his attention towards the paper. 

“Ding! Dong! The Dark Lord is Dead!:Exclusive Coverage on The Battle of Hogwarts and the Ministry Reformations!by Luna Lovegood” 

If that girl is anything like I last remember, this is bound to be nothing but rubbish. Much to Snape’s (and really everybody else’s surprise) Luna’s article proved to be most truthful and direct, even painfully so at times. Snape couldn’t help but notice that Potter had agreed to give an interview later on that very day. ‘

Is this why you are here, Potter? To give me a “heads-up” before you flaunt all of my memories and secrets?’ The young wizard frowned when he read the accusation. 

“No, Professor. I never intended to tell anyone. Not even Ron and Hermione,” Who are you and what have you done with Potter? “I just came to say, well...thank you sir. And ... sorry I was such a git to you before.” The boy looked at him with those damnable green eyes. Lily’s eyes... 

‘You are forgiven, Potter.’ 

-Flashback- 

He didn’t even have time to react! The snake was upon him before he could raise his wand, sinking her fangs into his neck. He could feel his muscles give way to the serpent’s strength, the swell of adrenalin and fear replaced with a panicked lethargy. 

And then it was gone. Snape couldn’t even remember falling or hitting the floor, but there he was, staring up at the ceiling, at a face, at...green eyes? 

Lily? No, fool it’s Potter. Quick! Give it to him! Give it all! He needs to know... 

“Take.....it.....” Oh Lily I’m sorry I’ll be there soon. “Take....it....” Silver danced in his vision, then it was gone, the boy held it in his hand. Funny, he had his mother’s hands, why didn’t I notice it before? It’s getting darker.... 

I’m going to die. 

That thought sent a jolt of energy through his system. With strength from he knew not where, Snape grabbed to boy, the Potter boy... 

...Lily’s boy.... 

“Look....at me....” Oh God her eyes were there. Can you see me Lily? See how I tried to make it better? After all I’ve done, can I go now? I’m so tired, Lily, can I come home? 

There was a pop, a dreadful pull, and the eyes were gone. The whole world that was screaming and panicking and shouting was gone. Cold and freezing and good God he’d be shivering if he wasn’t so tired. All gone.  Except.... 

Except for one voice. 

‘Thank you Sev.’ 

A whiff of cedar and rain....a flash of gleaming orange hair.... 

It wasn’t so cold anymore. 

-End Flashback- 

Those words, had he only imagined them? Wishful thinking coupled with severe blood-loss could explain it, but... 

...Only she had called him ‘Sev’... 

Perhaps there is more of his mother in him than I gave him credit for, he thought, seeing the boy leave, looking a bit more pleased than when he had arrived. 

It is I who should thank you, Lily.

“Breathe in, hold it, breathe out.”            

No matter how many times a day he had to go through with this, Snape couldn’t help but feel embarrassed with the whole ‘breathing exercise’ thing. It was such a simple function, one that he had done all of his life without thought or difficulty.            

Now, he was hard pressed to inhale a proper lung-full of air.            

“Deep breaths, Mr. Snape. Good. Now let’s check your neck.” One bandage was all he needed the past two days. In truth, he didn’t need it anymore, as sticky strips and plasters with a few cotton pads were more than enough for the bite-wound. However, his mending throat itched terribly, prompting him to unconsciously scratch until it had bled. Thus, the return of the dreaded bandage.            

“Does it still itch, Mr. Snape?”            

“Hardly.” His voice was no longer his own. His words didn’t flow smoothly and silkily from his mouth, but were rather ground out sparingly, requiring far more effort than had before been necessary. Each word was a grating of stones, ugly to his own ears.            

“Very well. I suppose we can be rid of it ten,” with a swish of her wand, the witch made the bandages disappear, making his exposed skin tingle. “No scratching, you hear me young man? If I see so much as a single scrape, I will cut your nails to the quick, tape your fingers and bin your neck in a cast so quick you won’t be able to say ‘Protego’!”            

“Certainly, Misses Ward.” She must be related to Mrs. Weasley. He hastily drank a last Blood Replenishing Potion. Or Mrs. Pomfrey.            

“Stay put, and I’ll go get you your breakfast.” Ordinarilly, this may seem like a rather insensitive remark for a newly ‘crippled’ man, but such was not the case.  Shortly after a tricky procedure that healed his T11 vertebrae, Snape had been taught how to remove himself from his bed and into his chair. The staff had learned afterwards that it was unwise to keep an unoccupied Snape alone in a room without anything to read for more than two minutes. Snape offered a curt nod before turning to read The Daily Prophet. As usual, it was full of useless drivel, but the wizard was more concerned with crushing his growing sense of unease rather than the article about the house elf liberation movement, S.P.E.W. 

With every passing day there were fewer and fewer people in the ward. Most had recovered or had been moved to a less critical care unit. A few poor souls hadn’t made it. Where once there were ten there now was two. One of them had come in not twenty minutes earlier due to an unfortunate accident involving liberal amounts of Firewhisky, pumpkins filled with said brew, and a few dozen Chinese Fireworks on a dark night. 

Why am I still here? The answer to his question plagued him more than the answer did. It had been nearly a week since Voldemort’s defeat and he had yet to find anyone willing to act as a caregiver.  

He couldn’t ask any of the Hogwarts staff or from the Order. He had no intention to tell anyone anything regarding his motives more than the bare minimum the Potter boy had agreed to reveal. This left everyone very little to deal with when it came to Severus Snape, and needless to say most were at a loss of what to think of him. 

Except that damned Potter boy. 

Sure, it was far more agreeable for his migraine-prone skull, but this new level-headed, thoughtful, humbled Potter was really starting to ‘freak him out’. It was very hard for Snape to continue disliking the boy who had saved his life, the whole wizarding world, and was somehow NOT acting like a pompous brat in need of a deflated head. Not that I need to hate him anymore... 

Breakfast came then in the form of French Toast. Snape had never had this typically Muggle meal before now, but the sweet maple syrup, egg, and brown sugar-drenched-and fried bread was delicious as well as filling. He’d almost badgered the last ‘secret ingredient’ from the cook before he’d been forcibly returned to his room during his ‘excursion’ the other day. 

Perhaps I’m not so different from the boy? Snape almost shuddered at the thought. 

“Visitor for you this morning Mr. Snape.” 

“Bring them in,” the ward door creaked open followed by a rustling of emerald and tartan robes. 

“Good morning Minerva.” 

“Good morning Severus,” with a discrete glance at the witch, Snape noticed that she looked far less stressed than her previous visit, although her face was somewhat pinched. He knew that look. It was the ‘I have something of great importance to discuss that has been worrying me greatly not that you should be terribly concerned’ look. 

“Severus, I understand you don’t have a ... a caretaker yet?” He shook his head before taking another bite of the sweet bread. Would she just get to the point already? Either his Occlumency was failing or McGonagall had become a Legilimens (or she knew by now that Snape was a really impatient sort) because she straightened her back and leveled a piercing at the younger wizard. 

“I thought you should know that Potter has offered to fill in this position until you find yourself a more suitable replacement.” Snape all but choked on his toast. 

“He did what now?” Minerva’s gaze softened to one of pity. 

“Severus, I would strongly encourage you to take up the boy’s offer, at least for the time being. It would do you good to get out of here,” she motioned a gesture to the now very familiar ward.  

“I’ll consider it.” In all honesty, Snape was taken quite aback by this proposal. It had been a very, very long time since anyone had voluntarily taken care of him. It reminded him far too much of the time when Lily had helped him with a broken leg one summer. She had trailed him around all she could then, fussing in a very motherly way that he was not all that uncomfortable with her doing... 

“All of the arrangements are made for your return, Severus. All we need is your agreement.” The witch resigned to the doorway before he looked back at her. She seemed genuinely concerned, but was it for him, or herself? Merlin knows their last encounter did not end so splendidly. 

“You have a second chance Severus. She would hate for you to waste it.” No other words were said as she left with a flutter of tartan and green.